The Wings of the Dove - Henry James (classic literature books TXT) 📗

“It was what I tried to make out before I went. I must tell you moreover that I had no doubt of its really being to give me, as you say, a chance. She believed, I suppose, that I might deny; and what, to my own mind, was before me in going to her was the certainty that she’d put me to my test. She wanted from my own lips⁠—so I saw it⁠—the truth. But I was with her for twenty minutes, and she never asked me for it.”

“She never wanted the truth”⁠—Kate had a high headshake. “She wanted you. She would have taken from you what you could give her and been glad of it, even if she had known it false. You might have lied to her from pity, and she have seen you and felt you lie, and yet⁠—since it was all for tenderness⁠—she would have thanked you and blessed you and clung to you but the more. For that was your strength, my dear man⁠—that she loves you with passion.”

“Oh my ‘strength’!” Densher coldly murmured.

“Otherwise, since she had sent for you, what was it to ask of you?” And then⁠—quite without irony⁠—as he waited a moment to say: “Was it just once more to look at you?”

“She had nothing to ask of me⁠—nothing, that is, but not to stay any longer. She did to that extent want to see me. She had supposed at first⁠—after he had been with her⁠—that I had seen the propriety of taking myself off. Then since I hadn’t⁠—seeing my propriety as I did in another way⁠—she found, days later, that I was still there. This,” said Densher, “affected her.”

“Of course it affected her.”

Again she struck him, for all her dignity, as glib. “If it was somehow for her I was still staying, she wished that to end, she wished me to know how little there was need of it. And as a manner of farewell she wished herself to tell me so.”

“And she did tell you so?”

“Face-to-face, yes. Personally, as she desired.”

“And as you of course did.”

“No, Kate,” he returned with all their mutual consideration; “not as I did. I hadn’t desired it in the least.”

“You only went to oblige her?”

“To oblige her. And of course also to oblige you.”

“Oh for myself certainly I’m glad.”

“ ‘Glad’?”⁠—he echoed vaguely the way it rang out.

“I mean you did quite the right thing. You did it especially in having stayed. But that was all?” Kate went on. “That you mustn’t wait?”

“That was really all⁠—and in perfect kindness.”

“Ah kindness naturally: from the moment she asked of you such a⁠—well, such an effort. That you mustn’t wait⁠—that was the point,” Kate added⁠—“to see her die.”

“That was the point, my dear,” Densher said.

“And it took twenty minutes to make it?”

He thought a little. “I didn’t time it to a second. I paid her the visit⁠—just like another.”

“Like another person?”

“Like another visit.”

“Oh!” said Kate. Which had apparently the effect of slightly arresting his speech⁠—an arrest she took advantage of to continue; making with it indeed her nearest approach to an enquiry of the kind against which he had braced himself. “Did she receive you⁠—in her condition⁠—in her room?”

“Not she,” said Merton Densher. “She received me just as usual: in that glorious great salone, in the dress she always wears, from her inveterate corner of her sofa.” And his face for the moment conveyed the scene, just as hers equally embraced it. “Do you remember what you originally said to me of her?”

“Ah I’ve said so many things.”

“That she wouldn’t smell of drugs, that she wouldn’t taste of medicine. Well, she didn’t.”

“So that it was really almost happy?”

It took him a long time to answer, occupied as he partly was in feeling how nobody but Kate could have invested such a question with the tone that was perfectly right. She meanwhile, however, patiently waited. “I don’t think I can attempt to say now what it was. Some day⁠—perhaps. For it would be worth it for us.”

“Some day⁠—certainly.” She seemed to record the promise. Yet she spoke again abruptly. “She’ll recover.”

“Well,” said Densher, “you’ll see.”

She had the air an instant of trying to. “Did she show anything of her feeling? I mean,” Kate explained, “of her feeling of having been misled.”

She didn’t press hard, surely; but he had just mentioned that he would have rather to glide. “She showed nothing but her beauty and her strength.”

“Then,” his companion asked, “what’s the use of her strength?”

He seemed to look about for a use he could name; but he had soon given it up. “She must die, my dear, in her own extraordinary way.”

“Naturally. But I don’t see then what proof you have that she was ever alienated.”

“I have the proof that she refused for days and days to see me.”

“But she was ill.”

“That hadn’t prevented her⁠—as you yourself a moment ago said⁠—during the previous time. If it had been only illness it would have made no difference with her.”

“She would still have received you?”

“She would still have received me.”

“Oh well,” said Kate, “if you know⁠—!”

“Of course I know. I know moreover as well from Mrs. Stringham.”

“And what does Mrs. Stringham know?”

“Everything.”

She looked at him longer. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Because you’ve told her?”

“Because she has seen for herself. I’ve told her nothing. She’s a person who does see.”

Kate thought. “That’s by her liking you too. She as well is prodigious. You see what interest in a man does. It does it all round. So you needn’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Densher.

Kate moved from her place then, looking at the clock, which marked five. She gave her attention to the tea-table, where Aunt Maud’s huge silver kettle, which had been exposed to its lamp and which she had not soon enough noticed, was hissing too hard. “Well, it’s all most wonderful!” she exclaimed as she rather too profusely⁠—a sign her friend noticed⁠—ladled tea into the pot. He watched her a moment at this occupation, coming nearer the table while she put in the steaming water. “You’ll