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THE REEF
“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
defi nite 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 . . . ”
“At any rate, I won’t say good-bye,” she stammered, feeling
the tears beneath her veil.
“No, no; rather not!” he declared; but he made no movement, and she went up and threw her arms about him. “You’ll
write me, won’t you?”
“Of course, of course — ”
Her hands slipped down into his, and for a minute they
held each other dumbly in the darkness; then he gave a vague
laugh and said: “It’s really time to light up.” He pressed the electric button with one hand while with the other he opened
the door; and she passed out without daring to turn back, lest
the light on his face should show her what she feared to see.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Anna drove to the chemist’s for Owen’s remedy. On the way
she stopped her cab at a book-shop, and emerged from it laden
with literature. She knew what would interest Owen, and what
he was likely to have read, and she had made her choice among
the newest publications with the promptness of a discriminating reader. But on the way back to the hotel she was overcome
by the irony of adding this mental panacea to the other. There
was something grotesque and almost mocking in the idea of
offering a judicious selection of literature to a man setting
out on such a journey. “He knows . . . he knows . . . ” she kept on
repeating; and giving the porter the parcel from the chemist’s she drove away without leaving the books. She went to
her apartment, whither her maid had preceded her. There
was a fi re in the drawing-room and the tea-table stood ready
by the hearth. The stormy rain beat against the uncurtained
windows, and she thought of Owen, who would soon be driving through it to the station, alone with his bitter thoughts.
She had been proud of the fact that he had always sought her
help in diffi cult hours; and now, in the most diffi cult of all,
she was the one being to whom he could not turn. Between
them, henceforth, there would always be the wall of an insurmountable silence . . . She strained her aching thoughts to
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THE REEF
guess how the truth had come to him. Had he seen the girl,
and had she told him? Instinctively, Anna rejected this conjecture. But what need was there of assuming an explicit statement, when every breath they had drawn for the last weeks
had been charged with the immanent secret? As she looked
back over the days since Darrow’s fi rst arrival at Givre she perceived that at no time had any one deliberately spoken, or anything been accidentally disclosed. The truth had come to light
by the force of its irresistible pressure; and the perception gave
her a startled sense of hidden powers, of a chaos of attractions
and repulsions far beneath the ordered surfaces of intercourse.
She looked back with melancholy derision on her old conception of life, as a kind of well-lit and well policed suburb to dark
places one need never know about. Here they were, these dark
places, in her own bosom, and henceforth she would always
have to traverse them to reach the beings she loved best!
She was still sitting beside the untouched tea-table when
she heard Darrow’s voice in the hall. She started up, saying to
herself: “I must tell him that Owen knows . . . ” but when the door
opened and she saw his face, still lit by the same smile of boyish triumph, she felt anew the uselessness of speaking . . . Had
he ever supposed that Owen would not know? Probably, from
the height of his greater experience, he had seen long since
that all that happened was inevitable; and the thought of it, at
any rate, was clearly not weighing on him now.
He was already dressed for the evening, and as he came
toward her he said: “The Ambassador’s booked for an offi cial
dinner and I’m free after all. Where shall we dine?”
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EDITH WHARTON
Anna had pictured herself sitting alone all the evening
with her wretched thoughts, and the fact of having to put
them out of her mind for the next few hours gave her an immediate sensation of relief. Already her pulses were dancing to the tune of Darrow’s, and as they smiled at each other
she thought: “Nothing can ever change the fact that I belong to him.”
“Where shall we dine?” he repeated gaily, and she named
a well-known restaurant for which she had once heard him
express a preference. But as she did so she fancied she saw
a shadow on his face, and instantly she said to herself: “It was
THERE he went with her!”
“Oh, no, not there, after all!” she interrupted herself; and
now she was sure his colour deepened.
“Where shall it be, then?”
She noticed that he did not ask the reason of her change,
and this convinced her that she had guessed the truth, and
that he knew she had guessed it. “He will always know what
I am thinking, and he will never dare to ask me,” she thought;
and she saw between them the same insurmountable wall of
silence as between herself and Owen, a wall of glass through
which they could watch each other’s faintest motions but
which no sound could ever traverse . . .
They drove to a restaurant on the Boulevard, and there, in
their intimate corner of the serried scene, the sense of what
was unspoken between them gradually ceased to oppress
her. He looked so light-hearted and handsome, so ingenuously proud of her, so openly happy at being with her, that
no other fact could seem real in his presence. He had learned
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THE REEF
that the Ambassador was to spend two days in Paris, and he
had reason to hope that in consequence his own departure for
London would be deferred. He was exhilarated by the prospect of being with Anna for a few hours longer, and she did
not ask herself if his exhilaration were a sign of insensibility,
for she was too conscious of his power of swaying her moods
not to be secretly proud of affecting his.
They lingered for some time over the fruit and coffee, and
when they rose to go Darrow suggested that, if she felt disposed for the play, they were not too late for the second part of
the programme at one of the smaller theatres.
His mention of the hour recalled Owen to her thoughts.
She saw his train rushing southward through the storm,
and, in a corner of the swaying compartment, his face,
white and indistinct as it had loomed on her in the rainy
twilight. It was horrible to be thus perpetually paying for
her happiness!
Darrow had called for a theatrical journal, and he presently looked up from it to say: “I hear the second play at the Athenee is amusing.”
It was on Anna’s lips to acquiesce; but as she was about to
speak she wondered if it were not at the Athenee that Owen
had seen Darrow with Sophy Viner. She was not sure he had
even mentioned the theatre, but the mere possibility was
enough to darken her sky. It was hateful to her to think of
accompanying Darrow to places where the girl had been with
him. She tried to reason away this scruple, she even reminded herself with a bitter irony that whenever she was in Darrow’s arms she was where the girl had been before her – but
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EDITH WHARTON
she could not shake off her superstitious dread of being with
him in any of the scenes of the Parisian episode. She replied
that she was too tired for the play, and they drove back to her
apartment. At the foot of the stairs she half-turned to wish him
good night, but he appeared not to notice her gesture and followed her up to her door.
“This is ever so much better than the theatre,” he said as
they entered the drawing-room.
She had crossed the room and was bending over
the hearth to light the fi re. She knew he was approaching
her, and that in a moment he would have drawn the cloak
from her shoulders and laid his lips on her neck, just below
the gathered-up hair. These privileges were his and, however
deferently and tenderly he claimed them, the joyous ease of his
manner marked a difference and proclaimed a right.
“After the theatre they came home like this,” she thought;
and at the same instant she felt his hands on her shoulders
and shrank back.
“Don’t – oh, don’t!” she cried, drawing her cloak about her.
She saw from his astonished stare that her face must be quivering with pain.
“Anna! What on earth is the matter?”
“Owen knows!” she broke out, with a confused desire to
justify herself.
Darrow’s countenance changed. “Did he tell you so? What
did he say?”
“Nothing! I knew it from the things he didn’t say.”
“You had a talk with him this afternoon?”
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THE REEF
“Yes: for a few minutes. I could see he didn’t want
me to stay.”
She had dropped into a chair, and sat there huddled, still
holding her cloak about her shoulders.
Darrow did not dispute her assumption, and she noticed
that he expressed no surprise. He sat down at a little distance
from her, turning about in his fi ngers the cigar-case he had
drawn out as they came in. At length he said: “Had he seen
Miss Viner?”
She shrank from the sound of the name. “No . . . I don’t
think so . . . I’m sure he hadn’t . . . ”
They remained silent, looking away from one another. Finally Darrow stood up and took a few steps across the room.
He came back and paused before her, his eyes on her face.
“I think you ought to tell me what you mean to do.”
She raised her head and gave him back his look. “Nothing I do
can help Owen!”
“No; but things can’t go on like this.” He paused, as if to
measure his words. “I fi ll you with aversion,” he exclaimed.
She started up, half-sobbing. “No – oh, no!”
“Poor child – you can’t see your face!”
She lifted her hands as if to hide it, and turning away from
him bowed her head upon the mantel-shelf. She felt that
he was standing a little way behind her, but he made no attempt to touch her or come nearer.
“I know you’ve felt as I’ve felt,” he said in a low voice – “that
we belong to each other and that nothing can alter that. But
other thoughts come, and you can’t banish them. Whenever
you see me you remember . . . you associate me with things you
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EDITH WHARTON
abhor . . . You’ve been generous – immeasurably. You’ve given
me all the chances a woman could; but if it’s only made you
suffer, what’s the use?”
She turned to him with a tear-stained face. “It hasn’t only
done that.”
“Oh, no! I know . . . There’ve been moments . . . ” He took
her hand and raised it to his lips. “They’ll be with me as long as
I live. But I can’t see you paying such a price for them. I’m not
worth what I’m costing you.”
She continued to gaze at him through tear-dilated eyes;
and suddenly she fl ung out the question: “Wasn’t it the Athenee you took her to that evening?”
“Anna – Anna!”
“Yes; I want to know now: to know everything. Perhaps that
will make me forget. I ought to have made you tell me before.
Wherever we go, I imagine you’ve been there with her . . . I see
you together. I want to know how it began, where you went,
why you left her . . . I can’t go on in this darkness any longer!”
She did not know what had prompted her passionate outburst, but already she felt lighter, freer, as if at last the evil
spell were broken. “I want to know everything,” she repeated.
“It’s the only way to make me forget.”
After she had ceased speaking Darrow remained where he
was, his arms folded, his eyes lowered, immovable. She waited,
her gaze on his face.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“No.” The blood rushed to her temples. “You won’t?
Why not?”
“If I did, do you suppose you’d forget THAT?”
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THE REEF
“Oh – ” she moaned, and turned away from him.
“You see it’s impossible,” he went on. “I’ve done a thing
I loathe, and to atone for it you ask me to do another. What
sort of satisfaction would that give you? It would put something irremediable between us.”
She leaned her elbow against the mantel-shelf and hid her
face in her hands. She had the sense that she was vainly throwing away her last hope of happiness, yet she could do nothing,
think of nothing, to save it. The conjecture fl ashed through her:
“Should I be at peace if I gave him up?” and she remembered
the desolation of the days after she had sent him away, and
understood that that hope was vain. The tears welled through
her lids and ran slowly down between her fi ngers.
“Good-bye,” she heard him say, and his footsteps turned to
the door.
She tried to raise her head, but the weight of her despair
bowed it down. She said to herself: “This is the end . . . he won’t
try to appeal to me again . . . ” and she remained in a sort of
tranced rigidity, perceiving without feeling the fateful lapse of
the seconds. Then the cords that bound her seemed to snap,
and she lifted her head and saw him going.
“Why, he’s mine – he’s mine! He’s no one else’s!” His face
was turned to her and the look in his eyes swept away all her
terrors. She no longer understood what had prompted her
senseless outcry; and the mortal sweetness of loving him became again the one real fact in the world.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Anna, the next day, woke to a humiliated memory of
the previous evening.
Darrow had been right in saying that their sacrifi ce would
benefi t no one; yet she seemed dimly to discern that there
were obligations not to be tested by that standard. She owed
it, at any rate, as much to his pride as to hers to abstain from
the repetition of such scenes; and she had learned that it was
beyond her power to do so while they were together. Yet when
he had given her the chance to free herself, everything had
vanished from her mind but the blind fear of losing him; and
she saw that he and she were as profoundly and inextricably bound together as two trees with interwoven roots. For
a long time she brooded on her plight, vaguely conscious that
the only escape from it must come from some external chance.
And slowly the occasion shaped itself in her mind. It was Sophy Viner only who could save her – Sophy Viner only who
could give her back her lost serenity. She would seek the girl
out and tell her that she had given Darrow up; and that step
once taken there would be no retracing it, and she would perforce have to go forward alone.
Any pretext for action was a kind of anodyne, and she
despatched her maid to the Farlows’ with a note asking if
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