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Edith Wharton (1862-1937)
By EDITH WHARTON
HUDSON RIVER BRACKETED
HERE AND BEYOND
THE MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE
OLD NEW YORK
The Old Maid
New Year’s Day
THE GLIMPSES OF THE MOON
THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
All rights reserved. This book, or parts
thereof, must not be reproduced in any
form without permission of the publisher.
Copyright, 1919, 1926, 1927, and 1928 by D. Appleton and Company
A Bottle of Perrier
NORA FRENWAY settled down furtively in her corner of the Pullman and, as the express plunged out of the Grand Central Station, wondered at herself for being where she was. The porter came along. “Ticket?” “Westover.” She had instinctively lowered her voice and glanced about her. But neither the porter nor her nearest neighbours—fortunately none of them known to her—seemed in the least surprised or interested by the statement that she was travelling to Westover.
Yet what an earth-shaking announcement it was! Not that she cared, now; not that anything mattered except the one overwhelming fact which had convulsed her life, hurled her out of her easy velvet-lined rut, and flung her thus naked to the public scrutiny. . . Cautiously, again, she glanced about her to make doubly sure that there was no one, absolutely no one, in the Pullman whom she knew by sight.
Her life had been so carefully guarded, so inwardly conventional in a world where all the outer conventions were tottering, that no one had ever known she had a lover. No one—of that she was absolutely sure. All the circumstances of the case had made it necessary that she should conceal her real life—her only real life—from everyone about her; from her half-invalid irascible husband, his prying envious sisters, and the terrible monumental old chieftainess, her mother-in-law, before whom all the family quailed and humbugged and fibbed and fawned.
What nonsense to pretend that nowadays, even in big cities, in the world’s greatest social centres, the severe old-fashioned standards had given place to tolerance, laxity and ease! You took up the morning paper, and you read of girl bandits, movie-star divorces, “hold-ups” at balls, murder and suicide and elopement, and a general welter of disjointed disconnected impulses and appetites; then you turned your eyes onto your own daily life, and found yourself as cribbed and cabined, as beset by vigilant family eyes, observant friends, all sorts of embodied standards, as any white-muslin novel heroine of the ’sixties!
In a different way, of course. To the casual eye Mrs. Frenway herself might have seemed as free as any of the young married women of her group. Poker playing, smoking, cocktail drinking, dancing, painting, short skirts, bobbed hair and the rest—when had these been denied to her? If by any outward sign she had differed too markedly from her kind—lengthened her skirts, refused to play for money, let her hair grow, or ceased to make up—her husband would have been the first to notice it, and to say: “Are you ill? What’s the matter? How queer you look! What’s the sense of making yourself conspicuous?” For he and his kind had adopted all the old inhibitions and sanctions, blindly transferring them to a new ritual, as the receptive Romans did when strange gods were brought into their temples. . .
The train had escaped from the ugly fringes of the city, and the soft spring landscape was gliding past her: glimpses of green lawns, budding hedges, pretty irregular roofs, and miles and miles of alluring tarred roads slipping away into mystery. How often she had dreamed of dashing off down an unknown road with Christopher!
Not that she was a woman to be awed by the conventions. She knew she wasn’t. She had always taken their measure, smiled at them—and conformed. On account of poor George Frenway, to begin with. Her husband, in a sense, was a man to be pitied; his weak health, his bad temper, his unsatisfied vanity, all made him a rather forlornly comic figure. But it was chiefly on account of the two children that she had always resisted the temptation to do anything reckless. The least self-betrayal would have been the end of everything. Too many eyes were watching her, and her husband’s family was so strong, so united—when there was anybody for them to hate—and at all times so influential, that she would have been defeated at every point, and her husband would have kept the children.
At the mere thought she felt herself on the brink of an abyss. “The children are my religion,” she had once said to herself; and she had no other.
Yet here she was on her way to Westover. . . Oh, what did it matter now? That was the worst of it—it was too late for anything between her and Christopher to matter! She was sure he was dying. The way in which his cousin, Gladys Brincker, had blurted it out the day before at Kate Salmer’s dance: “You didn’t know—poor Kit? Thought you and he were such pals! Yes; awfully bad, I’m afraid. Return of the old trouble! I know there’ve been two consultations—they had Knowlton down. They say there’s not much hope; and nobody but that forlorn frightened Jane mounting guard. . .”
Poor Christopher! His sister Jane Aldis, Nora suspected, forlorn and frightened as she was, had played in his life a part nearly as dominant as Frenway and the children in Nora’s. Loyally, Christopher always pretended that she didn’t; talked of her indulgently as “poor Jenny”. But didn’t she, Nora, always think of her husband as “poor George”? Jane Aldis, of course, was much less self-assertive, less demanding, than George Frenway; but perhaps for that very reason she would appeal all the more to a man’s compassion. And somehow, under her unobtrusive air, Nora had—on the rare occasions when they met—imagined that Miss Aldis was watching and drawing her inferences. But then Nora always felt, where Christopher was concerned, as if her breast were a pane of glass through which her trembling palpitating heart could be seen as plainly as holy viscera in a reliquary. Her sober afterthought was that Jane Aldis was just a dowdy self-effacing old maid whose life was filled to the brim by looking after the Westover place for her brother, and seeing that the fires were lit and the rooms full of flowers when he brought down his friends for a week-end.
Ah, how often he had said to Nora: “If I could have you to myself for a week-end at Westover”—quite as if it were the easiest thing imaginable, as far as his arrangements were concerned! And they had even pretended to discuss how it could be done. But somehow she fancied he said it because he knew that the plan, for her, was about as feasible as a week-end in the moon. And in reality her only visits to Westover had been made in the company of her husband, and that of other friends, two or three times, at the beginning. . . For after that she wouldn’t. It was three years now since she had been there.
Gladys Brincker, in speaking of Christopher’s illness, had looked at Nora queerly, as though suspecting something. But no—what nonsense! No one had ever suspected Nora Frenway. Didn’t she know what her friends said of her? “Nora? No more temperament than a lamp-post. Always buried in her books. . . Never very attractive to men, in spite of her looks.” Hadn’t she said that of other women, who perhaps, in secret, like herself. . . ?
The train was slowing down as it approached a station. She sat up with a jerk and looked at her wrist-watch. It was half-past two, the station was Ockham; the next would be Westover. In less than an hour she would be under his roof, Jane Aldis would be receiving her in that low panelled room full of books, and she would be saying—what would she be saying?
She had gone over their conversation so often that she knew not only her own part in it but Miss Aldis’s by heart. The first moments would of course be painful, difficult; but then a great wave of emotion, breaking down the barriers between the two anxious women, would fling them together. She wouldn’t have to say much, to explain; Miss Aldis would just take her by the hand and lead her upstairs to the room.
That room! She shut her eyes, and remembered other rooms where she and he had been together in their joy and their strength. . . No, not that; she must not think of that now. For the man she had met in those other rooms was dying; the man she was going to was some one so different from that other man that it was like a profanation to associate their images. . . And yet the man she was going to was her own Christopher, the one who had lived in her soul; and how his soul must be needing hers, now that it hung alone on the dark brink! As if anything else mattered at such a moment! She neither thought nor cared what Jane Aldis might say or suspect; she wouldn’t have cared if the Pullman had been full of prying acquaintances, or if George and all George’s family had got in at that last station.
She wouldn’t have cared a fig for any of them. Yet at the same moment she remembered having felt glad that her old governess, whom she used to go and see twice a year, lived at Ockham—so that if George did begin to ask questions, she could always say: “Yes, I went to see poor old Fraülein; she’s absolutely crippled now. I shall have to give her a Bath chair. Could you get me a catalogue of prices?” There wasn’t a precaution she hadn’t thought of—and now she was ready to scatter them all to the winds. . .
She started up and pushed her way out of the train. All the people seemed to be obstructing her, putting bags and suit-cases in her way. And the express stopped for only two minutes. Suppose she should be carried on to Albany?
Westover Junction was a growing place, and she was fairly sure there would be a taxi at the station. There was one—she just managed to get to it ahead of a travelling man with a sample case and a new straw hat. As she opened the door a smell of damp hay and bad tobacco greeted her. She sprang in and gasped: “To Oakfield. You know? Mr. Aldis’s place near Westover.”
It began exactly as she had expected. A surprised parlour maid—why surprised?—showed her into the low panelled room that was so full of his presence, his books, his pipes, his terrier dozing on the shabby rug. The parlour maid said she would go and see if Miss Aldis could come down. Nora wanted to ask if she were with her brother—and how he was. But she found herself unable to speak the words. She was afraid her voice might tremble. And why should she question the parlour maid, when in a moment, she hoped, she was to see Miss Aldis?
The woman moved away with a hushed step—the step which denotes illness in the house. She did not immediately return, and the interval of waiting in that room, so strange yet so intimately known, was a new torture to Nora. It was unlike anything she had imagined. The writing table with his scattered pens and letters was more than she could bear. His dog looked at her amicably from the hearth, but made no advances; and though she longed to stroke him, to let her hand rest where Christopher’s had rested, she dared not for fear he should bark and disturb the peculiar hush of that dumb watchful house. She stood in the window and looked out at the budding shrubs and the bulbs pushing up through the swollen earth.
“This way, please.”
Her heart gave a plunge. Was the woman actually taking her upstairs to his room? Her eyes filled, she felt herself swept forward on a great wave of passion and anguish. . . But she was only being led across the hall into a stiff lifeless drawing-room—the kind that bachelors get an upholsterer to do for them, and then turn their backs on forever. The chairs and sofas looked at her with an undisguised hostility, and then resumed the moping expression common to furniture in unfrequented rooms. Even the spring sun slanting in through the windows on the pale marquetry of a useless table seemed to bring no heat or light with it.
The rush of emotion subsided, leaving in Nora a sense of emptiness and apprehension. Supposing Jane Aldis should look at her with the cold eyes of this resentful room? She began to wish she had been friendlier and more cordial to Jane Aldis in the past. In her intense desire to conceal from everyone the tie between herself and Christopher she had avoided all show of interest in his family; and perhaps, as she now saw, excited curiosity by her very affectation of indifference.
No doubt it would have been more politic to establish an intimacy with Jane Aldis; and today, how much easier and more natural her position would have been! Instead of groping about—as she was again doing—for an explanation of her visit, she could have said: “My dear, I came to see if there was anything in the world I could do to help you.”
She heard a hesitating step in the hall—a hushed step like the parlour maid’s—and saw Miss Aldis pause near the half-open door. How old she had grown since their last meeting! Her hair, untidily pinned up, was gray and lanky. Her eyelids, always reddish, were swollen and heavy, her face sallow with anxiety and fatigue. It was odd to have feared so defenseless an adversary. Nora, for an instant, had the impression that Miss Aldis had wavered in the hall to catch a glimpse of her, take the measure of the situation. But perhaps she had only stopped to push back a strand of hair as she passed in front of a mirror.
“Mrs. Frenway—how good of you!” She spoke in a cool detached voice, as if her real self were elsewhere and she were simply an automaton wound up to repeat the familiar forms of hospitality. “Do sit down,” she said.
She pushed forward one of the sulky arm-chairs, and Nora seated herself stiffly, her hand-bag clutched on her knee, in the self-conscious attitude of a country caller.
“So good of you,” Miss Aldis repeated. “I had no idea you were in this part of the world. Not the slightest.”
Was it a lead she was giving? Or did she know everything, and wish to extend to her visitor the decent shelter of a pretext? Or was she really so stupid—
“You’re staying with the Brinckers, I suppose. Or the Northrups? I remember the last time you came to lunch here you motored over with Mr. Frenway from the Northrups’. That must have been two years ago, wasn’t it?” She put the question with an almost sprightly show of interest.
“No—three years,” said Nora, mechanically.
“Was it? As long ago as that? Yes—you’re right. That was the year we moved the big fern-leaved beech. I remember Mr. Frenway was interested in tree moving, and I took him out to show him where the tree had come from. He is interested in tree moving, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes; very much.”
“We had those wonderful experts down to do it. ‘Tree doctors,’ they call themselves. They have special appliances, you know. The tree is growing better than it did before they moved it. But I suppose you’ve done a great deal of transplanting on Long Island.”
“Yes. My husband does a good deal of transplanting.”
“So you’ve come over from the Northrups’? I didn’t even know they were down at Maybrook yet. I see so few people.”
“No; not from the Northrups’.”
“Oh—the Brinckers’? Hal Brincker was here yesterday, but he didn’t tell me you were staying there.”
Nora hesitated. “No. The fact is, I have an old governess who lives at Ockham. I go to see her sometimes. And so I came on to Westover—” She paused, and Miss Aldis interrogated brightly: “Yes?” as if prompting her in a lesson she was repeating.
“Because I saw Gladys Brincker the other day, and she told me that your brother was ill.”
“Oh.” Miss Aldis gave the syllable its full weight, and set a full stop after it. Her eyebrows went up, as if in a faint surprise. The silent room seemed to close in on the two speakers, listening. A resuscitated fly buzzed against the sunny window pane. “Yes; he’s ill,” she conceded at length.
“I’m so sorry; I . . . he has been . . . such a friend of ours . . . so long. . .”
“Yes; I’ve often heard him speak of you and Mr. Frenway.” Another full stop sealed this announcement. (“No, she knows nothing,” Nora thought.) “I remember his telling me that he thought a great deal of Mr. Frenway’s advice about moving trees. But then you see our soil is so different from yours. I suppose Mr. Frenway has had your soil analyzed?”
“Yes; I think he has.”
“Christopher’s always been a great gardener.”
“I hope he’s not—not very ill? Gladys seemed to be afraid—”
“Illness is always something to be afraid of, isn’t it?”
“But you’re not—I mean, not anxious . . . not seriously?”
“It’s so kind of you to ask. The doctors seem to think there’s no particular change since yesterday.”
“Well, yesterday they seemed to think there might be.”
“A change, you mean?”
“A change—I hope for the better?”
“They said they weren’t sure; they couldn’t say.” The fly’s buzzing had become so insistent in the still room that it seemed to be going on inside of Nora’s head, and in the confusion of sound she found it more and more difficult to regain a lead in the conversation. And the minutes were slipping by, and upstairs the man she loved was lying. It was absurd and lamentable to make a pretense of keeping up this twaddle. She would cut through it, no matter how.
“I suppose you’ve had—a consultation?”
“Oh, yes; Dr. Knowlton’s been down twice.”
“And what does he—”
“Well; he seems to agree with the others.”
There was another pause, and then Miss Aldis glanced out of the window. “Why, who’s that driving up?” she enquired. “Oh, it’s your taxi, I suppose, coming up the drive.”
“Yes. I got out at the gate.” She dared not add: “For fear the noise might disturb him.”
“I hope you had no difficulty in finding a taxi at the Junction?”
“Oh, no; I had no difficulty.”
“I think it was so kind of you to come—not even knowing whether you’d find a carriage to bring you out all this way. And I know how busy you are. There’s always so much going on in town, isn’t there, even at this time of year?”
“Yes; I suppose so. But your brother—”
“Oh, of course my brother won’t be up to any sort of gaiety; not for a long time.”
“A long time; no. But you do hope—”
“I think everybody about a sick bed ought to hope, don’t you?”
“Yes; but I mean—”
Nora stood up suddenly, her brain whirling. Was it possible that she and that woman had sat thus facing each other for half an hour, piling up this conversational rubbish, while upstairs, out of sight, the truth, the meaning of their two lives hung on the frail thread of one man’s intermittent pulse? She could not imagine why she felt so powerless and baffled. What had a woman who was young and handsome and beloved to fear from a dowdy and insignificant old maid? Why, the antagonism that these very graces and superiorities would create in the other’s breast, especially if she knew they were all spent in charming the being on whom her life depended. Weak in herself, but powerful from her circumstances, she stood at bay on the ruins of all that Nora had ever loved. “How she must hate me—and I never thought of it,” mused Nora, who had imagined that she had thought of everything where her relation to her lover was concerned. Well, it was too late now to remedy her omission; but at least she must assert herself, must say something to save the precious minutes that remained and break through the stifling web of platitudes which her enemy’s tremulous hand was weaving around her.
“Miss Aldis—I must tell you—I came to see—”
“How he was? So very friendly of you. He would appreciate it, I know. Christopher is so devoted to his friends.”
“But you’ll—you’ll tell him that I—”
“Of course. That you came on purpose to ask about him. As soon as he’s a little bit stronger.”
“But I mean—now?”
“Tell him now that you called to enquire? How good of you to think of that too! Perhaps tomorrow morning, if he’s feeling a little bit brighter. . .”
Nora felt her lips drying as if a hot wind had parched them. They would hardly move. “But now—now—today.” Her voice sank to a whisper as she added: “Isn’t he conscious?”
“Oh, yes; he’s conscious; he’s perfectly conscious.” Miss Aldis emphasized this with another of her long pauses. “He shall certainly be told that you called.” Suddenly she too got up from her seat and moved toward the window. “I must seem dreadfully inhospitable, not even offering you a cup of tea. But the fact is, perhaps I ought to tell you—if you’re thinking of getting back to Ockham this afternoon there’s only one train that stops at the Junction after three o’clock.” She pulled out an old-fashioned enamelled watch with a wreath of roses about the dial, and turned almost apologetically to Mrs. Frenway. “You ought to be at the station by four o’clock at the latest; and with one of those old Junction taxis . . . I’m so sorry; I know I must appear to be driving you away.” A wan smile drew up her pale lips.
Nora knew just how long the drive from Westover Junction had taken, and understood that she was being delicately dismissed. Dismissed from life—from hope—even from the dear anguish of filling her eyes for the last time with the face which was the one face in the world to her! (“But then she does know everything,” she thought.)
“I mustn’t make you miss your train, you know.”
“Miss Aldis, is he—has he seen any one?” Nora hazarded in a painful whisper.
“Seen any one? Well, there’ve been all the doctors—five of them! And then the nurses. Oh, but you mean friends, of course. Naturally.” She seemed to reflect. “Hal Brincker, yes; he saw our cousin Hal yesterday—but not for very long.”
Hal Brincker! Nora knew what Christopher thought of his Brincker cousins—blighting bores, one and all of them, he always said. And in the extremity of his illness the one person privileged to see him had been—Hal Brincker! Nora’s eyes filled; she had to turn them away for a moment from Miss Aldis’s timid inexorable face.
“But today?” she finally brought out.
“No. Today he hasn’t seen any one; not yet.” The two women stood and looked at each other; then Miss Aldis glanced uncertainly about the room. “But couldn’t I—Yes, I ought at least to have asked you if you won’t have a cup of tea. So stupid of me! There might still be time. I never take tea myself.” Once more she referred anxiously to her watch. “The water is sure to be boiling, because the nurses’ tea is just being taken up. If you’ll excuse me a moment I’ll go and see.”
“Oh, no; no!” Nora drew in a quick sob. “How can you? . . . I mean, I don’t want any. . .”
Miss Aldis looked relieved. “Then I shall be quite sure that you won’t reach the station too late.” She waited again, and then held out a long stony hand. “So kind—I shall never forget your kindness. Coming all this way, when you might so easily have telephoned from town. Do please tell Mr. Frenway how I appreciated it. You will remember to tell him, won’t you? He sent me such an interesting collection of pamphlets about tree moving. I should like him to know how much I feel his kindness in letting you come.” She paused again, and pulled in her lips so that they became a narrow thread, a mere line drawn across her face by a ruler. “But, no; I won’t trouble you; I’ll write to thank him myself.” Her hand ran out to an electric bell on the nearest table. It shrilled through the silence, and the parlour maid appeared with a stage-like promptness.
“The taxi, please? Mrs. Frenway’s taxi.”
The room became silent again. Nora thought: “Yes; she knows everything.” Miss Aldis peeped for the third time at her watch, and then uttered a slight unmeaning laugh. The blue-bottle banged against the window, and once more it seemed to Nora that its sonorities were reverberating inside her head. They were deafeningly mingled there with the explosion of the taxi’s reluctant starting-up and its convulsed halt at the front door. The driver sounded his horn as if to summon her.
“He’s afraid too that you’ll be late!” Miss Aldis smiled.
The smooth slippery floor of the hall seemed to Nora to extend away in front of her for miles. At its far end she saw a little tunnel of light, a miniature maid, a toy taxi. Somehow she managed to travel the distance that separated her from them, though her bones ached with weariness, and at every step she seemed to be lifting a leaden weight. The taxi was close to her now, its door was open, she was getting in. The same smell of damp hay and bad tobacco greeted her. She saw her hostess standing on the threshold. “To the Junction, driver—back to the Junction,” she heard Miss Aldis say. The taxi began to roll toward the gate. As it moved away Nora heard Miss Aldis calling: “I’ll be sure to write and thank Mr. Frenway.”
A TWO days’ struggle over the treacherous trails in a well-intentioned but short-winded “flivver”, and a ride of two more on a hired mount of unamiable temper, had disposed young Medford, of the American School of Archæology at Athens, to wonder why his queer English friend, Henry Almodham, had chosen to live in the desert.
Now he understood.
He was leaning against the roof parapet of the old building, half Christian fortress, half Arab palace, which had been Almodham’s pretext; or one of them. Below, in an inner court, a little wind, rising as the sun sank, sent through a knot of palms the rain-like rattle so cooling to the pilgrims of the desert. An ancient fig tree, enormous, exuberant, writhed over a whitewashed well-head, sucking life from what appeared to be the only source of moisture within the walls. Beyond these, on every side, stretched away the mystery of the sands, all golden with promise, all livid with menace, as the sun alternately touched or abandoned them.
Young Medford, somewhat weary after his journey from the coast, and awed by his first intimate sense of the omnipresence of the desert, shivered and drew back. Undoubtedly, for a scholar and a misogynist, it was a wonderful refuge; but one would have to be, incurably, both.
“Let’s take a look at the house,” Medford said to himself, as if speedy contact with man’s handiwork were necessary to his reassurance.
The house, he already knew, was empty save for the quick cosmopolitan man-servant, who spoke a sort of palimpsest Cockney lined with Mediterranean tongues and desert dialects—English, Italian or Greek, which was he?—and two or three burnoused underlings who, having carried Medford’s bags to his room, had relieved the place of their gliding presences. Mr. Almodham, the servant told him, was away; suddenly summoned by a friendly chief to visit some unexplored ruins to the south, he had ridden off at dawn, too hurriedly to write, but leaving messages of excuse and regret. That evening late he might be back, or next morning. Meanwhile Mr. Medford was to make himself at home.
Almodham, as young Medford knew, was always making these archæological explorations; they had been his ostensible reason for settling in that remote place, and his desultory search had already resulted in the discovery of several early Christian ruins of great interest.
Medford was glad that his host had not stood on ceremony, and rather relieved, on the whole, to have the next few hours to himself. He had had a malarial fever the previous summer, and in spite of his cork helmet he had probably caught a touch of the sun; he felt curiously, helplessly tired, yet deeply content.
And what a place it was to rest in! The silence, the remoteness, the illimitable air! And in the heart of the wilderness green leafage, water, comfort—he had already caught a glimpse of wide wicker chairs under the palms—a humane and welcoming habitation. Yes, he began to understand Almodham. To anyone sick of the Western fret and fever the very walls of this desert fortress exuded peace.
As his foot was on the ladder-like stair leading down from the roof, Medford saw the man-servant’s head rising toward him. It rose slowly and Medford had time to remark that it was sallow, bald on the top, diagonally dented with a long white scar, and ringed with thick ash-blond hair. Hitherto Medford had noticed only the man’s face—youngish, but sallow also—and been chiefly struck by its wearing an odd expression which could best be defined as surprise.