It was to come soon enough by the quite unforced operation of chance, the young man's opportunity to ask her the question suggested by Mrs. Assingham shortly before her entrance. The licence, had he chosen to embrace it, was within a few minutes all there--the licence given him literally to enquire of (48) this young lady how long she was likely to be with them.
For a matter of the mere domestic order had quickly determined on Mrs.
Assingham's part a withdrawal, of a few moments, which had the effect of leaving her visitors free. "Mrs. Betterman's there?" she had said to Charlotte in allusion to some member of the household who was to have received her and seen her belongings settled; to which Charlotte had replied that she had encountered only the butler, who had been quite charming. She had deprecated any action taken on behalf of her effects; but her hostess, rebounding from accumulated cushions, evidently saw more in Mrs. Betterman's non-appearance than could meet the casual eye. What she saw in short demanded her intervention, in spite of an earnest "Let ME go!" from the girl, and a prolonged smiling wail over the trouble she was giving. The Prince was quite aware at this moment that departure, for himself, was indicated; the question of Miss Stant's installation did n't demand his presence; it was a case for one to go away--if one had n't a reason for staying. He had a reason, however--of that he was equally aware; and he had n't for a good while done anything more conscious and intentional than not quickly to take leave. His visible insistence--for it came to that--even demanded of him a certain disagreeable effort, the sort of effort he had mostly associated with acting for an idea. His idea was there, his idea was to find out something, something he wanted much to know,- and to find it out not to-morrow, not at some future time, not in short with waiting and wondering, but if possible before quitting the place. (49) This particular curiosity moreover confounded itself a little with the occasion offered him to satisfy Mrs. Assingham's own; he would n't have admitted that he was staying to ask a rude question--there was distinctly nothing rude in his having his reasons. It would be rude for that matter to turn one's back without a word or two on an old friend.
Well, as it came to pass, he got the word or two, for Mrs. Assingham's preoccupation was practically simplifying. The little crisis was of shorter duration than our account of it; duration would naturally have forced him to take up his hat. He was somehow glad, on finding himself alone with Charlotte, that he had n't been guilty of that inconsequence. Not to be flurried was the kind of consistency he wanted, just as consistency was the kind of dignity. And why could n't he have dignity when he had so much of the good conscience, as it were, on which such advantages rested? He had done nothing he ought n't--he had in fact done nothing at all. Once more, as a man conscious of having known many women, he could assist, as he would have called it, at the recurrent, the predestined phenomenon, the thing always as certain as sunrise or the coming round of saints' days, the doing by the woman of the thing that gave her away. She did it, ever, inevitably, infallibly--she could n't possibly not do it. It was her nature, it was her life, and the man could always expect it without lifting a finger.
This was HIS, the man's, any man's, position and strength--that he had necessarily the advantage, that he only had to wait with a decent patience to be placed, in spite of himself, it might really be said, in (50) the right. Just so the punctuality of performance on the part of the other creature was her weakness and her deep misfortune--not less, no doubt, than her beauty. It produced for the man that extraordinary mixture of pity and profit in which his relation with her, when he was not a mere brute, mainly consisted; and gave him in fact his most pertinent ground of being always nice to her, nice about her, nice FOR her. She always dressed her act up, of course, she muffled and disguised and arranged it, showing in fact in these dissimulations a cleverness equal to but one thing in the world, equal to her abjection: she would let it be known for anything, for everything, but the truth of which it was made. That was what, exactly, Charlotte Stant would be doing now; that was the present motive and support, to a certainty, of each of her looks and motions. She was the twentieth woman, she was possessed by her doom, but her doom was also to arrange appearances, and what now concerned him was to learn how she proposed.
He would help her, would arrange WITH her--to any point in reason; the only thing was to know what appearance could best be produced and best be preserved. Produced and preserved on her part of course; since on his own there had been luckily no folly to cover up, nothing but a perfect accord between conduct and obligation.
They stood there together at all events, when the door had closed behind their friend, with a conscious strained smile and very much as if each waited for the other to strike the note or give the pitch. The young man held himself, in his silent suspense--only not more afraid because he felt her own fear. She was (51) afraid of herself, however; whereas, to his gain of lucidity, he was afraid only of her. Would she throw herself into his arms or would she be otherwise wonderful? She would see what he would do--so their queer minute without words told him; and she would act accordingly.
But what could he do but just let her see that he would make anything, everything, for her, as honourably easy as possible? Even if she should throw herself into his arms he would make that easy--easy, that is, to overlook, to ignore, not to remember, and not by the same token either to regret. This was not what in fact happened, though it was also not at a single touch, but by the finest gradations, that his tension subsided.
