Chương Chương 29 · 第29章

The next morning rose mild and bright, with a promise of summer

in the air. The sunlight slanted joyously down Lily’s street,

mellowed the blistered house-front, gilded the paintless railings

of the doorstep, and struck prismatic glories from the panes of her

darkened window.

When such a day coincides with the inner mood there is intoxication

in its breath; and Selden, hastening along the street through the

squalor of its morning confidences, felt himself thrilling with a

youthful sense of adventure. He had cut loose from the familiar

shores of habit, and launched himself on uncharted seas of emotion;

all the old tests and measures were left behind, and his course was

to be shaped by new stars.

That course, for the moment, led merely to Miss Bart’s

boarding-house; but its shabby doorstep had suddenly become the

threshold of the untried. As he approached he looked up at the

triple row of windows, wondering boyishly which one of them

was hers. It was nine o’clock, and the house, being tenanted

by workers, already showed an awakened front to the street. He

remembered afterward having noticed that only one blind was down.

He noticed too that there was a pot of pansies on one of the window

sills, and at once concluded that the window must be hers: it was

inevitable that he should connect her with the one touch of beauty

in the dingy scene.

Nine o’clock was an early hour for a visit, but Selden had passed

beyond all such conventional observances. He only knew that he must

see Lily Bart at once—he had found the word he meant to say to her,

and it could not wait another moment to be said. It was strange

that it had not come to his lips sooner—that he had let her pass

from him the evening before without being able to speak it. But

what did that matter, now that a new day had come? It was not a

word for twilight, but for the morning.

Selden ran eagerly up the steps and pulled the bell; and even in

his state of self-absorption it came as a sharp surprise to him

that the door should open so promptly. It was still more of a

surprise to see, as he entered, that it had been opened by Gerty

Farish—and that behind her, in an agitated blur, several other

figures ominously loomed.

“Lawrence!” Gerty cried in a strange voice, “how could you get

here so quickly?”—and the trembling hand she laid on him seemed

instantly to close about his heart.

He noticed the other faces, vague with fear and conjecture—he saw

the landlady’s imposing bulk sway professionally toward him; but

he shrank back, putting up his hand, while his eyes mechanically

mounted the steep black walnut stairs, up which he was immediately

aware that his cousin was about to lead him.

A voice in the background said that the doctor might be back at any

minute—and that nothing, upstairs, was to be disturbed. Some one

else exclaimed: “It was the greatest mercy—” then Selden felt that

Gerty had taken him gently by the hand, and that they were to be

suffered to go up alone.

In silence they mounted the three flights, and walked along the

passage to a closed door. Gerty opened the door, and Selden went

in after her. Though the blind was down, the irresistible sunlight

poured a tempered golden flood into the room, and in its light

Selden saw a narrow bed along the wall, and on the bed, with

motionless hands and calm unrecognizing face, the semblance of Lily

Bart.

That it was her real self, every pulse in him ardently denied. Her

real self had lain warm on his heart but a few hours earlier—what

had he to do with this estranged and tranquil face which, for the

first time, neither paled nor brightened at his coming?

Gerty, strangely tranquil too, with the conscious self-control of

one who has ministered to much pain, stood by the bed, speaking

gently, as if transmitting a final message.

“The doctor found a bottle of chloral—she had been sleeping badly

for a long time, and she must have taken an overdose by mistake....

There is no doubt of that—no doubt—there will be no question—he has

been very kind. I told him that you and I would like to be left

alone with her—to go over her things before any one else comes. I

know it is what she would have wished.”

Selden was hardly conscious of what she said. He stood looking down

on the sleeping face which seemed to lie like a delicate impalpable

mask over the living lineaments he had known. He felt that the real

Lily was still there, close to him, yet invisible and inaccessible;

and the tenuity of the barrier between them mocked him with a sense

of helplessness. There had never been more than a little impalpable

barrier between them—and yet he had suffered it to keep them apart!

And now, though it seemed slighter and frailer than ever, it had

suddenly hardened to adamant, and he might beat his life out

against it in vain.

He had dropped on his knees beside the bed, but a touch from Gerty

aroused him. He stood up, and as their eyes met he was struck by

the extraordinary light in his cousin’s face.

“You understand what the doctor has gone for? He has promised that

there shall be no trouble—but of course the formalities must be

gone through. And I asked him to give us time to look through her

things first——”

He nodded, and she glanced about the small bare room. “It won’t

take long,” she concluded.

“No—it won’t take long,” he agreed.

She held his hand in hers a moment longer, and then, with a last

look at the bed, moved silently toward the door. On the threshold

she paused to add: “You will find me downstairs if you want me.”

Selden roused himself to detain her. “But why are you going? She

would have wished——”

Gerty shook her head with a smile. “No: this is what she would have

wished——” and as she spoke a light broke through Selden’s stony

misery, and he saw deep into the hidden things of love.

The door closed on Gerty, and he stood alone with the motionless

sleeper on the bed. His impulse was to return to her side, to fall

on his knees, and rest his throbbing head against the peaceful

cheek on the pillow. They had never been at peace together, they

two; and now he felt himself drawn downward into the strange

mysterious depths of her tranquillity.

But he remembered Gerty’s warning words—he knew that, though time

had ceased in this room, its feet were hastening relentlessly

toward the door. Gerty had given him this supreme half hour, and he

must use it as she willed.

He turned and looked about him, sternly compelling himself to

regain his consciousness of outward things. There was very little

furniture in the room. The shabby chest of drawers was spread

with a lace cover, and set out with a few gold-topped boxes and

bottles, a rose-coloured pin-cushion, a glass tray strewn with

tortoise-shell hair-pins—he shrank from the poignant intimacy of

these trifles, and from the blank surface of the toilet-mirror

above them.

These were the only traces of luxury, of that clinging to the

minute observance of personal seemliness, which showed what her

other renunciations must have cost. There was no other token

of her personality about the room, unless it showed itself in

the scrupulous neatness of the scant articles of furniture: a

washing-stand, two chairs, a small writing-desk, and the little

table near the bed. On this table stood the empty bottle and glass,

and from these also he averted his eyes.

The desk was closed, but on its slanting lid lay two letters which

he took up. One bore the address of a bank, and as it was stamped

and sealed, Selden, after a moment’s hesitation, laid it aside. On

the other letter he read Gus Trenor’s name; and the flap of the

envelope was still ungummed.

Temptation leapt on him like the stab of a knife. He staggered

under it, steadying himself against the desk. Why had she been

writing to Trenor—writing, presumably, just after their parting

of the previous evening? The thought unhallowed the memory of

that last hour, made a mock of the word he had come to speak, and

defiled even the reconciling silence upon which it fell. He felt

himself flung back on all the ugly uncertainties from which he

thought he had cast loose forever. After all, what did he know of

her life? Only as much as she had chosen to show him, and measured

by the world’s estimate, how little that was! By what right—the

letter in his hand seemed to ask—by what right was it he who now

passed into her confidence through the gate which death had left

unbarred? His heart cried out that it was by right of their last

hour together, the hour when she herself had placed the key in

his hand. Yes—but what if the letter to Trenor had been written

afterward?

He put it from him with sudden loathing, and setting his lips,

addressed himself resolutely to what remained of his task. After

all, that task would be easier to perform, now that his personal

stake in it was annulled.

He raised the lid of the desk, and saw within it a cheque-book

and a few packets of bills and letters, arranged with the orderly

precision which characterized all her personal habits. He looked

through the letters first, because it was the most difficult part

of the work. They proved to be few and unimportant, but among them

he found, with a strange commotion of the heart, the note he had

written her the day after the Brys’ entertainment.

“When may I come to you?”—his words overwhelmed him with a

realization of the cowardice which had driven him from her at the

very moment of attainment. Yes—he had always feared his fate, and

he was too honest to disown his cowardice now; for had not all his

old doubts started to life again at the mere sight of Trenor’s name?

He laid the note in his card-case, folding it away carefully, as

something made precious by the fact that she had held it so; then,

growing once more aware of the lapse of time, he continued his

examination of the papers.

To his surprise, he found that all the bills were receipted; there

was not an unpaid account among them. He opened the cheque-book,

and saw that, the very night before, a cheque of ten thousand

dollars from Mrs. Peniston’s executors had been entered in it.

The legacy, then, had been paid sooner than Gerty had led him

to expect. But, turning another page or two, he discovered with

astonishment that, in spite of this recent accession of funds, the

balance had already declined to a few dollars. A rapid glance at

the stubs of the last cheques, all of which bore the date of the

previous day, showed that between four or five hundred dollars of

the legacy had been spent in the settlement of bills, while the

remaining thousands were comprehended in one cheque, made out, at

the same time, to Charles Augustus Trenor.

Selden laid the book aside, and sank into the chair beside the

desk. He leaned his elbows on it, and hid his face in his hands.

The bitter waters of life surged high about him, their sterile

taste was on his lips. Did the cheque to Trenor explain the mystery

or deepen it? At first his mind refused to act—he felt only the

taint of such a transaction between a man like Trenor and a girl

like Lily Bart. Then, gradually, his troubled vision cleared,

old hints and rumours came back to him, and out of the very

insinuations he had feared to probe, he constructed an explanation

of the mystery. It was true, then, that she had taken money from

Trenor; but true also, as the contents of the little desk declared,

that the obligation had been intolerable to her, and that at the

first opportunity she had freed herself from it, though the act

left her face to face with bare unmitigated poverty.

That was all he knew—all he could hope to unravel of the story.

The mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this—unless

indeed they had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon

his forehead. Yes, he could now read into that farewell all that

his heart craved to find there; he could even draw from it courage

not to accuse himself for having failed to reach the height of his

opportunity.

He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them

apart; since his very detachment from the external influences which

swayed her had increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it

more difficult for him to live and love uncritically. But at least

he HAD loved her—had been willing to stake his future on his faith

in her—and if the moment had been fated to pass from them before

they could seize it, he saw now that, for both, it had been saved

whole out of the ruin of their lives.

It was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves,

which had kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her, had

reached out to him in every struggle against the influence of her

surroundings, and in him, had kept alive the faith that now drew

him penitent and reconciled to her side.

He knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment

to its lees; and in the silence there passed between them the word

which made all clear.

THE END

=Transcriber’s Note=:

1. I have modernized this text by modernizing the contractions: do

n’t becomes don’t, etc.

2. I have retained the British spelling of words like favour and

colour.

3. I found and corrected one instance of the name “Gertie,” which I

changed to “Gerty” to be consistent with rest of the book.

Linda Ruoff