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_ Lily, on regaining the Gormer grounds, struck rapidly across the
lawn toward the unfinished house, where she fancied that her
hostess might be speculating, not too resignedly, on the cause of
her delay; for, like many unpunctual persons, Mrs. Gormer
disliked to be kept waiting.
As Miss Bart reached the avenue, however, she saw a smart phaeton
with a high-stepping pair disappear behind the shrubbery in the
direction of the gate; and on the doorstep stood Mrs. Gormer,
with a glow of retrospective pleasure on her open countenance. At
sight of Lily the glow deepened to an embarrassed red, and she
said with a slight laugh: "Did you see my visitor? Oh, I thought
you came back by the avenue. It was Mrs. George Dorset--she said
she'd dropped in to make a neighbourly call."
Lily met the announcement with her usual composure, though her
experience of Bertha's idiosyncrasies would not have led her to
include the neighbourly instinct among them; and Mrs. Gormer,
relieved to see that she gave no sign of surprise, went on with a
deprecating laugh: "Of course what really brought her was
curiosity--she made me take her all over the house. But no one
could have been nicer--no airs, you know, and so good-natured: I
can quite see why people think her so fascinating."
This surprising event, coinciding too completely with her meeting
with Dorset to be regarded as contingent upon it, had yet
immediately struck Lily with a vague sense of foreboding. It was
not in Bertha's habits to be neighbourly, much less to make
advances to any one outside the immediate circle of her
affinities. She had always consistently ignored the world of
outer aspirants, or had recognized its individual members only
when prompted by motives of self-interest; and the very
capriciousness of her condescensions had, as Lily was aware,
given them special value in the eyes of the persons she
distinguished. Lily saw this now in Mrs. Gormer's unconcealable
complacency, and in the happy irrelevance with which, for the
next day or two, she quoted Bertha's opinions and
speculated on the origin of her gown. All the secret ambitions
which Mrs. Gormer's native indolence, and the attitude of her
companions, kept in habitual abeyance, were now germinating
afresh in the glow of Bertha's advances; and whatever the cause
of the latter, Lily saw that, if they were followed up, they were
likely to have a disturbing effect upon her own future.
She had arranged to break the length of her stay with her new
friends by one or two visits to other acquaintances as recent;
and on her return from this somewhat depressing excursion she was
immediately conscious that Mrs. Dorset's influence was still in
the air. There had been another exchange of visits, a tea at a
country-club, an encounter at a hunt ball; there was even a
rumour of an approaching dinner, which Mattie Gormer, with an
unnatural effort at discretion, tried to smuggle out of the
conversation whenever Miss Bart took part in it.
The latter had already planned to return to town after a farewell
Sunday with her friends; and, with Gerty Farish's aid, had
discovered a small private hotel where she might establish
herself for the winter. The hotel being on the edge of a
fashionable neighbourhood, the price of the few square feet she
was to occupy was considerably in excess of her means; but she
found a justification for her dislike of poorer quarters in the
argument that, at this particular juncture, it was of the utmost
importance to keep up a show of prosperity. In reality, it was
impossible for her, while she had the means to pay her way for a
week ahead, to lapse into a form of existence like Gerty
Farish's. She had never been so near the brink of insolvency; but
she could at least manage to meet her weekly hotel bill, and
having settled the heaviest of her previous debts out of the
money she had received from Trenor, she had a still fair margin
of credit to go upon. The situation, however, was not agreeable
enough to lull her to complete unconsciousness of its insecurity.
Her rooms, with their cramped outlook down a sallow vista of
brick walls and fire-escapes, her lonely meals in the dark
restaurant with its surcharged ceiling and haunting smell of
coffee--all these material discomforts, which were yet to be
accounted as so many privileges soon to be withdrawn, kept
constantly before her the disadvantages of her state; and
her mind reverted the more insistently to Mrs. Fisher's counsels.
Beat about the question as she would, she knew the outcome of it
was that she must try to marry Rosedale; and in this conviction
she was fortified by an unexpected visit from George Dorset.
She found him, on the first Sunday after her return to town,
pacing her narrow sitting-room to the imminent peril of the few
knick-knacks with which she had tried to disguise its plush
exuberances; but the sight of her seemed to quiet him, and he
said meekly that he hadn't come to bother her--that he asked
only to be allowed to sit for half an hour and talk of anything
she liked. In reality, as she knew, he had but one subject:
himself and his wretchedness; and it was the need of her sympathy
that had drawn him back. But he began with a pretence of
questioning her about herself, and as she replied, she saw that,
for the first time, a faint realization of her plight penetrated
the dense surface of his self-absorption. Was it possible that
her old beast of an aunt had actually cut her off? That she was
living alone like this because there was no one else for her to
go to, and that she really hadn't more than enough to keep alive
on till the wretched little legacy was paid? The fibres of
sympathy were nearly atrophied in him, but he was suffering so
intensely that he had a faint glimpse of what other sufferings
might mean--and, as she perceived, an almost simultaneous
perception of the way in which her particular misfortunes might
serve him.
When at length she dismissed him, on the pretext that she must
dress for dinner, he lingered entreatingly on the threshold to
blurt out: "It's been such a comfort--do say you'll let me see
you again--" But to this direct appeal it was impossible to give
an assent; and she said with friendly decisiveness: "I'm
sorry--but you know why I can't."
He coloured to the eyes, pushed the door shut, and stood before
her embarrassed but insistent. "I know how you might, if you
would--if things were different--and it lies with you to make
them so. It's just a word to say, and you put me out of my
misery!"
Their eyes met, and for a second she trembled again with the
nearness of the temptation. "You're mistaken; I know nothing; I
saw nothing," she exclaimed, striving, by sheer force of
reiteration, to build a barrier between herself and her peril;
and as he turned away, groaning out "You sacrifice us both," she
continued to repeat, as if it were a charm: "I know
nothing--absolutely nothing." _
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