“The House of Life.” He took it
up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike
any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich,
and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and
haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions.
All through the night he pursued through those enchanted
pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen
Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked
out at the brownstone houses across the street, and
thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair’s office,
and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the
park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale
of probability as the visions of the night.
“Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!” Janey
commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his
mother added: “Newland, dear, I’ve
noticed lately that you’ve been coughing; I
do hope you’re not letting yourself be overworked?”
For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under
the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young
man’s life was spent in the most exhausting
professional labours—and he had never thought
it necessary to undeceive them.
The next two or three days dragged by heavily.
The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth,
and there were moments when he felt as if he were
being buried alive under his future. He heard
nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect
little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club
they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables.
It was not till the fourth evening that he found
a note awaiting him on his return home. “Come
late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen.”
These were the only words it contained.
The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note
into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness
of the “to you.” After dinner he
went to a play; and it was not until his return home,
after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska’s
missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of
times. There were several ways of answering
it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during
the watches of an agitated night. That on which,
when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch
some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board
a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St.
Augustine.
When Archer walked down the sandy main street of
St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed
out to him as Mr. Welland’s, and saw May Welland
standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair,
he wondered why he had waited so long to come.
Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the
life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself
so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid
to break away from his desk because of what people
might think of his stealing a holiday!
Her first exclamation was: “Newland—has
anything happened?” and it occurred to him that
it would have been more “feminine” if
she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come.
But when he answered: “Yes—I
found I had to see you,” her happy blushes took
the chill from her surprise, and he saw how easily
he would be forgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair’s
mild disapproval would be smiled away by a tolerant
family.
