The House of Mirth Edith Wharton (romantic love story reading .txt) 📖

he said he had made for me he had really given me. It was meant in kindness, of course; but it was not the sort of obligation one could remain under. Unfortunately I had spent the money before I discovered my mistake; and so my legacy will have to go to pay it back. That is the reason why I am trying to learn a trade.”

She made the statement clearly, deliberately, with pauses between the sentences, so that each should have time to sink deeply into her hearer’s mind. She had a passionate desire that someone should know the truth about this transaction, and also that the rumour of her intention to repay the money should reach Judy Trenor’s ears. And it had suddenly occurred to her that Rosedale, who had surprised Trenor’s confidence, was the fitting person to receive and transmit her version of the facts. She had even felt a momentary exhilaration at the thought of thus relieving herself of her detested secret; but the sensation gradually faded in the telling, and as she ended her pallour was suffused with a deep blush of misery.

Rosedale continued to stare at her in wonder; but the wonder took the turn she had least expected.

“But see here⁠—if that’s the case, it cleans you out altogether?”

He put it to her as if she had not grasped the consequences of her act; as if her incorrigible ignorance of business were about to precipitate her into a fresh act of folly.

“Altogether⁠—yes,” she calmly agreed.

He sat silent, his thick hands clasped on the table, his little puzzled eyes exploring the recesses of the deserted restaurant.

“See here⁠—that’s fine,” he exclaimed abruptly.

Lily rose from her seat with a deprecating laugh. “Oh, no⁠—it’s merely a bore,” she asserted, gathering together the ends of her feather scarf.

Rosedale remained seated, too intent on his thoughts to notice her movement. “Miss Lily, if you want any backing⁠—I like pluck⁠—” broke from him disconnectedly.

“Thank you.” She held out her hand. “Your tea has given me a tremendous backing. I feel equal to anything now.”

Her gesture seemed to show a definite intention of dismissal, but her companion had tossed a bill to the waiter, and was slipping his short arms into his expensive overcoat.

“Wait a minute⁠—you’ve got to let me walk home with you,” he said.

Lily uttered no protest, and when he had paused to make sure of his change they emerged from the hotel and crossed Sixth Avenue again. As she led the way westward past a long line of areas which, through the distortion of their paintless rails, revealed with increasing candour the disjecta membra of bygone dinners, Lily felt that Rosedale was taking contemptuous note of the neighbourhood; and before the doorstep at which she finally paused he looked up with an air of incredulous disgust.

“This isn’t the place? Someone told me you were living with Miss Farish.”

“No: I am boarding here. I have lived too long on my friends.”

He continued to scan the blistered brown stone front, the windows draped with discoloured lace, and the Pompeian decoration of the muddy vestibule; then he looked back at her face and said with a visible effort: “You’ll let me come and see you some day?”

She smiled, recognizing the heroism of the offer to the point of being frankly touched by it. “Thank you⁠—I shall be very glad,” she made answer, in the first sincere words she had ever spoken to him.

That evening in her own room Miss Bart⁠—who had fled early from the heavy fumes of the basement dinner-table⁠—sat musing upon the impulse which had led her to unbosom herself to Rosedale. Beneath it she discovered an increasing sense of loneliness⁠—a dread of returning to the solitude of her room, while she could be anywhere else, or in any company but her own. Circumstances, of late, had combined to cut her off more and more from her few remaining friends. On Carry Fisher’s part the withdrawal was perhaps not quite involuntary. Having made her final effort on Lily’s behalf, and landed her safely in Mme. Regina’s workroom, Mrs. Fisher seemed disposed to rest from her labours; and Lily, understanding the reason, could not condemn her. Carry had in fact come dangerously near to being involved in the episode of Mrs. Norma Hatch, and it had taken some verbal ingenuity to extricate herself. She frankly owned to having brought Lily and Mrs. Hatch together, but then she did not know Mrs. Hatch⁠—she had expressly warned Lily that she did not know Mrs. Hatch⁠—and besides, she was not Lily’s keeper, and really the girl was old enough to take care of herself. Carry did not put her own case so brutally, but she allowed it to be thus put for her by her latest bosom friend, Mrs. Jack Stepney: Mrs. Stepney, trembling over the narrowness of her only brother’s escape, but eager to vindicate Mrs. Fisher, at whose house she could count on the “jolly parties” which had become a necessity to her since marriage had emancipated her from the Van Osburgh point of view.

Lily understood the situation and could make allowances for it. Carry had been a good friend to her in difficult days, and perhaps only a friendship like Gerty’s could be proof against such an increasing strain. Gerty’s friendship did indeed hold fast; yet Lily was beginning to avoid her also. For she could not go to Gerty’s without risk of meeting Selden; and to meet him now would be pure pain. It was pain enough even to think of him, whether she considered him in the distinctness of her waking thoughts, or felt the obsession of his presence through the blur of her tormented nights. That was one of the reasons why she had turned again to Mrs. Hatch’s prescription. In the uneasy snatches of her natural dreams he came to her sometimes in the old guise of fellowship and tenderness; and she would rise from the sweet delusion mocked and emptied of her courage. But in the sleep which the phial procured she sank far below