Later on, when their hired brougham had, with the long vociferation that
tormented her impatience, been extricated from the endless rank, she
rolled into the London night, beside her husband, as into a sheltering
darkness where she could muffle herself and draw breath. She had stood
for the previous half-hour in a merciless glare, beaten upon, stared out
of countenance, it fairly seemed to her, by intimations of her mistake.
For what she was most immediately feeling was that she had, in the past,
been active, for these people, to ends that were now bearing fruit and
that might yet bear a larger crop. She but brooded, at first, in her
corner of the carriage: it was like burying her exposed face, a face too
helplessly exposed, in the cool lap of the common indifference, of the
dispeopled streets, of the closed shops and darkened houses seen
through the window of the brougham, a world mercifully unconscious
and unreproachful. It wouldn’t, like the world she had just left, know
sooner or later what she had done, or would know it, at least, only if
the final consequence should be some quite overwhelming publicity. She
fixed this possibility itself so hard, however, for a few moments, that
the misery of her fear produced the next minute a reaction; and when the
carriage happened, while it grazed a turn, to catch the straight shaft
from the lamp of a policeman in the act of playing his inquisitive
flash over an opposite house-front, she let herself wince at being thus
incriminated only that she might protest, not less quickly, against
mere blind terror. It had become, for the occasion, preposterously,
terror—of which she must shake herself free before she could properly
measure her ground. The perception of this necessity had in truth soon
aided her; since she found, on trying, that, lurid as her prospect
might hover there, she could none the less give it no name. The sense of
seeing was strong in her, but she clutched at the comfort of not being
sure of what she saw. Not to know what it would represent on a longer
view was a help, in turn, to not making out that her hands were embrued;
since if she had stood in the position of a producing cause she should
surely be less vague about what she had produced. This, further, in its
way, was a step toward reflecting that when one’s connection with any
matter was too indirect to be traced it might be described also as too
slight to be deplored. By the time they were nearing Cadogan Place she
had in fact recognised that she couldn’t be as curious as she desired
without arriving at some conviction of her being as innocent. But there
had been a moment, in the dim desert of Eaton Square, when she broke
into speech.
“It’s only their defending themselves so much more than they need—it’s
only THAT that makes me wonder. It’s their having so remarkably much to
say for themselves.”
Her husband had, as usual, lighted his cigar, remaining apparently as
busy with it as she with her agitation. “You mean it makes you feel that
you have nothing?” To which, as she made no answer, the Colonel added:
“What in the world did you ever suppose was going to happen? The man’s
in a position in which he has nothing in life to do.”
Her silence seemed to characterise this statement as superficial, and
her thoughts, as always in her husband’s company, pursued an independent
course. He made her, when they were together, talk, but as if for
some other person; who was in fact for the most part herself. Yet she
addressed herself with him as she could never have done without him.
“He has behaved beautifully—he did from the first. I’ve thought it,
all along, wonderful of him; and I’ve more than once, when I’ve had a
chance, told him so. Therefore, therefore—!” But it died away as she
mused.
“Therefore he has a right, for a change, to kick up his heels?”
“It isn’t a question, of course, however,” she undivertedly went on, “of
their behaving beautifully apart. It’s a question of their doing as they
should when together—which is another matter.”
“And how do you think then,” the Colonel asked with interest, “that,
when together, they SHOULD do? The less they do, one would say, the
better—if you see so much in it.”
His wife, at this, appeared to hear him. “I don’t see in it what YOU’D
see. And don’t, my dear,” she further answered, “think it necessary to
be horrid or low about them. They’re the last people, really, to make
anything of that sort come in right.”
“I’m surely never horrid or low,” he returned, “about anyone but my
extravagant wife. I can do with all our friends—as I see them myself:
what I can’t do with is the figures you make of them. And when you take
to adding your figures up—!” But he exhaled it again in smoke.
“My additions don’t matter when you’ve not to pay the bill.” With which
her meditation again bore her through the air. “The great thing was that
when it so suddenly came up for her he wasn’t afraid. If he had been
afraid he could perfectly have prevented it. And if I had seen he
was—if I hadn’t seen he wasn’t—so,” said Mrs. Assingham, “could I.
So,” she declared, “WOULD I. It’s perfectly true,” she went on—“it was
too good a thing for her, such a chance in life, not to be accepted.
And I LIKED his not keeping her out of it merely from a fear of his own
nature. It was so wonderful it should come to her. The only thing would
have been if Charlotte herself couldn’t have faced it. Then, if SHE had
not had confidence, we might have talked. But she had it to any amount.”
“Did you ask her how much?” Bob Assingham patiently inquired.
He had put the question with no more than his usual modest hope of
reward, but he had pressed, this time, the sharpest spring of response.
“Never, never—it wasn’t a time to ‘ask.’ Asking is suggesting—and it
wasn’t a time to suggest. One had to make up one’s mind, as quietly as
possible, by what one could judge. And I judge, as I say, that Charlotte
felt she could face it. For which she struck me at the time as—for so
proud a creature—almost touchingly grateful. The thing I should never
forgive her for would be her forgetting to whom it is her thanks have
remained most due.”
“That is to Mrs. Assingham?”
She said nothing for a little—there were, after all, alternatives.
“Maggie herself of course—astonishing little Maggie.”
“Is Maggie then astonishing too?”—and he gloomed out of his window.
His wife, on her side now, as they rolled, projected the same look. “I’m
not sure that I don’t begin to see more in her than—dear little person
as I’ve always thought—I ever supposed there was. I’m not sure that,
putting a good many things together, I’m not beginning to make her out
rather extraordinary.”
“You certainly will if you can,” the Colonel resignedly remarked.
Again his companion said nothing; then again she broke out. “In fact—I
do begin to feel it—Maggie’s the great comfort. I’m getting hold of it.
It will be SHE who’ll see us through. In fact she’ll have to. And she’ll
be able.”
Touch by touch her meditation had completed it, but with a cumulative
effect for her husband’s general sense of her method that caused him
to overflow, whimsically enough, in his corner, into an ejaculation now
frequent on his lips for the relief that, especially in communion like
the present, it gave him, and that Fanny had critically traced to the
quaint example, the aboriginal homeliness, still so delightful, of Mr.
Verver. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!”
“If she is, however,” Mrs. Assingham continued, “she’ll be extraordinary
enough—and that’s what I’m thinking of. But I’m not indeed so very
sure,” she added, “of the person to whom Charlotte ought in decency to
be most grateful. I mean I’m not sure if that person is even almost the
incredible little idealist who has made her his wife.”
“I shouldn’t think you would be, love,” the Colonel with some promptness
responded. “Charlotte as the wife of an incredible little idealist—!”
His cigar, in short, once more, could alone express it.
“Yet what is that, when one thinks, but just what she struck one as
more or less persuaded that she herself was really going to be?”—this
memory, for the full view, Fanny found herself also invoking.
It made her companion, in truth, slightly gape. “An incredible little
idealist—Charlotte herself?”
“And she was sincere,” his wife simply proceeded “she was unmistakably
sincere. The question is only how much is left of it.”
“And that—I see—happens to be another of the questions you can’t ask
her. You have to do it all,” said Bob Assingham, “as if you were playing
some game with its rules drawn up—though who’s to come down on you
if you break them I don’t quite see. Or must you do it in three
guesses—like forfeits on Christmas eve?” To which, as his ribaldry but
dropped from her, he further added: “How much of anything will have to
be left for you to be able to go on with it?”
“I shall go on,” Fanny Assingham a trifle grimly declared, “while
there’s a scrap as big as your nail. But we’re not yet, luckily, reduced
only to that.” She had another pause, holding the while the thread of
that larger perception into which her view of Mrs. Verver’s obligation
to Maggie had suddenly expanded. “Even if her debt was not to the
others—even then it ought to be quite sufficiently to the Prince
himself to keep her straight. For what, really, did the Prince do,” she
asked herself, “but generously trust her? What did he do but take
it from her that if she felt herself willing it was because she felt
herself strong? That creates for her, upon my word,” Mrs. Assingham
pursued, “a duty of considering him, of honourably repaying his trust,
which—well, which she’ll be really a fiend if she doesn’t make the law
of her conduct. I mean of course his trust that she wouldn’t interfere
with him—expressed by his holding himself quiet at the critical time.”
The brougham was nearing home, and it was perhaps this sense of ebbing
opportunity that caused the Colonel’s next meditation to flower in a
fashion almost surprising to his wife. They were united, for the most
part, but by his exhausted patience; so that indulgent despair was
generally, at the best, his note. He at present, however, actually
compromised with his despair to the extent of practically admitting that
he had followed her steps. He literally asked, in short, an intelligent,
well nigh a sympathising, question. “Gratitude to the Prince for not
having put a spoke in her wheel—that, you mean, should, taking it in
the right way, be precisely the ballast of her boat?”
“Taking it in the right way.” Fanny, catching at this gleam, emphasised
the proviso.
“But doesn’t it rather depend on what she may most feel to BE the right
way?”
“No—it depends on nothing. Because there’s only one way—for duty or
delicacy.”
“Oh—delicacy!” Bob Assingham rather crudely murmured.
“I mean the highest kind—moral. Charlotte’s perfectly capable of
appreciating that. By every dictate of moral delicacy she must let him
alone.”
“Then you’ve made up your mind it’s all poor Charlotte?” he asked with
an effect of abruptness.
The effect, whether intended or not, reached her—brought her face short
round. It was a touch at which she again lost her balance, at which,
somehow, the bottom dropped out of her recovered comfort. “Then
you’ve made up yours differently? It really struck you that there IS
something?”
The movement itself, apparently, made him once more stand off. He
had felt on his nearer approach the high temperature of the question.
“Perhaps that’s just what she’s doing: showing him how much she’s
letting him alone—pointing it out to him from day to day.”
“Did she point it out by waiting for him to-night on the stair-case in
the manner you described to me?”
“I really, my dear, described to you a manner?” the Colonel, clearly,
from want of habit, scarce recognised himself in the imputation.
“Yes—for once in a way; in those few words we had after you had watched
them come up you told me something of what you had seen. You didn’t
tell me very much—THAT you couldn’t for your life; but I saw for myself
that, strange to say, you had received your impression, and I felt
therefore that there must indeed have been something out of the way for
you so to betray it.” She was fully upon him now, and she confronted him
with his proved sensibility to the occasion—confronted him because of
her own uneasy need to profit by it. It came over her still more than at
the time, it came over her that he had been struck with something, even
HE, poor dear man; and that for this to have occurred there must have
been much to be struck with. She tried in fact to corner him, to
pack him insistently down, in the truth of his plain vision, the very
plainness of which was its value; for so recorded, she felt, none of
it would escape—she should have it at hand for reference. “Come, my
dear—you thought what you thought: in the presence of what you saw you
couldn’t resist thinking. I don’t ask more of it than that. And your
idea is worth, this time, quite as much as any of mine—so that you
can’t pretend, as usual, that mine has run away with me. I haven’t
caught up with you. I stay where I am. But I see,” she concluded, “where
you are, and I’m much obliged to you for letting me. You give me a point
de repere outside myself—which is where I like it. Now I can work round
you.”
Their conveyance, as she spoke, stopped at their door, and it was, on
the spot, another fact of value for her that her husband, though seated
on the side by which they must alight, made no movement. They were in a
high degree votaries of the latch-key, so that their household had gone
to bed; and as they were unaccompanied by a footman the coachman
waited in peace. It was so indeed that for a minute Bob Assingham
waited—conscious of a reason for replying to this address otherwise
than by the so obvious method of turning his back. He didn’t turn
his face, but he stared straight before him, and his wife had already
perceived in the fact of his not moving all the proof she could desire—
proof, that is, of her own contention. She knew he never cared what
she said, and his neglect of his chance to show it was thereby the more
eloquent. “Leave it,” he at last remarked, “to THEM.”
“‘Leave’ it—?” She wondered.
“Let them alone. They’ll manage.”
“They’ll manage, you mean, to do everything they want? Ah, there then
you are!”
“They’ll manage in their own way,” the Colonel almost cryptically
repeated.
It had its effect for her: quite apart from its light on the familiar
phenomenon of her husband’s indurated conscience, it gave her, full in
her face, the particular evocation of which she had made him guilty.
It was wonderful truly, then, the evocation. “So cleverly—THAT’S your
idea?—that no one will be the wiser? It’s your idea that we shall have
done all that’s required of us if we simply protect them?”
The Colonel, still in his place, declined, however, to be drawn into a
statement of his idea. Statements were too much like theories, in
which one lost one’s way; he only knew what he said, and what he said
represented the limited vibration of which his confirmed old toughness
had been capable. Still, none the less, he had his point to make—for
which he took another instant. But he made it, for the third time, in
the same fashion. “They’ll manage in their own way.” With which he got
out.
Oh yes, at this, for his companion, it had indeed its effect, and while
he mounted their steps she but stared, without following him, at his
opening of their door. Their hall was lighted, and as he stood in the
aperture looking back at her, his tall lean figure outlined in darkness
and with his crush-hat, according to his wont, worn cavalierly, rather
diabolically, askew, he seemed to prolong the sinister emphasis of his
meaning. In general, on these returns, he came back for her when he had
prepared their entrance; so that it was now as if he were ashamed to
face her in closer quarters. He looked at her across the interval,
and, still in her seat, weighing his charge, she felt her whole view
of everything flare up. Wasn’t it simply what had been written in the
Prince’s own face BENEATH what he was saying?—didn’t it correspond with
the mocking presence there that she had had her troubled glimpse of?
Wasn’t, in fine, the pledge that they would “manage in their own way”
the thing he had been feeling for his chance to invite her to take from
him? Her husband’s tone somehow fitted Amerigo’s look—the one that had,
for her, so strangely, peeped, from behind, over the shoulder of the one
in front. She had not then read it—but wasn’t she reading it when she
now saw in it his surmise that she was perhaps to be squared? She wasn’t
to be squared, and while she heard her companion call across to her
“Well, what’s the matter?” she also took time to remind herself that
she had decided she couldn’t be frightened. The “matter”?—why, it was
sufficiently the matter, with all this, that she felt a little sick. For
it was not the Prince that she had been prepared to regard as primarily
the shaky one. Shakiness in Charlotte she had, at the most, perhaps
postulated—it would be, she somehow felt, more easy to deal with.
Therefore if HE had come so far it was a different pair of sleeves.
There was nothing to choose between them. It made her so helpless that,
as the time passed without her alighting, the Colonel came back
and fairly drew her forth; after which, on the pavement, under the
street-lamp, their very silence might have been the mark of something
grave—their silence eked out for her by his giving her his arm and
their then crawling up their steps quite mildly and unitedly together,
like some old Darby and Joan who have had a disappointment. It almost
resembled a return from a funeral—unless indeed it resembled more the
hushed approach to a house of mourning. What indeed had she come home
for but to bury, as decently as possible, her mistake?