The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  ‘I daresay you did—but you mustn’t justify yourself; that’s just what I don’t want; it isn’t what I sent for you for. I have something very particular to say to you, but it’s very difficult. Voyons un peu!’

  The old woman reflected a little, with her eyes on his face, which had grown more grave as she went on; its expression intimated that he failed as yet to understand her and that he at least was not exactly trifling. Lady Davenant’s musings apparently helped her little, if she was looking for an artful approach; for they ended in her saying abruptly, ‘I wonder if you know what a capital girl she is.’

  ‘Do you mean—do you mean–-?’ stammered Mr. Wendover, pausing as if he had given her no right not to allow him to conceive alternatives.

  ‘Yes, I do mean. She’s upstairs, in bed.’

  ‘Upstairs in bed!’ The young man stared.

  ‘Don’t be afraid—I’m not going to send for her!’ laughed his hostess; ‘her being here, after all, has nothing to do with it, except that she did come—yes, certainly, she did come. But my keeping her—that was my doing. My maid has gone to Grosvenor Place to get her things and let them know that she will stay here for the present. Now am I clear?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Mr. Wendover, almost sternly.

  Lady Davenant, however, was not of a composition to suspect him of sternness or to care very much if she did, and she went on, with her quick discursiveness: ‘Well, we must be patient; we shall work it out together. I was afraid you would go away, that’s why I lost no time. Above all I want you to understand that she has not the least idea that I have sent for you, and you must promise me never, never, never to let her know. She would be monstrous angry. It is quite my own idea—I have taken the responsibility. I know very little about you of course, but she has spoken to me well of you. Besides, I am very clever about people, and I liked you that day, though you seemed to think I was a hundred and eighty.’

  ‘You do me great honour,’ Mr. Wendover rejoined.

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased! You must be if I tell you that I like you now even better. I see what you are, except for the question of fortune. It doesn’t perhaps matter much, but have you any money? I mean have you a fine income?’

  ‘No, indeed I haven’t!’ And the young man laughed in his bewilderment. ‘I have very little money indeed.’

  ‘Well, I daresay you have as much as I. Besides, that would be a proof she is not mercenary.’

  ‘You haven’t in the least made it plain whom you are talking about,’ said Mr. Wendover. ‘I have no right to assume anything.’

  ‘Are you afraid of betraying her? I am more devoted to her even than I want you to be. She has told me what happened between you last night—what she said to you at the opera. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘She was very strange,’ the young man remarked.

  ‘I am not so sure that she was strange. However, you are welcome to think it, for goodness knows she says so herself. She is overwhelmed with horror at her own words; she is absolutely distracted and prostrate.’

  Mr. Wendover was silent a moment. ‘I assured her that I admire her—beyond every one. I was most kind to her.’

  ‘Did you say it in that tone? You should have thrown yourself at her feet! From the moment you didn’t—surely you understand women well enough to know.’

  ‘You must remember where we were—in a public place, with very little room for throwing!’ Mr. Wendover exclaimed.

  ‘Ah, so far from blaming you she says your behaviour was perfect. It’s only I who want to have it out with you,’ Lady Davenant pursued. ‘She’s so clever, so charming, so good and so unhappy.’

  ‘When I said just now she was strange, I meant only in the way she turned against me.’

  ‘She turned against you?’

  ‘She told me she hoped she should never see me again.’

  ‘And you, should you like to see her?’

  ‘Not now—not now!’ Mr. Wendover exclaimed, eagerly.

  ‘I don’t mean now, I’m not such a fool as that. I mean some day or other, when she has stopped accusing herself, if she ever does.’

  ‘Ah, Lady Davenant, you must leave that to me,’ the young man returned, after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to tell me I’m meddling with what doesn’t concern me,’ said his hostess. ‘Of course I know I’m meddling; I sent for you here to meddle. Who wouldn’t, for that creature? She makes one melt.’

  ‘I’m exceedingly sorry for her. I don’t know what she thinks she said.’

  ‘Well, that she asked you why you came so often to Grosvenor Place. I don’t see anything so awful in that, if you did go.’

  ‘Yes, I went very often. I liked to go.’

  ‘Now, that’s exactly where I wish to prevent a misconception,’ said Lady Davenant. ‘If you liked to go you had a reason for liking, and Laura Wing was the reason, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I thought her charming, and I think her so now more than ever.’

  ‘Then you are a dear good man. Vous faisiez votre cour, in short.’

  Mr. Wendover made no immediate response: the two sat looking at each other. ‘It isn’t easy for me to talk of these things,’ he said at last; ‘but if you mean that I wished to ask her to be my wife I am bound to tell you that I had no such intention.’

  ‘Ah, then I’m at sea. You thought her charming and you went to see her every day. What then did you wish?’

  ‘I didn’t go every day. Moreover I think you have a very different idea in this country of what constitutes—well, what constitutes making love. A man commits himself much sooner.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what your odd ways may be!’ Lady Davenant exclaimed, with a shade of irritation.

  ‘Yes, but I was justified in supposing that those ladies did: they at least are American.’

  ‘“They,” my dear sir! For heaven’s sake don’t mix up that nasty Selina with it!’

  ‘Why not, if I admired her too? I do extremely, and I thought the house most interesting.’

  ‘Mercy on us, if that’s your idea of a nice house! But I don’t know—I have always kept out of it,’ Lady Davenant added, checking herself. Then she went on, ‘If you are so fond of Mrs. Berrington I am sorry to inform you that she is absolutely good-for-nothing.’

  ‘Good-for-nothing?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of! I have been thinking whether I would tell you, and I have decided to do so because I take it that your learning it for yourself would be a matter of but a very short time. Selina has bolted, as they say.’

  ‘Bolted?’ Mr. Wendover repeated.

  ‘I don’t know what you call it in America.’

  ‘In America we don’t do it.’

  ‘Ah, well, if they stay, as they do usually abroad, that’s better. I suppose you didn’t think her capable of behaving herself, did you?’

  ‘Do you mean she has left her husband—with some one else?’

  ‘Neither more nor less; with a fellow named Crispin. It appears it all came off last evening, and she had her own reasons for doing it in the most offensive way—publicly, clumsily, with the vulgarest bravado. Laura has told me what took place, and you must permit me to express my surprise at your not having divined the miserable business.’

  ‘I saw something was wrong, but I didn’t understand. I’m afraid I’m not very quick at these things.’

  ‘Your state is the more gracious; but certainly you are not quick if you could call there so often and not see through Selina.’

  ‘Mr. Crispin, whoever he is, was never there,’ said the young man.

  ‘Oh, she was a clever hussy!’ his companion rejoined.

  ‘I knew she was fond of amusement, but that’s what I liked to see. I wanted to see a house of that sort.’

  ‘Fond of amusement is a very pretty phrase!’ said Lady Davenant, laughing at the simplicity with which her visitor accounted for his assiduity. ‘And did Laura Wing seem to you in her place in a hou
se of that sort?’

  ‘Why, it was natural she should be with her sister, and she always struck me as very gay.’

  ‘That was your enlivening effect! And did she strike you as very gay last night, with this scandal hanging over her?’

  ‘She didn’t talk much,’ said Mr. Wendover.

  ‘She knew it was coming—she felt it, she saw it, and that’s what makes her sick now, that at such a time she should have challenged you, when she felt herself about to be associated (in people’s minds, of course) with such a vile business. In people’s minds and in yours—when you should know what had happened.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Wing isn’t associated–-‘ said Mr. Wendover. He spoke slowly, but he rose to his feet with a nervous movement that was not lost upon his companion: she noted it indeed with a certain inward sense of triumph. She was very deep, but she had never been so deep as when she made up her mind to mention the scandal of the house of Berrington to her visitor and intimated to him that Laura Wing regarded herself as near enough to it to receive from it a personal stain. ‘I’m extremely sorry to hear of Mrs. Berrington’s misconduct,’ he continued gravely, standing before her. ‘And I am no less obliged to you for your interest.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, getting up too and smiling. ‘I mean my interest. As for the other matter, it will all come out. Lionel will haul her up.’

  ‘Dear me, how dreadful!’

  ‘Yes, dreadful enough. But don’t betray me.’

  ‘Betray you?’ he repeated, as if his thoughts had gone astray a moment.

  ‘I mean to the girl. Think of her shame!’

  ‘Her shame?’ Mr. Wendover said, in the same way.

  ‘It seemed to her, with what was becoming so clear to her, that an honest man might save her from it, might give her his name and his faith and help her to traverse the bad place. She exaggerates the badness of it, the stigma of her relationship. Good heavens, at that rate where would some of us be? But those are her ideas, they are absolutely sincere, and they had possession of her at the opera. She had a sense of being lost and was in a real agony to be rescued. She saw before her a kind gentleman who had seemed—who had certainly seemed–-‘ And Lady Davenant, with her fine old face lighted by her bright sagacity and her eyes on Mr. Wendover’s, paused, lingering on this word. ‘Of course she must have been in a state of nerves.’

  ‘I am very sorry for her,’ said Mr. Wendover, with his gravity that committed him to nothing.

  ‘So am I! And of course if you were not in love with her you weren’t, were you?’

  ‘I must bid you good-bye, I am leaving London.’ That was the only answer Lady Davenant got to her inquiry.

  ‘Good-bye then. She is the nicest girl I know. But once more, mind you don’t let her suspect!’

  ‘How can I let her suspect anything when I shall never see her again?’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Lady Davenant, very gently.

  ‘She drove me away from her with a kind of ferocity.’

  ‘Oh, gammon!’ cried the old woman.

  ‘I’m going home,’ he said, looking at her with his hand on the door.

  ‘Well, it’s the best place for you. And for her too!’ she added as he went out. She was not sure that the last words reached him.

  XIII

  Laura Wing was sharply ill for three days, but on the fourth she made up her mind she was better, though this was not the opinion of Lady Davenant, who would not hear of her getting up. The remedy she urged was lying still and yet lying still; but this specific the girl found well-nigh intolerable—it was a form of relief that only ministered to fever. She assured her friend that it killed her to do nothing: to which her friend replied by asking her what she had a fancy to do. Laura had her idea and held it tight, but there was no use in producing it before Lady Davenant, who would have knocked it to pieces. On the afternoon of the first day Lionel Berrington came, and though his intention was honest he brought no healing. Hearing she was ill he wanted to look after her—he wanted to take her back to Grosvenor Place and make her comfortable: he spoke as if he had every convenience for producing that condition, though he confessed there was a little bar to it in his own case. This impediment was the ‘cheeky’ aspect of Miss Steet, who went sniffing about as if she knew a lot, if she should only condescend to tell it. He saw more of the children now; ‘I’m going to have ‘em in every day, poor little devils,’ he said; and he spoke as if the discipline of suffering had already begun for him and a kind of holy change had taken place in his life. Nothing had been said yet in the house, of course, as Laura knew, about Selina’s disappearance, in the way of treating it as irregular; but the servants pretended so hard not to be aware of anything in particular that they were like pickpockets looking with unnatural interest the other way after they have cribbed a fellow’s watch. To a certainty, in a day or two, the governess would give him warning: she would come and tell him she couldn’t stay in such a place, and he would tell her, in return, that she was a little donkey for not knowing that the place was much more respectable now than it had ever been.

  This information Selina’s husband imparted to Lady Davenant, to whom he discoursed with infinite candour and humour, taking a highly philosophical view of his position and declaring that it suited him down to the ground. His wife couldn’t have pleased him better if she had done it on purpose; he knew where she had been every hour since she quitted Laura at the opera—he knew where she was at that moment and he was expecting to find another telegram on his return to Grosvenor Place. So if it suited her it was all right, wasn’t it? and the whole thing would go as straight as a shot. Lady Davenant took him up to see Laura, though she viewed their meeting with extreme disfavour, the girl being in no state for talking. In general Laura had little enough mind for it, but she insisted on seeing Lionel: she declared that if this were not allowed her she would go after him, ill as she was—she would dress herself and drive to his house. She dressed herself now, after a fashion; she got upon a sofa to receive him. Lady Davenant left him alone with her for twenty minutes, at the end of which she returned to take him away. This interview was not fortifying to the girl, whose idea—the idea of which I have said that she was tenacious—was to go after her sister, to take possession of her, cling to her and bring her back. Lionel, of course, wouldn’t hear of taking her back, nor would Selina presumably hear of coming; but this made no difference in Laura’s heroic plan. She would work it, she would compass it, she would go down on her knees, she would find the eloquence of angels, she would achieve miracles. At any rate it made her frantic not to try, especially as even in fruitless action she should escape from herself—an object of which her horror was not yet extinguished.

  As she lay there through inexorably conscious hours the picture of that hideous moment in the box alternated with the vision of her sister’s guilty flight. She wanted to fly, herself—to go off and keep going for ever. Lionel was fussily kind to her and he didn’t abuse Selina—he didn’t tell her again how that lady’s behaviour suited his book. He simply resisted, with a little exasperating, dogged grin, her pitiful appeal for knowledge of her sister’s whereabouts. He knew what she wanted it for and he wouldn’t help her in any such game. If she would promise, solemnly, to be quiet, he would tell her when she got better, but he wouldn’t lend her a hand to make a fool of herself. Her work was cut out for her—she was to stay and mind the children: if she was so keen to do her duty she needn’t go further than that for it. He talked a great deal about the children and figured himself as pressing the little deserted darlings to his bosom. He was not a comedian, and she could see that he really believed he was going to be better and purer now. Laura said she was sure Selina would make an attempt to get them—or at least one of them; and he replied, grimly, ‘Yes, my dear, she had better try!’ The girl was so angry with him, in her hot, tossing weakness, for refusing to tell her even whether the desperate pair had crossed the Channel, that she was guilty of the immorality of regretting th
at the difference in badness between husband and wife was so distinct (for it was distinct, she could see that) as he made his dry little remark about Selina’s trying. He told her he had already seen his solicitor, the clever Mr. Smallshaw, and she said she didn’t care.

  On the fourth day of her absence from Grosvenor Place she got up, at an hour when she was alone (in the afternoon, rather late), and prepared herself to go out. Lady Davenant had admitted in the morning that she was better, and fortunately she had not the complication of being subject to a medical opinion, having absolutely refused to see a doctor. Her old friend had been obliged to go out—she had scarcely quitted her before—and Laura had requested the hovering, rustling lady’s-maid to leave her alone: she assured her she was doing beautifully. Laura had no plan except to leave London that night; she had a moral certainty that Selina had gone to the Continent. She had always done so whenever she had a chance, and what chance had ever been larger than the present? The Continent was fearfully vague, but she would deal sharply with Lionel—she would show him she had a right to knowledge. He would certainly be in town; he would be in a complacent bustle with his lawyers. She had told him that she didn’t believe he had yet gone to them, but in her heart she believed it perfectly. If he didn’t satisfy her she would go to Lady Ringrose, odious as it would be to her to ask a favour of this depraved creature: unless indeed Lady Ringrose had joined the little party to France, as on the occasion of Selina’s last journey thither. On her way downstairs she met one of the footmen, of whom she made the request that he would call her a cab as quickly as possible—she was obliged to go out for half an hour. He expressed the respectful hope that she was better and she replied that she was perfectly well—he would please tell her ladyship when she came in. To this the footman rejoined that her ladyship had come in—she had returned five minutes before and had gone to her room. ‘Miss Frothingham told her you were asleep, Miss,’ said the man, ‘and her ladyship said it was a blessing and you were not to be disturbed.’