The Reef by Edith Wharton

Owen sat at a table writing, his back to the door; and when he stood up the window was behind him, so that, in the rainy afternoon light, his features were barely discernible.

“Dearest–so you’re really off?” she said, hesitating a moment on the threshold.

He pushed a chair forward, and they sat down, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally she put some random question about his travelling-companion, a slow shy meditative youth whom he had once or twice brought down to Givre. She reflected that it was natural he should have given this uncommunicative comrade the preference over his livelier acquaintances, and aloud she said: “I’m so glad Fred Rempson can go with you.”

Owen answered in the same tone, and for a few minutes their talk dragged itself on over a dry waste of common-places. Anna noticed that, though ready enough to impart his own plans, Owen studiously abstained from putting any questions about hers. It was evident from his allusions that he meant to be away for some time, and he presently asked her if she would give instructions about packing and sending after him some winter clothes he had left at Givre. This gave her the opportunity to say that she expected to go back within a day or two and would attend to the matter as soon as she returned. She added: “I came up this morning with George, who is going on to London to-morrow,” intending, by the use of Darrow’s Christian name, to give Owen the chance to speak of her marriage. But he made no comment, and she continued to hear the name sounding on unfamiliarly between them.

The room was almost dark, and she finally stood up and glanced about for the light-switch, saying: “I can’t see you, dear.”

“Oh, don’t-I hate the light!” Owen exclaimed, catching her by the wrist and pushing her back into her seat. He gave a nervous laugh and added: “I’m half-blind with neuralgia. I suppose it’s this beastly rain.”

“Yes; it will do you good to get down to Spain.”

She asked if he had the remedies the doctor had given him for a previous attack, and on his replying that he didn’t know what he’d done with the stuff, she sprang up, offering to go to the chemist’s. It was a relief to have something to do for him, and she knew from his “Oh, thanks–would you?” that it was a relief to him to have a pretext for not detaining her. His natural impulse would have been to declare that he didn’t want any drugs, and would be all right in no time; and his acquiescence showed her how profoundly he felt the uselessness of their trying to prolong their talk. His face was now no more than a white blur in the dusk, but she felt its indistinctness as a veil drawn over aching intensities of expression. “He knows…he knows…” she said to herself, and wondered whether the truth had been revealed to him by some corroborative fact or by the sheer force of divination.

He had risen also, and was clearly waiting for her to go, and she turned to the door, saying: “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Oh, don’t come up again, please!” He paused, embarrassed. “I mean-I may not be here. I’ve got to go and pick up Rempson, and see about some final things with him.” She stopped on the threshold with a sinking heart. He meant this to be their leave-taking, then–and he had not even asked her when she was to be married, or spoken of seeing her again before she set out for the other side of the world.

“Owen!” she cried, and turned back.

He stood mutely before her in the dimness.

“You haven’t told me how long you’re to be gone.”

“How long? Oh, you see…that’s rather vague…I hate definite dates, you know…”

He paused and she saw he did not mean to help her out. She tried to say: “You’ll be here for my wedding?” but could not bring the words to her lips. Instead she murmured: “In six weeks I shall be going too…” and he rejoined, as if he had expected the announcement and prepared his answer: “Oh, by that time, very likely…”