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

simply to view it from the outside, and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the succinct remark: “You must marry as soon as you can.”

Lily uttered a faint laugh⁠—for once Mrs. Fisher lacked originality. “Do you mean, like Gerty Farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of ‘a good man’s love’?”

“No⁠—I don’t think either of my candidates would answer to that description,” said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection.

“Either? Are there actually two?”

“Well, perhaps I ought to say one and a half⁠—for the moment.”

Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. “Other things being equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband: who is he?”

“Don’t fly out at me till you hear my reasons⁠—George Dorset.”

“Oh⁠—” Lily murmured reproachfully; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on unrebuffed. “Well, why not? They had a few weeks’ honeymoon when they first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and George’s powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They’re at their place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly party⁠—no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)⁠—and after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end would have to come soon.”

Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. “As far as that goes, the end will never come⁠—Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him.”

Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. “Not if he has anyone else to turn to! Yes⁠—that’s just what it comes to: the poor creature can’t stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm.” She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from Lily’s: “He wouldn’t stay with her ten minutes if he knew⁠—”

“Knew⁠—?” Miss Bart repeated.

“What you must, for instance⁠—with the opportunities you’ve had! If he had positive proof, I mean⁠—”

Lily interrupted her with a deep blush of displeasure. “Please let us drop the subject, Carry: it’s too odious to me.” And to divert her companion’s attention she added, with an attempt at lightness: “And your second candidate? We must not forget him.”

Mrs. Fisher echoed her laugh. “I wonder if you’ll cry out just as loud if I say⁠—Sim Rosedale?”

Miss Bart did not cry out: she sat silent, gazing thoughtfully at her friend. The suggestion, in truth, gave expression to a possibility which, in the last weeks, had more than once recurred to her; but after a moment she said carelessly: “Mr. Rosedale wants a wife who can establish him in the bosom of the Van Osburghs and Trenors.”

Mrs. Fisher caught her up eagerly. “And so you could⁠—with his money! Don’t you see how beautifully it would work out for you both?”

“I don’t see any way of making him see it,” Lily returned, with a laugh intended to dismiss the subject.

But in reality it lingered with her long after Mrs. Fisher had taken leave. She had seen very little of Rosedale since her annexation by the Gormers, for he was still steadily bent on penetrating to the inner Paradise from which she was now excluded; but once or twice, when nothing better offered, he had turned up for a Sunday, and on these occasions he had left her in no doubt as to his view of her situation. That he still admired her was, more than ever, offensively evident; for in the Gormer circle, where he expanded as in his native element, there were no puzzling conventions to check the full expression of his approval. But it was in the quality of his admiration that she read his shrewd estimate of her case. He enjoyed letting the Gormers see that he had known “Miss Lily”⁠—she was “Miss Lily” to him now⁠—before they had had the faintest social existence: enjoyed more especially impressing Paul Morpeth with the distance to which their intimacy dated back. But he let it be felt that that intimacy was a mere ripple on the surface of a rushing social current, the kind of relaxation which a man of large interests and manifold preoccupations permits himself in his hours of ease.

The necessity of accepting this view of their past relation, and of meeting it in the key of pleasantry prevalent among her new friends, was deeply humiliating to Lily. But she dared less than ever to quarrel with Rosedale. She suspected that her rejection rankled among the most unforgettable of his rebuffs, and the fact that he knew something of her wretched transaction with Trenor, and was sure to put the basest construction on it, seemed to place her hopelessly in his power. Yet at Carry Fisher’s suggestion a new hope had stirred in her. Much as she disliked Rosedale, she no longer absolutely despised him. For he was gradually attaining his object in life, and that, to Lily, was always less despicable than to miss it. With the slow unalterable persistency which she had always felt in him, he was making his way through the dense mass of social antagonisms. Already his wealth, and the masterly use he had made of it, were giving him an enviable prominence in the world of affairs, and placing Wall Street under obligations which only Fifth Avenue could repay. In response to these claims, his name began to figure on municipal committees and charitable boards; he appeared at banquets to distinguished strangers, and his candidacy at one of the fashionable clubs was discussed with diminishing opposition. He had figured once or twice at the Trenor dinners, and had learned to speak with just the right note of disdain of the big Van Osburgh crushes; and all he now needed was a wife whose affiliations would shorten the last tedious steps of his ascent. It was with that object that, a year earlier, he had fixed his affections on Miss Bart; but