The Golden Bowl Henry James (spicy books to read txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
Book online «The Golden Bowl Henry James (spicy books to read txt) đ». Author Henry James
They stood there together, at all events, when the door had closed behind their friend, with a conscious, strained smile and very much as if each waited for the other to strike the note or give the pitch. The young man held himself, in his silent suspenseâ âonly not more afraid because he felt her own fear. She was afraid of herself, however; whereas, to his gain of lucidity, he was afraid only of her. Would she throw herself into his arms, or would she be otherwise wonderful? She would see what he would doâ âso their queer minute without words told him; and she would act accordingly. But what could he do but just let her see that he would make anything, everything, for her, as honourably easy as possible? Even if she should throw herself into his arms he would make that easyâ âeasy, that is, to overlook, to ignore, not to remember, and not, by the same token, either, to regret. This was not what in fact happened, though it was also not at a single touch, but by the finest gradations, that his tension subsided. âItâs too delightful to be back!â she said at last; and it was all she definitely gave himâ âbeing moreover nothing but what anyone else might have said. Yet with two or three other things that, on his response, followed it, it quite pointed the path, while the tone of it, and her whole attitude, were as far removed as need have been from the truth of her situation. The abjection that was present to him as of the essence quite failed to peep out, and he soon enough saw that if she was arranging she could be trusted to arrange. Goodâ âit was all he asked; and all the more that he could admire and like her for it.
The particular appearance she would, as they said, go in for was that of having no account whatever to give himâ âit would be in fact that of having none to give anybodyâ âof reasons or of motives, of comings or of goings. She was a charming young woman who had met him before, but she was also a charming young woman with a life of her own. She would take it highâ âup, up, up, ever so high. Well then, he would do the same; no height would be too great for them, not even the dizziest conceivable to a young person so subtle. The dizziest seemed indeed attained when, after another moment, she came as near as she was to come to an apology for her abruptness.
âIâve been thinking of Maggie, and at last I yearned for her. I wanted to see her happyâ âand it doesnât strike me I find you too shy to tell me I shall.â
âOf course sheâs happy, thank God! Only itâs almost terrible, you know, the happiness of young, good, generous creatures. It rather frightens one. But the Blessed Virgin and all the Saints,â said the Prince, âhave her in their keeping.â
âCertainly they have. Sheâs the dearest of the dear. But I neednât tell you,â the girl added.
âAh,â he returned with gravity, âI feel that Iâve still much to learn about her.â To which he subjoined âSheâll rejoice awfully in your being with us.â
âOh, you donât need me!â Charlotte smiled. âItâs her hour. Itâs a great hour. One has seen often enough, with girls, what it is. But that,â she said, âis exactly why. Why Iâve wanted, I mean, not to miss it.â
He bent on her a kind, comprehending face. âYou mustnât miss anything.â He had got it, the pitch, and he could keep it now, for all he had needed was to have it given him. The pitch was the happiness of his wife that was to beâ âthe sight of that happiness as a joy for an old friend. It was, yes, magnificent, and not the less so for its coming to him, suddenly, as sincere, as nobly exalted. Something in Charlotteâs eyes seemed to tell him this, seemed to plead with him in advance as to what he was to find in it. He was eagerâ âand he tried to show her that tooâ âto find what she liked; mindful as he easily could be of what the friendship had been for Maggie. It had been armed with the wings of young imagination, young generosity; it had been, he believedâ âalways counting out her intense devotion to her fatherâ âthe liveliest emotion she had known before the dawn of the sentiment inspired by himself. She had not, to his knowledge, invited the
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