The Age of Innocence - Edith Wharton [44]
“How kind you both are, dear Henry—always! Newland will particularly appreciate what you have done because of dear May and his new relations.”
She shot an admonitory glance at her son, who said: “Immensely, sir. But I was sure you’d like Madame Olenska.”
Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness. “I never ask to my house, my dear Newland,” he said, “any one whom I do not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jackson.” With a glance at the clock he rose and added: “But Louisa will be waiting. We are dining early, to take the Duke to the Opera.”
After the portières had solemnly closed behind their visitor a silence fell upon the Archer family.
“Gracious—how romantic!” at last broke explosively from Janey. No one knew exactly what inspired her elliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpret them.
Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. “Provided it all turns out for the best,” she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. “Newland, you must stay and see Sillerton Jackson when he comes this evening: I really shan’t know what to say to him.”
“Poor mother! But he won’t come—” her son laughed, stooping to kiss away her frown.
11
SOME TWO WEEKS LATER, Newland Archer, sitting in abstracted idleness in his private compartment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson and Low, attorneys-at-law, was summoned by the head of the firm.
Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviser of three generations of New York gentility, was throned behind his mahogany desk in evident perplexity. As he stroked his close-clipped white whiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled gray locks above his jutting brows, his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the Family Physician annoyed with a patient whose symptoms refuse to be classified.
“My dear sir—” he always addressed Archer as “sir”—“I have sent for you to go into a little matter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefer not to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood.” The gentlemen he spoke of were the other senior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations of old standing in New York, all the partners named on the office letterhead were long since dead; and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was, professionally speaking, his own grandson.
He leaned back in his chair with a furrowed brow. “For family reasons—” he continued.
Archer looked up.
“The Mingott family,” said Mr. Letterblair with an explanatory smile and bow. “Mrs. Manson Mingott sent for me yesterday. Her granddaughter the Countess Olenska wishes to sue her husband for divorce. Certain papers have been placed in my hands.” He paused and drummed on his desk. “In view of your prospective alliance with the family I should like to consult you—to consider the case with you—before taking any further steps.”
Archer felt the blood in his temples. He had seen the Countess Olenska only once since his visit to her, and that at the Opera, in the Mingott box. During this interval she had become a less vivid and importunate image, receding from his foreground as May Welland resumed her rightful place in it. He had not heard her divorce spoken of since Janey’s first random allusion to it, and had dismissed the tale as unfounded gossip. Theoretically, the idea of divorce was almost as distasteful to him as to his mother; and he was annoyed that Mr. Letterblair (no doubt prompted by old Catherine Mingott) should be so evidently planning to draw him into the affair. After all, there were plenty of Mingott men for such jobs, and as yet he was not even a Mingott by marriage.
He waited for the senior partner to continue. Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and drew out a packet. “If you will run your eye over these papers—”
Archer frowned. “I beg your pardon, sir; but just because of the prospective relationship, I should prefer your consulting Mr. Skipworth or Mr. Redwood.”
Mr. Letterblair looked surprised and slightly offended. It was unusual for a junior to reject such