Edith Wharton - SSC 10

by The World Over (v2. 1)

  I had put my indiscreet question about Miss Wilpert somewhat abruptly, in the hope of startling Mrs. Ingram out of her usual reserve; and I saw by the quick rise of colour under her pale skin that I had nearly succeeded. But after a moment she replied, with a smile: “I can’t believe Cassie ever said anything so silly.”

  “You can’t? Then I wish you’d ask her; and if it was just an invention of that head-waiter’s I’ll make him give me back my table before he’s a day older.”

  Mrs. Ingram still smiled. “I hope you won’t make a fuss about such a trifle. Perhaps Cassie did say something foolish. She’s not used to travelling, and sometimes takes odd notions.”

  The ambiguity of the answer was obviously meant to warn me off; but having risked one question I was determined to risk another. “Miss Wilpert’s a very old friend, I suppose?”

  “Yes; very,” said Mrs. Ingram non-committally.

  “And was she always with you when you were at home?”

  My question seemed to find her unprepared. “At home—?”

  “I mean, where you lived. California, wasn’t it?”

  She looked relieved. “Oh, yes; Cassie Wilpert was with me in California.”

  “But there she must have had to associate with her compatriots?”

  “Yes; that’s one reason why she was so glad when I decided to travel,” said Mrs. Ingram with a faint touch of irony, and then added: “Poor Cassie was very unhappy at one time; there were people who were unkind to her. That accounts for her prejudices, I suppose.”

  “I’m sorry I’m one of them. What can I do to make up to her?”

  I fancied I saw a slight look of alarm in Mrs. Ingram’s eyes. “Oh, you’d much better leave her alone.”

  “But she’s always with you; and I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  Mrs. Ingram smiled, and then sighed. “We shall be going soon now.”

  “And then Miss Wilpert will be rid of me?”

  Mrs. Ingram looked at me quickly; her eyes were plaintive, almost entreating. “I shall never leave her; she’s been like a—a sister to me,” she murmured, answering a question I had not put.

  The word startled me; and I noticed that Mrs. Ingram had hesitated a moment before pronouncing it. A sister to her—that coarse red-handed woman? The words sounded as if they had been spoken by rote. I saw at once that they did not express the speaker’s real feeling, and that, whatever that was, she did not mean to let me find it out.

  Some of the bridge-players with whom Miss Wilpert consorted were coming toward us, and I stood up to leave. “Don’t let Miss Wilpert carry you off on my account. I promise you I’ll keep out of her way,” I said, laughing.

  Mrs. Ingram straightened herself almost imperiously. “I’m not at Miss Wilpert’s orders; she can’t take me away from any place I choose to stay in,” she said; but a moment later, lowering her voice, she breathed to me quickly: “Go now; I see her coming.”

  

  III.

  I don’t mind telling you that I was not altogether happy about my attitude toward Mrs. Ingram. I’m not given to prying into other people’s secrets; yet I had not scrupled to try to trap her into revealing hers. For that there was a secret I was now convinced; and I excused myself for trying to get to the bottom of it by the fact that I was sure I should find Miss Wilpert there, and that the idea was abhorrent to me. The relation between the two women, I had by now discovered, was one of mutual animosity; not the kind of animosity which may be the disguise of more complicated sentiments, but the simple incompatibility that was bound to exist between two women so different in class and character. Miss Wilpert was a coarse, uneducated woman, with, as far as I could see, no redeeming qualities, moral or mental, to bridge the distance between herself and her companion; and the mystery was that any past tie or obligation, however strong, should have made Mrs. Ingram tolerate her.

  I knew how easily rich and idle women may become dependent on some vulgar tyrannical house-keeper or companion who renders them services and saves them trouble; but I saw at once that this theory did not explain the situation. On the contrary, it was Miss Wilpert who was dependent on Mrs. Ingram, who looked to her as guide, interpreter, and manager of their strange association. Miss Wilpert possessed no language but her own, and of that only a local vernacular which made it difficult to explain her wants (and they were many) even to the polyglot servants of a Swiss hotel. Mrs. Ingram spoke a carefully acquired if laborious French, and was conscientiously preparing for a winter in Naples by taking a daily lesson in Italian; and I noticed that whenever an order was to be given, an excursion planned, or any slight change effected in the day’s arrangements, Miss Wilpert, suddenly embarrassed and helpless, always waited for Mrs. Ingram to interpret for her. It was obvious, therefore, that she was a burden and not a help to her employer, and that I must look deeper to discover the nature of their bond.

  Mrs. Ingram, guide-book in hand, appealed to me one day about their autumn plans. “I think we shall be leaving next week; and they say here we ought not to miss the Italian lakes.”

  “Leaving next week? But why? The lakes are not at their best till after the middle of September. You’ll find them very stuffy after this high air.”

  Mrs. Ingram sighed. “Cassie’s tired of it here. She says she doesn’t like the people.”

  I looked at her, and then ventured with a smile: “Don’t you mean that she doesn’t like me?”

  “I don’t see why you think that—”

  “Well, I daresay it sounds rather fatuous. But you do know why I think it; and you think it yourself.” I hesitated a moment, and then went on, lowering my voice: “Since you attach such importance to Miss Wilpert’s opinions, it’s natural I should want to know why she dislikes seeing me with you.”

  Mrs. Ingram looked at me helplessly. “Well, if she doesn’t like you—”

  “Yes; but in reality I don’t think it’s me she dislikes, but the fact of my being with you.”

  She looked disturbed at this. “But if she dislikes you, it’s natural she shouldn’t want you to be with me.”

  “And do her likes and dislikes regulate all your friendships?”

  “Friendships? I’ve so few; I know hardly any one,” said Mrs. Ingram, looking away.

  “You’d have as many as you chose if she’d let you,” I broke out angrily.

  She drew herself up with the air of dignity she could assume on occasion. “I don’t know why you find so much pleasure in saying disagreeable things to me about my—my friend.”

  The answer rushed to my lips: “Why did she begin by saying disagreeable things about me?”—but just in time I saw that I was on the brink of a futile wrangle with the woman whom, at that moment, I was the most anxious not to displease. How anxious, indeed, I now saw for the first time, in the light of my own anger. For what on earth did I care for the disapproval of a creature like Miss Wilpert, except as it interfered with my growing wish to stand well with Kate Ingram? The answer I did make sprang to my lips before I could repress it. “Because—you must know by this time. Because I can’t bear that anything or any one should come between us.”

  “Between us—?”

  I pressed on, hardly knowing what I was saying. “Because nothing matters to me as much as what you feel about me. In fact, nothing else matters at all.”

  The words had rushed out, lighting up the depths of my feeling as much to myself as to Mrs. Ingram. Only then did I remember how little I knew of the woman to whom they were addressed—not even her maiden name, nor as much as one fact of her past history. I did not even know if she were married, widowed or divorced. All I did know was that I had fallen in love with her—and had told her so.

  She sat motionless, without a word. But suddenly her eyes filled, and I saw that her lips were trembling too much for her to speak.

  “Kate—” I entreated; but she drew back, shaking her head.

  “No—”

  “Why ‘no’? Because I’ve made you angry—?”
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  She shook her head again. “I feel that you’re a true friend—’“

  “I want you to feel much more than that.”

  “It’s all I can ever feel—for any one. I shall never—never …” She broke down, and sat struggling with her tears.

  “Do you say that because you’re not free?”

  “Oh, no—oh, no—”

  “Then is it because you don’t like me? Tell me that, and I won’t trouble you again.”

  We were sitting alone in a deserted corner of the lounge. The diners had scattered to the wide verandahs, the card-room or the bar. Miss Wilpert was safely engaged with a party of bridge-players in the farthest room of the suite, and I had imagined that at last I should be able to have my talk out with Mrs. Ingram. I had hardly meant it to take so grave a turn; but now that I had spoken I knew my choice was made.

  “If you tell me you don’t like me, I won’t trouble you any more,” I repeated, trying to keep her eyes on mine. Her lids quivered, and she looked down at her uneasy hands. I had often noticed that her hands were the only unquiet things about her, and now she sat clasping and unclasping them without ceasing.

  “I can’t tell you that I don’t like you,” she said, very low. I leaned over to capture those restless fingers, and quiet them in mine; but at the same moment she gave a start, and I saw that she was not looking at me, but over my shoulder at some one who must have crossed the lounge behind me. I turned and saw a man I had not noticed before in the hotel, but whose short square-shouldered figure struck me as vaguely familiar.

  “Is that some one you know?” I asked, surprised by the look in her face.

  “N-no. I thought it was… I must have been mistaken …” I saw that she was struggling to recover her self-control, and I looked again at the newcomer, who had stopped on his way to the bar to speak to one of the hall-porters.

  “Why, I believe it’s Jimmy Shreve—Shreve of the New York Evening Star” I said. “It looks like him. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Then, please—won’t you answer the question I was just asking you?”

  She had grown very pale, and was twisting her long fingers distressfully. “Oh, not now; not now…”

  “Why not now? After what you’ve told me, do you suppose I’m going to be put off without a reason?”

  “There’s my reason!” she exclaimed with a nervous laugh. I looked around, and saw Miss Wilpert approaching. She looked unusually large and flushed, and her elaborate evening dress showed a displeasing expanse of too-white skin.

  “Ah, that’s your reason? I thought so!” I broke out bitterly.

  One of Mrs. Ingram’s quick blushes overswept her. “I didn’t mean that—you’ve no right to say so. I only meant that I’d promised to go with her…”

  Miss Wilpert was already towering over us, loud-breathing and crimson. I suspected that in the intervals of bridge she had more than once sought refreshment at the bar. “Well, so this is where you’ve hidden yourself away, is it? I’ve hunted for you all over the place; but I didn’t suppose you’d choose a dark corner under the stairs. I presume you’ve forgotten that you asked them to reserve seats for us for those Javanese dances. They won’t keep our places much longer; the ballroom’s packed already.”

  I sat still, almost holding my breath, and watched the two women. I guessed that a crucial point in the struggle between them had been reached, and that a word from me might wreck my chances. Mrs. Ingram’s colour faded quickly, as it always did, but she forced a nervous smile. “I’d no idea it was so late.”

  “Well, if your watch has stopped, there’s the hall clock right in front of you,” said Miss Wilpert, with quick panting breaths between the words. She waited a moment. “Are you coming?”

  Mrs. Ingram leaned back in her deep armchair. “Well, no—I don’t believe I am.”

  “You’re not!”

  “No. I think I like it better here.”

  “But you must be crazy! You asked that Italian Countess to keep us two seats next to hers—”

  “Well, you can go and ask her to excuse me—say I’m tired. The ball-room’s always so hot.”

  “Land’s sake! How’m I going to tell her all that in Italian? You know she don’t speak a word of English. She’ll think it’s pretty funny if you don’t come; and so will the others. You always say you hate to have people talk about you; and yet here you sit, stowed away in this dark corner, like a school-girl with her boy friend at a Commencement dance—”

  Mrs. Ingram stood up quickly. “Cassie, I’m afraid you must have been losing at bridge. I never heard you talk so foolishly. But of course I’ll come if you think the Countess expects us.” She turned to me with a little smile, and suddenly, shyly, held out her hand. “You’ll tell me the rest tomorrow morning,” she said, looking straight at me for an instant; then she turned and followed Cassie Wilpert.

  I stood watching them with a thumping heart. I didn’t know what held these women together, but I felt that in the last few minutes a link of the chain between them had been loosened, and I could hardly wait to see it snap.

  I was still standing there when the man who had attracted Mrs. Ingram’s notice came out of the bar, and walked toward me; and I saw that it was in fact my old acquaintance Jimmy Shreve, the bright particular ornament of the Evening Star. We had not met for a year or more, and his surprise at the encounter was as great as mine. “Funny, coming across you in this jazz crowd. I’m here to get away from my newspaper; but what has brought you?”

  I explained that I had been ill the previous year, and, by the doctor’s orders, was working out in the Alps the last months of my convalescence; and he listened with the absent-minded sympathy which one’s friends give to one’s ailments, particularly when they are on the mend.

  “Well—well—too bad you’ve had such a mean time. Glad you’re out of it now, anyway,” he muttered, snapping a reluctant cigarette-lighter, and finally having recourse to mine. As he bent over it he said suddenly: “Well, what about Kate Spain?”

  I looked at him in bewilderment. For a moment the question was so unintelligible that I wondered if he too were a sufferer, and had been sent to the heights for medical reasons; but his sharp little professional eyes burned with a steady spark of curiosity as he took a close-up of me across the lighter. And then I understood; at least I understood the allusion, though its relevance escaped me.

  “Kate Spain? Oh, you mean that murder trial at Cayuga? You got me a card for it, didn’t you? But I wasn’t able to go.”

  “I remember. But you’ve made up for it since, I see.” He continued to twinkle at me meaningly; but I was still groping. “What do you think of her?” he repeated.

  “Think of her? Why on earth should I think of her at all?”

  He drew back and squared his sturdy shoulders in evident enjoyment. “Why, because you’ve been talking to her as hard as you could for the last two hours,” he chuckled.

  I stood looking at him blankly. Again it occurred to me that under his tight journalistic mask something had loosened and gone adrift. But I looked at the steadiness of the stumpy fingers which held his cigarette. The man had himself under perfect control.

  “Kate Spain?” I said, collecting myself. “Does that lady I was talking to really look to you like a murderess?”

  Shreve made a dubious gesture. “I’m not so sure what murderesses look like. But, as it happens, Kate Spain was acquitted.”

  “So she was. Still, I don’t think I’ll tell Mrs. Ingram that she looks like her.”

  Shreve smiled incredulously. “Mrs. Ingram? Is that what you call her?”

  “It’s her name. I was with Mrs. Ingram, of California.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were with Kate Spain. She knows me well enough—ask her. I met her face to face just now, going into the ball-room. She was with a red-headed Jezebel that I don’t know.”

  “Ah, you don’t know the red-headed lady? Well, that shows you’re mistaken. For Miss Cassie Wi
lpert has lived with Mrs. Ingram as her companion for several years. They’re inseparable.”

  Shreve tossed away his cigarette and stood staring at me. “Cassie Wilpert? Is that what that great dressed-up prizefighter with all the jewelry calls herself? Why, see here, Severance, Cassie was the servant girl’s name, sure enough: Cassie—don’t you remember? It was her evidence that got Kate Spain off. But at the trial she was a thin haggard Irish girl in dirty calico. To be sure, I suppose old Ezra Spain starved his servant as thoroughly as he starved his daughter. You remember Cassie’s description of the daily fare: Sunday, boiled mutton; Monday, cold mutton; Tuesday, mutton hash; Wednesday, mutton stew—and I forget what day the dog got the mutton bone. Why, it was Cassie who knocked the prosecution all to pieces. At first it was doubtful how the case would go; but she testified that she and Kate Spain were out shopping together when the old man was murdered; and the prosecution was never able to shake her evidence.”