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

“Certainly you may ask,” he after a moment said. “What has come to me is what, as I say, I came expressly to tell you. I don’t mind letting you know,” he went on, “that my decision to do this took for me last night and this morning a great deal of thinking of. But here I am.” And he indulged in a smile that couldn’t, he was well aware, but strike her as mechanical.

She went straighter with him, she seemed to show, than he really went with her. “You didn’t want to come?”

“It would have been simple, my dear”⁠—and he continued to smile⁠—“if it had been, one way or the other, only a question of ‘wanting.’ It took, I admit it, the idea of what I had best do, all sorts of difficult and portentous forms. It came up for me really⁠—well, not at all for my happiness.”

This word apparently puzzled her⁠—she studied him in the light of it. “You look upset⁠—you’ve certainly been tormented. You’re not well.”

“Oh⁠—well enough!”

But she continued without heeding. “You hate what you’re doing.”

“My dear girl, you simplify”⁠—and he was now serious enough. “It isn’t so simple even as that.”

She had the air of thinking what it then might be. “I of course can’t, with no clue, know what it is.” She remained none the less patient and still. “If at such a moment she could write you one’s inevitably quite at sea. One doesn’t, with the best will in the world, understand.” And then as Densher had a pause which might have stood for all the involved explanation that, to his discouragement, loomed before him: “You haven’t decided what to do.”

She had said it very gently, almost sweetly, and he didn’t instantly say otherwise. But he said so after a look at her. “Oh yes⁠—I have. Only with this sight of you here and what I seem to see in it for you⁠—!” And his eyes, as at suggestions that pressed, turned from one part of the room to another.

“Horrible place, isn’t it?” said Kate.

It brought him straight back to his enquiry. “Is it for anything awful you’ve had to come?”

“Oh that will take as long to tell you as anything you may have. Don’t mind,” she continued, “the ‘sight of me here,’ nor whatever⁠—which is more than I yet know myself⁠—may be ‘in it’ for me. And kindly consider too that, after all, if you’re in trouble I can a little wish to help you. Perhaps I can absolutely even do it.”

“My dear child, it’s just because of the sense of your wish⁠—! I suppose I’m in trouble⁠—I suppose that’s it.” He said this with so odd a suddenness of simplicity that she could only stare for it⁠—which he as promptly saw. So he turned off as he could his vagueness. “And yet I oughtn’t to be.” Which sounded indeed vaguer still.

She waited a moment. “Is it, as you say for my own business, anything very awful?”

“Well,” he slowly replied, “you’ll tell me if you find it so. I mean if you find my idea⁠—”

He was so slow that she took him up. “Awful?” A sound of impatience⁠—the form of a laugh⁠—at last escaped her. “I can’t find it anything at all till I know what you’re talking about.”

It brought him then more to the point, though it did so at first but by making him, on the hearthrug before her, with his hands in his pockets, turn awhile to and fro. There rose in him even with this movement a recall of another time⁠—the hour in Venice, the hour of gloom and storm, when Susan Shepherd had sat in his quarters there very much as Kate was sitting now, and he had wondered, in pain even as now, what he might say and mightn’t. Yet the present occasion after all was somehow the easier. He tried at any rate to attach that feeling to it while he stopped before his companion. “The communication I speak of can’t possibly belong⁠—so far as its date is concerned⁠—to these last days. The postmark, which is legible, does; but it isn’t thinkable, for anything else, that she wrote⁠—!” He dropped, looking at her as if she’d understand.

It was easy to understand. “On her deathbed?” But Kate took an instant’s thought. “Aren’t we agreed that there was never anyone in the world like her?”

“Yes.” And looking over her head he spoke clearly enough. “There was never anyone in the world like her.”

Kate, from her chair, always without a movement, raised her eyes to the unconscious reach of his own. Then when the latter again dropped to her she added a question. “And won’t it further depend a little on what the communication is?”

“A little perhaps⁠—but not much. It’s a communication,” said Densher.

“Do you mean a letter?”

“Yes, a letter. Addressed to me in her hand⁠—in hers unmistakeably.”

Kate thought. “Do you know her hand very well?”

“Oh perfectly.”

It was as if his tone for this prompted⁠—with a slight strangeness⁠—her next demand. “Have you had many letters from her?”

“No. Only three notes.” He spoke looking straight at her. “And very, very short ones.”

“Ah,” said Kate, “the number doesn’t matter. Three lines would be enough if you’re sure you remember.”

“I’m sure I remember. Besides,” Densher continued, “I’ve seen her hand in other ways. I seem to recall how you once, before she went to Venice, showed me one of her notes precisely for that. And then she once copied me something.”

“Oh,” said Kate almost with a smile, “I don’t ask you for the detail of your reasons. One good one’s enough.” To which however she added as if precisely not to speak with impatience or with anything like irony: “And the writing has its usual look?”

Densher answered as if even to better that description of it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes⁠—it was beautiful. Well,” Kate, to defer to him still, further remarked, “it’s not news to us now that she was stupendous. Anything’s possible.”

“Yes, anything’s possible”⁠—he appeared oddly to catch