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

Densher broke in; but now with a look, he feared, that did a little warn her off.

“You were certainly,” she went on with more reserve, “entitled to direct news. Ours came late last night: I’m not sure otherwise I shouldn’t have gone to you. But you’re coming,” she asked, “to me?”

He had had a minute by this time to think further, and the window of the brougham was still within range. Her rich “me,” reaching him moreover through the mild damp, had the effect of a thump on his chest. “Squared,” Aunt Maud? She was indeed squared, and the extent of it just now perversely enough took away his breath. His look from where they stood embraced the aperture at which the person sitting in the carriage might have shown, and he saw his interlocutress, on her side, understand the question in it, which he moreover then uttered. “Shall you be alone?” It was, as an immediate instinctive parley with the image of his condition that now flourished in her, almost hypocritical. It sounded as if he wished to come and overflow to her, yet this was exactly what he didn’t. The need to overflow had suddenly⁠—since the night before⁠—dried up in him, and he had never been aware of a deeper reserve.

But she had meanwhile largely responded. “Completely alone. I should otherwise never have dreamed; feeling, dear friend, but too much!” Failing on her lips what she felt came out for him in the offered hand with which she had the next moment condolingly pressed his own. “Dear friend, dear friend!”⁠—she was deeply “with” him, and she wished to be still more so: which was what made her immediately continue. “Or wouldn’t you this evening, for the sad Christmas it makes us, dine with me tête-à-tête?”

It put the thing off, the question of a talk with her⁠—making the difference, to his relief, of several hours; but it also rather mystified him. This however didn’t diminish his need of caution. “Shall you mind if I don’t tell you at once?”

“Not in the least⁠—leave it open: it shall be as you may feel, and you needn’t even send me word. I only will mention that today, of all days, I shall otherwise sit there alone.”

Now at least he could ask. “Without Miss Croy?”

“Without Miss Croy. Miss Croy,” said Mrs. Lowder, “is spending her Christmas in the bosom of her more immediate family.”

He was afraid, even while he spoke, of what his face might show. “You mean she has left you?”

Aunt Maud’s own face for that matter met the enquiry with a consciousness in which he saw a reflection of events. He was made sure by it, even at the moment and as he had never been before, that since he had known these two women no confessed nor commented tension, no crisis of the cruder sort would really have taken form between them: which was precisely a high proof of how Kate had steered her boat. The situation exposed in Mrs. Lowder’s present expression lighted up by contrast that superficial smoothness; which afterwards, with his time to think of it, was to put before him again the art, the particular gift, in the girl, now so placed and classed, so intimately familiar for him, as her talent for life. The peace, within a day or two⁠—since his seeing her last⁠—had clearly been broken; differences, deep down, kept there by a diplomacy on Kate’s part as deep, had been shaken to the surface by some exceptional jar; with which, in addition, he felt Lord Mark’s odd attendance at such an hour and season vaguely associated. The talent for life indeed, it at the same time struck him, would probably have shown equally in the breach, or whatever had occurred; Aunt Maud having suffered, he judged, a strain rather than a stroke. Of these quick thoughts, at all events, that lady was already abreast. “She went yesterday morning⁠—and not with my approval, I don’t mind telling you⁠—to her sister: Mrs. Condrip, if you know who I mean, who lives somewhere in Chelsea. My other niece and her affairs⁠—that I should have to say such things today!⁠—are a constant worry; so that Kate, in consequence⁠—well, of events!⁠—has simply been called in. My own idea, I’m bound to say, was that with such events she need have, in her situation, next to nothing to do.”

“But she differed with you?”

“She differed with me. And when Kate differs with you⁠—!”

“Oh I can imagine.” He had reached the point in the scale of hypocrisy at which he could ask himself why a little more or less should signify. Besides, with the intention he had had he must know. Kate’s move, if he didn’t know, might simply disconcert him; and of being disconcerted his horror was by this time fairly superstitious. “I hope you don’t allude to events at all calamitous.”

“No⁠—only horrid and vulgar.”

“Oh!” said Merton Densher.

Mrs. Lowder’s soreness, it was still not obscure, had discovered in free speech to him a momentary balm. “They’ve the misfortune to have, I suppose you know, a dreadful horrible father.”

“Oh!” said Densher again.

“He’s too bad almost to name, but he has come upon Marian, and Marian has shrieked for help.”

Densher wondered at this with intensity; and his curiosity compromised for an instant with his discretion. “Come upon her⁠—for money?”

“Oh for that of course always. But, at this blessed season, for refuge, for safety: for God knows what. He’s there, the brute. And Kate’s with them. And that,” Mrs. Lowder wound up, going down the steps, “is her Christmas.”

She had stopped again at the bottom while he thought of an answer. “Yours then is after all rather better.”

“It’s at least more decent.” And her hand once more came out. “But why do I talk of our troubles? Come if you can.”

He showed a faint smile. “Thanks. If I can.”

“And now⁠—I dare say⁠—you’ll go to church?”

She had asked it, with her good intention, rather in the air and by way of sketching for him, in the line of support,