Edith Wharton - SSC 09 Page 9

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  IV.

  He dined hungrily, as he had lunched; and after dinner he took his hat from its peg in the hall, and said to Jane: “I think I’ll smoke my cigar in the campus.”

  That was a good idea; he saw at once that she thought it a hopeful sign, his wanting to take the air after being mewed up in the house for so long. The night was cold and moonless, and the college grounds, at that hour, would be a desert…. After all, delivering the letters himself was the safest way: openly, at the girl’s own door, without any mystery. … If Malvina, the Wakes’ old maid, should chance to open the door, he’d pull the packet out and say at once: “Oh, Malvina, I’ve found some books that Miss Barbara lent me last year, and as I’m going away—” He had gradually learned that there was nothing as safe as simplicity.

  He was reassured by the fact that the night was so dark. It felt queer, unnatural somehow, to be walking abroad again like the Ambrose Trenham he used to be; he was glad there were so few people about, and that the Kingsborough suburbs were so scantily lit. He walked on, his elbow hitting now and then against the bundle, which bulged out of his pocket. Every time he felt it a sort of nausea rose in him. Professor Wake’s house stood half way down one of the quietest of Kingsborough’s outlying streets. It was withdrawn from the road under the hanging boughs of old elms; he could just catch a glint of light from one or two windows. And suddenly, as he was almost abreast of the gate, Barbara Wake came out of it.

  For a moment she stood glancing about her; then she turned in the direction of the narrow lane bounding the farther side of the property. What took her there, Trenham wondered? His first impulse had been to draw back, and let her go her way; then he saw how providential the encounter was. The lane was dark, deserted—a mere passage between widely scattered houses, all asleep in their gardens. The chilly night had sent people home early; there was not a soul in sight. In another moment the packet would be in her hands, and he would have left her, just silently raising his hat.

  He remembered now where she was going. The garage, built in the far corner of the garden, opened into the lane. The Wakes had no chauffeur, and Barbara, who drove the car, was sole mistress of the garage and of its keys. Trenham and she had met there sometimes; a desolate trysting-place! But what could they do, in a town like Kingsborough? At one time she had talked of setting up a studio—she dabbled in painting; but the suggestion had alarmed him (he knew the talk it would create), and he had discouraged her. Most often they took the train and went to Ditson, a manufacturing town an hour away, where no one knew them…. But what could she be going to the garage for at this hour?

  The thought of his wife rushed into Trenham’s mind. The discovery that she had lived there beside him, knowing all, and that suddenly, when she found she could not regain his affection, life had seemed worthless, and without a moment’s hesitation she had left it … why, if he had known the quiet woman at his side had such springs of passion in her, how differently he would have regarded her, how little this girl’s insipid endearments would have mattered to him! He was a man who could not live without tenderness, without demonstrative tenderness; his own shyness and reticence had to be perpetually broken down, laughingly scattered to the winds. His wife, he now saw, had been too much like him, had secretly suffered from the same inhibitions. She had always seemed ashamed, and frightened by her feeling for him, and half-repelled, half-fascinated by his response. At times he imagined that she found him physically distasteful, and wondered how, that being the case, she could be so fiercely jealous of him. Now he understood that her cold reluctant surrender concealed a passion so violent that it humiliated her, and so incomprehensible that she had never mastered its language. She reminded him of a clumsy little girl he had once known at a dancing class he had been sent to as a boy—a little girl who had a feverish passion for dancing, but could never learn the steps. And because he too had felt the irresistible need to join in the immemorial love-dance he had ended by choosing a partner more skilled in its intricacies….

  These thoughts wandered through his mind as he stood watching Barbara Wake. Slowly he took a few steps down the lane; then he halted again. He had not yet made up his mind what to do. If she were going to the garage to get something she had forgotten (as was most probable, at that hour) she would no doubt be coming back in a few moments, and he could meet her and hand her the letters. Above all, he wanted to avoid going into the garage. To do so at that moment would have been a profanation of Milly’s memory. He would have liked to efface from his own all recollection of the furtive hours spent there; but the vision returned with intolerable acuity as the girl’s slim figure, receding from him, reached the door. How often he had stood at that corner, under those heavy trees, watching for her to appear and slip in ahead of him—so that they should not be seen entering together. The elaborate precautions with which their meetings had been surrounded—how pitiably futile they now seemed! They had not even achieved their purpose, but had only belittled his love and robbed it of its spontaneity. Real passion ought to be free, reckless, audacious, unhampered by the fear of a wife’s feelings, of the University’s regulations, the President’s friendship, the deadly risk of losing one’s job and wrecking one’s career. It seemed to him now that the love he had given to Barbara Wake was almost as niggardly as that which he had doled out to his wife….

  He walked down the lane and saw that Barbara was going into the garage. It was so dark that he could hardly make out her movements; but as he reached the door she drew out her electric lamp (that recalled memories too), and by its flash he saw her slim gloveless hand put the key into the lock. The key turned, the door creaked, and all was darkness….

  The glimpse of her hand reminded him of the first time he had dared to hold it in his and press a kiss on the palm. They had met accidentally in the train, both of them on their way home from Boston, and he had proposed that they should get off at the last station before Kingsborough, and walk back by a short cut he knew, through the woods and along the King river. It was a shining summer day, and the girl had been amused at the idea and had accepted…. He could see now every line, every curve of her hand, a quick strong young hand, with long fingers, slightly blunt at the tips, and a sensuous elastic palm. It would be queer to have to carry on life without ever again knowing the feel of that hand….

  Of course he would go away; he would have to. If possible he would leave the following week. Perhaps the Faculty would let him advance his Sabbatical year. If not, they would probably let him off for the winter term, and perhaps after that he might make up his mind to resign, and look for a professorship elsewhere—in the south, or in California—as far away from that girl as possible. Meanwhile what he wanted was to get away to some hot climate, steamy, tropical, where one could lie out all night on a white beach and hear the palms chatter to the waves, and the trade-winds blow from God knew where … one of those fiery flowery islands where marriage and love were not regarded so solemnly, and a man could follow his instinct without calling down a catastrophe, or feeling himself morally degraded…. Above all, he never wanted to see again a woman who argued and worried and reproached, and dramatized things that ought to be as simple as eating and drinking….

  Barbara, he had to admit, had never been frightened or worried, had never reproached him. The girl had the true sporting instinct; he never remembered her being afraid of risks, or nervous about “appearances.” Once or twice, at moments when detection seemed imminent, she had half frightened him by her cool resourcefulness. He sneered at the remembrance. “An old hand, no doubt!” But the sneer did not help him. Whose fault was it if the girl had had to master the arts of dissimulation? Whose but his? He alone (he saw in sudden terror) was responsible for what he supposed would be called her downfall. Poor child—poor Barbara! Was it possible that he, the seducer, the corrupter, had presumed to judge her? The thought was monstrous…. His resentment had already vanished like a puff of mist. The feeling of his responsibility, which had seem
ed so abhorrent, was now almost sweet to him. He was responsible—he owed her something! Thank heaven for that! For now he could raise his passion into a duty, and thus disguised and moralized, could once more—oh, could he, dared he?—admit it openly into his life. The mere possibility made him suddenly feel less cold and desolate. That the something-not-himself that made for Righteousness should take on the tender lineaments, the human warmth of love, should come to sit by his hearth in the shape of Barbara—how warm, how happy and reassured it made him! He had a swift vision of her, actually sitting there in the shabby old leather chair (he would have it recovered), her slim feet on the faded Turkey rug (he would have it replaced). It was almost a pity—he thought madly—that they would probably not be able to stay on at Kingsborough, there, in that very house where for so long he had not even dared to look at her letters…. Of course, if they did decide to, he would have it all done over for her.

  

  V.

  The garage door creaked and again he saw the flash of the electric lamp on her bare hand as she turned the key; then she moved toward him in the darkness.

  “Barbara!”

  She stopped short at his whisper. They drew closer to each other. “You wanted to see me?” she whispered back. Her voice flowed over him like summer air.

  “Can we go in there—?” he gestured.

  “Into the garage? Yes—I suppose so.”

  They turned and walked in silence through the obscurity. The comfort of her nearness was indescribable.

  She unlocked the door again, and he followed her in. “Take care; I left the wheel-jack somewhere,” she warned him. Automatically he produced a match, and she lit the candle in an old broken-paned lantern that hung on a nail against the wall. How familiar it all was—how often he had brought out his match-box and she had lit that candle! In the little pool of yellowish light they stood and looked at each other.

  “You didn’t expect me?” he stammered.

  “I’m not sure I didn’t,” she returned softly, and he just caught her smile in the half-light. The divineness of it!

  “I didn’t suppose I should see you. I just wandered out. …” He suddenly felt the difficulty of accounting for himself.

  “My poor Ambrose!” She laid her hand on his arm. “How I’ve ached for you—”

  Yes; that was right; the tender sympathizing friend … anything else, at that moment, would have been unthinkable. He drew a breath of relief and self-satisfaction. Her pity made him feel almost heroic—had he not lost sight of his own sufferings in the thought of hers? “It’s been awful—” he muttered.

  “Yes; I know.”

  She sat down on the step of the old Packard, and he found a wooden stool and dragged it into the candle-ray.

  “I’m glad you came,” she began, still in the same soft healing voice, “because I’m going away tomorrow early, and—”

  He started to his feet, upsetting the stool with a crash. “Going away? Early tomorrow?” Why hadn’t he known of this? He felt weak and injured. Where could she be going in this sudden way? If they hadn’t happened to meet, would he have known nothing of it till she was gone? His heart grew small and cold.

  She was saying quietly: “You must see—it’s better. I’m going out to the Jim Southwicks, in California. They’re always asking me. Mother and father think it’s on account of my colds … the winter climate here … they think I’m right.” She paused, but he could find nothing to say. The future had become a featureless desert. “I wanted to see you before going,” she continued, “and I didn’t exactly know … I hoped you’d come—”

  “When are you coming back?” he interrupted desperately.

  “Oh, I don’t know; they want me for the winter, of course. There’s a crazy plan about Hawaii and Samoa … sounds lovely, doesn’t it? And from there on … But I don’t know. …”

  He felt a suffocation in his throat. If he didn’t cry out, do something at once to stop her, he would choke. “You can’t go—you can’t leave me like this!” It seemed to him that his voice had risen to a shout.

  “Ambrose—” she murmured, subdued, half-warning.

  “You can’t. How can you? It’s madness. You don’t understand. You say you ought to go—it’s better you should go. What do you mean—why better? Are you afraid of what people might say? Is that it? How can they say anything when they know we’re going to be married? Don’t you know we’re going to be married?” he burst out weakly, his words stumbling over each other in the effort to make her understand.

  She hesitated a moment, and he stood waiting in an agony of suspense. How women loved to make men suffer! At last she said in a constrained voice: “I don’t think we ought to talk of all this yet—”

  Rebuking him—she was actually rebuking him for his magnanimity! But couldn’t she see—couldn’t she understand? Or was it that she really enjoyed torturing him? “How can I help talking of it, when you tell me you’re going away tomorrow morning? Did you really mean to go without even telling me?”

  “If I hadn’t seen you I should have written,” she faltered.

  “Well, now I’m here you needn’t write. All you’ve got to do is to answer me,” he retorted almost angrily. The calm way in which she dealt with the situation was enough to madden a man—actually as if she hadn’t made up her mind, good God! “What are you afraid of?” he burst out harshly.

  “I’m not afraid—only I didn’t expect … I thought we’d talk of all this later … if you feel the same when I come back—if we both do.”

  “If we both do!” Ah, there was the sting—the devil’s claw! What was it? Was she being super-humanly magnanimous—or proud, over-sensitive, afraid that he might be making the proposal out of pity? Poor girl—poor child! That must be it. He loved her all the more for it, bless her! Or was it (ah, now again the claw tightened), was it that she really didn’t want to commit herself, wanted to reserve her freedom for this crazy expedition, to see whether she couldn’t do better by looking about out there—she, so young, so fresh and radiant—than by binding herself in advance to an elderly professor at Kingsborough? Hawaii—Samoa—swarming with rich idle yachtsmen and young naval officers (he had an excruciating vision of a throng of “Madame Butterfly” tenors in immaculate white duck and gold braid)—cock-tails, fox-trot, moonlight in the tropics … he felt suddenly middle-aged, round-shouldered, shabby, with thinning graying hair…. Of course what she wanted was to look round and see what her chances were! He retrieved the fallen stool, set it up again, and sat down on it.

  “I suppose you’re not sure you’ll feel the same when you get back? Is that it?” he suggested bitterly.

  Again she hesitated. “I don’t think we ought to decide now—tonight. …”

  His anger blazed. “Why oughtn’t we? Tell me that! I’ve decided. Why shouldn’t you?”

  “You haven’t really decided either,” she returned gently.

  “I haven’t—haven’t I? Now what do you mean by that?” He forced a laugh that was meant to be playful but sounded defiant. He was aware that his voice and words were getting out of hand—but what business had she to keep him on the stretch like this?

  “I mean, after what you’ve been through….”

  “After what I’ve been through? But don’t you see that’s the very reason? I’m at the breaking-point—I can’t bear any more.”

  “I know; I know.” She got up and came close, laying a quiet hand on his shoulder. “I’ve suffered for you too. The shock it must have been. That’s the reason why I don’t want to say anything now that you might—”

  He shook off her hand, and sprang up. “What hypocrisy!” He heard himself beginning to shout again. “I suppose what you mean is that you want to be free to marry out there if you see anybody you like better. Then why not admit it at once?”

  “Because it’s not what I mean. I don’t want to marry any one else, Ambrose.”

  Oh, the melting music of it! He lifted his hands and hid his burning eyes in them
. The sound of her voice wove magic passes above his forehead. Was it possible that such bliss could come out of such anguish? He forgot the place—forgot the day—and abruptly, blindly, caught her by the arm, and flung his own about her.

  “Oh, Ambrose—” he heard her, reproachful, panting. He struggled with her, feverish for her lips.

  In the semi-obscurity there was the sound of something crashing to the floor between them. They drew apart, and she looked at him, bewildered. “What was that?”

  What was it? He knew well enough; a shiver of cold ran over him. The letters, of course—her letters! The bulging clumsily-tied envelope had dropped out of his pocket onto the floor of the garage; in the fall the string had come undone, and the mass of papers had tumbled out, scattering themselves like a pack of cards at Barbara’s feet. She picked up her electric lamp, and bending over shot its sharp ray on them.

  “Why, they’re letters! Ambrose—are they my letters?” She waited; but silence lay on him like lead. “Was that what you came for?” she exclaimed.

  If there was an answer to that he couldn’t find it, and stupidly, without knowing what he was doing, he bent down and began to gather up the letters.

  For a while he was aware of her standing there motionless, watching him; then she too bent over, and took up the gaping linen envelope. “Miss Barbara Wake,” she read out; and suddenly she began to laugh. “Why,” she said, “there’s something left in it! A letter for me? Is that it?”