The Age of Innocence Edith Wharton (read books for money .txt) 📖

‘spiritual summons,’ whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I’m afraid she’s going to marry Dr. Carver⁠ ⁠… poor Medora, there’s always someone she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don’t know why she came.”

“But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?”

Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: “After all, it was to be expected.”

The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage.

“You know that your aunt believes you will go back?”

Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn.

“Many cruel things have been believed of me,” she said.

“Oh, Ellen⁠—forgive me; I’m a fool and a brute!”

She smiled a little. “You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don’t understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are.” She pronounced the “we” with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound.

Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again.

“Yes,” he said abruptly; “I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be married then.”

“And May adores you⁠—and yet you couldn’t convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions.”

“She is too intelligent⁠—she’s not their slave.”

Madame Olenska looked at him. “Well, then⁠—I don’t understand.”

Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. “We had a frank talk⁠—almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign.”

“Merciful heavens⁠—a bad sign?”

“She thinks it means that I can’t trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from someone that I⁠—care for more.”

Madame Olenska examined this curiously. “But if she thinks that⁠—why isn’t she in a hurry too?”

“Because she’s not like that: she’s so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time⁠—”

“Time to give her up for the other woman?”

“If I want to.”

Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses.

“That is noble,” she said, with a slight break in her voice.

“Yes. But it’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Because you don’t care for anyone else?”

“Because I don’t mean to marry anyone else.”

“Ah.” There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: “This other woman⁠—does she love you?”

“Oh, there’s no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is⁠—was never⁠—”

“Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?”

“There’s your carriage,” said Archer.

She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically.

“Yes; I suppose I must be going.”

“You’re going to Mrs. Struthers’s?”

“Yes.” She smiled and added: “I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?”

Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimneypiece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them.

“May guessed the truth,” he said. “There is another woman⁠—but not the one she thinks.”

Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them.

She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. “Ah, don’t make love to me! Too many people have done that,” she said, frowning.

Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. “I have never made love to you,” he said, “and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us.”

“Possible for either of us?” She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. “And you say that⁠—when it’s you who’ve made it impossible?”

He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way.

“I’ve made it impossible⁠—?”

“You, you, you!” she cried, her lip trembling like a child’s on the verge of tears. “Isn’t it you who made me give up divorcing⁠—give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one’s self to preserve the dignity of marriage⁠ ⁠… and to spare one’s family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family⁠—for May’s sake and for yours⁠—I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah,” she broke out with a sudden laugh, “I’ve made no secret of having done it for you!”

She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving.

“Good God,” he groaned. “When