Part 18 (1/2)

”Good-night, Brissenden. I shall be gone to-morrow before you show.”

I shall never forget the way that, struck by my word, he let his white face fix me in the dusk. ”'Show'? _What_ do I show?”

I had taken his hand for farewell, and, inevitably laughing, but as the falsest of notes, I gave it a shake. ”You show nothing! You're magnificent.”

He let me keep his hand while things unspoken and untouched, unspeakable and untouchable, everything that had been between us in the wood a few hours before, were between us again. But so we could only leave them, and, with a short, sharp ”Good-bye!” he completely released himself.

With my hand on the latch of the closed door I watched a minute his retreat along the pa.s.sage, and I remember the reflection that, before rejoining Obert, I made on it. I seemed perpetually, at Newmarch, to be taking his measure from behind.

Ford Obert has since told me that when I came back to him there were tears in my eyes, and I didn't know at the moment how much the words with which he met me took for granted my consciousness of them. ”He looks a hundred years old!”

”Oh, but you should see his shoulders, always, as he goes off! _Two_ centuries--ten! Isn't it amazing?”

It was so amazing that, for a little, it made us reciprocally stare. ”I should have thought,” he said, ”that he would have been on the contrary----”

”Visibly rejuvenated? So should I. I must make it out,” I added. ”I _shall_.”

But Obert, with less to go upon, couldn't wait. It was wonderful, for that matter--and for all I had to go upon--how I myself could. I did so, at this moment, in my refreshed intensity, by the help of confusedly lighting another cigarette, which I should have no time to smoke. ”I should have thought,” my friend continued, ”that he too might have changed back.”

I took in, for myself, so much more of it than I could say! ”Certainly.

You wouldn't have thought he would have changed forward.” Then with an impulse that bridged over an abyss of connections I jumped to another place. ”Was what you most saw while you were there with _her_--was this that her misery, the misery you first phrased to me, has dropped?”

”Dropped, yes.” He was clear about it. ”I called her beastly unhappy to you though I even then knew that beastly unhappiness wasn't quite all of it. It was part of it, it was enough of it; for she was--well, no doubt you could tell _me_. Just now, at all events”--and recalling, reflecting, deciding, he used, with the strongest effect, as he so often did in painting, the simplest term--”just now she's all right.”

”All right?”

He couldn't know how much more than was possible my question gave him to answer. But he answered it on what he had; he repeated: ”All right.”

I wondered, in spite of the comfort I took, as I had more than once in life had occasion to take it before, at the sight of the painter-sense deeply applied. My wonder came from the fact that Lady John had also found Mrs. Server all right, and Lady John had a vision as closed as Obert's was open. It didn't suit my book for both these observers to have been affected in the same way. ”You mean you saw nothing whatever in her that was the least bit strange?”

”Oh, I won't say as much as that. But nothing that was more strange than that she _should_ be--well, after all, all right.”

”All there, eh?” I after an instant risked.

I couldn't put it to him more definitely than that, though there was a temptation to try to do so. For Obert to have found her all there an hour or two after I had found her all absent, made me again, in my nervousness, feel even now a trifle menaced. Things _had_, from step to step, to hang together, and just here they seemed--with all allowances--to hang a little apart. My whole superstructure, I could only remember, reared itself on my view of Mrs. Server's condition; but it was part of my predicament--really equal in its way to her own--that I couldn't without dishonouring myself give my interlocutor a practical lead. The question of her happiness was essentially subordinate; what I stood or fell by was that of her faculty. But I couldn't, on the other hand--and remain ”straight”--insist to my friend on the whereabouts of this stolen property. If he hadn't missed it in her for himself I mightn't put him on the track of it; since, with the demonstration he had before my eyes received of the rate at which Long was, as one had to call it, intellectually living, nothing would be more natural than that he should make the cases fit. Now my personal problem, unaltered in the least particular by anything, was for me to have worked to the end without breathing in another ear that Long had been her lover. That was the only thing in the whole business that was simple. It made me cling an instant the more, both for bliss and bale, to the bearing of this fact of Obert's insistence. Even as a sequel to his vision of her change, almost everything was wrong for her being all right except the one fact of my recent view, from the window, of the man unnamed. I saw him again sharply in these seconds, and to notice how he still kept clear of our company was almost to add cert.i.tude to the presumption of his rare reasons. Mrs. Server's being now, by a wonderful turn, all right would at least decidedly offer to these reasons a basis. It would be something Long's absence would fit. It would supply ground, in short, for the possibility that, by a process not less wonderful, he himself was all wrong. If he _was_ all wrong my last impression of him would be amply accounted for. If he was all wrong--if he, in any case, felt himself going so--what more consequent than that he should have wished to hide it, and that the most immediate way for this should have seemed to him, markedly gregarious as he usually was, to keep away from the smokers? It came to me unspeakably that he _was_ still hiding it and _was_ keeping away. How, accordingly, must he not--and must not Mrs.

Briss--have been in the spirit of this from the moment that, while I talked with Lady John, the sight of these two seated together had given me its message! But Obert's answer to my guarded challenge had meanwhile come. ”Oh, when a woman's so clever----!”

That was all, with its touch of experience and its hint of philosophy; but it was stupefying. She was already then positively again ”so clever?” This was really more than I could as yet provide an explanation for, but I was pressed; Brissenden would have reached his wife's room again, and I temporised. ”It was her cleverness that held you so that when I pa.s.sed you couldn't look at me?”

He looked at me at present well enough. ”I knew you were pa.s.sing, but I wanted precisely to mark for you the difference. If you really want to know,” the poor man confessed, ”I was a little ashamed of myself. I had given her away to you, you know, rather, before.”

”And you were bound you wouldn't do it again?”

He smiled in his now complete candour. ”Ah, there was no reason.” Then he used, happily, to right himself, my own expression. ”She was all there.”

”I see--I see.” Yet I really didn't see enough not to have for an instant to turn away.

”Where are you going?” he asked.