The Age of Innocence, Page 3

  III.

  It invariably happened in the same way.

  Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed toappear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera nightin order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, andher possession of a staff of servants competent to organise everydetail of the entertainment in her absence.

  The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed aball-room (it antedated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and the HeadlyChiverses'); and at a time when it was beginning to be thought"provincial" to put a "crash" over the drawing-room floor and move thefurniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for noother purpose, and left for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of theyear to shuttered darkness, with its gilt chairs stacked in a cornerand its chandelier in a bag; this undoubted superiority was felt tocompensate for whatever was regrettable in the Beaufort past.

  Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her social philosophy into axioms,had once said: "We all have our pet common people--" and though thephrase was a daring one, its truth was secretly admitted in many anexclusive bosom. But the Beauforts were not exactly common; somepeople said they were even worse. Mrs. Beaufort belonged indeed to oneof America's most honoured families; she had been the lovely ReginaDallas (of the South Carolina branch), a penniless beauty introduced toNew York society by her cousin, the imprudent Medora Manson, who wasalways doing the wrong thing from the right motive. When one wasrelated to the Mansons and the Rushworths one had a "droit de cite" (asMr. Sillerton Jackson, who had frequented the Tuileries, called it) inNew York society; but did one not forfeit it in marrying JuliusBeaufort?

  The question was: who was Beaufort? He passed for an Englishman, wasagreeable, handsome, ill-tempered, hospitable and witty. He had cometo America with letters of recommendation from old Mrs. MansonMingott's English son-in-law, the banker, and had speedily made himselfan important position in the world of affairs; but his habits weredissipated, his tongue was bitter, his antecedents were mysterious; andwhen Medora Manson announced her cousin's engagement to him it was feltto be one more act of folly in poor Medora's long record of imprudences.

  But folly is as often justified of her children as wisdom, and twoyears after young Mrs. Beaufort's marriage it was admitted that she hadthe most distinguished house in New York. No one knew exactly how themiracle was accomplished. She was indolent, passive, the caustic evencalled her dull; but dressed like an idol, hung with pearls, growingyounger and blonder and more beautiful each year, she throned in Mr.Beaufort's heavy brown-stone palace, and drew all the world therewithout lifting her jewelled little finger. The knowing people said itwas Beaufort himself who trained the servants, taught the chef newdishes, told the gardeners what hot-house flowers to grow for thedinner-table and the drawing-rooms, selected the guests, brewed theafter-dinner punch and dictated the little notes his wife wrote to herfriends. If he did, these domestic activities were privatelyperformed, and he presented to the world the appearance of a carelessand hospitable millionaire strolling into his own drawing-room with thedetachment of an invited guest, and saying: "My wife's gloxinias are amarvel, aren't they? I believe she gets them out from Kew."

  Mr. Beaufort's secret, people were agreed, was the way he carriedthings off. It was all very well to whisper that he had been "helped"to leave England by the international banking-house in which he hadbeen employed; he carried off that rumour as easily as the rest--thoughNew York's business conscience was no less sensitive than its moralstandard--he carried everything before him, and all New York into hisdrawing-rooms, and for over twenty years now people had said they were"going to the Beauforts'" with the same tone of security as if they hadsaid they were going to Mrs. Manson Mingott's, and with the addedsatisfaction of knowing they would get hot canvas-back ducks andvintage wines, instead of tepid Veuve Clicquot without a year andwarmed-up croquettes from Philadelphia.

  Mrs. Beaufort, then, had as usual appeared in her box just before theJewel Song; and when, again as usual, she rose at the end of the thirdact, drew her opera cloak about her lovely shoulders, and disappeared,New York knew that meant that half an hour later the ball would begin.

  The Beaufort house was one that New Yorkers were proud to show toforeigners, especially on the night of the annual ball. The Beaufortshad been among the first people in New York to own their own red velvetcarpet and have it rolled down the steps by their own footmen, undertheir own awning, instead of hiring it with the supper and theball-room chairs. They had also inaugurated the custom of letting theladies take their cloaks off in the hall, instead of shuffling up tothe hostess's bedroom and recurling their hair with the aid of thegas-burner; Beaufort was understood to have said that he supposed allhis wife's friends had maids who saw to it that they were properlycoiffees when they left home.

  Then the house had been boldly planned with a ball-room, so that,instead of squeezing through a narrow passage to get to it (as at theChiverses') one marched solemnly down a vista of enfiladeddrawing-rooms (the sea-green, the crimson and the bouton d'or), seeingfrom afar the many-candled lustres reflected in the polished parquetry,and beyond that the depths of a conservatory where camellias andtree-ferns arched their costly foliage over seats of black and goldbamboo.

  Newland Archer, as became a young man of his position, strolled insomewhat late. He had left his overcoat with the silk-stockingedfootmen (the stockings were one of Beaufort's few fatuities), haddawdled a while in the library hung with Spanish leather and furnishedwith Buhl and malachite, where a few men were chatting and putting ontheir dancing-gloves, and had finally joined the line of guests whomMrs. Beaufort was receiving on the threshold of the crimsondrawing-room.

  Archer was distinctly nervous. He had not gone back to his club afterthe Opera (as the young bloods usually did), but, the night being fine,had walked for some distance up Fifth Avenue before turning back in thedirection of the Beauforts' house. He was definitely afraid that theMingotts might be going too far; that, in fact, they might have GrannyMingott's orders to bring the Countess Olenska to the ball.

  From the tone of the club box he had perceived how grave a mistake thatwould be; and, though he was more than ever determined to "see thething through," he felt less chivalrously eager to champion hisbetrothed's cousin than before their brief talk at the Opera.

  Wandering on to the bouton d'or drawing-room (where Beaufort had hadthe audacity to hang "Love Victorious," the much-discussed nude ofBouguereau) Archer found Mrs. Welland and her daughter standing nearthe ball-room door. Couples were already gliding over the floorbeyond: the light of the wax candles fell on revolving tulle skirts, ongirlish heads wreathed with modest blossoms, on the dashing aigrettesand ornaments of the young married women's coiffures, and on theglitter of highly glazed shirt-fronts and fresh glace gloves.

  Miss Welland, evidently about to join the dancers, hung on thethreshold, her lilies-of-the-valley in her hand (she carried no otherbouquet), her face a little pale, her eyes burning with a candidexcitement. A group of young men and girls were gathered about her,and there was much hand-clasping, laughing and pleasantry on which Mrs.Welland, standing slightly apart, shed the beam of a qualifiedapproval. It was evident that Miss Welland was in the act ofannouncing her engagement, while her mother affected the air ofparental reluctance considered suitable to the occasion.

  Archer paused a moment. It was at his express wish that theannouncement had been made, and yet it was not thus that he would havewished to have his happiness known. To proclaim it in the heat andnoise of a crowded ball-room was to rob it of the fine bloom of privacywhich should belong to things nearest the heart. His joy was so deepthat this blurring of the surface left its essence untouched; but hewould have liked to keep the surface pure too. It was something of asatisfaction to find that May Welland shared this feeling. Her eyesfled to his beseechingly, and their look said: "Remember, we're doingthis because it's right."

  No appeal could have found
a more immediate response in Archer'sbreast; but he wished that the necessity of their action had beenrepresented by some ideal reason, and not simply by poor Ellen Olenska.The group about Miss Welland made way for him with significant smiles,and after taking his share of the felicitations he drew his betrothedinto the middle of the ball-room floor and put his arm about her waist.

  "Now we shan't have to talk," he said, smiling into her candid eyes, asthey floated away on the soft waves of the Blue Danube.

  She made no answer. Her lips trembled into a smile, but the eyesremained distant and serious, as if bent on some ineffable vision."Dear," Archer whispered, pressing her to him: it was borne in on himthat the first hours of being engaged, even if spent in a ball-room,had in them something grave and sacramental. What a new life it wasgoing to be, with this whiteness, radiance, goodness at one's side!

  The dance over, the two, as became an affianced couple, wandered intothe conservatory; and sitting behind a tall screen of tree-ferns andcamellias Newland pressed her gloved hand to his lips.

  "You see I did as you asked me to," she said.

  "Yes: I couldn't wait," he answered smiling. After a moment he added:"Only I wish it hadn't had to be at a ball."

  "Yes, I know." She met his glance comprehendingly. "But afterall--even here we're alone together, aren't we?"

  "Oh, dearest--always!" Archer cried.

  Evidently she was always going to understand; she was always going tosay the right thing. The discovery made the cup of his bliss overflow,and he went on gaily: "The worst of it is that I want to kiss you andI can't." As he spoke he took a swift glance about the conservatory,assured himself of their momentary privacy, and catching her to himlaid a fugitive pressure on her lips. To counteract the audacity ofthis proceeding he led her to a bamboo sofa in a less secluded part ofthe conservatory, and sitting down beside her broke alily-of-the-valley from her bouquet. She sat silent, and the world laylike a sunlit valley at their feet.

  "Did you tell my cousin Ellen?" she asked presently, as if she spokethrough a dream.

  He roused himself, and remembered that he had not done so. Someinvincible repugnance to speak of such things to the strange foreignwoman had checked the words on his lips.

  "No--I hadn't the chance after all," he said, fibbing hastily.

  "Ah." She looked disappointed, but gently resolved on gaining herpoint. "You must, then, for I didn't either; and I shouldn't like herto think--"

  "Of course not. But aren't you, after all, the person to do it?"

  She pondered on this. "If I'd done it at the right time, yes: but nowthat there's been a delay I think you must explain that I'd asked youto tell her at the Opera, before our speaking about it to everybodyhere. Otherwise she might think I had forgotten her. You see, she'sone of the family, and she's been away so long that she'srather--sensitive."

  Archer looked at her glowingly. "Dear and great angel! Of course I'lltell her." He glanced a trifle apprehensively toward the crowdedball-room. "But I haven't seen her yet. Has she come?"

  "No; at the last minute she decided not to."

  "At the last minute?" he echoed, betraying his surprise that she shouldever have considered the alternative possible.

  "Yes. She's awfully fond of dancing," the young girl answered simply."But suddenly she made up her mind that her dress wasn't smart enoughfor a ball, though we thought it so lovely; and so my aunt had to takeher home."

  "Oh, well--" said Archer with happy indifference. Nothing about hisbetrothed pleased him more than her resolute determination to carry toits utmost limit that ritual of ignoring the "unpleasant" in which theyhad both been brought up.

  "She knows as well as I do," he reflected, "the real reason of hercousin's staying away; but I shall never let her see by the least signthat I am conscious of there being a shadow of a shade on poor EllenOlenska's reputation."