“How you can LAUGH——” her friend rebuked her; and she dropped back to a soberer perception of things with the question: “What was it Bertha really told him?”
“Don’t ask me—horrors! She seemed to have raked up everything. Oh, you know what I mean—of course there isn’t anything, REALLY; but I suppose she brought in Prince Varigliano—and Lord Hubert—and there was some story of your having borrowed money of old Ned Van Alstyne: did you ever?”
“He is my father’s cousin,” Miss Bart interposed.
“Well, of course she left THAT out. It seems Ned told Carry Fisher; and she told Bertha, naturally. They’re all alike, you know: they hold their tongues for years, and you think you’re safe, but when their opportunity comes they remember everything.”
Lily had grown pale: her voice had a harsh note in it. “It was some money I lost at bridge at the Van Osburghs’. I repaid it, of course.”
“Ah, well, they wouldn’t remember that; besides, it was the idea of the gambling debt that frightened Percy. Oh, Bertha knew her man—she knew just what to tell him!”
In this strain Mrs. Trenor continued for nearly an hour to admonish her friend. Miss Bart listened with admirable equanimity. Her naturally good temper had been disciplined by years of enforced compliance, since she had almost always had to attain her ends by the circuitous path of other people’s; and, being naturally inclined to face unpleasant facts as soon as they presented themselves, she was not sorry to hear an impartial statement of what her folly was likely to cost, the more so as her own thoughts were still insisting on the other side of the case. Presented in the light of Mrs. Trenor’s vigorous comments, the reckoning was certainly a formidable one, and Lily, as she listened, found herself gradually reverting to her friend’s view of the situation. Mrs. Trenor’s words were moreover emphasized for her hearer by anxieties which she herself could scarcely guess. Affluence, unless stimulated by a keen imagination, forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty. Judy knew it must be “horrid” for poor Lily to have to stop to consider whether she could afford real lace on her petticoats, and not to have a motor-car and a steam-yacht at her orders; but the daily friction of unpaid bills, the daily nibble of small temptations to expenditure, were trials as far out of her experience as the domestic problems of the char-woman. Mrs. Trenor’s unconsciousness of the real stress of the situation had the effect of making it more galling to Lily. While her friend reproached her for missing the opportunity to eclipse her rivals, she was once more battling in imagination with the mounting tide of indebtedness from which she had so nearly escaped. What wind of folly had driven her out again on those dark seas?
If anything was needed to put the last touch to her self-abasement it was the sense of the way her old life was opening its ruts again to receive her. Yesterday her fancy had fluttered free pinions above a choice of occupations; now she had to drop to the level of the familiar routine, in which moments of seeming brilliancy and freedom alternated with long hours of subjection.
She laid a deprecating hand on her friend’s. “Dear Judy! I’m sorry to have been such a bore, and you are very good to me. But you must have some letters for me to answer—let me at least be useful.”
She settled herself at the desk, and Mrs. Trenor accepted her resumption of the morning’s task with a sigh which implied that, after all, she had proved herself unfit for higher uses.