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

a racing stable or a picture gallery. Well, a taste for society’s just another kind of hobby. Perhaps I want to get even with some of the people who cold-shouldered me last year⁠—put it that way if it sounds better. Anyhow, I want to have the run of the best houses; and I’m getting it too, little by little. But I know the quickest way to queer yourself with the right people is to be seen with the wrong ones; and that’s the reason I want to avoid mistakes.”

Miss Bart continued to stand before him in a silence that might have expressed either mockery or a half-reluctant respect for his candour, and after a moment’s pause he went on: “There it is, you see. I’m more in love with you than ever, but if I married you now I’d queer myself for good and all, and everything I’ve worked for all these years would be wasted.”

She received this with a look from which all tinge of resentment had faded. After the tissue of social falsehoods in which she had so long moved it was refreshing to step into the open daylight of an avowed expediency.

“I understand you,” she said. “A year ago I should have been of use to you, and now I should be an encumbrance; and I like you for telling me so quite honestly.” She extended her hand with a smile.

Again the gesture had a disturbing effect upon Mr. Rosedale’s self-command. “By George, you’re a dead game sport, you are!” he exclaimed; and as she began once more to move away, he broke out suddenly⁠—“Miss Lily⁠—stop. You know I don’t believe those stories⁠—I believe they were all got up by a woman who didn’t hesitate to sacrifice you to her own convenience⁠—”

Lily drew away with a movement of quick disdain: it was easier to endure his insolence than his commiseration.

“You are very kind; but I don’t think we need discuss the matter farther.”

But Rosedale’s natural imperviousness to hints made it easy for him to brush such resistance aside. “I don’t want to discuss anything; I just want to put a plain case before you,” he persisted.

She paused in spite of herself, held by the note of a new purpose in his look and tone; and he went on, keeping his eyes firmly upon her: “The wonder to me is that you’ve waited so long to get square with that woman, when you’ve had the power in your hands.” She continued silent under the rush of astonishment that his words produced, and he moved a step closer to ask with low-toned directness: “Why don’t you use those letters of hers you bought last year?”

Lily stood speechless under the shock of the interrogation. In the words preceding it she had conjectured, at most, an allusion to her supposed influence over George Dorset; nor did the astonishing indelicacy of the reference diminish the likelihood of Rosedale’s resorting to it. But now she saw how far short of the mark she had fallen; and the surprise of learning that he had discovered the secret of the letters left her, for the moment, unconscious of the special use to which he was in the act of putting his knowledge.

Her temporary loss of self-possession gave him time to press his point; and he went on quickly, as though to secure completer control of the situation: “You see I know where you stand⁠—I know how completely she’s in your power. That sounds like stage-talk, don’t it?⁠—but there’s a lot of truth in some of those old gags; and I don’t suppose you bought those letters simply because you’re collecting autographs.”

She continued to look at him with a deepening bewilderment: her only clear impression resolved itself into a scared sense of his power.

“You’re wondering how I found out about ’em?” he went on, answering her look with a note of conscious pride. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I’m the owner of the Benedick⁠—but never mind about that now. Getting on to things is a mighty useful accomplishment in business, and I’ve simply extended it to my private affairs. For this is partly my affair, you see⁠—at least, it depends on you to make it so. Let’s look the situation straight in the eye. Mrs. Dorset, for reasons we needn’t go into, did you a beastly bad turn last spring. Everybody knows what Mrs. Dorset is, and her best friends wouldn’t believe her on oath where their own interests were concerned; but as long as they’re out of the row it’s much easier to follow her lead than to set themselves against it, and you’ve simply been sacrificed to their laziness and selfishness. Isn’t that a pretty fair statement of the case?⁠—Well, some people say you’ve got the neatest kind of an answer in your hands: that George Dorset would marry you tomorrow, if you’d tell him all you know, and give him the chance to show the lady the door. I daresay he would; but you don’t seem to care for that particular form of getting even, and, taking a purely business view of the question, I think you’re right. In a deal like that, nobody comes out with perfectly clean hands, and the only way for you to start fresh is to get Bertha Dorset to back you up, instead of trying to fight her.”

He paused long enough to draw breath, but not to give her time for the expression of her gathering resistance; and as he pressed on, expounding and elucidating his idea with the directness of the man who has no doubts of his cause, she found the indignation gradually freezing on her lip, found herself held fast in the grasp of his argument by the mere cold strength of its presentation. There was no time now to wonder how he had heard of her obtaining the letters: all her world was dark outside the monstrous glare of his scheme for using them. And it was not, after the first moment, the horror of the idea