The Glimpses of the Moon, Edith Wharton [e reader manga .txt] 📗

time, while her

head spun round with unimaginable terrors.

 

“So are your sapphires; though, on closer examination, my

services would appear to have been valued rather higher than

yours. Would you be kind enough to tell me just what they

were?”

 

Susy threw her head back and looked at him. “What on earth are

you talking about, Nick! Why shouldn’t Ellie have given us

these things? Do you forget that it’s like our giving her a

pen-wiper or a button-hook? What is it you are trying to

suggest?”

 

It had cost her a considerable effort to hold his eyes while she

put the questions. Something had happened between him and

Ellie, that was evident-one of those hideous unforeseeable

blunders that may cause one’s cleverest plans to crumble at a

stroke; and again Susy shuddered at the frailty of her bliss.

But her old training stood her in good stead. There had been

more than one moment in her past when everything-somebody

else’s everything-had depended on her keeping a cool head and a

clear glance. It would have been a wonder if now, when she felt

her own everything at stake, she had not been able to put up as

good a defence.

 

“What is it?” she repeated impatiently, as Lansing continued to

remain silent.

 

“That’s what I’m here to ask,” he returned, keeping his eyes as

steady as she kept hers. “There’s no reason on earth, as you

say, why Ellie shouldn’t give us presents—as expensive presents

as she likes; and the pearl is a beauty. All I ask is: for

what specific services were they given? For, allowing for all

the absence of scruple that marks the intercourse of truly

civilized people, you’ll probably agree that there are limits;

at least up to now there have been limits ….”

 

“I really don’t know what you mean. I suppose Ellie wanted to

show that she was grateful to us for looking after Clarissa.”

 

“But she gave us all this in exchange for that, didn’t she?” he

suggested, with a sweep of the hand around the beautiful shadowy

room. “A whole summer of it if we choose.”

 

Susy smiled. “Apparently she didn’t think that enough.”

 

“What a doting mother! It shows the store she sets upon her

child.”

 

“Well, don’t you set store upon Clarissa?”

 

“Clarissa is exquisite; but her mother didn’t mention her in

offering me this recompense.”

 

Susy lifted her head again. “Whom did she mention?”

 

“Vanderlyn,” said Lansing.

 

“Vanderlyn? Nelson?”

 

“Yes—and some letters … something about letters …. What is

it, my dear, that you and I have been hired to hide from

Vanderlyn? Because I should like to know,” Nick broke out

savagely, “if we’ve been adequately paid.”

 

Susy was silent: she needed time to reckon up her forces, and

study her next move; and her brain was in such a whirl of fear

that she could at last only retort: “What is it that Ellie said

to you?”

 

Lansing laughed again. “That’s just what you’d like to find

out—isn’t it?—in order to know the line to take in making your

explanation.”

 

The sneer had an effect that he could not have foreseen, and

that Susy herself had not expected.

 

“Oh, don’t—don’t let us speak to each other like that!” she

cried; and sinking down by the dressing-table she hid her face

in her hands.

 

It seemed to her, now, that nothing mattered except that their

love for each other, their faith in each other, should be saved

from some unhealable hurt. She was willing to tell Nick

everything—she wanted to tell him everything—if only she could

be sure of reaching a responsive chord in him. But the scene of

the cigars came back to her, and benumbed her. If only she

could make him see that nothing was of any account as long as

they continued to love each other!

 

His touch fell compassionately on her shoulder. “Poor child—

don’t,” he said.

 

Their eyes met, but his expression checked the smile breaking

through her tears. “Don’t you see,” he continued, “that we’ve

got to have this thing out?”

 

She continued to stare at him through a prism of tears. “I

can’t—while you stand up like that,” she stammered, childishly.

 

She had cowered down again into a corner of the lounge; but

Lansing did not seat himself at her side. He took a chair

facing her, like a caller on the farther side of a stately tea-tray. “Will that do?” he asked with a stiff smile, as if to

humour her.

 

“Nothing will do—as long as you’re not you!”

 

“Not me?”

 

She shook her head wearily. “What’s the use? You accept things

theoretically—and then when they happen ….”

 

“What things? What has happened!”

 

A sudden impatience mastered her. What did he suppose, after

all—? “But you know all about Ellie. We used to talk about

her often enough in old times,” she said.

 

“Ellie and young Davenant?”

 

“Young Davenant; or the others ….”

 

“Or the others. But what business was it of ours?”

 

“Ah, that’s just what I think!” she cried, springing up with an

explosion of relief. Lansing stood up also, but there was no

answering light in his face.

 

“We’re outside of all that; we’ve nothing to do with it, have

we?” he pursued.

 

“Nothing whatever.”

 

“Then what on earth is the meaning of Ellie’s gratitude?

Gratitude for what we’ve done about some letters—and about

Vanderlyn?”

 

“Oh, not you,” Susy cried, involuntarily.

 

“Not I? Then you?” He came close and took her by the wrist.

“Answer me. Have you been mixed up in some dirty business of

Ellie’s?”

 

There was a pause. She found it impossible to speak, with that

burning grasp on the wrist where the bangle had been. At length

he let her go and moved away. “Answer,” he repeated.

 

“I’ve told you it was my business and not yours.”

 

He received this in silence; then he questioned: “You’ve been

sending letters for her, I suppose? To whom?”

 

“Oh, why do you torment me? Nelson was not supposed to know

that she’d been away. She left me the letters to post to him

once a week. I found them here the night we arrived …. It

was the price—for this. Oh, Nick, say it’s been worth it-say

at least that it’s been worth it!” she implored him.

 

He stood motionless, unresponding. One hand drummed on the

corner of her dressing-table, making the jewelled bangle dance.

 

“How many letters?”

 

“I don’t know … four … five … What does it matter?”

 

“And once a week, for six weeks—?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you took it all as a matter of course?”

 

“No: I hated it. But what could I do?”

 

“What could you do?”

 

“When our being together depended on it? Oh, Nick, how could

you think I’d give you up?”

 

“Give me up?” he echoed.

 

“Well—doesn’t our being together depend on—on what we can get

out of people? And hasn’t there always got to be some give-and-take? Did you ever in your life get anything for nothing?” she

cried with sudden exasperation. “You’ve lived among these

people as long as I have; I suppose it’s not the first time—”

 

“By God, but it is,” he exclaimed, flushing. “And that’s the

difference—the fundamental difference.”

 

“The difference!”

 

“Between you and me. I’ve never in my life done people’s dirty

work for them—least of all for favours in return. I suppose

you guessed it, or you wouldn’t have hidden this beastly

business from me.”

 

The blood rose to Susy’s temples also. Yes, she had guessed it;

instinctively, from the day she had first visited him in his

bare lodgings, she had been aware of his stricter standard. But

how could she tell him that under his influence her standard had

become stricter too, and that it was as much to hide her

humiliation from herself as to escape his anger that she had

held her tongue?

 

“You knew I wouldn’t have stayed here another day if I’d known,”

he continued.

 

“Yes: and then where in the world should we have gone?”

 

“You mean that—in one way or another—what you call give-and-take is the price of our remaining together?”

 

“Well—isn’t it,” she faltered.

 

“Then we’d better part, hadn’t we?”

 

He spoke in a low tone, thoughtfully and deliberately, as if

this had been the inevitable conclusion to which their

passionate argument had led.

 

Susy made no answer. For a moment she ceased to be conscious of

the causes of what had happened; the thing itself seemed to have

smothered her under its ruins.

 

Nick wandered away from the dressing-table and stood gazing out

of the window at the darkening canal flecked with lights. She

looked at his back, and wondered what would happen if she were

to go up to him and fling her arms about him. But even if her

touch could have broken the spell, she was not sure she would

have chosen that way of breaking it. Beneath her speechless

anguish there burned the half-conscious sense of having been

unfairly treated. When they had entered into their queer

compact, Nick had known as well as she on what compromises and

concessions the life they were to live together must be based.

That he should have forgotten it seemed so unbelievable that she

wondered, with a new leap of fear, if he were using the wretched

Ellie’s indiscretion as a means of escape from a tie already

wearied of. Suddenly she raised her head with a laugh.

 

“After all—you were right when you wanted me to be your

mistress.”

 

He turned on her with an astonished stare. “You—my mistress?”

 

Through all her pain she thrilled with pride at the discovery

that such a possibility had long since become unthinkable to

him. But she insisted. “That day at the Fulmers’—have you

forgotten? When you said it would be sheer madness for us to

marry.”

 

Lansing stood leaning in the embrasure of the window, his eyes

fixed on the mosaic volutes of the floor.

 

“I was right enough when I said it would be sheer madness for us

to marry,” he rejoined at length.

 

She sprang up trembling. “Well, that’s easily settled. Our

compact—”

 

“Oh, that compact—” he interrupted her with an impatient laugh.

 

“Aren’t you asking me to carry it out now?”

 

“Because I said we’d better part?” He paused. “But the

compact—I’d almost forgotten it—was to the effect, wasn’t it,

that we were to give each other a helping hand if either of us

had a better chance? The thing was absurd, of course; a mere

joke; from my point of view, at least. I shall never want any

better chance … any other chance ….”

 

“Oh, Nick, oh, Nick … but then ….” She was close to him,

his face looming down through her tears; but he put her back.

 

“It would have been easy enough, wouldn’t it,” he rejoined, “if

we’d been as detachable as all that? As it is, it’s going to

hurt horribly. But talking it over won’t help. You were right

just now when you asked how else we were going to live. We’re

born parasites, both, I suppose, or we’d have found out some way

long ago. But I find there are things I might put up with for

myself, at a pinch—and should, probably, in time that I can’t

let you put up with for me … ever …. Those cigars at Como:

do you suppose I didn’t know it was for me? And this too?

Well, it won’t do … it won’t do