The fact that she "knew"--knew and yet neither chaffed him nor betrayed
him--had in a short time begun to constitute between them a goodly bond,
which became more marked when, within the year that followed their
afternoon at Weatherend, the opportunities for meeting multiplied. The
event that thus promoted these occasions was the death of the ancient
lady her great-aunt, under whose wing, since losing her mother, she had
to such an extent found shelter, and who, though but the widowed mother
of the new successor to the property, had succeeded--thanks to a high
tone and a high temper--in not forfeiting the supreme position at the
great house. The deposition of this personage arrived but with her
death, which, followed by many changes, made in particular a difference
for the young woman in whom Marcher's expert attention had recognised
from the first a dependent with a pride that might ache though it didn't
bristle. Nothing for a long time had made him easier than the thought
that the aching must have been much soothed by Miss Bartram's now finding
herself able to set up a small home in London. She had acquired
property, to an amount that made that luxury just possible, under her
aunt's extremely complicated will, and when the whole matter began to be
straightened out, which indeed took time, she let him know that the happy
issue was at last in view. He had seen her again before that day, both
because she had more than once accompanied the ancient lady to town and
because he had paid another visit to the friends who so conveniently made
of Weatherend one of the charms of their own hospitality. These friends
had taken him back there; he had achieved there again with Miss Bartram
some quiet detachment; and he had in London succeeded in persuading her
to more than one brief absence from her aunt. They went together, on
these latter occasions, to the National Gallery and the South Kensington
Museum, where, among vivid reminders, they talked of Italy at large--not
now attempting to recover, as at first, the taste of their youth and
their ignorance. That recovery, the first day at Weatherend, had served
its purpose well, had given them quite enough; so that they were, to
Marcher's sense, no longer hovering about the head-waters of their
stream, but had felt their boat pushed sharply off and down the current.
They were literally afloat together; for our gentleman this was marked,
quite as marked as that the fortunate cause of it was just the buried
treasure of her knowledge. He had with his own hands dug up this little
hoard, brought to light--that is to within reach of the dim day
constituted by their discretions and privacies--the object of value the
hiding-place of which he had, after putting it into the ground himself,
so strangely, so long forgotten. The rare luck of his having again just
stumbled on the spot made him indifferent to any other question; he would
doubtless have devoted more time to the odd accident of his lapse of
memory if he hadn't been moved to devote so much to the sweetness, the
comfort, as he felt, for the future, that this accident itself had helped
to keep fresh. It had never entered into his plan that any one should
"know", and mainly for the reason that it wasn't in him to tell any one.
That would have been impossible, for nothing but the amusement of a cold
world would have waited on it. Since, however, a mysterious fate had
opened his mouth betimes, in spite of him, he would count that a
compensation and profit by it to the utmost. That the right person
_should_ know tempered the asperity of his secret more even than his
shyness had permitted him to imagine; and May Bartram was clearly right,
because--well, because there she was. Her knowledge simply settled it;
he would have been sure enough by this time had she been wrong. There
was that in his situation, no doubt, that disposed him too much to see
her as a mere confidant, taking all her light for him from the fact--the
fact only--of her interest in his predicament; from her mercy, sympathy,
seriousness, her consent not to regard him as the funniest of the funny.
Aware, in fine, that her price for him was just in her giving him this
constant sense of his being admirably spared, he was careful to remember
that she had also a life of her own, with things that might happen to
_her_, things that in friendship one should likewise take account of.
Something fairly remarkable came to pass with him, for that matter, in
this connexion--something represented by a certain passage of his
consciousness, in the suddenest way, from one extreme to the other.
He had thought himself, so long as nobody knew, the most disinterested
person in the world, carrying his concentrated burden, his perpetual
suspense, ever so quietly, holding his tongue about it, giving others no
glimpse of it nor of its effect upon his life, asking of them no
allowance and only making on his side all those that were asked. He
hadn't disturbed people with the queerness of their having to know a
haunted man, though he had had moments of rather special temptation on
hearing them say they were forsooth "unsettled." If they were as
unsettled as he was--he who had never been settled for an hour in his
life--they would know what it meant. Yet it wasn't, all the same, for
him to make them, and he listened to them civilly enough. This was why
he had such good--though possibly such rather colourless--manners; this
was why, above all, he could regard himself, in a greedy world, as
decently--as in fact perhaps even a little sublimely--unselfish. Our
point is accordingly that he valued this character quite sufficiently to
measure his present danger of letting it lapse, against which he promised
himself to be much on his guard. He was quite ready, none the less, to
be selfish just a little, since surely no more charming occasion for it
had come to him. "Just a little," in a word, was just as much as Miss
Bartram, taking one day with another, would let him. He never would be
in the least coercive, and would keep well before him the lines on which
consideration for her--the very highest--ought to proceed. He would
thoroughly establish the heads under which her affairs, her requirements,
her peculiarities--he went so far as to give them the latitude of that
name--would come into their intercourse. All this naturally was a sign
of how much he took the intercourse itself for granted. There was
nothing more to be done about that. It simply existed; had sprung into
being with her first penetrating question to him in the autumn light
there at Weatherend. The real form it should have taken on the basis
that stood out large was the form of their marrying. But the devil in
this was that the very basis itself put marrying out of the question. His
conviction, his apprehension, his obsession, in short, wasn't a privilege
he could invite a woman to share; and that consequence of it was
precisely what was the matter with him. Something or other lay in wait
for him, amid the twists and the turns of the months and the years, like
a crouching Beast in the Jungle. It signified little whether the
crouching Beast were destined to slay him or to be slain. The definite
point was the inevitable spring of the creature; and the definite lesson
from that was that a man of feeling didn't cause himself to be
accompanied by a lady on a tiger-hunt. Such was the image under which he
had ended by figuring his life.
They had at first, none the less, in the scattered hours spent together,
made no allusion to that view of it; which was a sign he was handsomely
alert to give that he didn't expect, that he in fact didn't care, always
to be talking about it. Such a feature in one's outlook was really like
a hump on one's back. The difference it made every minute of the day
existed quite independently of discussion. One discussed of course
_like_ a hunchback, for there was always, if nothing else, the hunchback
face. That remained, and she was watching him; but people watched best,
as a general thing, in silence, so that such would be predominantly the
manner of their vigil. Yet he didn't want, at the same time, to be tense
and solemn; tense and solemn was what he imagined he too much showed for
with other people. The thing to be, with the one person who knew, was
easy and natural--to make the reference rather than be seeming to avoid
it, to avoid it rather than be seeming to make it, and to keep it, in any
case, familiar, facetious even, rather than pedantic and portentous. Some
such consideration as the latter was doubtless in his mind for instance
when he wrote pleasantly to Miss Bartram that perhaps the great thing he
had so long felt as in the lap of the gods was no more than this
circumstance, which touched him so nearly, of her acquiring a house in
London. It was the first allusion they had yet again made, needing any
other hitherto so little; but when she replied, after having given him
the news, that she was by no means satisfied with such a trifle as the
climax to so special a suspense, she almost set him wondering if she
hadn't even a larger conception of singularity for him than he had for
himself. He was at all events destined to become aware little by little,
as time went by, that she was all the while looking at his life, judging
it, measuring it, in the light of the thing she knew, which grew to be at
last, with the consecration of the years, never mentioned between them
save as "the real truth" about him. That had always been his own form of
reference to it, but she adopted the form so quietly that, looking back
at the end of a period, he knew there was no moment at which it was
traceable that she had, as he might say, got inside his idea, or
exchanged the attitude of beautifully indulging for that of still more
beautifully believing him.
It was always open to him to accuse her of seeing him but as the most
harmless of maniacs, and this, in the long run--since it covered so much
ground--was his easiest description of their friendship. He had a screw
loose for her but she liked him in spite of it and was practically,
against the rest of the world, his kind wise keeper, unremunerated but
fairly amused and, in the absence of other near ties, not disreputably
occupied. The rest of the world of course thought him queer, but she,
she only, knew how, and above all why, queer; which was precisely what
enabled her to dispose the concealing veil in the right folds. She took
his gaiety from him--since it had to pass with them for gaiety--as she
took everything else; but she certainly so far justified by her unerring
touch his finer sense of the degree to which he had ended by convincing
her. _She_ at least never spoke of the secret of his life except as "the
real truth about you," and she had in fact a wonderful way of making it
seem, as such, the secret of her own life too. That was in fine how he
so constantly felt her as allowing for him; he couldn't on the whole call
it anything else. He allowed for himself, but she, exactly, allowed
still more; partly because, better placed for a sight of the matter, she
traced his unhappy perversion through reaches of its course into which he
could scarce follow it. He knew how he felt, but, besides knowing that,
she knew how he looked as well; he knew each of the things of importance
he was insidiously kept from doing, but she could add up the amount they
made, understand how much, with a lighter weight on his spirit, he might
have done, and thereby establish how, clever as he was, he fell short.
Above all she was in the secret of the difference between the forms he
went through--those of his little office under Government, those of
caring for his modest patrimony, for his library, for his garden in the
country, for the people in London whose invitations he accepted and
repaid--and the detachment that reigned beneath them and that made of all
behaviour, all that could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of
dissimulation. What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted with
the social simper, out of the eye-holes of which there looked eyes of an
expression not in the least matching the other features. This the stupid
world, even after years, had never more than half discovered. It was
only May Bartram who had, and she achieved, by an art indescribable, the
feat of at once--or perhaps it was only alternately--meeting the eyes
from in front and mingling her own vision, as from over his shoulder,
with their peep through the apertures.
So while they grew older together she did watch with him, and so she let
this association give shape and colour to her own existence. Beneath
_her_ forms as well detachment had learned to sit, and behaviour had
become for her, in the social sense, a false account of herself. There
was but one account of her that would have been true all the while and
that she could give straight to nobody, least of all to John Marcher. Her
whole attitude was a virtual statement, but the perception of that only
seemed called to take its place for him as one of the many things
necessarily crowded out of his consciousness. If she had moreover, like
himself, to make sacrifices to their real truth, it was to be granted
that her compensation might have affected her as more prompt and more
natural. They had long periods, in this London time, during which, when
they were together, a stranger might have listened to them without in the
least pricking up his ears; on the other hand the real truth was equally
liable at any moment to rise to the surface, and the auditor would then
have wondered indeed what they were talking about. They had from an
early hour made up their mind that society was, luckily, unintelligent,
and the margin allowed them by this had fairly become one of their
commonplaces. Yet there were still moments when the situation turned
almost fresh--usually under the effect of some expression drawn from
herself. Her expressions doubtless repeated themselves, but her
intervals were generous. "What saves us, you know, is that we answer so
completely to so usual an appearance: that of the man and woman whose
friendship has become such a daily habit--or almost--as to be at last
indispensable." That for instance was a remark she had frequently enough
had occasion to make, though she had given it at different times
different developments. What we are especially concerned with is the
turn it happened to take from her one afternoon when he had come to see
her in honour of her birthday. This anniversary had fallen on a Sunday,
at a season of thick fog and general outward gloom; but he had brought
her his customary offering, having known her now long enough to have
established a hundred small traditions. It was one of his proofs to
himself, the present he made her on her birthday, that he hadn't sunk
into real selfishness. It was mostly nothing more than a small trinket,
but it was always fine of its kind, and he was regularly careful to pay
for it more than he thought he could afford. "Our habit saves you, at
least, don't you see? because it makes you, after all, for the vulgar,
indistinguishable from other men. What's the most inveterate mark of men
in general? Why the capacity to spend endless time with dull women--to
spend it I won't say without being bored, but without minding that they
are, without being driven off at a tangent by it; which comes to the same
thing. I'm your dull woman, a part of the daily bread for which you pray
at church. That covers your tracks more than anything."
"And what covers yours?" asked Marcher, whom his dull woman could mostly
to this extent amuse. "I see of course what you mean by your saving me,
in this way and that, so far as other people are concerned--I've seen it
all along. Only what is it that saves _you_? I often think, you know,
of that."
She looked as if she sometimes thought of that too, but rather in a
different way. "Where other people, you mean, are concerned?"
"Well, you're really so in with me, you know--as a sort of result of my
being so in with yourself. I mean of my having such an immense regard
for you, being so tremendously mindful of all you've done for me. I
sometimes ask myself if it's quite fair. Fair I mean to have so involved
and--since one may say it--interested you. I almost feel as if you
hadn't really had time to do anything else."
"Anything else but be interested?" she asked. "Ah what else does one
ever want to be? If I've been 'watching' with you, as we long ago agreed
I was to do, watching's always in itself an absorption."
"Oh certainly," John Marcher said, "if you hadn't had your curiosity--!
Only doesn't it sometimes come to you as time goes on that your curiosity
isn't being particularly repaid?"
May Bartram had a pause. "Do you ask that, by any chance, because you
feel at all that yours isn't? I mean because you have to wait so long."
Oh he understood what she meant! "For the thing to happen that never
does happen? For the Beast to jump out? No, I'm just where I was about
it. It isn't a matter as to which I can _choose_, I can decide for a
change. It isn't one as to which there _can_ be a change. It's in the
lap of the gods. One's in the hands of one's law--there one is. As to
the form the law will take, the way it will operate, that's its own
affair."
"Yes," Miss Bartram replied; "of course one's fate's coming, of course it
_has_ come in its own form and its own way, all the while. Only, you
know, the form and the way in your case were to have been--well,
something so exceptional and, as one may say, so particularly _your_
own."
Something in this made him look at her with suspicion. "You say 'were to
_have_ been,' as if in your heart you had begun to doubt."
"Oh!" she vaguely protested.
"As if you believed," he went on, "that nothing will now take place."
She shook her head slowly but rather inscrutably. "You're far from my
thought."
He continued to look at her. "What then is the matter with you?"
"Well," she said after another wait, "the matter with me is simply that
I'm more sure than ever my curiosity, as you call it, will be but too
well repaid."
They were frankly grave now; he had got up from his seat, had turned once
more about the little drawing-room to which, year after year, he brought
his inevitable topic; in which he had, as he might have said, tasted
their intimate community with every sauce, where every object was as
familiar to him as the things of his own house and the very carpets were
worn with his fitful walk very much as the desks in old counting-houses
are worn by the elbows of generations of clerks. The generations of his
nervous moods had been at work there, and the place was the written
history of his whole middle life. Under the impression of what his
friend had just said he knew himself, for some reason, more aware of
these things; which made him, after a moment, stop again before her. "Is
it possibly that you've grown afraid?"
"Afraid?" He thought, as she repeated the word, that his question had
made her, a little, change colour; so that, lest he should have touched
on a truth, he explained very kindly: "You remember that that was what
you asked _me_ long ago--that first day at Weatherend."
"Oh yes, and you told me you didn't know--that I was to see for myself.
We've said little about it since, even in so long a time."
"Precisely," Marcher interposed--"quite as if it were too delicate a
matter for us to make free with. Quite as if we might find, on pressure,
that I _am_ afraid. For then," he said, "we shouldn't, should we? quite
know what to do."
She had for the time no answer to this question. "There have been days
when I thought you were. Only, of course," she added, "there have been
days when we have thought almost anything."
"Everything. Oh!" Marcher softly groaned, as with a gasp, half spent, at
the face, more uncovered just then than it had been for a long while, of
the imagination always with them. It had always had it's incalculable
moments of glaring out, quite as with the very eyes of the very Beast,
and, used as he was to them, they could still draw from him the tribute
of a sigh that rose from the depths of his being. All they had thought,
first and last, rolled over him; the past seemed to have been reduced to
mere barren speculation. This in fact was what the place had just struck
him as so full of--the simplification of everything but the state of
suspense. That remained only by seeming to hang in the void surrounding
it. Even his original fear, if fear it as had been, had lost itself in
the desert. "I judge, however," he continued, "that you see I'm not
afraid now."
"What I see, as I make it out, is that you've achieved something almost
unprecedented in the way of getting used to danger. Living with it so
long and so closely you've lost your sense of it; you know it's there,
but you're indifferent, and you cease even, as of old, to have to whistle
in the dark. Considering what the danger is," May Bartram wound up, "I'm
bound to say I don't think your attitude could well be surpassed."
John Marcher faintly smiled. "It's heroic?"
"Certainly--call it that."
It was what he would have liked indeed to call it. "I _am_ then a man of
courage?"
"That's what you were to show me."
He still, however, wondered. "But doesn't the man of courage know what
he's afraid of--or not afraid of? I don't know _that_, you see. I don't
focus it. I can't name it. I only know I'm exposed."
"Yes, but exposed--how shall I say?--so directly. So intimately. That's
surely enough."
"Enough to make you feel then--as what we may call the end and the upshot
of our watch--that I'm not afraid?"
"You're not afraid. But it isn't," she said, "the end of our watch. That
is it isn't the end of yours. You've everything still to see."
"Then why haven't you?" he asked. He had had, all along, to-day, the
sense of her keeping something back, and he still had it. As this was
his first impression of that it quite made a date. The case was the more
marked as she didn't at first answer; which in turn made him go on. "You
know something I don't." Then his voice, for that of a man of courage,
trembled a little. "You know what's to happen." Her silence, with the
face she showed, was almost a confession--it made him sure. "You know,
and you're afraid to tell me. It's so bad that you're afraid I'll find
out."
All this might be true, for she did look as if, unexpectedly to her, he
had crossed some mystic line that she had secretly drawn round her. Yet
she might, after all, not have worried; and the real climax was that he
himself, at all events, needn't. "You'll never find out."