The Reef

by Edith Wharton

  XXXVIII

  Anna drove to the chemist's for Owen's remedy. On the way she stoppedher cab at a book-shop, and emerged from it laden with literature. Sheknew what would interest Owen, and what he was likely to have read,and she had made her choice among the newest publications with thepromptness of a discriminating reader. But on the way back to the hotelshe was overcome by the irony of adding this mental panacea to theother. There was something grotesque and almost mocking in the idea ofoffering a judicious selection of literature to a man setting out onsuch a journey. "He knows...he knows..." she kept on repeating; andgiving the porter the parcel from the chemist's she drove away withoutleaving the books. She went to her apartment, whither her maid hadpreceded her. There was a fire in the drawing-room and the tea-tablestood ready by the hearth. The stormy rain beat against the uncurtainedwindows, and she thought of Owen, who would soon be driving through itto the station, alone with his bitter thoughts. She had been proud ofthe fact that he had always sought her help in difficult hours; and now,in the most difficult of all, she was the one being to whom he couldnot turn. Between them, henceforth, there would always be the wall of aninsurmountable silence...She strained her aching thoughts to guess howthe 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 ofassuming an explicit statement, when every breath they had drawn for thelast weeks had been charged with the immanent secret? As she looked backover the days since Darrow's first arrival at Givre she perceivedthat at no time had any one deliberately spoken, or anything beenaccidentally disclosed. The truth had come to light by the force of itsirresistible pressure; and the perception gave her a startled sense ofhidden powers, of a chaos of attractions and repulsions far beneaththe ordered surfaces of intercourse. She looked back with melancholyderision on her old conception of life, as a kind of well-lit and wellpoliced suburb to dark places one need never know about. Here they were,these dark places, in her own bosom, and henceforth she would alwayshave to traverse them to reach the beings she loved best!

  She was still sitting beside the untouched tea-table when she heardDarrow's voice in the hall. She started up, saying to herself: "I musttell him that Owen knows..." but when the door opened and she saw hisface, still lit by the same smile of boyish triumph, she felt anew theuselessness of speaking...Had he ever supposed that Owen would not know?Probably, from the height of his greater experience, he had seen longsince that all that happened was inevitable; and the thought of it, atany rate, was clearly not weighing on him now.

  He was already dressed for the evening, and as he came toward her hesaid: "The Ambassador's booked for an official dinner and I'm free afterall. Where shall we dine?"

  Anna had pictured herself sitting alone all the evening with herwretched thoughts, and the fact of having to put them out of her mindfor the next few hours gave her an immediate sensation of relief.Already her pulses were dancing to the tune of Darrow's, and as theysmiled at each other she thought: "Nothing can ever change the fact thatI belong to him."

  "Where shall we dine?" he repeated gaily, and she named a well-knownrestaurant for which she had once heard him express a preference. But asshe did so she fancied she saw a shadow on his face, and instantly shesaid to herself: "It was THERE he went with her!"

  "Oh, no, not there, after all!" she interrupted herself; and now she wassure his colour deepened.

  "Where shall it be, then?"

  She noticed that he did not ask the reason of her change, and thisconvinced her that she had guessed the truth, and that he knew she hadguessed it. "He will always know what I am thinking, and he willnever dare to ask me," she thought; and she saw between them the sameinsurmountable wall of silence as between herself and Owen, a wall ofglass through which they could watch each other's faintest motions butwhich no sound could ever traverse...

  They drove to a restaurant on the Boulevard, and there, in theirintimate corner of the serried scene, the sense of what was unspokenbetween them gradually ceased to oppress her. He looked so light-heartedand handsome, so ingenuously proud of her, so openly happy at being withher, that no other fact could seem real in his presence. He had learnedthat the Ambassador was to spend two days in Paris, and he had reason tohope that in consequence his own departure for London would be deferred.He was exhilarated by the prospect of being with Anna for a few hourslonger, and she did not ask herself if his exhilaration were a sign ofinsensibility, for she was too conscious of his power of swaying hermoods not to be secretly proud of affecting his.

  They lingered for some time over the fruit and coffee, and when theyrose 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 ofthe smaller theatres.

  His mention of the hour recalled Owen to her thoughts. She saw his trainrushing southward through the storm, and, in a corner of the swayingcompartment, his face, white and indistinct as it had loomed on her inthe rainy twilight. It was horrible to be thus perpetually paying forher happiness!

  Darrow had called for a theatrical journal, and he presently looked upfrom 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 shewondered if it were not at the Athenee that Owen had seen Darrow withSophy Viner. She was not sure he had even mentioned the theatre, but themere possibility was enough to darken her sky. It was hateful to her tothink of accompanying Darrow to places where the girl had been with him.She tried to reason away this scruple, she even reminded herself witha bitter irony that whenever she was in Darrow's arms she was where thegirl had been before her--but she could not shake off her superstitiousdread 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 backto her apartment. At the foot of the stairs she half-turned to wish himgood night, but he appeared not to notice her gesture and followed herup to her door.

  "This is ever so much better than the theatre," he said as they enteredthe drawing-room.

  She had crossed the room and was bending over the hearth to light thefire. She knew he was approaching her, and that in a moment he wouldhave drawn the cloak from her shoulders and laid his lips on her neck,just below the gathered-up hair. These privileges were his and, howeverdeferently and tenderly he claimed them, the joyous ease of his mannermarked a difference and proclaimed a right.

  "After the theatre they came home like this," she thought; and at thesame 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 fromhis 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?"

  "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 hercloak about her shoulders.

  Darrow did not dispute her assumption, and she noticed that he expressedno surprise. He sat down at a little distance from her, turning about inhis fingers the cigar-case he had drawn out as they came in. At lengthhe said: "Had he seen Miss Viner?"

  She shrank from the sound of the name. "No...I don't think so...I'm surehe hadn't..."

  They remained silent, looking away from one another. Finally Darrowstood up and took a few steps across the room. He came back and pausedbefore her, his eyes on her face.

  "I think you ought to tell me what you mean to do." She raised her headand 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 hiswords. "I fill 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 bowedher head upon the mantel-shelf. She felt that he was standing a littleway 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 webelong to each other and that nothing can alter that. But other thoughtscome, and you can't banish them. Whenever you see me you remember...youassociate me with things you abhor...You've been generous--immeasurably.You've given me all the chances a woman could; but if it's only made yousuffer, 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 raisedit to his lips. "They'll be with me as long as I live. But I can't seeyou 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 suddenlyshe flung out the question: "Wasn't it the Athenee you took her to thatevening?"

  "Anna--Anna!"

  "Yes; I want to know now: to know everything. Perhaps that will makeme forget. I ought to have made you tell me before. Wherever we go, Iimagine you've been there with her...I see you together. I want to knowhow it began, where you went, why you left her...I can't go on in thisdarkness any longer!"

  She did not know what had prompted her passionate outburst, but alreadyshe felt lighter, freer, as if at last the evil spell were broken. "Iwant to know everything," she repeated. "It's the only way to make meforget."

  After she had ceased speaking Darrow remained where he was, his armsfolded, 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?"

  "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 satisfactionwould that give you? It would put something irremediable between us."

  She leaned her elbow against the mantel-shelf and hid her face in herhands. She had the sense that she was vainly throwing away her last hopeof happiness, yet she could do nothing, think of nothing, to save it.The conjecture flashed through her: "Should I be at peace if I gave himup?" and she remembered the desolation of the days after she had senthim away, and understood that that hope was vain. The tears welledthrough her lids and ran slowly down between her fingers.

  "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 itdown. She said to herself: "This is the end...he won't try to appeal tome again..." and she remained in a sort of tranced rigidity, perceivingwithout feeling the fateful lapse of the seconds. Then the cords thatbound 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 toher and the look in his eyes swept away all her terrors. She no longerunderstood what had prompted her senseless outcry; and the mortalsweetness of loving him became again the one real fact in the world.