Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [243]
“Yes, we’ve known it.”
“And you continue to hear?”
“From Mrs. Stringham? Certainly. By which I mean Aunt Maud does.”
“Then you’ve recent news?”
Her face showed a wonder. “Up to within a day or two I believe. But haven’t you?”
“No—I’ve heard nothing.” And it was now that he felt how much he had to tell her. “I don’t get letters. But I’ve been sure Mrs. Lowder does.” With which he added: “Then of course you know.” He waited as if she would show what she knew; but she only showed in silence the dawn of a surprise that she couldn’t control. There was nothing but for him to ask what he wanted. “Is Miss Theale alive?”
Kate’s look at this was large. “Don’t you know?”
“How should I, my dear—in the absence of everything?” And he himself stared as for light. “She’s dead?” Then as with her eyes on him she slowly shook her head he uttered a strange “Not yet?”
It came out in Kate’s face that there were several questions on her lips, but the one she presently put was: “Is it very terrible?”
“The manner of her so consciously and helplessly dying?” He had to think a moment. “Well, yes—since you ask me: very terrible to me—so far as, before I came away, I had any sight of it. But I don’t think,” he went on, “that—though I’ll try—I can quite tell you what it was, what it is, for me. That’s why I probably just sounded to you,” he explained, “as if I hoped it might be over.”
She gave him her quietest attention, but he by this time saw that, so far as telling her all was concerned, she would be divided between the wish and the reluctance to hear it; between the curiosity that, not unnaturally, would consume her and the opposing scruple of a respect for misfortune. The more she studied him too—and he had never so felt her closely attached to his face—the more the choice of an attitude would become impossible to her. There would simply be a feeling uppermost, and the feeling wouldn’t be eagerness. This perception grew in him fast, and he even, with his imagination, had for a moment the quick forecast of her possibly breaking out at him, should he go too far, with a wonderful : “What horrors are you telling me?” It would have the sound—wouldn’t it be open to him fairly to bring that out himself? —of a repudiation, for pity and almost for shame, of everything that in Venice had passed between them. Not that she would confess to any return upon herself; not that she would let compunction or horror give her away; but it was in the air for him—yes—that she wouldn’t want details, that she positively wouldn’t take them, and that, if he would generously understand it from her, she would prefer to keep him down. Nothing, however, was more definite for him than that at the same time he must remain down but so far as it suited him. Something rose strong within him against his not being free with her. She had been free enough about it all, three months before, with him. That was what she was at present only in the sense of treating him handsomely. “I can believe,” she said with a perfect consideration, “how dreadful for you much of it must have been.”
He didn’t however take this up; there were things about which he wished first to be clear. “There’s no other possibility, by what you now know? I mean for her life.” And he had just to insist—she would say as little as she could. “She is dying?”
“She’s dying.”
It was strange to him, in the matter of Milly, that Lancaster