Sir Edmund Orme by Henry James

Author:Henry James [James, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Anncona Media AB
Published: 1892-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“It isn’t the place—more’s the pity! That has nothing to do with it!”

“Then it’s you, dear lady?” I said, as if this were still better.

“No, nor me either—I wish it were!”

“Perhaps it’s me,” I suggested with a sickly smile.

“It’s nobody but my child—my innocent, innocent child!” And with this Mrs. Marden broke down—she dropped into a chair and burst into tears. I stammered some question—I pressed on her some bewildered appeal, but she waved me off, unexpectedly and passionately. I persisted—couldn’t I help her, couldn’t I intervene? “You have intervened,” she sobbed; “you’re in it, you’re in it.”

“I’m very glad to be in anything so curious,” I boldly declared.

“Glad or not, you can’t get out of it.”

“I don’t want to get out of it—it’s too interesting.”

“I’m glad you like it. Go away.”

“But I want to know more about it.”

“You’ll see all you want—go away!”

“But I want to understand what I see.”

“How can you—when I don’t understand myself?”

“We’ll do so together—we’ll make it out.”

At this she got up, doing what she could to obliterate her tears. “Yes, it will be better together—that’s why I’ve liked you.”

“Oh, we’ll see it through!” I declared.

“Then you must control yourself better.”

“I will, I will—with practice.”

“You’ll get used to it,” said Mrs. Marden, in a tone I never forgot. “But go and join them—I’ll come in a moment.”

I passed out to the terrace and I felt that I had a part to play. So far from dreading another encounter with the “perfect presence,” as Mrs. Marden called it, I was filled with an excitement that was positively joyous. I desired a renewal of the sensation—I opened myself wide to the impression, I went round the house as quickly as if I expected to overtake Sir Edmund Orme. I didn’t overtake him just then, but the day was not to close without my recognising that, as Mrs. Marden had said, I should see all I wanted of him.

We took, or most of us took, the collective sociable walk which, in the English country-house, is the consecrated pastime on Sunday afternoons. We were restricted to such a regulated ramble as the ladies were good for; the afternoons, moreover, were short, and by five o’clock we were restored to the fireside in the hall, with a sense, on my part at least, that we might have done a little more for our tea. Mrs. Marden had said she would join us, but she had not appeared; her daughter, who had seen her again before we went out, only explained that she was tired. She remained invisible all the afternoon, but this was a detail to which I gave as little heed as I had given to the circumstance of my not having Miss Marden to myself during all our walk. I was too much taken up with another emotion to care; I felt beneath my feet the threshold of the strange door, in my life, which had suddenly been thrown open and out of which unspeakable vibrations played up through me like a fountain.

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