“Of course it must be done,” she said.
“Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry
out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram
for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can
probably catch tomorrow morning’s train.”
She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar
clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells.
“Well, it can’t go at once. Jasper
and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams.”
May turned to her husband with a smile. “But
here’s Newland, ready to do anything.
Will you take the telegram, Newland? There’ll
be just time before luncheon.”
Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated
herself at old Catherine’s rosewood “Bonheur
du Jour,” and wrote out the message in her large
immature hand. When it was written she blotted
it neatly and handed it to Archer.
“What a pity,” she said, “that you
and Ellen will cross each other on the way!—Newland,”
she added, turning to her mother and aunt, “is
obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit
that is coming up before the Supreme Court.
I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night,
and with Granny improving so much it doesn’t
seem right to ask Newland to give up an important
engagement for the firm—does it?”
She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland
hastily declared: “Oh, of course not, darling.
Your Granny would be the last person to wish it.”
As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard
his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell
Mingott: “But why on earth she should
make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska—”
and May’s clear voice rejoin: “Perhaps
it’s to urge on her again that after all her
duty is with her husband.”
The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily
away toward the telegraph office.
“Ol-ol—howjer spell it, anyhow?”
asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed
his wife’s telegram across the brass ledge of
the Western Union office.
“Olenska—O-len-ska,” he repeated,
drawing back the message in order to print out the
foreign syllables above May’s rambling script.
“It’s an unlikely name for a New York
telegraph office; at least in this quarter,”
an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer
saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable
moustache and affecting not to glance at the message.
“Hallo, Newland: thought I’d catch
you here. I’ve just heard of old Mrs.
Mingott’s stroke; and as I was on my way to
the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped
after you. I suppose you’ve come from
there?”
Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the
lattice.
“Very bad, eh?” Lefferts continued.
“Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather
it is bad, if you’re including Countess
Olenska.”
Archer’s lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse
to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face
at his side.
