Books: Louisa Pallant
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Henry James >> Louisa Pallant
But my young lady was not to be ruffled. "Mamma was so vexed that she
took him apart and gave him a scolding. And to punish ME she sent me
straight to bed. She has very old-fashioned ideas--haven't you, mamma?"
she added, looking over my head at Mrs. Pallant, who had just come in
behind me.
I forget how her mother met Linda's appeal; Louisa stood there with two
letters, sealed and addressed, in her hand. She greeted me gaily and
then asked her daughter if she were possessed of postage-stamps. Linda
consulted a well-worn little pocket-book and confessed herself
destitute; whereupon her mother gave her the letters with the request
that she would go into the hotel, buy the proper stamps at the office,
carefully affix them and put the letters into the box. She was to pay
for the stamps, not have them put on the bill--a preference for which
Mrs. Pallant gave reasons. I had bought some at Stresa that morning and
was on the point of offering them when, apparently having guessed my
intention, the elder lady silenced me with a look. Linda announced
without reserve that she hadn't money and Louisa then fumbled for a
franc. When she had found and bestowed it the girl kissed her before
going off with the letters.
"Darling mother, you haven't any too many of them, have you?" she
murmured; and she gave me, sidelong, as she left us, the prettiest half-
comical, half-pitiful smile.
"She's amazing--she's amazing," said Mrs. Pallant as we looked at each
other.
"Does she know what you've done?"
"She knows I've done something and she's making up her mind what it is.
She'll satisfy herself in the course of the next twenty-four hours--if
your nephew doesn't come back. I think I can promise you he won't."
"And won't she ask you?"
"Never!"
"Shan't you tell her? Can you sit down together in this summer-house,
this divine day, with such a dreadful thing as that between you?"
My question found my friend quite ready. "Don't you remember what I told
you about our relations--that everything was implied between us and
nothing expressed? The ideas we have had in common--our perpetual
worldliness, our always looking out for chances--are not the sort of
thing that can be uttered conveniently between persons who like to keep
up forms, as we both do: so that, always, if we've understood each other
it has been enough. We shall understand each other now, as we've always
done, and nothing will be changed. There has always been something
between us that couldn't be talked about."
"Certainly, she's amazing--she's amazing," I repeated; "but so are you."
And then I asked her what she had said to my boy.
She seemed surprised. "Hasn't he told you?"
"No, and he never will."
"I'm glad of that," she answered simply.
"But I'm not sure he won't come back. He didn't this morning, but he had
already half a mind to."
"That's your imagination," my companion said with her fine authority.
"If you knew what I told him you'd be sure."
"And you won't let me know?"
"Never, dear friend."
"And did he believe you?"
"Time will show--but I think so."
"And how did you make it plausible to him that you should take so
unnatural a course?"
For a moment she said nothing, only looking at me. Then at last: "I told
him the truth."
"The truth?"
"Take him away--take him away!" she broke out. "That's why I got rid of
Linda, to tell you you mustn't stay--you must leave Stresa to-morrow.
This time it's you who must do it. I can't fly from you again--it costs
too much!" And she smiled strangely.
"Don't be afraid; don't be afraid. We'll break camp again to-morrow--ah
me! But I want to go myself," I added. I took her hand in farewell, but
spoke again while I held it. "The way you put it, about Linda, was very
bad?"
"It was horrible."
I turned away--I felt indeed that I couldn't stay. She kept me from
going to the hotel, as I might meet Linda coming back, which I was far
from wishing to do, and showed me another way into the road. Then she
turned round to meet her daughter and spend the rest of the morning
there with her, spend it before the bright blue lake and the snowy
crests of the Alps. When I reached Stresa again I found my young man had
gone off to Milan--to see the cathedral, the servant said--leaving a
message for me to the effect that, as he shouldn't be back for a day or
two, though there were numerous trains, he had taken a few clothes. The
next day I received telegram-notice that he had determined to go on to
Venice and begged I would forward the rest of his luggage. "Please don't
come after me," this missive added; "I want to be alone; I shall do no
harm." That sounded pathetic to me, in the light of what I knew, and I
was glad to leave him to his own devices. He proceeded to Venice and I
re-crossed the Alps. For several weeks after this I expected to discover
that he had rejoined Mrs. Pallant; but when we met that November in
Paris I saw he had nothing to hide from me save indeed the secret of
what our extraordinary friend had said to him. This he concealed from me
then and has concealed ever since. He returned to America before
Christmas--when I felt the crisis over. I've never again seen the
wronger of my youth. About a year after our more recent adventure her
daughter Linda married, in London, a young Englishman the heir to a
large fortune, a fortune acquired by his father in some prosaic but
flourishing industry. Mrs. Gimingham's admired photographs--such is
Linda's present name--may be obtained from the principal stationers. I
am convinced her mother was sincere. My nephew has not even yet changed
his state, my sister at last thinks it high time. I put before her as
soon as I next saw her the incidents here recorded, and--such is the
inconsequence of women--nothing can exceed her reprobation of Louisa
Pallant.