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

picture. But she had plainly an idea that after an instant resisted it. “That was his professional propriety.”

“Precisely. But it was also my sense of that virtue in him, and it was something more besides.” And he spoke with sudden intensity. “I couldn’t talk to him about her!”

“Oh!” said Susan Shepherd.

“I can’t talk to anyone about her.”

“Except to me,” his friend continued.

“Except to you.” The ghost of her smile, a gleam of significance, had waited on her words, and it kept him, for honesty, looking at her. For honesty too⁠—that is for his own words⁠—he had quickly coloured: he was sinking so, at a stroke, the burden of his discourse with Kate. His visitor, for the minute, while their eyes met, might have been watching him hold it down. And he had to hold it down⁠—the effort of which, precisely, made him red. He couldn’t let it come up; at least not yet. She might make what she would of it. He attempted to repeat his statement, but he really modified it. “Sir Luke, at all events, had nothing to tell me, and I had nothing to tell him. Make-believe talk was impossible for us, and⁠—”

“And real”⁠—she had taken him right up with a huge emphasis⁠—“was more impossible still.” No doubt⁠—he didn’t deny it; and she had straightway drawn her conclusion. “Then that proves what I say⁠—that there were immensities between you. Otherwise you’d have chattered.”

“I dare say,” Densher granted, “we were both thinking of her.”

“You were neither of you thinking of anyone else. That’s why you kept together.”

Well, that too, if she desired, he took from her; but he came straight back to what he had originally said. “I haven’t a notion, all the same, of what he thinks.” She faced him, visibly, with the question into which he had already observed that her special shade of earnestness was perpetually flowering, right and left⁠—“Are you very sure?”⁠—and he could only note her apparent difference from himself. “You, I judge, believe that he thinks she’s gone.”

She took it, but she bore up. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“Well, we shall see”⁠—and he felt almost basely superficial. More and more, for the last five minutes, had he known she had brought something with her, and never in respect to anything had he had such a wish to postpone. He would have liked to put everything off till Thursday; he was sorry it was now Tuesday; he wondered if he were afraid. Yet it wasn’t of Sir Luke, who was coming; nor of Milly, who was dying; nor of Mrs. Stringham, who was sitting there. It wasn’t, strange to say, of Kate either, for Kate’s presence affected him suddenly as having swooned or trembled away. Susan Shepherd’s, thus prolonged, had cast on it some influence under which it had ceased to act. She was as absent to his sensibility as she had constantly been, since her departure, absent, as an echo or a reference, from the palace; and it was the first time, among the objects now surrounding him, that his sensibility so noted her. He knew soon enough that it was of himself he was afraid, and that even, if he didn’t take care, he should infallibly be more so. “Meanwhile,” he added for his companion, “it has been everything for me to see you.” She slowly rose at the words, which might almost have conveyed to her the hint of his taking care. She stood there as if she had in fact seen him abruptly moved to dismiss her. But the abruptness would have been in this case so marked as fairly to offer ground for insistence to her imagination of his state. It would take her moreover, she clearly showed him she was thinking, but a minute or two to insist. Besides, she had already said it. “Will you do it if he asks you? I mean if Sir Luke himself puts it to you. And will you give him”⁠—oh she was earnest now!⁠—“the opportunity to put it to you?”

“The opportunity to put what?”

“That if you deny it to her, that may still do something.”

Densher felt himself⁠—as had already once befallen him in the quarter of an hour⁠—turn red to the top of his forehead. Turning red had, however, for him, as a sign of shame, been, so to speak, discounted: his consciousness of it at the present moment was rather as a sign of his fear. It showed him sharply enough of what he was afraid. “If I deny what to her?”

Hesitation, on the demand, revived in her, for hadn’t he all along been letting her see that he knew? “Why, what Lord Mark told her.”

“And what did Lord Mark tell her?”

Mrs. Stringham had a look of bewilderment⁠—of seeing him as suddenly perverse. “I’ve been judging that you yourself know.” And it was she who now blushed deep.

It quickened his pity for her, but he was beset too by other things. “Then you know⁠—”

“Of his dreadful visit?” She stared. “Why it’s what has done it.”

“Yes⁠—I understand that. But you also know⁠—”

He had faltered again, but all she knew she now wanted to say. “I’m speaking,” she said soothingly, “of what he told her. It’s that that I’ve taken you as knowing.”

“Oh!” he sounded in spite of himself.

It appeared to have for her, he saw the next moment, the quality of relief, as if he had supposed her thinking of something else. Thereupon, straightway, that lightened it. “Oh you thought I’ve known it for true!”

Her light had heightened her flush, and he saw that he had betrayed himself. Not, however, that it mattered, as he immediately saw still better. There it was now, all of it at last, and this at least there was no postponing. They were left with her idea⁠—the one she was wishing to make him recognise. He had expressed ten minutes before his need to understand, and she was acting after all but on that. Only what he was to understand was no small matter; it might