Chapter 21

A small bright lawn ran toward the great bright sea. Red flowers and dark-leaved plants edged the grass. Brown iron flower pots stood along a turning path. Their flowers hung over the carefully cleaned stones.

The Beaufort house stood halfway back from the cliff. Its square wood walls were brown. Yellow and brown lines crossed the metal verandah roof. They were painted to look like a cloth cover.

Two large round targets stood before thick bushes. Across the lawn, a real tent faced them. Long seats and garden chairs surrounded it.

Ladies in summer dresses talked with gentlemen in grey coats. From time to time, a slim girl left the tent. Her stiff white dress moved around her as she raised a bow.

She sent an arrow toward one target. The crowd stopped talking to watch. Then its soft voices rose again.

Newland Archer watched from the house verandah. Bright blue and yellow pots stood beside the shining steps. Each held a sharp green plant.

Blue flowers grew below the verandah, edged with more red ones. Behind him stood open glass doors. Their lace curtains moved in the sea air.

Through them, Newland saw smooth wooden floors shining like glass. Small soft chairs and low tables stood like islands. Silver objects crowded their covers.

The Newport Archery Club met at the Beauforts' every August. Archery was the sport of shooting arrows from a bow. Until lately, only croquet competed with it.

Now lawn tennis was becoming more popular. Yet people thought tennis too rough for a social party. Archery let young women show pretty dresses and fine positions.

Newland looked down at the known scene with wonder. Everything continued in its old way. Yet his own feelings about it were completely different.

Newport first made him understand this change. During the winter in New York, he noticed it less. He and May settled into their new house there.

The house was pale green and yellow. A window curved out from the front wall. The entrance hall copied the red and black rooms of old Pompeii.

Newland gladly returned to his daily work at the law office. That habit connected him with his former self. He also chose a fine grey horse for May.

The Wellands gave her a brougham, a small closed carriage. Finding its horse gave Newland real pleasure. His new library gave him even more.

His family doubted every choice for that room. Still, he created the library from his dreams. Dark raised patterns covered the walls.

Eastlake bookcases stood beside honest, heavy chairs and tables. At the Century, he met Ned Winsett again. At the Knickerbocker, he saw his fashionable young friends.

His days held law work and dinners. Sometimes friends ate at the Archer house. On other nights, he went to an opera or play.

This life still seemed real and necessary. Newport was different. It meant freedom from every duty and endless holiday play.

Newland wanted to spend summer on Mount Desert. It was a distant island near the coast of Maine. Strong families from Boston and Philadelphia camped there.

Their simple houses stood among woods and water. Reports spoke of wild and beautiful views. Life there sounded almost like a hunter's life.

But the Wellands always went to Newport. They owned one of its square houses on the cliffs. Newland found no good reason for May to stay away.

Mrs. Welland gave him another reason. May worked hard over summer clothes in Paris. Why own them if she could not wear them?

Newland still had no answer to that kind of argument. May also failed to understand his dislike of Newport. It seemed a pleasant and sensible summer plan.

She reminded him that he once loved the place. He could not deny it. So he said marriage would make Newport better than ever.

Now he watched the bright lawn at the Beauforts'. A cold feeling passed through him. He knew he would not like Newport at all.

This was not dear May's fault. During their travels, they sometimes walked out of step. Back among her usual people, they moved together again.

Newland always knew she would meet his hopes. She did. He married her when his light love affairs began to disgust him.

At that exact time, he met a charming girl. May promised peace, order, and friendship. She also brought a duty he could never escape.

He could not call his choice a mistake. May gave him everything he expected. She was among New York's most beautiful young wives.

She was popular, sweet, and sensible. Newland liked being her husband. He never ignored the social rewards of his good fortune.

His madness before the wedding now seemed distant. He trained himself to call it his final foolish trial. The thought of marrying Countess Olenska seemed almost impossible now.

Ellen remained only as one sad ghost among many. Yet removing such thoughts left his mind empty. Each sound seemed to return from its bare walls.

That emptiness changed the party below him. The busy guests looked like children playing in a graveyard.

Newland heard women's clothes beside him. Marchioness Manson came through the open window. As always, cloth and hanging ends covered her in wild confusion.

A weak straw hat sat on her head. Many turns of old thin cloth held it there. She carried a tiny black sunshade with a white carved handle.

The little sunshade looked foolish beside her great hat. Medora moved toward Newland under both.

"My dear Newland, I did not know you and May arrived! You came only yesterday? Ah, yes, business and professional duties."

"Many husbands can join their wives only for the weekend. I understand perfectly."

She leaned her head and looked through partly closed eyes. "Marriage is one long giving up. I often told my Ellen so."

Newland's heart stopped with a strange pull. The same thing happened once before. A door seemed to shut between him and the world.

The break lasted only a moment. Soon he heard Medora answering some question from him.

"No, I am not staying here," she said. "I am with the Blenkers at Portsmouth. Their lonely country life is wonderful."

"Beaufort kindly sent his famous fast horses this morning. So I could see one of Regina's garden parties. Tonight I return to country life."

"The dear, unusual Blenkers rented an old farmhouse. They gather important and interesting people around them."

Medora lowered herself under her wide hat. A weak red color touched her face.

"Dr. Agathon Carver holds Inner Thought meetings there this week. They are very different from this bright worldly party. But I always live between opposite things."

"To me, sameness is the only death. I always tell Ellen to fear it. Every great wrong grows from sameness."

"But my poor child now hates the world. She has refused every Newport invitation. She even refused her grandmother Mingott."

"I could hardly bring her to the Blenkers. Her life is unhealthy and unnatural. If only she listened while the door was open."

Medora suddenly changed her subject. "Shall we watch this exciting match? I hear your May is shooting."

Beaufort crossed the lawn toward them. He was tall and heavy inside a tight London coat. One of his own orchids filled his buttonhole.

Newland did not see him for several months. Beaufort now looked different. The hot light made his red face seem thick and full.

His back remained straight and his shoulders square. Without that strong walk, he would seem old and overfed. His costly clothes now seemed too rich.

Many stories about Beaufort filled Newport. That spring, he sailed through the West Indies. His new steam yacht carried him.

People reported seeing a woman like Fanny Ring with him. She appeared beside him at several stops. No one could prove the story.

Builders made the yacht in Scotland. It had rooms for washing covered in small colored stones. Such rich comforts were almost unknown at sea.

People said the yacht cost half a million dollars. After returning, Beaufort gave Regina a great pearl necklace. It looked like a rich payment for his wrongs.

His money should carry such costs. Still, darker talk continued in Fifth Avenue and Wall Street. Some said bad railway deals hurt him.

Others blamed a woman who always demanded more. Each time people said his bank might fail, Beaufort spent more. He built new glass houses for orchids.

He bought more race horses. He added another costly French picture to his gallery. His spending answered every warning.

Beaufort reached Medora and Newland with his usual half-unkind smile. "Hello, Medora. Did those fast horses do their work? Forty minutes?"

"That is not bad. Of course, we needed to protect your nerves."

He greeted Newland and turned back with them. Then he spoke quietly across Medora. Newland did not hear the words.

Medora made one of her strange foreign movements. "What can one do?" she answered in French.

Beaufort frowned more deeply. Still, he made his face look pleased for Newland.

"You know May will take the first prize," he said.

"Then it stays in the family," Medora answered lightly.

They reached the tent. Mrs. Beaufort met them in a cloud of purple cloth. Thin coverings floated around her.

May was just leaving the tent. She wore white, with a pale green band around her waist. A ring of green leaves circled her hat.

She looked like Diana again, distant from ordinary life. She looked the same on her engagement night. No thought seemed to mark her clear eyes.

No feeling seemed to touch her heart. Newland knew she could think and feel. Still, life seemed to fall from her without leaving a mark.

May carried a bow and arrow. She stepped onto the white mark drawn on the grass. Then she raised the bow to her shoulder.

Her position had the grace of an old stone goddess. The watching crowd made a soft sound of pleasure. Newland felt the warm pride of ownership.

That feeling often gave him a short, false peace. Behind May, the other women waited. Mrs. Reggie Chivers and the Merry girls stood there.

Young Thorleys, Dagonets, and Mingotts bent over their scores. Brown and gold heads touched above the papers. Light dresses and flowered hats formed a soft rainbow.

All were young and pretty in the summer light. None moved with May's natural grace. Her muscles grew tight, and her face became happily serious.

She gave her whole mind to the act of strength.

"Good God," Lawrence Lefferts said nearby. "Not one holds a bow like she does."

Beaufort answered him. "True, but that is the only kind of target she will ever hit."

Newland felt an unreasonable anger. Beaufort's hard joke praised May's goodness. A husband should want others to see that goodness.

A dirty-minded man's lack of interest should prove May's quality. Yet the words sent another cold touch through Newland's heart.

What if perfect goodness was only the lack of something? Perhaps it was a curtain hiding an empty room. Newland watched May hit the exact center.

Her face was warm but calm as she returned. He felt he never lifted that curtain.

The other women and the crowd praised her. May received their words with her finest simple grace. No one could be jealous of her victories.

She would look equally peaceful after losing. But then her eyes found Newland. Her face shone because she saw his pleasure.

Mrs. Welland's little carriage waited for them. Its sides were made like a basket. Two ponies stood before it.

May took the reins, and Newland sat beside her. They joined the line of carriages leaving the party.

Late sunlight still touched the lawns and bushes. Two lines of fine vehicles rolled along Bellevue Avenue. Their well-dressed passengers left the Beauforts or the Ocean Drive.

"Shall we visit Granny?" May asked suddenly. "I want to tell her about my prize. We have plenty of time before dinner."

Newland agreed. May turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue. She crossed Spring Street and drove toward the rocky open land.

Catherine the Great lived in this unfashionable area. She never cared much about custom, and she hated wasting money. In her youth, she built a strange country house on cheap land.

It had many pointed roofs and crossed wooden beams. The house looked over the bay. Short oak trees crowded around its wide verandahs.

A turning road led up to the front door. Iron deer stood beside it. Blue glass balls rested among hills of red flowers.

The front door was dark shining wood. A striped roof covered it. Inside, a narrow hall had black and yellow stars across its floor.

Four small square rooms opened from the hall. Thick papers covered their walls. On each ceiling, an Italian painter placed the gods of old Greece.

Mrs. Mingott now slept in one of those rooms. Her great body made stairs impossible. She spent each day in the room beside it.

She sat in a great chair between an open door and window. Her hand always moved a fan made from a wide leaf. Her great breast held it far from her body.

The moving air reached only the little cloth covers on her chair. Their hanging edges moved, but Catherine did not cool.

Catherine helped hurry Newland's marriage. Since then, she always treated him like a close friend. Helping him made her feel still closer to him.

She believed wild love caused his hurry. Strong feelings delighted her unless they wasted money. So she greeted Newland with a knowing light in her eyes.

She often made playful remarks about his early marriage. May never seemed to understand them.

Catherine closely studied May's prize. A small arrow with a diamond point was fixed to May's dress. Beaufort gave it after the match.

"In my day, a fine gold pin was enough," Catherine said. "Still, Beaufort always pays well for his show."

She laughed softly. "This will become a family treasure, my dear. You must leave it to your oldest girl."

She pinched May's white arm. Red color rushed over May's face.

"What did I say to raise that red flag?" Catherine asked. "Will there be no daughters? Only boys?"

May became even redder. Catherine laughed again.

"Can I not say that either? My children want those gods painted off my ceiling. I am thankful someone here can shock nobody."

Newland burst out laughing. May joined him, though her whole face burned.

"Now tell me everything about the party," Catherine said. "That foolish Medora will never give me a clear report."

"Cousin Medora?" May asked. "I thought she was returning to Portsmouth."

"She is, but first she must collect Ellen here. Did you not know Ellen spent today with me?"

Catherine called Ellen's refusal to spend summer there foolish. Yet she stopped arguing with young people fifty years earlier.

"Ellen! Ellen!" she called in her high old voice.

She tried to lean forward and see the lawn. No one answered. Catherine struck the shining floor with her stick.

A brown-skinned maid entered in a bright head cloth. She saw Miss Ellen walking down toward the shore. Catherine turned to Newland.

"Run and bring her back, like a good grandson. This pretty lady can tell me about the party."

Newland rose as if inside a dream. People often said Countess Olenska's name during the last eighteen months. He also knew the chief facts of her life.

Ellen spent the previous summer at Newport. She attended many social events then. In autumn, she gave up the perfect house Beaufort found for her.

She moved to Washington. During winter, people said she shone among foreign public officers there. Such company gave Washington much of its social light.

Newland heard many opposing reports about her. People discussed her looks, speech, ideas, and friends. He listened as if they spoke about someone long dead.

Then Medora said Ellen's name at the match. At once, Ellen became alive to him. Medora's foolish voice opened an old hidden room.

Newland saw Ellen's little room lit by fire. He heard carriage wheels returning along the empty street.

He remembered a story about poor children in Tuscany. They lit dry grass inside a cave beside a road. The sudden light showed old painted figures in a grave.

The path to the shore fell away below the house. It reached a walk beside the water. Trees hung their long branches down like green tears.

Through that thin green cover, Newland saw Lime Rock. A white tower and tiny house stood there. Ida Lewis lived in that house.

She was the brave keeper of a lighthouse. A lighthouse was a tower whose light warned ships at night. Ida Lewis spent her honored old age there.

Beyond it stood Goat Island's low land and ugly public chimneys. The bay spread north in a gold light. Prudence Island and its low oaks lay farther away.

The shores of Conanicut were weak lines in the evening air. A narrow wooden pier reached out from the tree-lined walk. A pier was a wooden path built over water.

A little summer-house stood at its end. Inside it, a woman leaned against the rail. Her back faced the shore.

Newland stopped as if waking from sleep. The woman was Ellen. Yet he told himself that his past vision was only a dream.

Reality waited in the house above. Mrs. Welland's pony carriage would circle the front drive. May sat under the naked gods with secret hopes.

The Welland house stood across Newport. Mr. Welland was surely dressed for dinner already. He would walk the room with his watch in hand.

His weak stomach made him impatient. Every hour in that house followed a fixed plan. One could always know exactly what happened there.

"What am I?" Newland thought. "A son-in-law."

Ellen did not move. Newland stood halfway down the bank for a long moment. Boats of every kind cut lines across the bay.

White sailing boats came and went. Small steam boats passed fishing boats. Noisy boats pulled long black loads of coal behind them.

Ellen seemed held by the same sight. Beyond Fort Adams, the long sunset broke into a thousand fires. Its light caught one small sailboat leaving the bay.

Newland remembered a moment in the play _The Shaughraun_. Montague kissed Ada Dyas's ribbon. She did not know he was in the room.

"She does not know I am here," Newland thought. "She has not guessed. Would I know if she stood behind me?"

Then he made a private rule. If Ellen turned before the sail crossed Lime Rock, he would go to her. If she did not, he would return.

The little boat moved with the falling water. It passed in front of Lime Rock. For a moment, its sail covered Ida Lewis's house.

Then it crossed the white tower and its warning light. Newland waited. Wide, bright water opened between the island and the boat.

Still, Ellen did not move. Newland turned and climbed the hill.

"I am sorry you did not find Ellen," May said later. They drove home through the darkening evening. "I wanted to see her again."

"Perhaps she did not want to see us. She seems so changed."

"Changed?" Newland asked without feeling. He kept his eyes on the ponies' moving ears.

"She cares so little about her friends now," May said. "She gave up New York and her house. She spends time with such strange people."

"Think how uncomfortable the Blenkers' house must be. Ellen says she stays there to protect Medora. She wants to stop another terrible marriage."

May's fresh voice grew slightly hard. Newland never heard that sound in it before.

"Sometimes I think Ellen always found us dull. After all, perhaps she would be happier with her husband."

Newland suddenly laughed. "Holy innocence!"

May looked at him with a confused frown. He explained his cry.

"I never heard you say anything cruel before."

"Cruel?"

"People say angels enjoy watching the pains of the damned. Yet even angels do not call people happier in hell."

"Then it is a pity she married abroad," May said calmly.

Her voice sounded like her mother's with Mr. Welland. Newland felt placed among unreasonable husbands.

They drove down Bellevue Avenue and entered the Wellands' gate. Iron lamps stood on top of its cut wooden posts. Light already shone through the house windows.

As the carriage stopped, Newland saw his father-in-law. Mr. Welland walked across the drawing-room with his watch. He wore the hurt look Newland expected.

That look controlled people better than anger. Newland followed May into the hall. There, his feelings strangely turned around.

Usually the rich, heavy Welland house acted like a sleeping drug. Thick carpets softened every step. Watchful servants noticed every need.

Controlled clocks kept speaking of the hour. New cards and invitations always filled the hall table. A chain of tiny rules tied each hour to the next.

It also tied every family member to all others. Beside this order, a freer life seemed unsafe and unreal.

Now the Welland house itself seemed unreal. So did the life Newland must lead there. The short scene above the shore felt more true.

He still stood halfway down that bank inside his mind. The moment felt as close as blood in his body.

That night, Newland lay awake beside May. Moonlight crossed the carpet in their large flowered room. He thought of Ellen riding home through the shining beaches.

Beaufort's fast horses carried her through the night.