Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

that such opportunities as had been contrived for her were to be deferred till she had, as it were, gained courage to make effectual use of them. She had a sense of acquiescing in this plan with the passiveness of a sufferer resigned to the surgeon’s touch; and this feeling of almost lethargic helplessness continued when, after the departure of the guests, Mrs. Fisher followed her upstairs.

      “May I come in and smoke a cigarette over your fire? If we talk in my room we shall disturb the child.” Mrs. Fisher looked about her with the eye of the solicitous hostess. “I hope you’ve managed to make yourself comfortable, dear? Isn’t it a jolly little house? It’s such a blessing to have a few quiet weeks with the baby.”

      Carry, in her rare moments of prosperity, became so expansively maternal that Miss Bart sometimes wondered whether, if she could ever get time and money enough, she would not end by devoting them both to her daughter.

      “It’s a well-earned rest: I’ll say that for myself,” she continued, sinking down with a sigh of content on the pillowed lounge near the fire. “Louisa Bry is a stern task-master: I often used to wish myself back with the Gormers. Talk of love making people jealous and suspicious—it’s nothing to social ambition! Louisa used to lie awake at night wondering whether the women who called on us called on me because I was with her, or on her because she was with me; and she was always laying traps to find out what I thought. Of course I had to disown my oldest friends, rather than let her suspect she owed me the chance of making a single acquaintance—when, all the while, that was what she had me there for, and what she wrote me a handsome cheque for when the season was over!”

      Mrs. Fisher was not a woman who talked of herself without cause, and the practice of direct speech, far from precluding in her an occasional resort to circuitous methods, served rather, at crucial moments, the purpose of the juggler’s chatter while he shifts the contents of his sleeves. Through the haze of her cigarette smoke she continued to gaze meditatively at Miss Bart, who, having dismissed her maid, sat before the toilet-table shaking out over her shoulders the loosened undulations of her hair.

      “Your hair’s wonderful, Lily. Thinner—? What does that matter, when it’s so light and alive? So many women’s worries seem to go straight to their hair—but yours looks as if there had never been an anxious thought under it. I never saw you look better than you did this evening. Mattie Gormer told me that Morpeth wanted to paint you—why don’t you let him?”

      Miss Bart’s immediate answer was to address a critical glance to the reflection of the countenance under discussion. Then she said, with a slight touch of irritation: “I don’t care to accept a portrait from Paul Morpeth.”

      Mrs. Fisher mused. “N—no. And just now, especially—well, he can do you after you’re married.” She waited a moment, and then went on: “By the way, I had a visit from Mattie the other day. She turned up here last Sunday—and with Bertha Dorset, of all people in the world!”

      She paused again to measure the effect of this announcement on her hearer, but the brush in Miss Bart’s lifted hand maintained its unwavering stroke from brow to nape.

      “I never was more astonished,” Mrs. Fisher pursued. “I don’t know two women less predestined to intimacy—from Bertha’s standpoint, that is; for of course poor Mattie thinks it natural enough that she should be singled out—I’ve no doubt the rabbit always thinks it is fascinating the anaconda. Well, you know I’ve always told you that Mattie secretly longed to bore herself with the really fashionable; and now that the chance has come, I see that she’s capable of sacrificing all her old friends to it.”

      Lily laid aside her brush and turned a penetrating glance upon her friend. “Including me?” she suggested.

      “Ah, my dear,” murmured Mrs. Fisher, rising to push back a log from the hearth.

      “That’s what Bertha means, isn’t it?” Miss Bart went on steadily. “For of course she always means something; and before I left Long Island I saw that she was beginning to lay her toils for Mattie.”

      Mrs. Fisher sighed evasively. “She has her fast now, at any rate. To think of that loud independence of Mattie’s being only a subtler form of snobbishness! Bertha can already make her believe anything she pleases—and I’m afraid she’s begun, my poor child, by insinuating horrors about you.”

      Lily flushed under the shadow of her drooping hair. “The world is too vile,” she murmured, averting herself from Mrs. Fisher’s anxious scrutiny.

      “It’s not a pretty place; and the only way to keep a footing in it is to fight it on its own terms—and above all, my dear, not alone!” Mrs. Fisher gathered up her floating implications in a resolute grasp. “You’ve told me so little that I can only guess what has been happening; but in the rush we all live in there’s no time to keep on hating any one without a cause, and if Bertha is still nasty enough to want to injure you with other people it must be because she’s still afraid of you. From her standpoint there’s only one reason for being afraid of you; and my own idea is that, if you want to punish her, you hold the means in your hand. I believe you can marry George Dorset tomorrow; but if you don’t care for that particular form of retaliation, the only thing to save you from Bertha is to marry somebody else.”

      —————