Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874 (115 page)

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Authors: Henry James

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You did it by accident, and so you can leave it.

I had no business to try him.

You believed he would resist.

I don't find it so amusing as you, I said, gloomily.

What's amusing is that he has had no equivalent, Montaut broke out.

No equivalent?

He's paying for what he didn't have, I gather, eh?
L'imbécile!
It's a reparation without an injury.

It's an injury without a provocation! I answered, breaking away from him.

I went straight to the stables at which I kept my horsewe all kept horses in Rome, in those days, for the Campagna was an incomparable riding-groundand ordered the animal to be brought immediately to Porta San Giovanni. There was some delay, for I reached this point, even after the time it took me to change my dress, a good while before he came. When he did arrive I sprang into the saddle and dashed out of the gate. I soon got upon the grass and put the good beast to his speed, and I shall never forget that rich afternoon's ride. It seemed to me almost historic, at the time, and I thought of all the celebrated gallops, or those of poetry and fiction, that had been taken to bring good news or bad, to warn of dangers, to save cities, to stay executions. I felt as if staying an execution were now the object of mine. I took the direction of the Appian Way, where so many panting steeds, in the succession of ages, had struck fire from the stones; the ghostly aqueducts watched me as I passed, and these romantic associations gave me a sense of heroism. It was dark when I strained up the hill to Frascati, but there were lights in the windows of Wilmerding's villa, toward which I first pressed my course. I rode straight into the court, and called up to himthere was a window open; and he looked out and asked in unconcealed surprise what had brought me from Rome. Let me in and I'll tell you, I said; and his servant came down and admitted me, summoning another member of the establishment to look after my horse.

It was very well to say to Wilmerding that I would tell him what had brought me: that was not so easy after I had been

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introduced into his room. Then I saw that something very important had happened: his whole aspect instantly told me so. He was half undressedhe was preparing for dinnerhe was to dine at Mrs. Goldie's. This he explained to me without any question of mine, and it led me to say to him, with, I suspect, a tremor in my voice: Then you have not yet seen her?

On the contrary: I drove to their villa as soon as I got here. I've been there these two hours. I promised them to go back to dineI only came round here to tidy myself a little. I looked at him hard, and he added: I'm engaged to be married.

To which of them? I asked; and the question seemed to me absurd as soon as I had spoken it.

Why, to Veronica.

Any of them would do, I rejoined, though this was not much better. And I turned round and looked out of the window into the dark. The tears rose to my eyesI had ridden heroically, but I had not saved the city.

What did you desire to say to me? Wilmerding went on.

Only that I wish you all the happiness you deserve, I answered, facing him again.

Did you gallop out here for
that?
he inquired.

I might have done it for less! I laughed, awkwardly; but he was very mildhe didn't fly at me. They had evidently been very nice to him at the other housewell they might be! Veronica had shaken her hair in his eyes, and for the moment he had accepted his fate.

You had better come back and dine with me, he said.

On an occasion so privateso peculiarwhen you want them all to yourself? Never in the world.

What then will you do herealone?

I'll wash and dress first, if you'll lend me some things.

My man will give you everything you need.

His kindness, his courtesy, his extraordinary subjection to his unnecessary doom filled me with a kind of anguish, and I determined that I would save him even yet. I had a sudden inspirationit was at least an image of help. To tell the truth, I didn't ride from Rome at such a rate only to be the

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first to congratulate you. I've taken you on the way; but a considerable part of my business is to go and see Mrs. Rushbrook.

Mrs. Rushbrook? Do you call this on your way? She lives at Albano.

Precisely; and when I've brushed myself up a bit and had a little bread and wine I shall drive over there.

It will take you a full hour, in the dark.

I don't care for thatI want to see her. It came over me this afternoon.

Wilmerding looked at me a momentwithout any visible ironyand demanded, with positive solemnity: Do you wish to propose to her?

Oh, if she'd marry me it would suit me! But she won't. At least she won't yet. She makes me wait too long. All the same, I want to see her.

She's very charming, said Wilmerding, simply. He finished dressing and went off to dine with Veronica, while I passed into another room to repair my own disorder. His servant gave me some things that would serve me for the night; for it was my purpose, at Albano, to sleep at the inn. I was so horrified at what I had done, or at what I had not succeeded in undoing, that I hungered for consolation, or at least for advice. Mrs. Rushbrook shone before me in the gloom as a generous dispenser of that sort of comfort.

III.

There was nothing extraordinary in my going to see her, but there was something very extraordinary in my taking such an hour for the purpose. I was supposed to be settled in Rome again, but it was ten o'clock at night when I turned up at the old inn at Albano. Mrs. Rushbrook had not gone to bed, and she greeted me with a certain alarm, though the theory of our intercourse was that she was always glad to see me. I ordered supper and a room for the night, but I couldn't touch the repast before I had been ushered into the vast and vaulted apartment which she used as a parlour, the florid bareness of which would have been vulgar in any country but Italy. She asked me immediately if I had brought bad news, and I re-

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plied: Yes, but only about myself. That's not exactly it, I added; it's about Henry Wilmerding.

Henry Wilmerding? She appeared for the moment not to recognise the name.

He's going to marry Veronica Goldie.

Mrs. Rushbrook stared.
Que me contez-vous là?
Have you come all this way to tell me that?

But he isit's all settledit's awful! I went on.

What do I care, and what do you mean?

I've got into a mess, and I want you to advise me and to get me out of it, I persisted.

My poor friend, you must make it a little clearer then, she smiled. Sit down, pleaseand have you had your dinner?

She had been sitting at one end of her faded saloon, where, as the autumn night was fresh at Albano, a fire of faggots was crackling in the big marble-framed cavern of the chimney. Her books, her work, her materials for writing and sketching, were scattered near: the place was a comfortable lamplit corner in the general blankness. There was a piano near at hand, and beyond it were the doors of further chambers, in one of which my hostess's little daughter was asleep. There was always something vaguely annoying to me in these signs of occupation and independence: they seemed to limit the ground on which one could appeal to her for oneself.

I'm tired and I'm hungry, I said, but I can't think of my dinner till I've talked to you.

Have you come all the way from Rome?

More than all the way, because I've been at Frascati.

And how did you get here?

I hired a chaise and pair at Frascatithe man drove me over.

At this hour? You weren't afraid of brigands?

Not when it was a question of seeing you. You must do something for meyou must stop it.

What must I do, and what must I stop? said Mrs. Rushbrook, sitting down.

This odious unionit's too unnatural.

I see, then. Veronica's to marry some one, and you want her for yourself.

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Don't be cruel, and don't torment meI'm sore enough already. You know well enough whom I want to marry! I broke out.

How can I stop anything? Mrs. Rushbrook asked.

When I see you this way, at home, between the fire and the lamp, with the empty place beside youan image of charming domesticitydo you suppose I have any doubt as to what I want?

She rested her eyes on the fire, as if she were turning my words over as an act of decent courtesy and of pretty form. But immediately afterwards she said: If you've come out here to make love to me, please say so at once, so that we may have it over on the spot. You will gain nothing whatever by it.

I'm not such a fool as to have given you such a chance to snub me. That would have been presumptuous, and what is at the bottom of my errand this evening is extreme humility. Don't therefore think you've gained the advantage of putting me in my place. You've done nothing of the sort, for I haven't come out of itexcept, indeed, so far as to try a bad joke on Wilmerding. It has turned out even worse than was probable. You're clever, you're sympathetic, you're kind.

What has Wilmerding to do with that?

Try and get him off. That's the sort of thing a woman can do.

I don't in the least follow you, you know. Who is Wilmerding?

Surely you remember himyou've seen him at Frascati, the young American secretaryyou saw him a year ago in Rome. The fellow who is always opening the door for you and finding the things you lose.

The things I lose?

I mean the things women lose. He went with us the other day to Monte Cavo.

And got himself lost with the girl? Oh yes, I recall him, said Mrs. Rushbrook.

It was the darkest hour of his lifeor rather of mine. I told him that after that the only thing he could do was to marry Veronica. And he has believed me.

Does he believe everything you tell him? Mrs. Rushbrook asked.

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Don't be impertinent, because I feel very wretched. He loathes Veronica.

Then why does he marry her?

Because I worked upon him. It's comicalyet it's dreadful.

Is he an idiotcan't he judge for himself? said Mrs. Rushbrook.

He's marrying her for good manners. I persuaded him they require it.

And don't they, then?

Not the least in the world!

Was that
your
idea of good manners? Why did you do it?

I didn'tI backed out, as soon as I saw he believed me. But it was too late. Besides, a friend of mine had a hand in ithe went further than I. I may as well tell you that it's Guy de Montaut, the little Frenchman of the embassy, whom you'll rememberhe was of our party at Monte Cavo. Between us, in pure sport and without meaning any harm, we have brought this thing on. And now I'm devoured with remorseit wasn't a creditable performance.

What was the beauty of the joke? Mrs. Rushbrook inquired, with exasperating serenity.

Don't ask me nowI don't see it! It seems to me hideous.

And M. de Montauthas he any compunction?

Not a bithe looks at it from the point of view of the Goldies. Veronica is a
fille sans dot,
and not generally liked; therefore with poor prospects. He has put a husband in her waya rich, good-natured young man, without encumbrances and of high character. It's a service, where a service was needed, of which he is positively proud.

Mrs. Rushbrook looked at me reflectively, as if she were trying to give me her best attention and to straighten out this odd story.

Mr. Wilmerding is rich? she asked in a moment.

Dear me, yesvery well off.

And of high character?

An excellent fellowwithout a fault.

I don't understand him, then.

No more do I!