The House of Mirth
able to tell her mother exactly how the wedding-dress was cut, and
we knew at once, from the fold in the back, that it must have come
from Paquin.”
Mrs. Peniston rose abruptly, and, advancing to the ormolu
clock surmounted by a helmeted Minerva, which throned on the
chimney-piece between two malachite vases, passed her lace
handkerchief between the helmet and its visor.
“I knew it—the parlour-maid never dusts there!” she exclaimed,
triumphantly displaying a minute spot on the handkerchief; then,
reseating herself, she went on: “Molly thought Mrs. Dorset the
best-dressed woman at the wedding. I’ve no doubt her dress DID
cost more than any one else’s, but I can’t quite like the idea—a
combination of sable and POINT DE MILAN. It seems she goes to a new
man in Paris, who won’t take an order till his client has spent a
day with him at his villa at Neuilly. He says he must study his
subject’s home life—a most peculiar arrangement, I should say!
But Mrs. Dorset told Molly about it herself: she said the villa
was full of the most exquisite things and she was really sorry to
leave. Molly said she never saw her looking better; she was in
tremendous spirits, and said she had made a match between Evie
Van Osburgh and Percy Gryce. She really seems to have a very good
influence on young men. I hear she is interesting herself now in
that silly Silverton boy, who has had his head turned by Carry
Fisher, and has been gambling so dreadfully. Well, as I was saying,
Evie is really engaged: Mrs. Dorset had her to stay with Percy
Gryce, and managed it all, and Grace Van Osburgh is in the seventh
heaven—she had almost despaired of marrying Evie.”
Mrs. Peniston again paused, but this time her scrutiny addressed
itself, not to the furniture, but to her niece.
“Cornelia Van Alstyne was so surprised: she had heard that you
were to marry young Gryce. She saw the Wetheralls just after they
had stopped with you at Bellomont, and Alice Wetherall was quite
sure there was an engagement. She said that when Mr. Gryce left
unexpectedly one morning, they all thought he had rushed to town
for the ring.”
Lily rose and moved toward the door.
“I believe I AM tired: I think I will go to bed,” she said; and
Mrs. Peniston, suddenly distracted by the discovery that the easel
sustaining the late Mr. Peniston’s crayon-portrait was not exactly
in line with the sofa in front of it, presented an absent-minded
brow to her kiss.
In her own room Lily turned up the gas-jet and glanced toward the
grate. It was as brilliantly polished as the one below, but here at
least she could burn a few papers with less risk of incurring her
aunt’s disapproval. She made no immediate motion to do so, however,
but dropping into a chair looked wearily about her. Her room was
large and comfortably-furnished—it was the envy and admiration of
poor Grace Stepney, who boarded; but, contrasted with the light
tints and luxurious appointments of the guest-rooms where so many
weeks of Lily’s existence were spent, it seemed as dreary as a
prison. The monumental wardrobe and bedstead of black walnut had
migrated from Mr. Peniston’s bedroom, and the magenta “flock”
wall-paper, of a pattern dear to the early ’sixties, was hung with
large steel engravings of an anecdotic character. Lily had tried to
mitigate this charmless background by a few frivolous touches, in
the shape of a lace-decked toilet table and a little painted desk
surmounted by photographs; but the futility of the attempt struck
her as she looked about the room. What a contrast to the subtle
elegance of the setting she had pictured for herself—an apartment
which should surpass the complicated luxury of her friends’
surroundings by the whole extent of that artistic sensibility
which made her feel herself their superior; in which every tint
and line should combine to enhance her beauty and give distinction
to her leisure! Once more the haunting sense of physical ugliness
was intensified by her mental depression, so that each piece of
the offending furniture seemed to thrust forth its most aggressive
angle.
Her aunt’s words had told her nothing new; but they had revived the
vision of Bertha Dorset, smiling, flattered, victorious, holding
her up to ridicule by insinuations intelligible to every member of
their little group. The thought of the ridicule struck deeper than
any other sensation: Lily knew every turn of the allusive jargon
which could flay its victims without the shedding of blood. Her
cheek burned at the recollection, and she rose and caught up the
letters. She no longer meant to destroy them: that intention had
been effaced by the quick corrosion of Mrs. Peniston’s words.
Instead, she approached her desk, and lighting a taper, tied
and sealed the packet; then she opened the wardrobe, drew out a
despatch-box, and deposited the letters within it. As she did so,
it struck her with a flash of irony that she was indebted to Gus
Trenor for the means of buying them.
Chapter 10
The autumn dragged on monotonously. Miss Bart had received one or
two notes from Judy Trenor, reproaching her for not returning to
Bellomont; but she replied evasively, alleging the obligation to
remain with her aunt. In truth, however, she was fast wearying of
her solitary existence with Mrs. Peniston, and only the excitement
of spending her newly-acquired money lightened the dulness of the
days.
All her life Lily had seen money go out as quickly as it came in,
and whatever theories she cultivated as to the prudence of setting
aside a part of her gains, she had unhappily no saving vision of
the risks of the opposite course. It was a keen satisfaction to
feel that, for a few months at least, she would be independent of
her friends’ bounty, that she could show herself abroad without
wondering whether some penetrating eye would detect in her dress
the traces of Judy Trenor’s refurbished splendour. The fact that
the money freed her temporarily from all minor obligations obscured
her sense of the greater one it represented, and having never
before known what it was to command so large a sum, she lingered
delectably over the amusement of spending it.
It was on one of these occasions that, leaving a shop where she
had spent an hour of deliberation over a dressing-case of the most
complicated elegance, she ran across Miss Farish, who had entered
the same establishment with the modest object of having her watch
repaired. Lily was feeling unusually virtuous. She had decided to
defer the purchase of the dressing-case till she should receive
the bill for her new opera cloak, and the resolve made her feel
much richer than when she had entered the shop. In this mood of
self-approval she had a sympathetic eye for others, and she was
struck by her friend’s air of dejection.
Miss Farish, it appeared, had just left the committee-meeting
of a struggling charity in which she was interested. The object
of the association was to provide comfortable lodgings, with a
reading-room and other modest distractions, where young women of
the class employed in downtown offices might find a home when
out of work, or in need of rest, and the first year’s financial
report showed so deplorably small a balance that Miss Farish, who
was convinced of the urgency of the work, felt proportionately
discouraged by the small amount of interest it aroused. The
other-regarding sentiments had not been cultivated in Lily, and
she was often bored by the relation of her friend’s philanthropic
efforts, but today her quick dramatizing fancy seized on the
contrast between her own situation and that represented by some of
Gerty’s “cases.” These were young girls, like herself; some perhaps
pretty, some not without a trace of her finer sensibilities. She
pictured herself leading such a life as theirs—a life in which
achievement seemed as squalid as failure—and the vision made her
shudder sympathetically. The price of the dressing-case was still
in her pocket; and drawing out her little gold purse she slipped a
liberal fraction of the amount into Miss Farish’s hand.
The satisfaction derived from this act was all that the most ardent
moralist could have desired. Lily felt a new interest in herself as
a person of charitable instincts: she had never before thought of
doing good with the wealth she had so often dreamed of possessing,
but now her horizon was enlarged by the vision of a prodigal
philanthropy. Moreover, by some obscure process of logic, she felt
that her momentary burst of generosity had justified all previous
extravagances, and excused any in which she might subsequently
indulge. Miss Farish’s surprise and gratitude confirmed this
feeling, and Lily parted from her with a sense of self-esteem which
she naturally mistook for the fruits of altruism.
About this time she was farther cheered by an invitation to spend
the Thanksgiving week at a camp in the Adirondacks. The invitation
was one which, a year earlier, would have provoked a less ready
response, for the party, though organized by Mrs. Fisher, was
ostensibly given by a lady of obscure origin and indomitable social
ambitions, whose acquaintance Lily had hitherto avoided. Now,
however, she was disposed to coincide with Mrs. Fisher’s view, that
it didn’t matter who gave the party, as long as things were well
done; and doing things well (under competent direction) was Mrs.
Wellington Bry’s strong point. The lady (whose consort was known
as “Welly” Bry on the Stock Exchange and in sporting circles) had
already sacrificed one husband, and sundry minor considerations, to
her determination to get on; and, having obtained a hold on Carry
Fisher, she was astute enough to perceive the wisdom of committing
herself entirely to that lady’s guidance. Everything, accordingly,
was well done, for there was no limit to Mrs. Fisher’s prodigality
when she was not spending her own money, and as she remarked to her
pupil, a good cook was the best introduction to society. If the
company was not as select as the CUISINE, the Welly Brys at least
had the satisfaction of figuring for the first time in the society
columns in company with one or two noticeable names; and foremost
among these was of course Miss Bart’s. The young lady was treated
by her hosts with corresponding deference; and she was in the mood
when such attentions are acceptable, whatever their source. Mrs.
Bry’s admiration was a mirror in which Lily’s self-complacency
recovered its lost outline. No insect hangs its nest on threads
as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity;
and the sense of being of importance among the insignificant was
enough to restore to Miss Bart the gratifying consciousness of
power. If these people paid court to her it proved that she was
still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired; and she was
not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her fineness, in
developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities.
Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware
from the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp
cold and hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the
influences of the winter woods. She returned to town in a glow
of rejuvenation, conscious of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a
fresh elasticity in her muscles. The future seemed full of a vague
promise, and all her apprehensions were swept out of sight on the
buoyant current of her mood.
A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise
of a visit from Mr. Rosedale. He came late, at the confidential
hour when the tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly
expectancy; and his manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to
the intimacy of the occasion.
Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her