Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [36]
“I can’t imagine,” Marian on this occasion said to her, “how you can think of anything else in the world but the horrid way we’re situated.”
“And, pray, how do you know,” Kate enquired in reply, “anything about my thoughts? It seems to me I give you sufficient proof of how much I think of you. I don’t really, my dear, know what else you’ve to do with!”
Marian’s retort on this was a stroke as to which she had supplied herself with several kinds of preparation, but there was none the less something of an unexpected note in its promptitude. She had foreseen her sister’s general fear; but here, ominously, was the special one. “Well, your own business is of course your own business, and you may say there’s no one less in a position than I to preach to you. But, all the same, if you wash your hands of me for ever in consequence, I won’t, for this once, keep back that I don’t consider you’ve a right, as we all stand, to throw yourself away.”
It was after the children’s dinner, which was also their mother‘s, but which their aunt mostly contrived to keep from ever becoming her own luncheon; and the two young women were still in the presence of the crumbled table-cloth, the dispersed pinafores, the scraped dishes, the lingering odour of boiled food. Kate had asked with ceremony if she might put up a window a little, and Mrs. Condrip had replied without it that she might do as she liked. She often received such enquiries as if they reflected in a manner on the pure essence of her little ones. The four had retired, with much movement and noise, under imperfect control of the small Irish governess whom their aunt had hunted up for them and whose brooding resolve not to prolong so uncrowned a martyrdom she already more than suspected. Their mother had become for Kate—who took it just for the effect of being their mother—quite a different thing from the mild Marian of the past: Mr. Condrip’s widow expansively obscured that image. She was little more than a ragged relic, a plain prosaic result of him—as if she had somehow been pulled through him as through an obstinate funnel, only to be left crumpled and useless and with nothing in her but what he accounted for. She had grown red and almost fat, which were not happy signs of mourning; less and less like any Croy, particularly a Croy in trouble, and sensibly like her husband’s two unmarried sisters, who came to see her, in Kate’s view, much too often and stayed too long, with the consequence of inroads upon the tea and bread-and-butter—matters as to which Kate, not unconcerned with the tradesmen’s books, had feelings. About them moreover Marian was touchy, and her nearer relative, who observed and weighed things, noted as an oddity that she would have taken any reflexion on them as a reflexion on herself. If that was what marriage necessarily did to you Kate Croy would have questioned marriage. It was at any rate a grave example of what a man—and such a man!—might make of a woman. She could see how the Condrip pair pressed their brother’s widow on the subject of Aunt Maud—who wasn’t, after all, their aunt; made her, over their interminable cups, chatter and even swagger about Lancaster Gate, made her more vulgar than it had seemed written that any Croy could possibly become on such a subject. They laid it down, they rubbed it in, that Lancaster Gate was to be kept in sight, and that she, Kate, was to keep it; so that, curiously, or at all events sadly, our young woman was sure of being in her own person more permitted to them as an object of comment than they would in turn ever be permitted to herself. The beauty of which too was that Marian didn’t love them. But they were Condrips—they had grown near the rose; they were almost like Bertie and Maudie, like Kitty and Guy. They talked of the dead to her, which Kate never did; it being a relation in which Kate could but mutely listen. She couldn’t indeed too often say to herself that if that was what marriage did to you—! It may easily be guessed therefore that the ironic light of such reserves fell straight across the field of Marian