The Age of Innocence--Edith Wharton [147]
Dallas’s hand came down cheerily on his shoulder. ‘‘Hullo, Father: this is something like, isn’t it?’’ They stood for a while looking out in silence, and then the young man continued: ‘‘By the way, I’ve got a message for you: the Countess Olenska expects us both at half-past five.’’
He said it lightly, carelessly, as he might have imparted any casual item of information, such as the hour at which their train was to leave for Florence the next evening. Archer looked at him and thought he saw in his gay young eyes a gleam of his great-grandmother Mingott’s malice.
‘‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’’ Dallas pursued. ‘‘Fanny made me swear to do three things while I was in Paris: get her the score of the last Debussy songs, go to the Grand-Guignol, and see Madame Olenska. You know she was awfully good to Fanny when Mr. Beaufort sent her over from Buenos Aires to the Assomption. Fanny hadn’t any friends in Paris, and Madame Olenska used to be kind to her and trot her about on holidays. I believe she was a great friend of the first Mrs. Beaufort’s. And she’s our cousin, of course. So I rang her up this morning, before I went out, and told her you and I were here for two days and wanted to see her.’’
Archer continued to stare at him. ‘‘You told her I was here?’’
‘‘Of course—why not?’’ Dallas’s eyebrows went up whimsically. Then, getting no answer, he slipped his arm through his father’s with a confidential pressure.
‘‘I say, Father, what was she like?’’
Archer felt his colour rise under his son’s unabashed gaze. ‘‘Come, own up: you and she were great pals, weren’t you? Wasn’t she most awfully lovely?’’
‘‘Lovely? I don’t know. She was different.’’
‘‘Ah—there you have it! That’s what it always comes to, doesn’t it? When she comes, she’s different—and one doesn’t know why. It’s exactly what I feel about Fanny.’’
His father drew back a step, releasing his arm. ‘‘About Fanny? But, my dear fellow—I should hope so! Only I don’t see—’’
‘‘Dash it, Dad, don’t be prehistoric! Wasn’t she— once—your Fanny?’’
Dallas belonged body and soul to the new generation.
He was the first-born of Newland and May Archer, yet it had never been possible to inculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve. ‘‘What’s the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose ’em out,’’ he always objected when enjoined to discretion. But Archer, meeting his eyes, saw the filial light under their banter.
‘‘My Fanny—?’’
‘‘Well, the woman you’d have chucked everything for—only you didn’t,’’ continued his surprising son.
‘‘I didn’t,’’ echoed Archer with a kind of solemnity.
‘‘No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But Mother said—’’
‘‘Your mother?’’
‘‘Yes, the day before she died. It was when she sent for me alone—you remember? She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she asked you to, you’d given up the thing you most wanted.’’
Archer received this strange communication in silence. His eyes remained unseeingly fixed on the thronged, sunlit square below the window. At length he said in a low voice: ‘‘She never asked me.’’
‘‘No. I forgot. You never did ask each other anything, did you? And you never told each other anything. You just sat and watched each other, and guessed at what was going on underneath. A deaf-and-dumb asylum, in fact! Well, I back your generation for knowing more about each other’s private thoughts than we ever have time to find out about our own. I say, Dad,’’ Dallas broke off, ‘‘you’re not angry with me? If you are, let’s make it up and go and lunch at Henri’s. I’ve got to rush to Versailles afterward.’’
Archer did not accompany his son to Versailles. He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris. He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of