The Wings of the Dove, Henry James [thriller books to read .TXT] 📗

something like a start for intimacy. When things like that could pass people had in truth to be equally conscious of a relation. It soon made one, at all events, when it didn’t find one made. She had let him ask⁠—there had been time for that, his allusion to her friend’s explanatory arrival at Lancaster Gate without her being inevitable; but she had blown away, and quite as much with the look in her eyes as with the smile on her lips, every ground for anxiety and every chance for insistence. How was she?⁠—why she was as he thus saw her and as she had reasons of her own, nobody else’s business, for desiring to appear. Kate’s account of her as too proud for pity, as fiercely shy about so personal a secret, came back to him; so that he rejoiced he could take a hint, especially when he wanted to. The question the girl had quickly disposed of⁠—“Oh it was nothing: I’m all right, thank you!”⁠—was one he was glad enough to be able to banish. It wasn’t at all, in spite of the appeal Kate had made to him on it, his affair; for his interest had been invoked in the name of compassion, and the name of compassion was exactly what he felt himself at the end of two minutes forbidden so much as to whisper. He had been sent to see her in order to be sorry for her, and how sorry he might be, quite privately, he was yet to make out. Didn’t that signify, however, almost not at all?⁠—inasmuch as, whatever his upshot, he was never to give her a glimpse of it. Thus the ground was unexpectedly cleared; though it was not till a slightly longer time had passed that he read clear, at first with amusement and then with a strange shade of respect, what had most operated. Extraordinarily, quite amazingly, he began to see that if his pity hadn’t had to yield to still other things it would have had to yield quite definitely to her own. That was the way the case had turned round: he had made his visit to be sorry for her, but he would repeat it⁠—if he did repeat it⁠—in order that she might be sorry for him. His situation made him, she judged⁠—when once one liked him⁠—a subject for that degree of tenderness: he felt this judgement in her, and felt it as something he should really, in decency, in dignity, in common honesty, have very soon to reckon with.

Odd enough was it certainly that the question originally before him, the question placed there by Kate, should so of a sudden find itself quite dislodged by another. This other, it was easy to see, came straight up with the fact of her beautiful delusion and her wasted charity; the whole thing preparing for him as pretty a case of conscience as he could have desired, and one at the prospect of which he was already wincing. If he was interesting it was because he was unhappy; and if he was unhappy it was because his passion for Kate had spent itself in vain; and if Kate was indifferent, inexorable, it was because she had left Milly in no doubt of it. That above all was what came up for him⁠—how clear an impression of this attitude, how definite an account of his own failure, Kate must have given her friend. His immediate quarter of an hour there with the girl lighted up for him almost luridly such an inference; it was almost as if the other party to their remarkable understanding had been with them as they talked, had been hovering about, had dropped in to look after her work. The value of the work affected him as different from the moment he saw it so expressed in poor Milly. Since it was false that he wasn’t loved, so his right was quite quenched to figure on that ground as important; and if he didn’t look out he should find himself appreciating in a way quite at odds with straightness the good faith of Milly’s benevolence. There was the place for scruples; there the need absolutely to mind what he was about. If it wasn’t proper for him to enjoy consideration on a perfectly false footing, where was the guarantee that, if he kept on, he mightn’t soon himself pretend to the grievance in order not to miss the sweet? Consideration⁠—from a charming girl⁠—was soothing on whatever theory; and it didn’t take him far to remember that he had himself as yet done nothing deceptive. It was Kate’s description of him, his defeated state, it was none of his own; his responsibility would begin, as he might say, only with acting it out. The sharp point was, however, in the difference between acting and not acting: this difference in fact it was that made the case of conscience. He saw it with a certain alarm rise before him that everything was acting that was not speaking the particular word. “If you like me because you think she doesn’t, it isn’t a bit true: she does like me awfully!”⁠—that would have been the particular word; which there were at the same time but too palpably such difficulties about his uttering. Wouldn’t it be virtually as indelicate to challenge her as to leave her deluded?⁠—and this quite apart from the exposure, so to speak, of Kate, as to whom it would constitute a kind of betrayal. Kate’s design was something so extraordinarily special to Kate that he felt himself shrink from the complications involved in judging it. Not to give away the woman one loved, but to back her up in her mistakes⁠—once they had gone a certain length⁠—that was perhaps chief among the inevitabilities of the abjection of love. Loyalty was of course supremely prescribed in presence of any design on her part, however roundabout, to do one nothing but good.

Densher had quite to steady himself