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

my way⁠—so don’t spoil it: wait for me and give me time. Dear man,” Kate said, “only believe in me, and it will be beautiful.”

He hadn’t come back to hear her talk of his believing in her as if he didn’t; but he had come back⁠—and it all was upon him now⁠—to seize her with a sudden intensity that her manner of pleading with him had made, as happily appeared, irresistible. He laid strong hands upon her to say, almost in anger, “Do you love me, love me, love me?” and she closed her eyes as with the sense that he might strike her but that she could gratefully take it. Her surrender was her response, her response her surrender; and, though scarce hearing what she said, he so profited by these things that it could for the time be ever so intimately appreciable to him that he was keeping her. The long embrace in which they held each other was the rout of evasion, and he took from it the certitude that what she had from him was real to her. It was stronger than an uttered vow, and the name he was to give it in afterthought was that she had been sublimely sincere. That was all he asked⁠—sincerity making a basis that would bear almost anything. This settled so much, and settled it so thoroughly, that there was nothing left to ask her to swear to. Oaths and vows apart, now they could talk. It seemed in fact only now that their questions were put on the table. He had taken up more expressly at the end of five minutes her plea for her own plan, and it was marked that the difference made by the passage just enacted was a difference in favour of her choice of means. Means had somehow suddenly become a detail⁠—her province and her care; it had grown more consistently vivid that her intelligence was one with her passion. “I certainly don’t want,” he said⁠—and he could say it with a smile of indulgence⁠—“to be all the while bringing it up that I don’t trust you.”

“I should hope not! What do you think I want to do?”

He had really at this to make out a little what he thought, and the first thing that put itself in evidence was of course the oddity, after all, of their game, to which he could but frankly allude. “We’re doing, at the best, in trying to temporise in so special a way, a thing most people would call us fools for.” But his visit passed, all the same, without his again attempting to make “just as he was” serve. He had no more money just as he was than he had had just as he had been, or than he should have, probably, when it came to that, just as he always would be; whereas she, on her side, in comparison with her state of some months before, had measureably more to relinquish. He easily saw how their meeting at Lancaster Gate gave more of an accent to that quantity than their meeting at stations or in parks; and yet on the other hand he couldn’t urge this against it. If Mrs. Lowder was indifferent her indifference added in a manner to what Kate’s taking him as he was would call on her to sacrifice. Such in fine was her art with him that she seemed to put the question of their still waiting into quite other terms than the terms of ugly blue, of florid Sèvres, of complicated brass, in which their boudoir expressed it. She said almost all in fact by saying, on this article of Aunt Maud, after he had once more pressed her, that when he should see her, as must inevitably soon happen, he would understand. “Do you mean,” he asked at this, “that there’s any definite sign of her coming round? I’m not talking,” he explained, “of mere hypocrisies in her, or mere brave duplicities. Remember, after all, that supremely clever as we are, and as strong a team, I admit, as there is going⁠—remember that she can play with us quite as much as we play with her.”

“She doesn’t want to play with me, my dear,” Kate lucidly replied; “she doesn’t want to make me suffer a bit more than she need. She cares for me too much, and everything she does or doesn’t do has a value. This has a value⁠—her being as she has been about us today. I believe she’s in her room, where she’s keeping strictly to herself while you’re here with me. But that isn’t ‘playing’⁠—not a bit.”

“What is it then,” the young man returned⁠—“from the moment it isn’t her blessing and a cheque?”

Kate was complete. “It’s simply her absence of smallness. There is something in her above trifles. She generally trusts us; she doesn’t propose to hunt us into corners; and if we frankly ask for a thing⁠—why,” said Kate, “she shrugs, but she lets it go. She has really but one fault⁠—she’s indifferent, on such ground as she has taken about us, to details. However,” the girl cheerfully went on, “it isn’t in detail we fight her.”

“It seems to me,” Densher brought out after a moment’s thought of this, “that it’s in detail we deceive her”⁠—a speech that, as soon as he had uttered it, applied itself for him, as also visibly for his companion, to the afterglow of their recent embrace.

Any confusion attaching to this adventure, however, dropped from Kate, whom, as he could see with sacred joy, it must take more than that to make compunctious. “I don’t say we can do it again. I mean,” she explained, “meet here.”

Densher indeed had been wondering where they could do it again. If Lancaster Gate was so limited that issue reappeared. “I mayn’t come back at all?”

“Certainly⁠—to see her. It’s she, really,” his companion smiled, “who’s in love with you.”

But it made him⁠—a trifle more grave⁠—look at her a moment. “Don’t make