A London Life, and Other Tales. Генри Джеймс

bad women looked as bad as they are–! It's only the good ones who can afford that,' the old lady murmured.

      'It was the last thing I ever thought of—that I should be ashamed,' said Laura.

      'Oh, keep your shame till you have more to do with it. It's like lending your umbrella—when you have only one.'

      'If anything were to happen—publicly—I should die, I should die!' the girl exclaimed passionately and with a motion that carried her to her feet. This time she settled herself for departure. Lady Davenant's admonition rather frightened than sustained her.

      The old woman leaned back in her chair, looking up at her. 'It would be very bad, I daresay. But it wouldn't prevent me from taking you in.'

      Laura Wing returned her look, with eyes slightly distended, musing. 'Think of having to come to that!'

      Lady Davenant burst out laughing. 'Yes, yes, you must come; you are so original!'

      'I don't mean that I don't feel your kindness,' the girl broke out, blushing. 'But to be only protected—always protected: is that a life?'

      'Most women are only too thankful and I am bound to say I think you are difficile.' Lady Davenant used a good many French words, in the old-fashioned manner and with a pronunciation not perfectly pure: when she did so she reminded Laura Wing of Mrs. Gore's novels. 'But you shall be better protected than even by me. Nous verrons cela. Only you must stop crying—this isn't a crying country.'

      'No, one must have courage here. It takes courage to marry for such a reason.'

      'Any reason is good enough that keeps a woman from being an old maid. Besides, you will like him.'

      'He must like me first,' said the girl, with a sad smile.

      'There's the American again! It isn't necessary. You are too proud—you expect too much.'

      'I'm proud for what I am—that's very certain. But I don't expect anything,' Laura Wing declared. 'That's the only form my pride takes. Please give my love to Mrs. Berrington. I am so sorry—so sorry,' she went on, to change the talk from the subject of her marrying. She wanted to marry but she wanted also not to want it and, above all, not to appear to. She lingered in the room, moving about a little; the place was always so pleasant to her that to go away—to return to her own barren home—had the effect of forfeiting a sort of privilege of sanctuary. The afternoon had faded but the lamps had been brought in, the smell of flowers was in the air and the old house of Plash seemed to recognise the hour that suited it best. The quiet old lady in the firelight, encompassed with the symbolic security of chintz and water-colour, gave her a sudden vision of how blessed it would be to jump all the middle dangers of life and have arrived at the end, safely, sensibly, with a cap and gloves and consideration and memories. 'And, Lady Davenant, what does she think?' she asked abruptly, stopping short and referring to Mrs. Berrington.

      'Think? Bless your soul, she doesn't do that! If she did, the things she says would be unpardonable.'

      'The things she says?'

      'That's what makes them so beautiful—that they are not spoiled by preparation. You could never think of them for her.' The girl smiled at this description of the dearest friend of her interlocutress, but she wondered a little what Lady Davenant would say to visitors about her if she should accept a refuge under her roof. Her speech was after all a flattering proof of confidence. 'She wishes it had been you—I happen to know that,' said the old woman.

      'It had been me?'

      'That Lionel had taken a fancy to.'

      'I wouldn't have married him,' Laura rejoined, after a moment.

      'Don't say that or you will make me think it won't be easy to help you. I shall depend upon you not to refuse anything so good.'

      'I don't call him good. If he were good his wife would be better.'

      'Very likely; and if you had married him he would be better, and that's more to the purpose. Lionel is as idiotic as a comic song, but you have cleverness for two.'

      'And you have it for fifty, dear Lady Davenant. Never, never—I shall never marry a man I can't respect!' Laura Wing exclaimed.

      She had come a little nearer her old friend and taken her hand; her companion held her a moment and with the other hand pushed aside one of the flaps of the waterproof. 'And what is it your clothing costs you?' asked Lady Davenant, looking at the dress underneath and not giving any heed to this declaration.

      'I don't exactly know: it takes almost everything that is sent me from America. But that is dreadfully little—only a few pounds. I am a wonderful manager. Besides,' the girl added, 'Selina wants one to be dressed.'

      'And doesn't she pay any of your bills?'

      'Why, she gives me everything—food, shelter, carriages.'

      'Does she never give you money?'

      'I wouldn't take it,' said the girl. 'They need everything they have—their life is tremendously expensive.'

      'That I'll warrant!' cried the old woman. 'It was a most beautiful property, but I don't know what has become of it now. Ce n'est pas pour vous blesser, but the hole you Americans can make–'

      Laura interrupted immediately, holding up her head; Lady Davenant had dropped her hand and she had receded a step. 'Selina brought Lionel a very considerable fortune and every penny of it was paid.'

      'Yes, I know it was; Mrs. Berrington told me it was most satisfactory. That's not always the case with the fortunes you young ladies are supposed to bring!' the old lady added, smiling.

      The girl looked over her head a moment. 'Why do your men marry for money?'

      'Why indeed, my dear? And before your troubles what used your father to give you for your personal expenses?'

      'He gave us everything we asked—we had no particular allowance.'

      'And I daresay you asked for everything?' said Lady Davenant.

      'No doubt we were very dressy, as you say.'

      'No wonder he went bankrupt—for he did, didn't he?'

      'He had dreadful reverses but he only sacrificed himself—he protected others.'

      'Well, I know nothing about these things and I only ask pour me renseigner,' Mrs. Berrington's guest went on. 'And after their reverses your father and mother lived I think only a short time?'

      Laura Wing had covered herself again with her mantle; her eyes were now bent upon the ground and, standing there before her companion with her umbrella and her air of momentary submission and self-control, she might very well have been a young person in reduced circumstances applying for a place. 'It was short enough but it seemed—some parts of it—terribly long and painful. My poor father—my dear father,' the girl went on. But her voice trembled and she checked herself.

      'I feel as if I were cross-questioning you, which God forbid!' said Lady Davenant. 'But there is one thing I should really like to know. Did Lionel and his wife, when you were poor, come freely to your assistance?'

      'They sent us money repeatedly—it was her money of course. It was almost all we had.'

      'And if you have been poor and know what poverty is tell me this: has it made you afraid to marry a poor man?'

      It seemed to Lady Davenant that in answer to this her young friend looked at her strangely; and then the old woman heard her say something that had not quite the heroic ring she expected. 'I am afraid of so many things to-day that I don't know where my fears end.'

      'I have no patience with the highstrung way you take things. But I have to know, you know.'

      'Oh, don't try to know any more shames—any more horrors!' the girl wailed with sudden passion, turning away.

      Her companion got up, drew her round again and kissed her. 'I think you would fidget me,' she remarked as she released her. Then, as if this were too cheerless a leave-taking, she added in a gayer tone, as Laura had her hand on the door: 'Mind what I tell you, my dear; let her go!' It was to this that the girl's lesson in philosophy