The House of Mirth - Edith Wharton (phonics reader .txt) 📗

“Miss Bart is not going back to the yacht,” she said in a voice of singular distinctness.

A startled look ran from eye to eye; Mrs. Bry crimsoned to the verge of congestion, Mrs. Stepney slipped nervously behind her husband, and Selden, in the general turmoil of his sensations, was mainly conscious of a longing to grip Dabham by the collar and fling him out into the street.

Dorset, meanwhile, had stepped back to his wife’s side. His face was white, and he looked about him with cowed angry eyes. “Bertha!⁠—Miss Bart⁠ ⁠… this is some misunderstanding⁠ ⁠… some mistake⁠ ⁠…”

“Miss Bart remains here,” his wife rejoined incisively. “And, I think, George, we had better not detain Mrs. Stepney any longer.”

Miss Bart, during this brief exchange of words, remained in admirable erectness, slightly isolated from the embarrassed group about her. She had paled a little under the shock of the insult, but the discomposure of the surrounding faces was not reflected in her own. The faint disdain of her smile seemed to lift her high above her antagonist’s reach, and it was not till she had given Mrs. Dorset the full measure of the distance between them that she turned and extended her hand to her hostess.

“I am joining the Duchess tomorrow,” she explained, “and it seemed easier for me to remain on shore for the night.”

She held firmly to Mrs. Bry’s wavering eye while she gave this explanation, but when it was over Selden saw her send a tentative glance from one to another of the women’s faces. She read their incredulity in their averted looks, and in the mute wretchedness of the men behind them, and for a miserable half-second he thought she quivered on the brink of failure. Then, turning to him with an easy gesture, and the pale bravery of her recovered smile⁠—“Dear Mr. Selden,” she said, “you promised to see me to my cab.”

Outside, the sky was gusty and overcast, and as Lily and Selden moved toward the deserted gardens below the restaurant, spurts of warm rain blew fitfully against their faces. The fiction of the cab had been tacitly abandoned; they walked on in silence, her hand on his arm, till the deeper shade of the gardens received them, and pausing beside a bench, he said: “Sit down a moment.”

She dropped to the seat without answering, but the electric lamp at the bend of the path shed a gleam on the struggling misery of her face. Selden sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak, fearful lest any word he chose should touch too roughly on her wound, and kept also from free utterance by the wretched doubt which had slowly renewed itself within him. What had brought her to this pass? What weakness had placed her so abominably at her enemy’s mercy? And why should Bertha Dorset have turned into an enemy at the very moment when she so obviously needed the support of her sex? Even while his nerves raged at the subjection of husbands to their wives, and at the cruelty of women to their kind, reason obstinately harped on the proverbial relation between smoke and fire. The memory of Mrs. Fisher’s hints, and the corroboration of his own impressions, while they deepened his pity also increased his constraint, since, whichever way he sought a free outlet for sympathy, it was blocked by the fear of committing a blunder.

Suddenly it struck him that his silence must seem almost as accusatory as that of the men he had despised for turning from her; but before he could find the fitting word she had cut him short with a question.

“Do you know of a quiet hotel? I can send for my maid in the morning.”

“An hotel⁠—here⁠—that you can go to alone? It’s not possible.”

She met this with a pale gleam of her old playfulness. “What is, then? It’s too wet to sleep in the gardens.”

“But there must be someone⁠—”

“Someone to whom I can go? Of course⁠—any number⁠—but at this hour? You see my change of plan was rather sudden⁠—”

“Good God⁠—if you’d listened to me!” he cried, venting his helplessness in a burst of anger.

She still held him off with the gentle mockery of her smile. “But haven’t I?” she rejoined. “You advised me to leave the yacht, and I’m leaving it.”

He saw then, with a pang of self-reproach, that she meant neither to explain nor to defend herself; that by his miserable silence he had forfeited all chance of helping her, and that the decisive hour was past.

She had risen, and stood before him in a kind of clouded majesty, like some deposed princess moving tranquilly to exile.

“Lily!” he exclaimed, with a note of despairing appeal; but⁠—“Oh, not now,” she gently admonished him; and then, in all the sweetness of her recovered composure: “Since I must find shelter somewhere, and since you’re so kindly here to help me⁠—”

He gathered himself up at the challenge. “You will do as I tell you? There’s but one thing, then; you must go straight to your cousins, the Stepneys.”

“Oh⁠—” broke from her with a movement of instinctive resistance; but he insisted: “Come⁠—it’s late, and you must appear to have gone there directly.”

He had drawn her hand into his arm, but she held him back with a last gesture of protest. “I can’t⁠—I can’t⁠—not that⁠—you don’t know Gwen: you mustn’t ask me!”

“I must ask you⁠—you must obey me,” he persisted, though infected at heart by her own fear.

Her voice sank to a whisper: “And if she refuses?”⁠—but, “Oh, trust me⁠—trust me!” he could only insist in return; and yielding to his touch, she let him lead her back in silence to the edge of the square.

In the cab they continued to remain silent through the brief drive which carried them to the illuminated portals of the Stepneys’ hotel. Here he left her outside, in the darkness of the raised hood, while his name was sent up to Stepney, and he paced the showy hall, awaiting the latter’s descent.