House of Mirth (Barnes & Noble Classics - Edith Wharton [104]
A ring at the door-bell caught her to her feet. She struck a light and stood startled, listening. For a moment her heart beat incoherently, then she felt the sobering touch of fact, and remembered that such calls were not unknown in her charitable work. She flung on her dressing-gown to answer the summons, and unlocking her door, confronted the shining vision of Lily Bart.
Gerty’s first movement was one of revulsion. She shrank back as though Lily’s presence flashed too sudden a light upon her misery. Then she heard her name in a cry, had a glimpse of her friend’s face, and felt herself caught and clung to.
“Lily—what is it?” she exclaimed.
Miss Bart released her, and stood breathing brokenly, like one who has gained shelter after a long flight.
“I was so cold—I couldn’t go home. Have you a fire?”
Gerty’s compassionate instincts, responding to the swift call of habit, swept aside all her reluctances. Lily was simply some one who needed help—for what reason, there was no time to pause and conjecture: disciplined sympathy checked the wonder on Gerty’s lips, and made her draw her friend silently into the sitting-room and seat her by the darkened hearth.
“There is kindling wood here: the fire will burn in a minute.”
She knelt down, and the flame leapt under her rapid hands. It flashed strangely through the tears which still blurred her eyes, and smote on the white ruin of Lily’s face. The girls looked at each other in silence; then Lily repeated: “I couldn’t go home.”
“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