by Henry James
“Yes,” he mused afresh, “one must trust one’s child. Does Van?” he then enquired.
“Does he trust her?”
“Does he know anything of the general figure?”
She hesitated. “Everything. It’s high.”
“He has told you so?”
Mrs. Brook, supremely impatient now, seemed to demur even to the question. “We ask HIM even less.”
“Then how do we know?”
She was weary of explaining. “Because that’s just why he hates it.”
There was no end however, apparently, to what Edward could take. “But hates what?”
“Why, not liking her.”
Edward kept his back to the fire and his dead eyes on the cornice and the ceiling. “I shouldn’t think it would be so difficult.”
“Well, you see it isn’t. Mr. Longdon can manage it.”
“I don’t see what the devil’s the matter with her,” he coldly continued.
“Ah that may not prevent—! It’s fortunately the source at any rate of half Mr. Longdon’s interest.”
“But what the hell IS it?” he drearily demanded.
She faltered a little, but she brought it out. “It’s ME.”
“And what’s the matter with ‘you’?”
She made, at this, a movement that drew his eyes to her own, and for a moment she dimly smiled at him. “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me. But ever, EVER, you know.”
“Is it?” She had her hand on his sleeve, and he looked almost awkward.
“Quite the very nicest. Consider that fact well and even if you only said it by accident don’t be funny—as you know you sometimes CAN be— and take it back. It’s all right. It’s charming, isn’t it? when our troubles bring us more together. Now go up to her.”
Edward kept a queer face, into which this succession of remarks introduced no light, but he finally moved, and it was only when he had almost reached the door that he stopped again. “Of course you know he has sent her no end of books.”
“Mr. Longdon—of late? Oh yes, a deluge, so that her room looks like a bookseller’s back shop; and all, in the loveliest bindings, the most standard English works. I not only know it, naturally, but I know—what you don’t—why.”
“‘Why’?” Edward echoed. “Why but that—unless he should send her money— it’s about the only kindness he can show her at a distance?”
Mrs. Brook hesitated; then with a little suppressed sigh: “That’s it!”
But it still held him. “And perhaps he does send her money.”
“No. Not now.”
Edward lingered. “Then is he taking it out—?”
“In books only?” It was wonderful—with its effect on him now visible— how she possessed her subject. “Yes, that’s his delicacy—for the present.”
“And you’re not afraid for the future—?”
“Of his considering that the books will have worked it off? No. They’re thrown in.”
Just perceptibly cheered he reached the door, where, however, he had another pause. “You don’t think I had better see Van?”
She stared. “What for?”
“Why, to ask what the devil he means.”
“If you should do anything so hideously vulgar,” she instantly replied, “I’d leave your house the next hour. Do you expect,” she asked, “to be able to force your child down his throat?”
He was clearly not prepared with an account of his expectations, but he had a general memory that imposed itself. “Then why in the world did he make up to us?”
“He didn’t. We made up to HIM.”
“But why in the world—?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brook, really to finish, “we were in love with him.”
“Oh!” Edward jerked. He had by this time opened the door, and the sound was partly the effect of the disclosure of a servant preceding a visitor. His greeting of the visitor before edging past and away was, however, of the briefest; it might have implied that they had met but yesterday. “How d’ye do, Mitchy?—At home? Oh rather!”
III
Very different was Mrs. Brook’s welcome of the restored wanderer to whom, in a brief space, she addressed every expression of surprise and delight, though marking indeed at last, as a qualification of these things, her regret that he declined to partake of her tea or to allow her to make him what she called “snug for a talk” in his customary corner of her sofa. He pleaded frankly agitation and embarrassment, reminded her even that he was awfully shy and that after separations, complications, whatever might at any time happen, he was conscious of the dust that had settled on intercourse and that he couldn’t blow away in a single breath. She was only, according to her nature, to indulge him if, while he walked about and changed his place, he came to the surface but in patches and pieces. There was so much he wanted to know that—well, as they had arrived only the night before, she could judge. There was knowledge, it became clear, that Mrs. Brook almost equally craved, so that it even looked at first as if, on either side, confidence might be choked by curiosity. This disaster was finally barred by the fact that the spirit of enquiry found for Mitchy material that was comparatively plastic. That was after all apparent enough when at the end of a few vain passes he brought out sociably: “Well, has he done it?”
Still indeed there was something in Mrs. Brook’s face that seemed to reply “Oh come—don’t rush it, you know!” and something in the movement with which she turned away that described the state of their question as by no means so simple as that. On his refusal of tea she had rung for the removal of the table, and the bell was at this moment answered by the two men. Little ensued then, for some minutes, while the servants were present; she spoke only as the butler was about to close the door. “If Mr. Longdon presently comes show him into Mr. Brookenham’s room if Mr. Brookenham isn’t there. If he is show him into the dining-room and in either case let me immediately know.”
The man waited expressionless. “And in case of his asking for Miss Brookenham—?”
“He won’t!” she replied with a sharpness before which her interlocutor retired. “He will!” she then added in quite another tone to Mitchy. “That is, you know, he perfectly MAY. But oh the subtlety of servants!” she sighed.
Mitchy was now all there. “Mr. Longdon’s in town then?”
“For the first time since you went away. He’s to call this afternoon.”
“And you want to see him alone?”
Mrs. Brook thought. “I don’t think I want to see him at all.”
“Then your keeping him below—?”
“Is so that he shan’t burst in till I know. It’s YOU, my dear, I want to see.”
Mitchy glared about. “Well, don’t take it ill if, in return for that, I say I myself want to see every one. I could have done even just now with a little more of Edward.”
Mrs. Brook, in her own manner and with a slow headshake, looked lovely. “I couldn’t.” Then she puzzled it out with a pause. “It even does come over me that if you don’t mind—!”
“What, my dear woman,” said Mitchy encouragingly, “did I EVER mind? I assure you,” he laughed, “I haven’t come back to begin!”
At this, suddenly dropping everything else, she laid her hand on him. “Mitchy love, ARE you happy?”
So for a moment they stood confronted. “Not perhaps as YOU would have tried to make me.”
“Well, you’ve still GOT me, you know.”
“Oh,” said Mitchy, “I’ve got a great deal. How, if I really look at it, can a man of my peculiar nature—it IS, you know, awfully peculiar—NOT be happy? Think, if one is driven to it for instance, of the breadth of my sympathies.”
Mrs. Brook, as a result of thinking, appeared for a little to demur. “Yes—but one mustn’t be too much driven to it. It’s by one’s sympathies that one suffers. If you should do that I couldn’t bear it.”
She clearly evoked for Mitchy a definite image. “It WOULD be funny, wouldn’t it? But you wou
ldn’t have to. I’d go off and do it alone somewhere—in a dark room, I think, or on a desert island; at any rate where nobody should see. Where’s the harm moreover,” he went on, “of any suffering that doesn’t bore one, as I’m sure, however much its outer aspect might amuse some others, mine wouldn’t bore me? What I should do in my desert island or my dark room, I feel, would be just to dance about with the thrill of it—which is exactly the exhibition of ludicrous gambols that I would fain have arranged to spare you. I assure you, dear Mrs. Brook,” he wound up, “that I’m not in the least bored now. Everything’s so interesting.”
“You’re beautiful!” she vaguely interposed.
But he pursued without heeding: “Was perhaps what you had in your head that I should see him—?”
She came back but slowly, however, to the moment. “Mr. Longdon? Well, yes. You know he can’t bear ME—”
“Yes, yes”—Mitchy was almost eager.
It had already sent her off again. “You’re too lovely. You HAVE come back the same. It seemed to me,” she after an instant explained, “that I wanted him to be seen—”
“Without inconvenience, as it were, either to himself or to you? Then,” said Mitchy, who visibly felt that he had taken her up successfully, “it strikes me that I’m absolutely your man. It’s delicious to come back to a use.”
But she was much more dim about it. “Oh what you’ve come back to—!”
“It’s just what I’m trying to get at. Van is still then where I left him?”
She was just silent. “Did you really believe he would move?”
Mitchy took a few turns, speaking almost with his back presented. “Well, with all the reasons—!” After which, while she watched him, he was before her again with a question. “It’s utterly off?”
“When was it ever really on?”
“Oh I know your view, and that, I think,” said Mitchy, “is the most extraordinary part of it. I can tell you it would have put ME on.”
“My view?” Mrs. Brook thought. “Have you forgotten that I had for you too a view that didn’t?”
“Ah but we didn’t differ, you and I. It wasn’t a defiance and a prophecy. You wanted ME.”
“I did indeed!” Mrs. Brook said simply.
“And you didn’t want him. For HER, I mean. So you risked showing it.”
She looked surprised. “DID I?”
Again they were face to face. “Your candour’s divine!”
She wondered. “Do you mean it was even then?”
Mitchy smiled at her till he was red. “It’s exquisite now.”
“Well,” she presently returned, “I knew my Van!”
“I thought I knew ‘yours’ too,” Mitchy said. Their eyes met a minute and he added: “But I didn’t.” Then he exclaimed: “How you’ve worked it!”
She looked barely conscious. “‘Worked it’?” After which, with a slightly sharper note: “How do you know—while you’ve been amusing yourself in places that I’d give my head to see again but never shall—what I’ve been doing?”
“Well, I saw, you know, that night at Tishy’s, just before we left England, your wonderful start. I got a look at your attitude, as it were, and your system.”
Her eyes were now far away, and she spoke after an instant without moving them. “And didn’t I by the same token get a look at yours?”
“Mine?” Mitchy thought, but seemed to doubt. “My dear child, I hadn’t any then.”
“You mean that it has formed itself—your system—since?”
He shook his head with decision. “I assure you I’m quite at sea. I’ve never had, and I have as little as ever now, anything but my general philosophy, which I won’t attempt at present to go into and of which moreover I think you’ve had first and last your glimpses. What I made out in you that night was a perfect policy.”
Mrs. Brook had another of her infantine stares. “Every one that night seems to have made out something! All I can say is at any rate,” she went on, “that in that case you were all far deeper than I was.”
“It was just a blind instinct, without a programme or a scheme? Perhaps then, since it has so perfectly succeeded, the name doesn’t matter. I’m lost, as I tell you,” Mitchy declared, “in admiration of its success.”
She looked, as before, so young, yet so grave. “What do you call its success?”
“Let me ask you rather—mayn’t I?—what YOU call its failure.”
Mrs. Brook, who had been standing for some minutes, seated herself at this as if to respond to his idea. But the next moment she had fallen back into thought. “Have you often heard from him?”
“Never once.”
“And have you written?”
“Not a word either. I left it, you see,” Mitchy smiled, “all, to YOU.” After which he continued: “Has he been with you much?”
She just hesitated. “As little as possible. But as it happens he was here just now.”
Her visitor fairly flushed. “And I’ve only missed him?”
Her pause again was of the briefest. “You wouldn’t if he HAD gone up.”
“‘Gone up’?”
“To Nanda, who has now her own sitting-room, as you know; for whom he immediately asked and for whose benefit, whatever you may think, I was at the end of a quarter of an hour, I assure you, perfectly ready to release him. He changed his mind, however, and went away without seeing her.”
Mitchy showed the deepest interest. “And what made him change his mind?”
“Well, I’m thinking it out.”
He appeared to watch this labour. “But with no light yet?”
“When it comes I’ll tell you.”
He hung fire once more but an instant. “You didn’t yourself work the thing again?”
She rose at this in strange sincerity. “I think, you know, you go very far.”
“Why, didn’t we just now settle,” he promptly replied, “that it’s all instinctive and unconscious? If it was so that night at Tishy’s—!”
“Ah, voyons, voyons,” she broke in, “what did I do even then?” He laughed out at something in her tone. “You’d like it again all pictured—?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Why, you just simply—publicly—took her back.”
“And where was the monstrosity of that?”
“In the one little right place. In your removal of every doubt—”
“Well, of what?” He had appeared not quite to know how to put it. But he saw at last. “Why, of what we may still hope to do for her. Thanks to your care there were specimens.” Then as she had the look of trying vainly to focus a few, “I can’t recover them one by one,” he pursued, “but the whole thing was quite lurid enough to do us all credit.”
She met him after a little, but at such an odd point. “Pardon me if I scarcely see how much of the credit was yours. For the first time since I’ve known you, you went in for decency.”
Mitchy’s surprise showed as real. “It struck you as decency—?”
Since he wished she thought it over. “Oh your behaviour—!”
“My behaviour was—my condition. Do you call THAT decent? No, you’re quite out.” He spoke, in his good nature, with an approach to reproof. “How can I ever—?”
But it had already brought her quite round, and to a firmer earth that she clearly preferred to tread. “Are things really bad with you, Mitch?”
“Well, I’ll tell you how they are. But not now.”
“Some other time?—on your honour?”
“You shall have it all. Don’t be afraid.”
She dimly smiled. “It will be like old times.”
He rather demurred. “For you perhaps. But not for me.”
In spite of what he said it did hold her, and her hand again almost caressed him. “But—till you do tell me—is it very very dreadful?”
“That’s just perhaps what I may have to get you to decide.”
“Then shall I help you?” she eagerly asked.
�
��I think it will be quite in your line.”
At the thought of her line—it sounded somehow so general—she released him a little with a sigh, yet still looking round, as it were, for possibilities. “Jane, you know, is in a state.”
“Yes, Jane’s in a state. That’s a comfort!”
She continued in a manner to cling to him. “But is it your only one?”