The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

‘I know—it’s because mamma is an American!’ Ferdy announced, with confidence.

  ‘And what has that to do with it?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Mamma spends so much money—there isn’t any more for anything!’

  This startling speech elicited an alarmed protest from Miss Steet; she blushed and assured Laura that she couldn’t imagine where the child could have picked up such an extraordinary idea. ‘I’ll look into it—you may be sure I’ll look into it,’ she said; while Laura told Ferdy that he must never, never, never, under any circumstances, either utter or listen to a word that should be wanting in respect to his mother.

  ‘If any one should say anything against any of my people I would give him a good one!’ Geordie shouted, with his hands in his little blue pockets.

  ‘I’d hit him in the eye!’ cried Ferdy, with cheerful inconsequence.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t care to come to dinner at half-past seven,’ the girl said to Miss Steet; ‘but I should be very glad—I’m all alone.’

  ‘Thank you so much. All alone, really?’ murmured the governess.

  ‘Why don’t you get married? then you wouldn’t be alone,’ Geordie interposed, with ingenuity.

  ‘Children, you are really too dreadful this evening!’ Miss Steet exclaimed.

  ‘I shan’t get married—I want to have the hounds,’ proclaimed Geordie, who had apparently been much struck with his brother’s explanation.

  ‘I will come down afterwards, about half-past eight, if you will allow me,’ said Miss Steet, looking conscious and responsible.

  ‘Very well—perhaps we can have some music; we will try something together.’

  ‘Oh, music—we don’t go in for music!’ said Geordie, with clear superiority; and while he spoke Laura saw Miss Steet get up suddenly, looking even less alleviated than usual. The door of the room had been pushed open and Lionel Berrington stood there. He had his hat on and a cigar in his mouth and his face was red, which was its common condition. He took off his hat as he came into the room, but he did not stop smoking and he turned a little redder than before. There were several ways in which his sister-in-law often wished he had been very different, but she had never disliked him for a certain boyish shyness that was in him, which came out in his dealings with almost all women. The governess of his children made him uncomfortable and Laura had already noticed that he had the same effect upon Miss Steet. He was fond of his children, but he saw them hardly more frequently than their mother and they never knew whether he were at home or away. Indeed his goings and comings were so frequent that Laura herself scarcely knew: it was an accident that on this occasion his absence had been marked for her. Selina had had her reasons for wishing not to go up to town while her husband was still at Mellows, and she cherished the irritating belief that he stayed at home on purpose to watch her—to keep her from going away. It was her theory that she herself was perpetually at home—that few women were more domestic, more glued to the fireside and absorbed in the duties belonging to it; and unreasonable as she was she recognised the fact that for her to establish this theory she must make her husband sometimes see her at Mellows. It was not enough for her to maintain that he would see her if he were sometimes there himself. Therefore she disliked to be caught in the crude fact of absence—to go away under his nose; what she preferred was to take the next train after his own and return an hour or two before him. She managed this often with great ability, in spite of her not being able to be sure when he would return. Of late however she had ceased to take so much trouble, and Laura, by no desire of the girl’s own, was enough in the confidence of her impatiences and perversities to know that for her to have wished (four days before the moment I write of) to put him on a wrong scent—or to keep him at least off the right one—she must have had something more dreadful than usual in her head. This was why the girl had been so nervous and why the sense of an impending catastrophe, which had lately gathered strength in her mind, was at present almost intolerably pressing: she knew how little Selina could afford to be more dreadful than usual.

  Lionel startled her by turning up in that unexpected way, though she could not have told herself when it would have been natural to expect him. This attitude, at Mellows, was left to the servants, most of them inscrutable and incommunicative and erect in a wisdom that was founded upon telegrams—you couldn’t speak to the butler but he pulled one out of his pocket. It was a house of telegrams; they crossed each other a dozen times an hour, coming and going, and Selina in particular lived in a cloud of them. Laura had but vague ideas as to what they were all about; once in a while, when they fell under her eyes, she either failed to understand them or judged them to be about horses. There were an immense number of horses, in one way and another, in Mrs. Berrington’s life. Then she had so many friends, who were always rushing about like herself and making appointments and putting them off and wanting to know if she were going to certain places or whether she would go if they did or whether she would come up to town and dine and ‘do a theatre.’ There were also a good many theatres in the existence of this busy lady. Laura remembered how fond their poor father had been of telegraphing, but it was never about the theatre: at all events she tried to give her sister the benefit or the excuse of heredity. Selina had her own opinions, which were superior to this—she once remarked to Laura that it was idiotic for a woman to write—to telegraph was the only way not to get into trouble. If doing so sufficed to keep a lady out of it Mrs. Berrington’s life should have flowed like the rivers of Eden.

  III

  Laura, as soon as her brother-in-law had been in the room a moment, had a particular fear; she had seen him twice noticeably under the influence of liquor; she had not liked it at all and now there were some of the same signs. She was afraid the children would discover them, or at any rate Miss Steet, and she felt the importance of not letting him stay in the room. She thought it almost a sign that he should have come there at all—he was so rare an apparition. He looked at her very hard, smiling as if to say, ‘No, no, I’m not—not if you think it!’ She perceived with relief in a moment that he was not very bad, and liquor disposed him apparently to tenderness, for he indulged in an interminable kissing of Geordie and Ferdy, during which Miss Steet turned away delicately, looking out of the window. The little boys asked him no questions to celebrate his return—they only announced that they were going to learn botany, to which he replied: ‘Are you, really? Why, I never did,’ and looked askance at the governess, blushing as if to express the hope that she would let him off from carrying that subject further. To Laura and to Miss Steet he was amiably explanatory, though his explanations were not quite coherent. He had come back an hour before—he was going to spend the night—he had driven over from Churton—he was thinking of taking the last train up to town. Was Laura dining at home? Was any one coming? He should enjoy a quiet dinner awfully.

  ‘Certainly I’m alone,’ said the girl. ‘I suppose you know Selina is away.’

  ‘Oh yes—I know where Selina is!’ And Lionel Berrington looked round, smiling at every one present, including Scratch and Parson. He stopped while he continued to smile and Laura wondered what he was so much pleased at. She preferred not to ask—she was sure it was something that wouldn’t give her pleasure; but after waiting a moment her brother-in-law went on: ‘Selina’s in Paris, my dear; that’s where Selina is!’

  ‘In Paris?’ Laura repeated.

  ‘Yes, in Paris, my dear—God bless her! Where else do you suppose? Geordie my boy, where should you think your mummy would naturally be?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Geordie, who had no reply ready that would express affectingly the desolation of the nursery. ‘If I were mummy I’d travel.’

  ‘Well now that’s your mummy’s idea—she has gone to travel,’ returned the father. ‘Were you ever in Paris, Miss Steet?’

  Miss Steet gave a nervous laugh and said No, but she had been to Boulogne; while to her added confusion Ferdy announced that he knew where Paris was—it
was in America. ‘No, it ain’t—it’s in Scotland!’ cried Geordie; and Laura asked Lionel how he knew—whether his wife had written to him.

  ‘Written to me? when did she ever write to me? No, I saw a fellow in town this morning who saw her there—at breakfast yesterday. He came over last night. That’s how I know my wife’s in Paris. You can’t have better proof than that!’

  ‘I suppose it’s a very pleasant season there,’ the governess murmured, as if from a sense of duty, in a distant, discomfortable tone.

  ‘I daresay it’s very pleasant indeed—I daresay it’s awfully amusing!’ laughed Mr. Berrington. ‘Shouldn’t you like to run over with me for a few days, Laura—just to have a go at the theatres? I don’t see why we should always be moping at home. We’ll take Miss Steet and the children and give mummy a pleasant surprise. Now who do you suppose she was with, in Paris—who do you suppose she was seen with?’

  Laura had turned pale, she looked at him hard, imploringly, in the eyes: there was a name she was terribly afraid he would mention. ‘Oh sir, in that case we had better go and get ready!’ Miss Steet quavered, betwixt a laugh and a groan, in a spasm of discretion; and before Laura knew it she had gathered Geordie and Ferdy together and swept them out of the room. The door closed behind her with a very quick softness and Lionel remained a moment staring at it.

  ‘I say, what does she mean?—ain’t that damned impertinent?’ he stammered. ‘What did she think I was going to say? Does she suppose I would say any harm before—before her? Dash it, does she suppose I would give away my wife to the servants?’ Then he added, ‘And I wouldn’t say any harm before you, Laura. You are too good and too nice and I like you too much!’

  ‘Won’t you come downstairs? won’t you have some tea?’ the girl asked, uneasily.

  ‘No, no, I want to stay here—I like this place,’ he replied, very gently and reasoningly. ‘It’s a deuced nice place—it’s an awfully jolly room. It used to be this way—always—when I was a little chap. I was a rough one, my dear; I wasn’t a pretty little lamb like that pair. I think it’s because you look after them—that’s what makes ‘em so sweet. The one in my time—what was her name? I think it was Bald or Bold—I rather think she found me a handful. I used to kick her shins—I was decidedly vicious. And do you see it’s kept so well, Laura?’ he went on, looking round him. ”Pon my soul, it’s the prettiest room in the house. What does she want to go to Paris for when she has got such a charming house? Now can you answer me that, Laura?’

  ‘I suppose she has gone to get some clothes: her dressmaker lives in Paris, you know.’

  ‘Dressmaker? Clothes? Why, she has got whole rooms full of them. Hasn’t she got whole rooms full of them?’

  ‘Speaking of clothes I must go and change mine,’ said Laura. ‘I have been out in the rain—I have been to Plash—I’m decidedly damp.’

  ‘Oh, you have been to Plash? You have seen my mother? I hope she’s in very good health.’ But before the girl could reply to this he went on: ‘Now, I want you to guess who she’s in Paris with. Motcomb saw them together—at that place, what’s his name? close to the Madeleine.’ And as Laura was silent, not wishing at all to guess, he continued—’It’s the ruin of any woman, you know; I can’t think what she has got in her head.’ Still Laura said nothing, and as he had hold of her arm, she having turned away, she led him this time out of the room. She had a horror of the name, the name that was in her mind and that was apparently on his lips, though his tone was so singular, so contemplative. ‘My dear girl, she’s with Lady Ringrose—what do you say to that?’ he exclaimed, as they passed along the corridor to the staircase.

  ‘With Lady Ringrose?’

  ‘They went over on Tuesday—they are knocking about there alone.’

  ‘I don’t know Lady Ringrose,’ Laura said, infinitely relieved that the name was not the one she had feared. Lionel leaned on her arm as they went downstairs.

  ‘I rather hope not—I promise you she has never put her foot in this house! If Selina expects to bring her here I should like half an hour’s notice; yes, half an hour would do. She might as well be seen with–-‘ And Lionel Berrington checked himself. ‘She has had at least fifty–-‘ And again he stopped short. ‘You must pull me up, you know, if I say anything you don’t like!’

  ‘I don’t understand you—let me alone, please!’ the girl broke out, disengaging herself with an effort from his arm. She hurried down the rest of the steps and left him there looking after her, and as she went she heard him give an irrelevant laugh.

  IV

  She determined not to go to dinner—she wished for that day not to meet him again. He would drink more—he would be worse—she didn’t know what he might say. Besides she was too angry—not with him but with Selina—and in addition to being angry she was sick. She knew who Lady Ringrose was; she knew so many things to-day that when she was younger—and only a little—she had not expected ever to know. Her eyes had been opened very wide in England and certainly they had been opened to Lady Ringrose. She had heard what she had done and perhaps a good deal more, and it was not very different from what she had heard of other women. She knew Selina had been to her house; she had an impression that her ladyship had been to Selina’s, in London, though she herself had not seen her there. But she had not known they were so intimate as that—that Selina would rush over to Paris with her. What they had gone to Paris for was not necessarily criminal; there were a hundred reasons, familiar to ladies who were fond of change, of movement, of the theatres and of new bonnets; but nevertheless it was the fact of this little excursion quite as much as the companion that excited Laura’s disgust.

  She was not ready to say that the companion was any worse, though Lionel appeared to think so, than twenty other women who were her sister’s intimates and whom she herself had seen in London, in Grosvenor Place, and even under the motherly old beeches at Mellows. But she thought it unpleasant and base in Selina to go abroad that way, like a commercial traveller, capriciously, clandestinely, without giving notice, when she had left her to understand that she was simply spending three or four days in town. It was bad taste and bad form, it was cabotin and had the mark of Selina’s complete, irremediable frivolity—the worst accusation (Laura tried to cling to that opinion) that she laid herself open to. Of course frivolity that was never ashamed of itself was like a neglected cold—you could die of it morally as well as of anything else. Laura knew this and it was why she was inexpressibly vexed with her sister. She hoped she should get a letter from Selina the next morning (Mrs. Berrington would show at least that remnant of propriety) which would give her a chance to despatch her an answer that was already writing itself in her brain. It scarcely diminished Laura’s eagerness for such an opportunity that she had a vision of Selina’s showing her letter, laughing, across the table, at the place near the Madeleine, to Lady Ringrose (who would be painted—Selina herself, to do her justice, was not yet) while the French waiters, in white aprons, contemplated ces dames. It was new work for our young lady to judge of these shades—the gradations, the probabilities of license, and of the side of the line on which, or rather how far on the wrong side, Lady Ringrose was situated.

  A quarter of an hour before dinner Lionel sent word to her room that she was to sit down without him—he had a headache and wouldn’t appear. This was an unexpected grace and it simplified the position for Laura; so that, smoothing her ruffles, she betook herself to the table. Before doing this however she went back to the schoolroom and told Miss Steet she must contribute her company. She took the governess (the little boys were in bed) downstairs with her and made her sit opposite, thinking she would be a safeguard if Lionel were to change his mind. Miss Steet was more frightened than herself—she was a very shrinking bulwark. The dinner was dull and the conversation rare; the governess ate three olives and looked at the figures on the spoons. Laura had more than ever her sense of impending calamity; a draught of misfortune seemed to blow through the house; it chilled her feet un
der her chair. The letter she had in her head went out like a flame in the wind and her only thought now was to telegraph to Selina the first thing in the morning, in quite different words. She scarcely spoke to Miss Steet and there was very little the governess could say to her: she had already related her history so often. After dinner she carried her companion into the drawing-room, by the arm, and they sat down to the piano together. They played duets for an hour, mechanically, violently; Laura had no idea what the music was—she only knew that their playing was execrable. In spite of this—’That’s a very nice thing, that last,’ she heard a vague voice say, behind her, at the end; and she became aware that her brother-in-law had joined them again.

  Miss Steet was pusillanimous—she retreated on the spot, though Lionel had already forgotten that he was angry at the scandalous way she had carried off the children from the schoolroom. Laura would have gone too if Lionel had not told her that he had something very particular to say to her. That made her want to go more, but she had to listen to him when he expressed the hope that she hadn’t taken offence at anything he had said before. He didn’t strike her as tipsy now; he had slept it off or got rid of it and she saw no traces of his headache. He was still conspicuously cheerful, as if he had got some good news and were very much encouraged. She knew the news he had got and she might have thought, in view of his manner, that it could not really have seemed to him so bad as he had pretended to think it. It was not the first time however that she had seen him pleased that he had a case against his wife, and she was to learn on this occasion how extreme a satisfaction he could take in his wrongs. She would not sit down again; she only lingered by the fire, pretending to warm her feet, and he walked to and fro in the long room, where the lamp-light to-night was limited, stepping on certain figures of the carpet as if his triumph were alloyed with hesitation.