The House of Mirth
Europe, and has a standard. I’m sure Mrs. Bry thinks her house
a copy of the TRIANON; in America every marble house with gilt
furniture is thought to be a copy of the TRIANON. What a clever
chap that architect is, though—how he takes his client’s measure!
He has put the whole of Mrs. Bry in his use of the composite
order. Now for the Trenors, you remember, he chose the Corinthian:
exuberant, but based on the best precedent. The Trenor house is
one of his best things—doesn’t look like a banqueting-hall turned
inside out. I hear Mrs. Trenor wants to build out a new ball-room,
and that divergence from Gus on that point keeps her at Bellomont.
The dimensions of the Brys’ ball-room must rankle: you may be sure
she knows ’em as well as if she’d been there last night with a
yard-measure. Who said she was in town, by the way? That Farish
boy? She isn’t, I know; Mrs. Stepney was right; the house is dark,
you see: I suppose Gus lives in the back.”
He had halted opposite the Trenors’ corner, and Selden perforce
stayed his steps also. The house loomed obscure and uninhabited;
only an oblong gleam above the door spoke of provisional occupancy.
“They’ve bought the house at the back: it gives them a hundred and
fifty feet in the side street. There’s where the ball-room’s to
be, with a gallery connecting it: billiard-room and so on above.
I suggested changing the entrance, and carrying the drawing-room
across the whole Fifth Avenue front; you see the front door
corresponds with the windows——”
The walking-stick which Van Alstyne swung in demonstration dropped
to a startled “Hallo!” as the door opened and two figures were seen
silhouetted against the hall-light. At the same moment a hansom
halted at the curb-stone, and one of the figures floated down to it
in a haze of evening draperies; while the other, black and bulky,
remained persistently projected against the light.
For an immeasurable second the two spectators of the incident were
silent; then the house-door closed, the hansom rolled off, and the
whole scene slipped by as if with the turn of a stereopticon.
Van Alstyne dropped his eye-glass with a low whistle.
“A—hem—nothing of this, eh, Selden? As one of the family, I know I
may count on you—appearances are deceptive—and Fifth Avenue is so
imperfectly lighted——”
“Goodnight,” said Selden, turning sharply down the side street
without seeing the other’s extended hand.
* * * * *
Alone with her cousin’s kiss, Gerty stared upon her thoughts. He
had kissed her before—but not with another woman on his lips. If
he had spared her that she could have drowned quietly, welcoming
the dark flood as it submerged her. But now the flood was shot
through with glory, and it was harder to drown at sunrise than in
darkness. Gerty hid her face from the light, but it pierced to the
crannies of her soul. She had been so contented, life had seemed
so simple and sufficient—why had he come to trouble her with new
hopes? And Lily—Lily, her best friend! Woman-like, she accused
the woman. Perhaps, had it not been for Lily, her fond imagining
might have become truth. Selden had always liked her—had understood
and sympathized with the modest independence of her life. He, who
had the reputation of weighing all things in the nice balance of
fastidious perceptions, had been uncritical and simple in his view
of her: his cleverness had never overawed her because she had felt
at home in his heart. And now she was thrust out, and the door
barred against her by Lily’s hand! Lily, for whose admission there
she herself had pleaded! The situation was lighted up by a dreary
flash of irony. She knew Selden—she saw how the force of her faith
in Lily must have helped to dispel his hesitations. She remembered,
too, how Lily had talked of him—she saw herself bringing the two
together, making them known to each other. On Selden’s part, no
doubt, the wound inflicted was inconscient; he had never guessed
her foolish secret; but Lily—Lily must have known! When, in such
matters, are a woman’s perceptions at fault? And if she knew, then
she had deliberately despoiled her friend, and in mere wantonness
of power, since, even to Gerty’s suddenly flaming jealousy, it
seemed incredible that Lily should wish to be Selden’s wife. Lily
might be incapable of marrying for money, but she was equally
incapable of living without it, and Selden’s eager investigations
into the small economies of house-keeping made him appear to Gerty
as tragically duped as herself.
She remained long in her sitting-room, where the embers were
crumbling to cold grey, and the lamp paled under its gay shade.
Just beneath it stood the photograph of Lily Bart, looking out
imperially on the cheap gimcracks, the cramped furniture of the
little room. Could Selden picture her in such an interior? Gerty
felt the poverty, the insignificance of her surroundings: she
beheld her life as it must appear to Lily. And the cruelty of
Lily’s judgments smote upon her memory. She saw that she had
dressed her idol with attributes of her own making. When had Lily
ever really felt, or pitied, or understood? All she wanted was
the taste of new experiences: she seemed like some cruel creature
experimenting in a laboratory.
The pink-faced clock drummed out another hour, and Gerty rose with
a start. She had an appointment early the next morning with a
district visitor on the East side. She put out her lamp, covered
the fire, and went into her bedroom to undress. In the little glass
above her dressing-table she saw her face reflected against the
shadows of the room, and tears blotted the reflection. What right
had she to dream the dreams of loveliness? A dull face invited a
dull fate. She cried quietly as she undressed, laying aside her
clothes with her habitual precision, setting everything in order
for the next day, when the old life must be taken up as though
there had been no break in its routine. Her servant did not come
till eight o’clock, and she prepared her own tea-tray and placed it
beside the bed. Then she locked the door of the flat, extinguished
her light and lay down. But on her bed sleep would not come, and
she lay face to face with the fact that she hated Lily Bart. It
closed with her in the darkness like some formless evil to be
blindly grappled with. Reason, judgment, renunciation, all the
sane daylight forces, were beaten back in the sharp struggle for
self-preservation. She wanted happiness—wanted it as fiercely and
unscrupulously as Lily did, but without Lily’s power of obtaining
it. And in her conscious impotence she lay shivering, and hated her
friend——
A ring at the door-bell caught her to her feet. She struck a
light and stood startled, listening. For a moment her heart beat
incoherently, then she felt the sobering touch of fact, and
remembered that such calls were not unknown in her charitable work.
She flung on her dressing-gown to answer the summons, and unlocking
her door, confronted the shining vision of Lily Bart.
Gerty’s first movement was one of revulsion. She shrank back as
though Lily’s presence flashed too sudden a light upon her misery.
Then she heard her name in a cry, had a glimpse of her friend’s
face, and felt herself caught and clung to.
“Lily—what is it?” she exclaimed.
Miss Bart released her, and stood breathing brokenly, like one who
has gained shelter after a long flight.
“I was so cold—I couldn’t go home. Have you a fire?”
Gerty’s compassionate instincts, responding to the swift call of
habit, swept aside all her reluctances. Lily was simply some one
who needed help—for what reason, there was no time to pause and
conjecture: disciplined sympathy checked the wonder on Gerty’s
lips, and made her draw her friend silently into the sitting-room
and seat her by the darkened hearth.
“There is kindling wood here: the fire will burn in a minute.”
She knelt down, and the flame leapt under her rapid hands. It
flashed strangely through the tears which still blurred her eyes,
and smote on the white ruin of Lily’s face. The girls looked at
each other in silence; then Lily repeated: “I couldn’t go home.”
“No—no—you came here, dear! You’re cold and tired—sit quiet, and
I’ll make you some tea.”
Gerty had unconsciously adopted the soothing note of her trade:
all personal feeling was merged in the sense of ministry, and
experience had taught her that the bleeding must be stayed before
the wound is probed.
Lily sat quiet, leaning to the fire: the clatter of cups behind her
soothed her as familiar noises hush a child whom silence has kept
wakeful. But when Gerty stood at her side with the tea she pushed
it away, and turned an estranged eye on the familiar room.
“I came here because I couldn’t bear to be alone,” she said.
Gerty set down the cup and knelt beside her.
“Lily! Something has happened—can’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t bear to lie awake in my room till morning. I hate my
room at Aunt Julia’s—so I came here——”
She stirred suddenly, broke from her apathy, and clung to Gerty in
a fresh burst of fear.
“Oh, Gerty, the furies . . . you know the noise of their
wings—alone, at night, in the dark? But you don’t know—there is
nothing to make the dark dreadful to you——”
The words, flashing back on Gerty’s last hours, struck from her a
faint derisive murmur; but Lily, in the blaze of her own misery,
was blinded to everything outside it.
“You’ll let me stay? I shan’t mind when daylight comes—Is
it late? Is the night nearly over? It must be awful to be
sleepless—everything stands by the bed and stares——”
Miss Farish caught her straying hands. “Lily, look at me! Something
has happened—an accident? You have been frightened—what has
frightened you? Tell me if you can—a word or two—so that I can help
you.”
Lily shook her head.
“I am not frightened: that’s not the word. Can you imagine looking
into your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement—some
hideous change that has come to you while you slept? Well, I seem
to myself like that—I can’t bear to see myself in my own thoughts—I
hate ugliness, you know—I’ve always turned from it—but I can’t
explain to you—you wouldn’t understand.”
She lifted her head and her eyes fell on the clock.
“How long the night is! And I know I shan’t sleep tomorrow. Some
one told me my father used to lie sleepless and think of horrors.
And he was not wicked, only unfortunate—and I see now how he must
have suffered, lying alone with his thoughts! But I am bad—a bad
girl—all my thoughts are bad—I have always had bad people about
me. Is that any excuse? I thought I could manage my own life—I was
proud—proud! but now I’m on their level——”
Sobs shook her, and she bowed to them like a tree in a dry storm.
Gerty knelt beside her, waiting, with the patience born of
experience, till this gust of misery should loosen fresh speech.
She had first imagined some physical shock, some peril of the
crowded streets, since Lily was presumably on her way home from
Carry Fisher’s; but she now saw that other nerve-centres were
smitten, and her mind trembled back from conjecture.
Lily’s sobs ceased, and she lifted her head.
“There are bad girls in your slums. Tell me—do they ever pick
themselves up? Ever forget, and feel as they did before?”
“Lily! you mustn’t speak so—you’re dreaming.”
“Don’t they always go from bad to worse? There’s no turning
back—your old self rejects you, and shuts you out.”
She rose, stretching her arms as if in utter physical weariness.
“Go to bed, dear! You work hard and get up early. I’ll watch here
by the fire, and you’ll leave the light, and your door open. All
I want is to feel that you are near me.” She laid both hands on
Gerty’s shoulders, with a smile that was like sunrise on a sea
strewn with wreckage.