Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ shook her head.

      “I am not frightened: that’s not the word. Can you imagine looking into your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement—some hideous change that has come to you while you slept? Well, I seem to myself like that—I can’t bear to see myself in my own thoughts—I hate ugliness, you know—I’ve always turned from it—but I can’t explain to you—you wouldn’t understand.”

      She lifted her head and her eyes fell on the clock.

      “How long the night is! And I know I shan’t sleep tomorrow. Some one told me my father used to lie sleepless and think of horrors. And he was not wicked, only unfortunate—and I see now how he must have suffered, lying alone with his thoughts! But I am bad—a bad girl—all my thoughts are bad—I have always had bad people about me. Is that any excuse? I thought I could manage my own life—I was proud—proud! but now I’m on their level——”

      Sobs shook her, and she bowed to them like a tree in a dry storm.

      Gerty knelt beside her, waiting, with the patience born of experience, till this gust of misery should loosen fresh speech. She had first imagined some physical shock, some peril of the crowded streets, since Lily was presumably on her way home from Carry Fisher’s; but she now saw that other nerve-centres were smitten, and her mind trembled back from conjecture.

      Lily’s sobs ceased, and she lifted her head.

      “There are bad girls in your slums. Tell me—do they ever pick themselves up? Ever forget, and feel as they did before?”

      “Lily! you mustn’t speak so—you’re dreaming.”

      “Don’t they always go from bad to worse? There’s no turning back—your old self rejects you, and shuts you out.”

      She rose, stretching her arms as if in utter physical weariness. “Go to bed, dear! You work hard and get up early. I’ll watch here by the fire, and you’ll leave the light, and your door open. All I want is to feel that you are near me.” She laid both hands on Gerty’s shoulders, with a smile that was like sunrise on a sea strewn with wreckage.

      “I can’t leave you, Lily. Come and lie on my bed. Your hands are frozen—you must undress and be made warm.” Gerty paused with sudden compunction. “But Mrs. Peniston—it’s past midnight! What will she think?”

      “She goes to bed. I have a latch-key. It doesn’t matter—I can’t go back there.”

      “There’s no need to: you shall stay here. But you must tell me where you have been. Listen, Lily—it will help you to speak!” She regained Miss Bart’s hands, and pressed them against her. “Try to tell me—it will clear your poor head. Listen—you were dining at Carry Fisher’s.” Gerty paused and added with a flash of heroism: “Lawrence Selden went from here to find you.”

      At the word, Lily’s face melted from locked anguish to the open misery of a child. Her lips trembled and her gaze widened with tears.

      “He went to find me? And I missed him! Oh, Gerty, he tried to help me. He told me—he warned me long ago—he foresaw that I should grow hateful to myself!”

      The name, as Gerty saw with a clutch at the heart, had loosened the springs of self-pity in her friend’s dry breast, and tear by tear Lily poured out the measure of her anguish. She had dropped sideways in Gerty’s big arm-chair, her head buried where lately Selden’s had leaned, in a beauty of abandonment that drove home to Gerty’s aching senses the inevitableness of her own defeat. Ah, it needed no deliberate purpose on Lily’s part to rob her of her dream! To look on that prone loveliness was to see in it a natural force, to recognize that love and power belong to such as Lily, as renunciation and service are the lot of those they despoil. But if Selden’s infatuation seemed a fatal necessity, the effect that his name produced shook Gerty’s steadfastness with a last pang. Men pass through such superhuman loves and outlive them: they are the probation subduing the heart to human joys. How gladly Gerty would have welcomed the ministry of healing: how willingly have soothed the sufferer back to tolerance of life! But Lily’s self-betrayal took this last hope from her. The mortal maid on the shore is helpless against the siren who loves her prey: such victims are floated back dead from their adventure.

      Lily sprang up and caught her with strong hands. “Gerty, you know him—you understand him—tell me; if I went to him, if I told him everything—if I said: ‘I am bad through and through—I want admiration, I want excitement, I want money—’ yes, money! That’s my shame, Gerty—and it’s known, it’s said of me—it’s what men think of me—If I said it all to him—told him the whole story—said plainly: ‘I’ve sunk lower than the lowest, for I’ve taken what they take, and not paid as they pay’—oh, Gerty, you know him, you can speak for him: if I told him everything would he loathe me? Or would he pity me, and understand me, and save me from loathing myself?”

      Gerty stood cold and passive. She knew the hour of her probation had come, and her poor heart beat wildly against its destiny. As a dark river sweeps by under a lightning flash, she saw her chance of happiness surge past under a flash of temptation. What prevented her from saying: “He is like other men”? She was not so sure of him, after all! But to do so would have been like blaspheming her love. She could not put him before herself in any light but the noblest: she must trust him to the height of her own passion.

      “Yes: I know him; he will help you,” she said; and in a moment Lily’s passion was weeping itself out against her breast.

      There was but one bed in the little flat, and the two girls lay down on it side by side when Gerty had unlaced Lily’s dress and persuaded her to put her lips to the warm tea. The light extinguished, they lay still in the darkness, Gerty shrinking to the outer edge of the narrow couch to avoid contact with her bed-fellow. Knowing that Lily disliked to be caressed, she had long ago learned to check her demonstrative impulses toward her friend. But tonight every fibre in her body shrank from Lily’s nearness: it was torture to listen to her breathing, and feel the sheet stir with it. As Lily turned, and settled to completer rest, a strand of her hair swept Gerty’s cheek with its fragrance. Everything about her was warm and soft and scented: even the stains of her grief became her as rain-drops do the beaten rose. But as Gerty lay with arms drawn down her side, in the motionless narrowness of an effigy, she felt a stir of sobs from the breathing warmth beside her, and Lily flung out her hand, groped for her friend’s, and held it fast.

      “Hold me, Gerty, hold me, or I shall think of things,” she moaned; and Gerty silently slipped an arm under her, pillowing her head in its hollow as a mother makes a nest for a tossing child. In the warm hollow Lily lay still and her breathing grew low and regular. Her hand still clung to Gerty’s as if to ward off evil dreams, but the hold of her fingers relaxed, her head sank deeper into its shelter, and Gerty felt that she slept.

      —————

XV.

      When Lily woke she had the bed to herself, and the winter light was in the room.

      She sat up, bewildered by the strangeness of her surroundings; then memory returned, and she looked about her with a shiver. In the cold slant of light reflected from the back wall of a neighbouring building, she saw her evening dress and opera cloak lying in a tawdry heap on a chair. Finery laid off is as unappetizing as the remains of a feast, and it occurred to Lily that, at home, her maid’s vigilance had always spared her the sight of such incongruities. Her body ached with fatigue, and with the constriction of her attitude in Gerty’s bed. All through her СКАЧАТЬ