Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [105]
“Any service, dear child, in the world.”
“But it’s a secret one—nobody must know. I must be wicked and false about it.”
“Then I’m your woman,” Kate smiled, “for that’s the kind of thing I love. Do let us do something bad. You’re impossibly without sin, you know.”
Milly’s eyes, on this, remained a little with their companion’s. “Ah I shan’t perhaps come up to your idea. It’s only to deceive Susan Shepherd.”
“Oh!” said Kate as if this were indeed mild.
“But thoroughly—as thoroughly as I can.”
“And for cheating,” Kate asked, “my powers will contribute?
Well, I’ll do my best for you.” In accordance with which it was presently settled between them that Milly should have the aid and comfort of her presence for a visit to Sir Luke Strett. Kate had needed a minute for enlightenment, and it was quite grand for her comrade that this name should have said nothing to her. To Milly herself it had for some days been secretly saying much. The personage in question was, as she explained, the greatest of medical lights—if she had got hold, as she believed (and she had used to this end the wisdom of the serpent) of the right, the special man. She had written to him three days before, and he had named her an hour, eleven-twenty; only it had come to her on the eve that she couldn’t go alone. Her maid on the other hand wasn’t good enough, and Susie was too good. Kate had listened above all with high indulgence. ”And I’m betwixt and between, happy thought! Too good for what?”
Milly thought. “Why to be worried if it’s nothing. And to be still more worried—I mean before she need be—if it isn’t.”
Kate fixed her with deep eyes. “What in the world is the matter with you?” It had inevitably a sound of impatience, as if it had been a challenge really to produce something; so that Milly felt her for the moment only as a much older person, standing above her a little, doubting the imagined ailments, suspecting the easy complaints, of ignorant youth. It somewhat checked her, further, that the matter with her was what exactly as yet she wanted knowledge about; and she immediately declared, for conciliation, that if she were merely fanciful Kate would see her put to shame. Kate vividly uttered, in return, the hope that, since she could come out and be so charming, could so universally dazzle and interest, she wasn’t all the while in distress or in anxiety—didn’t believe herself to be in any degree seriously menaced. “Well, I want to make out—to make out!” was all that this consistently produced. To which Kate made clear answer: “Ah then let us by all means!”
“I thought,” Milly said, “you’d like to help me. But I must ask you, please, for the promise of absolute silence.”
“And how, if you are ill, can your friends remain in ignorance?”
“Well, if I am it must of course finally come out. But I can go for a long time.” Milly spoke with her, eyes again on her painted sister’s—almost as if under their suggestion. She still sat there before Kate, yet not without a light in her face. “That will be one of my advantages. I think I could die without its being noticed.”
“You’re an extraordinary young woman,” her friend, visibly held by her, declared at last. “What a remarkable time to talk of such things!”
“Well, we won’t talk, precisely”—Milly got herself together again. “I only wanted to make sure of you.”
“Here in the midst of—!” But Kate could only sigh for wonder—almost visibly too for pity.
It made a moment during which her companion waited on her word; partly as if from a yearning, shy but deep, to have her case put to her just as Kate was struck by it; partly as if the hint of pity were already giving a sense to her whimsical “shot,” with