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

almost saw her⁠—and scarcely withheld the observation⁠—as taking it for “a part of the disease.” This accordingly helped Milly to be, as she judged, definite and wise. “He’s at any rate awfully interesting, isn’t he?⁠—which is so much to the good. We haven’t at least⁠—as we might have, with the way we tumbled into it⁠—got hold of one of the dreary.”

“Interesting, dearest?”⁠—Mrs. Stringham felt her feet firmer. “I don’t know if he’s interesting or not; but I do know, my own,” she continued to quaver, “that he’s just as much interested as you could possibly desire.”

“Certainly⁠—that’s it. Like all the world.”

“No, my precious, not like all the world. Very much more deeply and intelligently.”

“Ah there you are!” Milly laughed. “That’s the way, Susie, I want you. So buck up, my dear. We’ll have beautiful times with him. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying, Milly.” And poor Susie’s face registered the sublimity of her lie.

It was at this that, too sharply penetrated, her companion went to her, met by her with an embrace in which things were said that exceeded speech. Each held and clasped the other as if to console her for this unnamed woe, the woe for Mrs. Stringham of learning the torment of helplessness, the woe for Milly of having her, at such a time, to think of. Milly’s assumption was immense, and the difficulty for her friend was that of not being able to gainsay it without bringing it more to the proof than tenderness and vagueness could permit. Nothing in fact came to the proof between them but that they could thus cling together⁠—except indeed that, as we have indicated, the pledge of protection and support was all the younger woman’s own. “I don’t ask you,” she presently said, “what he told you for yourself, nor what he told you to tell me, nor how he took it, really, that I had left him to you, nor what passed between you about me in any way. It wasn’t to get that out of you that I took my means to make sure of your meeting freely⁠—for there are things I don’t want to know. I shall see him again and again and shall know more than enough. All I do want is that you shall see me through on his basis, whatever it is; which it’s enough⁠—for the purpose⁠—that you yourself should know: that is with him to show you how. I’ll make it charming for you⁠—that’s what I mean; I’ll keep you up to it in such a way that half the time you won’t know you’re doing it. And for that you’re to rest upon me. There. It’s understood. We keep each other going, and you may absolutely feel of me that I shan’t break down. So, with the way you haven’t so much as a dig of the elbow to fear, how could you be safer?”

“He told me I can help you⁠—of course he told me that,” Susie, on her side, eagerly contended. “Why shouldn’t he, and for what else have I come out with you? But he told me nothing dreadful⁠—nothing, nothing, nothing,” the poor lady passionately protested. “Only that you must do as you like and as he tells you⁠—which is just simply to do as you like.”

“I must keep in sight of him. I must from time to time go to him. But that’s of course doing as I like. It’s lucky,” Milly smiled, “that I like going to him.”

Mrs. Stringham was here in agreement; she gave a clutch at the account of their situation that most showed it as workable. “That’s what will be charming for me, and what I’m sure he really wants of me⁠—to help you to do as you like.”

“And also a little, won’t it be,” Milly laughed, “to save me from the consequences? Of course,” she added, “there must first be things I like.”

“Oh I think you’ll find some,” Mrs. Stringham more bravely said. “I think there are some⁠—as for instance just this one. I mean,” she explained, “really having us so.”

Milly thought. “Just as if I wanted you comfortable about him, and him the same about you? Yes⁠—I shall get the good of it.”

Susan Shepherd appeared to wander from this into a slight confusion. “Which of them are you talking of?”

Milly wondered an instant⁠—then had a light. “I’m not talking of Mr. Densher.” With which moreover she showed amusement. “Though if you can be comfortable about Mr. Densher too so much the better.”

“Oh you meant Sir Luke Strett? Certainly he’s a fine type. Do you know,” Susie continued, “whom he reminds me of? Of our great man⁠—Dr. Buttrick of Boston.”

Milly recognised Dr. Buttrick of Boston, but she dropped him after a tributary pause. “What do you think, now that you’ve seen him, of Mr. Densher?”

It was not till after consideration, with her eyes fixed on her friend’s, that Susie produced her answer. “I think he’s very handsome.”

Milly remained smiling at her, though putting on a little the manner of a teacher with a pupil. “Well, that will do for the first time. I have done,” she went on, “what I wanted.”

“Then that’s all we want. You see there are plenty of things.”

Milly shook her head for the “plenty.” “The best is not to know⁠—that includes them all. I don’t⁠—I don’t know. Nothing about anything⁠—except that you’re with me. Remember that, please. There won’t be anything that, on my side, for you, I shall forget. So it’s all right.”

The effect of it by this time was fairly, as intended, to sustain Susie, who dropped in spite of herself into the reassuring. “Most certainly it’s all right. I think you ought to understand that he sees no reason⁠—”

“Why I shouldn’t have a grand long life?” Milly had taken it straight up, as to understand it and for a moment consider it. But she disposed of it otherwise. “Oh of course I know that.” She spoke as if her friend’s point were small.

Mrs. Stringham tried to enlarge it. “Well, what I mean is that he didn’t say to me