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The Pretext: Part V · The Hermit and the Wild Woman, and other Stories

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Section twenty two of The Hermit and the Wild Woman and Other Stories by Edith
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Wharton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The pretext Part five.
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There came a reaction in which she decided to write to him. She
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even sketched out a letter of sisterly, almost motherly remonstrance, in which she
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reminded him that he still had all his life before him. But she reflected
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that so, after all, had she, and that seemed to weaken the
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argument. In the end, she decided not to send the letter. He
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had never spoken to her of his engagement to Gwendolen Matcher, and his letters
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had contained no allusion to any sentimental disturbance in his life. She had only
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his few broken words that night by the river on which to build her theory
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of the case. But illuminated by the phrase and unfortunate attach, the theory
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towered up, distinct and immovable, like some high landmark by which travelers shaped
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their course. She had been loved, extraordinarily loved, but he had chosen
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that she should know of it by his silence rather than by his speech.
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He had understood that only on those terms could their transcendent communion continue that he
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must lose her to keep her. To break that silence would be like spilling
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a cup of water in a waste of sand. There would be nothing left
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for her thirst. Her life, thenceforward was bathed in a tranquil beauty.
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The days flowed by like a river beneath the moon. Each ripple caught the
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brightness and passed it on. She began to take a renewed interest in her
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familiar round of duties. The tasks which had once seemed colorless and irksome,
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had now a kind of sacrificial sweetness, a symbolic meaning into which which she
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alone was initiated. She had been restless, had longed to travel. Now
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she felt that she should never again care to leave Wentworth. But if her
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desire to wander had ceased, she traveled in spirit, performing invisible pilgrimages in
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the footsteps of her friend. She regretted that her one short visit to England
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had taken her so little out of London that her acquaintance with the landscape had
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been formed chiefly through the windows of a railway carriage. She threw herself into
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the architectural studies of the Higher Thought Club and distinguished herself at the spring meetings.
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By her fluency, her competence, her inexhaustible curiosity on the subject of
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the growth of English Gothic. She ransacked the shelves of the college library.
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She borrowed photographs of the cathedrals. She pored over the folio pages of the
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seats of noblemen and gentlemen. She was like some banished princess who learns that
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she has inherited a domain in her own country, who knows that she will
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never see it, yet feels wherever she walks its soil beneath her feet.
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May was half over, and the Higher Thought Club was to hold its last
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meeting previous to the college festivities, which in early June agreeably disorganized the social
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routine of Wentworth. The meeting was to take place in Margaret Ransom's drawing room,
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and on the day before she sat upstairs preparing for her dual duties as
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hostess and orator, for she had been invited to read the final paper of
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the course in order to sum up with precision her conclusions on the subject of
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English Gothic. She had been re reading an analysis of the structural features of
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the principal English cathedrals, and she was murmuring over to herself the phrase the
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longitudinal arches of Lincoln have an approximately elliptical form. When there came another lock
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on the door and Maria's voice announced, there's a lady down in the parlor.
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Margaret's soul dropped from the heights of the shadowy vaulting to the dead level
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of an afternoon call at Wentworth. A lady. Does she give no name?
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Maria became confused. She only said she was a lady, and in
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reply to her mistress's look of mild surprise, well, ma'am, she told
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me so three or four times over. Margaret laid her book down, leaving
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it open at the description of Lincoln, and slowly descended the stairs. As
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she did so, she repeated to herself, the longitudinal arches are elliptical.
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On the threshold below, she had the odd impression that her bare and inanimate
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drawing room was brimming with life and noise, an impression produced, as she
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presently perceived, by the resolute forward dash. It was almost a pounce of
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the one small figure restlessly measuring its length. The dash checked itself within a
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yard of Margaret and the lady A stranger held back long enough to stamp on
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her hostess a sharp impression of sallowness, leanness, keenness, before she said,
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in a voice that might have been addressing an unruly committee meeting, I
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am lady Caroline Duckat a fact I found it impossible to make clear to the
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young woman who let me in. A warm wave rushed up from Margaret's heart
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to her throat and forehead. She held out both hands impulsively. Oh,
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I'm so glad. I'd no idea. Her voice sank under her visitor's impartial
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scrutiny. I don't wonder, said the latter dryly. I suppose she didn't
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mention either, that my object in calling here was to see missus Ransom.
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Oh yes, won't you sit down? Margaret pushed a chair forward. She
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seated herself at a little distance, brain and heart humming with confused interchange of
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signals. This dark, sharp woman was his aunt, the clever aunt who
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had had such a hard life but had always managed to keep her head above
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water. Margaret remembered that guy had spoken of her kindness. Perhaps she would
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seem kinder when they had talked together. A little Meanwhile, the first impression
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she produced was of an amplitude out of all proportion to her somewhat scant exterior.
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With her small, flat figure, her shabby, heterogeneous dress, she
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was as dowdy as any professor's wife at Wentworth. But her dowdiness, Margaret
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borrowed a literary analogy to define it. Her dowdiness was somehow of the center,
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like the insignificant emissary of a great power. She was to be judged
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rather by her passports than her person. While Margaret was receiving these impressions,
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Lady Caroline, with quick bird like twists of her head, was gathering others
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from the pale, void spaces of the drawing room. Her eyes, divided
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by a sharp nose like a bill, seemed to be set far enough apart
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to see at separate angles. But suddenly she bent both of them on Margaret.
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This is missus Ransom's house, she asked, with an emphasis on the
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verb that gave a distinct hint of unfulfilled expectations. Margaret assented, because your
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American houses, especially in the provincial towns, all looked so remarkably alike that
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I thought I might have been mistaken. And as my time is extremely limited.
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In fact, I'm sailing on Wednesday. She paused long enough to let
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Margaret say, I had no idea you were in this country. Lady Caroline
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made no attempt to take this up, and so much of it, she
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carried on, her sentence, has been wasted in talking to people. I
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really hadn't the slightest desire to see that. You must excuse me if I
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go straight to the point. Margaret felt a sudden tension of the heart.
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Of course, she said, while a voice within her cried, he is
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dead. He has left me a message. There was another pause, Then
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Lady Caroline went on with increasing asperity, so that in short if I could
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see missus Ransom at once. Margaret looked up in surprise. I am Missus
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Ransom, she said. The other stared a moment with much the same look
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of cautious incredulity that had marked her inspection of the drawing room. Then light
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came to her, Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have said
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that I wished to see missus Robert Ransom, not Missus Ransom, but I
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understood that in the States you don't make those distinctions. She paused a moment
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and then went on before Margaret could answer. Perhaps, after all, it's
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as well that I should see you instead, since you're evidently one of the
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household, your son and his wife live with you. I suppose yes,
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on the whole. Then it's better I shall be able to talk so much
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more frankly. She spoke, as if, as a rule, circumstances prevented
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her giving rein to this propensity and frankness, of course, is the only
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way out of this, this extremely tiresome complication. You know, I suppose
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that my nephew thinks he's in love with your daughter in law. Margaret made
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a slight movement, but her visitor pressed on without heeding it. Oh,
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don't fancy please that I'm pretending to take a high moral ground, though his
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mother does, poor dear, I can perfectly imagine that in a place like
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this, I've just been driving about it for two hours, a young man
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of guy's age would have to provide himself with some sort of distraction, and
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he's not kind to go in for anything objectionable. Oh, we quite allow
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for that. We should allow for the whole affair if it hadn't so preposterously
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ended in his throwing over the girl he was engaged to, and upsetting an
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arrangement that affected a number of people besides himself. I understand that in the
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States it's different, the young people I have only themselves to consider. In
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England, in our class, I mean, a great deal may depend on
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a young man's making a good match. And in guy's case, I may
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say that his mother and sisters. I won't include myself, though I might
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have been simply stranded thrown overboard by his freak. You can understand how serious
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it is when I tell you that it's that and nothing else that has brought
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me all the way to America. And my first idea was to go straight
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to your daughter in law, since her influence is the only thing we can
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count on now, and put it to her fairly as I'm putting it to
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you. But on the whole, I dare say it's better to see you
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first. You might give me an idea of the line to take with her.
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I'm prepared to throw myself on her mercy. Margaret rose from her chair,
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outwardly rigid in proportion to her inward tremor. You don't understand, she
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began. Lady Caroline brushed the interruption aside, Oh, but I do completely.
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I cast no reflection on your daughter in law. Guy has made it
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quite clear to us that his attachment is has in short, not been rewarded.
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But don't you see that that's the worst part of it. There'd be
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much more hope of his recovering if Missus Robert Ransom had had Margaret's voice broke
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from her in a cry. I am Missus Robert Ransom, she said,
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if Lady Caroline Duckett had hitherto given her hostess the impression of a person not
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easily silenced. This fact added sensibly to the effect produced by the intense stillness
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which now fell on her. She sat quite motionless, her large bangled hands
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clasped about the meager fur boa she had unwound from her neck. On entering,
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her rusty black veil pushed up to the edge of a fringe of doubtful
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authenticity. Her thin lips parted on a gasp that seemed to sharpen itself on
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the edges of her teeth. So overwhelming and helpless was her silence that Margaret
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began to feel a motion of pity beneath her indignation, a desire at least
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to facilitate the excuses which must terminate their disastrous colloquy. But when Lady Caroline
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found voice, she did not use it to excuse herself. You can't be,
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she said, quite simply can't be. Margaret stammered with a flushing cheek.
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I mean it's some mistake. Are there two? Missus Robert Ransom's in
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the same town. Your family arrangements are so extremely puzzling. She had a
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farther rush of enlightenment. Oh, I see, I ought, of course
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to have asked for missus Robert Ransom Junior. The idea sent her to her
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feet with a haste, which showed her impatience to make up for lost time.
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There is no other Missus Robert Ransom, at Wentworth, said Margaret,
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no other, no junior. Are you sure? Lady Caroline fell back into
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her seat again. Then I simply don't see, she murmured helplessly. Margaret's
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blush had fixed itself on her throbbing forehead. She remained standing while her strange
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visitor continued to gaze at her with a perturbation in which the consciousness of indiscretion
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had evidently as yet no part I simply don't see, she repeated. Suddenly,
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she sprang up and, advancing to Margaret, laid an inspired hand on
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her arm. But my dear woman, you can help us out all the
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same. You can help us to find out who it is, and you
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will, won't you, Because as it's not you, you can't in the
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least mind what I've been saying. Margaret, freeing her arm from her visitor's
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hold, drew back a step, but Lady Caroline instantly rejoined her. Of
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course, I can see that if it had been you might have been annoyed.
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I dare say I put the case stupidly, but I'm so bewildered by
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this new development, by his using you all this time as a pretext that
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I really don't know where to turn for light on the mystery. She had
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Margaret in her imperious grasp again, but the latter broke from her with a
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more resolute gesture. I'm afraid I have no light to give you, she
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began, but once more Lady Caroline caught her up. Oh but do please
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understand me. I condemn guy most strongly for using your name when we all
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know you'd been so amazingly kind to him. I haven't a word to say
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in his defense. But of course the important thing now is who is the
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woman? Since you're not. The question rang out loudly, as if all
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the pale Puritan corners of the room flung it back with a shudder at the
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speaker. In the silence that ensued, Margaret felt the blood ebbing back to
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her heart. Then she said, in a distinct and level voice, I
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know nothing of the history of mister Dawnish. Lady Caroline gave a stare and
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a gasp. Her distracted hand groped for her boa, and she began to
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wind up mechanically about her long neck. It would really be an enormous help
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to us and to poor Gwendolen Matcher, she persisted pleadingly, And you'd be
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doing guy himself a good turn. Margaret remained silent and motionless while her visitor
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drew on one of the worn gloves she had pulled off to adjust her veil.
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Lady Caroline gave the veil a final twitch. I've come a tremendously long
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way, she said, and since it isn't you, I can't think why
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you won't help me. When the door had closed on her visitor, Margaret
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Ransom went slowly up the stairs to her room. As she dragged her feet
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from one step to another, she remembered how she had sprung up the same
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steep flight after that visit of Guy Dnishes, when she had looked in the
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glass and seen on her face the blush of youth. When she reached her
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room, she bolted the door as she had done that day, and again
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looked at herself in the narrow mirror above her dressing table. It was just
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a year since then. The elms were budding again, the willows hanging their
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green veil above the bench by the river. But there was no trace of
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youth left in her face. She saw it now as others had doubtless always
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seen it. If it seemed as it did to Lady Caroline Duckad, what
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look must it have worn to the fresh gaze of young Guy Donnish? A
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pretext? She had been a pretext. He had used her name to screen
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some one else, or perhaps merely to escape from a situation of which he
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was weary. She did not care to conjecture what his motive had been.
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Everything connected with him had grown so remote and alien. She felt no anger,
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only an unspeakable sadness, a sadness which she knew would never be appeased.
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She looked at herself long and steadily. She wished to clear her eyes
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of all illusions, and she turned away and took her usual seat beside her
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work table. From where she sat she could look down the empty elm shaded
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street, up which at this hour every day she was sure to see her
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husband's figure advancing. She would see it presently, She would see it for
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many years to come. She had a sudden aching sense of the length of
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the years that stretched before her. Strange that one who was not young should
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still, in all likelihood have so long to live. Nothing was changed in
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the setting of her life. Perhaps nothing would ever change in it. She
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would certainly live and die in Wentworth, and meanwhile the days would go on
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as usual, bringing the usual obligations. As the word flitted through her brain,
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she remembered that she had still to put the finishing touches to the paper
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she was to read the next afternon at the meeting of the Higher Thought Club.
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The book she had been reading lay face downward beside her where she had
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left it an hour ago. She took it up and slowly and painfully,
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like a child laboriously spelling out the syllables. She went on with the rest
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of the sentence. And they spring from a level not much above that of
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the springing of the transverse and diagonal ribs, which are so arranged as to
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give a convex curve to the surface of the vaulting canoid. End of Section
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twenty two.