by Henry James
It made him turn round. “Coming in from Fleet Street—earlier by an hour than usual—I found it with some other letters on my table. But my eyes went straight to it, in an extraordinary way, from the door. I recognised it, knew what it was, without touching it.”
“One can understand.” She listened with respect. His tone however was so singular that she presently added: “You speak as if all this while you HADN’T touched it.”
“Oh yes, I’ve touched it. I feel as if, ever since, I’d been touching nothing else. I quite firmly,” he pursued as if to be plainer, “took hold of it.”
“Then where is it?”
“Oh I have it here.”
“And you’ve brought it to show me?”
“I’ve brought it to show you.”
So he said with a distinctness that had, among his other oddities, almost a sound of cheer, yet making no movement that matched his words. She could accordingly but offer again her expectant face, while his own, to her impatience, seemed perversely to fill with another thought. “But now that you’ve done so you feel you don’t want to.”
“I want to immensely,” he said. “Only you tell me nothing.”
She smiled at him, with this, finally, as if he were an unreasonable child. “It seems to me I tell you quite as much as you tell me. You haven’t yet even told me how it is that such explanations as you require don’t come from your document itself.” Then as he answered nothing she had a flash. “You mean you haven’t read it?”
“I haven’t read it.”
She stared. “Then how am I to help you with it?”
Again leaving her while she never budged he paced five strides, and again he was before her. “By telling me THIS. It’s something, you know, that you wouldn’t tell me the other day.”
She was vague. “The other day?”
“The first time after my return—the Sunday I came to you. What’s he doing,” Densher went on, “at that hour of the morning with her? What does his having been with her there mean?”
“Of whom are you talking?”
“Of that man—Lord Mark of course. What does it represent?”
“Oh with Aunt Maud?”
“Yes, my dear—and with you. It comes more or less to the same thing; and it’s what you didn’t tell me the other day when I put you the question.”
Kate tried to remember the other day. “You asked me nothing about any hour.”
“I asked you when it was you last saw him—previous, I mean, to his second descent at Venice. You wouldn’t say, and as we were talking of a matter comparatively more important I let it pass. But the fact remains, you know, my dear, that you haven’t told me.”
Two things in this speech appeared to have reached Kate more distinctly than the others. “I ‘wouldn’t say’?—and you ‘let it pass’?” She looked just coldly blank. “You really speak as if I were keeping something back.”
“Well, you see,” Densher persisted, “you’re not even telling me now. All I want to know,” he nevertheless explained, “is whether there was a connexion between that proceeding on his part, which was practically—oh beyond all doubt!—the shock precipitating for her what has now happened, and anything that had occurred with him previously for yourself. How in the world did he know we’re engaged?”
Book Tenth, Chapter 5
Kate slowly rose; it was, since she had lighted the candles and sat down, the first movement she had made. “Are you trying to fix it on me that I must have told him?”
She spoke not so much in resentment as in pale dismay—which he showed he immediately took in. “My dear child, I’m not trying to ‘fix’ anything; but I’m extremely tormented and I seem not to understand. What has the brute to do with us anyway?”
“What has he indeed?” Kate asked.
She shook her head as if in recovery, within the minute, of some mild allowance for his unreason. There was in it—and for his reason really—one of those half-inconsequent sweetnesses by which she had often before made, over some point of difference, her own terms with him. Practically she was making them now, and essentially he was knowing it; yet inevitably, all the same, he was accepting it. She stood there close to him, with something in her patience that suggested her having supposed, when he spoke more appealingly, that he was going to kiss her. He hadn’t been, it appeared; but his continued appeal was none the less the quieter. “What’s he doing, from ten o’clock on Christmas morning, with Mrs. Lowder?”
Kate looked surprised. “Didn’t she tell you he’s staying there?”
“At Lancaster Gate?” Densher’s surprise met it. ” ‘Staying’?—since when?”
“Since day before yesterday. He was there before I came away.” And then she explained—confessing it in fact anomalous. “It’s an accident—like Aunt Maud’s having herself remained in town for Christmas, but it isn’t after all so monstrous. WE stayed—and, with my having come here, she’s sorry now—because we neither of us, waiting from day to day for the news you brought, seemed to want to be with a lot of people.”
“You stayed for thinking of—Venice?”
“Of course we did. For what else? And even a little,” Kate wonderfully added—”it’s true at least of Aunt Maud—for thinking of you.”
He appreciated. “I see. Nice of you every way. But whom,” he enquired, “has Lord Mark stayed for thinking of?”
“His being in London, I believe, is a very commonplace matter. He has some rooms which he has had suddenly some rather advantageous chance to let—such as, with his confessed, his decidedly proclaimed want of money, he hasn’t had it in him, in spite of everything, not to jump at.”
Densher’s attention was entire. “In spite of everything? In spite of what?”
“Well, I don’t know. In spite, say, of his being scarcely supposed to do that sort of thing.”
“To try to get money?”
“To try at any rate in little thrifty ways. Apparently however he has had for some reason to do what he can. He turned at a couple of days’ notice out of his place, making it over to his tenant; and Aunt Maud, who’s deeply in his confidence about all such matters, said: ‘Come then to Lancaster Gate—to sleep at least—till, like all the world, you go to the country.’ He was to have gone to the country—I think to Matcham—yesterday afternoon: Aunt Maud, that is, told me he was.”
Kate had been somehow, for her companion, through this statement, beautifully, quite soothingly, suggestive. “Told you, you mean, so that you needn’t leave the house?”
“Yes—so far as she had taken it into her head that his being there was part of my reason.”
“And WAS it part of your reason?”
“A little if you like. Yet there’s plenty here—as I knew there would be—without it. So that,” she said candidly, “doesn’t matter. I’m glad I am here: even if for all the good I do—!” She implied however that that didn’t matter either. “He didn’t, as you tell me, get off then to Matcham; though he may possibly, if it IS possible, be going this afternoon. But what strikes me as most probable—and it’s really, I’m bound to say, quite amiable of him—is that he has declined to leave Aunt Maud, as I’ve been so ready to do, to spend her Christmas alone. If moreover he has given up Matcham for her it’s a procede that won’t please her less. It’s small wonder therefore that she insists, on a dull day, in driving him about. I don’t pretend to know,” she wound up, “what may happen between them; but that’s all I see in it.”
“You see in everything, and you always did,” Densher returned, “something that, while I’m with you at least, I always take from you as the truth itself.”
She looked at him as if consciously and even carefully extracting the sting of his reservation; then she spoke with a quiet gravity that seemed to show how fine she found it. “Thank you.” It had for him, like everything else, its effect. They were still closely face to face, and, yielding to the impulse to which he hadn’t yielded just before, he laid his hands on her shoulders, held her hard a
minute and shook her a little, far from untenderly, as if in expression of more mingled things, all difficult, than he could speak. Then bending his head he applied his lips to her cheek. He fell, after this, away for an instant, resuming his unrest, while she kept the position in which, all passive and as a statue, she had taken his demonstration. It didn’t prevent her, however, from offering him, as if what she had had was enough for the moment, a further indulgence. She made a quiet lucid connexion and as she made it sat down again. “I’ve been trying to place exactly, as to its date, something that did happen to me while you were in Venice. I mean a talk with him. He spoke to me—spoke out.”
“Ah there you are!” said Densher who had wheeled round.
“Well, if I’m ‘there,’ as you so gracefully call it, by having refused to meet him as he wanted—as he pressed—I plead guilty to being so. Would you have liked me,” she went on, “to give him an answer that would have kept him from going?”
It made him a little awkwardly think. “Did you know he was going?”
“Never for a moment; but I’m afraid that—even if it doesn’t fit your strange suppositions—I should have given him just the same answer if I had known. If it’s a matter I haven’t, since your return, thrust upon you, that’s simply because it’s not a matter in the memory of which I find a particular joy. I hope that if I’ve satisfied you about it,” she continued, “it’s not too much to ask of you to let it rest.”
“Certainly,” said Densher kindly, “I’ll let it rest.” But the next moment he pursued: “He saw something. He guessed.”
“If you mean,” she presently returned, “that he was unfortunately the one person we hadn’t deceived, I can’t contradict you.”
“No—of course not. But WHY,” Densher still risked, “was he unfortunately the one person—? He’s not really a bit intelligent.”
“Intelligent enough apparently to have seen a mystery, a riddle, in anything so unnatural as—all things considered and when it came to the point—my attitude. So he gouged out his conviction, and on his conviction he acted.”
Densher seemed for a little to look at Lord Mark’s conviction as if it were a blot on the face of nature. “Do you mean because you had appeared to him to have encouraged him?”
“Of course I had been decent to him. Otherwise where WERE we?”
” ‘Where’—?”
“You and I. What I appeared to him, however, hadn’t mattered. What mattered was how I appeared to Aunt Maud. Besides, you must remember that he has had all along his impression of YOU. You can’t help it,” she said, “but you’re after all—well, yourself.”
“As much myself as you please. But when I took myself to Venice and kept myself there—what,” Densher asked, “did he make of that?”
“Your being in Venice and liking to be—which is never on any one’s part a monstrosity—was explicable for him in other ways. He was quite capable moreover of seeing it as dissimulation.”
“In spite of Mrs. Lowder?”
“No,” said Kate, “not in spite of Mrs. Lowder now. Aunt Maud, before what you call his second descent, hadn’t convinced him—all the more that my refusal of him didn’t help. But he came back convinced.” And then as her companion still showed a face at a loss: “I mean after he had seen Milly, spoken to her and left her. Milly convinced him.”
“Milly?” Densher again but vaguely echoed.
“That you were sincere. That it was HER you loved.” It came to him from her in such a way that he instantly, once more, turned, found himself yet again at his window. “Aunt Maud, on his return here,” she meanwhile continued, “had it from him. And that’s why you’re now so well with Aunt Maud.”
He only for a minute looked out in silence—after which he came away. “And why YOU are.” It was almost, in its extremely affirmative effect between them, the note of recrimination; or it would have been perhaps rather if it hadn’t been so much more the note of truth. It was sharp because it was true, but its truth appeared to impose it as an argument so conclusive as to permit on neither side a sequel. That made, while they faced each other over it without speech, the gravity of everything. It was as if there were almost danger, which the wrong word might start. Densher accordingly at last acted to better purpose: he drew, standing there before her, a pocket-book from the breast of his waistcoat and he drew from the pocket-book a folded letter to which her eyes attached themselves. He restored then the receptacle to its place and, with a movement not the less odd for being visibly instinctive and unconscious, carried the hand containing his letter behind him. What he thus finally spoke of was a different matter. “Did I understand from Mrs. Lowder that your father’s in the house?”
If it never had taken her long in such excursions to meet him it was not to take her so now. “In the house, yes. But we needn’t fear his interruption”—she spoke as if he had thought of that. “He’s in bed.”
“Do you mean with illness?”
She sadly shook her head. “Father’s never ill. He’s a marvel. He’s only—endless.”
Densher thought. “Can I in any way help you with him?”
“Yes.” She perfectly, wearily, almost serenely, had it all. “By our making your visit as little of an affair as possible for him—and for Marian too.”
“I see. They hate so your seeing me. Yet I couldn’t—could I?—not have come.”
“No, you couldn’t not have come.”
“But I can only, on the other hand, go as soon as possible?”
Quickly it almost upset her. “Ah don’t, to-day, put ugly words into my mouth. I’ve enough of my trouble without it.”
“I know—I know!” He spoke in instant pleading. “It’s all only that I’m as troubled FOR you. When did he come?”
“Three days ago—after he hadn’t been near her for more than a year, after he had apparently, and not regrettably, ceased to remember her existence; and in a state which made it impossible not to take him in.”
Densher hesitated. “Do you mean in such want—?”
“No, not of food, of necessary things—not even, so far as his appearance went, of money. He looked as wonderful as ever. But he was—well, in terror.”
“In terror of what?”
“I don’t know. Of somebody—of something. He wants, he says, to be quiet. But his quietness is awful.”
She suffered, but he couldn’t not question. “What does he do?”
It made Kate herself hesitate. “He cries.”
Again for a moment he hung fire, but he risked it. “What HAS he done?”
It made her slowly rise, and they were once more fully face to face. Her eyes held his own and she was paler than she had been. “If you love me—now—don’t ask me about father.”
He waited again a moment. “I love you. It’s because I love you that I’m here. It’s because I love you that I’ve brought you this.” And he drew from behind him the letter that had remained in his hand.
But her eyes only—though he held it out—met the offer. “Why you’ve not broken the seal!”
“If I had broken the seal—exactly—I should know what’s within. It’s for YOU to break the seal that I bring it.”
She looked—still not touching the thing—inordinately grave. “To break the seal of something to you from HER?”
“Ah precisely because it’s from her. I’ll abide by whatever you think of it.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kate. “What do you yourself think?” And then as he didn’t answer: “It seems to me I think you know. You have your instinct. You don’t need to read. It’s the proof.”
Densher faced her words as if they had been an accusation, an accusation for which he was prepared and which there was but one way to face. “I have indeed my instinct. It came to me, while I worried it out, last night. It came to me as an effect of the hour.” He held up his letter and seemed now to insist more than to confess. “This thing had been timed.”
