Bridge at Bellomont usually lasted till the small hours; and when Lily went to bed that night she had played too long for her own good.
Feeling no desire for the self-communion which awaited her in her room, she lingered on the broad stairway, looking down into the hall below, where the last card-players were grouped about the tray of tall glasses and silver-collared decanters which the butler had just placed on a low table near the fire.
The hall was arcaded1, with a gallery supported on columns of pale yellow marble. Tall clumps2 of flowering plants were grouped against a background of dark foliage3 in the angles of the walls. On the crimson4 carpet a deer-hound and two or three spaniels dozed5 luxuriously6 before the fire, and the light from the great central lantern overhead shed a brightness on the women's hair and struck sparks from their jewels as they moved.
There were moments when such scenes delighted Lily, when they gratified her sense of beauty and her craving7 for the external finish of life; there were others when they gave a sharper edge to the meagreness of her own opportunities. This was one of the moments when the sense of contrast was uppermost, and she turned away impatiently as Mrs. George Dorset, glittering in serpentine8 spangles, drew Percy Gryce in her wake to a confidential9 nook beneath the gallery.
It was not that Miss Bart was afraid of losing her newly-acquired hold over Mr. Gryce. Mrs. Dorset might startle or dazzle him, but she had neither the skill nor the patience to effect his capture. She was too self-engrossed to penetrate10 the recesses11 of his shyness, and besides, why should she care to give herself the trouble? At most it might amuse her to make sport of his simplicity12 for an evening--after that he would be merely a burden to her, and knowing this, she was far too experienced to encourage him. But the mere13 thought of that other woman, who could take a man up and toss him aside as she willed, without having to regard him as a possible factor in her plans, filled Lily Bart with envy. She had been bored all the afternoon by Percy Gryce--the mere thought seemed to waken an echo of his droning voice--but she could not ignore him on the morrow, she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom14, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptabilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her for life.
It was a hateful fate--but how escape from it? What choice had she? To be herself, or a Gerty Farish. As she entered her bedroom, with its softly-shaded lights, her lace dressing-gown lying across the silken bedspread, her little embroidered15 slippers16 before the fire, a vase of carnations17 filling the air with perfume, and the last novels and magazines lying uncut on a table beside the reading-lamp, she had a vision of Miss Farish's cramped18 flat, with its cheap conveniences and hideous19 wall-papers. No; she was not made for mean and shabby surroundings, for the squalid compromises of poverty. Her whole being dilated20 in an atmosphere of luxury; it was the background she required, the only climate she could breathe in. But the luxury of others was not what she wanted. A few years ago it had sufficed her: she had taken her daily meed of pleasure without caring who provided it. Now she was beginning to chafe21 at the obligations it imposed, to feel herself a mere pensioner22 on the splendour which had once seemed to belong to her. There were even moments when she was conscious of having to pay her way.
For a long time she had refused to play bridge. She knew she could not afford it, and she was afraid of acquiring so expensive a taste. She had seen the danger exemplified in more than one of her associates--in young Ned Silverton, for instance, the charming fair boy now seated in abject23 rapture24 at the elbow of Mrs. Fisher, a striking divorcee with eyes and gowns as emphatic25 as the head-lines of her "case." Lily could remember when young Silverton had stumbled into their circle, with the air of a strayed Arcadian who has published chamung sonnets26 in his college journal. Since then he had developed a taste for Mrs. Fisher and bridge, and the latter at least had involved him in expenses from which he had been more than once rescued by harassed27 maiden28 sisters, who treasured the sonnets, and went without sugar in their tea to keep their darling afloat. Ned's case was familiar to Lily: she had seen his charming eyes--which had a good deal more poetry in them than the sonnets--change from surprise to amusement, and from amusement to anxiety, as he passed under the spell of the terrible god of chance; and she was afraid of discovering the same symptoms in her own case.
For in the last year she had found that her hostesses expected her to take a place at the card-table. It was one of the taxes she had to pay for their prolonged hospitality, and for the dresses and trinkets which occasionally replenished29 her insufficient30 wardrobe. And since she had played regularly the passion had grown on her. Once or twice of late she had won a large sum, and instead of keeping it against future losses, had spent it in dress or jewelry31; and the desire to atone32 for this imprudence, combined with the increasing exhilaration of the game, drove her to risk higher stakes at each fresh venture. She tried to excuse herself on the plea that, in the Trenor set, if one played at all one must either play high or be set down as priggish or stingy; but she knew that the gambling33 passion was upon her, and that in her present surroundings there was small hope of resisting it.
Tonight the luck had been persistently34 bad, and the little gold purse which hung among her trinkets was almost empty when she returned to her room. She unlocked the wardrobe, and taking out her jewel-case, looked under the tray for the roll of bills from which she had replenished the purse before going down to dinner. Only twenty dollars were left: the discovery was so startling that for a moment she fancied she must have been robbed. Then she took paper and pencil, and seating herself at the writing-table, tried to reckon up what she had spent during the day. Her head was throbbing35 with fatigue36, and she had to go over the figures again and again; but at last it became clear to her that she had lost three hundred dollars at cards. She took out her cheque-book to see if her balance was larger than she remembered, but found she had erred37 in the other direction. Then she returned to her calculations; but figure as she would, she could not conjure38 back the vanished three hundred dollars. It was the sum she had set aside to pacify39 her dress-maker--unless she should decide to use it as a sop40 to the jeweller. At any rate, she had so many uses for it that its very insufficiency had caused her to play high in the hope of doubling it. But of course she had lost--she who needed every penny, while Bertha Dorset, whose husband showered money on her, must have pocketed at least five hundred, and Judy Trenor, who could have afforded to lose a thousand a night, had left the table clutching such a heap of bills that she had been unable to shake hands with her guests when they bade her good night.
A world in which such things could be seemed a miserable41 place to Lily Bart; but then she had never been able to understand the laws of a universe which was so ready to leave her out of its calculations.
She began to undress without ringing for her maid, whom she had sent to bed. She had been long enough in bondage42 to other people's pleasure to be considerate of those who depended on hers, and in her bitter moods it sometimes struck her that she and her maid were in the same position, except that the latter received her wages more regularly.
As she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, her face looked hollow and pale, and she was frightened by two little lines near her mouth, faint flaws in the smooth curve of the cheek.
"Oh, I must stop worrying!" she exclaimed. "Unless it's the electric light---" she reflected, springing up from her seat and lighting43 the candles on the dressing-table.
She turned out the wall-lights, and peered at herself between the candle-flames. The white oval of her face swam out waveringly from a background of shadows, the uncertain light blurring44 it like a haze45; but the two lines about the mouth remained.
Lily rose and undressed in haste.
"It is only because I am tired and have such odious46 things to think about," she kept repeating; and it seemed an added injustice47 that petty cares should leave a trace on the beauty which was her only defence against them.
But the odious things were there, and remained with her. She returned wearily to the thought of Percy Gryce, as a wayfarer48 picks up a heavy load and toils49 on after a brief rest. She was almost sure she had "landed" him: a few days' work and she would win her reward. But the reward itself seemed upalatable just then: she could get no zest50 from the thought of victory. It would be a rest from worry, no more--and how little that would have seemed to her a few years earlier! Her ambitions had shrunk gradually in the desiccating air of failure. But why had she failed? Was it her own fault or that of destiny?
She remembered how her mother, after they had lost their money, used to say to her with a kind of fierce vindictiveness51: "But you'll get it all back--you'll get it all back, with your face." . . . The remembrance roused a whole train of association, and she lay in the darkness reconstructing the past out of which her present had grown.
A house in which no one ever dined at home unless there was "company"; a door-bell perpetually ringing; a hall-table showered with square envelopes which were opened in haste, and oblong envelopes which were allowed to gather dust in the depths of a bronze jar; a series of French and English maids giving warning amid a chaos52 of hurriedly-ransacked wardrobes and dress-closets; an equally changing dynasty of nurses and footmen; quarrels in the pantry, the kitchen and the drawing-room; precipitate53 trips to Europe, and returns with gorged54 trunks and days of interminable unpacking55; semi-annual discussions as to where the summer should be spent, grey interludes of economy and brilliant reactions of expense--such was the setting of Lily Bart's first memories.
Ruling the turbulent element called home was the vigorous and determined56 figure of a mother still young enough to dance her ball-dresses to rags, while the hazy57 outline of a neutral-tinted father filled an intermediate space between the butler and the man who came to wind the clocks. Even to the eyes of infancy58, Mrs. Hudson Bart had appeared young; but Lily could not recall the time when her father had not been bald and slightly stooping, with streaks59 of grey in his hair, and a tired walk. It was a shock to her to learn afterward60 that he was but two years older than her mother.
Lily seldom saw her father by daylight. All day he was "down town"; and in winter it was long after nightfall when she heard his fagged step on the stairs and his hand on the school-room door. He would kiss her in silence, and ask one or two questions of the nurse or the governess; then Mrs. Bart's maid would come to remind him that he was dining out, and he would hurry away with a nod to Lily. In summer, when he joined them for a Sunday at Newport or Southampton, he was even more effaced61 and silent than in winter. It seemed to tire him to rest, and he would sit for hours staring at the sea-line from a quiet corner of the verandah, while the clatter62 of his wife's existence went on unheeded a few feet off. Generally, however, Mrs. Bart and Lily went to Europe for the summer, and before the steamer was half way over Mr. Bart had dipped below the horizon. Sometimes his daughter heard him denounced for having neglected to forward Mrs. Bart's remittances63; but for the most part he was never mentioned or thought of till his patient stooping figure presented itself on the New York dock as a buffer64 between the magnitude of his wife's luggage and the restrictions65 of the American custom-house.
In this desultory66 yet agitated67 fashion life went on through Lily's teens: a zig-zag broken course down which the family craft glided68 on a rapid current of amusement, tugged69 at by the underflow of a perpetual need--the need of more money. Lily could not recall the time when there had been money enough, and in some vague way her father seemed always to blame for the deficiency. It could certainly not be the fault of Mrs. Bart, who was spoken of by her friends as a "wonderful manager." Mrs. Bart was famous for the unlimited71 effect she produced on limited means; and to the lady and her acquaintances there was something heroic in living as though one were much richer than one's bank-book denoted.
Lily was naturally proud of her mother's aptitude72 in this line: she had been brought up in the faith that, whatever it cost, one must have a good cook, and be what Mrs. Bart called "decently dressed." Mrs. Bart's worst reproach to her husband was to ask him if he expected her to "live like a pig"; and his replying in the negative was always regarded as a justification73 for cabling to Paris for an extra dress or two, and telephoning to the jeweller that he might, after all, send home the turquoise74 bracelet75 which Mrs. Bart had looked at that morning.
Lily knew people who "lived like pigs," and their appearance and surroundings justified76 her mother's repugnance77 to that form of existence. They were mostly cousins, who inhabited dingy78 houses with engravings from Cole's Voyage of Life on the drawing-room walls, and slatternly parlour-maids who said "I'll go and see" to visitors calling at an hour when all right-minded persons are conventionally if not actually out. The disgusting part of it was that many of these cousins were rich, so that Lily imbibed79 the idea that if people lived like pigs it was from choice, and through the lack of any proper standard of conduct. This gave her a sense of reflected superiority, and she did not need Mrs. Bart's comments on the family frumps and misers80 to foster her naturally lively taste for splendour.
Lily was nineteen when circumstances caused her to revise her view of the universe.
The previous year she had made a dazzling debut81 fringed by a heavy thunder-cloud of bills. The light of the debut still lingered on the horizon, but the cloud had thickened; and suddenly it broke. The suddenness added to the horror; and there were still times when Lily relived with painful vividness every detail of the day on which the blow fell. She and her mother had been seated at the luncheon82-table, over the CHAUFROIX and cold salmon83 of the previous night's dinner: it was one of Mrs. Bart's few economies to consume in private the expensive remnants of her hospitality. Lily was feeling the pleasant languor84 which is youth's penalty for dancing till dawn; but her mother, in spite of a few lines about the mouth, and under the yellow waves on her temples, was as alert, determined and high in colour as if she had risen from an untroubled sleep.
In the centre of the table, between the melting MARRONS GLACES and candied cherries, a pyramid of American Beauties lifted their vigorous stems; they held their heads as high as Mrs. Bart, but their rose-colour had turned to a dissipated purple, and Lily's sense of fitness was disturbed by their reappearance on the luncheon-table.
"I really think, mother," she said reproachfully, "we might afford a few fresh flowers for luncheon. Just some jonquils or lilies-of-the-valley---"
Mrs. Bart stared. Her own fastidiousness had its eye fixed85 on the world, and she did not care how the luncheon-table looked when there was no one present at it but the family. But she smiled at her daughter's innocence86.
"Lilies-of-the-valley," she said calmly, "cost two dollars a dozen at this season."
Lily was not impressed. She knew very little of the value of money.
"It would not take more than six dozen to fill that bowl," she argued.
"Six dozen what?" asked her father's voice in the doorway87.
The two women looked up in surprise; though it was a Saturday, the sight of Mr. Bart at luncheon was an unwonted one. But neither his wife nor his daughter was sufficiently88 interested to ask an explanation.
Mr. Bart dropped into a chair, and sat gazing absently at the fragment of jellied salmon which the butler had placed before him.
"I was only saying," Lily began, "that I hate to see faded flowers at luncheon; and mother says a bunch of lilies-of-the- valley would not cost more than twelve dollars. Mayn't I tell the florist89 to send a few every day?"
She leaned confidently toward her father: he seldom refused her anything, and Mrs. Bart had taught her to plead with him when her own entreaties90 failed.
Mr. Bart sat motionless, his gaze still fixed on the salmon, and his lower jaw91 dropped; he looked even paler than usual, and his thin hair lay in untidy streaks on his forehead. Suddenly he looked at his daughter and laughed. The laugh was so strange that Lily coloured under it: she disliked being ridiculed92, and her father seemed to see something ridiculous in the request. Perhaps he thought it foolish that she should trouble him about such a trifle.
"Twelve dollars--twelve dollars a day for flowers? Oh, certainly, my dear--give him an order for twelve hundred." He continued to laugh.
Mrs. Bart gave him a quick glance.
"You needn't wait, Poleworth--I will ring for you," she said to the butler.
The butler withdrew with an air of silent disapproval93, leaving the remains94 of the CHAUFROIX on the sideboard.
"What is the matter, Hudson? Are you ill?" said Mrs. Bart severely95.
She had no tolerance96 for scenes which were not of her own making, and it was odious to her that her husband should make a show of himself before the servants.
"Are you ill?" she repeated.
"Ill?---No, I'm ruined," he said.
Lily made a frightened sound, and Mrs. Bart rose to her feet.
"Ruined---?" she cried; but controlling herself instantly, she turned a calm face to Lily.
"Shut the pantry door," she said.
Lily obeyed, and when she turned back into the room her father was sitting with both elbows on the table, the plate of salmon between them, and his head bowed on his hands.
Mrs. Bart stood over him with a white face which made her hair unnaturally97 yellow. She looked at Lily as the latter approached: her look was terrible, but her voice was modulated98 to a ghastly cheerfulness.
"Your father is not well--he doesn't know what he is saying. It is nothing--but you had better go upstairs; and don't talk to the servants," she added.
Lily obeyed; she always obeyed when her mother spoke70 in that voice. She had not been deceived by Mrs. Bart's words: she knew at once that they were ruined. In the dark hours which followed, that awful fact overshadowed even her father's slow and difficult dying. To his wife he no longer counted: he had become extinct when he ceased to fulfil his purpose, and she sat at his side with the provisional air of a traveller who waits for a belated train to start. Lily's feelings were softer: she pitied him in a frightened ineffectual way. But the fact that he was for the most part unconscious, and that his attention, when she stole into the room, drifted away from her after a moment, made him even more of a stranger than in the nursery days when he had never come home till after dark. She seemed always to have seen him through a blur--first of sleepiness, then of distance and indifference-- and now the fog had thickened till he was almost indistinguishable. If she could have performed any little services for him, or have exchanged with him a few of those affecting words which an extensive perusal99 of fiction had led her to connect with such occasions, the filial instinct might have stirred in her; but her pity, finding no active expression, remained in a state of spectatorship, overshadowed by her mother's grim unflagging resentment100. Every look and act of Mrs. Bart's seemed to say: "You are sorry for him now--but you will feel differently when you see what he has done to us."
It was a relief to Lily when her father died.
Then a long winter set in. There was a little money left, but to Mrs. Bart it seemed worse than nothing--the mere mockery of what she was entitled to. What was the use of living if one had to live like a pig? She sank into a kind of furious apathy101, a state of inert102 anger against fate. Her faculty103 for "managing" deserted104 her, or she no longer took sufficient pride in it to exert it. It was well enough to "manage" when by so doing one could keep one's own carriage; but when one's best contrivance did not conceal105 the fact that one had to go on foot, the effort was no longer worth making.
Lily and her mother wandered from place to place, now paying long visits to relations whose house-keeping Mrs. Bart criticized, and who deplored106 the fact that she let Lily breakfast in bed when the girl had no prospects107 before her, and now vegetating108 in cheap continental109 refuges, where Mrs. Bart held herself fiercely aloof110 from the frugal111 tea-tables of her companions in misfortune. She was especially careful to avoid her old friends and the scenes of her former successes. To be poor seemed to her such a confession112 of failure that it amounted to disgrace; and she detected a note of condescension113 in the friendliest advances.
Only one thought consoled her, and that was the contemplation of Lily's beauty. She studied it with a kind of passion, as though it were some weapon she had slowly fashioned for her vengeance114. It was the last asset in their fortunes, the nucleus115 around which their life was to be rebuilt. She watched it jealously, as though it were her own property and Lily its mere custodian116; and she tried to instil117 into the latter a sense of the responsibility that such a charge involved. She followed in imagination the career of other beauties, pointing out to her daughter what might be achieved through such a gift, and dwelling118 on the awful warning of those who, in spite of it, had failed to get what they wanted: to Mrs. Bart, only stupidity could explain the lamentable120 denouement121 of some of her examples. She was not above the inconsistency of charging fate, rather than herself, with her own misfortunes; but she inveighed122 so acrimoniously123 against love-matches that Lily would have fancied her own marriage had been of that nature, had not Mrs. Bart frequently assured her that she had been "talked into it"--by whom, she never made clear.
Lily was duly impressed by the magnitude of her opportunities. The dinginess124 of her present life threw into enchanting125 relief the existence to which she felt herself entitled. To a less illuminated126 intelligence Mrs. Bart's counsels might have been dangerous; but Lily understood that beauty is only the raw material of conquest, and that to convert it into success other arts are required. She knew that to betray any sense of superiority was a subtler form of the stupidity her mother denounced, and it did not take her long to learn that a beauty needs more tact127 than the possessor of an average set of features.
Her ambitions were not as crude as Mrs. Bart's. It had been among that lady's grievances128 that her husband--in the early days, before he was too tired--had wasted his evenings in what she vaguely129 described as "reading poetry"; and among the effects packed off to auction130 after his death were a score or two of dingy volumes which had struggled for existence among the boots and medicine bottles of his dressing-room shelves. There was in Lily a vein131 of sentiment, perhaps transmitted from this source, which gave an idealizing touch to her most prosaic132 purposes. She liked to think of her beauty as a power for good, as giving her the opportunity to attain133 a position where she should make her influence felt in the vague diffusion134 of refinement135 and good taste. She was fond of pictures and flowers, and of sentimental136 fiction, and she could not help thinking that the possession of such tastes ennobled her desire for worldly advantages. She would not indeed have cared to marry a man who was merely rich: she was secretly ashamed of her mother's crude passion for money. Lily's preference would have been for an English nobleman with political ambitions and vast estates; or, for second choice, an Italian prince with a castle in the Apennines and an hereditary137 office in the Vatican. Lost causes had a romantic charm for her, and she liked to picture herself as standing138 aloof from the vulgar press of the Quirinal, and sacrificing her pleasure to the claims of an immemorial tradition. . . .
How long ago and how far off it all seemed! Those ambitions were hardly more futile139 and childish than the earlier ones which had centred about the possession of a French jointed140 doll with real hair. Was it only ten years since she had wavered in imagination between the English earl and the Italian prince? Relentlessly141 her mind travelled on over the dreary142 interval143. . . .
After two years of hungry roaming Mrs. Bart had died---died of a deep disgust. She had hated dinginess, and it was her fate to be dingy. Her visions of a brilliant marriage for Lily had faded after the first year.
"People can't marry you if they don't see you--and how can they see you in these holes where we're stuck?" That was the burden of her lament119; and her last adjuration144 to her daughter was to escape from dinginess if she could.
"Don't let it creep up on you and drag you down. Fight your way out of it somehow--you're young and can do it," she insisted.
She had died during one of their brief visits to New York, and there Lily at once became the centre of a family council composed of the wealthy relatives whom she had been taught to despise for living like pigs. It may be that they had an inkling of the sentiments in which she had been brought up, for none of them manifested a very lively desire for her company; indeed, the question threatened to remain unsolved till Mrs. Peniston with a sigh announced: "I'll try her for a year."
Every one was surprised, but one and all concealed145 their surprise, lest Mrs. Peniston should be alarmed by it into reconsidering her decision.
Mrs. Peniston was Mr. Bart's widowed sister, and if she was by no means the richest of the family group, its other members nevertheless abounded146 in reasons why she was clearly destined147 by Providence148 to assume the charge of Lily. In the first place she was alone, and it would be charming for her to have a young companion. Then she sometimes travelled, and Lily's familiarity with foreign customs--deplored as a misfortune by her more conservative relatives--would at least enable her to act as a kind of courier. But as a matter of fact Mrs. Peniston had not been affected149 by these considerations. She had taken the girl simply because no one else would have her, and because she had the kind of moral MAUVAISE HONTE which makes the public display of selfishness difficult, though it does not interfere150 with its private indulgence. It would have been impossible for Mrs. Peniston to be heroic on a desert island, but with the eyes of her little world upon her she took a certain pleasure in her act.
She reaped the reward to which disinterestedness151 is entitled, and found an agreeable companion in her niece. She had expected to find Lily headstrong, critical and "foreign"--for even Mrs. Peniston, though she occasionally went abroad, had the family dread152 of foreignness--but the girl showed a pliancy153, which, to a more penetrating154 mind than her aunt's, might have been less reassuring155 than the open selfishness of youth. Misfortune had made Lily supple156 instead of hardening her, and a pliable157 substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.
Mrs. Peniston, however, did not suffer from her niece's adaptability158. Lily had no intention of taking advantage of her aunt's good nature. She was in truth grateful for the refuge offered her: Mrs. Peniston's opulent interior was at least not externally dingy. But dinginess is a quality which assumes all manner of disguises; and Lily soon found that it was as latent in the expensive routine of her aunt's life as in the makeshift existence of a continental pension.
Mrs. Peniston was one of the episodical persons who form the padding of life. It was impossible to believe that she had herself ever been a focus of activities. The most vivid thing about her was the fact that her grandmother had been a Van Alstyne. This connection with the well-fed and industrious159 stock of early New York revealed itself in the glacial neatness of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room and in the excellence160 of her cuisine161. She belonged to the class of old New Yorkers who have always lived well, dressed expensively, and done little else; and to these inherited obligations Mrs. Peniston faitfully conformed. She had always been a looker-on at life, and her mind resembled one of those little mirrors which her Dutch ancestors were accustomed to affix162 to their upper windows, so that from the depths of an impenetrable domesticity they might see what was happening in the street.
Mrs. Peniston was the owner of a country-place in New Jersey163, but she had never lived there since her husband's death--a remote event, which appeared to dwell in her memory chiefly as a dividing point in the personal reminiscences that formed the staple164 of her conversation. She was a woman who remembered dates with intensity165, and could tell at a moment's notice whether the drawing-room curtains had been renewed before or after Mr. Peniston's last illness.
Mrs. Peniston thought the country lonely and trees damp, and cherished a vague fear of meeting a bull. To guard against such contingencies166 she frequented the more populous167 watering-places, where she installed herself impersonally168 in a hired house and looked on at life through the matting screen of her verandah. In the care of such a guardian169, it soon became clear to Lily that she was to enjoy only the material advantages of good food and expensive clothing; and, though far from underrating these, she would gladly have exchanged them for what Mrs. Bart had taught her to regard as opportunities. She sighed to think what her mother's fierce energies would have accomplished170, had they been coupled with Mrs. Peniston's resources. Lily had abundant energy of her own, but it was restricted by the necessity of adapting herself to her aunt's habits. She saw that at all costs she must keep Mrs. Peniston's favour till, as Mrs. Bart would have phrased it, she could stand on her own legs. Lily had no mind for the vagabond life of the poor relation, and to adapt herself to Mrs. Peniston she had, to some degree, to assume that lady's passive attitude. She had fancied at first that it would be easy to draw her aunt into the whirl of her own activities, but there was a static force in Mrs. Peniston against which her niece's efforts spent themselves in vain. To attempt to bring her into active relation with life was like tugging171 at a piece of furniture which has been screwed to the floor. She did not, indeed, expect Lily to remain equally immovable: she had all the American guardian's indulgence for the volatility172 of youth.
She had indulgence also for certain other habits of her niece's. It seemed to her natural that Lily should spend all her money on dress, and she supplemented the girl's scanty173 income by occasional "handsome presents" meant to be applied174 to the same purpose. Lily, who was intensely practical, would have preferred a fixed allowance; but Mrs. Peniston liked the periodical recurrence175 of gratitude176 evoked177 by unexpected cheques, and was perhaps shrewd enough to perceive that such a method of giving kept alive in her niece a salutary sense of dependence178.
Beyond this, Mrs. Peniston had not felt called upon to do anything for her charge: she had simply stood aside and let her take the field. Lily had taken it, at first with the confidence of assured possessorship, then with gradually narrowing demands, till now she found herself actually struggling for a foothold on the broad space which had once seemed her own for the asking. How it happened she did not yet know. Sometimes she thought it was because Mrs. Peniston had been too passive, and again she feared it was because she herself had not been passive enough. Had she shown an undue179 eagerness for victory? Had she lacked patience, pliancy and dissimulation180? Whether she charged herself with these faults or absolved181 herself from them, made no difference in the sum-total of her failure. Younger and plainer girls had been married off by dozens, and she was nine-and-twenty, and still Miss Bart.
She was beginning to have fits of angry rebellion against fate, when she longed to drop out of the race and make an independent life for herself. But what manner of life would it be? She had barely enough money to pay her dress-makers' bills and her gambling debts; and none of the desultory interests which she dignified182 with the name of tastes was pronounced enough to enable her to live contentedly183 in obscurity. Ah, no--she was too intelligent not to be honest with herself. She knew that she hated dinginess as much as her mother had hated it, and to her last breath she meant to fight against it, dragging herself up again and again above its flood till she gained the bright pinnacles184 of success which presented such a slippery surface to her clutch.
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arcaded
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| adj.成为拱廊街道的，有列拱的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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7
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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8
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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9
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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10
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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11
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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12
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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13
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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14
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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15
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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16
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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17
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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18
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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19
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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20
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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22
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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23
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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24
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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25
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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26
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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27
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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28
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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29
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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30
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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31
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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32
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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33
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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34
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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35
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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36
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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37
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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39
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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40
sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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41
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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42
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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43
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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44
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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45
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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46
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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47
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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48
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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49
toils
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| 网 | |
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50
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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51
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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52
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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53
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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54
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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55
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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56
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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57
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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58
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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59
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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60
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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61
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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62
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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63
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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64
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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65
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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66
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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67
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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68
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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69
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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71
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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72
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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73
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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74
turquoise
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|
| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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75
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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76
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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77
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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78
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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79
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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80
misers
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| 守财奴，吝啬鬼( miser的名词复数 ) | |
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81
debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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82
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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83
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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84
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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85
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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86
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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87
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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88
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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89
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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90
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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91
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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92
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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94
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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95
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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96
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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97
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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98
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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99
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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100
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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101
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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102
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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103
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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104
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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105
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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106
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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108
vegetating
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的现在分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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109
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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110
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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111
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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112
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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113
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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114
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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115
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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116
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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117
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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118
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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119
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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120
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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121
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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122
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
acrimoniously
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| adv.毒辣地，尖刻地 | |
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124
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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125
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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126
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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127
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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128
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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129
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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130
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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131
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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132
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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133
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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134
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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135
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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136
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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137
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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138
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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139
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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140
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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141
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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142
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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143
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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144
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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145
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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146
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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148
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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149
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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150
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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151
disinterestedness
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152
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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153
pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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154
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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155
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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156
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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157
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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158
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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159
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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160
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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161
cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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162
affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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163
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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164
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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165
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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166
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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167
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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168
impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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169
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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170
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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171
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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172
volatility
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| n.挥发性，挥发度，轻快，（性格）反复无常 | |
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173
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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174
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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175
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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176
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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177
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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178
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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179
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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180
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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181
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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182
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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183
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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184
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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