T H E T H R E E - D AY B L 0 W 25 know why it was. I couldn't help it. Just like when the three-day blows come now and rip all the leaves 0 代 the trees. " "WeII, it's over. That's the point, ” BiIl said. "lt was my fault," Nick said. "lt doesn't make any difference whose fault it was," Bill "NO, I suppose not," Nick said. The big thing was that Marjorie was gone and that probably he would never see her again. He had talked to her about how they would go t0 ltaly together and the fun they would have. Places they would be together. lt was all gone now. "SO long as it's over that's all that matters; ” Bill said. "I tell you, Wemedge, I was worried while it was going on. You played it right. I understand her mother is sore as hell. She told a 10t ofpeople you were engaged ・ ' 'We weren 't engaged," Nick said. "lt was all around that you were. ' "I can't help it, ” Nick said. "We weren't. " "Weren't you going t0 get married?" BiIl asked. "Yes. But we weren't engaged," Nick said. "What's the difference?" Bill askedjudicially. "I don't know. There's a difference. ' "I don't see it, ” said Bill. "AII right," said Nick. "Let's get drunk " "AII right," Bill said. "Let's get really drunk " "Let's get drunk and then go swmming," Nick said. He drank offhis glass. "l'm sorry as hell about her but what could I do?" he said. "You know what her mother was like! ” "She was terrible," Bill said. "AII of a sudden it was over," Nick said. "I oughtn't t0 talk about it. ' 。、 u aren't," Bill said. 当 talked about it and now l'm through. We won't ever speak of it again. You don't want t0 think about it. You might get back into it again ・ ' Nick had not thought about that. lt had seemed so absolute. That was a thought. That made him feel better. "Sure," he said. "There's always that danger. ' said.

62 H E N RY JA M E S whimsical about his sufferings and not at all concerned—qulte as ifthe Constitution provided for the case—about his succes- sor. He glided over 04r sufferings charmingly, and none ofhis jokes—it was a gallant abstention, some of them would have been SO easy—•、 at our expense.No 、 and again, I confess, there was one Brooksmith's, but so pathetically sociable as tO make the excellent man 100k at me in a way that seemed to say:"Do exchange a glance with me, or I shan't be able to stand it. ” What he wasn't able to stand was not what Mr. 0 代 Ord said about him, but what he wasn't able to say ⅲ return. His idea of conversation for himself 、 g1V1ng you the convemence Of speaking t0 him; and when he went t0 "see" Lady Kenyon for instance it was tO carry her the tribute Ofhis receptive silence. Where would the speech ofhis betters have been ifproper serv- ice had been a manifestation 0f sound? ln that case the funda- mental difference would have had to be shown by e か dumbness, and many ofthem, poor things, were dumb enough without that provision. Brooksmith tOOk an unfailing interest in the preservation Of the fundamental difference; it was the thing he had most on ・ his conscience. What had become of it however when Mr. 0 仕 Ord passed away like any infenor person—was relegated t0 eternal still- ness after the manner Ofa butler above-stairs? His aspect on the event—for the several successive days—may be imagined, and the multiplication by funereal observance of the things he didn't say. 、 Mhen everything was over—it was late the same day—l knocked at the door ofthe house ofmourning as I so 0 ten had done before. I could never call on Mr. 0 仕 Ord again, but I had come literally t0 call on Brooksmith. I wanted to ask him ifthere was anything I could d0 for him, tainted with vagueness as this enquiry could only be. My presumptuous dream oftak- mg him int0 my own service had died away; my service wasn't worth his being taken into. My offer could only be to help him to find another place, and yet there was an indelicacy, as it were, ⅲ taking for granted that his thoughts would immedi- ately be fixed on another. I had a hope that he would be able to give his ⅱ a different form—though certainly not the form, the frequent result 0fsuch bereavements, 0fhis setting up a lit-

150 M A X B E E R B 0 H M was an amusing young creature, and her hands were very charactenstic, and prettily odd ⅲ form. I allowed myselfto be rather whimsical about her nature, and, having begun ⅲ that vein, I went on ⅲ it—somehow—even after she had turned her palms. ln those palms were reduplicated the signs I had seen ⅲ Mrs. EIbourn's. lt was as though they had been copied neatly out. The only difference was ⅲ the placing ofthem; and it was this difference that was the most horrible point. The ねね 1 age ⅲ Mrs. BIake's hands was—not past, no, for here she was. But she might have died when she was twenty-one. Twenty-three seemed t0 be the utmost span. She was twenty-four, you know.. "I have said that I am a weak man. And you will have good proofofthat directly. Yet I showed a certain amount ofstrength that day—yes, even on that day which has humiliated and sad- dened the rest of my li . Neither my face nor my voice be- trayed me when ⅲ the palms 0f Dorothy Elbourn I was again confronted with those same signs. She was all for knowing the future, poor child! I believe I told her all manner ofthings that were to be. And she had no future—none, none ⅲな world— except "And then, while I talked, there came to me suddenly a sus- picion. I wondered it hadn't come before. You guess what it was? lt made me feel very cold and strange. I went on talking. But, also, I went on—quite separately—thinkmg. The suspi- cion wasn't a certainty. This mother and daughter were always together,. What was t0 befall the one might anywhere—any- where—befall the other. But a like fate, in an equally near 血 - ture, was in store for that Other lady.. The coincidence was cunous, very. Here we all were together—here, they and l—l WhO was narrowly tO escape, SO soon now, what they, SO soon now, were tO suffer. Oh, there was an inference tO be 市 aw れ . Not a 砌尾 inference, I told myself. And always I was talking, talking, and the train was swmgrng and swaymg noisily along—to what? lt was a fast a ⅲ . Our camage was near the engine. I was talking loudly. Full well I had known what I should see ⅲ the C010nel's hand. I told myselfl had not known. I told myself that even now the thing I dreaded was not sure to be. Don't think I was dreading it for myself. I wasn't so

T H E T H R E E - D AY B L O W grass from the rain. ー- He put the 叩 p 厄ⅲ the pocket 0f his Mackinaw coat. The road came out of the orchard on t0 the top of the hill. There was the cottage, the porch bare, smoke commg 丘 om the chlmney,. ln back was the garage, the chicken CO 叩 and the second-growth timber like a hedge against the woods behind. The big trees swayed far over ⅲ the wind as he watched. lt was the first ofthe autumn storms. As Nick crossed the open field above the orchard the door 0f the cottage opened and Bill came out. He st00d on the porch looklng out. "WeIl, Wemedge," he said. "Hey, BilI," Nick said, comrng up the steps. They stood together, looking out across the country, down over the orchard, beyond the road, across the lower fields and the woods of the point t0 the lake. The wind was blowing straight down the ー衣 e. They could see the surfalong Ten Mile point. "She's blowing," Nick said. "She'II blow like that for three days," BiII saide "ls yo 町 dad in?" Nick said. “ No. He's out with the gun. Come on ln. Nick went inside the cottage. There was a big fire ⅲ the fire- place. The wind made it ro Bill shut the door. "Have a drink? ” he said. He went out t0 the kitchen and came back with two glasses and a pitcher ofwater. Nick reached the wh1Sky bottle 伝 om the shelfabove the fireplace. "AII right?" he said. “ G004 ” said BiII. They sat ⅲ front 0f the fire and drank the lrish whisky and 、 vater. "lt's got a swell, smoky taste," Nick and 100ked at the fire through the glass. "That's the peat; ” BiII said. 、 'You can't get peat int0 liquor," Nick said. "That doesn't make any difference," BiII said. "You ever seen any peat?" Nick asked.

22 E R N E S T H E M I N G WAY They sat looking into the fire and thmking ofthis profound truth. "l'll get a chunk 仕 om the back porch," Nick said. He had noticed while looking into the fire that the fire was dying down. Also he wished to show he could hold his liquor and be practi- cal. Even ifhis father had never touched a drop Bill was not go- ing t0 get him drunk before he himselfwas drunk. "Bring one ofthe big beech chunks," Bill said. He was also being consciously practical. Nick came ⅲ with the 10g through the kitchen and in pass- ing knocked a pan 0 the kitchen table. He laid the 10g down and picked up the pan. lt had contained dried 叩 ricots, soaking ⅲ water. He carefully picked up all the apricots 0 仕 the floor, some of them had gone under the stove, and put them back ⅲ the pan. He dipped some more water onto them om the pail by the table. He lt quite proud of himself. He had been 市 or - oughly practical. He came ⅲ carrying the log and Bill got up om the chair and helped him put it on the fire. "That's a swell 10g , " Nick said. "l'd been saving it for the bad weather," Bill said. "A 10g like that will burn all night. " "There'll be coals 厄 to start the fire ⅲ the morning," Nick said. "That's right," Bill agreed. They were conducting the con- versation on a hlgh plane. "Let's have another drink; ” Nick said. "I think there's another bottle open ⅲ the locker," Bill said. He kneeled down ⅲ the corner ⅲ front of the locker and brought out a square-faced bottle. "lt's Scotch,' ” he said. "l'll get some more water," Nick said. He went out intO the kitchen again. He filled the pitcherwith the dipper dipping cold spnng water 仕 om the pail. On his way back t0 the living room he passed a mirror in the dinmg room and looked in it. His face looked strange. He smiled at the face in the mirror and it grinned back at him. He winked at it and went on. lt was not his face but it didn't make any difference.

324 J A M E S J OY C E to the ね b 厄 . A denuded room came into view and the fire lost all its cheerfulcolour. The walls ofthe room were bare except for a copy of election address. ln the middle of the room was a small ね b 厄 on wh1Ch papers were heaped. Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked: "Has he paid you yet?" "N0t yet," said Mr. O'Connor. 当 hope to God he'll not leave us ⅲ the lurch to-night. " Mr. Hynes laughed. 。つ , he'll pay you. Never 危 " he said. 当 hope he'll look smart about it ifhe means business," sald Mr.. O'Connor. "What do you thmk, Jack?" said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man. The 01d man returned to his seat by the fire, saymg: "lt isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker. " 'What other tinker?" said Mr. Hynes. 。℃ olgan , " said the 01d man scornfully. "lt is because Colgan's a workmg-man you say that? What's the difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publi- can—eh? Hasn't the working-man as good a right t0 be ⅲ the Corporation as anyone else—ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat ⅲ hand before any Ⅱ ow with a handle t0 his name? lsn't that so, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes, ad- dressing Mr. O'Connor. "I think you're right," said Mr,. O'Connor. "One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes ⅲ tO represent the labour classes. This fel- 10W you're working for only wants t0 get some job or other. " "Of course, the working-classes should be represented,' said the 01d man. "The working-man," said Mr. Hynes, "gets all kicks and no halfpence. But it's labo 町 produces everything. The working- man is not looking for 血 jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going t0 drag the honour 0f Dublin ⅲ the mud to please a German monarch. ' "How's that? ” said the 01d man. "Don't you know they want t0 present an address Of wel-

282 A L D 0 U S H U X L E Y the ⅱ 0f MiIton. There was no particular reason why he should have chosen MiIton; it was the book that first came to hand, that was all. lt was after midnight when he had finished. He got up 仕 om his armchair, unbolted the French windows, and stepped out ont0 the little paved terrace. The night was quiet and clear. Mr. Hutton 100ked at the stars and at the holes between them, dropped his eyes to the dim lawns and hueless flowers of the garden, and let them wander over the farther landsc 叩 e, black and gray under the moon. He began to think with a kind of confused violence. There were the stars, there was Milton. A man can be somehow the peer Of stars and night. Greatness, nobility. But is there serl- ously a difference between the noble and the nob 厄 ? Milton, the stars, death, and himself, himselfe The soul, the body; the higher and the lower nature. Perh 叩 s there was something in it, after all. Mi lton had a god on his side and righteousness. What had he? Nothing, nothing whatever. There were only Doris's little breasts. What was the point of it all? Milton, the stars, death, and Emily ⅲ her grave. Doris and himself—always him- self.. Oh, he was a futile and disgusting be ing. Everything con- vinced him 0f it. lt was a solemn moment. He spoke aloud: "I will, I will. " The sound ofhis own voice in the darkness was 叩 - palling; it seemed t0 him that he had sworn that infernal oath which binds even the gods: "I will, I will. " There had been New Year's Days and solemn anniversanes ⅲ the past, when he had felt the same contritions and recorded similar resolutions. They had all thinned away, these resolutions, like smoke, into noth- lngness. But this was a greater moment and he had pronounced a more fearful oath. ln the future it was to be different. Yes, he would live by reason, he would be industrious, he would curb h1S appetites, he would devote his life t0 some good purpose. lt was resolved and it would be so. ln practice he saw himself spending his mormngs ⅲ agn- cultural pursuit, riding round with the bailiff, seeing that his land was farmed ⅲ the best modern way, silos and artificial manures and continuous cropping, and all that. The remainder 0f the day should be devoted to senous study. There was that

T H E 0 T H E R T W 0 2 19 dulling propinquity with Haskett andVarick and he t00k refuge ⅲ the cheap revenge Of satirizing the situation. He even began t0 reckon up the advantages which accrued 仕 om it, t0 ask him- selfifit were not better to own a third ofa wife who knew how t0 make a man happy than a whole one wh0 had lacked oppor- tunity t0 acqulre the art. For it was an art, and made up, like all Others, Of concessions, eliminations and embellishments; Of lights judiciously thrown and shadows skillfully softened. ・ His wife knew exactly how to manage the lights, and he knew ex- actly t0 what training she owed her skill. He even tried t0 trace the source Of his obligations, tO discriminate between the influ- ences which had combined t0 produce his domestic happmess: he perceived that Haskett's commonness had made Alice wor- ship good breeding, while Varick's liberal construction 0f the marriage bond had taught herto value the conjugal urtues; so that he was directly indebted to his predecessors for the devo- tion which made his li 危 easy if not insprrmg ・ From this phase he passed into that ofcomplete acceptance. He ceased to satirize himself because time dulled the irony of the situation and thejoke lOSt its humor with its sting. Even the sight 0f Haskett's hat on the hall table had ceased t0 touch the spnngs ofepigram. The hat was often seen there now, for it had been decided that it was better for Lily's father t0 visit her than for the little girl to go to his boarding-house. Waythorn, having acquiesced ⅲ this arrangement, had been surprised t0 find how little difference it made. Haskett was never obtrusive, and the few visitors whO met him on the stairs were unaware Of his identity. Waythorn did not know how often he saw Alice, but with himselfHaskett was seldom in contact. One afternoon, however, he learned on entenng that Lily's father was waiting tO see him. ln the library he found Haskett occupying a chair ⅲ his usual provisional way. Waythorn al- ways lt grateful t0 him for not leaning back. "I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn," he said rising. 当 wanted t0 see Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, and your man asked me tO wait here till she came ln. "Of course," said Waythorn, remembering that a sudden

T H E S H OT 101 knew 、 vhat hiS circumstances 、 or 、 hiS ⅲ C01 e was, and nobody dared to question him about them. He had a collec- tion ofbooks, chiefly works on military matters and novels. He willingly lent them t0 us t0 read, and never asked for their re- turn; on the Other hand, he never returned tO the owner the bOOks that were lent tO him. His pnncipal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls ofhis room were riddled with bullets, and were as Ⅱ of holes as a honey-comb. A rich col- lection 0f pistols was the only luxury ⅲ the humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his 信 - vorite we 叩 on was simply incredible; and if he had offered t0 shOOt a pear 0 仕 somebody's forage-cap, not a man ⅲ our regi- ment would have hesitated t0 expose his head t0 the bullet. Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvi0—so I will call him—neverjoined ⅲ it. When asked ifhe had ever fought, he drily replied that he had; but he entered int0 Ⅱ 0 particulars, and it was evident that such questlons were not tO his liking. ・ We lmagined that he had upon his conscience the memory ofsome unhappy victim 0f his terrible 、 skill. lt never entered into the head of any of us to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are persons whose mere lOOk iS suffcient tO repel such suspicions. But an unexpected incident occurred which as- tounded us all. One day, about ten 0f our omcers dined with Sil ⅵ 0. They drank as usual, that is t0 say, a great deal. After dinner we asked our host t0 hold the bank for a game at faro. For a long time he refused, as he hardly ever played, but at last he ordered cards t0 be brought, placed half a hundred gold coins upon the table, and sat down t0 deal. We t00k our places around him, and the game began. lt was SilviO's custom tO preserve complete si- lence when playing. He never argued, and never entered intO explanations. If the punter made a mistake ⅲ calculating, he immediately paid him the difference or noted down the sur- plus. We were acquainted with this habit ofhis, and we always allowed him tO have his own way; but among us on this occa- sion was an omcer whO had only recently been transferred t0 our regiment. Dunng the course Of the game, this omcer ab- sently scored one point t00 many. Silvi0 t00k the chalk and

60 H E N RY J A M 旧 S might have asked me, with the return ofautumn, ifl thought he had better light the drawing-room fire. He had a resigned philosophlc sense of what his guests— our guests, as I came t0 regard them ⅲ our colloquies—would expect. His feeling was that he wouldn't absolutely have 叩 - proved ofhimself as a substitute for Mr. 0 Ord ; but he was so saturated with the religion of habit that he would have made, for our friends, the necessary sacrifice to the divinity. He would take them on a little further and till they could look about them. I think I saw him also mentally confronted with the opportunity to deal—for once ⅲ his ⅱ with some ofhis own dumb pref- erences, his limitations Of sympathy, weeding a li 厄 in prospect and returning tO a purer tradition. lt was not unknown tO me that he considered that toward the end ofour host's career a certain laxity Of selection had crept ⅲ . At last it came to be the case that we all found the closed door more Often than the open one; but even when it was closed Brooksmith managed a crack for me t0 squeeze through; so that practically I never turned away without having paid a visit. The difference simply came to be that the visit was to Brooksmith. lt took place in the hall, at the familiar 応 ot ofthe stairs, and we didn't sit down, at least Brooksmith didn't; moreover it was devoted wholly t0 one topic and always had the air ofbeing already over—beginning, so to say, at the end. But it was always interestlng—it always gave me something tO think about. lt's true that the subject Ofmy meditation was ever the same—ever "lt's all very well, but what will become of Brooksmith?" Even my prlvate answer tO th1S question le れ me still unsatisfied. NO doubt Mr. 0 仕örd would provide for him, but w ん would he provide?—that was the great point. He couldn't provide society; and society had become a necessity of Brooksmith's nature. I must add that he never showed a symptom 0f what I may call sordid solicitude anxiety on his own account. He was rather livid and intensely grave, as befit- ted a man before whose eyes the "shade 0fthat which once was great" was passing away. He had the solemnity 0f a person winding up, under depressing clrcumstances, a long-established and celebrated business; he was a kind Of SOCial executor or