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Chapter 9

The thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George
Gravener was the way Saltram's name kept out of it. It seemed to
me at the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; but
afterwards it appeared more probable there had been on my
companion's part no conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of
this, and for the best of reasons--the simple reason of my
perceiving more completely that, for evil as well as for good, he
said nothing to Gravener's imagination. That honest man didn't
fear him--he was too much disgusted with him. No more did I,
doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I treated my
friend's story as an absolute confidence; but when before
Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon's death
without having had news of Miss Anvoy's return, I found myself
taking for granted we should hear no more of these nuptials, in
which, as obscurely unnatural, I now saw I had never TOO
disconcertedly believed. I began to ask myself how people who
suited each other so little could please each other so much. The
charm was some material charm, some afffinity, exquisite doubtless,
yet superficial some surrender to youth and beauty and passion, to
force and grace and fortune, happy accidents and easy contacts.
They might dote on each other's persons, but how could they know
each other's souls? How could they have the same prejudices, how
could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I confess,
seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, going
out to Wimbledon, I found our young lady in the house. A passion
that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a
passion as was needed. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn
George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I
reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my
business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the
difference was not simply that of her marks of mourning. Mrs.
Mulville told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference
between a handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl
with only four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn't
wholly content me, not even when I learned that her mourning had a
double cause--learned that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether,
buried under the ruins of his fortune and leaving next to nothing,
had died a few weeks before.

"So she has come out to marry George Gravener?" I commented.
"Wouldn't it have been prettier of him to have saved her the

"Hasn't the House just met?" Adelaide replied. "And for Mr.
Gravener the House--!" Then she added: "I gather that her having
come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little shaky. If it
were quite all right a self-respecting girl like Ruth would have
waited for him over there."

I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said
was: "Do you mean she'll have had to return to MAKE it so?"

"No, I mean that she must have come out for some reason independent
of it." Adelaide could only surmise, however, as yet, and there
was more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing
of her arrival, had brought the young lady out in the green landau
for the Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in
Regent's Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George
Gravener had been with her when Adelaide called, but had assented
graciously enough to the little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage,
with Mr. Saltram in it but not mentioned, had been sent off on some
errand from which it was to return and pick the ladies up.
Gravener had left them together, and at the end of an hour, on the
Saturday afternoon, the party of three had driven out to Wimbledon.
This was the girl's second glimpse of our great man, and I was
interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by the
first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying after
consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn't
fail to be, but that she was disappointed, I was sufficiently
struck with her use of this last word to question her further.

"Do you mean you're disappointed because you judge Miss Anvoy to

"Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or
three people, but he scarcely opened his mouth."

"He'll be all the better to-night," I opined after a moment. Then
I pursued: "What particular importance do you attach to the idea
of her being impressed?"

Adelaide turned her mild pale eyes on me as for rebuke of my
levity. "Why the importance of her being as happy as WE are!"

I'm afraid that at this my levity grew. "Oh that's a happiness
almost too great to wish a person!" I saw she hadn't yet in her
mind what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor's actual bliss
was limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in
the afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till
dinner, at which we failed of the company of Saltram, who had
caused it to be reported that he was indisposed and lying down.
This made us, most of us--for there were other friends present--
convey to each other in silence some of the unutterable things that
in those years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of
expressing. If a fine little American enquirer hadn't been there
we would have expressed them otherwise, and Adelaide would have
pretended not to hear. I had seen her, before the very fact,
abstract herself nobly; and I knew that more than once, to keep it
from the servants, managing, dissimulating cleverly, she had helped
her husband to carry him bodily to his room. Just recently he had
been so wise and so deep and so high that I had begun to get
nervous--to wonder if by chance there were something behind it, if
he were kept straight for instance by the knowledge that the hated
Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He was lying
low, but unfortunately it was common wisdom with us in this
connexion that the biggest splashes took place in the quietest
pools. We should have had a merry life indeed if all the splashes
had sprinkled us as refreshingly as the waters we were even then to
feel about our ears. Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but
had come back with a face that told as few tales as I had seen it
succeed in telling on the evening I waited in the lecture-room with
Miss Anvoy. I said to myself that our friend had gone out, but it
was a comfort that the presence of a comparative stranger deprived
us of the dreary duty of suggesting to each other, in respect of
his errand, edifying possibilities in which we didn't ourselves
believe. At ten o'clock he came into the drawing-room with his
waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out great signals. It was
precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be vividly conscious
of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, had begun to
swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss Anvoy.

Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said
to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had
been rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a
perfect general consciousness that something great was going on:
it was a little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim
play. The old music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of
thought, the sink and swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but
I knew something about one of the listeners that nobody else knew,
and Saltram's monologue could reach me only through that medium.
To this hour I'm of no use when, as a witness, I'm appealed to--for
they still absurdly contend about it--as to whether or no on that
historic night he was drunk; and my position is slightly
ridiculous, for I've never cared to tell them what it really was I
was taken up with. What I got out of it is the only morsel of the
total experience that is quite my own. The others were shared, but
this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I'm bound to say, even in
thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes something from my
pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as clear as is
absolutely needful if I remark that our young lady was too much
given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of
mine. It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had
brought her back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure
that had that question alone been involved she would have stirred
no step. In this case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the
House of Commons, have found means to rejoin her. It afterwards
made me uncomfortable for her that, alone in the lodging Mrs.
Mulville had put before me as dreary, she should have in any degree
the air of waiting for her fate; so that I was presently relieved
at hearing of her having gone to stay at Coldfield. If she was in
England at all while the engagement stood the only proper place for
her was under Lady Maddock's wing. Now that she was unfortunate
and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective sister-in-law would be
wholly won over.

There would be much to say, if I had space, about the way her
behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, ministered to the image that
had taken birth in my mind, to my private amusement, while that
other night I listened to George Gravener in the railway-carriage.
I watched her in the light of this queer possibility--a formidable
thing certainly to meet--and I was aware that it coloured,
extravagantly perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and
tones. At Wimbledon for instance it had appeared to me she was
literally afraid of Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had
begun already to feel. I had come up to town with her the next day
and had been convinced that, though deeply interested, she was
immensely on her guard. She would show as little as possible
before she should be ready to show everything. What this final
exhibition might be on the part of a girl perceptibly so able to
think things out I found it great sport to forecast. It would have
been exciting to be approached by her, appealed to by her for
advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn't find myself in such a
predicament. If there was really a present rigour in the situation
of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements, she would have
to get out of her difficulty by herself. It wasn't I who had
launched her and it wasn't I who could help her. I didn't fail to
ask myself why, since I couldn't help her, I should think so much
about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for
this; I waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn't have told
Mrs. Mulville a portion at least of what I had learned from
Gravener. But I saw Mrs. Mulville was still reduced to wonder what
she had come out again for if she hadn't come as a conciliatory
bride. That she had come in some other character was the only
thing that fitted all the appearances. Having for family reasons
to spend some time that spring in the west of England, I was in a
manner out of earshot of the great oceanic rumble--I mean of the
continuous hum of Saltram's thought--and my uneasiness tended to
keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so little to have to
say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only wondered if
Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of The Coxon Fund with Lady
Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn't hear from Wimbledon. I had
a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but
it contained no mention of Lady Coxon's niece, on whom her eyes had
been much less fixed since the recent untoward events.

Henry James

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