The next day was a Sunday, and if she were "going out" on a Sunday
evening it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. He
felt a slight movement of annoyance, not so much at her going there
(for he rather liked her going where she pleased in spite of the van
der Luydens), but because it was the kind of house at which she was
sure to meet Beaufort, where she must have known beforehand that she
would meet him--and where she was probably going for that purpose.
"Very well; tomorrow evening," he repeated, inwardly resolved that
he would not go early, and that by reaching her door late he would
either prevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers's, or else arrive after
she had started--which, all things considered, would no doubt be the
simplest solution.
It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under
the wisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour--but
a singular restlessness had driven him to her door. He reflected,
however, that Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings were not like a ball,
and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency, usually went
early.
The one thing he had not counted on, in entering Madame Olenska's hall,
was to find hats and overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to come
early if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of the
garments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment
gave way to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest
he had ever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to
assure himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One
was a shaggy yellow ulster of "reach-me-down" cut, the other a very
old and rusty cloak with a cape--something like what the French called
a "Macfarlane." This garment, which appeared to be made for a person
of prodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and its
greenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive of
prolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey
scarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.
Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers in
return with a fatalistic "Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-room door.
The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then,
with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This
lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment
intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of
plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her
hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was
surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens,
visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands.
Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two
overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken
off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise,
recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to
him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the
"Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair,
and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were
distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.
These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed
on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of
purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska
usually sat.
"What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the
sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato
as Archer came in.
The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady,
advancing, held out her hand.
"Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the
Marchioness Manson."
Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few
days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with
Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest
nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was
called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know
Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?"
Dr. Carver inclined his leonine 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 route," Winsett
said with his dry smile.
The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. "How do you know, Mr.
Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."
"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.
"But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful
little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects
you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these
marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears."
Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell
Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our
street. This house has been an oasis."
"Ah, but she won't abandon _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, including the group
in a general nod and slipping out of the room.
"A caustic spirit--_un peu sauvage_. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you _do_
think him witty?"
"I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely.
"Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak
mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and
tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently
at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start
for the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery
of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we
have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message."
Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having
compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's little
travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for
departure.
"I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggested to the Marchioness,
who replied with a smile: "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will
join you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun."
Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young
gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you
to bring him with you?"
"Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--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 on it, in Gothic characters:
/c
+-----------------------+
| Agathon Carver |
| The Valley of Love |
| Kittasquattamy, N. Y. |
+-----------------------+
c/
Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that might
have been either of regret or relief, 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 murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchioness
continued, in her low sighing accents: "I know everything, dear Mr.
Archer--my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise
advice: your courageous firmness--thank heaven it was not too late!"
The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there
any one, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his
intervention in her private affairs?
"Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she
asked me to."
"Ah, but in doing it--in doing it you were the unconscious instrument
of--of--what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?"
cried the lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lids
mysteriously. "Little did you know that at that very moment I was being
appealed to: being approached, in fact--from the other side of the
Atlantic!"
She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard,
and then, drawing her chair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to her
lips, breathed behind it: "By the Count himself--my poor, mad, foolish
Olenski; who asks only to take her back on her own terms."
"Good God!" Archer exclaimed, springing up.
"You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I don't defend poor
Stanislas, though he has always called me his best friend. He does not
defend himself--he casts himself at her feet: in my person." She tapped
her emaciated bosom. "I have his letter here."
"A letter?--Has Madame Olenska seen it?" Archer stammered, his brain
whirling with the shock of the announcement.
The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly. "Time--time; I must have
time. I know my Ellen--haughty, intractable; 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 acquiesced. "So she describes it--my
sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop
to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses
there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in the open, in
his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels--historic pearls: the
Sobieski emeralds--sables,--but she cares nothing for all these! Art
and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as I always have;
and those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music,
brilliant conversation--ah, that, my dear young man, if you'll excuse
me, is what you've no conception of here! And she had it all; and the
homage of the greatest. She tells me she is not thought handsome in
New York--good heavens! Her portrait has been painted nine times; the
greatest artists in Europe have begged for the privilege. Are these
things nothing? And the remorse of an adoring husband?"
As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed an
expression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer's
mirth had he not been numb with amazement.
He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his first
sight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messenger
of Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to
him to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had just
escaped.
"She knows nothing yet--of all this?" he asked abruptly.
Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. "Nothing directly--but
does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been
waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had
taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to
count on your support--to convince you ..."
"That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the
young man violently.
"Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while
she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan
between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and
listened.
"Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to
the bouquet 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..."