The Age of Innocence - Edith Wharton [68]
“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 marvelous 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 Contract? 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 traveling-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:
Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and the Marchioness, 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 anyone, 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.