The Golden Bowl - Complete. Генри Джеймс

Mrs. Assingham knew better, knew there had been no historic hour, from that of Pocahontas down, when some young Englishman hadn't precipitately believed and some American girl hadn't, with a few more gradations, availed herself to the full of her incapacity to doubt; but she accepted resignedly the laurel of the founder, since she was in fact pretty well the doyenne, above ground, of her transplanted tribe, and since, above all, she HAD invented combinations, though she had not invented Bob's own. It was he who had done that, absolutely puzzled it out, by himself, from his first odd glimmer-resting upon it moreover, through the years to come, as proof enough, in him, by itself, of the higher cleverness. If she kept her own cleverness up it was largely that he should have full credit. There were moments in truth when she privately felt how little—striking out as he had done—he could have afforded that she should show the common limits. But Mrs. Assingham's cleverness was in truth tested when her present visitor at last said to her: "I don't think, you know, that you're treating me quite right. You've something on your mind that you don't tell me."

      It was positive too that her smile, in reply, was a trifle dim. "Am I obliged to tell you everything I have on my mind?"

      "It isn't a question of everything, but it's a question of anything that may particularly concern me. Then you shouldn't keep it back. You know with what care I desire to proceed, taking everything into account and making no mistake that may possibly injure HER."

      Mrs. Assingham, at this, had after an instant an odd interrogation. "'Her'?"

      "Her and him. Both our friends. Either Maggie or her father."

      "I have something on my mind," Mrs. Assingham presently returned; "something has happened for which I hadn't been prepared. But it isn't anything that properly concerns you."

      The Prince, with immediate gaiety, threw back his head. "What do you mean by 'properly'? I somehow see volumes in it. It's the way people put a thing when they put it—well, wrong. I put things right. What is it that has happened for me?"

      His hostess, the next moment, had drawn spirit from his tone.

      "Oh, I shall be delighted if you'll take your share of it. Charlotte Stant is in London. She has just been here."

      "Miss Stant? Oh really?" The Prince expressed clear surprise—a transparency through which his eyes met his friend's with a certain hardness of concussion. "She has arrived from America?" he then quickly asked.

      "She appears to have arrived this noon—coming up from Southampton; at an hotel. She dropped upon me after luncheon and was here for more than an hour."

      The young man heard with interest, though not with an interest too great for his gaiety. "You think then I've a share in it? What IS my share?"

      "Why, any you like—the one you seemed just now eager to take. It was you yourself who insisted."

      He looked at her on this with conscious inconsistency, and she could now see that he had changed colour. But he was always easy.

      "I didn't know then what the matter was."

      "You didn't think it could be so bad?"

      "Do you call it very bad?" the young man asked. "Only," she smiled, "because that's the way it seems to affect YOU."

      He hesitated, still with the trace of his quickened colour, still looking at her, still adjusting his manner. "But you allowed you were upset."

      "To the extent—yes—of not having in the least looked for her. Any more," said Mrs. Assingham, "than I judge Maggie to have done."

      The Prince thought; then as if glad to be able to say something very natural and true: "No—quite right. Maggie hasn't looked for her. But I'm sure," he added, "she'll be delighted to see her."

      "That, certainly"—and his hostess spoke with a different shade of gravity.

      "She'll be quite overjoyed," the Prince went on. "Has Miss Stant now gone to her?"

      "She has gone back to her hotel, to bring her things here. I can't have her," said Mrs. Assingham, "alone at an hotel."

      "No; I see."

      "If she's here at all she must stay with me." He quite took it in. "So she's coming now?"

      "I expect her at any moment. If you wait you'll see her."

      "Oh," he promptly declared—"charming!" But this word came out as if, a little, in sudden substitution for some other. It sounded accidental, whereas he wished to be firm. That accordingly was what he next showed himself. "If it wasn't for what's going on these next days Maggie would certainly want to have her. In fact," he lucidly continued, "isn't what's happening just a reason to MAKE her want to?" Mrs. Assingham, for answer, only looked at him, and this, the next instant, had apparently had more effect than if she had spoken. For he asked a question that seemed incongruous. "What has she come for!"

      It made his companion laugh. "Why, for just what you say. For your marriage."

      "Mine?"—he wondered.

      "Maggie's—it's the same thing. It's 'for' your great event. And then," said Mrs. Assingham, "she's so lonely."

      "Has she given you that as a reason?"

      "I scarcely remember—she gave me so many. She abounds, poor dear, in reasons. But there's one that, whatever she does, I always remember for myself."

      "And which is that?" He looked as if he ought to guess but couldn't.

      "Why, the fact that she has no home—absolutely none whatever. She's extraordinarily alone."

      Again he took it in. "And also has no great means."

      "Very small ones. Which is not, however, with the expense of railways and hotels, a reason for her running to and fro."

      "On the contrary. But she doesn't like her country."

      "Hers, my dear man?—it's little enough 'hers.'" The attribution, for the moment, amused his hostess. "She has rebounded now—but she has had little enough else to do with it."

      "Oh, I say hers," the Prince pleasantly explained, "very much as, at this time of day, I might say mine. I quite feel, I assure you, as if the great place already more or less belonged to ME."

      "That's your good fortune and your point of view. You own—or you soon practically WILL own—so much of it. Charlotte owns almost nothing in the world, she tells me, but two colossal trunks-only one of which I have given her leave to introduce into this house. She'll depreciate to you," Mrs. Assingham added, "your property."

      He thought of these things, he thought of every thing; but he had always his resource at hand of turning all to the easy. "Has she come with designs upon me?" And then in a moment, as if even this were almost too grave, he sounded the note that had least to do with himself. "Est-elle toujours aussi belle?" That was the furthest point, somehow, to which Charlotte Stant could be relegated.

      Mrs. Assingham treated it freely. "Just the same. The person in the world, to my sense, whose looks are most subject to appreciation. It's all in the way she affects you. One admires her if one doesn't happen not to. So, as well, one criticises her."

      "Ah, that's not fair!" said the Prince.

      "To criticise her? Then there you are! You're answered."

      "I'm answered." He took it, humorously, as his lesson—sank his previous self-consciousness, with excellent effect, in grateful docility. "I only meant that there are perhaps better things to be done with Miss Stant than to criticise her. When once you begin THAT, with anyone—!" He was vague and kind.

      "I quite agree that it's better to keep out of it as long as one can. But when one MUST do it—"

      "Yes?" he asked as she paused. "Then know what you mean."

      "I see. Perhaps," he smiled, "I don't know what I mean."

      "Well, it's what, just now, in all ways, you particularly should know." Mrs. Assingham, however,