The House of Mirth
surprises of her unoccupied state was the discovery that time, when
it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot
be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters; but
just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly
break into a wild irrational gallop.
She found, however, on reaching home, that the hour was still early
enough for her to sit down and rest a few minutes before putting
her plan into execution. The delay did not perceptibly weaken her
resolve. She was frightened and yet stimulated by the reserved
force of resolution which she felt within herself: she saw it was
going to be easier, a great deal easier, than she had imagined.
At five o’clock she rose, unlocked her trunk, and took out a
sealed packet which she slipped into the bosom of her dress. Even
the contact with the packet did not shake her nerves as she had
half-expected it would. She seemed encased in a strong armour of
indifference, as though the vigorous exertion of her will had
finally benumbed her finer sensibilities.
She dressed herself once more for the street, locked her door and
went out. When she emerged on the pavement, the day was still
high, but a threat of rain darkened the sky and cold gusts shook
the signs projecting from the basement shops along the street. She
reached Fifth Avenue and began to walk slowly northward. She was
sufficiently familiar with Mrs. Dorset’s habits to know that she
could always be found at home after five. She might not, indeed, be
accessible to visitors, especially to a visitor so unwelcome, and
against whom it was quite possible that she had guarded herself by
special orders; but Lily had written a note which she meant to send
up with her name, and which she thought would secure her admission.
She had allowed herself time to walk to Mrs. Dorset’s, thinking
that the quick movement through the cold evening air would help
to steady her nerves; but she really felt no need of being
tranquillized. Her survey of the situation remained calm and
unwavering.
As she reached Fiftieth Street the clouds broke abruptly, and
a rush of cold rain slanted into her face. She had no umbrella
and the moisture quickly penetrated her thin spring dress. She
was still half a mile from her destination, and she decided to
walk across to Madison Avenue and take the electric car. As she
turned into the side street, a vague memory stirred in her. The
row of budding trees, the new brick and limestone house-fronts,
the Georgian flat-house with flower-boxes on its balconies, were
merged together into the setting of a familiar scene. It was
down this street that she had walked with Selden, that September
day two years ago; a few yards ahead was the doorway they had
entered together. The recollection loosened a throng of benumbed
sensations—longings, regrets, imaginings, the throbbing brood of
the only spring her heart had ever known. It was strange to find
herself passing his house on such an errand. She seemed suddenly
to see her action as he would see it—and the fact of his own
connection with it, the fact that, to attain her end, she must
trade on his name, and profit by a secret of his past, chilled her
blood with shame. What a long way she had travelled since the day
of their first talk together! Even then her feet had been set in
the path she was now following—even then she had resisted the hand
he had held out.
All her resentment of his fancied coldness was swept away in this
overwhelming rush of recollection. Twice he had been ready to
help her—to help her by loving her, as he had said—and if, the
third time, he had seemed to fail her, whom but herself could she
accuse?... Well, that part of her life was over; she did not know
why her thoughts still clung to it. But the sudden longing to see
him remained; it grew to hunger as she paused on the pavement
opposite his door. The street was dark and empty, swept by the
rain. She had a vision of his quiet room, of the bookshelves,
and the fire on the hearth. She looked up and saw a light in his
window; then she crossed the street and entered the house.
Chapter 12
The library looked as she had pictured it. The green-shaded lamps
made tranquil circles of light in the gathering dusk, a little fire
flickered on the hearth, and Selden’s easy-chair, which stood near
it, had been pushed aside when he rose to admit her.
He had checked his first movement of surprise, and stood silent,
waiting for her to speak, while she paused a moment on the
threshold, assailed by a rush of memories.
The scene was unchanged. She recognized the row of shelves from
which he had taken down his La Bruyere, and the worn arm of the
chair he had leaned against while she examined the precious volume.
But then the wide September light had filled the room, making it
seem a part of the outer world: now the shaded lamps and the warm
hearth, detaching it from the gathering darkness of the street,
gave it a sweeter touch of intimacy.
Becoming gradually aware of the surprise under Selden’s silence,
Lily turned to him and said simply: “I came to tell you that I was
sorry for the way we parted—for what I said to you that day at Mrs.
Hatch’s.”
The words rose to her lips spontaneously. Even on her way up
the stairs, she had not thought of preparing a pretext for her
visit, but she now felt an intense longing to dispel the cloud of
misunderstanding that hung between them.
Selden returned her look with a smile. “I was sorry too that we
should have parted in that way; but I am not sure I didn’t bring it
on myself. Luckily I had foreseen the risk I was taking——”
“So that you really didn’t care——?” broke from her with a flash of
her old irony.
“So that I was prepared for the consequences,” he corrected
good-humouredly. “But we’ll talk of all this later. Do come and sit
by the fire. I can recommend that arm-chair, if you’ll let me put a
cushion behind you.”
While he spoke she had moved slowly to the middle of the room, and
paused near his writing-table, where the lamp, striking upward,
cast exaggerated shadows on the pallor of her delicately-hollowed
face.
“You look tired—do sit down,” he repeated gently.
She did not seem to hear the request. “I wanted you to know that I
left Mrs. Hatch immediately after I saw you,” she said, as though
continuing her confession.
“Yes—yes; I know,” he assented, with a rising tinge of
embarrassment.
“And that I did so because you told me to. Before you came I had
already begun to see that it would be impossible to remain with
her—for the reasons you gave me; but I wouldn’t admit it—I wouldn’t
let you see that I understood what you meant.”
“Ah, I might have trusted you to find your own way out—don’t
overwhelm me with the sense of my officiousness!”
His light tone, in which, had her nerves been steadier, she would
have recognized the mere effort to bridge over an awkward moment,
jarred on her passionate desire to be understood. In her strange
state of extra-lucidity, which gave her the sense of being already
at the heart of the situation, it seemed incredible that any one
should think it necessary to linger in the conventional outskirts
of word-play and evasion.
“It was not that—I was not ungrateful,” she insisted. But the power
of expression failed her suddenly; she felt a tremor in her throat,
and two tears gathered and fell slowly from her eyes.
Selden moved forward and took her hand. “You are very tired. Why
won’t you sit down and let me make you comfortable?”
He drew her to the arm-chair near the fire, and placed a cushion
behind her shoulders.
“And now you must let me make you some tea: you know I always have
that amount of hospitality at my command.”
She shook her head, and two more tears ran over. But she did not
weep easily, and the long habit of self-control reasserted itself,
though she was still too tremulous to speak.
“You know I can coax the water to boil in five minutes,” Selden
continued, speaking as though she were a troubled child.
His words recalled the vision of that other afternoon when they
had sat together over his tea-table and talked jestingly of her
future. There were moments when that day seemed more remote than
any other event in her life; and yet she could always relive it in
its minutest detail.
She made a gesture of refusal. “No: I drink too much tea. I would
rather sit quiet—I must go in a moment,” she added confusedly.
Selden continued to stand near her, leaning against the
mantelpiece. The tinge of constraint was beginning to be more
distinctly perceptible under the friendly ease of his manner. Her
self-absorption had not allowed her to perceive it at first; but
now that her consciousness was once more putting forth its eager
feelers, she saw that her presence was becoming an embarrassment
to him. Such a situation can be saved only by an immediate outrush
of feeling; and on Selden’s side the determining impulse was still
lacking.
The discovery did not disturb Lily as it might once have done.
She had passed beyond the phase of well-bred reciprocity, in
which every demonstration must be scrupulously proportioned to
the emotion it elicits, and generosity of feeling is the only
ostentation condemned. But the sense of loneliness returned with
redoubled force as she saw herself forever shut out from Selden’s
inmost self. She had come to him with no definite purpose; the mere
longing to see him had directed her; but the secret hope she had
carried with her suddenly revealed itself in its death-pang.
“I must go,” she repeated, making a motion to rise from her chair.
“But I may not see you again for a long time, and I wanted to
tell you that I have never forgotten the things you said to me at
Bellomont, and that sometimes—sometimes when I seemed farthest from
remembering them—they have helped me, and kept me from mistakes;
kept me from really becoming what many people have thought me.”
Strive as she would to put some order in her thoughts, the words
would not come more clearly; yet she felt that she could not leave
him without trying to make him understand that she had saved
herself whole from the seeming ruin of her life.
A change had come over Selden’s face as she spoke. Its guarded look
had yielded to an expression still untinged by personal emotion,
but full of a gentle understanding.
“I am glad to have you tell me that; but nothing I have said has
really made the difference. The difference is in yourself—it will
always be there. And since it IS there, it can’t really matter
to you what people think: you are so sure that your friends will
always understand you.”
“Ah, don’t say that—don’t say that what you have told me has made
no difference. It seems to shut me out—to leave me all alone
with the other people.” She had risen and stood before him, once
more completely mastered by the inner urgency of the moment. The
consciousness of his half-divined reluctance had vanished. Whether
he wished it or not, he must see her wholly for once before they
parted.
Her voice had gathered strength, and she looked him gravely in the
eyes as she continued. “Once—twice—you gave me the chance to escape
from my life, and I refused it: refused it because I was a coward.
Afterward I saw my mistake—I saw I could never be happy with what
had contented me before. But it was too late: you had judged me—I
understood. It was too late for happiness—but not too late to be
helped by the thought of what I had missed. That is all I have
lived on—don’t take it from me now! Even in my worst moments it has
been like a little light in the darkness. Some women are strong
enough to be good by themselves, but I needed the help of your
belief in me. Perhaps I might have resisted a great temptation, but