The House of Mirth
she reads of in lesson-hours may be repeating themselves in the
next street. Mrs. Peniston had kept her imagination shrouded, like
the drawing-room furniture. She knew, of course, that society was
“very much changed,” and that many women her mother would have
thought “peculiar” were now in a position to be critical about
their visiting-lists; she had discussed the perils of divorce with
her rector, and had felt thankful at times that Lily was still
unmarried; but the idea that any scandal could attach to a young
girl’s name, above all that it could be lightly coupled with that
of a married man, was so new to her that she was as much aghast as
if she had been accused of leaving her carpets down all summer, or
of violating any of the other cardinal laws of house-keeping.
Miss Stepney, when her first fright had subsided, began to feel
the superiority that greater breadth of mind confers. It was
really pitiable to be as ignorant of the world as Mrs. Peniston!
She smiled at the latter’s question. “People always say unpleasant
things—and certainly they’re a great deal together. A friend of
mine met them the other afternoon in the Park—quite late, after the
lamps were lit. It’s a pity Lily makes herself so conspicuous.”
“CONSPICUOUS!” gasped Mrs. Peniston. She bent forward, lowering her
voice to mitigate the horror. “What sort of things do they say?
That he means to get a divorce and marry her?”
Grace Stepney laughed outright. “Dear me, no! He would hardly do
that. It—it’s a flirtation—nothing more.”
“A flirtation? Between my niece and a married man? Do you mean to
tell me that, with Lily’s looks and advantages, she could find no
better use for her time than to waste it on a fat stupid man almost
old enough to be her father?” This argument had such a convincing
ring that it gave Mrs. Peniston sufficient reassurance to pick up
her work, while she waited for Grace Stepney to rally her scattered
forces.
But Miss Stepney was on the spot in an instant. “That’s the worst
of it—people say she isn’t wasting her time! Every one knows, as
you say, that Lily is too handsome and—and charming—to devote
herself to a man like Gus Trenor unless—”
“Unless?” echoed Mrs. Peniston. Her visitor drew breath nervously.
It was agreeable to shock Mrs. Peniston, but not to shock her to
the verge of anger. Miss Stepney was not sufficiently familiar
with the classic drama to have recalled in advance how bearers
of bad tidings are proverbially received, but she now had a
rapid vision of forfeited dinners and a reduced wardrobe as the
possible consequence of her disinterestedness. To the honour of
her sex, however, hatred of Lily prevailed over more personal
considerations. Mrs. Peniston had chosen the wrong moment to boast
of her niece’s charms.
“Unless,” said Grace, leaning forward to speak with low-toned
emphasis, “unless there are material advantages to be gained by
making herself agreeable to him.”
She felt that the moment was tremendous, and remembered suddenly
that Mrs. Peniston’s black brocade, with the cut jet fringe, would
have been hers at the end of the season.
Mrs. Peniston put down her work again. Another aspect of the same
idea had presented itself to her, and she felt that it was beneath
her dignity to have her nerves racked by a dependent relative who
wore her old clothes.
“If you take pleasure in annoying me by mysterious insinuations,”
she said coldly, “you might at least have chosen a more suitable
time than just as I am recovering from the strain of giving a large
dinner.”
The mention of the dinner dispelled Miss Stepney’s last scruples.
“I don’t know why I should be accused of taking pleasure in telling
you about Lily. I was sure I shouldn’t get any thanks for it,” she
returned with a flare of temper. “But I have some family feeling
left, and as you are the only person who has any authority over
Lily, I thought you ought to know what is being said of her.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Peniston, “what I complain of is that you haven’t
told me yet what IS being said.”
“I didn’t suppose I should have to put it so plainly. People say
that Gus Trenor pays her bills.”
“Pays her bills—her bills?” Mrs. Peniston broke into a laugh. “I
can’t imagine where you can have picked up such rubbish. Lily has
her own income—and I provide for her very handsomely—”
“Oh, we all know that,” interposed Miss Stepney drily. “But Lily
wears a great many smart gowns—”
“I like her to be well-dressed—it’s only suitable!”
“Certainly; but then there are her gambling debts besides.”
Miss Stepney, in the beginning, had not meant to bring up this
point; but Mrs. Peniston had only her own incredulity to blame. She
was like the stiff-necked unbelievers of Scripture, who must be
annihilated to be convinced.
“Gambling debts? Lily?” Mrs. Peniston’s voice shook with anger and
bewilderment. She wondered whether Grace Stepney had gone out of
her mind. “What do you mean by her gambling debts?”
“Simply that if one plays bridge for money in Lily’s set one is
liable to lose a great deal—and I don’t suppose Lily always wins.”
“Who told you that my niece played cards for money?”
“Mercy, cousin Julia, don’t look at me as if I were trying to turn
you against Lily! Everybody knows she is crazy about bridge. Mrs.
Gryce told me herself that it was her gambling that frightened
Percy Gryce—it seems he was really taken with her at first. But,
of course, among Lily’s friends it’s quite the custom for girls to
play for money. In fact, people are inclined to excuse her on that
account——”
“To excuse her for what?”
“For being hard up—and accepting attentions from men like Gus
Trenor—and George Dorset——”
Mrs. Peniston gave another cry. “George Dorset? Is there any one
else? I should like to know the worst, if you please.”
“Don’t put it in that way, cousin Julia. Lately Lily has been a
good deal with the Dorsets, and he seems to admire her—but of
course that’s only natural. And I’m sure there is no truth in the
horrid things people say; but she HAS been spending a great deal
of money this winter. Evie Van Osburgh was at Celeste’s ordering
her trousseau the other day—yes, the marriage takes place next
month—and she told me that Celeste showed her the most exquisite
things she was just sending home to Lily. And people say that Judy
Trenor has quarrelled with her on account of Gus; but I’m sure I’m
sorry I spoke, though I only meant it as a kindness.”
Mrs. Peniston’s genuine incredulity enabled her to dismiss Miss
Stepney with a disdain which boded ill for that lady’s prospect of
succeeding to the black brocade; but minds impenetrable to reason
have generally some crack through which suspicion filters, and
her visitor’s insinuations did not glide off as easily as she had
expected. Mrs. Peniston disliked scenes, and her determination
to avoid them had always led her to hold herself aloof from the
details of Lily’s life. In her youth, girls had not been supposed
to require close supervision. They were generally assumed to be
taken up with the legitimate business of courtship and marriage,
and interference in such affairs on the part of their natural
guardians was considered as unwarrantable as a spectator’s suddenly
joining in a game. There had of course been “fast” girls even in
Mrs. Peniston’s early experience; but their fastness, at worst, was
understood to be a mere excess of animal spirits, against which
there could be no graver charge than that of being “unladylike.”
The modern fastness appeared synonymous with immorality, and the
mere idea of immorality was as offensive to Mrs. Peniston as a
smell of cooking in the drawing-room: it was one of the conceptions
her mind refused to admit.
She had no immediate intention of repeating to Lily what she
had heard, or even of trying to ascertain its truth by means of
discreet interrogation. To do so might be to provoke a scene; and
a scene, in the shaken state of Mrs. Peniston’s nerves, with the
effects of her dinner not worn off, and her mind still tremulous
with new impressions, was a risk she deemed it her duty to avoid.
But there remained in her thoughts a settled deposit of resentment
against her niece, all the denser because it was not to be cleared
by explanation or discussion. It was horrible of a young girl to
let herself be talked about; however unfounded the charges against
her, she must be to blame for their having been made. Mrs. Peniston
felt as if there had been a contagious illness in the house, and
she was doomed to sit shivering among her contaminated furniture.
Chapter 12
Miss Bart had in fact been treading a devious way, and none of her
critics could have been more alive to the fact than herself; but
she had a fatalistic sense of being drawn from one wrong turning
to another, without ever perceiving the right road till it was too
late to take it.
Lily, who considered herself above narrow prejudices, had not
imagined that the fact of letting Gus Trenor make a little money
for her would ever disturb her self-complacency. And the fact
in itself still seemed harmless enough; only it was a fertile
source of harmful complications. As she exhausted the amusement
of spending the money these complications became more pressing,
and Lily, whose mind could be severely logical in tracing the
causes of her ill-luck to others, justified herself by the thought
that she owed all her troubles to the enmity of Bertha Dorset.
This enmity, however, had apparently expired in a renewal of
friendliness between the two women. Lily’s visit to the Dorsets had
resulted, for both, in the discovery that they could be of use to
each other; and the civilized instinct finds a subtler pleasure in
making use of its antagonist than in confounding him. Mrs. Dorset
was, in fact, engaged in a new sentimental experiment, of which
Mrs. Fisher’s late property, Ned Silverton, was the rosy victim;
and at such moments, as Judy Trenor had once remarked, she felt a
peculiar need of distracting her husband’s attention. Dorset was
as difficult to amuse as a savage; but even his self-engrossment
was not proof against Lily’s arts, or rather these were especially
adapted to soothe an uneasy egoism. Her experience with Percy Gryce
stood her in good stead in ministering to Dorset’s humours, and if
the incentive to please was less urgent, the difficulties of her
situation were teaching her to make much of minor opportunities.
Intimacy with the Dorsets was not likely to lessen such
difficulties on the material side. Mrs. Dorset had none of Judy
Trenor’s lavish impulses, and Dorset’s admiration was not likely to
express itself in financial “tips,” even had Lily cared to renew
her experiences in that line. What she required, for the moment,
of the Dorsets’ friendship, was simply its social sanction. She
knew that people were beginning to talk of her; but this fact did
not alarm her as it had alarmed Mrs. Peniston. In her set such
gossip was not unusual, and a handsome girl who flirted with a
married man was merely assumed to be pressing to the limit of her
opportunities. It was Trenor himself who frightened her. Their walk
in the Park had not been a success. Trenor had married young, and
since his marriage his intercourse with women had not taken the
form of the sentimental small-talk which doubles upon itself like
the paths in a maze. He was first puzzled and then irritated to
find himself always led back to the same starting-point, and Lily
felt that she was gradually losing control of the situation. Trenor
was in truth in an unmanageable mood. In spite of his understanding
with Rosedale he had been somewhat heavily “touched” by the fall in
stocks; his household expenses weighed on him, and he seemed to be
meeting, on all sides, a sullen opposition to his wishes, instead