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THE REEF
knowledge had been to follow Darrow to London and exact
the truth of him. But even to her alarmed imagination this
seemed improbable. She and Darrow, to the last, had kept up
so complete a feint of harmony that, whatever Owen had surmised, he could scarcely have risked acting on his suspicions.
If he still felt the need of an explanation, it was almost certainly of Sophy Viner that he would ask it; and it was in quest of
Sophy Viner that Anna had despatched Miss Painter.
She had found a blessed refuge from her perplexities in
the stolid Adelaide’s unawareness. One could so absolutely
count on Miss Painter’s guessing no more than one chose, and yet
acting astutely on such hints as one vouchsafed her! She was like
a well-trained retriever whose interest in his prey ceases when
he lays it at his master’s feet. Anna, on arriving, had explained
that Owen’s unannounced fl ight had made her fear some fresh
misunderstanding between himself and Miss Viner. In the interests of peace she had thought it best to follow him; but she
hastily added that she did not wish to see Sophy, but only, if
possible, to learn from her where Owen was. With these brief instructions Miss Painter had started out; but she was a woman of
many occupations, and had given her visitor to understand that
before returning she should have to call on a friend who had
just arrived from Boston, and afterward despatch to another exiled compatriot a supply of cranberries and brandied peaches
from the American grocery in the Champs Elysees.
Gradually, as the moments passed, Anna began to feel
the reaction which, in moments of extreme nervous tension, follows on any effort of the will. She seemed to have gone as far as
her courage would carry her, and she shrank more and more
311
EDITH WHARTON
from the thought of Miss Painter’s return, since whatever information the latter brought would necessitate some fresh decision.
What should she say to Owen if she found him? What could
she say that should not betray the one thing she would give her
life to hide from him? “Give her life” – how the phrase derided
her! It was a gift she would not have bestowed on her worst enemy. She would not have had Sophy Viner live the hours she
was living now . . . She tried again to look steadily and calmly at
the picture that the image of the girl evoked. She had an idea
that she ought to accustom herself to its contemplation. If life
was like that, why the sooner one got used to it the better . . .
But no! Life was not like that. Her adventure was a hideous accident. She dreaded above all the temptation to generalise from
her own case, to doubt the high things she had lived by and seek
a cheap solace in belittling what fate had refused her. There was
such love as she had dreamed, and she meant to go on believing in it, and cherishing the thought that she was worthy of it.
What had happened to her was grotesque and mean and miserable; but she herself was none of these things, and never, never
would she make of herself the mock that fate had made of her . . .
She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow; but she kept on repeating to herself “By and bye that will
come too.” Even now she was determined not to let his image be distorted by her suffering. As soon as she could, she
would try to single out for remembrance the individual things
she had liked in him before she had loved him altogether. No
“spiritual exercise” devised by the discipline of piety could
have been more torturing; but its very cruelty attracted her.
She wanted to wear herself out with new pains . . .
CHAPTER XXXI
The sound of Miss Painter’s latch-key made her start.
She was still a bundle of quivering fears to whom each coming
moment seemed a menace.
There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in the hall;
then Miss Painter’s vigorous hand was on the door.
Anna stood up as she came in. “You’ve found him?”
“I’ve found Sophy.”
“And Owen? – has she seen him? Is he here?”
“SHE’S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you.”
“Here – NOW?” Anna found no voice for more.
“She drove back with me,” Miss Painter continued in
the tone of impartial narrative. “The cabman was impertinent.
I’ve got his number.” She fumbled in a stout black reticule.
“Oh, I can’t – ” broke from Anna; but she collected herself,
remembering that to betray her unwillingness to see the girl
was to risk revealing much more.
“She thought you might be too tired to see her: she wouldn’t
come in till I’d found out.”
Anna drew a quick breath. An instant’s thought had told
her that Sophy Viner would hardly have taken such a step
unless something more important had happened. “Ask her to
come, please,” she said.
313
EDITH WHARTON
Miss Painter, from the threshold, turned back to announce
her intention of going immediately to the police station to report the cabman’s delinquency; then she passed out, and Sophy Viner entered.
The look in the girl’s face showed that she had indeed
come unwillingly; yet she seemed animated by an eager resoluteness that made Anna ashamed of her tremors. For a moment they looked at each other in silence, as if the thoughts
between them were packed too thick for speech; then Anna
said, in a voice from which she strove to take the edge of hardness: “You know where Owen is, Miss Painter tells me.”
“Yes; that was my reason for asking you to see me.” Sophy
spoke simply, without constraint or hesitation.
“I thought he’d promised you – ” Anna interposed.
“He did; but he broke his promise. That’s what I thought
I ought to tell you.”
“Thank you.” Anna went on tentatively: “He left Givre
this morning without a word. I followed him because I was
afraid . . . ”
She broke off again and the girl took up her phrase. “You
were afraid he’d guessed? He HAS . . . ”
“What do you mean – guessed what?”
“That you know something he doesn’t . . . something that
made you glad to have me go.”
“Oh – ” Anna moaned. If she had wanted more pain she
had it now. “He’s told you this?” she faltered.
“He hasn’t told me, because I haven’t seen him. I kept him
off – I made Mrs. Farlow get rid of him. But he’s written me
what he came to say; and that was it.”
314
THE REEF
“Oh, poor Owen!” broke from Anna. Through all the intricacies of her suffering she felt the separate pang of his.
“And I want to ask you,” the girl continued, “to let me see
him; for of course,” she added in the same strange voice of energy, “I wouldn’t unless you consented.”
“To see him?” Anna tried to gather together her startled
thoughts. “What use would it be? What could you tell him?”
“I want to tell him the truth,” said Sophy Viner.
The two women looked at each other, and a burning blush
rose to Anna’s forehead. “I don’t understand,” she faltered.
Sophy waited a moment; then she lowered her voice to say:
“I don’t want him to think worse of me than he need . . . ”
“Worse?”
“Yes – to think such things as you’re thinking now . . .
I want him to know exactly what happened . . . then I want to
bid him good-bye.”
Anna tried to clear a way through her own wonder and
confusion. She felt herself obscurely moved.
“Wouldn’t it be worse for him?”
“To hear the truth? It would be better, at any rate, for you
and Mr. Darrow.”
At the sound of the name Anna lifted her head quickly.
“I’ve only my step-son to consider!”
The girl threw a startled look at her. “You don’t
mean – you’re not going to give him up?”
Anna felt her lips harden. “I don’t think it’s of any use to
talk of that.”
“Oh, I know! It’s my fault for not knowing how to say what
I want you to hear. Your words are different; you know how to
315
EDITH WHARTON
choose them. Mine offend you . . . and the dread of it makes
me blunder. That’s why, the other day, I couldn’t say anything
. . . couldn’t make things clear to you. But now MUST, even if
you hate it!” She drew a step nearer, her slender fi gure swayed
forward in a passion of entreaty. “Do listen to me! What you’ve
said is dreadful. How can you speak of him in that voice? Don’t
you see that I went away so that he shouldn’t have to lose you?”
Anna looked at her coldly. “Are you speaking of Mr. Darrow? I don’t know why you think your going or staying can in
any way affect our relations.”
“You mean that you HAVE given him up – because of
me? Oh, how could you? You can’t really love him! – And
yet,” the girl suddenly added, “you must, or you’d be more
sorry for me!”
“I’m very sorry for you,” Anna said, feeling as if the iron
band about her heart pressed on it a little less inexorably.
“Then why won’t you hear me? Why won’t you try to understand? It’s all so different from what you imagine!”
“I’ve never judged you.”
“I’m not thinking of myself. He loves you!”
“I thought you’d come to speak of Owen.”
Sophy Viner seemed not to hear her. “He’s never loved any
one else. Even those few days . . . I knew it all the while . . . he
never cared for me.”
“Please don’t say any more!” Anna said.
“I know it must seem strange to you that I should say so
much. I shock you, I offend you: you think me a creature without shame. So I am – but not in the sense you think! I’m not
ashamed of having loved him; no; and I’m not ashamed of tell-
316
THE REEF
ing you so. It’s that that justifi es me – and him too . . . Oh, let me
tell you how it happened! He was sorry for me: he saw I cared.
I KNEW that was all he ever felt. I could see he was thinking of
some one else. I knew it was only for a week . . . He never said
a word to mislead me . . . I wanted to be happy just once – and
I didn’t dream of the harm I might be doing him!”
Anna could not speak. She hardly knew, as yet, what
the girl’s words conveyed to her, save the sense of their tragic fervour; but she was conscious of being in the presence of
an intenser passion than she had ever felt.
“I am sorry for you.” She paused. “But why do you say this to
me?” After another interval she exclaimed: “You’d no right to
let Owen love you.”
“No; that was wrong. At least what’s happened since has
made it so. If things had been different I think I could have
made Owen happy. You were all so good to me – I wanted
so to stay with you! I suppose you’ll say that makes it worse:
my daring to dream I had the right . . . But all that doesn’t matter now. I won’t see Owen unless you’re willing. I should have
liked to tell him what I’ve tried to tell you; but you must know
better; you feel things in a fi ner way. Only you’ll have to help
him if I can’t. He cares a great deal . . . it’s going to hurt him . . . ”
Anna trembled. “Oh, I know! What can I do?”
“You can go straight back to Givre – now, at once! So that
Owen shall never know you’ve followed him.” Sophy’s clasped
hands reached out urgently. “And you can send for Mr. Darrow – bring him back. Owen must be convinced that he’s mistaken, and nothing else will convince him. Afterward I’ll fi nd
317
EDITH WHARTON
a pretext – oh, I promise you! But fi rst he must see for himself
that nothing’s changed for you.”
Anna stood motionless, subdued and dominated. The girl’s
ardour swept her like a wind.
“Oh, can’t I move you? Some day you’ll know!” Sophy
pleaded, her eyes full of tears.
Anna saw them, and felt a fullness in her throat. Again
the band about her heart seemed loosened. She wanted to fi nd
a word, but could not: all within her was too dark and violent.
She gave the girl a speechless look.
“I do believe you,” she said suddenly; then she turned and
walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XXXII
She drove from Miss Painter’s to her own apartment.
The maid-servant who had it in charge had been apprised of
her coming, and had opened one or two of the rooms, and prepared a fi re in her bedroom. Anna shut herself in, refusing
the woman’s ministrations. She felt cold and faint, and after
she had taken off her hat and cloak she knelt down by the fi re
and stretched her hands to it.
In one respect, at least, it was clear to her that she would
do well to follow Sophy Viner’s counsel. It had been an act of
folly to follow Owen, and her fi rst business was to get back to
Givre before him. But the only train leaving that evening was
a slow one, which did not reach Francheuil till midnight, and
she knew that her taking it would excite Madame de Chantelle’s wonder and lead to interminable talk. She had come up
to Paris on the pretext of fi nding a new governess for Effi e, and
the natural thing was to defer her return till the next morning. She knew Owen well enough to be sure that he would
make another attempt to see Miss Viner, and failing that,
would write again and await her answer: so that there was no
likelihood of his reaching Givre till the following evening.
Her sense of relief at not having to start out at once showed
her for the fi rst time how tired she was. The bonne had suggest-
319
EDITH WHARTON
ed a cup of tea, but the dread of having any one about her had
made Anna refuse, and she had eaten nothing since morning
but a sandwich bought at a buffet. She was too tired to get up,
but stretching out her arm she drew toward her the arm-chair
which stood beside the hearth and rested her head against its
cushions. Gradually the warmth of the fi re stole into her veins
and her heaviness of soul was replaced by a dreamy buoyancy.
She seemed to be seated on the hearth in her sitting-room at
Givre, and Darrow was beside her, in the chair against which
she leaned. He put his arms about her shoulders and drawing
her head back looked into her eyes. “Of all the ways you do
your hair, that’s the way I like best,” he said . . .
A log dropped, and she sat up with a start. There was
a warmth in her heart, and she was smiling. Then she looked
about her, and saw where she was, and the glory fell. She hid
her face and sobbed.
Presently she perceived that it was growing dark, and getting up stiffl y she began to undo the things in her bag and
spread them on the dressing-table. She shrank from lighting
the lights, and groped her way about, trying to fi nd what she
needed. She seemed immeasurably far off from every one, and
most of all from herself. It was as if her consciousness had been
transmitted to some stranger whose thoughts and gestures
were indifferent to her . . .
Suddenly she heard a shrill tinkle, and with a beating heart
she stood still in the middle of the room. It was the telephone in
her dressing-room – a call, no doubt, from Adelaide Painter.
Or could Owen have learned she was in town? The thought
alarmed her and she opened the door and stumbled across
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