Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [225]
He gave a jerk round; it was almost—to hear it—the touch of a lash; and he said—idiotically, as he afterwards knew—the first thing that came into his head. “All what while?”
“Oh it’s not I who say it.” She spoke in gentleness. “I only repeat to you what he told her.”
Densher, from whom an impatience had escaped, had already caught himself up. “Pardon my brutality. Of course I know what you’re talking about. I saw him, toward the evening,” he further explained, “in the Piazza; only just saw him—through the glass at Florian’s—without any words. In fact I scarcely know him—there wouldn’t have been occasion. It was but once, moreover—he must have gone that night. But I knew he wouldn’t have come for nothing, and I turned it over—what he would have come for.”
Oh so had Mrs. Stringham. “He came for exasperation.”
Densher approved. “He came to let her know that he knows better than she for whom it was she had a couple of months before, in her fool’s paradise, refused him.”
“How you do know!”—and Mrs. Stringham almost smiled.
“I know that—but I don’t know the good it does him.”
“The good, he thinks, if he has patience—not too much—may be to come. He doesn’t know what he has done to her. Only we, you see, do that.”
He saw, but he wondered. “She kept from him—what she felt?”
“She was able—I’m sure of it—not to show anything. He dealt her his blow, and she took it without a sign.” Mrs. Stringham, it was plain, spoke by book, and it brought into play again her appreciation of what she related. “She’s magnificent.”
Densher again gravely assented. “Magnificent!”
“And he,” she went on, “is an idiot of idiots.”
“An idiot of idiots.” For a moment, on it all, on the stupid doom in it, they looked at each other. “Yet he’s thought so awfully clever.”
“So awfully—it’s Maud Lowder’s own view. And he was nice, in London,” said Mrs. Stringham, “to me. One could almost pity him—he has had such a good conscience.”
“That’s exactly the inevitable ass.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t—I could see from the only few things she first told me—that he meant her the least harm. He intended none whatever.”
“That’s always the ass at his worst,” Densher returned. “He only of course meant harm to me.”
“And good to himself—he thought that would come. He had been unable to swallow,” Mrs. Stringham pursued, “what had happened on his other visit. He had been then too sharply humiliated.”
“Oh I saw that.”
“Yes, and he also saw you. He saw you received, as it were, while he was turned away.”
“Perfectly,” Densher said—“I’ve filled it out. And also that he has known meanwhile for what I was then received. For a stay of all these weeks. He had had it to think of.”
“Precisely—it was more than he could bear. But he has it,” said Mrs. Stringham, “to think of still.”
“Only, after all,” asked Densher, who himself somehow, at this point, was having more to think of even than he had yet had—“only, after all, how has he happened to know? That is, to know enough.”
“What do you call enough?” Mrs. Stringham inquired.
“He can only have acted—it would have been his sole safety—from full knowledge.”
He had gone on without heeding her question; but, face to face as they were, something had none the less passed between them. It was this that, after an instant, made her again interrogative. “What do you mean by full knowledge?”
Densher met it indirectly. “Where has he been since October?”
“I think he has been back to England. He came in fact, I’ve reason to believe, straight from there.”
“Straight to do this job? All the way for his half-hour?”
“Well, to try again—with the help perhaps of a new fact. To make himself possibly right with her—a different attempt from the other. He had at any rate something to tell her, and he didn’t know his opportunity would reduce itself to half an hour. Or perhaps indeed half an hour would be just what was most effective. It has been!” said Susan Shepherd.
Her companion took it in, understanding but too well; yet as she lighted the matter for him more, really, than his own courage had quite dared