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

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.” V

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 by⁠—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 à 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 easygoing, 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, everyone 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.”

It was a good deal better than a broiling Sunday in town⁠—of that no doubt remained to Lily as, reclining in the shade of a leafy verandah, she looked seaward across a stretch of greensward picturesquely dotted with groups of ladies in lace raiment and men in tennis flannels. The huge Van Alstyne house and its rambling dependencies were packed to their fullest capacity with the Gormers’ weekend guests, who now, in the radiance of the Sunday forenoon, were dispersing themselves over the grounds in quest of the various distractions