The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  “If you mean Grace and really want her I’ll send and find out.”

  “Not now”—he bethought himself. “But does she see that chatterbox?”

  “Mr. Crimble? Yes, she sees him.”

  He kept his eyes on her. “Then how far has it gone?”

  Lady Sandgate overcame an embarrassment. “Well, not even yet, I think, so far as they’d like.”

  “They’d ‘like’—heaven save the mark!—to marry?”

  “I suspect them of it. What line, if it should come to that,” she asked, “would you then take?”

  He was perfectly prompt. “The line that for Grace it’s simply ignoble.”

  The force of her deprecation of such language was qualified by tact. “Ah, darling, as dreadful as that?”

  He could but view the possibility with dark resentment. “It lets us so down—from what we’ve always been and done; so down, down, down that I’m amazed you don’t feel it!”

  “Oh, I feel there’s still plenty to keep you up!” she soothingly laughed.

  He seemed to consider this vague amount—which he apparently judged, however, not so vast as to provide for the whole yearning of his nature. “Well, my dear,” he thus more blandly professed, “I shall need all the extra agrément that your affection can supply.”

  If nothing could have been, on this, richer response, nothing could at the same time have bee more pleasing than her modesty. “Ah, my affectionate Theign, is, as I think you know, a fountain always in flood; but in any more worldly element than that—as you’ve ever seen for yourself—a poor strand with my own sad affairs, a broken reed; not ‘great’ as they used so finely to call it! You are—with the natural sense of greatness and, for supreme support, the instinctive grand man doing and taking things.”

  He sighed, none the less, he groaned, with his thoughts of trouble, for the strain he foresaw on these resolutions. “If you mean that I hold up my head, on higher grounds, I grant that I always have. But how much longer possible when my children commit such vulgarities? Why in the name of goodness are such children? What the devil has got into them, and is it really the case that when Grace offers as a proof of her license and a specimen of her taste a son-in-law as you tell me I’m in danger of helplessly to swallow the dose?”

  “Do you find Mr. Crimble,” Lady Sandgate as if there might really be something to say, “so utterly out of the question?”

  “I found him on the two occasions before I went away in the last degree offensive and outrageous; but even if he charged one and one’s poor dear decent old defences with less rabid a fury everything about him would forbid that kind of relation.”

  What kind of relation, if any, Hugh’s deficiencies might still render thinkable Lord Theign was kept from going on to mention by the voice of Mr. Gotch, who had thrown open the door to the not altogether assured sound of “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The guest in possession gave a cry of impatience, but Lady Sandgate said “Coming up?”

  “If his lordship will see him.”

  “Oh, he’s beyond his time,” his lordship pronounced—”I can’t see him now!”

  “Ah, but mustn’t you—and mayn’t I then?” She waited, however, for no response to signify to her servant “Let him come,” and her companion could but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?”

  Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?”

  She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning—Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them.

  Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir”—he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal.

  Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?—removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?”

  “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content—and invite you to be.”

  Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?”

  “Well—if you’ll take it on my estimate.”

  “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “is your estimate?”

  The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him.

  The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.”

  “But how can I know how much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved not what Mr. Crimble claims?”

  “No, he’s waiting for nothing—since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.”

  Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to report, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.”

  “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.”

  “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened—we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.”

  “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention–-?”

  “Yes,”—he took it from her—”the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for that.”

  Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one—and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.”

  “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”—and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders.

  But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands—too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.”

  He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled—though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly—and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And t
hen as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued.

  This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help me!”

  “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?”

  “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.”

  “That’s all I ask—to get that. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.”

  “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to you for a trifle on account.”

  “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?”

  “I mean”—she waited but an instant—”what you would feel as one.”

  “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “how I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”

  “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?”

  “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?”

  She waited a little, brightly composed—then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.”

  His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance—his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more—though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?”

  “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed—characteristically!—to give for this one.”

  “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed—characteristically!—not to give.”

  She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!”

  “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.”

  “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.”

  “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?”

  She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?”

  “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.”

  “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!”

  He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with Mr–-!”

  “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book—in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons.

  The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Gotch—but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know—”

  “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted.

  Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.”

  She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.”

  Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?”

  “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!”—he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.”

  “The Prince?”—she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?”

  Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince after the thing?”

  Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh—to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!—and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.”

  Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him here?”

  “He calls, you see, on you, my lady—at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.”

  “He’s very kind, but”—she took in her condition—”I’m not even dressed!”

  “You’ll have time”—the young man was a comfort—”while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender—though it’s so near—if I just bag your car.”

  “That’s, that’s it, take his car!”—Lady Sandgate almost swept him away.

  “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed—”but what I want to know is what the man’s after.”

  “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask.

  “The Prince then—if you allow he is a man! Is he after my picture?”

  Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.”

  “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion—only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender—I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?”

  “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you—which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.”

  Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?”

  Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing—says it must stay stock still. So there you are!”

  This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But where are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all I’m here for? What in thunder is Lord Theign’s decision—what was his ‘extraordinary order’?”

  Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, you tell him! I rush!”

  Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h–- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?”

  His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his cu
riosity—for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on me, my dear man—but I haven’t the least idea.”

  He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?”

  Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know what he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention.

  “The large red morocco case.”

  Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?”