Edith Wharton - SSC 11

by Uncollected Stories (v2. 1)

  “I had a feeling that I might meet you this morning,” he said in a tone of undisguised pleasure; and even as he spoke, his half-formed plan for her rescue began to dissolve in the glow of happiness which her nearness always produced. He was annoyed to find that his self-control was so completely at the mercy of her presence; but he could no more resist the sudden reaction of his pulses from reason to feeling than he could dispel the softly enveloping fog which seemed to act as the accomplice of his wishes.

  “If I can only make her think she can do better than Magraw,” he kept mechanically repeating to himself; but the only expedient that occurred to him was one which both prudence and honor rejected.

  Miss Grantham’s first words threw his ideas into still deeper confusion.

  “Mr. Tilney,” she said, without heeding his greeting, “are you, or are you not, engaged to Sadie Bixby?”

  The abruptness of the inquiry, and the sternness of her tone, had a not wholly unpleasing effect on the young man; but their only perceptible result was to reduce him to an embarrassed silence.

  Miss Grantham gave a faint laugh. “I suppose I may consider myself answered? And in that case, I have only to apologize for asking so indiscreet a question—”

  Tilney cleared his throat nervously. “I am not aware that I have either answered your question or shown that I regarded it as indiscreet—”

  “Your silence did both,” she returned with some impatience. He made no reply, and after a moment’s pause she added, with a sudden assumption of playfulness: “Well, if this is really to be our last meeting, as I suppose it is—shall we not celebrate it by sitting together for a few moments on our dear old bench?”

  As she spoke she began to move in the direction of the seat, apparently assuming that her companion would offer no opposition to her proposal. But Tilney, with a vague exclamation, laid his hand on her arm. “Don’t you think it’s rather too damp to sit out of doors?”

  He reddened under the laugh with which she met this incongruous objection.

  “My poor friend—would she really mind so much? I was foolish enough to think you might give me this last morning—”

  “The whole day is at your service,” he interposed nervously, “but—”

  “Ah, yes; there will always be a but between us now. No wonder men get on so much better than women; they are so much more prudent! Now, even if I were engaged to Mr. Magraw—” She broke off, and he fancied he could see her flush through the fog.

  He turned on her abruptly. “Are you? There’s the point!” he exclaimed.

  She drew back, slightly disconcerted, but recovering herself at once, added in the same playful tone: “I was about to say that, even if I were, I should not feel there was any disloyalty to my future in giving this last hour to our past.”

  Her light emphasis on the pronoun threw him into a glow of pleasure, through which discretion and foresight loomed as remote as objects in the fog; but when she added, with a half-sad laugh: “I should not hesitate to go back to our bench for the last time—” he broke out, with a fresh leap of apprehension: “Ah, but you couldn’t, if it meant to you what it does to me!”

  He had spoken the words at haphazard, snatching at them as the readiest means of diverting her purpose; but once uttered they seemed to fill the whole air, and to create a silence which neither speaker had, for a moment, the courage to fill.

  Womanlike, Miss Grantham was the first to recover her self-possession. “I am sure,” she said sweetly, “that we shall both look back often on our quiet morning talks, and I can’t think that the persons with whom our futures may be associated will be defrauded by our treasuring such memories.”

  She spoke with a sadness so poignant to Tilney that for a moment he stood without replying, and during the pause she again advanced a few steps nearer to the bench.

  The young man broke into a scornful laugh. “Defrauded? Good heavens—one can’t defraud people of treasures they are utterly incapable of valuing!”

  She caught this up with a vehemence that surprised him. “Oh, do you feel that too? It’s just what I mean,” she exclaimed.

  “Feel it—?” He stopped before her, blocking her way. “Do you suppose I’ve felt anything else, night or day, since the accursed day when we agreed—?”

  He interrupted himself with a last effort at self-control, and she replied in a low tone of exquisite pleading: “Well, then, if you do feel it, why not go back for a moment to our bench?”

  Tilney groaned. “Can’t we talk as well here? Let us walk a little way—we shall be alone anywhere in this fog.” (“Anywhere but on that confounded bench,” he mentally added.)

  Miss Grantham uttered an ironical exclamation. “Ah, you’ve promised her, I see. Was it one of the conditions? In that case, of course—”

  “There were no conditions—and if there had been—”

  “Oh, be careful! I want to talk of our past, and not of our future.”

  Tilney groaned again. “If only it could be our future—Belle, what a beastly bad turn we’ve done each other, after all!”

  “Don’t let us talk of the present, either, please.” She laid a restraining touch on his arm. “Why should we give each other this pain when it’s too late?”

  “Too late?” He paused, remembering that, for him at least, it was too late; but an irresistible impulse prompted him to add: “If it hadn’t been, tell me at least—would you have dared to, Belle?”

  They stood looking at each other, mysteriously isolated in the magic circle of the fog.

  “Dared? I am daring more now—more than I have courage for!” she murmured, half to herself.

  The admission had well-nigh broken down the last barriers of Tilney’s self-restraint; but at the moment of surrender he suddenly recalled his own state of bondage. He had but to lead Miss Grantham to the bench, and she would find herself free; but when she turned to reward him as liberators expect to be rewarded, with what a sorry countenance must he refuse her gift!

  He dropped the hand he had caught in his, and said in a low voice: “You were right just now, and I was wrong. We must not even talk of our past, lest we should be tempted to think of our present or our future. I happen to know that I am not doing anyone a serious wrong in speaking to you as I have; but my own case is different.”

  “Your own case is different?” Miss Grantham interposed, with a sudden change of voice and expression. “If you think you can make love to me without doing Mr. Magraw a serious wrong, I should like to know why I may not listen to you without—”

  Tilney received her attack with a disarming humility. “I said the cases were different, because, in a moment of incredible folly, I have tried to attract the interest of a trustful, affectionate girl—”

  Miss Grantham interrupted him with a laugh. “Do you mean that,” she asked ironically, “for a description of Sadie Bixby?”

  Her tone aroused an incongruous flash of resentment in Tilney. “I see no difficulty,” he returned, “in identifying the young lady from my words.”

  “If you really believe them to apply to her, I cannot see how you can excuse yourself for being here with me at this moment!” She laughed again, and then, to Tilney’s surprise, drew nearer, and once more laid her hand on his arm.

  “My poor friend, it is I who am the real offender, and not you. Believe me, I would not have let you speak to me as you have to-day, if I had not known—if I had not almost felt it my duty to be kind to you—to do what I could to atone—”

  “To be kind to me? To atone? What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Tilney, startled by this unexpected echo of his inmost thoughts.

  “Alas, it was a foolish impulse, and one which only our old friendship could justify. I forgot for a moment that I was not free, in my desire to prepare you—to console you in advance—for a blow—”

  “A blow? You’re not married?” burst from Tilney.

  She paused, and gazed at him wonderingly but not unkindly.

  “I was spea
king of yourself—yourself and Sadie. I feel myself so deeply to blame—”

  Tilney interrupted her with an air of inexpressible relief. “We’re both to blame for abetting each other in such suicidal folly. As if either of us was made to give up life and liberty for a bank-balance! But I don’t reproach you, Belle—it was more my fault than yours; and I deserve that I should be the one to pay the penalty!”

  “The penalty? The penalty of marrying Sadie?” she breathlessly interposed.

  “Of marrying any one but you!” he returned recklessly; and at the retort, a veil of sadness fell suddenly upon her eager face.

  “It’s too late to think of that now; but if you really feel as you say—”

  Tilney again cut her short. “It’s too late for me, I know; but if you really feel as you say, thank Heaven, Belle, it’s not too late for you!”

  She drew back a step, and both paused, as though dazed by the shock of their flying words. But as Tilney again approached her, she raised her hand and said gravely: “I don’t know what you mean, but I can explain what I mean if you’ll only—”

  “One moment, please. I can explain, too, if you’ll only—”

  He caught her hand, and began to lead her hurriedly across the lawn to the bench.

  “Only what?” she panted, trying to keep pace with his flying strides; and he called back across his shoulder: “Only come to the bench—and be quick!”

  “To the bench? Why, haven’t I been trying all this time to take you there?” she cried after him, between tears and laughter.

  “Yes; but I didn’t know; at least you didn’t know—”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “Whom you’d find there!”

  She pulled back at this, detaining him forcibly. “Good heavens,” she gasped, “do you mean to say that you’ve known all this time?”

  “Do you think I should have dared to say what I have if I hadn’t—?”

  “Hadn’t known about Sadie—?”

  “Sadie? I suppose you mean Magraw?”

  “Mr. Magraw?” She stopped short, and snatched her hand away with an indignant gesture.

  “Mr. Tilney, who do you think is sitting on that bench?”

  He faced around on her with equal indignation. “I don’t think: I know. Magraw is sitting there with a woman.”

  “You’re utterly mistaken! I happen to know that it’s Sadie Bixby who is sitting there with a man.”

  There was a long pause between them, charged with a gradual rush of inner enlightenment; then Tilney suddenly burst into a huge, world-defying laugh.

  “Well, then, don’t you see—?”

  “I don’t see anything more than if the fog were inside me!” she wailed.

  “Don’t you see that Magraw and Miss Bixby must be sitting there together, and that, in that case, nothing remains for you and me but to find a new seat for ourselves?”

  (Ainslee’s 16, December 1905)

  

  Les Metteurs en Scène.

  I.

  C’était l’heure du thé à l’hôtel Nouveau-Luxe.

  Depuis quelques instants, Jean Le Fanois se tenait à l’entrée d’un des petits salons à boiseries Louis XV qui donnent sur le vaste hall central. De taille moyenne, svelte et bien pris dans sa redingote de coupe irréprochable, il avait l’allure narquoise et légèrement impertinente du Parisien de bonne famille qui s’est frotté trop longtemps au monde exotique et bruyant des hôtels élégants et des cabarets ultra-chics. De temps à autre, cependant, sa figure pâle et nerveuse était assombrie par une expression d’inquiétude, qui se dissimulait mal sous le sourire insouciant avec lequel il saluait les personnes de sa connaissance.

  Plusieurs fois il jeta un coup d’œil impatient sur sa montre ; puis son visage se rasséréna, et il s’avança d’un pas rapide à la rencontre d’une jeune fille qui venait de franchir le seuil du hall. Fine et élancée, dans son costume de ville d’une élégance sobre, elle avait, sur un cou long et gracile, une jolie tête d’éphèbe, aux lèvres d’un rose trop pâle, aux grands yeux clairs et transparents, sous un front intelligent qu’ombrageaient des cheveux d’un blond doux et indécis. Cherchant le jeune homme du regard, elle traversait seule la salle encombrée, avec la mine confiante, le port de tête tranquillement audacieux de la jeune Américaine habituée à se frayer elle-même un chemin à travers la vie. Pourtant, à la regarder de plus près, on remarquait que l’air d’indépendance un peu naïve qui caractérise ses compatriotes était adouci chez elle par une nuance de raffinement parisien, comme si un visage au teint trop éclatant eût été voilé par un tulle léger. Le contact d’une autre civilisation avait produit chez elle un tout autre effet que chez Le Fanois : elle avait gagné, à ce commerce cosmopolite, autant que lui paraissait y avoir perdu.

  Le jeune homme l’aborda avec un geste de familiarité fraternelle.

  — Vous arrivez seule ? Vos amies vous ont fait faux bond ? demanda-t-il en lui serrant la main.

  Miss Lambart eut un sourire rassurant, tandis que son clair regard fouillait la salle.

  — Mais non, je ne pense pas. Je devais retrouver Mrs Smithers et sa fille dans un de ces petits salons là-bas.

  Elle indiqua, du bout de son face-à-main d’écaillé, l’enfilade de pièces qui donnait sur le hall.

  — Si nous les cherchions ? continua-t-elle. Mais Le Fanois la retint.

  — Un instant, je vous prie, dit-il, en baissant la voix et en faisant reculer la jeune fille vers une des grandes baies vitrées qui s’ouvraient sur le jardin de l’hôtel. Expliquez-moi ce que vous leur avez dit de moi, et quel est au juste le rôle que je dois jouer.

  Il hésita, puis, avec un sourire vaguement ironique :

  — Enfin, à quel degré d’ambition sociale vos amies sont-elles parvenues ?

  Miss Lambart sourit aussi.

  — Je les crois bien naïves encore, dit-elle ; mais il faut toujours se tenir sur ses gardes. Les plus naïfs sont parfois les plus méfiants.

  Elle lui jeta un coup d’œil railleur.

  — Souvenez-vous de la jolie veuve de Trouville, — celle de l’année dernière, vous savez ? Si vous aviez voulu la présenter à la duchesse de Sestre, le tour eût été joué.

  Le jeune homme haussa légèrement les épaules.

  — Elle était vraiment trop exigeante, dit-il. Et puis — et puis — était-elle bien veuve, veuve comme on l’entend chez nous, ou bien avait-elle simplement égaré son dernier mari ? Votre pays est si grand que ces accidents doivent souvent arriver. Son passé était vraiment trop nébuleux !

  La jeune fille eut un petit rire qui découvrait ses jolies dents nacrées et régulières sous le rose pâle des lèvres un peu trop minces.

  — Oh ! quant à cela, vous savez, je ne vous réponds pas du passé de Mrs Smithers, car je n’ai jamais soulevé les voiles qui l’entourent. Mais je vous assure que sa fille est charmante, et que vous seriez bien difficile de ne pas en convenir.

  Le jeune homme lui jeta un regard indéfinissable, où une nuance de sentiment semblait se mêler à sa moquerie habituelle.

  — Aussi charmante que vous ? demanda-t-il en plaisantant.

  Les sourcils foncés de miss Lambart se contractèrent sur ses grands yeux, devenus subitement d’un gris froid et métallique.

  — Ah çà ! mon cher, vous sortez de votre rôle. Du reste, reprit-elle, en retrouvant sa désinvolture souriante, c’est à moi de vous l’indiquer. Comme je vous le disais, je crois que, pour le moment, les ambitions de Mrs Smithers ne se sont pas précisées. Comme beaucoup d’Américaines trop vite enrichies, elle n’a pas su se faire des relations à New-York, et moitié par dépit, moitié par désir de dépenser son argent, elle s’est jetée sur le premier paquebot avec sa fille, espérant sans doute se faire une situation rapide dans un monde oii il suffit que les gens soient riches et viennent d’assez loin pour qu’on les reçoive sans faire une enquête gênante sur leur passé ! Comme vous le savez, c’est tout récemment, sur
le transatlantique qui me ramenait de là-bas, que j’ai fait connaissance avec Mrs Smithers ; et elle m’a avoué avec une noble franchise qu’elle désirait se lier avec l’aristocratie française, ayant elle-même des goûts aristocratiques qui lui rendaient la vie insupportable dans une société plébéienne. Tenez, la voici, ajouta-t-elle avec son sourire finement malicieux.

  Le Fanois se retourna et vit une grosse dame, aux traits pâles et bouffis, surmontés d’une coiffure compliquée sur laquelle se balançait un chapeau chargé de la dépouille de toute une volière exotique. Elle s’avançait vers eux, les épaules écrasées sous un superbe manteau de renard argenté, la démarche gênée par les plis d’une robe lourde de broderies, et traînant à la remorque une jeune fille grande et rose. Celle-ci, qui était habillée avec la même élégance exagérée que sa mère, tenait à la main un manchon de zibeline, un porte-monnaie en or serti de pierres précieuses et un face-à-main en brillants ; et ses cheveux, d’un blond invraisemblable, étaient couronnés d’une flore aussi variée que la garniture ornithologique du chapeau maternel.

  — Voici Mrs Smithers et sa fille Catherine, reprit Blanche Lambart.

  Et Le Fanois, s’avançant à sa suite vers les nouvelles arrivées, eut un soupir involontaire :

  — Ah ! les pauvres gens, les pauvres gens !

  

  II.

  Depuis bientôt dix ans, Jean Le Fanois menait cette vie assommante et équivoque de lanceur de nouveaux riches dans le monde parisien. Il s’y était laissé aller peu à peu, à la suite de relations accidentellement nouées avec un richissime Américain, au moment où Le Fanois lui-même se trouvait dans la dèche. Comment ce garçon affamé de luxe, habitué depuis sa première jeunesse à l’existence facile et coûteuse du clubman parisien, eût-il résisté à l’aubaine inespérée d’une telle relation ? Son nouvel ami, cœur excellent et esprit naïf, ne demandait qu’à jouir de ses millions en compagnie de quelques amis de choix. Collectionneur à ses heures, comme beaucoup de ses compatriotes, il sut apprécier les goûts artistiques de Le Fanois, et le chargea de l’ameublement et des décorations de l’élégant hôtel qu’il venait d’acheter à un rastaquouère en faillite. Jean fut ravi de l’occasion de se produire en amateur éclairé ; et, en acquérant de beaux objets d’art pour son ami, il trouva un peu du plaisir qu’il aurait eu à se les offrir lui-même. Puis il apprit que l’on pouvait gagner à ce jeu des récompenses plus durables que ce plaisir altruiste. Il toucha de fortes sommes auprès des brocanteurs ravis du client qu’il leur amenait ; et bien que cette transaction le gênât légèrement la première fois qu’elle lui fut proposée, il s’y habitua vite, d’autant plus que de grosses pertes au jeu avaient sérieusement entamé sa modeste fortune.