Chapter 17

On the evening of his return, Janey Archer had news for her brother. "Your cousin the Countess called on mother while you were away."

Newland was dining alone with his mother and sister. He looked up in surprise. His mother's eyes were bent quietly on her plate. Mrs. Archer had left the world, but the world must not forget her. Newland guessed she was annoyed that the visit surprised him.

"She wore a black velvet dress with shining black buttons," Janey went on. "And a tiny muff of green monkey fur, a soft roll to warm her hands. I never saw her so finely dressed. She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon. Luckily the fire was lit in the drawing-room."

"She had one of the new little cases for visiting cards. She said she wanted to know us, because you were so good to her."

Newland laughed. "Madame Olenska always speaks that way about her friends. She is happy to be among her own people again."

"Yes, so she told us," said Mrs. Archer. "I must say she seems thankful to be here."

"I hope you liked her, mother."

Mrs. Archer pressed her lips together. "She certainly works hard to please, even when calling on an old lady."

"Mother doesn't think her simple," Janey put in, her eyes on her brother's face.

"It is just my old-fashioned feeling. Dear May is my ideal," said Mrs. Archer.

"Ah," said her son. "They are not alike."

Archer left St. Augustine with many messages for old Mrs. Mingott. A day or two after his return, he called on her.

The old lady received him with unusual warmth. She was grateful, for he persuaded the Countess Olenska to give up the idea of a divorce. Then he told her how he deserted the office without leave, and rushed down just to see May. She gave a fat, comfortable laugh and patted his knee with her soft round hand.

"Ah, ah, so you broke out of harness, did you? And I suppose Augusta and Welland made long faces, as if the end of the world was coming? But little May? She knew better, I am sure?"

"I hoped she did. But she would not agree to what I went down to ask for."

"Would she not, indeed? And what was that?"

"I wanted her to promise that we should be married in April. Why should we waste another year?"

Mrs. Manson Mingott made her little mouth small, in a play of shocked modesty. Her eyes shone at him under sly old lids.

"'Ask Mamma,' I suppose. The usual story. Ah, these Mingotts, all alike! They are born in one narrow road, and you cannot pull them out of it."

"When I built this house, you would have thought I was moving to California! Nobody ever built above Fortieth Street. No, said they. And nobody built above the Battery before Christopher Columbus found America."

"Not one of them wants to be different. They fear it like a deadly sickness. Ah, my dear Mr. Archer, I thank my stars I am nothing but a vulgar Spicer. But not one of my own children takes after me, only my little Ellen."

She stopped, still watching him. Then old age jumped, in its careless way, to another thought. "Now, why in the world didn't you marry my little Ellen?"

Archer laughed. "For one thing, she was not there to be married."

"No, true enough. The more the pity. Now it is too late. Her life is finished." She spoke with the calm, cold comfort of the old, throwing earth on the grave of young hopes.

The young man's heart went cold. He said quickly, "Can't I persuade you to use your power with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I was not made for a long engagement."

Old Catherine beamed at him. "No, I can see that. You have a quick eye. When you were a little boy, no doubt you liked to be served first."

She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins move like little waves. "Ah, here is my Ellen now!" she cried, as the curtains at the door parted behind her.

Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked bright and happy. She held out her hand gaily to Archer and bent for her grandmother's kiss.

"I was just saying to him, my dear, 'Now, why didn't you marry my little Ellen?'"

Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. "And what did he answer?"

"Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He has been down to Florida to see his sweetheart."

"Yes, I know." She was still looking at him. "I went to see your mother, to ask where you were. I sent a note that you never answered, and I was afraid you were ill."

He said something low about leaving in a great hurry. He meant to write from St. Augustine, he said.

"And of course, once you were there, you never thought of me again!" She still shone on him with her gay look. It might be a studied show of not caring.

"If she still needs me, she is determined not to let me see it," he thought, stung by her manner. He wanted to thank her for visiting his mother. But under the old lady's sly eye, his tongue felt tied.

"Look at him, in such hot haste to get married that he left without asking leave! He rushed down to beg the silly girl on his knees! Now that is something like a lover. That is how handsome Bob Spicer carried off my poor mother."

"And then he was tired of her before they took me off her breast. And they only had to wait eight months for me! But there, you are not a Spicer, young man. Luckily for you and for May. Only my poor Ellen kept any of their wicked blood."

"The rest of them are all model Mingotts," the old lady cried. Her voice laughed at them all.

Madame Olenska sat at her grandmother's side, her eyes on him, thoughtful and searching. The light of play went out of them. "Surely, Granny," she said with great gentleness, "between us we can persuade them to do as he wishes."

Archer rose to go. When his hand met Madame Olenska's, he felt she was waiting for a word about her unanswered letter.

"When can I see you?" he asked, as she walked with him to the door.

"Whenever you like. But it must be soon, if you want to see the little house again. I am moving next week."

A sharp pain went through him. He remembered his hours by lamplight in that low little drawing-room. They were few, but thick with memories.

"Tomorrow evening?"

She nodded. "Tomorrow, yes, but early. I'm going out."

The next day was a Sunday. If she was "going out" that evening, it could only be to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. He was annoyed, but not because she went there. He liked her going where she pleased, in spite of the van der Luydens.

But it was the kind of house where she was sure to meet Beaufort. She knew that before she went. Perhaps she was going for that very purpose.

"Very well. Tomorrow evening," he repeated. Inside, he decided not to go early. If he reached her door late, he would keep her from going to Mrs. Struthers's. Or he would arrive after she left, the simplest way out.

After all, it was only half past eight when he rang the bell under the wisteria. The wisteria was the climbing plant with purple flowers over her door. A strange restlessness drove him there half an hour early.

There was no hurry, he told himself. Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings were not like a ball. Her guests usually went early, as if to make their sin look smaller.

He did not expect to find hats and overcoats in Madame Olenska's hall. Why did she ask him to come early if she had people to dinner? Then he looked closely at the clothes Nastasia laid his own beside. His anger gave way to curiosity.

The overcoats were the strangest he ever saw under a polite roof. One glance told him neither belonged to Julius Beaufort.

One was a rough yellow overcoat of the cheap ready-made kind. The other was a very old cloak, a loose coat without sleeves, with a short cape over the shoulders. The French call that a "Macfarlane."

It was black-green and rusty with age, and clearly made for a man of enormous size. It gave out a damp smell of sawdust and long hours against the walls of drinking-houses. On it lay a ragged grey scarf and an odd soft hat, almost like a priest's.

Archer raised his eyebrows at Nastasia. She raised hers, said "Già," an Italian word for "just so," and opened the drawing-room door.

His hostess was not in the room. Instead, to his surprise, another lady stood by the fire. She was long, thin, and loosely put together. Her dress was a puzzle of loops and hanging threads. Stripes and bands of plain colour crossed it, in a design without a clear key.

Her hair once tried to turn white, and only managed to fade. In it she wore a tall Spanish comb, a toothed piece that holds the hair, and a black lace scarf. Silk gloves, mended and mended again, covered her stiff, aching hands.

Beside her, in a cloud of cigar smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats. Both were in the day clothes they clearly wore since morning. In one of them Archer recognized Ned Winsett.

The other man was older, and unknown to him. His giant frame declared him the wearer of the "Macfarlane." He had a weak, lion-like head with crumpled grey hair. He moved his arms in large, pawing motions, as if handing gifts of the spirit to a kneeling crowd.

The three stood on the rug before the fire. Their eyes were fixed on a large bunch of deep red roses. It had a knot of pansies, small purple garden flowers, at its base. It lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat.

"What they must have cost at this season!" the lady said as Archer came in. "Of course, it is only the feeling one cares about!" Her voice came in broken sighs.

The three turned in surprise, and the lady came forward with her hand out.

"Dear Mr. Archer, almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson."

Archer bowed, and she went on. "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I spent the winter with Spanish friends. Such delightful people, the highest noble families of old Castile! How I wish you could know them!"

"But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You do not know Dr. Agathon Carver, who founded the Valley of Love Community?"

Dr. Carver bent his lion-like head, and the Marchioness continued. "Ah, New York, New York! How little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett."

"Oh, yes, I reached him some time ago. But not by that road," Winsett said with his dry smile.

The Marchioness shook her head at him. "How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit blows where it wants."

"Listen, oh, listen!" Dr. Carver said, in a whisper as loud as a speech.

"But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have had a delightful little dinner, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you, and will be down in a moment."

"We were standing in wonder at these beautiful flowers. They will surprise her when she appears."

Winsett stayed on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she leaves our street. This house has been an oasis, a green, watered place in a desert."

"Ah, but she won't leave you. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It is poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?"

"Well, no. But I sometimes read it," said Winsett. He gave the group one general nod, and slipped out.

"A sharp, biting spirit, 'un peu sauvage,' or a little wild in French. But so witty, so quick and clever in his talk! Dr. Carver, you do think him witty?"

"I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver in a hard, serious voice.

"Ah, ah, you never think of wit! How hard he is on us weak human creatures, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit. Tonight, in his mind, he prepares the talk he will soon give at Mrs. Blenker's."

"Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start for the Blenkers'? Time to explain to Mr. Archer your great discovery of the Direct Contact? But no, it is nearly nine o'clock. We must not keep you while so many wait for your message."

Dr. Carver looked a little disappointed. He compared his heavy gold watch with Madame Olenska's little travelling-clock. Then he slowly gathered up his great body to leave.

"I shall see you later, dear friend?" he asked the Marchioness.

She answered with a smile. "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes, I will join you. I do hope the talk will not begin before I come."

Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young gentleman cares to hear of my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might let you bring him?"

"Oh, dear friend, if only that could be. I am sure she would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself."

"That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate. But here is my card." He handed it to Archer, who read, in Gothic letters:

> Agathon Carver > The Valley of Love > Kittasquattamy, N. Y.

Dr. Carver bowed himself out. Mrs. Manson sighed, in regret or relief, and again waved Archer to a seat.

"Ellen will be down in a moment. And before she comes, I am so glad of this quiet moment with you."

Archer said something polite about the pleasure of meeting her.

The Marchioness went on in her low, sighing voice. "I know everything, dear Mr. Archer. My child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise advice and brave, firm stand. Thank heaven it was not too late!"

The young man listened, deeply uncomfortable. Was there anyone, he wondered, who did not know of his part in her private affairs?

"Madame Olenska makes too much of it. I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she asked me to."

"Ah, but in doing it, you were the unknowing tool," cried the lady. "The tool of, of, what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer? Providence is the old word for God's guiding hand!"

She tilted her head and half closed her eyes, full of mystery. "You little knew that someone was reaching out to me from across the Atlantic!"

She glanced over her shoulder, afraid of listening ears. Then she drew her chair nearer and raised a tiny ivory fan to her lips. Ivory is the smooth white material of elephants' teeth.

Behind the fan she breathed, "The Count himself, my poor, mad, foolish Olenski. He asks only to take her back on her own terms."

"Good God!" Archer cried, springing up.

"That shocks you? Yes, of course. I understand. I do not defend poor Stanislas, though he has always called me his best friend."

"He does not defend himself. Through me, he throws himself at her feet." She tapped her thin, bony chest. "I have his letter here."

"A letter? Has Madame Olenska seen it?" Archer asked, in broken words. His head was spinning with the shock.

The Marchioness shook her head softly. "Time, time. I must have time. I know my Ellen is proud and hard to move. Shall I say, just a shade unforgiving?"

"But good heavens, to forgive is one thing. To go back into that hell..."

"Ah, yes," the Marchioness agreed. "So my sensitive child describes it! But what about money, Mr. Archer? One may bend low enough to think of that. Do you know what she is giving up?"

"Look at those roses on the sofa. He has whole fields of them at Nice, under glass and outside. His wonderful gardens fall in great steps down the hillside!"

"Jewels, famous pearls, the Sobieski emeralds, deep green stones of great price, and costly dark furs. But she cares nothing for them! She lives for art and beauty, as I always have."

"And those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music, brilliant talk. Excuse me, my dear young man, but you have no idea of that here!"

"And she had it all. And with it, the worship of the greatest men. She tells me in New York she is not thought handsome. Good heavens! Her portrait was painted nine times."

"The greatest artists in Europe begged for the honour. Are these things nothing? And the deep regret of a husband who still adores her?"

The Marchioness rose toward her great final point. Her face took on a look of far-off joy, the joy of sweet remembering. At another time Archer would have laughed. But he was frozen with shock.

So this was his first sight of poor Medora Manson, carrying a message from Satan, the Devil himself. Once, the idea would have made him laugh. He could not laugh now. She seemed to come from the hell that Ellen Olenska had just escaped.

"She knows nothing yet of all this?" he asked suddenly.

Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. "Nothing directly. But does she suspect? Who can tell?"

"The truth is, Mr. Archer, I waited to see you. I heard of your firm stand and your influence over her. I hoped for your support, to convince you..."

"That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" the young man cried violently.

"Ah," said the Marchioness softly, with no sign of anger. For a while she sat in her armchair, opening and shutting the foolish ivory fan between her gloved fingers. But suddenly she lifted her head and listened.

"Here she comes," she said in a quick whisper. Then she pointed to the flowers on the sofa. "Am I to understand that you prefer that, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a wife ..."