Archer’s heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. “Good-bye,” she said.
“Good-bye–but I shall see you soon in Paris,” he answered aloud–it seemed to him that he had shouted it.
“Oh,” she murmured, “if you and May could come–!”
Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily– and she was gone.
As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass.
“I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I’m dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night.”
“It DID go off beautifully, didn’t it?” May questioned from the threshold of the library.
Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue.
“May I come and talk it over?” she asked.
“Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy–”
“No, I’m not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little.”
“Very well,” he said, pushing her chair near the fire.
She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: “Since you’re not tired, and want to talk, there’s something I must tell you. I tried to the other night–.”
She looked at him quickly. “Yes, dear. Something about yourself?”
“About myself. You say you’re not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired . . .”
In an instant she was all tender anxiety. “Oh, I’ve seen it coming on, Newland! You’ve been so wickedly overworked–”
“Perhaps it’s that. Anyhow, I want to make a break–”
“A break? To give up the law?”
“To go away, at any rate–at once. On a long trip, ever so far off–away from everything–”
He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. “Away from everything–” he repeated.
“Ever so far? Where, for instance?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. India–or Japan.”
She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him.
“As far as that? But I’m afraid you can’t, dear . . .” she said in an unsteady voice. “Not unless you’ll take me with you.” And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: “That is, if the doctors will let me go . . . but I’m afraid they won’t. For you see, Newland, I’ve been sure since this morning of something I’ve been so longing and hoping for–”
He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair.
There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up.
“You didn’t guess–?”
“Yes–I; no. That is, of course I hoped–”
They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: “Have you told any one else?”
“Only Mamma and your mother.” She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: “That is–and Ellen. You know I told you we’d had a long talk one afternoon–and how dear she was to me.”