For he would have beheld serenely established in that former abode of Calvinism one of the most reprehensible of exotic abominations,a 'mariage de convenance;'nor could he have failed to observe,moreover,the complacency with which the descendants of his friends,the pew holders in Dr.Pound's church,regarded the matter:and not only these,but the city at large.The stronghold of Scotch Presbyterianism had become a London or a Paris,a Gomorrah!
Mrs.Hambleton Durrett went her way,and Mr.Durrett his.The less said about Mr.Durrett's way--even in this suddenly advanced age--the better.
As for Nancy,she seemed to the distant eye to be walking through life in a stately and triumphant manner.I read in the newspapers of her doings,her comings and goings;sometimes she was away for months together,often abroad;and when she was at home I saw her,but infrequently,under conditions more or less formal.Not that she was formal,--or I:our intercourse seemed eloquent of an intimacy in a tantalizing state of suspense.Would that intimacy ever be renewed?Thus was a question on which I sometimes speculated.The situation that had suspended or put an end to it,as the case might be,was never referred to by either of us.
One afternoon in the late winter of the year following that in which we had given a dinner to the Scherers (where the Durretts had rather marvellously appeared together)I left my office about three o'clock--a most unusual occurrence.I was restless,unable to fix my mind on my work,filled with unsatisfied yearnings the object of which I sought to keep vague,and yet I directed my steps westward along Boyne Street until I came to the Art Museum,where a loan exhibition was being held.Ientered,bought a catalogue,and presently found myself standing before number 103,designated as a portrait of Mrs.Hambleton Durrett,--painted in Paris the autumn before by a Polish artist then much in vogue,Stanislaus Czesky.Nancy--was it Nancy?--was standing facing me,tall,superb in the maturity of her beauty,with one hand resting on an antique table,a smile upon her lips,a gentle mockery in her eyes as though laughing at the world she adorned.With the smile and the mockery--somehow significant,too,of an achieved inaccessibility--went the sheen of her clinging gown and the glint of the heavy pearls drooping from her high throat to her waist.These caught the eye,but failed at length to hold it,for even as I looked the smile faded,the mockery turned to wistfulness.So I thought,and looked again--to see the wistfulness:the smile had gone,the pearls seemed heavier.Was it a trick of the artist?
had he seen what I saw,or thought I saw?or was it that imagination which by now I might have learned to suspect and distrust.Wild longings took possession of me,for the portrait had seemed to emphasize at once how distant now she was from me,and yet how near!I wanted to put that nearness to the test.Had she really changed?did anyone really change?
and had I not been a fool to accept the presentment she had given me?Iremembered those moments when our glances had met as across barriers in flashes of understanding.After all,the barriers were mere relics of the superstition of the past.What if I went to her now?I felt that I needed her as I never had needed anyone in all my life....I was aroused by the sound of lowered voices beside me.
"That's Mrs.Hambleton Durrett,"I heard a woman say."Isn't she beautiful?"The note of envy struck me sharply--horribly.Without waiting to listen to the comment of her companion I hurried out of the building into the cold,white sunlight that threw into bold relief the mediocre houses of the street.Here was everyday life,but the portrait had suggested that which might have been--might be yet.What did I mean by this?I didn't know,I didn't care to define it,--a renewal of her friendship,of our intimacy.My being cried out for it,and in the world in which I lived we took what we wanted--why not this?And yet for an instant I stood on the sidewalk to discover that in new situations I was still subject to unaccountable qualms of that thing I had been taught to call "conscience";whether it were conscience or not must be left to the psychologists.I was married--terrible word!the shadow of that Institution fell athwart me as the sun went under a cloud;but the sun came out again as I found myself walking toward the Durrett house reflecting that numbers of married men called on Nancy,and that what Ihad in mind in regard to her was nothing that the court would have pronounced an infringement upon the Institution....I reached her steps,the long steps still guarded by the curved wrought-iron railings reminiscent of Nathaniel's day,though the "portals"were gone,a modern vestibule having replaced them;I rang the bell;the butler,flung open the doors.He,at any rate,did not seem surprised to see me here,he greeted me with respectful cordiality and led me,as a favoured guest,through the big drawing-room into the salon.
"Mr.Paret,Madam!"
Nancy,rose quickly from the low chair where she sat cutting the pages of a French novel.
"Hugh!"she exclaimed."I'm out if anyone calls.Bring tea,"she added to the man,who retired.For a moment we stood gazing at each other,questioningly."Well,won't you sit down and stay awhile?"she asked.
I took a chair on the opposite side of the fire.
"I just thought I'd drop in,"I said.
"I am flattered,"said Nancy,"that a person so affaire should find time to call on an old friend.Why,I thought you never left your office until seven o'clock.""I don't,as a rule,but to-day I wasn't particularly busy,and I thought I'd go round to the Art Museum and look at your portrait.""More flattery!Hugh,you're getting quite human.What do you think of it?""I like it.I think it quite remarkable.""Have a cigarette!"I took one.
"So you really like it,"she said.
"Don't you?"
"Oh,I think it's a trifle--romantic,"she replied "But that's Czesky.
