The Wings of the Dove Henry James (android based ebook reader TXT) đ
- Author: Henry James
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âCertainly you may ask,â he after a moment said. âWhat has come to me is what, as I say, I came expressly to tell you. I donât mind letting you know,â he went on, âthat my decision to do this took for me last night and this morning a great deal of thinking of. But here I am.â And he indulged in a smile that couldnât, he was well aware, but strike her as mechanical.
She went straighter with him, she seemed to show, than he really went with her. âYou didnât want to come?â
âIt would have been simple, my dearââ âand he continued to smileâ ââif it had been, one way or the other, only a question of âwanting.â 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 reallyâ âwell, not at all for my happiness.â
This word apparently puzzled herâ âshe studied him in the light of it. âYou look upsetâ âyouâve certainly been tormented. Youâre not well.â
âOhâ âwell enough!â
But she continued without heeding. âYou hate what youâre doing.â
âMy dear girl, you simplifyââ âand he was now serious enough. âIt isnât so simple even as that.â
She had the air of thinking what it then might be. âI of course canât, with no clue, know what it is.â She remained none the less patient and still. âIf at such a moment she could write you oneâs inevitably quite at sea. One doesnât, with the best will in the world, understand.â And then as Densher had a pause which might have stood for all the involved explanation that, to his discouragement, loomed before him: âYou havenât decided what to do.â
She had said it very gently, almost sweetly, and he didnât instantly say otherwise. But he said so after a look at her. âOh yesâ âI have. Only with this sight of you here and what I seem to see in it for youâ â!â And his eyes, as at suggestions that pressed, turned from one part of the room to another.
âHorrible place, isnât it?â said Kate.
It brought him straight back to his enquiry. âIs it for anything awful youâve had to come?â
âOh that will take as long to tell you as anything you may have. Donât mind,â she continued, âthe âsight of me here,â nor whateverâ âwhich is more than I yet know myselfâ âmay be âin itâ for me. And kindly consider too that, after all, if youâre in trouble I can a little wish to help you. Perhaps I can absolutely even do it.â
âMy dear child, itâs just because of the sense of your wishâ â! I suppose Iâm in troubleâ âI suppose thatâs it.â He said this with so odd a suddenness of simplicity that she could only stare for itâ âwhich he as promptly saw. So he turned off as he could his vagueness. âAnd yet I oughtnât to be.â Which sounded indeed vaguer still.
She waited a moment. âIs it, as you say for my own business, anything very awful?â
âWell,â he slowly replied, âyouâll tell me if you find it so. I mean if you find my ideaâ ââ
He was so slow that she took him up. âAwful?â A sound of impatienceâ âthe form of a laughâ âat last escaped her. âI canât find it anything at all till I know what youâre talking about.â
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 timeâ âthe 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 mightnât. 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. âThe communication I speak of canât possibly belongâ âso far as its date is concernedâ âto these last days. The postmark, which is legible, does; but it isnât thinkable, for anything else, that she wroteâ â!â He dropped, looking at her as if sheâd understand.
It was easy to understand. âOn her deathbed?â But Kate took an instantâs thought. âArenât we agreed that there was never anyone in the world like her?â
âYes.â And looking over her head he spoke clearly enough. âThere was never anyone in the world like her.â
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. âAnd wonât it further depend a little on what the communication is?â
âA little perhapsâ âbut not much. Itâs a communication,â said Densher.
âDo you mean a letter?â
âYes, a letter. Addressed to me in her handâ âin hers unmistakeably.â
Kate thought. âDo you know her hand very well?â
âOh perfectly.â
It was as if his tone for this promptedâ âwith a slight strangenessâ âher next demand. âHave you had many letters from her?â
âNo. Only three notes.â He spoke looking straight at her. âAnd very, very short ones.â
âAh,â said Kate, âthe number doesnât matter. Three lines would be enough if youâre sure you remember.â
âIâm sure I remember. Besides,â Densher continued, âIâve 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.â
âOh,â said Kate almost with a smile, âI donât ask you for the detail of your reasons. One good oneâs enough.â To which however she added as if precisely not to speak with impatience or with anything like irony: âAnd the writing has its usual look?â
Densher answered as if even to better that description of it. âItâs beautiful.â
âYesâ âit was beautiful. Well,â Kate, to defer to him still, further remarked, âitâs not news to us now that she was stupendous. Anythingâs possible.â
âYes, anythingâs possibleââ âhe appeared oddly to catch
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