by Henry James
“For a flight, I trust, to some happiness greater—!”
“Exactly. Greater,” Densher broke in; but now with a look, he feared, that did a little warn her off.
“You were certainly,” she went on with more reserve, “entitled to direct news. Ours came late last night: I’m not sure otherwise, I shouldn’t have gone to you. But you’re coming,” she asked, “to me?”
He had had a minute by this time to think further, and the window of the brougham was still within range. Her rich “me,” reaching him moreover through the mild damp, had the effect of a thump on his chest. “Squared,” Aunt Maud? She was indeed squared, and the extent of it just now perversely enough took away his breath. His look from where they stood embraced the aperture at which the person sitting in the carriage might have shown, and he saw his interlocutress, on her side, understand the question in it, which he moreover then uttered. “Shall you be alone?” It was, as an immediate instinctive parley with the image of his condition that now flourished in her, almost hypocritical. It sounded as if he wished to come and overflow to her, yet this was exactly what he didn’t. The need to overflow had suddenly—since the night before—dried up in him, and he had never been aware of a deeper reserve.
But she had meanwhile largely responded. “Completely alone. I should otherwise never have dreamed; feeling, dear friend, but too much!” Failing on her lips what she felt came out for him in the offered hand with which she had the next moment consolingly pressed his own. “Dear friend, dear friend!”—she was deeply “with” him, and she wished to be still more so: which was what made her immediately continue. “Or wouldn’t you this evening, for the sad Christmas it makes us, dine with me tête-à-tête?”
It put the thing off, the question of a talk with her—making the difference, to his relief, of several hours; but it also rather mystified him. This however didn’t diminish his need of caution. “Shall you mind if I don’t tell you at once?”
“Not in the least—leave it open: it shall be as you may feel, and you needn’t even send me word. I only will mention that to-day, of all days, I shall otherwise sit there alone.”
Now at least he could ask. “Without Miss Croy?”
“Without Miss Croy. Miss Croy,” said Mrs. Lowder, “is spending her Christmas in the bosom of her more immediate family.”
He was afraid, even while he spoke, of what his face might show. “You mean she has left you?”
Aunt Maud’s own face for that matter met the enquiry with a consciousness in which he saw a reflexion of events. He was made sure by it, even at the moment and as he had never been before, that since he had known these two women no confessed nor commented tension, no crisis of the cruder sort would really have taken form between them: which was precisely a high proof of how Kate had steered her boat. The situation exposed in Mrs. Lowder’s present expression lighted up by contrast that superficial smoothness; which afterwards, with his time to think of it, was to put before him again the art, the particular gift, in the girl, now so placed and classed, so intimately familiar for him, as her talent for life. The peace, within a day or two—since his seeing her last—had clearly been broken; differences, deep down, kept there by a diplomacy on Kate’s part as deep, had been shaken to the surface by some exceptional jar; with which, in addition, he felt Lord Mark’s odd attendance at such an hour and season vaguely associated. The talent for life indeed, it at the same time struck him, would probably have shown equally in the breach, or whatever had occurred; Aunt Maud having suffered, he judged, a strain rather than a stroke. Of these quick thoughts, at all events, that lady was already abreast. “She went yesterday morning—and not with my approval, I don’t mind telling you—to her sister: Mrs. Condrip, if you know who I mean, who lives somewhere in Chelsea. My other niece and her affairs—that I should have to say such things to-day!—are a constant worry; so that Kate, in consequence—well, of events!—has simply been called in. My own idea, I’m bound to say, was that with such events she need have, in her situation, next to nothing to do.”
“But she differed with you?”
“She differed with me. And when Kate differs with you—!”
“Oh I can imagine.” He had reached the point in the scale of hypocrisy at which he could ask himself why a little more or less should signify. Besides, with the intention he had had he must know. Kate’s move, if he didn’t know, might simply disconcert him; and of being disconcerted his horror was by this time fairly superstitious. “I hope you don’t allude to events at all calamitous.”
“No—only horrid and vulgar.”
“Oh!” said Merton Densher.
Mrs. Lowder’s soreness, it was still not obscure, had discovered in free speech to him a momentary balm. “They’ve the misfortune to have, I suppose you know, a dreadful horrible father.”
“Oh!” said Densher again.
“He’s too bad almost to name, but he has come upon Marian, and Marian has shrieked for help.”
Densher wondered at this with intensity; and his curiosity compromised for an instant with his discretion. “Come upon her—for money?”
“Oh for that of course always. But, at this blessed season, for refuge, for safety: for God knows what. He’s there, the brute. And Kate’s with them. And that,” Mrs. Lowder wound up, going down the steps, “is her Christmas.”
She had stopped again at the bottom while he thought of an answer. “Yours then is after all rather better.”
“It’s at least more decent.” And her hand once more came out. “But why do I talk of our troubles? Come if you can.”
He showed a faint smile. “Thanks. If I can.”
“And now—I dare say—you’ll go to church?”
She had asked it, with her good intention, rather in the air and by way of sketching for him, in the line of support, something a little more to the purpose than what she had been giving him. He felt it as finishing off their intensities of expression that he found himself to all appearance receiving her hint as happy. “Why yes—I think I will”: after which, as the door of the brougham, at her approach, had opened from within, he was free to turn his back. He heard the door, behind him, sharply close again and the vehicle move off in another direction than his own.
He had in fact for the time no direction; in spite of which indeed he was at the end of ten minutes aware of having walked straight to the south. That, he afterwards recognized, was, very sufficiently, because there had formed itself in his mind, even while Aunt Maud finally talked, an instant recognition of his necessary course. Nothing was open to him but to follow Kate, nor was anything more marked than the influence of the step she had taken on the emotion itself that possessed him. Her complications, which had fairly, with everything else, an awful sound—what were they, a thousand times over, but his own? His present business was to see that they didn’t escape an hour longer taking their proper place in his life. He accordingly would have held his course hadn’t it suddenly come over him that he had just lied to Mrs. Lowder—a term it perversely eased him to keep using—even more than was necessary. To what church was he going, to what church, in such a state of his nerves, could he go?—he pulled up short again, as he had pulled up in sight of Mrs. Lowder’s carriage, to ask it. And yet the desire queerly stirred in him not to have wasted his word. He was just then however by a happy chance in the Brompton Road, and he bethought himself with a sudden light that the Oratorybi was at hand. He had but to turn the other way and he should find himself soon before it. At the door then, in a few minutes, his idea was really—as it struck him—consecrated: he was, pushing in, on the edge of a splendid service—the flocking crowd told of it—which glittered and resounded, from distant depths, in the blaze of altar-lights and the swell of organ and choir. It didn’t match his own day, but it was much less of a discord than some other things actual and possible. The Oratory in short, to make him right, would do.
—IV—
The difference was thus that the dusk of afternoon—dusk thick fr
om an early hour—had gathered when he knocked at Mrs. Condrip’s door. He had gone from the church to his club, wishing not to present himself in Chelsea at luncheon-time and also remembering that he must attempt independently to make a meal. This, in the event, he but imperfectly achieved: he dropped into a chair in the great dim void of the club library, with nobody, up or down, to be seen, and there after a while, closing his eyes, recovered an hour of the sleep he had lost during the night. Before doing this indeed he had written—it was the first thing he did—a short note, which, in the Christmas desolation of the place, he had managed only with difficulty and doubt to commit to a messenger. He wished it carried by hand, and he was obliged, rather blindly, to trust the hand, as the messenger, for some reason, was unable to return with a gage of delivery. When at four o’clock he was face to face with Kate in Mrs. Condrip’s small drawing-room he found to his relief that his notification had reached her. She was expectant and to that extent prepared; which simplified a little—if a little, at the present pass, counted. Her conditions were vaguely vivid to him from the moment of his coming in, and vivid partly by their difference, a difference sharp and suggestive, from those in which he had hitherto constantly seen her. He had seen her but in places comparatively great; in her aunt’s pompous house, under the high trees of Kensington and the storied ceilings of Venice. He had seen her, in Venice, on a great occasion, as the centre itself of the splendid Piazza: he had seen her there, on a still greater one, in his own poor rooms, which yet had consorted with her, having state and ancientry even in their poorness; but Mrs. Condrip’s interior, even by this best view of it and though not flagrantly mean, showed itself as a setting almost grotesquely inapt. Pale, grave and charming, she affected him at once as a distinguished stranger—stranger to the little Chelsea street—who was making the best of a queer episode and a place of exile. The extraordinary thing was that at the end of three minutes he felt himself less appointedly a stranger in it than she.
A part of the queerness—this was to come to him in glimpses—sprang from the air as of a general large misfit imposed on the narrow room by the scale and mass of its furniture. The objects, the ornaments were, for the sisters, clearly relics and survivals of what would, in the case of Mrs. Condrip at least, have been called better days. The curtains that overdraped the windows, the sofas and tables that stayed circulation, the chimney-ornaments that reached to the ceiling and the florid chandelier that almost dropped to the floor, were so many mementoes of earlier homes and so many links with their unhappy mother. Whatever might have been in itself the quality of these elements Densher could feel the effect proceeding from them, as they lumpishly blocked out the decline of the dim day, to be ugly almost to the point of the sinister. They failed to accommodate or to compromise; they asserted their differences without tact and without taste. It was truly having a sense of Kate’s own quality thus promptly to see them in reference to it. But that Densher had this sense was no new thing to him, nor did he in strictness need, for the hour, to be reminded of it. He only knew, by one of the tricks, his imagination so constantly played him, that he was, so far as her present tension went, very specially sorry for her—which was not the view that had determined his start in the morning; yet also that he himself would have taken it all, as he might say, less hard. He could have lived in such a place; but it wasn’t given to those of his complexion, so to speak, to be exiled anywhere. It was by their comparative grossness that they could somehow make shift. His natural, his inevitable, his ultimate home—left, that is, to itself—wasn’t at all unlikely to be as queer and impossible as what was just round them, though doubtless in less ample masses. As he took in moreover how Kate wouldn’t have been in the least the creature she was if what was just round them hadn’t mismatched her, hadn’t made for her a medium involving compunction in the spectator, so, by the same stroke, that became the very fact of her relation with her companions there, such a fact as filled him at once, oddly, both with assurance and with suspense. If he himself, on this brief vision, felt her as alien and as ever so unwittingly ironic, how must they not feel her and how above all must she not feel them?
Densher could ask himself that even after she had presently lighted the tall candles on the mantel-shelf. This was all their illumination but the fire, and she had proceeded to it with a quiet dryness that yet left play, visibly, to her implication between them, in their trouble and failing anything better, of the presumably genial Christmas hearth. So far as the genial went this had in strictness, given their conditions, to be all their geniality. He had told her in his note nothing but that he must promptly see her and that he hoped she might be able to make it possible; but he understood from the first look at her that his promptitude was already having for her its principal reference. “I was prevented this morning, in the few minutes,” he explained, “asking Mrs. Lowder if she had let you know, though I rather gathered she had; and it’s what I’ve been in fact since then assuming. It was because I was so struck at the moment with your having, as she did tell me, so suddenly come here.”
“Yes, it was sudden enough.” Very neat and fine in the contracted firelight, with her hands in her lap, Kate considered what he had said. He had spoken immediately of what had happened at Sir Luke Strett’s door. “She has let me know nothing. But that doesn’t matter—if it’s what you mean.”
“It’s part of what I mean,” Densher said; but what he went on with, after a pause during which she waited, was apparently not the rest of that. “She had had her telegram from Mrs. Stringham; late last night. But to me the poor lady hasn’t wired. The event,” he added, “will have taken place yesterday, and Sir Luke, starting immediately, one can see, and travelling straight, will get back tomorrow morning. So that Mrs. Stringham, I judge, is left to face in some solitude the situation bequeathed to her. But of course,” he wound up, “Sir Luke couldn’t stay.”
Her look at him might have had in it a vague betrayal of the sense that he was gaining time. “Was your telegram from Sir Luke?”
“No—I’ve had no telegram.”
She wondered. “But not a letter—?”
“Not from Mrs. Stringham—no.” He failed again however to develop this—for which her forbearance from another question gave him occasion. From whom then had he heard? He might at last, confronted with her, really have been gaining time; and as if to show that she respected this impulse she made her enquiry different. “Should you like to go out to her—to Mrs. Stringham?”
About that at least he was clear. “Not at all. She’s alone, but she’s very capable and very courageous. Besides—!” He had been going on, but he dropped.
“Besides,” she said, “there’s Eugenio? Yes, of course one remembers Eugenio.”
She had uttered the words as definitely to show them for not untender; and he showed equally every reason to assent. “One remembers him indeed, and with every ground for it. He’ll be of the highest value to her—he’s capable of anything. What I was going to say,” he went on, “is that some of their people from America must quickly arrive.”
On this, as happened, Kate was able at once to satisfy him. “Mr. Someone-or-other, the person principally in charge of Milly’s affairs—her first trustee, I suppose—had just got there at Mrs. Stringham’s last writing.”
“Ah that then was after your aunt last spoke to me—I mean the last time before this morning. I’m relieved to hear it. So,” he said, “they’ll do.”
“Oh they’ll do.” And it came from each still as if it wasn’t what each was most thinking of. Kate presently got however a step nearer to that. “But if you had been wired to by nobody what then this morning had taken you to Sir Luke?”
“Oh something else—which I’ll presently tell you. It’s what made me instantly need to see you; it’s what I’ve come to speak to you of. But in a minute. I feel too many things,” he went on, “at seeing you in this place.” He got up as he spoke; she herself remained perfectly still. His movement had been to the fire, and, lea
ning a little, with his back to it, to look down on her from where he stood, he confined himself to his point. “Is it anything very bad that has brought you?”
He had now in any case said enough to justify her wish for more; so that, passing this matter by, she pressed her own challenge. “Do you mean, if I may ask, that she, dying—?” Her face, wondering, pressed it more than her words.
“Certainly you may ask,” he after a moment said. “What has come to me is what, as I say, I came expressly to tell you. I don’t mind letting you know,” he went on, “that my decision to do this took for me last night and this morning a great deal of thinking of. But here I am.” And he indulged in a smile that couldn’t, he was well aware, but strike her as mechanical.
She went straighter with him, she seemed to show, than he really went with her. “You didn’t want to come?”
“It would have been simple, my dear”—and he continued to smile—“if it had been, one way or the other, only a question of ‘wanting.’ It took, I admit it, the idea of what I had best do, all sorts of difficult and portentous forms. It came up for me really—well, not at all for my happiness.”
This word apparently puzzled her—she studied him in the light of it. “You look upset—you’ve certainly been tormented. You’re not well.”
“Oh—well enough!”
But she continued without heeding. “You hate what you’re doing.”
“My dear girl, you simplify”—and he was now serious enough. “It isn’t so simple even as that.”
She had the air of thinking what it then might be. “I of course can‘t, with no clue, know what it is.” She remained none the less patient and still. “If at such a moment she could write you one’s inevitably quite at sea. One doesn’t, with the best will in the world, understand.” And then as Densher had a pause which might have stood for all the involved explanation that, to his discouragement, loomed before him: “You haven’t decided what to do.”