"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.
"Why?" he questioned.
Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows
with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel
behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded
Archer, than any display of temper in a public place.
Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form;
but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only
momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such
a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for
his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street.
There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott
is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever"; and Lefferts,
with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that
there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort....
That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the
papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and
only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two
events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the
accumulation of flesh and years.
The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour.
There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his
memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair
who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take
in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as
many of its clients belonged to one or another of the ruling clans,
Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not
taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were
"the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the
general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially
after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had
become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the
excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction--of pleading that she was
"a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not
in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort _was_; but,
after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case,
and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet again," the argument
lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful
evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get
on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it--except indeed for
such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old
Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who,
if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden ...
"The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs. Archer, summing it
up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course
of treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's little place in North
Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had
better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities
of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one
condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do.
The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her
voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the
Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in
the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health.
"If people of my age _will_ eat chicken-salad in the evening what are
they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely
modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of
indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly
recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old
age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours,
had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and
she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out
of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own
symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members
of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent.
Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice.
Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored;
and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful
character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had
been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian
now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued
an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his
temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise
that one could not be too careful about temperatures.
Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced
that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following
day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be
lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was
immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the
Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent
animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not
possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to
old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared,
since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for
the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a
moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr.
Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the
Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May,
at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to
Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear
inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame
Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the
station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired
voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma. "It's always one
thing after another," the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts
against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less
well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen
come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her."
The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often
are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce.
"Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you
any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than
he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual
in following up my case or your mother's?"
It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences
of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to
laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she
said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear,
how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the
decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her
husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden
whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that
she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite
of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman."
Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his
perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes:
your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be
as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always
one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose
I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's
always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary."
And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up
his fork.
"But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the
luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and
malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to
be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for
at least twenty-four hours ahead."
Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting
representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set
with medallions of onyx.
"Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easily get away from the
office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it
there." His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke.
Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away
to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "So you see,
Mamma, everything _will_ be settled twenty-four hours in advance," she
said, stooping over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead.
May's brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to
Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to
the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: "I didn't
want to worry Mamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how can you meet
Ellen tomorrow, and bring her back to New York, when you're going to
Washington?"
"Oh, I'm not going," Archer answered.
"Not going? Why, what's happened?" Her voice was as clear as a bell,
and full of wifely solicitude.
"The case is off--postponed."
"Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morning from Mr. Letterblair
to Mamma saying that he was going to Washington tomorrow for the big
patent case that he was to argue before the Supreme Court. You said it
was a patent case, didn't you?"
"Well--that's it: the whole office can't go. Letterblair decided to go
this morning."
"Then it's _not_ postponed?" she continued, with an insistence so unlike
her that he felt the blood rising to his face, as if he were blushing
for her unwonted lapse from all the traditional delicacies.
"No: but my going is," he answered, cursing the unnecessary
explanations that he had given when he had announced his intention of
going to Washington, and wondering where he had read that clever liars
give details, but that the cleverest do not. It did not hurt him half
as much to tell May an untruth as to see her trying to pretend that she
had not detected him.
"I'm not going till later on: luckily for the convenience of your
family," he continued, taking base refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke
he felt that she was looking at him, and he turned his eyes to hers
in order not to appear to be avoiding them. Their glances met for a
second, and perhaps let them into each other's meanings more deeply
than either cared to go.
"Yes; it _is_ awfully convenient," May brightly agreed, "that you should
be able to meet Ellen after all; you saw how much Mamma appreciated
your offering to do it."
"Oh, I'm delighted to do it." The carriage stopped, and as he jumped
out she leaned to him and laid her hand on his. "Good-bye, dearest,"
she said, her eyes so blue that he wondered afterward if they had shone
on him through tears.
He turned away and hurried across Union Square, repeating to himself,
in a sort of inward chant: "It's all of two hours from Jersey City to
old Catherine's. It's all of two hours--and it may be more."