Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [165]
“I’m sure I hope,” said Mrs. Lowder, “that she won’t have occasion to.”
“She won’t even if she does have occasion. She won’t shed a tear. There’s something that will prevent her.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Lowder.
“Yes, her pride,” Mrs. Stringham explained in spite of her friend’s doubt, and it was with this that her communication took consistent form. It had never been pride, Maud Manningham had hinted, that kept her from crying when other things made for it; it had only been that these same things, at such times, made still more for business, arrangements, correspondence, the ringing of bells, the marshalling of servants, the taking of decisions. “I might be crying now,” she said, “if I weren’t writing letters”—and this quite without harshness for her anxious companion, to whom she allowed just the administrative margin for difference. She had interrupted her no more than she would have interrupted the piano-tuner. It gave poor Susie time; and when Mrs. Lowder, to save appearances and catch the post, had, with her addressed and stamped notes, met at the door of the room the footman summoned by the pressure of a knob, the facts of the case were sufficiently ready for her. It took but two or three, however, given their importance, to lay the ground for the great one—Mrs. Stringham’s interview of the day before with Sir Luke, who had wished to see her about Milly.
“He had wished it himself?”
“I think he was glad of it. Clearly indeed he was. He stayed a quarter of an hour. I could see that for him it was long. He’s interested,” said Mrs. Stringham.
“Do you mean in her case?”
“He says it isn’t a case.”
“What then is it?”
“It isn’t, at least,” Mrs. Stringham explained, “the case she believed it to be—though it at any rate might be—when, without my knowledge, she went to see him. She went because there was something she was afraid of, and he examined her thoroughly—he has made sure. She’s wrong—she hasn’t what she thought.”
“And what did she think?” Mrs. Lowder demanded.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“I asked nothing,” said poor Susie—“I only took what he gave me. He gave me no more than he had to—he was beautiful,” she went on. “He is, thank God, interested.”
“He must have been interested in you, dear,” Maud Manningham observed with kindness.
Her visitor met it with candor. “Yes, love, I think he is. I mean that he sees what he can do with me.”
Mrs. Lowder took it rightly. “For her.”
“For her. Anything in the world he will or he must. He can use me to the last bone, and he likes at least that. He says the great thing for her is to be happy.”
“It’s surely the great thing for every one. Why, therefore,” Mrs. Lowder handsomely asked, “should we cry so hard about it?”
“Only,” poor Susie wailed, “that it’s so strange, so beyond us. I mean if she can’t be.”
“She must be.” Mrs. Lowder knew no impossibles. “She shall be.”
“Well—if you’ll help. He thinks, you know, we can help.”
Mrs. Lowder faced a moment, in her massive way, what Sir Luke Strett thought. She sat back there, her knees apart, not unlike a picturesque ear-ringed matron at a market-stall; while her friend, before her, dropped their items, tossed the separate truths of the matter one by one, into her capacious apron. “But is that all he came to you for