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CHAPTER XVII
At dinner that evening Madame de Chantelle’s slender
monologue was thrown out over gulfs of silence. Owen was
still in the same state of moody abstraction as when Darrow
had left him at the piano; and even Anna’s face, to her friend’s
vigilant eye, revealed not, perhaps, a personal preoccupation,
but a vague sense of impending disturbance.
She smiled, she bore a part in the talk, her eyes dwelt on
Darrow’s with their usual deep reliance; but beneath
the surface of her serenity his tense perceptions detected
a hidden stir.
He was suffi ciently self-possessed to tell himself that it
was doubtless due to causes with which he was not directly
concerned. He knew the question of Owen’s marriage was
soon to be raised, and the abrupt alteration in the young man’s
mood made it seem probable that he was himself the centre of
the atmospheric disturbance, For a moment it occurred to
Darrow that Anna might have employed her afternoon in
preparing Madame de Chantelle for her grandson’s impending announcement; but a glance at the elder lady’s unclouded
brow showed that he must seek elsewhere the clue to Owen’s
taciturnity and his step-mother’s concern. Possibly Anna had
found reason to change her own attitude in the matter, and
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EDITH WHARTON
had made the change known to Owen. But this, again, was
negatived by the fact that, during the afternoon’s shooting,
young Leath had been in a mood of almost extravagant expansiveness, and that, from the moment of his late return to
the house till just before dinner, there had been, to Darrow’s
certain knowledge, no possibility of a private talk between
himself and his step-mother.
This obscured, if it narrowed, the fi eld of conjecture; and
Darrow’s gropings threw him back on the conclusion that he
was probably reading too much signifi cance into the moods of
a lad he hardly knew, and who had been described to him as
subject to sudden changes of humour. As to Anna’s fancied
perturbation, it might simply be due to the fact that she had
decided to plead Owen’s cause the next day, and had perhaps
already had a glimpse of the diffi culties awaiting her. But Darrow knew that he was too deep in his own perplexities to judge
the mental state of those about him. It might be, after all, that
the variations he felt in the currents of communication were
caused by his own inward tremor.
Such, at any rate, was the conclusion he had reached when,
shortly after the two ladies left the drawing-room, he bade
Owen good-night and went up to his room. Ever since the rapid self-colloquy which had followed on his fi rst sight of Sophy
Viner, he had known there were other questions to be faced
behind the one immediately confronting him. On the score of
that one, at least, his mind, if not easy, was relieved. He had
done what was possible to reassure the girl, and she had apparently recognized the sincerity of his intention. He had
patched up as decent a conclusion as he could to an incident
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THE REEF
that should obviously have had no sequel; but he had known
all along that with the securing of Miss Viner’s peace of mind
only a part of his obligation was discharged, and that with that
part his remaining duty was in confl ict. It had been his fi rst
business to convince the girl that their secret was safe with
him; but it was far from easy to square this with the equally urgent obligation of safe-guarding Anna’s responsibility toward
her child. Darrow was not much afraid of accidental disclosures. Both he and Sophy Viner had too much at stake not to
be on their guard. The fear that beset him was of another kind,
and had a profounder source. He wanted to do all he could
for the girl, but the fact of having had to urge Anna to confi de
Effi e to her was peculiarly repugnant to him. His own ideas
about Sophy Viner were too mixed and indeterminate for
him not to feel the risk of such an experiment; yet he found
himself in the intolerable position of appearing to press it on
the woman he desired above all others to protect . . .
Till late in the night his thoughts revolved in a turmoil of
indecision. His pride was humbled by the discrepancy between what Sophy Viner had been to him and what he had
thought of her. This discrepancy, which at the time had
seemed to simplify the incident, now turned out to be its most
galling complication. The bare truth, indeed, was that he had
hardly thought of her at all, either at the time or since, and
that he was ashamed to base his judgement of her on his meagre memory of their adventure.
The essential cheapness of the whole affair – as far as his
share in it was concerned – came home to him with humiliating distinctness. He would have liked to be able to feel that, at
173
EDITH WHARTON
the time at least, he had staked something more on it, and had
somehow, in the sequel, had a more palpable loss to show. But
the plain fact was that he hadn’t spent a penny on it; which
was no doubt the reason of the prodigious score it had since
been rolling up. At any rate, beat about the case as he would,
it was clear that he owed it to Anna – and incidentally to his
own peace of mind – to fi nd some way of securing Sophy Viner’s future without leaving her installed at Givre when he and
his wife should depart for their new post.
The night brought no aid to the solving of this problem;
but it gave him, at any rate, the clear conviction that no time
was to be lost. His fi rst step must be to obtain from Miss Viner
the chance of another and calmer talk; and he resolved to seek
it at the earliest hour.
He had gathered that Effi e’s lessons were preceded
by an early scamper in the park, and conjecturing that her
governess might be with her he betook himself the next morning to the terrace, whence he wandered on to the gardens and
the walks beyond.
The atmosphere was still and pale. The muffl ed sunlight
gleamed like gold tissue through grey gauze, and the beech alleys tapered away to a blue haze blent of sky and forest. It was
one of those elusive days when the familiar forms of things
seem about to dissolve in a prismatic shimmer.
The stillness was presently broken by joyful barks, and
Darrow, tracking the sound, overtook Effi e fl ying down one of
the long alleys at the head of her pack. Beyond her he saw
Miss Viner seated near the stone-rimmed basin beside which
he and Anna had paused on their fi rst walk to the river.
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THE REEF
The girl, coming forward at his approach, returned his
greeting almost gaily. His fi rst glance showed him that she had
regained her composure, and the change in her appearance
gave him the measure of her fears. For the fi rst time he saw in
her again the sidelong grace that had charmed his eyes in Paris; but he saw it now as in a painted picture.
“Shall we sit down a minute?” he asked, as Effi e trotted off.
The girl looked away from him. “I’m afraid there’s not
much time; we must be back at lessons at half-past nine.”
“But it’s barely ten minutes past. Let’s at least walk a little
way toward the river.”
She glanced down the long walk ahead of them and then
back in the direction of the house. “If you like,” she said in
a low voice, with one of her quick fl uctuations of colour; but
instead of taking the way he proposed she turned toward
a narrow path which branched off obliquely through the trees.
Darrow was struck, and vaguely troubled, by the change in
her look and tone. There was in them an undefi nable appeal,
whether for help or forbearance he could not tell. Then it occurred to him that there might have been something misleading in his so pointedly seeking her, and he felt a momentary
constraint. To ease it he made an abrupt dash at the truth.
“I came out to look for you because our talk of yesterday
was so unsatisfactory. I want to hear more about you – about
your plans and prospects. I’ve been wondering ever since why
you’ve so completely given up the theatre.”
Her face instantly sharpened to distrust. “I had to live,” she
said in an off-hand tone.
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EDITH WHARTON
“I understand perfectly that you should like it here – for
a time.” His glance strayed down the gold-roofed windings
ahead of them. “It’s delightful: you couldn’t be better placed.
Only I wonder a little at your having so completely given up
any idea of a different future.”
She waited for a moment before answering: “I suppose I’m
less restless than I used to be.”
“It’s certainly natural that you should be less restless here
than at Mrs. Murrett’s; yet somehow I don’t seem to see you
permanently given up to forming the young.”
“What – exactly – DO you seem to see me permanently
given up to? You know you warned me rather emphatically
against the theatre.” She threw off the statement without impatience, as though they were discussing together the fate of
a third person in whom both were benevolently interested.
Darrow considered his reply. “If I did, it was because you so
emphatically refused to let me help you to a start.”
She stopped short and faced him “And you think I may let
you now?”
Darrow felt the blood in his cheek. He could not understand her attitude – if indeed she had consciously taken one,
and her changes of tone did not merely refl ect the involuntary
alternations of her mood. It humbled him to perceive once
more how little he had to guide him in his judgment of her.
He said to himself: “If I’d ever cared a straw for her I should
know how to avoid hurting her now” – and his insensibility
struck him as no better than a vulgar obtuseness. But he had
a fi xed purpose ahead and could only push on to it.
176
THE REEF
“I hope, at any rate, you’ll listen to my reasons. There’s been
time, on both sides, to think them over since — ” He caught
himself back and hung helpless on the “since”: whatever words
he chose, he seemed to stumble among reminders of their past.
She walked on beside him, her eyes on the ground. “Then
I’m to understand – defi nitely – that you DO renew your offer?” she asked
“With all my heart! If you’ll only let me — ”
She raised a hand, as though to check him. “It’s extremely friendly of you – I DO believe you mean it as
a friend – but I don’t quite understand why, finding me, as
you say, so well placed here, you should show more anxiety
about my future than at a time when I was actually, and
rather desperately, adrift.”
“Oh, no, not more!”
“If you show any at all, it must, at any rate, be for different
reasons. – In fact, it can only be,” she went on, with one of
her disconcerting fl ashes of astuteness, “for one of two reasons; either because you feel you ought to help me, or because,
for some reason, you think you owe it to Mrs. Leath to let her
know what you know of me.”
Darrow stood still in the path. Behind him he heard Effi e’s call, and at the child’s voice he saw Sophy turn her head
with the alertness of one who is obscurely on the watch.
The look was so fugitive that he could not have said wherein
it differed from her normal professional air of having her pupil on her mind.
Effi e sprang past them, and Darrow took up the girl’s
challenge.
177
EDITH WHARTON
“What you suggest about Mrs. Leath is hardly worth answering. As to my reasons for wanting to help you, a good
deal depends on the words one uses to defi ne rather indefinite things. It’s true enough that I want to help you; but
the wish isn’t due to . . . to any past kindness on your part,
but simply to my own interest in you. Why not put it that
our friendship gives me the right to intervene for what I believe to be your benefi t?”
She took a few hesitating steps and then paused again.
Darrow noticed that she had grown pale and that there were
rings of shade about her eyes.
“You’ve known Mrs. Leath a long time?” she asked him
suddenly.
He paused with a sense of approaching peril.
“A long time – yes.”
“She told me you were friends – great friends”
“Yes,” he admitted, “we’re great friends.”
“Then you might naturally feel yourself justifi ed in telling
her that you don’t think I’m the right person for Effi e.” He uttered a sound of protest, but she disregarded it. “I don’t say
you’d LIKE to do it. You wouldn’t: you’d hate it. And the natural alternative would be to try to persuade me that I’d be better
off somewhere else than here. But supposing that failed, and
you saw I was determined to stay? THEN you might think it
your duty to tell Mrs. Leath.”
She laid the case before him with a cold lucidity. “I should, in
your place, I believe,” she ended with a little laugh.
“I shouldn’t feel justifi ed in telling her, behind your back,
if I thought you unsuited for the place; but I should certain-
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THE REEF
ly feel justifi ed,” he rejoined after a pause, “in telling YOU if
I thought the place unsuited to you.”
“And that’s what you’re trying to tell me now?”
“Yes; but not for the reasons you imagine.”
“What, then, are your reasons, if you please?”
“I’ve already implied them in advising you not to give up
all idea of the theatre. You’re too various, too gifted, too personal, to tie yourself down, at your age, to the dismal drudgery of teaching.”
“And is THAT what you’ve told Mrs. Leath?”
She rushed the question out at him as if she expected to
trip him up over it. He was moved by the simplicity of
the stratagem.
“I’ve told her exactly nothing,” he replied.
“And what – exactly – do you mean by ‘nothing’? You and
she were talking about me when I came into her sitting-room
yesterday.”
Darrow felt his blood rise at the thrust.
“I’ve told her, simply, that I’d seen you once or twice at
Mrs. Murrett’s.”
“And not that you’ve ever seen me since?”
“And not that I’ve ever seen you since . . . ”
“And she believes you – she completely believes you?”
He uttered a protesting exclamation, and his fl ush refl ected itself in the girl’s cheek.
“Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to ask you that.”
She halted, and again cast a rapid glance behind and
ahead of her. Then she held out her hand. “Well, then, thank
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EDITH WHARTON
you – and let me relieve your fears. I sha’n’t be Effi e’s governess much longer.”
At the announcement, Darrow tried to merge his look of
relief into the expression of friendly interest with which he
grasped her hand. “You really do agree with me, then? And
you’ll give me a chance to talk things over with you?”
She shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m not thinking of
the stage. I’ve had another offer: that’s all.”
The relief was hardly less great. After all, his personal responsibility ceased with her departure from Givre.
“You’ll tell me about that, then – won’t you?”
Her smile fl ickered up. “Oh, you’ll hear about it soon . . .
I must catch Effi e now and drag her back to the blackboard.”
She walked on for a few yards, and then paused again and
confronted him. “I’ve been odious to you – and not quite honest,” she broke out suddenly.
“Not quite honest?” he repeated, caught in a fresh
wave of wonder.
“I mean, in seeming not to trust you. It’s come over me again
as we talked that, at heart, I’ve always KNOWN I could . . . ”
Her colour rose in a bright wave, and her eyes clung to
his for a swift instant of reminder and appeal. For the same
space of time the past surged up in him confusedly; then a veil
dropped between them.
“Here’s Effi e now!” she exclaimed.
He turned and saw the little girl trotting back to them, her
hand in Owen Leath’s. Even through the stir of his subsiding
excitement Darrow was at once aware of the change effected by the young man’s approach. For a moment Sophy Vin-
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