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THE REEF
Madame de Chantelle presently enquired what had become of Owen, and a moment later the window behind her
opened, and her grandson, gun in hand, came in from the terrace. As he stood there in the lamp-light, with dead leaves
and bits of bramble clinging to his mud-spattered clothes,
the scent of the night about him and its chill on his pale
bright face, he really had the look of a young faun strayed in
from the forest.
Effi e abandoned the terrier to fl y to him. “Oh, Owen,
where in the world have you been? I walked miles and miles
with Nurse and couldn’t fi nd you, and we met Jean and he said
he didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“Nobody knows where I go, or what I see when I get
there – that’s the beauty of it!” he laughed back at her. “But if
you’re good,” he added, “I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”
“Oh, now, Owen, now! I don’t really believe I’ll ever be
much better than I am now.”
“Let Owen have his tea fi rst,” her mother suggested; but
the young man, declining the offer, propped his gun against
the wall, and, lighting a cigarette, began to pace up and down
the room in a way that reminded Darrow of his own caged
wanderings. Effi e pursued him with her blandishments, and
for a while he poured out to her a low-voiced stream of nonsense; then he sat down beside his step-mother and leaned
over to help himself to tea.
“Where’s Miss Viner?” he asked, as Effi e climbed up on him.
“Why isn’t she here to chain up this ungovernable infant?”
161
EDITH WHARTON
“Poor Miss Viner has a headache. Effi e says she went to
her room as soon as lessons were over, and sent word that she
wouldn’t be down for tea.”
“Ah,” said Owen, abruptly setting down his cup. He stood
up, lit another cigarette, and wandered away to the piano in
the room beyond.
From the twilight where he sat a lonely music, borne on
fantastic chords, fl oated to the group about the tea-table. Under its infl uence Madame de Chantelle’s meditative pauses increased in length and frequency, and Effi e stretched herself on
the hearth, her drowsy head against the dog. Presently her
nurse appeared, and Anna rose at the same time. “Stop a minute in my sitting-room on your way up,” she paused to say to
Darrow as she went.
A few hours earlier, her request would have brought him
instantly to his feet. She had given him, on the day of his arrival, an inviting glimpse of the spacious book-lined room
above stairs in which she had gathered together all the tokens of her personal tastes: the retreat in which, as one might
fancy, Anna Leath had hidden the restless ghost of Anna Summers; and the thought of a talk with her there had been in his
mind ever since. But now he sat motionless, as if spell-bound
by the play of Madame de Chantelle’s needles and the pulsations of Owen’s fi tful music.
“She will want to ask me about the girl,” he repeated to himself, with a fresh sense of the insidious taint that embittered
all his thoughts; the hand of the slender-columned clock on
the mantel-piece had spanned a half-hour before shame at his
own indecision fi nally drew him to his feet.
162
THE REEF
From her writing-table, where she sat over a pile of letters,
Anna lifted her happy smile. The impulse to press his lips to
it made him come close and draw her upward. She threw her
head back, as if surprised at the abruptness of the gesture;
then her face leaned to his with the slow droop of a fl ower.
He felt again the sweep of the secret tides, and all his fears
went down in them.
She sat down in the sofa-corner by the fi re and he drew
an armchair close to her. His gaze roamed peacefully about
the quiet room.
“It’s just like you – it is you,” he said, as his eyes came
back to her.
“It’s a good place to be alone in – I don’t think I’ve ever
before cared to talk with any one here.”
“Let’s be quiet, then: it’s the best way of talking.”
“Yes; but we must save it up till later. There are things
I want to say to you now.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Say them, then, and
I’ll listen.”
“Oh, no. I want you to tell me about Miss Viner.”
“About Miss Viner?” He summoned up a look of faint interrogation.
He thought she seemed surprised at his surprise. “It’s important, naturally,” she explained, “that I should fi nd out all
I can about her before I leave.”
“Important on Effi e’s account?”
“On Effi e’s account – of course.”
“Of course . . . But you’ve every reason to be satisfi ed,
haven’t you?”
163
EDITH WHARTON
“Every apparent reason. We all like her. Effi e’s very fond of
her, and she seems to have a delightful infl uence on the child.
But we know so little, after all – about her antecedents,
I mean, and her past history. That’s why I want you to try and
recall everything you heard about her when you used to see
her in London.”
“Oh, on that score I’m afraid I sha’n’t be of much use.
As I told you, she was a mere shadow in the background of
the house I saw her in – and that was four or fi ve years ago . . . ”
“When she was with a Mrs. Murrett?”
“Yes; an appalling woman who runs a roaring dinner-factory that used now and then to catch me in its wheels. I escaped from them long ago; but in my time there used to be half
a dozen fagged ‘hands’ to tend the machine, and Miss Viner
was one of them. I’m glad she’s out of it, poor girl!” “Then you
never really saw anything of her there?”
“I never had the chance. Mrs. Murrett discouraged any
competition on the part of her subordinates.”
“Especially such pretty ones, I suppose?” Darrow made
no comment, and she continued: “And Mrs. Murrett’s own
opinion – if she’d offered you one – probably wouldn’t have
been of much value?”
“Only in so far as her disapproval would, on general principles, have been a good mark for Miss Viner. But surely,” he
went on after a pause, “you could have found out about her
from the people through whom you fi rst heard of her?”
Anna smiled. “Oh, we heard of her through Adelaide Painter – ;” and in reply to his glance of interrogation she explained
that the lady in question was a spinster of South Braintree,
164
THE REEF
Massachusetts, who, having come to Paris some thirty years
earlier, to nurse a brother through an illness, had ever since
protestingly and provisionally camped there in a state of contemptuous protestation oddly manifested by her never taking
the slip-covers off her drawing-room chairs. Her long residence on Gallic soil had not mitigated her hostility toward
the creed and customs of the race, but though she always referred to the Catholic Church as the Scarlet Woman and took
the darkest views of French private life, Madame de Chantelle
placed great reliance on her judgment and experience, and in
every domestic crisis the irreducible Adelaide was immediately summoned to Givre.
“It’s all the odder because my mother-in-law, since her
second marriage, has lived so much in the country that she’s
practically lost sight of all her other American friends. Besides which, you can see how completely she has identifi ed
herself with Monsieur de Chantelle’s nationality and adopted
French habits and prejudices. Yet when anything goes wrong
she always sends for Adelaide Painter, who’s more American
than the Stars and Stripes, and might have left South Braintree yesterday, if she hadn’t, rather, brought it over with
her in her trunk.”
Darrow laughed. “Well, then, if South Braintree vouches
for Miss Viner — ”
“Oh, but only indirectly. When we had that odious adventure with Mademoiselle Grumeau, who’d been so highly
recommended by Monsieur de Chantelle’s aunt, the Chanoinesse, Adelaide was of course sent for, and she said at once:
‘I’m not the least bit surprised. I’ve always told you that what
165
EDITH WHARTON
you wanted for Effi e was a sweet American girl, and not one of
these nasty foreigners.’ Unluckily she couldn’t, at the moment, put her hand on a sweet American; but she presently
heard of Miss Viner through the Farlows, an excellent couple
who live in the Quartier Latin and write about French life for
the American papers. I was only too thankful to fi nd anyone
who was vouched for by decent people; and so far I’ve had no
cause to regret my choice. But I know, after all, very little about
Miss Viner; and there are all kinds of reasons why I want, as
soon as possible, to fi nd out more – to fi nd out all I can.”
“Since you’ve got to leave Effi e I understand your feeling in
that way. But is there, in such a case, any recommendation
worth half as much as your own direct experience?”
“No; and it’s been so favourable that I was ready to accept
it as conclusive. Only, naturally, when I found you’d known
her in London I was in hopes you’d give me some more specifi c
reasons for liking her as much as I do.”
“I’m afraid I can give you nothing more specifi c than my
general vague impression that she seems very plucky and extremely nice.”
“You don’t, at any rate, know anything specifi c to
the contrary?”
“To the contrary? How should I? I’m not conscious of ever
having heard any one say two words about her. I only infer
that she must have pluck and character to have stuck it out so
long at Mrs. Murrett’s.”
“Yes, poor thing! She has pluck, certainly; and pride, too;
which must have made it all the harder.” Anna rose to her
166
THE REEF
feet. “You don’t know how glad I am that your impression’s on
the whole so good. I particularly wanted you to like her.”
He drew her to him with a smile. “On that condition I’m
prepared to love even Adelaide Painter.”
“I almost hope you wont have the chance to – poor
Adelaide! Her appearance here always coincides with
a catastrophe.”
“Oh, then I must manage to meet her elsewhere.” He held
Anna closer, saying to himself, as he smoothed back the hair
from her forehead: “What does anything matter but just
THIS? – Must I go now?” he added aloud.
She answered absently: “It must be time to dress”; then she
drew back a little and laid her hands on his shoulders. “My
love – oh, my dear love!” she said.
It came to him that they were the fi rst words of endearment he had heard her speak, and their rareness gave them
a magic quality of reassurance, as though no danger could
strike through such a shield.
A knock on the door made them draw apart. Anna lifted
her hand to her hair and Darrow stooped to examine a photograph of Effi e on the writing-table.
“Come in!” Anna said.
The door opened and Sophy Viner entered. Seeing Darrow,
she drew back.
“Do come in, Miss Viner,” Anna repeated, looking at
her kindly.
The girl, a quick red in her cheeks, still hesitated on
the threshold.
167
EDITH WHARTON
“I’m so sorry; but Effi e has mislaid her Latin grammar, and
I thought she might have left it here. I need it to prepare for
tomorrow’s lesson.”
“Is this it?” Darrow asked, picking up a book from the table.
“Oh, thank you!”
He held it out to her and she took it and moved to the door.
“Wait a minute, please, Miss Viner,” Anna said; and as
the girl turned back, she went on with her quiet smile: “Effi e
told us you’d gone to your room with a headache. You mustn’t
sit up over tomorrow’s lessons if you don’t feel well.”
Sophy’s blush deepened. “But you see I have to. Latin’s
one of my weak points, and there’s generally only one page of
this book between me and Effi e.” She threw the words off with
a half-ironic smile. “Do excuse my disturbing you,” she added.
“You didn’t disturb me,” Anna answered. Darrow perceived
that she was looking intently at the girl, as though struck
by something tense and tremulous in her face, her voice, her
whole mien and attitude. “You DO look tired. You’d much
better go straight to bed. Effi e won’t be sorry to skip her Latin.”
“Thank you – but I’m really all right,” murmured Sophy
Viner. Her glance, making a swift circuit of the room, dwelt
for an appreciable instant on the intimate propinquity of armchair and sofa-corner; then she turned back to the door.
BOOK III
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