Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [27]
She had to consider her own line. “I don’t think I care, papa, what you believe. I never, for that matter, think of you as believing anything; hardly more,” she permitted herself to add, “than I ever think of you as yourself believed. I don’t know you, father, you see.”
“And it’s your idea that you may make that up?”
“Oh dear, no; not at all. That’s no part of the question. If I haven’t understood you by this time I never shall, and it doesn’t matter. It has seemed to me you may be lived with, but not that you may be understood. Of course I’ve not the least idea how you get on.”
“I don’t get on,” Mr. Croy almost gaily replied.
His daughter took the place in again, and it might well have seemed odd that with so little to meet the eye there should be so much to show. What showed was the ugliness—so positive and palpable that it was somehow sustaining. It was a medium, a setting, and to that extent, after all, a dreadful sign of life; so that it fairly gave point to her answer. “Oh I beg your pardon. You flourish.”
“Do you throw it up at me again,” he pleasantly put to her, “that I’ve not made away with myself?”
She treated the question as needing no reply; she sat there for real things. “You know how all our anxieties, under mamma’s will, have Come out. She had still less to leave than she feared. We don’t know how we lived. It all makes up about two hundred a year for Marian, and two for me, but I give up a hundred to Marian.”
“Oh you weak thing!” her father sighed as from depths of enlightened experience.
“For you and me together,” she went on, “the other hundred would do something.”
“And what would do the rest?”
“Can you yourself do nothing?”
He gave her a look; then, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning away, stood for a little at the window she had left open. She said nothing more—she had placed him there with that question, and the silence lasted a minute, broken by the call of an appealing costermonger, which came in with the mild March air, with the shabby sunshine, fearfully unbecoming to the room, and with the small homely hum of Chirk Street. Presently he moved nearer, but as if her question had quite dropped. “I don’t see what has so suddenly wound you up.”
“I should have thought you might perhaps guess. Let me at any rate tell you. Aunt Maud has made me a proposal. But she has also made me a condition. She wants to keep me.”
“And what in the world else could she possibly want?”
“Oh I don’t know—many things. I’m not so precious a capture,” the girl a little dryly explained. “No one has ever wanted to keep me before.”
Looking always what was proper, her father looked now still more surprised than interested. “You’ve not had proposals?” He spoke as if that were incredible of Lionel Croy’s daughter; as if indeed such an admission scarce consorted, even in filial intimacy, with her high spirit and general form.
“Not from rich relations. She’s extremely kind to me, but it’s time, she says, that we should understand each other.”
Mr. Croy fully assented. “Of course it is—high time; and I can quite imagine what she means by it.”
“Are you very sure?”
“Oh perfectly. She means that she’ll ‘do’ for you handsomely if you’ll break off all relations with me. You speak of her condition. Her condition’s of course that.”