The Ambassadors by Henry James (read people like a book .TXT) 📕

On the morrow, however, at an early hour, he found occasion to give an answer more in consonance with the facts. What was the matter had continued to be so all the previous evening, the first hours of which, after dinner, in his room, he had devoted to the copious composition of a letter. He had quitted Waymarsh for this purpose, leaving him to his own resources with less ceremony than their wont, but finally coming down again with his letter unconcluded and going forth into the streets without enquiry for his comrade. He had taken a long vague walk, and one o’clock had struck before his return and his re-ascent to his room by the aid of the glimmering candle-end left for him on the shelf outside the porter’s lodge. He had possessed himself, on closing his door, of the numerous loose sheets of his unfinished composition, and then, without reading them over, had torn them into small pieces. He had thereupon slept⁠—as if it had been in some measure thanks to that sacrifice⁠—the sleep of the just, and had prolonged his rest considerably beyond his custom. Thus it was that when, between nine and ten, the tap of the knob of a walking-stick sounded on his door, he had not yet made himself altogether presentable. Chad Newsome’s bright deep voice determined quickly enough none the less the admission of the visitor. The little blue paper of the evening before, plainly an object the more precious for its escape from premature destruction, now lay on the sill of the open window, smoothed out afresh and kept from blowing away by the superincumbent weight of his watch. Chad, looking about with careless and competent criticism, as he looked wherever he went immediately espied it and permitted himself to fix it for a moment rather hard. After which he turned his eyes to his host. “It has come then at last?”

Strether paused in the act of pinning his necktie. “Then you know⁠—? You’ve had one too?”

“No, I’ve had nothing, and I only know what I see. I see that thing and I guess. Well,” he added, “it comes as pat as in a play, for I’ve precisely turned up this morning⁠—as I would have done yesterday, but it was impossible⁠—to take you.”

“To take me?” Strether had turned again to his glass.

“Back, at last, as I promised. I’m ready⁠—I’ve really been ready this month. I’ve only been waiting for you⁠—as was perfectly right. But you’re better now; you’re safe⁠—I see that for myself; you’ve got all your good. You’re looking, this morning, as fit as a flea.”

Strether, at his glass, finished dressing; consulting that witness moreover on this last opinion. Was he looking preternaturally fit? There was something in it perhaps for Chad’s wonderful eye, but he had felt himself for hours rather in pieces. Such a judgement, however, was after all but a contribution to his resolve; it testified unwittingly to his wisdom. He was still firmer, apparently⁠—since it shone in him as a light⁠—than he had flattered himself. His firmness indeed was slightly compromised, as he faced about to his friend, by the way this very personage looked⁠—though the case would of course have been worse hadn’t the secret of personal magnificence been at every hour Chad’s unfailing possession. There he was in all the pleasant morning freshness of it⁠—strong and sleek and gay, easy and fragrant and fathomless, with happy health in his colour, and pleasant silver in his thick young hair, and the right word for everything on the lips that his clear brownness caused to show as red. He had never struck Strether as personally such a success; it was as if now, for his definite surrender, he had gathered himself vividly together. This, sharply and rather strangely, was the form in which he was to be presented to Woollett. Our friend took him in again⁠—he was always taking him in and yet finding that parts of him still remained out; though even thus his image showed through a mist of other things. “I’ve had a cable,” Strether said, “from your mother.”

“I dare say, my dear man. I hope she’s well.”

Strether hesitated. “No⁠—she’s not well, I’m sorry to have to tell you.”

“Ah,” said Chad, “I must have had the instinct of it. All the more reason then that we should start straight off.”

Strether had now got together hat, gloves and stick, but Chad had dropped on the sofa as if to show where he wished to make his point. He kept observing his companion’s things; he might have been judging how quickly they could be packed. He might even have wished to hint that he’d send his own servant to assist. “What do you mean,” Strether enquired, “by ‘straight off’?”

“Oh by one of next week’s boats. Everything at this season goes out so light that berths will be easy anywhere.”

Strether had in his hand his telegram, which he had kept there after attaching his watch, and he now offered it to Chad, who, however, with an odd movement, declined to take it. “Thanks, I’d rather not. Your correspondence with Mother’s your own affair. I’m only with you both on it, whatever it is.” Strether, at this, while their eyes met, slowly folded the missive and put it in his pocket; after which, before he had spoken again, Chad broke fresh ground. “Has Miss Gostrey come back?”

But when Strether presently spoke it wasn’t in answer. “It’s not, I gather, that your mother’s physically ill; her health, on the whole, this spring, seems to have been better than usual. But she’s worried, she’s anxious, and it appears to have risen within the last few days to a climax. We’ve tired out, between us, her patience.”

“Oh it isn’t you!” Chad generously protested.

“I beg your pardon⁠—it is me.” Strether was mild and melancholy, but firm. He saw it far away and over his companion’s head. “It’s very particularly me.”

“Well then all