Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

& ribands & soft folds called a wrapper, & as she leaned back rather wearily in her deep-arm-chair, her slippered feet were stretched out to meet the glow of the small wood-fire crackling on the hearth. There was no other light in the room, but the fire-flash, unless a certain dull twilight gleam through the dark folds of the curtains, deserves such a name; for my lady had given orders not to be disturbed, adding that she would ring for the lamps. But in the soft, flickering of the flames, that rose & fell fitfully, it was a very white & mournful face that sank back in the shadow of the crimson cushion; a face in which there was no discernible trace of the rosy, audacious Georgie Rivers whom we used to know. Nor was it the splendid, resistless Lady Breton who had taken London by storm that Summer; but only a very miserable little personage, occasionally breaking the twilight hush of the warm room with a heavy, aching cough, that made her lean shivering nearer the pleasant blaze. In fact, Georgie had at last broken down, in body & mind, under the weight of her bitter mistake; which all her triumphs & her petty glories seemed only to make bitterer, with a sense of something empty & unsatisfied, lower than the surface-gayety of the ball-room. The pang had deepened & deepened, driving her farther into the ceaseless rush of society with the vain hope of losing her individual sorrow there; no one was gayer than Lady Breton. But at home, in the grand house, with its grave servants & its pictures & treasures, that was no more hope of forgetting than abroad. Any sympathy that might eventually have grown up between the old lord & his young wife, had been frozen by Georgie’s persistent indifference to him; & whatever love his worn-out old heart had at first lavished on her, was lost in the nearer interests of a good dinner or an amusing play. Lord Breton, in short, relapsed entirely into his bachelor-habits, & was only with his wife, or conscious of her existence when she presided at his table, or entered a ball-room at his side. He was not ungenerous; he allowed her plenty of liberty & still had a comfortable pleasure in feeling that he was the possessor of the most charming woman in London—but day by day, she became less a part of his life. And still at her heart clung the love that she had despised of old, & whose unconquerable reality she was learning now—too late. Jack Egerton’s reproaches seemed to have been the last drop in her cup of shame & bitterness—again & again came the wretched, haunting thought that she had lost Guy’s esteem forever, & nothing could win back the place in his heart that she had sold so cheap. So she mused on in the closing darkness, over the firelight, & it was 8 o’clock when she rang for her maid, who came in with the lamps & a bottle of cough-syrup for my lady. Georgie rose wearily from her seat, drawing a soft shawl close about her shoulders; &, as the maid stood waiting for orders, said between her painful coughing: “I shall dress for the ball now, Sidenham.” “But, my lady,” the woman answered, “you have had no dinner.” “No, I did not want any, thanks. It is time to dress.” “But—my lady,” persisted the maid, “your cough is so bad … indeed, my lady …” Georgie interrupted her with an impatient movement. “My white dress, Sidenham. Have the flowers come home?” “Yes, my lady.” And the process of the toilette began. Sidenham had a real attachment for her mistress, but she knew that my lady could brook no questioning of her will, & being a good servant, went about her duty obediently. Lord Breton had dined out that evening, but at about 9.30, as Sidenham was putting the last touches to Georgie’s hair, he knocked unexpectedly at the dressing-room door, & then came in, in his evening dress. “I hoped you were in bed by—good Heavens!” he exclaimed, as Georgie rose in her glistening satin. “You don’t mean to say that you are going out tonight?” Sidenham, shaking out my lady’s train, looked volumes of sympathy at my lord. “Oh, certainly,” returned Georgie, unconcernedly. “It is the Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball tonight, you know.” “But this is madness—madness. Your cough was much worse today—such exposure at night would be extremely dangerous.” Georgie was clasping her diamonds, with her back turned towards him, & merely shrugged her white shoulders slightly. “Let me dissuade you,” Lord Breton continued, with real anxiety. “Surely it is little to forfeit one ball—the last of the season—for one’s health’s sake. Your physician would certainly not advise such imprudence, such absolute risk.” “Very likely,” said Georgie, nonchalantly, “but—’when the cat’s away the mice will play,’ you know.” “I know that going out tonight would be folly on your part; let me beg you to desist from it.” “My white fan, Sidenham. I presume,” said Georgie, turning to face her husband as she spoke, “that I shall have your escort?” “I am going to the ball.” “And yet” she continued lightly, “you wish to exile me from it? I should die of ennui in half an hour alone here!” “Then—then, may I offer you my company?” he said, eagerly, taking the cloak from Sidenham’s hands. “Let us give up the ball, Georgina.” Georgie was really moved; such a demonstration was so unusual on Lord Breton’s part, that it could not fail to touch her. But it was not her rôle to shew this. “No indeed!” she replied, clasping her bracelet, & coming closer to him. “Why should either of us be sacrificed? Instead of suicide for one, it would be—murder for both! Please put my cloak on.” “You go then?” said Lord Breton, coldly, with a gathering frown. “Oh, yes. As you say, it is the last ball of the season. Tomorrow I shall do penance.” And drawing her cloak close, with a suppressed cough, she swept out of the room. The Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball, at Lochiel House, was a very grand & a very brilliant affair, & a very fitting finale to one of the gayest seasons that people could recall. Everybody (that is, as her Grace expressively said, “everybody that is anybody”) was there; & the darling of the night was, as usual, the fascinating Lady Breton. White as her white dress, unrelieved by a shade of colour, she came in on her husband’s arm; people remembered afterwards, how strangely, deadly pale she was. But she danced continually, talked & laughed with everyone more graciously than ever, & raised the hearts of I don’t know how many desponding lovers by her charming gayety & goodnature. She was resting after the last quadrille, when the Duke of Westmoreland himself, came up to her, with the inexpressibly relieved air of a model host who, having done his duty by all the ugly dowagers in the room, finds himself at liberty to follow his own taste for a few moments. “I don’t think” he said, answering Georgie’s greeting “that you have seen the Duchess’s new conservatories. Will you let me be your cicerone?” “How did you guess, Duke,” she returned, gaily “that I was longing to escape from the heat & light? Do take me, if I am not carrying you off from any more—agreeable—duty!” “My duty is over,” said the Duke, smiling. “But you are coughing tonight, Lady Breton, & I cannot allow you to go into the cooler air without a wrap.” Signing to a servant, he sent for a soft fur mantle, & having folded it carefully about Georgie’s shoulders, led her on his arm through the long & brilliant suites. Followed by many an envious & many an admiring eye, she walked on with her proud step, talking lightly & winningly to her noble escort, until they reached the folding doors of the great conservatories. The Duke led her in, & they paused on the threshold looking down the green vista of gorgeous tropical plants. The gay dance-music came like a soft echo from the distant ball-room, mingling with the clear tinkle of fountains that tossed their spray amid the branching ferns & palm-trees on which the Chinese lanterns swung from the ceiling, shed an unreal, silvery glow. For a moment neither spoke; then Georgie looked up at her host with a bright smile. “Fairyland!” she exclaimed. “No one shall persuade me that this is the work of anyone less ethereal than Queen Mab herself! Is it real? Will it last?” “I hope so,” his Grace answered, laughing; “it would be a pity that her Elfin Majesty’s work should vanish in a single night.” “Only, as children say, ‘it is too good to be true,’” said Georgie, merrily. “At least, to us lesser mortals, who are not accustomed to all the marvels of Lochiel House.” “Will you come on a little further?” said the Duke, well-pleased. “I want to shew you some rare ferns. Here they are.” And so they passed along the aisle of mingled green, in the soft moonlike radiance; pausing here & there to admire or discuss the Duke’s favourite specimens. At the end of the long, cool bower a broad ottoman stood in a recess filled with ferns; & Georgie asked to sit down before entering the next conservatory. “You are tiring yourself, Lady Breton?” asked the Duke, anxiously, sitting down beside her, & drawing the mantle, which had slipped down, over her shoulder. “No, not tired, indeed,” she answered, “but half dizzy with so much beauty. I must sit still to be able to enjoy it perfectly—sit still, & drink it in.” “It is a relief after the crowded rooms,” assented