Chapter Chapter 10 · 第10章

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

lucky speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but

there was something in the quality of his geniality which chilled

her own, and she was conscious of marking each step in their

acquaintance by a fresh blunder.

Mr. Rosedale—making himself promptly at home in an adjoining

easy-chair, and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: “You

ought to go to my man for something really good”—appeared totally

unconscious of the repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness

behind the urn. It was perhaps her very manner of holding herself

aloof that appealed to his collector’s passion for the rare and

unattainable. He gave, at any rate, no sign of resenting it and

seemed prepared to supply in his own manner all the ease that was

lacking in hers.

His object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box

on the opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively:

“Mrs. Fisher is coming, and I’ve secured a tremendous admirer of

yours, who’ll never forgive me if you don’t accept.”

As Lily’s silence left him with this allusion on his hands, he

added with a confidential smile: “Gus Trenor has promised to come

to town on purpose. I fancy he’d go a good deal farther for the

pleasure of seeing you.”

Miss Bart felt an inward motion of annoyance: it was distasteful

enough to hear her name coupled with Trenor’s, and on Rosedale’s

lips the allusion was peculiarly unpleasant.

“The Trenors are my best friends—I think we should all go a

long way to see each other,” she said, absorbing herself in the

preparation of fresh tea.

Her visitor’s smile grew increasingly intimate. “Well, I wasn’t

thinking of Mrs. Trenor at the moment—they say Gus doesn’t always,

you know.” Then, dimly conscious that he had not struck the right

note, he added, with a well-meant effort at diversion: “How’s your

luck been going in Wall Street, by the way? I hear Gus pulled off a

nice little pile for you last month.”

Lily put down the tea-caddy with an abrupt gesture. She felt that

her hands were trembling, and clasped them on her knee to steady

them; but her lip trembled too, and for a moment she was afraid

the tremor might communicate itself to her voice. When she spoke,

however, it was in a tone of perfect lightness.

“Ah, yes—I had a little bit of money to invest, and Mr. Trenor,

who helps me about such matters, advised my putting it in stocks

instead of a mortgage, as my aunt’s agent wanted me to do; and as

it happened, I made a lucky ‘turn’—is that what you call it? For

you make a great many yourself, I believe.”

She was smiling back at him now, relaxing the tension of her

attitude, and admitting him, by imperceptible gradations of glance

and manner, a step farther toward intimacy. The protective instinct

always nerved her to successful dissimulation, and it was not the

first time she had used her beauty to divert attention from an

inconvenient topic.

When Mr. Rosedale took leave, he carried with him, not only her

acceptance of his invitation, but a general sense of having

comported himself in a way calculated to advance his cause. He

had always believed he had a light touch and a knowing way with

women, and the prompt manner in which Miss Bart (as he would have

phrased it) had “come into line,” confirmed his confidence in his

powers of handling this skittish sex. Her way of glossing over the

transaction with Trenor he regarded at once as a tribute to his

own acuteness, and a confirmation of his suspicions. The girl was

evidently nervous, and Mr. Rosedale, if he saw no other means of

advancing his acquaintance with her, was not above taking advantage

of her nervousness.

He left Lily to a passion of disgust and fear. It seemed incredible

that Gus Trenor should have spoken of her to Rosedale. With

all his faults, Trenor had the safeguard of his traditions,

and was the less likely to overstep them because they were so

purely instinctive. But Lily recalled with a pang that there

were convivial moments when, as Judy had confided to her, Gus

“talked foolishly”: in one of these, no doubt, the fatal word had

slipped from him. As for Rosedale, she did not, after the first

shock, greatly care what conclusions he had drawn. Though usually

adroit enough where her own interests were concerned, she made

the mistake, not uncommon to persons in whom the social habits

are instinctive, of supposing that the inability to acquire them

quickly implies a general dulness. Because a blue-bottle bangs

irrationally against a window-pane, the drawing-room naturalist

may forget that under less artificial conditions it is capable

of measuring distances and drawing conclusions with all the

accuracy needful to its welfare; and the fact that Mr. Rosedale’s

drawing-room manner lacked perspective made Lily class him with

Trenor and the other dull men she knew, and assume that a little

flattery, and the occasional acceptance of his hospitality, would

suffice to render him innocuous. However, there could be no doubt

of the expediency of showing herself in his box on the opening

night of the opera; and after all, since Judy Trenor had promised

to take him up that winter, it was as well to reap the advantage of

being first in the field.

For a day or two after Rosedale’s visit, Lily’s thoughts were

dogged by the consciousness of Trenor’s shadowy claim, and she

wished she had a clearer notion of the exact nature of the

transaction which seemed to have put her in his power; but her mind

shrank from any unusual application, and she was always helplessly

puzzled by figures. Moreover she had not seen Trenor since the day

of the Van Osburgh wedding, and in his continued absence the trace

of Rosedale’s words was soon effaced by other impressions.

When the opening night of the opera came, her apprehensions had so

completely vanished that the sight of Trenor’s ruddy countenance in

the back of Mr. Rosedale’s box filled her with a sense of pleasant

reassurance. Lily had not quite reconciled herself to the necessity

of appearing as Rosedale’s guest on so conspicuous an occasion, and

it was a relief to find herself supported by any one of her own

set—for Mrs. Fisher’s social habits were too promiscuous for her

presence to justify Miss Bart’s.

To Lily, always inspirited by the prospect of showing her beauty

in public, and conscious tonight of all the added enhancements of

dress, the insistency of Trenor’s gaze merged itself in the general

stream of admiring looks of which she felt herself the centre. Ah,

it was good to be young, to be radiant, to glow with the sense of

slenderness, strength and elasticity, of well-poised lines and

happy tints, to feel one’s self lifted to a height apart by that

incommunicable grace which is the bodily counterpart of genius!

All means seemed justifiable to attain such an end, or rather, by a

happy shifting of lights with which practice had familiarized Miss

Bart, the cause shrank to a pin-point in the general brightness

of the effect. But brilliant young ladies, a little blinded by

their own effulgence, are apt to forget that the modest satellite

drowned in their light is still performing its own revolutions

and generating heat at its own rate. If Lily’s poetic enjoyment

of the moment was undisturbed by the base thought that her gown

and opera cloak had been indirectly paid for by Gus Trenor, the

latter had not sufficient poetry in his composition to lose sight

of these prosaic facts. He knew only that he had never seen Lily

look smarter in her life, that there wasn’t a woman in the house

who showed off good clothes as she did, and that hitherto he, to

whom she owed the opportunity of making this display, had reaped no

return beyond that of gazing at her in company with several hundred

other pairs of eyes.

It came to Lily therefore as a disagreeable surprise when, in

the back of the box, where they found themselves alone between

two acts, Trenor said, without preamble, and in a tone of sulky

authority: “Look here, Lily, how is a fellow ever to see anything

of you? I’m in town three or four days in the week, and you know

a line to the club will always find me, but you don’t seem to

remember my existence nowadays unless you want to get a tip out of

me.”

The fact that the remark was in distinctly bad taste did not make

it any easier to answer, for Lily was vividly aware that it was not

the moment for that drawing up of her slim figure and surprised

lifting of the brows by which she usually quelled incipient signs

of familiarity.

“I’m very much flattered by your wanting to see me,” she returned,

essaying lightness instead, “but, unless you have mislaid my

address, it would have been easy to find me any afternoon at my

aunt’s—in fact, I rather expected you to look me up there.”

If she hoped to mollify him by this last concession the attempt

was a failure, for he only replied, with the familiar lowering of

the brows that made him look his dullest when he was angry: “Hang

going to your aunt’s, and wasting the afternoon listening to a lot

of other chaps talking to you! You know I’m not the kind to sit

in a crowd and jaw—I’d always rather clear out when that sort of

circus is going on. But why can’t we go off somewhere on a little

lark together—a nice quiet little expedition like that drive at

Bellomont, the day you met me at the station?”

He leaned unpleasantly close in order to convey this suggestion,

and she fancied she caught a significant aroma which explained the

dark flush on his face and the glistening dampness of his forehead.

The idea that any rash answer might provoke an unpleasant outburst

tempered her disgust with caution, and she answered with a laugh:

“I don’t see how one can very well take country drives in town, but

I am not always surrounded by an admiring throng, and if you will

let me know what afternoon you are coming I will arrange things so

that we can have a nice quiet talk.”

“Hang talking! That’s what you always say,” returned Trenor, whose

expletives lacked variety. “You put me off with that at the Van

Osburgh wedding—but the plain English of it is that, now you’ve

got what you wanted out of me, you’d rather have any other fellow

about.”

His voice had risen sharply with the last words, and Lily flushed

with annoyance, but she kept command of the situation and laid a

persuasive hand on his arm.

“Don’t be foolish, Gus; I can’t let you talk to me in that

ridiculous way. If you really want to see me, why shouldn’t we

take a walk in the Park some afternoon? I agree with you that it’s

amusing to be rustic in town, and if you like I’ll meet you there,

and we’ll go and feed the squirrels, and you shall take me out on

the lake in the steam-gondola.”

She smiled as she spoke, letting her eyes rest on his in a way that

took the edge from her banter and made him suddenly malleable to

her will.

“All right, then: that’s a go. Will you come tomorrow? Tomorrow

at three o’clock, at the end of the Mall. I’ll be there sharp,

remember; you won’t go back on me, Lily?”

But to Miss Bart’s relief the repetition of her promise was cut

short by the opening of the box door to admit George Dorset.

Trenor sulkily yielded his place, and Lily turned a brilliant smile

on the newcomer. She had not talked with Dorset since their visit

at Bellomont, but something in his look and manner told her that

he recalled the friendly footing on which they had last met. He

was not a man to whom the expression of admiration came easily:

his long sallow face and distrustful eyes seemed always barricaded

against the expansive emotions. But, where her own influence was

concerned, Lily’s intuitions sent out thread-like feelers, and as

she made room for him on the narrow sofa she was sure he found a

dumb pleasure in being near her. Few women took the trouble to

make themselves agreeable to Dorset, and Lily had been kind to him

at Bellomont, and was now smiling on him with a divine renewal of

kindness.

“Well, here we are, in for another six months of caterwauling,”

he began complainingly. “Not a shade of difference between this

year and last, except that the women have got new clothes and the

singers haven’t got new voices. My wife’s musical, you know—puts me

through a course of this every winter. It isn’t so bad on Italian

nights—then she comes late, and there’s time to digest. But when

they give Wagner we have to rush dinner, and I pay up for it. And

the draughts are damnable—asphyxia in front and pleurisy in the

back. There’s Trenor leaving the box without drawing the curtain!

With a hide like that draughts don’t make any difference. Did you

ever watch Trenor eat? If you did, you’d wonder why he’s alive; I

suppose he’s leather inside too.—But I came to say that my wife

wants you to come down to our place next Sunday. Do for heaven’s

sake say yes. She’s got a lot of bores coming—intellectual ones,

I mean; that’s her new line, you know, and I’m not sure it ain’t

worse than the music. Some of ’em have long hair, and they start

an argument with the soup, and don’t notice when things are handed

to them. The consequence is the dinner gets cold, and I have

dyspepsia. That silly ass Silverton brings them to the house—he

writes poetry, you know, and Bertha and he are getting tremendously

thick. She could write better than any of ’em if she chose, and I

don’t blame her for wanting clever fellows about; all I say is:

‘Don’t let me see ’em eat!’”

The gist of this strange communication gave Lily a distinct thrill

of pleasure. Under ordinary circumstances, there would have been

nothing surprising in an invitation from Bertha Dorset; but since

the Bellomont episode an unavowed hostility had kept the two women

apart. Now, with a start of inner wonder, Lily felt that her thirst

for retaliation had died out. IF YOU WOULD FORGIVE YOUR ENEMY,

says the Malay proverb, FIRST INFLICT A HURT ON HIM; and Lily was

experiencing the truth of the apothegm. If she had destroyed Mrs.

Dorset’s letters, she might have continued to hate her; but the

fact that they remained in her possession had fed her resentment to

satiety.

She uttered a smiling acceptance, hailing in the renewal of the tie

an escape from Trenor’s importunities.