The Descent of Man and Other Stories

by Edith Wharton

  After Mr. Brympton’s departure, Mr. Ranford took to coming again, though less often than formerly. I met him once or twice in the grounds, or in the village, and I couldn’t but think there was a change in him too; but I set it down to my disordered fancy.

  The weeks passed, and Mr. Brympton had now been a month absent. We heard he was cruising with a friend in the West Indies, and Mr. Wace said that was a long way off, but though you had the wings of a dove and went to the uttermost parts of the earth, you couldn’t get away from the Almighty. Agnes said that as long as he stayed away from Brympton, the Almighty might have him and welcome; and this raised a laugh, though Mrs. Blinder tried to look shocked, and Mr. Wace said the bears would eat us.

  We were all glad to hear that the West Indies were a long way off, and I remember that, in spite of Mr. Wace’s solemn looks, we had a very merry dinner that day in the hall. I don’t know if it was because of my being in better spirits, but I fancied Mrs. Brympton looked better too, and seemed more cheerful in her manner. She had been for a walk in the morning, and after luncheon she lay down in her room, and I read aloud to her. When she dismissed me I went to my own room feeling quite bright and happy, and for the first time in weeks walked past the locked door without thinking of it. As I sat down to my work I looked out and saw a few snow-flakes falling. The sight was pleasanter than the eternal rain, and I pictured to myself how pretty the bare gardens would look in their white mantle. It seemed to me as if the snow would cover up all the dreariness, indoors as well as out.

  The fancy had hardly crossed my mind when I heard a step at my side. I looked up, thinking it was Agnes.

  “Well, Agnes—” said I, and the words froze on my tongue; for there, in the door, stood Emma Saxon.

  I don’t know how long she stood there. I only know I couldn’t stir or take my eyes from her. Afterward I was terribly frightened, but at the time it wasn’t fear I felt, but something deeper and quieter. She looked at me long and long, and her face was just one dumb prayer to me—but how in the world was I to help her? Suddenly she turned, and I heard her walk down the passage. This time I wasn’t afraid to follow—I felt that I must know what she wanted. I sprang up and ran out. She was at the other end of the passage, and I expected her to take the turn toward my mistress’s room; but instead of that she pushed open the door that led to the backstairs. I followed her down the stairs, and across the passageway to the back door. The kitchen and hall were empty at that hour, the servants being off duty, except for the footman, who was in the pantry. At the door she stood still a moment, with another look at me; then she turned the handle, and stepped out. For a minute I hesitated. Where was she leading me to? The door had closed softly after her, and I opened it and looked out, half-expecting to find that she had disappeared. But I saw her a few yards off, hurrying across the court-yard to the path through the woods. Her figure looked black and lonely in the snow, and for a second my heart failed me and I thought of turning back. But all the while she was drawing me after her; and catching up an old shawl of Mrs. Blinder’s I ran out into the open.

  Emma Saxon was in the wood-path now. She walked on steadily, and I followed at the same pace, till we passed out of the gates and reached the high-road. Then she struck across the open fields to the village. By this time the ground was white, and as she climbed the slope of a bare hill ahead of me I noticed that she left no foot-prints behind her. At sight of that, my heart shrivelled up within me, and my knees were water. Somehow, it was worse here than indoors. She made the whole countryside seem lonely as the grave, with none but us two in it, and no help in the wide world.

  Once I tried to go back; but she turned and looked at me, and it was as if she had dragged me with ropes. After that I followed her like a dog. We came to the village, and she led me through it, past the church and the blacksmith’s shop, and down the lane to Mr. Ranford’s. Mr. Ranford’s house stands close to the road: a plain old-fashioned building, with a flagged path leading to the door between box-borders. The lane was deserted, and as I turned into it, I saw Emma Saxon pause under the old elm by the gate. And now another fear came over me. I saw that we had reached the end of our journey, and that it was my turn to act. All the way from Brympton I had been asking myself what she wanted of me, but I had followed in a trance, as it were, and not till I saw her stop at Mr. Ranford’s gate did my brain begin to clear itself. It stood a little way off in the snow, my heart beating fit to strangle me, and my feet frozen to the ground; and she stood under the elm and watched me.

  I knew well enough that she hadn’t led me there for nothing. I felt there was something I ought to say or do—but how was I to guess what it was? I had never thought harm of my mistress and Mr. Ranford, but I was sure now that, from one cause or another, some dreadful thing hung over them. She knew what it was; she would tell me if she could; perhaps she would answer if I questioned her.

  It turned me faint to think of speaking to her; but I plucked up heart and dragged myself across the few yards between us. As I did so, I heard the house-door open, and saw Mr. Ranford approaching. He looked handsome and cheerful, as my mistress had looked that morning, and at sight of him the blood began to flow again in my veins.

  “Why, Hartley,” said he, “what’s the matter? I saw you coming down the lane just now, and came out to see if you had taken root in the snow.” He stopped and stared at me. “What are you looking at?” he says.

  I turned toward the elm as he spoke, and his eyes followed me; but there was no one there. The lane was empty as far as the eye could reach.

  A sense of helplessness came over me. She was gone, and I had not been able to guess what she wanted. Her last look had pierced me to the marrow; and yet it had not told me! All at once, I felt more desolate than when she had stood there watching me. It seemed as if she had left me all alone to carry the weight of the secret I couldn’t guess. The snow went round me in great circles, and the ground fell away from me….

  A drop of brandy and the warmth of Mr. Ranford’s fire soon brought me to, and I insisted on being driven back at once to Brympton. It was nearly dark, and I was afraid my mistress might be wanting me. I explained to Mr. Ranford that I had been out for a walk and had been taken with a fit of giddiness as I passed his gate. This was true enough; yet I never felt more like a liar than when I said it.

  When I dressed Mrs. Brympton for dinner she remarked on my pale looks and asked what ailed me. I told her I had a headache, and she said she would not require me again that evening, and advised me to go to bed.

  It was a fact that I could scarcely keep on my feet; yet I had no fancy to spend a solitary evening in my room. I sat downstairs in the hall as long as I could hold my head up; but by nine I crept upstairs, too weary to care what happened if I could but get my head on a pillow. The rest of the household went to bed soon afterward; they kept early hours when the master was away, and before ten I heard Mrs. Blinder’s door close, and Mr. Wace’s soon after.

  It was a very still night, earth and air all muffled in snow. Once in bed I felt easier, and lay quiet, listening to the strange noises that come out in a house after dark. Once I thought I heard a door open and close again below: it might have been the glass door that led to the gardens. I got up and peered out of the window; but it was in the dark of the moon, and nothing visible outside but the streaking of snow against the panes.

  I went back to bed and must have dozed, for I jumped awake to the furious ringing of my bell. Before my head was clear I had sprung out of bed, and was dragging on my clothes. It is going to happen now, I heard myself saying; but what I meant I had no notion. My hands seemed to be covered with glue—I thought I should never get into my clothes. At last I opened my door and peered down the passage. As far as my candle-flame carried, I could see nothing unusual ahead of me. I hurried on, breathless; but as I pushed open the baize door leading to the main hall my heart stood still, for there at the head of the stairs was Emma Saxon, peering dreadfully down into the darkness.

&nb
sp; For a second I couldn’t stir; but my hand slipped from the door, and as it swung shut the figure vanished. At the same instant there came another sound from below stairs—a stealthy mysterious sound, as of a latchkey turning in the house-door. I ran to Mrs. Brympton’s room and knocked.

  There was no answer, and I knocked again. This time I heard some one moving in the room; the bolt slipped back and my mistress stood before me. To my surprise I saw that she had not undressed for the night. She gave me a startled look.

  “What is this, Hartley?” she says in a whisper. “Are you ill? What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I am not ill, madam; but my bell rang.”

  At that she turned pale, and seemed about to fall.

  “You are mistaken,” she said harshly; “I didn’t ring. You must have been dreaming.” I had never heard her speak in such a tone. “Go back to bed,” she said, closing the door on me.

  But as she spoke I heard sounds again in the hall below: a man’s step this time; and the truth leaped out on me.

  “Madam,” I said, pushing past her, “there is someone in the house—”

  “Someone—?”

  “Mr. Brympton, I think—I hear his step below—”

  A dreadful look came over her, and without a word, she dropped flat at my feet. I fell on my knees and tried to lift her: by the way she breathed I saw it was no common faint. But as I raised her head there came quick steps on the stairs and across the hall: the door was flung open, and there stood Mr. Brympton, in his travelling-clothes, the snow dripping from him. He drew back with a start as he saw me kneeling by my mistress.

  “What the devil is this?” he shouted. He was less high-colored than usual, and the red spot came out on his forehead.

  “Mrs. Brympton has fainted, sir,” said I.

  He laughed unsteadily and pushed by me. “It’s a pity she didn’t choose a more convenient moment. I’m sorry to disturb her, but—”

  I raised myself up, aghast at the man’s action.

  “Sir,” said I, “are you mad? What are you doing?”

  “Going to meet a friend,” said he, and seemed to make for the dressing-room.

  At that my heart turned over. I don’t know what I thought or feared; but I sprang up and caught him by the sleeve.

  “Sir, sir,” said I, “for pity’s sake look at your wife!”

  He shook me off furiously.

  “It seems that’s done for me,” says he, and caught hold of the dressing-room door.

  At that moment I heard a slight noise inside. Slight as it was, he heard it too, and tore the door open; but as he did so he dropped back. On the threshold stood Emma Saxon. All was dark behind her, but I saw her plainly, and so did he. He threw up his hands as if to hide his face from her; and when I looked again she was gone.

  He stood motionless, as if the strength had run out of him; and in the stillness my mistress suddenly raised herself, and opening her eyes fixed a look on him. Then she fell back, and I saw the death-flutter pass over her….

  We buried her on the third day, in a driving snow-storm. There were few people in the church, for it was bad weather to come from town, and I’ve a notion my mistress was one that hadn’t many near friends. Mr. Ranford was among the last to come, just before they carried her up the aisle. He was in black, of course, being such a friend of the family, and I never saw a gentleman so pale. As he passed me, I noticed that he leaned a trifle on a stick he carried; and I fancy Mr. Brympton noticed it too, for the red spot came out sharp on his forehead, and all through the service he kept staring across the church at Mr. Ranford, instead of following the prayers as a mourner should.

  When it was over and we went out to the graveyard, Mr. Ranford had disappeared, and as soon as my poor mistress’s body was underground, Mr. Brympton jumped into the carriage nearest the gate and drove off without a word to any of us. I heard him call out, “To the station,” and we servants went back alone to the house.

  THE MISSION OF JANE

  I

  LETHBURY, surveying his wife across the dinner table, found his transient conjugal glance arrested by an indefinable change in her appearance.

  “How smart you look! Is that a new gown?” he asked.

  Her answering look seemed to deprecate his charging her with the extravagance of wasting a new gown on him, and he now perceived that the change lay deeper than any accident of dress. At the same time, he noticed that she betrayed her consciousness of it by a delicate, almost frightened blush. It was one of the compensations of Mrs. Lethbury’s protracted childishness that she still blushed as prettily as at eighteen. Her body had been privileged not to outstrip her mind, and the two, as it seemed to Lethbury, were destined to travel together through an eternity of girlishness.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  Since she never did, he always wondered at her bringing this out as a fresh grievance against him; but his wonder was unresentful, and he said good-humoredly: “You sparkle so that I thought you had on your diamonds.”

  She sighed and blushed again.

  “It must be,” he continued, “that you’ve been to a dressmaker’s opening. You’re absolutely brimming with illicit enjoyment.”

  She stared again, this time at the adjective. His adjectives always embarrassed her: their unintelligibleness savored of impropriety.

  “In short,” he summed up, “you’ve been doing something that you’re thoroughly ashamed of.”

  To his surprise she retorted: “I don’t see why I should be ashamed of it!”

  Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoyment. When there was nothing better going he always liked to listen to her explanations.

  “Well—?” he said.

  She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory. “Of course you’ll laugh—you laugh at everything!”

  “That rather blunts the point of my derision, doesn’t it?” he interjected; but she rushed on without noticing:

  “It’s so easy to laugh at things.”

  “Ah,” murmured Lethbury with relish, “that’s Aunt Sophronia’s, isn’t it?”

  Most of his wife’s opinions were heirlooms, and he took a quaint pleasure in tracing their descent. She was proud of their age, and saw no reason for discarding them while they were still serviceable. Some, of course, were so fine that she kept them for state occasions, like her great-grandmother’s Crown Derby; but from the lady known as Aunt Sophronia she had inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices that were practically as good as new; whereas her husband’s, as she noticed, were always having to be replaced. In the early days she had fancied there might be a certain satisfaction in taxing him with the fact; but she had long since been silenced by the reply: “My dear, I’m not a rich man, but I never use an opinion twice if I can help it.”

  She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his moral deficiencies; and one of the most obvious of these was his refusal to take things seriously. On this occasion, however, some ulterior purpose kept her from taking up his taunt.

  “I’m not in the least ashamed!” she repeated, with the air of shaking a banner to the wind; but the domestic atmosphere being calm, the banner drooped unheroically.

  “That,” said Lethbury judicially, “encourages me to infer that you ought to be, and that, consequently, you’ve been giving yourself the unusual pleasure of doing something I shouldn’t approve of.”

  She met this with an almost solemn directness. “No,” she said. “You won’t approve of it. I’ve allowed for that.”

  “Ah,” he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-glass. “You’ve worked out the whole problem, eh?”

  “I believe so.”

  “That’s uncommonly interesting. And what is it?”

  She looked at him quietly. “A baby.”

  If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had attained the distinction for once.

  “A baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “A—human baby?”

  “Of course!”
she cried, with the virtuous resentment of the woman who has never allowed dogs in the house.

  Lethbury’s puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. “A baby I sha’n’t approve of? Well, in the abstract I don’t think much of them, I admit. Is this an abstract baby?”

  Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had reached a pitch of exaltation at which such obstacles could not deter her.

  “It’s the loveliest baby—” she murmured.

  “Ah, then it’s concrete. It exists. In this harsh world it draws its breath in pain—”

  “It’s the healthiest child I ever saw!” she indignantly corrected.

  “You’ve seen it, then?”

  Again the accusing blush suffused her. “Yes—I’ve seen it.”

  “And to whom does the paragon belong?”

  And here indeed she confounded him. “To me—I hope,” she declared.

  He pushed his chair back with an inarticulate murmur. “To you—?”

  “To us,” she corrected.

  “Good Lord!” he said. If there had been the least hint of hallucination in her transparent gaze—but no: it was as clear, as shallow, as easily fathomable as when he had first suffered the sharp surprise of striking bottom in it.

  It occurred to him that perhaps she was trying to be funny: he knew that there is nothing more cryptic than the humor of the unhumorous.

  “Is it a joke?” he faltered.

  “Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be a reality—”

  He paused to smile at the limitations of a world in which jokes were not realities, and continued gently: “But since it is one already—”