The House of Mirth (30 page)

Lord Hubert Dacey, a slender shabby-looking man with a charming, worn smile and the air of having spent his best years in piloting the wealthy to the right restaurant, assented with gentle emphasis: “It's quite that.”

“Peas?”
said Mr. Bry contemptuously. “Can they cook terrapin? It just shows,” he continued, “what these European markets are when a fellow can make a reputation cooking peas!”

Jack Stepney intervened with authority. “I don't know that I quite agree with Dacey: there's a little hole in Paris, off the Quai Voltaire—but in any case, I can't advise the Condamine
gargote
; at least not with ladies.”

Stepney, since his marriage, had thickened and grown prudish, as the Van Osburgh husbands were apt to do; but his wife, to his surprise and discomfiture, had developed an earth-shaking fastness of gait which left him trailing breathlessly in her wake.

“That's where we'll go then!” she declared with a heavy toss of her plumage. “I'm so tired of the Terrasse; it's as dull as one of Mother's dinners. And Lord Hubert has promised to tell us who all the awful people are at the other place—hasn't he, Carry? Now, Jack, don't look so solemn!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Bry, “all I want to know is who their dress-makers are.”

“No doubt Dacey can tell you that too,” remarked Stepney, with an ironic intention which the other received with the light murmur, “I can at least
find out,
my dear fellow”; and Mrs. Bry having declared that she couldn't walk another step, the party hailed two or three of the light phaetons which hover attentively on the confines of the gardens, and rattled off in procession toward the Condamine.

Their destination was one of the little restaurants overhanging the boulevard which dips steeply down from Monte Carlo to the low intermediate quarter along the quay. From the window in which they presently found themselves installed, they overlooked the intense blue curve of the harbour, set between the verdure of twin promontories: to the right, the cliff of Monaco, topped by the mediaeval silhouette of its church and castle, to the left the terraces and pinnacles of the gambling-house. Between the two, the waters of the bay were furrowed by a light coming and going of pleasure-craft, through which, just at the culminating moment of luncheon, the majestic advance of a great steam-yacht drew the company's attention from the peas.

“By Jove, I believe that's the Dorsets back!” Stepney exclaimed; and Lord Hubert, dropping his single eye-glass, corroborated: “It's the
Sabrina
—yes.”

“So soon? They were to spend a month in Sicily,” Mrs. Fisher observed.

“I guess they feel as if they had; there's only one up-to-date hotel in the whole place,” said Mr. Bry disparagingly.

“It was Ned Silverton's idea, but poor Dorset and Lily Bart must have been horribly bored.” Mrs. Fisher added in an undertone to Selden: “I do hope there hasn't been a row.”

“It's most awfully jolly having Miss Bart back,” said Lord Hubert in his mild, deliberate voice; and Mrs. Bry added ingenuously, “I daresay the Duchess will dine with us now that Lily's here.”

“The Duchess admires her immensely; I'm sure she'd be charmed to have it arranged,” Lord Hubert agreed with the professional promptness of the man accustomed to draw his profit from facilitating social contacts. Selden was struck by the business-like change in his manner.

“Lily has been a tremendous success here,” Mrs. Fisher continued, still addressing herself confidentially to Selden. “She looks ten years younger; I never saw her so handsome. Lady Skiddaw took her everywhere in Cannes, and the Crown Princess of Macedonia had her to stop for a week at Cimiez. People say that was one reason why Bertha whisked the yacht off to Sicily: the Crown Princess didn't take much notice of her, and she couldn't bear to look on at Lily's triumph.”

Selden made no reply. He was vaguely aware that Miss Bart was cruising in the Mediterranean with the Dorsets, but it had not occurred to him that there was any chance of running across her on the Riviera, where the season was virtually at an end. As he leaned back, silently contemplating his filigree cup of Turkish coffee, he was trying to put some order in his thoughts, to tell himself how the news of her nearness was really affecting him. He had a personal detachment enabling him, even in moments of emotional high-pressure, to get a fairly clear view of his feelings, and he was sincerely surprised by the disturbance which the sight of the
Sabrina
had produced in him. He had reason to think that his three months of engrossing professional work, following on the sharp shock of his disillusionment, had cleared his mind of its sentimental vapours. The feeling he had nourished and given prominence to was one of thankfulness for his escape: he was like a traveller so grateful for rescue from a dangerous accident that at first he is hardly conscious of his bruises. Now he suddenly felt the latent ache and realized that after all he had not come off unhurt.

An hour later, at Mrs. Fisher's side in the Casino gardens, he was trying to find fresh reasons for forgetting the injury received in the contemplation of the peril avoided. The party had dispersed with the loitering indecision characteristic of social movements at Monte Carlo, where the whole place, and the long, gilded hours of the day, seem to offer an infinity of ways of being idle. Lord Hubert Dacey had finally gone off in quest of the Duchess of Beltshire, charged by Mrs. Bry with the delicate negotiation of securing that lady's presence at dinner; the Stepneys had left for Nice in their motor-car; and Mr. Bry had departed to take his place in the pigeon-shooting match which was at the moment engaging his highest faculties.

Mrs. Bry, who had a tendency to grow red and stertorous after luncheon, had been judiciously prevailed upon by Carry Fisher to withdraw to her hotel for an hour's repose; and Selden and his companion were thus left to a stroll propitious to confidences. The stroll soon resolved itself into a tranquil session on a bench overhung with laurel and Banksian roses, from which they caught a dazzle of blue sea between marble balusters and the fiery shafts of cactus-blossoms shooting meteor-like from the rock. The soft shade of their niche and the adjacent glitter of the air were conducive to an easy lounging mood and to the smoking of many cigarettes; and Selden, yielding to these influences, suffered Mrs. Fisher to unfold to him the history of her recent experiences. She had come abroad with the Welly Brys at the moment when fashion flees the inclemency of the New York spring. The Brys, intoxicated by their first success, already thirsted for new kingdoms, and Mrs. Fisher, viewing the Riviera as an easy introduction to London society, had guided their course thither. She had affiliations of her own in every capital and a facility for picking them up again after long absences, and the carefully disseminated rumour of the Brys' wealth had at once gathered about them a group of cosmopolitan pleasure-seekers.

“But things are not going as well as I expected,” Mrs. Fisher frankly admitted. “It's all very well to say that everybody with money can get into society, but it would be truer to say that
nearly
everybody can. And the London market is so glutted with new Americans that to succeed there now they must be either very clever or awfully queer. The Brys are neither.
He
would get on well enough if she'd let him alone; they like his slang and his brag and his blunders. But Louisa spoils it all by trying to repress him and put herself forward. If she'd be natural herself—fat and vulgar and bouncing—it would be all right, but as soon as she meets anybody smart, she tries to be slender and queenly. She tried it with the Duchess of Beltshire and Lady Skiddaw, and they fled. I've done my best to make her see her mistake—I've said to her again and again: ‘Just let yourself go, Louisa'; but she keeps up the humbug even with me—I believe she keeps on being queenly in her own room, with the door shut.

“The worst of it is,” Mrs. Fisher went on, “that she thinks it's all
my
fault. When the Dorsets turned up here six weeks ago, and everybody began to make a fuss about Lily Bart, I could see Louisa thought that if she'd had Lily in tow instead of me, she would have been hobnobbing with all the royalties by this time. She doesn't realize that it's Lily's beauty that does it; Lord Hubert tells me Lily is thought even handsomer than when he knew her at Aix ten years ago. It seems she was tremendously admired there. An Italian Prince, rich and the real thing, wanted to marry her; but just at the critical moment a good-looking stepson turned up, and Lily was silly enough to flirt with him while her marriage-settlements with the stepfather were being drawn up. Some people said the young man did it on purpose. You can fancy the scandal: there was an awful row between the men, and people began to look at Lily so queerly that Mrs. Peniston had to pack up and finish her cure elsewhere. Not that
she
ever understood; to this day she thinks that Aix didn't suit her and mentions her having been sent there as proof of the incompetence of French doctors. That's Lily all over, you know: she works like a slave preparing the ground and sowing her seeds, but the day she ought to be reaping the harvest, she oversleeps herself or goes off on a picnic.”

Mrs. Fisher paused and looked reflectively at the deep shimmer of sea between the cactus-flowers. “Sometimes,” she added, “I think it's just flightiness, and sometimes I think it's because, at heart, she despises the things she's trying for. And it's the difficulty of deciding that makes her such an interesting study.” She glanced tentatively at Selden's motionless profile and resumed with a slight sigh: “Well, all I can say is, I wish she'd give
me
some of her discarded opportunities. I wish we could change places now, for instance. She could make a very good thing out of the Brys if she managed them properly, and I should know just how to look after George Dorset while Bertha is reading Verlaine with Neddy Silverton.”

She met Selden's sound of protest with a sharp, derisive glance. “Well, what's the use of mincing matters? We all know that's what Bertha brought her abroad for. When Bertha wants to have a good time, she has to provide occupation for George. At first I thought Lily was going to play her cards well
this
time, but there are rumours that Bertha is jealous of her success here and at Cannes, and I shouldn't be surprised if there were a break any day. Lily's only safeguard is that Bertha needs her badly—oh, very badly. The Silverton affair is in the acute stage; it's necessary that George's attention should be pretty continuously distracted. And I'm bound to say Lily
does
distract it: I believe he'd marry her to-morrow if he found out there was anything wrong with Bertha. But you know him; he's as blind as he's jealous; and of course Lily's present business is to keep him blind. A clever woman might know just the right moment to tear off the bandage, but Lily isn't clever in that way, and when George does open his eyes, she'll probably contrive not to be in his line of vision.”

Selden tossed away his cigarette. “By Jove, it's time for my train,” he exclaimed, with a glance at his watch, adding in reply to Mrs. Fisher's surprised comment, “Why, I thought of course you were at Monte!” a murmured word to the effect that he was making Nice his head-quarters.

“The worst of it is, she snubs the Brys now,” he heard irrelevantly flung after him.

Ten minutes later, in the high-perched bedroom of an hotel overlooking the Casino, he was tossing his effects into a couple of gaping portmanteaux while the porter waited outside to transport them to the cab at the door. It took but a brief plunge down the steep white road to the station to land him safely in the afternoon express for Nice; and not till he was installed in the corner of an empty carriage did he exclaim to himself with a reaction of self-contempt: “What the deuce am I running away from?”

The pertinence of the question checked Selden's fugitive impulse before the train had started. It was ridiculous to be flying like an emotional coward from an infatuation his reason had conquered. He had instructed his bankers to forward some important business letters to Nice, and at Nice he would quietly await them. He was already annoyed with himself for having left Monte Carlo, where he had intended to pass the week which remained to him before sailing; but it would now be difficult to return on his steps without an appearance of inconsistency from which his pride recoiled. In his inmost heart he was not sorry to put himself beyond the probability of meeting Miss Bart. Completely as he had detached himself from her, he could not yet regard her merely as a social instance; and viewed in a more personal way, she was not likely to be a reassuring object of study. Chance encounters or even the repeated mention of her name would send his thoughts back into grooves from which he had resolutely detached them; whereas, if she could be entirely excluded from his life, the pressure of new and varied impressions with which no thought of her was connected would soon complete the work of separation. Mrs. Fisher's conversation had, indeed, operated to that end; but the treatment was too painful to be voluntarily chosen while milder remedies were untried; and Selden thought he could trust himself to return gradually to a reasonable view of Miss Bart if only he did not see her.

Having reached the station early, he had arrived at this point in his reflections before the increasing throng on the platform warned him that he could not hope to preserve his privacy; the next moment there was a hand on the door, and he turned to confront the very face he was fleeing.

Miss Bart, glowing with the haste of a precipitate descent upon the train, headed a group composed of the Dorsets, young Silverton, and Lord Hubert Dacey, who had barely time to spring into the carriage and envelop Selden in ejaculations of surprise and welcome before the whistle of departure sounded. The party, it appeared, were hastening to Nice in response to a sudden summons to dine with the Duchess of Beltshire and to see the water-
fête
in the bay; a plan evidently improvised—in spite of Lord Hubert's protesting “Oh, I say, you know,”—for the express purpose of defeating Mrs. Bry's endeavour to capture the Duchess.