The House of Mirth

Miss Bart’s telegram caught Lawrence Selden at the door of his hotel; and having read it, he turned back to wait for Dorset.  The message necessarily left large gaps for conjecture; but all that he had recently heard and seen made these but too easy to fill in.  On the whole he was surprised; for though he had perceived that the situation contained all the elements of an explosion, he had often enough, in the range of his personal experience, seen just such combinations subside into harmlessness.  Still, Dorset’s spasmodic temper, and his wife’s reckless disregard of appearances, gave the situation a peculiar insecurity; and it was less from the sense of any special relation to the case than from a purely professional zeal, that Selden resolved to guide the pair to safety.  Whether, in the present instance, safety for either lay in repairing so damaged a tie, it was no business of his to consider:  he had only, on general principles, to think of averting a scandal, and his desire to avert it was increased by his fear of its involving Miss Bart.  There was nothing specific in this apprehension; he merely wished to spare her the embarrassment of being ever so remotely connected with the public washing of the Dorset linen.

How exhaustive and unpleasant such a process would be, he saw even more vividly after his two hours’ talk with poor Dorset.  If anything came out at all, it would be such a vast unpacking of accumulated moral rags as left him, after his visitor had gone, with the feeling that he must fling open the windows and have his room swept out.  But nothing should come out; and happily for his side of the case, the dirty rags, however pieced together, could not, without considerable difficulty, be turned into a homogeneous grievance.  The torn edges did not always fit—­there were missing bits, there were disparities of size and colour, all of which it was naturally Selden’s business to make the most of in putting them under his client’s eye.  But to a man in Dorset’s mood the completest demonstration could not carry conviction, and Selden saw that for the moment all he could do was to soothe and temporize, to offer sympathy and to counsel prudence.  He let Dorset depart charged to the brim with the sense that, till their next meeting, he must maintain a strictly noncommittal attitude; that, in short, his share in the game consisted for the present in looking on.  Selden knew, however, that he could not long keep such violences in equilibrium; and he promised to meet Dorset, the next morning, at an hotel in Monte Carlo.  Meanwhile he counted not a little on the reaction of weakness and self-distrust that, in such natures, follows on every unwonted expenditure of moral force; and his telegraphic reply to Miss Bart consisted simply in the injunction:  “Assume that everything is as usual.”

On this assumption, in fact, the early part of the following day was lived through.  Dorset, as if in obedience to Lily’s imperative bidding, had actually returned in time for a late dinner on the yacht.  The repast had been the most difficult moment of the day.  Dorset was sunk in one of the abysmal silences which so commonly followed on what his wife called his “attacks” that it was easy, before the servants, to refer it to this cause; but Bertha herself seemed, perversely enough, little disposed to make use of this obvious means of protection.  She simply left the brunt of the situation on her husband’s hands, as if too absorbed in a grievance of her own to suspect that she might be the object of one herself.  To Lily this attitude was the most ominous, because the most perplexing, element in the situation.  As she tried to fan the weak flicker of talk, to build up, again and again, the crumbling structure of “appearances,” her own attention was perpetually distracted by the question:  “What on earth can she be driving at?” There was something positively exasperating in Bertha’s attitude of isolated defiance.  If only she would have given her friend a hint they might still have worked together successfully; but how could Lily be of use, while she was thus obstinately shut out from participation?  To be of use was what she honestly wanted; and not for her own sake but for the Dorsets’.  She had not thought of her own situation at all:  she was simply engrossed in trying to put a little order in theirs.  But the close of the short dreary evening left her with a sense of effort hopelessly wasted.  She had not tried to see Dorset alone:  she had positively shrunk from a renewal of his confidences.  It was Bertha whose confidence she sought, and who should as eagerly have invited her own; and Bertha, as if in the infatuation of self-destruction, was actually pushing away her rescuing hand.

Lily, going to bed early, had left the couple to themselves; and it seemed part of the general mystery in which she moved that more than an hour should elapse before she heard Bertha walk down the silent passage and regain her room.  The morrow, rising on an apparent continuance of the same conditions, revealed nothing of what had occurred between the confronted pair.  One fact alone outwardly proclaimed the change they were all conspiring to ignore; and that was the non-appearance of Ned Silverton.  No one referred to it, and this tacit avoidance of the subject kept it in the immediate foreground of consciousness.  But there was another change, perceptible only to Lily; and that was that Dorset now avoided her almost as pointedly as his wife.  Perhaps he was repenting his rash outpourings of the previous day; perhaps only trying, in his clumsy way, to conform to Selden’s counsel to behave “as usual.”  Such instructions no more make for easiness of attitude than the photographer’s behest to “look natural”; and in a creature as unconscious as poor Dorset of the appearance he habitually presented, the struggle to maintain a pose was sure to result in queer contortions.

It resulted, at any rate, in throwing Lily strangely on her own resources.  She had learned, on leaving her room, that Mrs. Dorset was still invisible, and that Dorset had left the yacht early; and feeling too restless to remain alone, she too had herself ferried ashore.  Straying toward the Casino, she attached herself to a group of acquaintances from Nice, with whom she lunched, and in whose company she was returning to the rooms when she encountered Selden crossing the square.  She could not, at the moment, separate herself definitely from her party, who had hospitably assumed that she would remain with them till they took their departure; but she found time for a momentary pause of enquiry, to which he promptly returned:  “I’ve seen him again—­he’s just left me.”

She waited before him anxiously.  “Well? what has happened?  What will happen?”

“Nothing as yet—­and nothing in the future, I think.”

“It’s over, then?  It’s settled?  You’re sure?”

He smiled.  “Give me time.  I’m not sure—­but I’m a good deal surer.”  And with that she had to content herself, and hasten on to the expectant group on the steps.

Selden had in fact given her the utmost measure of his sureness, had even stretched it a shade to meet the anxiety in her eyes.  And now, as he turned away, strolling down the hill toward the station, that anxiety remained with him as the visible justification of his own.  It was not, indeed, anything specific that he feared:  there had been a literal truth in his declaration that he did not think anything would happen.  What troubled him was that, though Dorset’s attitude had perceptibly changed, the change was not clearly to be accounted for.  It had certainly not been produced by Selden’s arguments, or by the action of his own soberer reason.  Five minutes’ talk sufficed to show that some alien influence had been at work, and that it had not so much subdued his resentment as weakened his will, so that he moved under it in a state of apathy, like a dangerous lunatic who has been drugged.  Temporarily, no doubt, however exerted, it worked for the general safety:  the question was how long it would last, and by what kind of reaction it was likely to be followed.  On these points Selden could gain no light; for he saw that one effect of the transformation had been to shut him off from free communion with Dorset.  The latter, indeed, was still moved by the irresistible desire to discuss his wrong; but, though he revolved about it with the same forlorn tenacity, Selden was aware that something always restrained him from full expression.  His state was one to produce first weariness and then impatience in his hearer; and when their talk was over, Selden began to feel that he had done his utmost, and might justifiably wash his hands of the sequel.

It was in this mind that he had been making his way back to the station when Miss Bart crossed his path; but though, after his brief word with her, he kept mechanically on his course, he was conscious of a gradual change in his purpose.  The change had been produced by the look in her eyes; and in his eagerness to define the nature of that look, he dropped into a seat in the gardens, and sat brooding upon the question.  It was natural enough, in all conscience, that she should appear anxious:  a young woman placed, in the close intimacy of a yachting-cruise, between a couple on the verge of disaster, could hardly, aside from her concern for her friends, be insensible to the awkwardness of her own position.  The worst of it was that, in interpreting Miss Bart’s state of mind, so many alternative readings were possible; and one of these, in Selden’s troubled mind, took the ugly form suggested by Mrs. Fisher.  If the girl was afraid, was she afraid for herself or for her friends?  And to what degree was her dread of a catastrophe intensified by the sense of being fatally involved in it?  The burden of offence lying manifestly with Mrs. Dorset, this conjecture seemed on the face of it gratuitously unkind; but Selden knew that in the most one-sided matrimonial quarrel there are generally counter-charges to be brought, and that they are brought with the greater audacity where the original grievance is so emphatic.  Mrs. Fisher had not hesitated to suggest the likelihood of Dorset’s marrying Miss Bart if “anything happened”; and though Mrs. Fisher’s conclusions were notoriously rash, she was shrewd enough in reading the signs from which they were drawn.  Dorset had apparently shown marked interest in the girl, and this interest might be used to cruel advantage in his wife’s struggle for rehabilitation.  Selden knew that Bertha would fight to the last round of powder:  the rashness of her conduct was illogically combined with a cold determination to escape its consequences.  She could be as unscrupulous in fighting for herself as she was reckless in courting danger, and whatever came to her hand at such moments was likely to be used as a defensive missile.  He did not, as yet, see clearly just what course she was likely to take, but his perplexity increased his apprehension, and with it the sense that, before leaving, he must speak again with Miss Bart.  Whatever her share in the situation—­and he had always honestly tried to resist judging her by her surroundings—­however free she might be from any personal connection with it, she would be better out of the way of a possible crash; and since she had appealed to him for help, it was clearly his business to tell her so.

This decision at last brought him to his feet, and carried him back to the gambling rooms, within whose doors he had seen her disappearing; but a prolonged exploration of the crowd failed to put him on her traces.  He saw instead, to his surprise, Ned Silverton loitering somewhat ostentatiously about the tables; and the discovery that this actor in the drama was not only hovering in the wings, but actually inviting the exposure of the footlights, though it might have seemed to imply that all peril was over, served rather to deepen Selden’s sense of foreboding.  Charged with this impression he returned to the square, hoping to see Miss Bart move across it, as every one in Monte Carlo seemed inevitably to do at least a dozen times a day; but here again he waited vainly for a glimpse of her, and the conclusion was slowly forced on him that she had gone back to the Sabrina.  It would be difficult to follow her there, and still more difficult, should he do so, to contrive the opportunity for a private word; and he had almost decided on the unsatisfactory alternative of writing, when the ceaseless diorama of the square suddenly unrolled before him the figures of Lord Hubert and Mrs. Bry.

Hailing them at once with his question, he learned from Lord Hubert that Miss Bart had just returned to the Sabrina in Dorset’s company; an announcement so evidently disconcerting to him that Mrs. Bry, after a glance from her companion, which seemed to act like the pressure on a spring, brought forth the prompt proposal that he should come and meet his friends at dinner that evening—­“At Becassin’s—­a little dinner to the Duchess,” she flashed out before Lord Hubert had time to remove the pressure.

Selden’s sense of the privilege of being included in such company brought him early in the evening to the door of the restaurant, where he paused to scan the ranks of diners approaching down the brightly lit terrace.  There, while the Brys hovered within over the last agitating alternatives of the MENU, he kept watch for the guests from the Sabrina, who at length rose on the horizon in company with the Duchess, Lord and Lady Skiddaw and the Stepneys.  From this group it was easy for him to detach Miss Bart on the pretext of a moment’s glance into one of the brilliant shops along the terrace, and to say to her, while they lingered together in the white dazzle of a jeweller’s window:  “I stopped over to see you—­to beg of you to leave the yacht.”

The eyes she turned on him showed a quick gleam of her former fear.  “To leave—?  What do you mean?  What has happened?”

“Nothing.  But if anything should, why be in the way of it?”

The glare from the jeweller’s window, deepening the pallour of her face, gave to its delicate lines the sharpness of a tragic mask.  “Nothing will, I am sure; but while there’s even a doubt left, how can you think I would leave Bertha?”

The words rang out on a note of contempt—­was it possibly of contempt for himself?  Well, he was willing to risk its renewal to the extent of insisting, with an undeniable throb of added interest:  “You have yourself to think of, you know—­” to which, with a strange fall of sadness in her voice, she answered, meeting his eyes:  “If you knew how little difference that makes!”

“Oh, well, nothing will happen,” he said, more for his own reassurance than for hers; and “Nothing, nothing, of course!” she valiantly assented, as they turned to overtake their companions.

In the thronged restaurant, taking their places about Mrs. Bry’s illuminated board, their confidence seemed to gain support from the familiarity of their surroundings.  Here were Dorset and his wife once more presenting their customary faces to the world, she engrossed in establishing her relation with an intensely new gown, he shrinking with dyspeptic dread from the multiplied solicitations of the MENU.  The mere fact that they thus showed themselves together, with the utmost openness the place afforded, seemed to declare beyond a doubt that their differences were composed.  How this end had been attained was still matter for wonder, but it was clear that for the moment Miss Bart rested confidently in the result; and Selden tried to achieve the same view by telling himself that her opportunities for observation had been ampler than his own.

Meanwhile, as the dinner advanced through a labyrinth of courses, in which it became clear that Mrs. Bry had occasionally broken away from Lord Hubert’s restraining hand, Selden’s general watchfulness began to lose itself in a particular study of Miss Bart.  It was one of the days when she was so handsome that to be handsome was enough, and all the rest—­her grace, her quickness, her social felicities—­seemed the overflow of a bounteous nature.  But what especially struck him was the way in which she detached herself, by a hundred undefinable shades, from the persons who most abounded in her own style.  It was in just such company, the fine flower and complete expression of the state she aspired to, that the differences came out with special poignancy, her grace cheapening the other women’s smartness as her finely-discriminated silences made their chatter dull.  The strain of the last hours had restored to her face the deeper eloquence which Selden had lately missed in it, and the bravery of her words to him still fluttered in her voice and eyes.  Yes, she was matchless—­it was the one word for her; and he could give his admiration the freer play because so little personal feeling remained in it.  His real detachment from her had taken place, not at the lurid moment of disenchantment, but now, in the sober after-light of discrimination, where he saw her definitely divided from him by the crudeness of a choice which seemed to deny the very differences he felt in her.  It was before him again in its completeness—­the choice in which she was content to rest:  in the stupid costliness of the food and the showy dulness of the talk, in the freedom of speech which never arrived at wit and the freedom of act which never made for romance.  The strident setting of the restaurant, in which their table seemed set apart in a special glare of publicity, and the presence at it of little Dabham of the “Riviera Notes,” emphasized the ideals of a world where conspicuousness passed for distinction, and the society column had become the roll of fame.

It was as the immortalizer of such occasions that little Dabham, wedged in modest watchfulness between two brilliant neighbours, suddenly became the centre of Selden’s scrutiny.  How much did he know of what was going on, and how much, for his purpose, was still worth finding out?  His little eyes were like tentacles thrown out to catch the floating intimations with which, to Selden, the air at moments seemed thick; then again it cleared to its normal emptiness, and he could see nothing in it for the journalist but leisure to note the elegance of the ladies’ gowns.  Mrs. Dorset’s, in particular, challenged all the wealth of Mr. Dabham’s vocabulary:  it had surprises and subtleties worthy of what he would have called “the literary style.”  At first, as Selden had noticed, it had been almost too preoccupying to its wearer; but now she was in full command of it, and was even producing her effects with unwonted freedom.  Was she not, indeed, too free, too fluent, for perfect naturalness?  And was not Dorset, to whom his glance had passed by a natural transition, too jerkily wavering between the same extremes?  Dorset indeed was always jerky; but it seemed to Selden that tonight each vibration swung him farther from his centre.

The dinner, meanwhile, was moving to its triumphant close, to the evident satisfaction of Mrs. Bry, who, throned in apoplectic majesty between Lord Skiddaw and Lord Hubert, seemed in spirit to be calling on Mrs. Fisher to witness her achievement.  Short of Mrs. Fisher her audience might have been called complete; for the restaurant was crowded with persons mainly gathered there for the purpose of spectatorship, and accurately posted as to the names and faces of the celebrities they had come to see.  Mrs. Bry, conscious that all her feminine guests came under that heading, and that each one looked her part to admiration, shone on Lily with all the pent-up gratitude that Mrs. Fisher had failed to deserve.  Selden, catching the glance, wondered what part Miss Bart had played in organizing the entertainment.  She did, at least, a great deal to adorn it; and as he watched the bright security with which she bore herself, he smiled to think that he should have fancied her in need of help.  Never had she appeared more serenely mistress of the situation than when, at the moment of dispersal, detaching herself a little from the group about the table, she turned with a smile and a graceful slant of the shoulders to receive her cloak from Dorset.

The dinner had been protracted over Mr. Bry’s exceptional cigars and a bewildering array of liqueurs, and many of the other tables were empty; but a sufficient number of diners still lingered to give relief to the leave-taking of Mrs. Bry’s distinguished guests.  This ceremony was drawn out and complicated by the fact that it involved, on the part of the Duchess and Lady Skiddaw, definite farewells, and pledges of speedy reunion in Paris, where they were to pause and replenish their wardrobes on the way to England.  The quality of Mrs. Bry’s hospitality, and of the tips her husband had presumably imparted, lent to the manner of the English ladies a general effusiveness which shed the rosiest light over their hostess’s future.  In its glow Mrs. Dorset and the Stepneys were also visibly included, and the whole scene had touches of intimacy worth their weight in gold to the watchful pen of Mr. Dabham.

A glance at her watch caused the Duchess to exclaim to her sister that they had just time to dash for their train, and the flurry of this departure over, the Stepneys, who had their motor at the door, offered to convey the Dorsets and Miss Bart to the quay.  The offer was accepted, and Mrs. Dorset moved away with her husband in attendance.  Miss Bart had lingered for a last word with Lord Hubert, and Stepney, on whom Mr. Bry was pressing a final, and still more expensive, cigar, called out:  “Come on, Lily, if you’re going back to the yacht.”

Lily turned to obey; but as she did so, Mrs. Dorset, who had paused on her way out, moved a few steps back toward the table.

“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 some one—–­”

“Some one 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.  Ten minutes later the two men passed out together between the gold-laced custodians of the threshold; but in the vestibule Stepney drew up with a last flare of reluctance.

“It’s understood, then?” he stipulated nervously, with his hand on Selden’s arm.  “She leaves tomorrow by the early train—­and my wife’s asleep, and can’t be disturbed.”