Roman Fever and Other Stories

by Edith Wharton

  She flamed up.

  “Do you suppose I care? It’s none of their business.”

  “Of course not; but you won’t get them to think so.”

  “They may think what they please.”

  He looked at her doubtfully.

  “It’s for you to decide.”

  “We’ll stay,” she repeated.

  Gannett, before they met, had made himself known as a succeesful writer of short stories and of a novel which had achieved the distinction of being widely discussed. The reviewers called him “promising,” and Lydia now accused herself of having too long interfered with the fulfilment of his promise. There was a special irony in the fact, since his passionate assurances that only the stimulus of her companionship could bring out his latent faculty had almost given the dignity of a “vocation” to her course: there had been moments when she had felt unable to assume, before posterity, the responsibility of thwarting his career. And, after all, he had not written a line since they had been together: his first desire to write had come from renewed contact with the world! Was it all a mistake then? Must the most intelligent choice work more disastrously than the blundering combinations of chance? Or was there a still more humiliating answer to her perplexities? His sudden impulse of activity so exactly coincided with her own wish to withdraw, for a time, from the range of his observation, that she wondered if he too were not seeking sanctuary from intolerable problems.

  “You must begin to-morrow!” she cried, hiding a tremor under the laugh with which she added, “I wonder if there’s any ink in the inkstand?”

  Whatever else they had at the Hotel Bellosguardo, they had, as Miss Pinsent said, “a certain tone.” It was to Lady Susan Condit that they owed this inestimable benefit; an advantage ranking in Miss Pinsent’s opinion above even the lawn tennis courts and the resident chaplain. It was the fact of Lady Susan’s annual visit that made the hotel what it was. Miss Pinsent was certainly the last to underrate such a privilege:—“It’s so important, my dear, forming as we do a little family, that there should be some one to give the tone; and no one could do it better than Lady Susan—an earl’s daughter and a person of such determination. Dear Mrs. Ainger now—who really ought, you know, when Lady Susan’s away—absolutely refuses to assert herself.” Miss Pinsent sniffed derisively. “A bishop’s niece!—my dear, I saw her once actually give in to some South Americans—and before us all. She gave up her seat at table to oblige them—such a lack of dignity! Lady Susan spoke to her very plainly about it afterwards.”

  Miss Pinsent glanced across the lake and adjusted her auburn front.

  “But of course I don’t deny that the stand Lady Susan takes is not always easy to live up to—for the rest of us, I mean. Monsieur Grossart, our good proprietor, finds it trying at times, I know—he has said as much, privately, to Mrs. Ainger and me. After all, the poor man is not to blame for wanting to fill his hotel, is he? And Lady Susan is so difficult—so very difficult—about new people. One might almost say that she disapproves of them beforehand, on principle. And yet she’s had warnings—she very nearly made a dreadful mistake once with the Duchess of Levens, who dyed her hair and—well, swore and smoked. One would have thought that might have been a lesson to Lady Susan.” Miss Pinsent resumed her knitting with a sigh. “There are exceptions, of course. She took at once to you and Mr. Gannett—it was quite remarkable, really. Oh, I don’t mean that either—of course not! It was perfectly natural—we all thought you so charming and interesting from the first day—we knew at once that Mr. Gannett was intellectual, by the magazines you took in; but you know what I mean. Lady Susan is so very—well, I won’t say prejudiced, as Mrs. Ainger does—but so prepared not to like new people, that her taking to you in that way was a surprise to us all, I confess.”

  Miss Pinsent sent a significant glance down the long laurustinus alley from the other end of which two people—a lady and gentleman—were strolling toward them through the smiling neglect of the garden.

  “In this case, of course, it’s very different; that I’m willing to admit. Their looks are against them; but, as Mrs. Ainger says, one can’t exactly tell them so.”

  “She’s very handsome,” Lydia ventured, with her eyes on the lady, who showed, under the dome of a vivid sunshade, the hour-glass figure and superlative coloring of a Christmas chromo.

  “That’s the worst of it. She’s too handsome.”

  “Well, after all, she can’t help that.”

  “Other people manage to,” said Miss Pinsent skeptically.

  “But isn’t it rather unfair of Lady Susan—considering that nothing is known about them?”

  “But, my dear, that’s the very thing that’s against them. It’s infinitely worse than any actual knowledge.”

  Lydia mentally agreed that, in the case of Mrs. Linton, it possibly might be.

  “I wonder why they came here?” she mused.

  “That’s against them too. It’s always a bad sign when loud people come to a quiet place. And they’ve brought van-loads of boxes—her maid told Mrs. Ainger’s that they meant to stop indefinitely.”

  “And Lady Susan actually turned her back on her in the salon?”

  “My dear, she said it was for our sakes; that makes it so unanswerable! But poor Grossart is in a way! The Lintons have taken his most expensive suite, you know—the yellow damask drawing-room above the portico—and they have champagne with every meal!”

  They were silent as Mr. and Mrs. Linton sauntered by; the lady with tempestuous brows and challenging chin; the gentleman, a blond stripling, trailing after her, head downward, like a reluctant child dragged by his nurse.

  “What does your husband think of them, my dear?” Miss Pinsent whispered as they passed out of earshot.

  Lydia stooped to pick a violet in the border.

  “He hasn’t told me.”

  “Of your speaking to them, I mean. Would he approve of that? I know how very particular nice Americans are. I think your action might make a difference; it would certainly carry weight with Lady Susan.”

  “Dear Miss Pinsent, you flatter me!”

  Lydia rose and gathered up her book and sunshade.

  “Well, if you’re asked for an opinion—if Lady Susan asks you for one—I think you ought to be prepared,” Miss Pinsent admonished her as she moved away.

  III.

  LADY Susan held her own. She ignored the Lintons, and her little family, as Miss Pinsent phrased it, followed suit. Even Mrs. Ainger agreed that it was obligatory. If Lady Susan owed it to the others not to speak to the Lintons, the others clearly owed it to Lady Susan to back her up. It was generally found expedient, at the Hotel Bellosguardo, to adopt this form of reasoning.

  Whatever effect this combined action may have had upon the Lintons, it did not at least have that of driving them away. Monsieur Grossart, after a few days of suspense, had the satisfaction of seeing them settle down in his yellow damask premier with what looked like a permanent installation of palm-trees and silk sofa-cushions, and a gratifying continuance in the consumption of champagne. Mrs. Linton trailed her Doucet draperies up and down the garden with the same challenging air, while her husband, smoking innumerable cigarettes, dragged himself dejectedly in her wake; but neither of them, after the first encounter with Lady Susan, made any attempt to extend their acquaintance. They simply ignored their ignorers. As Miss Pinsent resentfully observed, they behaved exactly as though the hotel were empty.

  It was therefore a matter of surprise, as well as of displeasure, to Lydia, to find, on glancing up one day from her seat in the garden, that the shadow which had fallen across her book was that of the enigmatic Mrs. Linton.

  “I want to speak to you,” that lady said, in a rich hard voice that seemed the audible expression of her gown and her complexion.

  Lydia started. She certainly did not want to speak to Mrs. Linton.

  “Shall I sit down here?” the latter continued, fixing her intensely-shaded eyes on Lydia’s face, “or are you af
raid of being seen with me?

  “Afraid?” Lydia colored. “Sit down, please. What is it that you wish to say?”

  Mrs. Linton, with a smile, drew up a garden-chair and crossed one open-work ankle above the other.

  “I want you to tell me what my husband said to your husband last night.”

  Lydia turned pale.

  “My husband—to yours?” she faltered, staring at the other.

  “Didn’t you know they were closeted together for hours in the smoking-room after you went upstairs? My man didn’t get to bed until nearly two o’clock and when he did I couldn’t get a word out of him. When he wants to be aggravating I’ll back him against anybody living!” Her teeth and eyes flashed persuasively upon Lydia. “But you’ll tell me what they were talking about, won’t you? I know I can trust you—you look so awfully kind. And it’s for his own good. He’s such a precious donkey and I’m so afraid he’s got into some beastly scrape or other. If he’d only trust his own old woman! But they’re always writing to him and setting him against me. And I’ve got nobody to turn to.” She laid her hand on Lydia’s with a rattle of bracelets. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  Lydia drew back from the smiling fierceness of her brows.

  “I’m sorry—but I don’t think I understand. My husband has said nothing to me of—of yours.”

  The great black crescents above Mrs. Linton’s eyes met angrily.

  “I say—is that true?” she demanded.

  Lydia rose from her seat.

  “Oh, look here, I didn’t mean that, you know—you mustn’t take one up so! Can’t you see how rattled I am?”

  Lydia saw that, in fact, her beautiful mouth was quivering beneath softened eyes.

  “I’m beside myself!” the splendid creature wailed, dropping into her seat.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lydia repeated, forcing herself to speak kindly; “but how can I help you?”

  Mrs. Linton raised her head sharply.

  “By finding out—there’s a darling!”

  “Finding what out?”

  “What Trevenna told him.”

  “Trevenna—?” Lydia echoed in bewilderment.

  Mrs. Linton clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh, Lord—there, it’s out! What a fool I am! But I supposed of course you knew; I supposed everybody knew.” She dried her eyes and bridled. “Didn’t you know that he’s Lord Trevenna? I’m Mrs. Cope.”

  Lydia recognized the names. They had figured in a flamboyant elopement which had thrilled fashionable London some six months earlier.

  “Now you see how it is—you understand, don’t you?” Mrs. Cope continued on a note of appeal. “I knew you would—that’s the reason I came to you. I suppose he felt the same thing about your husband; he’s not spoken to another soul in the place.” Her face grew anxious again. “He’s awfully sensitive, generally—he feels our position, he says—as if it wasn’t my place to feel that! But when he does get talking there’s no knowing what he’ll say. I know he’s been brooding over something lately, and I must find out what it is—it’s to his interest that I should. I always tell him that I think only of his interest; if he’d only trust me! But he’s been so odd lately—I can’t think what he’s plotting. You will help me, dear?”

  Lydia, who had remained standing, looked away uncomfortably.

  “If you mean by finding out what Lord Trevenna has told my husband, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”

  “Because I infer that it was told in confidence.”

  Mrs. Cope stared incredulously.

  “Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear—any one can see he’s awfully gone on you. What’s to prevent your getting it out of him?”

  Lydia flushed.

  “I’m not a spy!” she exclaimed.

  “A spy—a spy? How dare you?” Mrs. Cope flamed out. “Oh, I don’t mean that either! Don’t be angry with me—I’m so miserable.” She essayed a softer note. “Do you call that spying—for one woman to help out another? I do need help so dreadfully! I’m at my wits’ end with Trevenna, I am indeed. He’s such a boy—a mere baby, you know; he’s only two-and-twenty.” She dropped her orbed lids. “He’s younger than me—only fancy! a few months younger. I tell him he ought to listen to me as if I was his mother; oughtn’t he now? But he won’t, he won’t! All his people are at him, you see—oh, I know their little game! Trying to get him away from me before I can get my divorce—that’s what they’re up to. At first he wouldn’t listen to them; he used to toss their letters over to me to read; but now he reads them himself, and answers ’em too, I fancy; he’s always shut up in his room, writing. If I only knew what his plan is I could stop him fast enough—he’s such a simpleton. But he’s dreadfully deep too—at times I can’t make him out. But I know he’s told your husband everything—I knew that last night the minute I laid eyes on him. And I must find out—you must help me—I’ve got no one else to turn to!”

  She caught Lydia’s fingers in a stormy pressure.

  “Say you’ll help me—you and your husband.”

  Lydia tried to free herself.

  “What you ask is impossible; you must see that it is. No one could interfere in—in the way you ask.”

  Mrs. Cope’s clutch tightened.

  “You won’t, then? You won’t?”

  “Certainly not. Let me go, please.”

  Mrs. Cope released her with a laugh.

  “Oh, go by all means—pray don’t let me detain you! Shall you go and tell Lady Susan Condit that there’s a pair of us—or shall I save you the trouble of enlightening her?”

  Lydia stood still in the middle of the path, seeing her antagonist through a mist of terror. Mrs. Cope was still laughing.

  “Oh, I’m not spiteful by nature, my dear; but you’re a little more than flesh and blood can stand! It’s impossible, is it? Let you go, indeed! You’re too good to be mixed up in my affairs, are you? Why, you little fool, the first day I laid eyes on you I saw that you and I were both in the same box—that’s the reason I spoke to you.”

  She stepped nearer, her smile dilating on Lydia like a lamp through a fog.

  “You can take your choice, you know; I always play fair. If you’ll tell I’ll promise not to. Now then, which is it to be?”

  Lydia, involuntarily, had begun to move away from the pelting storm of words; but at this she turned and sat down again.

  “You may go,” she said simply. “I shall stay here.”

  IV.

  SHE stayed there for a long time, in the hypnotized contemplation, not of Mrs. Cope’s present, but of her own past. Gannett, early that morning, had gone off on a long walk—he had fallen into the habit of taking these mountain-tramps with various fellow-lodgers; but even had he been within reach she could not have gone to him just then. She had to deal with herself first. She was surprised to find how, in the last months, she had lost the habit of introspection. Since their coming to the Hotel Bellosguardo she and Gannett had tacitly avoided themselves and each other.

  She was aroused by the whistle of the three o’clock steamboat as it neared the landing just beyond the hotel gates. Three o’clock! Then Gannett would soon be back—he had told her to expect him before four. She rose hurriedly, her face averted from the inquisitorial façade of the hotel. She could not see him just yet; she could not go indoors. She slipped through one of the overgrown garden-alleys and climbed a steep path to the hills.

  It was dark when she opened their sitting-room door. Gannett was sitting on the window-ledge smoking a cigarette. Cigarettes were now his chief resource: he had not written a line during the two months they had spent at the Hotel Bellosguardo. In that respect, it had turned out not to be the right milieu after all.

  He started up at Lydia’s entrance.

  “Where have you been? I was getting anxious.”

  She sat down in a chair near the door.

  “Up the mountain,” she said wearily.

  “Al
one?”

  “Yes.”

  Gannett threw away his cigarette: the sound of her voice made him want to see her face.

  “Shall we have a little light?” he suggested.

  She made no answer and he lifted the globe from the lamp and put a match to the wick. Then he looked at her.

  “Anything wrong? You look done up.”

  She sat glancing vaguely about the little sitting-room, dimly lit by the pallid-globed lamp, which left in twilight the outlines of the furniture, of his writing-table heaped with books and papers, of the tea-roses and jasmine drooping on the mantel-piece. How like home it had all grown—how like home!

  “Lydia, what is wrong?” he repeated.

  She moved away from him, feeling for her hatpins and turning to lay her hat and sunshade on the table.

  Suddenly she said: “That woman has been talking to me.”

  Gannett stared.

  “That woman? What woman?”

  “Mrs. Linton—Mrs. Cope.”

  He gave a start of annoyance, still, as she perceived, not grasping the full import of her words.

  “The deuce! She told you—?”

  “She told me everything.”

  Gannett looked at her anxiously.

  “What impudence! I’m so sorry that you should have been exposed to this, dear.”

  “Exposed!” Lydia laughed.

  Gannett’s brow clouded and they looked away from each other.

  “Do you know why she told me? She had the best of reasons. The first time she laid eyes on me she saw that we were both in the same box.”

  “Lydia!”

  “So it was natural, of course, that she should turn to me in a difficulty.”

  “What difficulty?”

  “It seems she has reason to think that Lord Trevenna’s people are trying to get him away from her before she gets her divorce—”

  “Well?”

  “And she fancied he had been consulting with you last night as to—as to the best way of escaping from her.”

  Gannett stood up with an angry forehead.