Wings of the Dove (Barnes & Noble Classi - Henry James [69]
“If I’ve got everything,” Milly laughed.
“Ah that—like almost nobody else.”
“Then for how long?”
Mrs. Stringham’s eyes entreated her; she had gone close to her, half-enclosed her with urgent arms. “Do you want to see some one?” And then as the girl only met it with a slow headshake, though looking perhaps a shade more conscious: “We’ll go straight to the best near doctor.” This too, however, produced but a gaze of qualified assent and a silence, sweet and vague, that left everything open. Our friend decidedly lost herself. “Tell me, for God’s sake, if you’re in distress.”
“I don’t think I’ve really everything,” Milly said as if to explain—and as if also to put it pleasantly.
“But what on earth can I do for you?”
The girl debated, then seemed on the point of being able to say; but suddenly changed and expressed herself otherwise. “Dear, dear thing—I’m only too happy!”
It brought them closer, but it rather confirmed Mrs. Stringham’s doubt. “Then what’s the matter?”
“That’s the matter—that I can scarcely bear it.”
“But what is it you think you haven’t got?”
Milly waited another moment; then she found it, and found for it a dim show of joy. “The power to resist the bliss of what I have!”
Mrs. Stringham took it in—her sense of being “put off” with it, the possible, probable irony of it—and her tenderness renewed itself in the positive grimness of a long murmur. “Whom will you see?”—for it was as if they looked down from their height at a continent of doctors. “Where will you first go?”
Milly had for the third time her air of consideration; but she came back with it to her plea of some minutes before. “I’ll tell you at supper—good-bye till then.” And she left the room with a lightness that testified for her companion to something that again particularly pleased her in the renewed promise of motion. The odd passage just concluded, Mrs. Stringham mused as she once more sat alone with a hooked needle and a ball of silk, the “fine” work with which she was always provided—this mystifying mood had simply been precipitated, no doubt, by their prolonged halt, with which the girl hadn’t really been in sympathy. One had only to admit that her complaint was in fact but the excess of the joy of life, and everything did then fit. She couldn’t stop for the joy, but she could go on for it, and with the pulse of her going on she floated again, was restored to her great spaces. There was no evasion of any truth—so at least Susan Shepherd hoped—in one’s sitting there while the twilight deepened and feeling still more finely that the position of this young lady was magnificent. The evening at that height had naturally turned to cold, and the travellers had bespoken a fire with their meal; the great Alpine road asserted its brave presence through the small panes of the low clean windows, with incidents at the inn-door, the yellow diligence,t the great waggons, the hurrying hooded private conveyances, reminders, for our fanciful friend, of old stories, old pictures, historic flights, escapes, pursuits, things that had happened, things indeed that by a sort of strange congruity helped her to read the meanings of the greatest interest into the relation in which she was now so deeply involved. It was natural that this record of the magnificence of her companion’s position should strike her as after all the best meaning she could extract; for she herself was seated in the magnificence as in a court-carriage—she came back to that, and such a method of progression, such a view from crimson cushions, would evidently have a great deal more to give. By the time the candles were lighted for supper and the short white curtains drawn Milly had reappeared, and the little scenic room had then all its romance. That charm moreover was far from broken by the words in which she, without further loss of time, satisfied her patient mate. “I want to go straight to London.”
It was unexpected, corresponding with no view positively taken at their departure; when England had appeared, on the contrary, rather relegated and postponed