Генри Джеймс
The Outcry
III
“He can’t bear to do it, poor man!” Lady Sand-gate ruefully remarked to her remaining guest after Lord John had, under extreme pressure, dashed out to Bond Street.
“I dare say not!”—Lord Theign, flushed with the felicity of self-expression, made little of that. “But he goes too far, you see, and it clears the air—pouah! Now therefore”—and he glanced at the clock—“I must go to Kitty.”
“Kitty—with what Kitty wants,” Lady Sandgate opined—“won’t thank you for that!”
“She never thanks me for anything”—and the fact of his resignation clearly added here to his bitterness. “So it’s no great loss!”
“Won’t you at any rate,” his hostess asked, “wait for Bender?”
His lordship cast it to the winds. “What have I to do with him now?”
“Why surely if he’ll accept your own price—!”
Lord Theign thought—he wondered; and then as if fairly amused at himself: “Hanged if I know what is my own price!” After which he went for his hat. “But there’s one thing,” he remembered as he came back with it: “where’s my too, too unnatural daughter?”
“If you mean Grace and really want her I’ll send and find out.”
“Not now”—he bethought himself. “But does she see that chatterbox?”
“Mr. Crimble? Yes, she sees him.”
He kept his eyes on her. “Then how far has it gone?”
Lady Sandgate overcame an embarrassment. “Well, not even yet, I think, so far as they’d like.”
“They’d ‘like’—heaven save the mark!—to marry?”
“I suspect them of it. What line, if it should come to that,” she asked, “would you then take?”
He was perfectly prompt. “The line that for Grace it’s simply ignoble.”
The force of her deprecation of such language was qualified by tact. “Ah, darling, as dreadful as that?”
He could but view the possibility with dark resentment. “It lets us so down—from what we’ve always been and done; so down, down, down that I’m amazed you don’t feel it!”
“Oh, I feel there’s still plenty to keep you up!” she soothingly laughed.
He seemed to consider this vague amount—which he apparently judged, however, not so vast as to provide for the whole yearning of his nature. “Well, my dear,” he thus more blandly professed, “I shall need all the extra agrément that your affection can supply.”
If nothing could have been, on this, richer response, nothing could at the same time have bee more pleasing than her modesty. “Ah, my affectionate Theign, is, as I think you know, a fountain always in flood; but in any more worldly element than that—as you’ve ever seen for yourself—a poor strand with my own sad affairs, a broken reed; not ‘great’ as they used so finely to call it! You are—with the natural sense of greatness and, for supreme support, the instinctive grand man doing and taking things.”
He sighed, none the less, he groaned, with his thoughts of trouble, for the strain he foresaw on these resolutions. “If you mean that I hold up my head, on higher grounds, I grant that I always have. But how much longer possible when my children commit such vulgarities? Why in the name of goodness are such children? What the devil has got into them, and is it really the case that when Grace offers as a proof of her license and a specimen of her taste a son-in-law as you tell me I’m in danger of helplessly to swallow the dose?”
“Do you find Mr. Crimble,” Lady Sandgate as if there might really be something to say, “so utterly out of the question?”
“I found him on the two occasions before I went away in the last degree offensive and outrageous; but even if he charged one and one’s poor dear decent old defences with less rabid a fury everything about him would forbid that kind of relation.”
What kind of relation, if any, Hugh’s deficiencies might still render thinkable Lord Theign was kept from going on to mention by the voice of Mr. Gotch, who had thrown open the door to the not altogether assured sound of “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The guest in possession gave a cry of impatience, but Lady Sandgate said “Coming up?”
“If his lordship will see him.”
“Oh, he’s beyond his time,” his lordship pronounced—“I can’t see him now!”
“Ah, but mustn’t you—and mayn’t I then?” She waited, however, for no response to signify to her servant “Let him come,” and her companion could but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?”
Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?”
She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning—Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them.
Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir”—he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal.
Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?—removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?”
“Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content—and invite you to be.”
Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?”
“Well—if you’ll take it on my estimate.”
“But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “is your estimate?”
The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him.
The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.”
“But how can I know how much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved not what Mr. Crimble claims?”
“No, he’s waiting for nothing—since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.”
Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to report, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.”
“Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.”
“We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened—we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.”
“You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention–?”
“Yes,”—he took it from her—“the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for that.”
Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one—and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.”
“Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”—and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders.
But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands—too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.”
He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled—though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly—and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued.
This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help me!”
“You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?”
“I’ll get you something from him to go on with.”
“That’s all I ask—to get that. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.”
“You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to you for a trifle on account.”
“Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?”
“I mean”—she waited but an instant—“what you would feel as one.”
“That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “how I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”
“Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?”
“Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?”
She waited a little, brightly composed—then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.”
His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance—his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more—though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?”
“How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed—characteristically!—to give for this one.”
“If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed—characteristically!—not to give.”
She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!”
“And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.”
“Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.”
“All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?”
She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?”
“Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.”
“At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!”
He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with Mr——!”
“Mr. Bender’s cheque-book—in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons.
The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.”
“Very good, sir,” said Gotch—but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know—”
“Lord John’s there?” she interrupted.
Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.”
She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.”
Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?”
“It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!”—he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.”
“The Prince?”—she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?”
Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince after the thing?”
Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh—to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!—and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.”
Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him here?”
“He calls, you see, on you, my lady—at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.”
“He’s very kind, but”—she took in her condition—“I’m not even dressed!”
“You’ll have time”—the young man was a comfort—“while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender—though it’s so near—if I just bag your car.”
“That’s, that’s it, take his car!”—Lady Sandgate almost swept him away.
“You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed—“but what I want to know is what the man’s after.”
“The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask.
“The Prince then—if you allow he is a man! Is he after my picture?”
Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.”
“Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion—only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender—I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?”
“On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you—which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.”
Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?”
Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing—says it must stay stock still. So there you are!”
This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But where are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all I’m here for? What in thunder is Lord Theign’s decision—what was his ‘extraordinary order’?”
Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, you tell him! I rush!”
Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h– then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?”
His hostess faced it not otherwise than if she had resolved not to recognise the subject of his curiosity—for fear of other recognitions. “They put everything on me, my dear man—but I haven’t the least idea.”
He looked at her askance. “Then why does the fellow say you have?”
Much at a loss for the moment, she yet found her way. “Because the fellow’s so agog that he doesn’t know what he says!” In addition to which she was relieved by the reappearance of Gotch, who bore on a salver the object he had been sent for and to which he duly called attention.
“The large red morocco case.”
Lady Sandgate fairly jumped at it. “Your blessed cheque-book. Lay it on my desk,” she said to Gotch, though waiting till he had departed again before she resumed to her visitor: “Mightn’t we conclude before he comes?”
“The Prince?” Mr. Bender’s imagination had strayed from the ground to which she sought to lead it back, and it but vaguely retraced its steps. “Will he want your great-grandmother?”
“Well, he may when he sees her!” Lady Sandgate laughed. “And Theign, when he comes, will give you on his own question, I feel sure, every information. Shall I fish it out for you?” she encouragingly asked, beside him by her secretary-desk, at which he had arrived under her persuasive guidance and where she sought solidly to establish him, opening out the gilded crimson case for his employ, so that he had but to help himself. “What enormous cheques! You can never draw one for two-pound-ten!”
“That’s exactly what you deserve I should do!” He remained after this solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font.
He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement.
“Mr. Crimble, please—for Lady Grace.”
“Mr. Crimble again?”—she took it discomposedly.
It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!”
Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.”
“Then tell her ladyship.”
“She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment—in her hat, scarf and gloves.
IV
These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard—for your knock and your voice.”
“Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!”—Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant.
“A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried.
“A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back.
“A Mantovano!”—it carried even Lady Sandgate away.
“A Mantovano—a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh.
“I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man—“who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.”
“Will he publish it right here to me?” Mr. Bender hungrily asked.
“Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.”
“But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where is he, hey?”
“Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered.
“Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child—though you’re lovely!—are you sure you’re ready for him?”
“For the Prince!”—the girl was vague. “Is he coming?”
“At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it is that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room.
Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first—I’ll take the Prince after.”
The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.”
“Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism.
But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?”
“My father has suddenly returned—it may have to do with that.”
The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?”
“I don’t know—and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.”
“He is the greatest”—Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, before the holy thing, and with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves—without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of—it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and I had conquered.”
“Naturally you had!”—the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius—with every creature all these ages so stupid—you were being baptized on the spot a great man.”
“Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think he’s one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for us has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career—”
“Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?”
He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.”
“Then you need take off yours to nobody!”—such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion. “But I should like to take off mine to him,” she added; “which I seem to have put on—to get out and away with you—expressly for that.”
Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then—thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!—and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.”
His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American–!”
But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!”
For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view—all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him.
“Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.”
His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor—all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.”
“The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes—but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself—then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know–”
“Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”
“Then I must now write him”—and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window.
“Will you write there?”—and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated.
Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!”
“You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked—as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another.
“On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away.
“If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.”
“But how do you know what it consists of?”
“I don’t know. But I risk it.”
His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner—he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said.
“And may I learn?” asked Lady Grace.
“You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative.
“May I go with him?”
Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness—a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “With me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis.
He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!”
At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her.
Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face—as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration—leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door.
“You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that—after all as well—I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone.
“Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate “What in damnation—?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat.
