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

again, and then added abruptly: “Streffy!

If you knew how I hate that kind of thing. I’d rather have Nick

come in now and tell me frankly, as I know he would, that he’s

going off with—”

 

“With Coral Hicks?” Strefford suggested.

 

She laughed. “Poor Coral Hicks! What on earth made you think

of the Hickses?”

 

“Because I caught a glimpse of them the other day at Capri.

They’re cruising about: they said they were coming in here.”

 

“What a nuisance! I do hope they won’t find us out. They were

awfully kind to Nick when he went to India with them, and

they’re so simple-minded that they would expect him to be glad

to see them.”

 

Strefford aimed his cigarette-end at a tourist on a puggaree who

was gazing up from his guidebook at the palace. “Ah,” he

murmured with satisfaction, seeing the shot take effect; then he

added: “Coral Hicks is growing up rather pretty.”

 

“Oh, Streff—you’re dreaming! That lump of a girl with

spectacles and thick ankles! Poor Mrs. Hicks used to say to

Nick: ‘When Mr. Hicks and I had Coral educated we presumed

culture was in greater demand in Europe than it appears to be.’”

 

“Well, you’ll see: that girl’s education won’t interfere with

her, once she’s started. So then: if Nick came in and told you

he was going off—”

 

“I should be so thankful if it was with a fright like Coral!

But you know,” she added with a smile, “we’ve agreed that it’s

not to happen for a year.”

 

VI.

 

SUSY found Strefford, after his first burst of nonsense,

unusually kind and responsive. The interest he showed in her

future and Nick’s seemed to proceed not so much from his

habitual spirit of scientific curiosity as from simple

friendliness. He was privileged to see Nick’s first chapter, of

which he formed so favourable an impression that he spoke

sternly to Susy on the importance of respecting her husband’s

working hours; and he even carried his general benevolence to

the length of showing a fatherly interest in Clarissa Vanderlyn.

He was always charming to children, but fitfully and warily,

with an eye on his independence, and on the possibility of being

suddenly bored by them; Susy had never seen him abandon these

precautions so completely as he did with Clarissa.

 

“Poor little devil! Who looks after her when you and Nick are

off together? Do you mean to tell me Ellie sacked the governess

and went away without having anyone to take her place?”

 

“I think she expected me to do it,” said Susy with a touch of

asperity. There were moments when her duty to Clarissa weighed

on her somewhat heavily; whenever she went off alone with Nick

she was pursued by the vision of a little figure waving wistful

farewells from the balcony.

 

“Ah, that’s like Ellie: you might have known she’d get an

equivalent when she lent you all this. But I don’t believe she

thought you’d be so conscientious about it.”

 

Susy considered. “I don’t suppose she did; and perhaps I

shouldn’t have been, a year ago. But you see”—she hesitated—

“Nick’s so awfully good: it’s made me look; at a lot of things

differently ….”

 

“Oh, hang Nick’s goodness! It’s happiness that’s done it, my

dear. You’re just one of the people with whom it happens to

agree.”

 

Susy, leaning back, scrutinized between her lashes his crooked

ironic face.

 

“What is it that’s agreeing with you, Streffy? I’ve never seen

you so human. You must be getting an outrageous price for the

villa.”

 

Strefford laughed and clapped his hand on his breast-pocket. “I

should be an ass not to: I’ve got a wire here saying they must

have it for another month at any price.”

 

“What luck! I’m so glad. Who are they, by the way?”

 

He drew himself up out of the long chair in which he was

disjointedly lounging, and looked down at her with a smile.

“Another couple of love-sick idiots like you and Nick …. I

say, before I spend it all let’s go out and buy something

ripping for Clarissa.”

 

The days passed so quickly and radiantly that, but for her

concern for Clarissa, Susy would hardly have been conscious of

her hostess’s protracted absence. Mrs. Vanderlyn had said:

“Four weeks at the latest,” and the four weeks were over, and

she had neither arrived nor written to explain her non-appearance. She had, in fact, given no sign of life since her

departure, save in the shape of a postcard which had reached

Clarissa the day after the Lansings’ arrival, and in which Mrs.

Vanderlyn instructed her child to be awfully good, and not to

forget to feed the mongoose. Susy noticed that this missive had

been posted in Milan.

 

She communicated her apprehensions to Strefford. “I don’t trust

that green-eyed nurse. She’s forever with the younger

gondolier; and Clarissa’s so awfully sharp. I don’t see why

Ellie hasn’t come: she was due last Monday.”

 

Her companion laughed, and something in the sound of his laugh

suggested that he probably knew as much of Ellie’s movements as

she did, if not more. The sense of disgust which the subject

always roused in her made her look away quickly from his

tolerant smile. She would have given the world, at that moment,

to have been free to tell Nick what she had learned on the night

of their arrival, and then to have gone away with him, no matter

where. But there was Clarissa—!

 

To fortify herself against the temptation, she resolutely fixed

her thoughts on her husband. Of Nick’s beatitude there could be

no doubt. He adored her, he revelled in Venice, he rejoiced in

his work; and concerning the quality of that work her judgment

was as confident as her heart. She still doubted if he would

ever earn a living by what he wrote, but she no longer doubted

that he would write something remarkable. The mere fact that he

was engaged on a philosophic romance, and not a mere novel,

seemed the proof of an intrinsic superiority. And if she had

mistrusted her impartiality Strefford’s approval would have

reassured her. Among their friends Strefford passed as an

authority on such matters: in summing him up his eulogists

always added: “And you know he writes.” As a matter of fact,

the paying public had remained cold to his few published pages;

but he lived among the kind of people who confuse taste with

talent, and are impressed by the most artless attempts at

literary expression; and though he affected to disdain their

judgment, and his own efforts, Susy knew he was not sorry to

have it said of him: “Oh, if only Streffy had chosen—!”

 

Strefford’s approval of the philosophic romance convinced her

that it had been worth while staying in Venice for Nick’s sake;

and if only Ellie would come back, and carry off Clarissa to St.

Moritz or Deauville, the disagreeable episode on which their

happiness was based would vanish like a cloud, and leave them to

complete enjoyment.

 

Ellie did not come; but the Mortimer Hickses did, and Nick

Lansing was assailed by the scruples his wife had foreseen.

Strefford, coming back one evening from the Lido, reported

having recognized the huge outline of the Ibis among the

pleasure craft of the outer harbour; and the very next evening,

as the guests of Palazzo Vanderlyn were sipping their ices at

Florian’s, the Hickses loomed up across the Piazza.

 

Susy pleaded in vain with her husband in defence of his privacy.

“Remember you’re here to write, dearest; it’s your duty not to

let any one interfere with that. Why shouldn’t we tell them

we’re just leaving!”

 

“Because it’s no use: we’re sure to be always meeting them.

And besides, I’ll be hanged if I’m going to shirk the Hickses.

I spent five whole months on the Ibis, and if they bored me

occasionally, India didn’t.”

 

“We’ll make them take us to Aquileia anyhow,” said Strefford

philosophically; and the next moment the Hickses were bearing

down on the defenceless trio.

 

They presented a formidable front, not only because of their

mere physical bulk—Mr. and Mrs. Hicks were equally and

majestically three-dimensional—but because they never moved

abroad without the escort of two private secretaries (one for

the foreign languages), Mr. Hicks’s doctor, a maiden lady known

as Eldoradder Tooker, who was Mrs. Hicks’s cousin and

stenographer, and finally their daughter, Coral Hicks.

 

Coral Hicks, when Susy had last encountered the party, had been

a fat spectacled school-girl, always lagging behind her parents,

with a reluctant poodle in her wake. Now the poodle had gone,

and his mistress led the procession. The fat school-girl had

changed into a young lady of compact if not graceful outline; a

long-handled eyeglass had replaced the spectacles, and through

it, instead of a sullen glare, Miss Coral Hicks projected on the

world a glance at once confident and critical. She looked so

strong and so assured that Susy, taking her measure in a flash,

saw that her position at the head of the procession was not

fortuitous, and murmured inwardly: “Thank goodness she’s not

pretty too!”

 

If she was not pretty, she was well-dressed; and if she was

overeducated, she seemed capable, as Strefford had suggested, of

carrying off even this crowning disadvantage. At any rate, she

was above disguising it; and before the whole party had been

seated five minutes in front of a fresh supply of ices (with

Eldorada and the secretaries at a table slightly in the

background) she had taken up with Nick the question of

exploration in Mesopotamia.

 

“Queer child, Coral,” he said to Susy that night as they smoked

a last cigarette on their balcony. “She told me this afternoon

that she’d remembered lots of things she heard me say in India.

I thought at the time that she cared only for caramels and

picture-puzzles, but it seems she was listening to everything,

and reading all the books she could lay her hands on; and she

got so bitten with Oriental archaeology that she took a course

last year at Bryn Mawr. She means to go to Bagdad next spring,

and back by the Persian plateau and Turkestan.”

 

Susy laughed luxuriously: she was sitting with her hand in

Nick’s, while the late moon—theirs again—rounded its orange-coloured glory above the belfry of San Giorgio.

 

“Poor Coral! How dreary—” Susy murmured

 

“Dreary? Why? A trip like that is about as well worth doing as

anything I know.”

 

“Oh, I meant: dreary to do it without you or me, she laughed,

getting up lazily to go indoors. A broad band of moonlight,

dividing her room onto two shadowy halves, lay on the painted

Venetian bed with its folded-back sheet, its old damask coverlet

and lace-edged pillows. She felt the warmth of Nick’s enfolding

arm and lifted her face to his.

 

The Hickses retained the most tender memory of Nick’s sojourn on

the Ibis, and Susy, moved by their artless pleasure in meeting

him again, was glad he had not followed her advice and tried to

elude them. She had always admired Strefford’s ruthless talent

for using and discarding the human material in his path, but now

she began to hope that Nick would not remember her suggestion

that he should mete out that measure to the Hickses. Even if it

had been less pleasant to have a big yacht at their door during

the long golden days and the nights of silver fire, the Hickses’

admiration for Nick would have made Susy suffer them gladly.

She even began to be aware of a growing liking for them, a

liking inspired by the very characteristics that would once have

provoked her disapproval. Susy had had plenty