_ In her stuffy room at the hotel to which she had gone on landing,
Lily Bart that evening reviewed her situation. It was the last
week in June, and none of her friends were in town. The few
relatives who had stayed on, or returned, for the reading of Mrs.
Peniston's will, had taken flight again that afternoon to Newport
or Long Island; and not one of them had made any proffer of
hospitality to Lily. For the first time in her life she found
herself utterly alone except for Gerty Farish. Even at the actual
moment of her break with the Dorsets she had not had so keen a
sense of its consequences, for the Duchess of Beltshire,
hearing of the catastrophe from Lord Hubert, had instantly
offered her protection, and under her sheltering wing Lily had
made an almost triumphant progress to London. There she had been
sorely tempted to linger on in a society which asked of her only
to amuse and charm it, without enquiring too curiously how she
had acquired her gift for doing so; but Selden, before they
parted, had pressed on her the urgent need of returning at once
to her aunt, and Lord Hubert, when he presently reappeared in
London, abounded in the same counsel. Lily did not need to be
told that the Duchess's championship was not the best road to
social rehabilitation, and as she was besides aware that her
noble defender might at any moment drop her in favour of a new
PROTEGEE, she reluctantly decided to return to America. But she
had not been ten minutes on her native shore before she realized
that she had delayed too long to regain it. The Dorsets, the
Stepneys, the Brys--all the actors and witnesses in the miserable
drama--had preceded her with their version of the case; and, even
had she seen the least chance of gaining a hearing for her own,
some obscure disdain and reluctance would have restrained her.
She knew it was not by explanations and counter-charges that she
could ever hope to recover her lost standing; but even had she
felt the least trust in their efficacy, she would still have been
held back by the feeling which had kept her from defending
herself to Gerty Farish--a feeling that was half pride and half
humiliation. For though she knew she had been ruthlessly
sacrificed to Bertha Dorset's determination to win back her
husband, and though her own relation to Dorset had been that of
the merest good-fellowship, yet she had been perfectly aware from
the outset that her part in the affair was, as Carry Fisher
brutally put it, to distract Dorset's attention from his wife.
That was what she was "there for": it was the price she had
chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care.
Her habit of resolutely facing the facts, in her rare moments of
introspection, did not now allow her to put any false gloss on
the situation. She had suffered for the very faithfulness with
which she had carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the
part was not a handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all
the ugliness of failure.
She saw, too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of
consequences resulting from that failure; and these became
clearer to her with every day of her weary lingering in town. She
stayed on partly for the comfort of Gerty Farish's nearness, and
partly for lack of knowing where to go. She understood well
enough the nature of the task before her. She must set out to
regain, little by little, the position she had lost; and the
first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as
possible, on how many of her friends she could count. Her hopes
were mainly centred on Mrs. Trenor, who had treasures of
easy-going tolerance for those who were amusing or useful to her,
and in the noisy rush of whose existence the still small voice of
detraction was slow to make itself heard. But Judy, though she
must have been apprised of Miss Bart's return, had not even
recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's
bereavement demanded. Any advance on Lily's side might have been
perilous: there was nothing to do but to trust to the happy
chance of an accidental meeting, and Lily knew that, even so late
in the season, there was always a hope of running across her
friends in their frequent passages through town.
To this end she assiduously showed herself at the restaurants
they frequented, where, attended by the troubled Gerty, she
lunched luxuriously, as she said, on her expectations.
"My dear Gerty, you wouldn't have me let the head-waiter see that
I've nothing to live on but Aunt Julia's legacy? Think of Grace
Stepney's satisfaction if she came in and found us lunching on
cold mutton and tea! What sweet shall we have today, dear--COUPE
JACQUES or PECHES A LA MELBA?"
She dropped the MENU abruptly, with a quick heightening of
colour, and Gerty, following her glance, was aware of the
advance, from an inner room, of a party headed by Mrs. Trenor and
Carry Fisher. It was impossible for these ladies and their
companions--among whom Lily had at once distinguished both Trenor
and Rosedale--not to pass, in going out, the table at which the
two girls were seated; and Gerty's sense of the fact betrayed
itself in the helpless trepidation of her manner. Miss Bart, on
the contrary, borne forward on the wave of her buoyant grace, and
neither shrinking from her friends nor appearing to lie in wait
for them, gave to the encounter the touch of naturalness
which she could impart to the most strained situations. Such
embarrassment as was shown was on Mrs. Trenor's side, and
manifested itself in the mingling of exaggerated warmth with
imperceptible reservations. Her loudly affirmed pleasure at
seeing Miss Bart took the form of a nebulous generalization,
which included neither enquiries as to her future nor the
expression of a definite wish to see her again. Lily, well-versed
in the language of these omissions, knew that they were equally
intelligible to the other members of the party: even Rosedale,
flushed as he was with the importance of keeping such company, at
once took the temperature of Mrs. Trenor's cordiality, and
reflected it in his off-hand greeting of Miss Bart. Trenor, red
and uncomfortable, had cut short his salutations on the pretext
of a word to say to the head-waiter; and the rest of the group
soon melted away in Mrs. Trenor's wake.
It was over in a moment--the waiter, MENU in hand, still hung on
the result of the choice between COUPE JACQUES and PECHES A LA
MELBA--but Miss Bart, in the interval, had taken the measure of
her fate. Where Judy Trenor led, all the world would follow; and
Lily had the doomed sense of the castaway who has signalled in
vain to fleeing sails.
In a flash she remembered Mrs. Trenor's complaints of Carry
Fisher's rapacity, and saw that they denoted an unexpected
acquaintance with her husband's private affairs. In the large
tumultuous disorder of the life at Bellomont, where no one seemed
to have time to observe any one else, and private aims and
personal interests were swept along unheeded in the rush of
collective activities, Lily had fancied herself sheltered from
inconvenient scrutiny; but if Judy knew when Mrs. Fisher borrowed
money of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same
transaction on Lily's part? If she was careless of his affections
she was plainly jealous of his pocket; and in that fact Lily read
the explanation of her rebuff. The immediate result of these
conclusions was the passionate resolve to pay back her debt to
Trenor. That obligation discharged, she would have but a thousand
dollars of Mrs. Peniston's legacy left, and nothing to live on
but her own small income, which was considerably less than Gerty
Farish's wretched pittance; but this consideration gave way to
the imperative claim of her wounded pride. She must be
quits with the Trenors first; after that she would take thought
for the future.
In her ignorance of legal procrastinations she had supposed that
her legacy would be paid over within a few days of the reading of
her aunt's will; and after an interval of anxious suspense, she
wrote to enquire the cause of the delay. There was another
interval before Mrs. Peniston's lawyer, who was also one of the
executors, replied to the effect that, some questions having
arisen relative to the interpretation of the will, he and his
associates might not be in a position to pay the legacies till
the close of the twelvemonth legally allotted for their
settlement. Bewildered and indignant, Lily resolved to try the
effect of a personal appeal; but she returned from her expedition
with a sense of the powerlessness of beauty and charm against the
unfeeling processes of the law. It seemed intolerable to live on
for another year under the weight of her debt; and in her
extremity she decided to turn to Miss Stepney, who still lingered
in town, immersed in the delectable duty of "going over" her
benefactress's effects. It was bitter enough for Lily to ask a
favour of Grace Stepney, but the alternative was bitterer still;
and one morning she presented herself at Mrs. Peniston's, where
Grace, for the facilitation of her pious task, had taken up a
provisional abode.
The strangeness of entering as a suppliant the house where she
had so long commanded, increased Lily's desire to shorten the
ordeal; and when Miss Stepney entered the darkened drawing-room,
rustling with the best quality of crape, her visitor went
straight to the point: would she be willing to advance the amount
of the expected legacy?
Grace, in reply, wept and wondered at the request, bemoaned the
inexorableness of the law, and was astonished that Lily had not
realized the exact similarity of their positions. Did she think
that only the payment of the legacies had been delayed? Why, Miss
Stepney herself had not received a penny of her inheritance, and
was paying rent--yes, actually!--for the privilege of living in a
house that belonged to her. She was sure it was not what poor
dear cousin Julia would have wished--she had told the executors
so to their faces; but they were inaccessible to reason, and
there was nothing to do but to wait. Let Lily take example by
her, and be patient--let them both remember how
beautifully patient cousin Julia had always been.
Lily made a movement which showed her imperfect assimilation of
this example. "But you will have everything, Grace--it would be
easy for you to borrow ten times the amount I am asking for."
"Borrow--easy for me to borrow?" Grace Stepney rose up before her
in sable wrath. "Do you imagine for a moment that I would raise
money on my expectations from cousin Julia, when I know so well
her unspeakable horror of every transaction of the sort? Why,
Lily, if you must know the truth, it was the idea of your being
in debt that brought on her illness--you remember she had a
slight attack before you sailed. Oh, I don't know the
particulars, of course--I don't WANT to know them--but there were
rumours about your affairs that made her most unhappy--no one
could be with her without seeing that. I can't help it if you are
offended by my telling you this now--if I can do anything to make
you realize the folly of your course, and how deeply SHE
disapproved of it, I shall feel it is the truest way of making up
to you for her loss.
It seemed to Lily, as Mrs. Peniston's door closed on her, that
she was taking a final leave of her old life. The future
stretched before her dull and bare as the deserted length of
Fifth Avenue, and opportunities showed as meagrely as the few
cabs trailing in quest of fares that did not come. The
completeness of the analogy was, however, disturbed as she
reached the sidewalk by the rapid approach of a hansom which
pulled up at sight of her.
From beneath its luggage-laden top, she caught the wave of a
signalling hand; and the next moment Mrs. Fisher, springing to
the street, had folded her in a demonstrative embrace.
"My dear, you don't mean to say you're still in town? When I saw
you the other day at Sherry's I didn't have time to ask---" She
broke off, and added with a burst of frankness: "The truth is I
was HORRID, Lily, and I've wanted to tell you so ever since."
"Oh---" Miss Bart protested, drawing back from her penitent
clasp; but Mrs. Fisher went on with her usual directness: "Look
here, Lily, don't let's beat about the bush: half the trouble in
life is caused by pretending there isn't any. That's not my way,
and I can only say I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself for following
the other women's lead. But we'll talk of that by and bye--tell
me now where you're staying and what your plans are. I don't
suppose you're keeping house in there with Grace Stepney,
eh?--and it struck me you might be rather at loose ends."
In Lily's present mood there was no resisting the honest
friendliness of this appeal, and she said with a smile: "I am at
loose ends for the moment, but Gerty Farish is still in town, and
she's good enough to let me be with her whenever she can spare
the time."
Mrs. Fisher made a slight grimace. "H'm--that's a temperate joy.
Oh, I know--Gerty's a trump, and worth all the rest of us put
together; but A LA LONGUE you're used to a little higher
seasoning, aren't you, dear? And besides, I suppose she'll be off
herself before long--the first of August, you say? Well,
look here, you can't spend your summer in town; we'll talk of
that later too. But meanwhile, what do you say to putting a few
things in a trunk and coming down with me to the Sam Gormers'
tonight?"
And as Lily stared at the breathless suddenness of the
suggestion, she continued with her easy laugh: "You don't know
them and they don't know you; but that don't make a rap of
difference. They've taken the Van Alstyne place at Roslyn, and
I've got CARTE BLANCHE to bring my friends down there--the more
the merrier. They do things awfully well, and there's to be
rather a jolly party there this week---" she broke off, checked
by an undefinable change in Miss Bart's expression. "Oh, I don't
mean YOUR particular set, you know: rather a different crowd, but
very good fun. The fact is, the Gormers have struck out on a line
of their own: what they want is to have a good time, and to have
it in their own way. They gave the other thing a few months'
trial, under my distinguished auspices, and they were really
doing extremely well--getting on a good deal faster than the
Brys, just because they didn't care as much--but suddenly they
decided that the whole business bored them, and that what they
wanted was a crowd they could really feel at home with. Rather
original of them, don't you think so? Mattie Gormer HAS got
aspirations still; women always have; but she's awfully
easy-going, and Sam won't be bothered, and they both like to be
the most important people in sight, so they've started a sort of
continuous performance of their own, a kind of social Coney
Island, where everybody is welcome who can make noise enough and
doesn't put on airs. I think it's awfully good fun myself--some
of the artistic set, you know, any pretty actress that's going,
and so on. This week, for instance, they have Audrey Anstell, who
made such a hit last spring in 'The Winning of Winny'; and Paul
Morpeth--he's painting Mattie Gormer--and the Dick Bellingers,
and Kate Corby--well, every one you can think of who's jolly and
makes a row. Now don't stand there with your nose in the air, my
dear--it will be a good deal better than a broiling Sunday in
town, and you'll find clever people as well as noisy
ones--Morpeth, who admires Mattie enormously, always brings one
or two of his set."
Mrs. Fisher drew Lily toward the hansom with friendly authority.
"Jump in now, there's a dear, and we'll drive round to your hotel
and have your things packed, and then we'll have tea, and the two
maids can meet us at the train." _