Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [238]
“I mean that to convince you I’d have insisted or somehow proved—!”
Kate looked for her moment at a loss. “To convince ‘me’?”
“I wouldn’t have made my denial, in such conditions, only to take it back afterwards.”
With this quickly light came for her, and with it also her colour flamed. “Oh you’d have broken with me to make your denial a truth? You’d have ‘chucked’ me”—she embraced it perfectly—“to save your conscience?”
“I couldn’t have done anything else,” said Merton Densher. “So you see how right I was not to commit myself, and how little I could dream of it. If it ever again appears to you that I might have done so, remember what I say.”
Kate again considered, but not with the effect at once to which he pointed. “You’ve fallen in love with her.”
“Well then say so—with a dying woman. Why need you mind and what does it matter?”
It came from him, the question, straight out of the intensity of relation and the face-to-face necessity into which, from the first, from his entering the room, they had found themselves thrown; but it gave them their most extraordinary moment. “Wait till she is dead! Mrs. Stringham,” Kate added, “is to telegraph.” After which, in a tone still different, “For what then,” she asked, “did Milly send for you?”
“It was what I tried to make out before I went. I must tell you moreover that I had no doubt of its really being to give me, as you say, a chance. She believed, I suppose, that I might deny; and what, to my own mind, was before me in going to her was the certainty that she’d put me to my test. She wanted from my own lips—so I saw it—the truth. But I was with her for twenty minutes, and she never asked me for it.”
“She never wanted the truth”—Kate had a high headshake. “She wanted you. She would have taken from you what you could give her and been glad of it, even if she had known it false. You might have lied to her from pity, and she have seen you and felt you lie, and yet—since it was all for tenderness—she would have thanked you and blessed you and clung to you but the more. For that was your strength, my dear man—that she loves you with passion.” 26
“Oh my ‘strength’!” Densher coldly murmured.
“Otherwise, since she had sent for you, what was it to ask of you?” And then—quite without irony—as he waited a moment to say: “Was it just once more to look at you?”
“She had nothing to ask of me—nothing, that is, but not to stay any longer. She did to that extent want to see me. She had supposed at first—after he had been with her—that I had seen the propriety of taking myself off. Then since I hadn’t—seeing my propriety as I did in another way—she found, days later, that I was still there. This,” said Densher, “affected her.”
“Of course it affected her.”
Again she struck him, for all her dignity, as glib. “If it was somehow for her I was still staying, she wished that to end, she wished me to know how little there was need of it. And as a manner of farewell she wished herself to tell me so.”
“And she did tell you so?”
“Face-to-face, yes. Personally, as she desired.”
“And as you of course did.”
“No, Kate,” he returned with all their mutual consideration; “not as I did. I hadn’t desired it in the least.”
“You only went to oblige her?”
“To oblige her. And of course also to oblige you.”
“Oh for myself certainly I’m glad.”
“‘Glad’?”—he echoed vaguely the way it rang out.
“I mean you did quite the right thing. You did it especially in having stayed. But that was all?” Kate went on. “That you mustn’t wait?”
“That was really all—and in perfect kindness.”
“Ah kindness naturally: from the moment she asked of you such a—well, such an effort. That you mustn’t wait—that was the point,” Kate added—“to see her die.”
“That was the point, my dear,” Densher said.
“And it took twenty minutes to make it?”
He thought a little. “I didn’t time it to a second. I paid her the visit—just like another.”
“Like another person?”
“Like another visit.”
“Oh!” said Kate. Which had apparently the effect of slightly arresting his speech