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Chapter 4

EVERY year, the day he walked back from the great graveyard, he
went to church as he had done the day his idea was born. It was on
this occasion, as it happened, after a year had passed, that he
began to observe his altar to be haunted by a worshipper at least
as frequent as himself. Others of the faithful, and in the rest of
the church, came and went, appealing sometimes, when they
disappeared, to a vague or to a particular recognition; but this
unfailing presence was always to be observed when he arrived and
still in possession when he departed. He was surprised, the first
time, at the promptitude with which it assumed an identity for him
- the identity of the lady whom two years before, on his
anniversary, he had seen so intensely bowed, and of whose tragic
face he had had so flitting a vision. Given the time that had
passed, his recollection of her was fresh enough to make him
wonder. Of himself she had of course no impression, or rather had
had none at first: the time came when her manner of transacting
her business suggested her having gradually guessed his call to be
of the same order. She used his altar for her own purpose - he
could only hope that sad and solitary as she always struck him, she
used it for her own Dead. There were interruptions, infidelities,
all on his part, calls to other associations and duties; but as the
months went on he found her whenever he returned, and he ended by
taking pleasure in the thought that he had given her almost the
contentment he had given himself. They worshipped side by side so
often that there were moments when he wished he might be sure, so
straight did their prospect stretch away of growing old together in
their rites. She was younger than he, but she looked as if her
Dead were at least as numerous as his candles. She had no colour,
no sound, no fault, and another of the things about which he had
made up his mind was that she had no fortune. Always black-robed,
she must have had a succession of sorrows. People weren't poor,
after all, whom so many losses could overtake; they were positively
rich when they had had so much to give up. But the air of this
devoted and indifferent woman, who always made, in any attitude, a
beautiful accidental line, conveyed somehow to Stransom that she
had known more kinds of trouble than one.

He had a great love of music and little time for the joy of it; but
occasionally, when workaday noises were muffled by Saturday
afternoons, it used to come back to him that there were glories.
There were moreover friends who reminded him of this and side by
side with whom he found himself sitting out concerts. On one of
these winter afternoons, in St. James's Hall, he became aware after
he had seated himself that the lady he had so often seen at church
was in the place next him and was evidently alone, as he also this
time happened to be. She was at first too absorbed in the
consideration of the programme to heed him, but when she at last
glanced at him he took advantage of the movement to speak to her,
greeting her with the remark that he felt as if he already knew
her. She smiled as she said "Oh yes, I recognise you"; yet in
spite of this admission of long acquaintance it was the first he
had seen of her smile. The effect of it was suddenly to contribute
more to that acquaintance than all the previous meetings had done.
He hadn't "taken in," he said to himself, that she was so pretty.
Later, that evening - it was while he rolled along in a hansom on
his way to dine out - he added that he hadn't taken in that she was
so interesting. The next morning in the midst of his work he quite
suddenly and irrelevantly reflected that his impression of her,
beginning so far back, was like a winding river that had at last
reached the sea.

His work in fact was blurred a little all that day by the sense of
what had now passed between them. It wasn't much, but it had just
made the difference. They had listened together to Beethoven and
Schumann; they had talked in the pauses, and at the end, when at
the door, to which they moved together, he had asked her if he
could help her in the matter of getting away. She had thanked him
and put up her umbrella, slipping into the crowd without an
allusion to their meeting yet again and leaving him to remember at
leisure that not a word had been exchanged about the usual scene of
that coincidence. This omission struck him now as natural and then
again as perverse. She mightn't in the least have allowed his
warrant for speaking to her, and yet if she hadn't he would have
judged her an underbred woman. It was odd that when nothing had
really ever brought them together he should have been able
successfully to assume they were in a manner old friends - that
this negative quantity was somehow more than they could express.
His success, it was true, had been qualified by her quick escape,
so that there grew up in him an absurd desire to put it to some
better test. Save in so far as some other poor chance might help
him, such a test could be only to meet her afresh at church. Left
to himself he would have gone to church the very next afternoon,
just for the curiosity of seeing if he should find her there. But
he wasn't left to himself, a fact he discovered quite at the last,
after he had virtually made up his mind to go. The influence that
kept him away really revealed to him how little to himself his Dead
EVER left him. He went only for THEM - for nothing else in the
world.

The force of this revulsion kept him away ten days: he hated to
connect the place with anything but his offices or to give a
glimpse of the curiosity that had been on the point of moving him.
It was absurd to weave a tangle about a matter so simple as a
custom of devotion that might with ease have been daily or hourly;
yet the tangle got itself woven. He was sorry, he was
disappointed: it was as if a long happy spell had been broken and
he had lost a familiar security. At the last, however, he asked
himself if he was to stay away for ever from the fear of this
muddle about motives. After an interval neither longer nor shorter
than usual he re-entered the church with a clear conviction that he
should scarcely heed the presence or the absence of the lady of the
concert. This indifference didn't prevent his at once noting that
for the only time since he had first seen her she wasn't on the
spot. He had now no scruple about giving her time to arrive, but
she didn't arrive, and when he went away still missing her he was
profanely and consentingly sorry. If her absence made the tangle
more intricate, that was all her own doing. By the end of another
year it was very intricate indeed; but by that time he didn't in
the least care, and it was only his cultivated consciousness that
had given him scruples. Three times in three months he had gone to
church without finding her, and he felt he hadn't needed these
occasions to show him his suspense had dropped. Yet it was,
incongruously, not indifference, but a refinement of delicacy that
had kept him from asking the sacristan, who would of course
immediately have recognised his description of her, whether she had
been seen at other hours. His delicacy had kept him from asking
any question about her at any time, and it was exactly the same
virtue that had left him so free to be decently civil to her at the
concert.

This happy advantage now served him anew, enabling him when she
finally met his eyes - it was after a fourth trial - to
predetermine quite fixedly his awaiting her retreat. He joined her
in the street as soon as she had moved, asking her if he might
accompany her a certain distance. With her placid permission he
went as far as a house in the neighbourhood at which she had
business: she let him know it was not where she lived. She lived,
as she said, in a mere slum, with an old aunt, a person in
connexion with whom she spoke of the engrossment of humdrum duties
and regular occupations. She wasn't, the mourning niece, in her
first youth, and her vanished freshness had left something behind
that, for Stransom, represented the proof it had been tragically
sacrificed. Whatever she gave him the assurance of she gave
without references. She might have been a divorced duchess - she
might have been an old maid who taught the harp.

Henry James

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