House of Mirth (Barnes & Noble Classics - Edith Wharton [101]
“No—no—you came here, dear! You’re cold and tired—sit quiet, and I’ll make you some tea.”
Gerty had unconsciously adopted the soothing note of her trade: all personal feeling was merged in the sense of ministry, and experience had taught her that the bleeding must be stayed before the wound is probed.
Lily sat quiet, leaning to the fire: the clatter of cups behind her soothed her as familiar noises hush a child whom silence has kept wakeful. But when Gerty stood at her side with the tea she pushed it away, and turned an estranged eye on the familiar room.
“I came here because I couldn’t bear to be alone,” she said.
Gerty set down the cup and knelt beside her.
“Lily! Something has happened—can’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t bear to lie awake in my room till morning. I hate my room at Aunt Julia’s-so I came here—”
She stirred suddenly, broke from her apathy, and clung to Gerty in a fresh burst of fear.
“Oh, Gerty, the furies... you know the noise of their wings—alone, at night, in the dark? But you don’t know—there is nothing to make the dark dreadful to you—”
The words, flashing back on Gerty’s last hours, struck from her a faint derisive murmur; but Lily, in the blaze of her own misery, was blinded to everything outside it.
“You’ll let me stay? I shan’t mind when daylight comes—Is it late? Is the night nearly over? It must be awful to be sleepless—everything stands by the bed and stares—”
Miss Farish caught her straying hands. “Lily, look at me! Something has happened—an accident? You have been frightened—what has frightened you? Tell me if you can—a word or two—so that I can help you.”
Lily shook her head.
“I am not frightened: that’s not the word. Can you imagine looking into your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement-some hideous change that has come to you while you slept? Well, I seem to myself like that—I can’t bear to see myself in my own thoughts—I hate ugliness, you know—I’ve always turned from it-but I can’t explain to you—you wouldn’t understand.”
She lifted her head and her eyes fell on the clock.
“How long the night is! And I know I shan’t sleep tomorrow. Some one told me my father used to lie sleepless and think of horrors. And he was not wicked, only unfortunate—and I see now how he must have suffered, lying alone with his thoughts! But I am bad—a bad girl—all my thoughts are bad—I have always had bad people about me. Is that any excuse? I thought I could manage my own life—I was proud—proud! but now I’m on their level—”
Sobs shook her, and she bowed to them like a tree in a dry storm.
Gerty knelt beside her, waiting, with the patience born of experience, till this gust of misery should loosen fresh speech. She had first imagined some physical shock, some peril of the crowded streets, since Lily was presumably on her way home from Carry Fisher’s; but she now saw that other nerve-centres were smitten, and her mind trembled back from conjecture.
Lily’s sobs ceased, and she lifted her head.
“There are bad girls in your slums. Tell me—do they ever pick themselves up? Ever forget, and feel as they did before?”
“Lily! you mustn’t speak so—you’re dreaming.”
“Don’t they always go from bad to worse? There’s no turning back—your old self rejects you, and shuts you out.”
She rose, stretching her arms as if in utter physical weariness. “Go to bed, dear! You work hard and get up early. I’ll watch here by the fire, and you’ll leave the light, and your door open. All I want is to feel that you are near me.” She had both hands on Gerty’s shoulders, with a smile that was like sunrise on a sea strewn with wreckage.
“I can’t leave you, Lily. Come and lie on my bed. Your hands are frozen—you must undress and be made warm.” Gerty paused with sudden compunction. “But Mrs. Peniston—it’s past mid-night! What will she think?”
“She goes to bed. I have a latch-key. It doesn’t matter—I can’t go back there.”
“There’s no need to: you shall stay here. But you must tell me where you have been. Listen, Lily—it will help you to speak!