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Chapter 2

HE had this year, on the eve of his anniversary, as happened, an
emotion not unconnected with that range of feeling. Walking home
at the close of a busy day he was arrested in the London street by
the particular effect of a shop-front that lighted the dull brown
air with its mercenary grin and before which several persons were
gathered. It was the window of a jeweller whose diamonds and
sapphires seemed to laugh, in flashes like high notes of sound,
with the mere joy of knowing how much more they were "worth" than
most of the dingy pedestrians staring at them from the other side
of the pane. Stransom lingered long enough to suspend, in a
vision, a string of pearls about the white neck of Mary Antrim, and
then was kept an instant longer by the sound of a voice he knew.
Next him was a mumbling old woman, and beyond the old woman a
gentleman with a lady on his arm. It was from him, from Paul
Creston, the voice had proceeded: he was talking with the lady of
some precious object in the window. Stransom had no sooner
recognised him than the old woman turned away; but just with this
growth of opportunity came a felt strangeness that stayed him in
the very act of laying his hand on his friend's arm. It lasted but
the instant, only that space sufficed for the flash of a wild
question. Was NOT Mrs. Creston dead? - the ambiguity met him there
in the short drop of her husband's voice, the drop conjugal, if it
ever was, and in the way the two figures leaned to each other.
Creston, making a step to look at something else, came nearer,
glanced at him, started and exclaimed - behaviour the effect of
which was at first only to leave Stransom staring, staring back
across the months at the different face, the wholly other face, the
poor man had shown him last, the blurred ravaged mask bent over the
open grave by which they had stood together. That son of
affliction wasn't in mourning now; he detached his arm from his
companion's to grasp the hand of the older friend. He coloured as
well as smiled in the strong light of the shop when Stransom raised
a tentative hat to the lady. Stransom had just time to see she was
pretty before he found himself gaping at a fact more portentous.
"My dear fellow, let me make you acquainted with my wife."

Creston had blushed and stammered over it, but in half a minute, at
the rate we live in polite society, it had practically become, for
our friend, the mere memory of a shock. They stood there and
laughed and talked; Stransom had instantly whisked the shock out of
the way, to keep it for private consumption. He felt himself
grimace, he heard himself exaggerate the proper, but was conscious
of turning not a little faint. That new woman, that hired
performer, Mrs. Creston? Mrs. Creston had been more living for him
than any woman but one. This lady had a face that shone as
publicly as the jeweller's window, and in the happy candour with
which she wore her monstrous character was an effect of gross
immodesty. The character of Paul Creston's wife thus attributed to
her was monstrous for reasons Stransom could judge his friend to
know perfectly that he knew. The happy pair had just arrived from
America, and Stransom hadn't needed to be told this to guess the
nationality of the lady. Somehow it deepened the foolish air that
her husband's confused cordiality was unable to conceal. Stransom
recalled that he had heard of poor Creston's having, while his
bereavement was still fresh, crossed the sea for what people in
such predicaments call a little change. He had found the little
change indeed, he had brought the little change back; it was the
little change that stood there and that, do what he would, he
couldn't, while he showed those high front teeth of his, look other
than a conscious ass about. They were going into the shop, Mrs.
Creston said, and she begged Mr. Stransom to come with them and
help to decide. He thanked her, opening his watch and pleading an
engagement for which he was already late, and they parted while she
shrieked into the fog, "Mind now you come to see me right away!"
Creston had had the delicacy not to suggest that, and Stransom
hoped it hurt him somewhere to hear her scream it to all the

He felt quite determined, as he walked away, never in his life to
go near her. She was perhaps a human being, but Creston oughtn't
to have shown her without precautions, oughtn't indeed to have
shown her at all. His precautions should have been those of a
forger or a murderer, and the people at home would never have
mentioned extradition. This was a wife for foreign service or
purely external use; a decent consideration would have spared her
the injury of comparisons. Such was the first flush of George
Stransom's reaction; but as he sat alone that night - there were
particular hours he always passed alone - the harshness dropped
from it and left only the pity. HE could spend an evening with
Kate Creston, if the man to whom she had given everything couldn't.
He had known her twenty years, and she was the only woman for whom
he might perhaps have been unfaithful. She was all cleverness and
sympathy and charm; her house had been the very easiest in all the
world and her friendship the very firmest. Without accidents he
had loved her, without accidents every one had loved her: she had
made the passions about her as regular as the moon makes the tides.
She had been also of course far too good for her husband, but he
never suspected it, and in nothing had she been more admirable than
in the exquisite art with which she tried to keep every one else
(keeping Creston was no trouble) from finding it out. Here was a
man to whom she had devoted her life and for whom she had given it
up - dying to bring into the world a child of his bed; and she had
had only to submit to her fate to have, ere the grass was green on
her grave, no more existence for him than a domestic servant he had
replaced. The frivolity, the indecency of it made Stransom's eyes
fill; and he had that evening a sturdy sense that he alone, in a
world without delicacy, had a right to hold up his head. While he
smoked, after dinner, he had a book in his lap, but he had no eyes
for his page: his eyes, in the swarming void of things, seemed to
have caught Kate Creston's, and it was into their sad silences he
looked. It was to him her sentient spirit had turned, knowing it
to be of her he would think. He thought for a long time of how the
closed eyes of dead women could still live - how they could open
again, in a quiet lamplit room, long after they had looked their
last. They had looks that survived - had them as great poets had
quoted lines.

The newspaper lay by his chair - the thing that came in the
afternoon and the servants thought one wanted; without sense for
what was in it he had mechanically unfolded and then dropped it.
Before he went to bed he took it up, and this time, at the top of a
paragraph, he was caught by five words that made him start. He
stood staring, before the fire, at the "Death of Sir Acton Hague,
K.C.B.," the man who ten years earlier had been the nearest of his
friends and whose deposition from this eminence had practically
left it without an occupant. He had seen him after their rupture,
but hadn't now seen him for years. Standing there before the fire
he turned cold as he read what had befallen him. Promoted a short
time previous to the governorship of the Westward Islands, Acton
Hague had died, in the bleak honour of this exile, of an illness
consequent on the bite of a poisonous snake. His career was
compressed by the newspaper into a dozen lines, the perusal of
which excited on George Stransom's part no warmer feeling than one
of relief at the absence of any mention of their quarrel, an
incident accidentally tainted at the time, thanks to their joint
immersion in large affairs, with a horrible publicity. Public
indeed was the wrong Stransom had, to his own sense, suffered, the
insult he had blankly taken from the only man with whom he had ever
been intimate; the friend, almost adored, of his University years,
the subject, later, of his passionate loyalty: so public that he
had never spoken of it to a human creature, so public that he had
completely overlooked it. It had made the difference for him that
friendship too was all over, but it had only made just that one.
The shock of interests had been private, intensely so; but the
action taken by Hague had been in the face of men. To-day it all
seemed to have occurred merely to the end that George Stransom
should think of him as "Hague" and measure exactly how much he
himself could resemble a stone. He went cold, suddenly and
horribly cold, to bed.

Henry James

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