The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton (if you liked this book .TXT) 📕

such ominous cracks and vapours that her fears had always been on the alert for an upheaval. There had been moments when the situation had presented itself under a homelier yet more vivid image⁠—that of a shaky vehicle, dashed by unbroken steeds over a bumping road, while she cowered within, aware that the harness wanted mending, and wondering what would give way first. Well⁠—everything had given way now; and the wonder was that the crazy outfit had held together so long. Her sense of being involved in the crash, instead of merely witnessing it from the road, was intensified by the way in which Dorset, through his furies of denunciation and wild reactions of self-contempt, made her feel the need he had of her, the place she had taken in his life. But for her, what ear would have been open to his cries? And what hand but hers could drag him up again to a footing of sanity and self-respect? All through the stress of the struggle with him, she had been conscious of something faintly maternal in her efforts to guide and uplift him. But for the present, if he clung to her, it was not in order to be dragged up, but to feel someone floundering in the depths with him: he wanted her to suffer with him, not to help him to suffer less.

Happily for both, there was little physical strength to sustain his frenzy. It left him, collapsed and breathing heavily, to an apathy so deep and prolonged that Lily almost feared the passersby would think it the result of a seizure, and stop to offer their aid. But Monte Carlo is, of all places, the one where the human bond is least close, and odd sights are the least arresting. If a glance or two lingered on the couple, no intrusive sympathy disturbed them; and it was Lily herself who broke the silence by rising from her seat. With the clearing of her vision the sweep of peril had extended, and she saw that the post of danger was no longer at Dorset’s side.

“If you won’t go back, I must⁠—don’t make me leave you!” she urged.

But he remained mutely resistant, and she added: “What are you going to do? You really can’t sit here all night.”

“I can go to an hotel. I can telegraph my lawyers.” He sat up, roused by a new thought. “By Jove, Selden’s at Nice⁠—I’ll send for Selden!”

Lily, at this, reseated herself with a cry of alarm. “No, no, no!” she protested.

He swung round on her distrustfully. “Why not Selden? He’s a lawyer isn’t he? One will do as well as another in a case like this.”

“As badly as another, you mean. I thought you relied on me to help you.”

“You do⁠—by being so sweet and patient with me. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have ended the thing long ago. But now it’s got to end.” He rose suddenly, straightening himself with an effort. “You can’t want to see me ridiculous.”

She looked at him kindly. “That’s just it.” Then, after a moment’s pondering, almost to her own surprise she broke out with a flash of inspiration: “Well, go over and see Mr. Selden. You’ll have time to do it before dinner.”

“Oh, dinner⁠—” he mocked her; but she left him with the smiling rejoinder: “Dinner on board, remember; we’ll put it off till nine if you like.”

It was past four already; and when a cab had dropped her at the quay, and she stood waiting for the gig to put off for her, she began to wonder what had been happening on the yacht. Of Silverton’s whereabouts there had been no mention. Had he returned to the Sabrina? Or could Bertha⁠—the dread alternative sprang on her suddenly⁠—could Bertha, left to herself, have gone ashore to rejoin him? Lily’s heart stood still at the thought. All her concern had hitherto been for young Silverton, not only because, in such affairs, the woman’s instinct is to side with the man, but because his case made a peculiar appeal to her sympathies. He was so desperately in earnest, poor youth, and his earnestness was of so different a quality from Bertha’s, though hers too was desperate enough. The difference was that Bertha was in earnest only about herself, while he was in earnest about her. But now, at the actual crisis, this difference seemed to throw the weight of destitution on Bertha’s side, since at least he had her to suffer for, and she had only herself. At any rate, viewed less ideally, all the disadvantages of such a situation were for the woman; and it was to Bertha that Lily’s sympathies now went out. She was not fond of Bertha Dorset, but neither was she without a sense of obligation, the heavier for having so little personal liking to sustain it. Bertha had been kind to her, they had lived together, during the last months, on terms of easy friendship, and the sense of friction of which Lily had recently become aware seemed to make it the more urgent that she should work undividedly in her friend’s interest.

It was in Bertha’s interest, certainly, that she had despatched Dorset to consult with Lawrence Selden. Once the grotesqueness of the situation accepted, she had seen at a glance that it was the safest in which Dorset could find himself. Who but Selden could thus miraculously combine the skill to save Bertha with the obligation of doing so? The consciousness that much skill would be required made Lily rest thankfully in the greatness of the obligation. Since he would have to pull Bertha through she could trust him to find a way; and she put the fullness of her trust in the telegram she managed to send him on her way to the quay.

Thus far, then, Lily felt that she had done well; and the conviction strengthened her for the task that remained. She and Bertha had never been on confidential terms, but at