The Greatest Works of Edith Wharton - 31 Books in One Edition. Edith Wharton

      “Our being together—and not together.”

      “No. You ought not to have come today,” she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly.

      “Don’t be afraid of me: you needn’t squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn’t what I want. Look: I’m not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don’t suppose that I don’t understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn’t have spoken like this yesterday, because when we’ve been apart, and I’m looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you’re so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true.”

      For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: “What do you mean by trusting to it to come true?”

      “Why—you know it will, don’t you?”

      “Your vision of you and me together?” She burst into a sudden hard laugh. “You choose your place well to put it to me!”

      “Do you mean because we’re in my wife’s brougham? Shall we get out and walk, then? I don’t suppose you mind a little snow?”

      She laughed again, more gently. “No; I shan’t get out and walk, because my business is to get to Granny’s as quickly as I can. And you’ll sit beside me, and we’ll look, not at visions, but at realities.”

      “I don’t know what you mean by realities. The only reality to me is this.”

      She met the words with a long silence, during which the carriage rolled down an obscure side-street and then turned into the searching illumination of Fifth Avenue.

      “Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress—since I can’t be your wife?” she asked.

      The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.

      “I want—I want somehow to get away with you into a world where words like that—categories like that— won’t exist. Where we shall be simply two human beings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter.”

      She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh. “Oh, my dear—where is that country? Have you ever been there?” she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: “I know so many who’ve tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carlo—and it wasn’t at all different from the old world they’d left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous.”

      He had never heard her speak in such a tone, and he remembered the phrase she had used a little while before.

      “Yes, the Gorgon HAS dried your tears,” he said.

      “Well, she opened my eyes too; it’s a delusion to say that she blinds people. What she does is just the contrary—she fastens their eyelids open, so that they’re never again in the blessed darkness. Isn’t there a Chinese torture like that? There ought to be. Ah, believe me, it’s a miserable little country!”

      The carriage had crossed Forty-second Street: May’s sturdy brougham-horse was carrying them northward as if he had been a Kentucky trotter. Archer choked with the sense of wasted minutes and vain words.

      “Then what, exactly, is your plan for us?” he asked.

      “For US? But there’s no US in that sense! We’re near each other only if we stay far from each other. Then we can be ourselves. Otherwise we’re only Newland Archer, the husband of Ellen Olenska’s cousin, and Ellen Olenska, the cousin of Newland Archer’s wife, trying to be happy behind the backs of the people who trust them.”

      “Ah, I’m beyond that,” he groaned.

      “No, you’re not! You’ve never been beyond. And I have,” she said, in a strange voice, “and I know what it looks like there.”

      He sat silent, dazed with inarticulate pain. Then he groped in the darkness of the carriage for the little bell that signalled orders to the coachman. He remembered that May rang twice when she wished to stop. He pressed the bell, and the carriage drew up beside the curbstone.

      “Why are we stopping? This is not Granny’s,” Madame Olenska exclaimed.

      “No: I shall get out here,” he stammered, opening the door and jumping to the pavement. By the light of a street-lamp he saw her startled face, and the instinctive motion she made to detain him. He closed the door, and leaned for a moment in the window.

      “You’re right: I ought not to have come today,” he said, lowering his voice so that the coachman should not hear. She bent forward, and seemed about to speak; but he had already called out the order to drive on, and the carriage rolled away while he stood on the corner. The snow was over, and a tingling wind had sprung up, that lashed his face as he stood gazing. Suddenly he felt something stiff and cold on his lashes, and perceived that he had been crying, and that the wind had frozen his tears.

      He thrust his hands in his pockets, and walked at a sharp pace down Fifth Avenue to his own house.

      XXX.

      That evening when Archer came down before dinner he found the drawingroom empty.

      He and May were dining alone, all the family engagements having been postponed since Mrs. Manson Mingott’s illness; and as May was the more punctual of the two he was surprised that she had not preceded him. He knew that she was at home, for while he dressed he had heard her moving about in her room; and he wondered what had delayed her.

      He had fallen into the way of dwelling on such conjectures as a means of tying his thoughts fast to reality. Sometimes he felt as if he had found the clue to his father-in-law’s absorption in trifles; perhaps even Mr. Welland, long ago, had had escapes and visions, and had conjured up all the hosts of domesticity to defend himself against them.

      When May appeared he thought she looked tired. She had put on the low-necked and tightly-laced dinner-dress which the Mingott ceremonial exacted on the most informal occasions, and had built her fair hair into its usual accumulated coils; and her face, in contrast, was wan and almost faded. But she shone on him with her usual tenderness, and her eyes had kept the blue dazzle of the day before.

      “What became of you, dear?” she asked. “I was waiting at Granny’s, and Ellen came alone, and said she had dropped you on the way because you had to rush off on business. There’s nothing wrong?”

      “Only some letters I’d forgotten, and wanted to get off before dinner.”

      “Ah—” she said; and a moment afterward: “I’m sorry you didn’t come to Granny’s—unless the letters were urgent.”

      “They were,” he rejoined, surprised at her insistence. “Besides, I don’t see why I should have gone to your grandmother’s. I didn’t know you were there.”

      She turned and moved to the looking-glass above the mantelpiece. As she stood there, lifting her long arm to fasten a puff that had slipped from its place in her intricate hair, Archer was struck by something languid and inelastic in her