by Henry James
‘Tired of me, I’m afraid.’
‘No, not yet.’
‘I’m like you,’ I pursued. ‘I should like it to go on and on.’
She had begun to walk along the deck to the companion-way and I went with her. ‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t, after all!’
I had taken her shawl from her to carry it, but at the top of the steps that led down to the cabins I had to give it back. ‘Your mother would be glad if she could know,’ I observed as we parted.
‘If she could know?’
‘How well you are getting on. And that good Mrs. Allen.’
‘Oh, mother, mother! She made me come, she pushed me off.’ And almost as if not to say more she went quickly below.
I paid Mrs. Nettlepoint a morning visit after luncheon and another in the evening, before she ‘turned in.’ That same day, in the evening, she said to me suddenly, ‘Do you know what I have done? I have asked Jasper.’
‘Asked him what?’
‘Why, if she asked him, you know.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You do perfectly. If that girl really asked him—on the balcony—to sail with us.’
‘My dear friend, do you suppose that if she did he would tell you?’
‘That’s just what he says. But he says she didn’t.’
‘And do you consider the statement valuable?’ I asked, laughing out. ‘You had better ask Miss Gracie herself.’
Mrs. Nettlepoint stared. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Incomparable friend, I am only joking. What does it signify now?’
‘I thought you thought everything signified. You were so full of signification!’
‘Yes, but we are farther out now, and somehow in mid-ocean everything becomes absolute.’
‘What else can he do with decency?’ Mrs. Nettlepoint went on. ‘If, as my son, he were never to speak to her it would be very rude and you would think that stranger still. Then you would do what he does, and where would be the difference?’
‘How do you know what he does? I haven’t mentioned him for twenty-four hours.’
‘Why, she told me herself: she came in this afternoon.’
‘What an odd thing to tell you!’ I exclaimed.
‘Not as she says it. She says he’s full of attention, perfectly devoted—looks after her all the while. She seems to want me to know it, so that I may commend him for it.’
‘That’s charming; it shows her good conscience.’
‘Yes, or her great cleverness.’
Something in the tone in which Mrs. Nettlepoint said this caused me to exclaim in real surprise, ‘Why, what do you suppose she has in her mind?’
‘To get hold of him, to make him go so far that he can’t retreat, to marry him, perhaps.’
‘To marry him? And what will she do with Mr. Porterfield?’
‘She’ll ask me just to explain to him—or perhaps you.’
‘Yes, as an old friend!’ I replied, laughing. But I asked more seriously, ‘Do you see Jasper caught like that?’
‘Well, he’s only a boy—he’s younger at least than she.’
‘Precisely; she regards him as a child.’
‘As a child?’
‘She remarked to me herself to-day that he is so much younger.’
Mrs. Nettlepoint stared. ‘Does she talk of it with you? That shows she has a plan, that she has thought it over!’
I have sufficiently betrayed that I deemed Grace Mavis a singular girl, but I was far from judging her capable of laying a trap for our young companion. Moreover my reading of Jasper was not in the least that he was catchable—could be made to do a thing if he didn’t want to do it. Of course it was not impossible that he might be inclined, that he might take it (or already have taken it) into his head to marry Miss Mavis; but to believe this I should require still more proof than his always being with her. He wanted at most to marry her for the voyage. ‘If you have questioned him perhaps you have tried to make him feel responsible,’ I said to his mother.
‘A little, but it’s very difficult. Interference makes him perverse. One has to go gently. Besides, it’s too absurd—think of her age. If she can’t take care of herself!’ cried Mrs. Nettlepoint.
‘Yes, let us keep thinking of her age, though it’s not so prodigious. And if things get very bad you have one resource left,’ I added.
‘What is that?’
‘You can go upstairs.’
‘Ah, never, never! If it takes that to save her she must be lost. Besides, what good would it do? If I were to go up she could come down here.’
‘Yes, but you could keep Jasper with you.’
‘Could I?’ Mrs. Nettlepoint demanded, in the manner of a woman who knew her son.
In the saloon the next day, after dinner, over the red cloth of the tables, beneath the swinging lamps and the racks of tumblers, decanters and wine-glasses, we sat down to whist, Mrs. Peck, among others, taking a hand in the game. She played very badly and talked too much, and when the rubber was over assuaged her discomfiture (though not mine—we had been partners) with a Welsh rabbit and a tumbler of something hot. We had done with the cards, but while she waited for this refreshment she sat with her elbows on the table shuffling a pack.
‘She hasn’t spoken to me yet—she won’t do it,’ she remarked in a moment.
‘Is it possible there is any one on the ship who hasn’t spoken to you?’
‘Not that girl—she knows too well!’ Mrs. Peck looked round our little circle with a smile of intelligence—she had familiar, communicative eyes. Several of our company had assembled, according to the wont, the last thing in the evening, of those who are cheerful at sea, for the consumption of grilled sardines and devilled bones.
‘What then does she know?’
‘Oh, she knows that I know.’
‘Well, we know what Mrs. Peck knows,’ one of the ladies of the group observed to me, with an air of privilege.
‘Well, you wouldn’t know if I hadn’t told you—from the way she acts,’ said Mrs. Peck, with a small laugh.
‘She is going out to a gentleman who lives over there—he’s waiting there to marry her,’ the other lady went on, in the tone of authentic information. I remember that her name was Mrs. Gotch and that her mouth looked always as if she were whistling.
‘Oh, he knows—I’ve told him,’ said Mrs. Peck.
‘Well, I presume every one knows,’ Mrs. Gotch reflected.
‘Dear madam, is it every one’s business?’ I asked.
‘Why, don’t you think it’s a peculiar way to act?’ Mrs. Gotch was evidently surprised at my little protest.
‘Why, it’s right there—straight in front of you, like a play at the theatre—as if you had paid to see it,’ said Mrs. Peck. ‘If you don’t call it public–-!’
‘Aren’t you mixing things up? What do you call public?’
‘Why, the way they go on. They are up there now.’
‘They cuddle up there half the night,’ said Mrs. Gotch. ‘I don’t know when they come down. Any hour you like—when all the lights are out they are up there still.’
‘Oh, you can’t tire them out. They don’t want relief—like the watch!’ laughed one of the gentlemen.
‘Well, if they enjoy each other’s society what’s the harm?’ another asked. ‘They’d do just the same on land.’
‘They wouldn’t do it on the public streets, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Peck. ‘And they wouldn’t do it if Mr. Porterfield was round!’
‘Isn’t that just where your confusion comes in?’ I inquired. ‘It’s public enough that Miss Mavis and Mr. Nettlepoint are always together, but it isn’t in the least public that she is going to be married.’
‘Why, how can you say—when the very sailors know it! The captain knows it and all the officers know it; they see them there—especially at night, when they’re sailing the ship.’
‘I thought there was some rule–-‘ said Mrs. Gotch.
‘Well, there is—that you’v
e got to behave yourself,’ Mrs. Peck rejoined. ‘So the captain told me—he said they have some rule. He said they have to have, when people are too demonstrative.’
‘Too demonstrative?’
‘When they attract so much attention.’
‘Ah, it’s we who attract the attention—by talking about what doesn’t concern us and about what we really don’t know,’ I ventured to declare.
‘She said the captain said he would tell on her as soon as we arrive,’ Mrs. Gotch interposed.
‘She said–-?’ I repeated, bewildered.
‘Well, he did say so, that he would think it his duty to inform Mr. Porterfield, when he comes on to meet her—if they keep it up in the same way,’ said Mrs. Peck.
‘Oh, they’ll keep it up, don’t you fear!’ one of the gentlemen exclaimed.
‘Dear madam, the captain is laughing at you.’
‘No, he ain’t—he’s right down scandalised. He says he regards us all as a real family and wants the family to be properly behaved.’ I could see Mrs. Peck was irritated by my controversial tone: she challenged me with considerable spirit. ‘How can you say I don’t know it when all the street knows it and has known it for years—for years and years?’ She spoke as if the girl had been engaged at least for twenty. ‘What is she going out for, if not to marry him?’
‘Perhaps she is going to see how he looks,’ suggested one of the gentlemen.
‘He’d look queer—if he knew.’
‘Well, I guess he’ll know,’ said Mrs. Gotch.
‘She’d tell him herself—she wouldn’t be afraid,’ the gentleman went on.
‘Well, she might as well kill him. He’ll jump overboard.’
‘Jump overboard?’ cried Mrs. Gotch, as if she hoped then that Mr. Porterfield would be told.
‘He has just been waiting for this—for years,’ said Mrs. Peck.
‘Do you happen to know him?’ I inquired.
Mrs. Peck hesitated a moment. ‘No, but I know a lady who does. Are you going up?’
I had risen from my place—I had not ordered supper. ‘I’m going to take a turn before going to bed.’
‘Well then, you’ll see!’
Outside the saloon I hesitated, for Mrs. Peck’s admonition made me feel for a moment that if I ascended to the deck I should have entered in a manner into her little conspiracy. But the night was so warm and splendid that I had been intending to smoke a cigar in the air before going below, and I did not see why I should deprive myself of this pleasure in order to seem not to mind Mrs. Peck. I went up and saw a few figures sitting or moving about in the darkness. The ocean looked black and small, as it is apt to do at night, and the long mass of the ship, with its vague dim wings, seemed to take up a great part of it. There were more stars than one saw on land and the heavens struck one more than ever as larger than the earth. Grace Mavis and her companion were not, so far as I perceived at first, among the few passengers who were lingering late, and I was glad, because I hated to hear her talked about in the manner of the gossips I had left at supper. I wished there had been some way to prevent it, but I could think of no way but to recommend her privately to change her habits. That would be a very delicate business, and perhaps it would be better to begin with Jasper, though that would be delicate too. At any rate one might let him know, in a friendly spirit, to how much remark he exposed the young lady—leaving this revelation to work its way upon him. Unfortunately I could not altogether believe that the pair were unconscious of the observation and the opinion of the passengers. They were not a boy and a girl; they had a certain social perspective in their eye. I was not very clear as to the details of that behaviour which had made them (according to the version of my good friends in the saloon) a scandal to the ship, for though I looked at them a good deal I evidently had not looked at them so continuously and so hungrily as Mrs. Peck. Nevertheless the probability was that they knew what was thought of them—what naturally would be—and simply didn’t care. That made Miss Mavis out rather cynical and even a little immodest; and yet, somehow, if she had such qualities I did not dislike her for them. I don’t know what strange, secret excuses I found for her. I presently indeed encountered a need for them on the spot, for just as I was on the point of going below again, after several restless turns and (within the limit where smoking was allowed) as many puffs at a cigar as I cared for, I became aware that a couple of figures were seated behind one of the lifeboats that rested on the deck. They were so placed as to be visible only to a person going close to the rail and peering a little sidewise. I don’t think I peered, but as I stood a moment beside the rail my eye was attracted by a dusky object which protruded beyond the boat and which, as I saw at a second glance, was the tail of a lady’s dress. I bent forward an instant, but even then I saw very little more; that scarcely mattered, however, for I took for granted on the spot that the persons concealed in so snug a corner were Jasper Nettlepoint and Mr. Porterfield’s intended. Concealed was the word, and I thought it a real pity; there was bad taste in it. I immediately turned away and the next moment I found myself face to face with the captain of the ship. I had already had some conversation with him (he had been so good as to invite me, as he had invited Mrs. Nettlepoint and her son and the young lady travelling with them, and also Mrs. Peck, to sit at his table) and had observed with pleasure that he had the art, not universal on the Atlantic liners, of mingling urbanity with seamanship.
‘They don’t waste much time—your friends in there,’ he said, nodding in the direction in which he had seen me looking.
‘Ah well, they haven’t much to lose.’
‘That’s what I mean. I’m told she hasn’t.’
I wanted to say something exculpatory but I scarcely knew what note to strike. I could only look vaguely about me at the starry darkness and the sea that seemed to sleep. ‘Well, with these splendid nights, this perfection of weather, people are beguiled into late hours.’
‘Yes. We want a nice little blow,’ the captain said.
‘A nice little blow?’
‘That would clear the decks!’
The captain was rather dry and he went about his business. He had made me uneasy and instead of going below I walked a few steps more. The other walkers dropped off pair by pair (they were all men) till at last I was alone. Then, after a little, I quitted the field. Jasper and his companion were still behind their lifeboat. Personally I greatly preferred good weather, but as I went down I found myself vaguely wishing, in the interest of I scarcely knew what, unless of decorum, that we might have half a gale.
Miss Mavis turned out, in sea-phrase, early; for the next morning I saw her come up only a little while after I had finished my breakfast, a ceremony over which I contrived not to dawdle. She was alone and Jasper Nettlepoint, by a rare accident, was not on deck to help her. I went to meet her (she was encumbered as usual with her shawl, her sun-umbrella and a book) and laid my hands on her chair, placing it near the stern of the ship, where she liked best to be. But I proposed to her to walk a little before she sat down and she took my arm after I had put her accessories into the chair. The deck was clear at that hour and the morning light was gay; one got a sort of exhilarated impression of fair conditions and an absence of hindrance. I forget what we spoke of first, but it was because I felt these things pleasantly, and not to torment my companion nor to test her, that I could not help exclaiming cheerfully, after a moment, as I have mentioned having done the first day, ‘Well, we are getting on, we are getting on!’
‘Oh yes, I count every hour.’
‘The last days always go quicker,’ I said, ‘and the last hours–-‘
‘Well, the last hours?’ she asked; for I had instinctively checked myself.
‘Oh, one is so glad then that it is almost the same as if one had arrived. But we ought to be grateful when the elements have been so kind to us,’ I added. ‘I hope you will have enjoyed the voyage.’
She hesitated a moment, then she said, ‘Yes, much more than I expected.�
��
‘Did you think it would be very bad?’
‘Horrible, horrible!’
The tone of these words was strange but I had not much time to reflect upon it, for turning round at that moment I saw Jasper Nettlepoint come towards us. He was separated from us by the expanse of the white deck and I could not help looking at him from head to foot as he drew nearer. I know not what rendered me on this occasion particularly sensitive to the impression, but it seemed to me that I saw him as I had never seen him before—saw him inside and out, in the intense sea-light, in his personal, his moral totality. It was a quick, vivid revelation; if it only lasted a moment it had a simplifying, certifying effect. He was intrinsically a pleasing apparition, with his handsome young face and a certain absence of compromise in his personal arrangements which, more than any one I have ever seen, he managed to exhibit on shipboard. He had none of the appearance of wearing out old clothes that usually prevails there, but dressed straight, as I heard some one say. This gave him a practical, successful air, as of a young man who would come best out of any predicament. I expected to feel my companion’s hand loosen itself on my arm, as indication that now she must go to him, and was almost surprised she did not drop me. We stopped as we met and Jasper bade us a friendly good-morning. Of course the remark was not slow to be made that we had another lovely day, which led him to exclaim, in the manner of one to whom criticism came easily, ‘Yes, but with this sort of thing consider what one of the others would do!’
