The Glimpses of the Moon by Edith Wharton (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

having started divorce proceedings to be chilled by her reply.

“And now, look here, my dear; couldn’t I give you some sort of a

ring?”

“A ring?” She flushed at the suggestion. “What’s the use,

Streff, dear? With all those jewels locked away in London—”

“Oh, I daresay you’ll think them old-fashioned. And, hang it,

why shouldn’t I give you something new, I ran across Ellie and

Bockheimer yesterday, in the rue de la Paix, picking out

sapphires. Do you like sapphires, or emeralds? Or just a

diamond? I’ve seen a thumping one …. I’d like you to have

it.”

Ellie and Bockheimer! How she hated the conjunction of the

names! Their case always seemed to her like a caricature of her

own, and she felt an unreasoning resentment against Ellie for

having selected the same season for her unmating and remating.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak of them, Streff … as if they were

like us! I can hardly bear to sit in the same room with Ellie

Vanderlyn.”

“Hullo? What’s wrong? You mean because of her giving up

Clarissa?”

“Not that only …. You don’t know …. I can’t tell you ….”

She shivered at the memory, and rose restlessly from the bench

where they had been sitting.

Strefford gave his careless shrug. “Well, my dear, you can

hardly expect me to agree, for after all it was to Ellie I owed

the luck of being so long alone with you in Venice. If she and

Algie hadn’t prolonged their honeymoon at the villa—”

He stopped abruptly, and looked at Susy. She was conscious that

every drop of blood had left her face. She felt it ebbing away

from her heart, flowing out of her as if from all her severed

arteries, till it seemed as though nothing were left of life in

her but one point of irreducible pain.

“Ellie—at your villa? What do you mean? Was it Ellie and

Bockheimer who—?”

Strefford still stared. “You mean to say you didn’t know?”

“Who came after Nick and me…?” she insisted.

“Why, do you suppose I’d have turned you out otherwise? That

beastly Bockheimer simply smothered me with gold. Ah, well,

there’s one good thing: I shall never have to let the villa

again! I rather like the little place myself, and I daresay

once in a while we might go there for a day or two …. Susy,

what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.

She returned his stare, but without seeing him. Everything swam

and danced before her eyes.

“Then she was there while I was posting all those letters for

her—?”

“Letters—what letters? What makes you look so frightfully

upset?”

She pursued her thought as if he had not spoken. “She and Algie

Bockheimer arrived there the very day that Nick and I left?”

“I suppose so. I thought she’d told you. Ellie always tells

everybody everything.”

“She would have told me, I daresay—but I wouldn’t let her.”

“Well, my dear, that was hardly my fault, was it? Though I

really don’t see—”

But Susy, still blind to everything but the dance of dizzy

sparks before her eyes, pressed on as if she had not heard him.

“It was their motor, then, that took us to Milan! It was Algie

Bockheimer’s motor!” She did not know why, but this seemed to

her the most humiliating incident in the whole hateful business.

She remembered Nick’s reluctance to use the motor-she

remembered his look when she had boasted of her “managing.” The

nausea mounted to her throat.

Strefford burst out laughing. “I say—you borrowed their motor?

And you didn’t know whose it was?”

“How could I know? I persuaded the chauffeur … for a little

tip …. It was to save our railway fares to Milan … extra

luggage costs so frightfully in Italy ….”

“Good old Susy! Well done! I can see you doing it—”

“Oh, how horrible—how horrible!” she groaned.

“Horrible? What’s horrible?”

“Why, your not seeing … not feeling …” she began

impetuously; and then stopped. How could she explain to him

that what revolted her was not so much the fact of his having

given the little house, as soon as she and Nick had left it, to

those two people of all others—though the vision of them in the

sweet secret house, and under the plane-trees of the terrace,

drew such a trail of slime across her golden hours? No, it was

not that from which she most recoiled, but from the fact that

Strefford, living in luxury in Nelson Vanderlyn’s house, should

at the same time have secretly abetted Ellie Vanderlyn’s love-affairs, and allowed her—for a handsome price—to shelter them

under his own roof. The reproach trembled on her lip—but she

remembered her own part in the wretched business, and the

impossibility of avowing it to Strefford, and of revealing to

him that Nick had left her for that very reason. She was not

afraid that the discovery would diminish her in Strefford’s

eyes: he was untroubled by moral problems, and would laugh away

her avowal, with a sneer at Nick in his new part of moralist.

But that was just what she could not bear: that anyone should

cast a doubt on the genuineness of Nick’s standards, or should

know how far below them she had fallen.

She remained silent, and Strefford, after a moment, drew her

gently down to the seat beside him. “Susy, upon my soul I don’t

know what you’re driving at. Is it me you’re angry with-or

yourself? And what’s it all about! Are you disgusted because I

let the villa to a couple who weren’t married! But, hang it,

they’re the kind that pay the highest price and I had to earn my

living somehow! One doesn’t run across a bridal pair every

day ….”

She lifted her eyes to his puzzled incredulous face. Poor

Streff! No, it was not with him that she was angry. Why should

she be? Even that ill-advised disclosure had told her nothing

she had not already known about him. It had simply revealed to

her once more the real point of view of the people he and she

lived among, had shown her that, in spite of the superficial

difference, he felt as they felt, judged as they judged, was

blind as they were-and as she would be expected to be, should

she once again become one of them. What was the use of being

placed by fortune above such shifts and compromises, if in one’s

heart one still condoned them? And she would have to—she would

catch the general note, grow blunted as those other people were

blunted, and gradually come to wonder at her own revolt, as

Strefford now honestly wondered at it. She felt as though she

were on the point of losing some new-found treasure, a treasure

precious only to herself, but beside which all he offered her

was nothing, the triumph of her wounded pride nothing, the

security of her future nothing.

“What is it, Susy?” he asked, with the same puzzled gentleness.

Ah, the loneliness of never being able to make him understand!

She had felt lonely enough when the flaming sword of Nick’s

indignation had shut her out from their Paradise; but there had

been a cruel bliss in the pain. Nick had not opened her eyes to

new truths, but had waked in her again something which had lain

unconscious under years of accumulated indifference. And that

reawakened sense had never left her since, and had somehow kept

her from utter loneliness because it was a secret shared with

Nick, a gift she owed to Nick, and which, in leaving her, he

could not take from her. It was almost, she suddenly felt, as

if he had left her with a child.

“My dear girl,” Strefford said, with a resigned glance at his

watch, “you know we’re dining at the Embassy ….”

At the Embassy? She looked at him vaguely: then she

remembered. Yes, they were dining that night at the Ascots’,

with Strefford’s cousin, the Duke of Dunes, and his wife, the

handsome irreproachable young Duchess; with the old gambling

Dowager Duchess, whom her son and daughter-in-law had come over

from England to see; and with other English and French guests of

a rank and standing worthy of the Duneses. Susy knew that her

inclusion in such a dinner could mean but one thing: it was her

definite recognition as Altringham’s future wife. She was “the

little American” whom one had to ask when one invited him, even

on ceremonial occasions. The family had accepted her; the

Embassy could but follow suit.

“It’s late, dear; and I’ve got to see someone on business

first,” Strefford reminded her patiently.

“Oh, Streff—I can’t, I can’t!” The words broke from her

without her knowing what she was saying. “I can’t go with

you—I can’t go to the Embassy. I can’t go on any longer like

this ….” She lifted her eyes to his in desperate appeal.

“Oh, understand-do please understand!” she wailed, knowing,

while she spoke, the utter impossibility of what she asked.

Strefford’s face had gradually paled and hardened. From sallow

it turned to a dusky white, and lines of obstinacy deepened

between the ironic eyebrows and about the weak amused mouth.

“Understand? What do you want me to understand,” He laughed.

“That you’re trying to chuck me already?”

She shrank at the sneer of the “already,” but instantly

remembered that it was the only thing he could be expected to

say, since it was just because he couldn’t understand that she

was flying from him.

“Oh, Streff—if I knew how to tell you!”

“It doesn’t so much matter about the how. Is that what you’re

trying to say?”

Her head drooped, and she saw the dead leaves whirling across

the path at her feet, lifted on a sudden wintry gust.

“The reason,” he continued, clearing his throat with a stiff

smile, “is not quite as important to me as the fact.”

She stood speechless, agonized by his pain. But still, she

thought, he had remembered the dinner at the Embassy. The

thought gave her courage to go on.

“It wouldn’t do, Streff. I’m not a bit the kind of person to

make you happy.”

“Oh, leave that to me, please, won’t you?”

“No, I can’t. Because I should be unhappy too.”

He clicked at the leaves as they whirled past. “You’ve taken a

rather long time to find it out.” She saw that his new-born

sense of his own consequence was making him suffer even more

than his wounded affection; and that again gave her courage.

“If I’ve taken long it’s all the more reason why I shouldn’t

take longer. If I’ve made a mistake it’s you who would have

suffered from it ….”

“Thanks,” he said, “for your extreme solicitude.”

She looked at him helplessly, penetrated by the despairing sense

of their inaccessibility to each other. Then she remembered

that Nick, during their last talk together, had seemed as

inaccessible, and wondered if, when human souls try to get too

near each other, they do not inevitably become mere blurs to

each other’s vision. She would have liked to say this to

Streff-but he would not have understood it either. The sense

of loneliness once more enveloped her, and she groped in vain

for a word that should reach him.

“Let me go home alone, won’t you?” she appealed to him.

“Alone?”

She nodded. “Tomorrow—tomorrow ….”

He tried, rather valiantly, to smile. “Hang tomorrow! Whatever

is wrong, it needn’t prevent my seeing you home.” He glanced

toward the taxi that awaited them at the