The Wings of the Dove

by Henry James

  “I should hope not! What do you think I want to do?”

  He had really at this to make out a little what he thought, and the first thing that put itself in evidence was of course the oddity, after all, of their game, to which he could but frankly allude. “We’re doing, at the best, in trying to temporise in so special a way, a thing most people would call us fools for.” But his visit passed, all the same, without his again attempting to make “just as he was” serve. He had no more money just as he was than he had had just as he had been, or than he should have, probably, when it came to that, just as he always would be; whereas she, on her side, in comparison with her state of some months before, had measureably more to relinquish. He easily saw how their meeting at Lancaster Gate gave more of an accent to that quantity than their meeting at stations or in parks; and yet on the other hand he couldn’t urge this against it. If Mrs. Lowder was indifferent her indifference added in a manner to what Kate’s taking him as he was would call on her to sacrifice. Such in fine was her art with him that she seemed to put the question of their still waiting into quite other terms than the terms of ugly blue, of florid Sèvres,amof complicated brass, in which their boudoir expressed it. She said almost all in fact by saying, on this article of Aunt Maud, after he had once more pressed her, that when he should see her, as must inevitably soon happen, he would understand. “Do you mean,” he asked at this, “that there’s any definite sign of her coming round? I’m not talking,” he explained, “of mere hypocrisies in her, or mere brave duplicities. Remember, after all, that supremely clever as we are, and as strong a team, I admit, as there is going—remember that she can play with us quite as much as we play with her.”

  “She doesn’t want to play with me, my dear,” Kate lucidly replied; “she doesn’t want to make me suffer a bit more than she need. She cares for me too much, and everything she does or doesn’t do has a value. This has a value—her being as she has been about us to-day. I believe she’s in her room, where she’s keeping strictly to herself while you’re here with me. But that isn’t ‘playing’ —not a bit.”

  “What is it then,” the young man returned—“from the moment it isn’t her blessing and a cheque?”

  Kate was complete. “It’s simply her absence of smallness. There is something in her above trifles. She generally trusts us; she doesn’t propose to hunt us into corners; and if we frankly ask for a thing—why,” said Kate, “she shrugs, but she lets it go. She has really but one fault—she’s indifferent, on such ground as she has taken about us, to details. However,” the girl cheerfully went on, “it isn’t in detail we fight her.”

  “It seems to me,” Densher brought out after a moment’s thought of this, “that it’s in detail we deceive her”—a speech that, as soon as he had uttered it, applied itself for him, as also visibly for his companion, to the afterglow of their recent embrace.

  Any confusion attaching to this adventure, however, dropped from Kate, whom, as he could see with sacred joy, it must take more than that to make compunctious. “I don’t say we can do it again. I mean,” she explained, “meet here.”

  Densher indeed had been wondering where they could do it again. If Lancaster Gate was so limited that issue reappeared. “I mayn’t come back at all?”

  “Certainly—to see her. It’s she, really,” his companion smiled, “who’s in love with you.”

  But it made him—a trifle more grave—look at her a moment. “Don’t make out, you know, that every one’s in love with me.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t say every one.”

  “You said just now Miss Theale.”

  “I said she liked you—yes.”

  “Well, it comes to the same thing.” With which, however, he pursued: “Of course I ought to thank Mrs. Lowder in person. I mean for this—as from myself.”

  “Ah but, you know, not too much!” She had an ironic gaiety for the implications of his “this,” besides wishing to insist on a general prudence. “She’ll wonder what you’re thanking her for!”

  Densher did justice to both considerations. “Yes, I can’t very well tell her all.”

  It was perhaps because he said it so gravely that Kate was again in a manner amused. Yet she gave out light. “You can’t very well ‘tell’ her anything, and that doesn’t matter. Only be nice to her.

  Please her; make her see how clever you are—only without letting her see that you’re trying. If you’re charming to her you’ve nothing else to do.”

  But she oversimplified too. “I can be ‘charming’ to her, so far as I see, only by letting her suppose I give you up—which I’ll be hanged if I do! It is,” he said with feeling, “a game.”

  “Of course it’s a game. But she’ll never suppose you give me up—or I give you—if you keep reminding her how you enjoy our interviews.”

  “Then if she has to see us as obstinate and constant,” Densher asked, “what good does it do?”

  Kate was for a moment checked. “What good does what—?”

  “Does my pleasing her—does anything. I can’t,” he impatiently declared, “please her.”

  Kate looked at him hard again, disappointed at his want of consistency; but it appeared to determine in her something better than a mere complaint. “Then I can! Leave it to me.” With which she came to him under the compulsion, again, that had united them shortly before, and took hold of him in her urgency to the same tender purpose. It was her form of entreaty renewed and repeated, which made after all, as he met it, their great fact clear. And it somehow clarified all things so to possess each other. The effect of it was that, once more, on these terms, he could only be generous. He had so on the spot then left everything to her that she reverted in the course of a few moments to one of her previous—and as positively seemed—her most precious ideas. “You accused me just now of saying that Milly’s in love with you. Well, if you come to that, I do say it. So there you are. That’s the good she’ll do us. It makes a basis for her seeing you—so that she’ll help us to go on.”

  Densher stared—she was wondrous all round. “And what sort of a basis does it make for my seeing her?”

  “Oh I don’t mind!” Kate smiled.

  “Don’t mind my leading her on?”

  She put it differently. “Don’t mind her leading you.”

  “Well, she won’t—so it’s nothing not to mind. But how can that ‘help’,” he pursued, “with what she knows?”

  “What she knows? That needn’t prevent.”

  He wondered. “Prevent her loving us?”

  “Prevent her helping you. She’s like that,” Kate Croy explained.

  It took indeed some understanding. “Making nothing of the fact that I love another?”

  “Making everything,” said Kate. “To console you.”

  “But for what?”

  “For not getting your other.”

  He continued to stare. “But how does she know—?”

  “That you won’t get her? She doesn’t; but on the other hand she doesn’t know you will. Meanwhile she sees you baffled, for she knows of Aunt Maud’s stand. That”—Kate was lucid—“gives her the chance to be nice to you.”

  “And what does it give me,” the young man none the less rationally asked, “the chance to be? A brute of a humbug to her?”

  Kate so possessed her facts, as it were, that she smiled at his violence. “You’ll extraordinarily like her. She’s exquisite. And there are reasons. I mean others.”

  “What others?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you another time.17 Those I give you,” the girl added, “are enough to go on with.”

  “To go on to what?”

  “Why, to seeing her again—say as soon as you can: which, moreover, on all grounds, is no more than decent of you.”

  He of course took in her reference, and he had fully in mind what had passed between them in New York. It had been no great quantity, but it had made distinctly at the time for his pleasure; so that anything in the nature of an appeal in th
e name of it could have a slight kindling consequence. “Oh I shall naturally call again without delay. Yes,” said Densher, “her being in love with me is nonsense; but I must, quite independently of that, make every acknowledgement of favours received.”

  It appeared practically all Kate asked. “Then you see. I shall meet you there.”

  “I don’t quite see,” he presently returned, “why she should wish to receive you for it.”

  “She receives me for myself—that is for her self. She thinks no end of me. That I should have to drum it into you!”

  Yet still he didn’t take it. “Then I confess she’s beyond me.”

  Well, Kate could but leave it as she saw it. “She regards me as already—in these few weeks—her dearest friend. It’s quite separate. We’re in, she and I, ever so deep.” And it was to confirm this that, as if it had flashed upon her that he was somewhere at sea, she threw out at last her own real light. “She doesn’t of course know I care for you. She thinks I care so little that it’s not worth speaking of.” That he had been somewhere at sea these remarks made quickly clear, and Kate hailed the effect with surprise. “Have you been supposing that she does know—?”

  “About our situation? Certainly, if you’re such friends as you show me—and if you haven’t otherwise represented it to her.” She uttered at this such a sound of impatience that he stood artlessly vague. “You have denied it to her?”

  She threw up her arms at his being so backward. “ ‘Denied it’? My dear man, we’ve never spoken of you.”

  “Never, never?”

  “Strange as it may appear to your glory—never.”

  He couldn’t piece it together. “But won’t Mrs. Lowder have spoken?”

  “Very probably. But of you. Not of me.”

  This struck him as obscure. “How does she know me but as part and parcel of you?”

  “How?” Kate triumphantly asked. “Why exactly to make nothing of it, to have nothing to do with it, to stick consistently to her line about it. Aunt Maud’s line is to keep all reality out of our relation—that is out of my being in danger from you—by not having so much as suspected or heard of it. She’ll get rid of it, as she believes, by ignoring it and sinking it—if she only does so hard enough. Therefore she, in her manner, ‘denies’ it if you will. That’s how she knows you otherwise than as part and parcel of me. She won’t for a moment have allowed either to Mrs. Stringham or to Milly that I’ve in any way, as they say, distinguished you.”

  “And you don’t suppose,” said Densher, “that, they must have made it out for themselves?”

  “No, my dear, I don’t; not even,” Kate declared, “after Milly’s so funnily bumping against us on Tuesday.”

  “She doesn’t see from that—?”

  “That you’re, so to speak, mad about me. Yes, she sees, no doubt, that you regard me with a complacent eye—for you show it, I think, always too much and too crudely. But nothing beyond that. I don’t show it too much; I don’t perhaps—to please you completely where others are concerned—show it enough.”

  “Can you show it or not as you like?” Densher demanded.

  It pulled her up a little, but she came out resplendent. “Not where you are concerned. Beyond seeing that you’re rather gone,” she went on, “Milly only sees that I’m decently good to you.”

  “Very good indeed she must think it!”

  “Very good indeed then. She easily sees me,” Kate smiled, “as very good indeed.”

  The young man brooded. “But in a sense to take some explaining. ”

  “Then I explain.” She was really fine; it came back to her essential plea for her freedom of action and his beauty of trust. “I mean,” she added, “I will explain.”

  “And what will J do?”

  “Recognise the difference it must make if she thinks.” But here in truth Kate faltered. It was his silence alone that, for the moment, took up her apparent meaning; and before he again spoke she had returned to remembrance and prudence. They were now not to forget that, Aunt Maud’s liberality having put them on their honour, they mustn’t spoil their case by abusing it. He must leave her in time; they should probably find it would help them. But she came back to Milly too. “Mind you go to see her.”

  Densher still, however, took up nothing of this. “Then I may come again?”

  “For Aunt Maud—as much as you like. But we can’t again,” said Kate, “play her this trick. I can’t see you here alone.”

  “Then where?”

  “Go to see Milly,” she for all satisfaction repeated.

  “And what good will that do me?”

  “Try it and you’ll see.”

  “You mean you’ll manage to be there?” Densher asked. “Say you are, how will that give us privacy?”

  “Try it—you’ll see,” the girl once more returned. “We must manage as we can.”

  “That’s precisely what I feel. It strikes me we might manage better.” His idea of this was a thing that made him an instant hesitate; yet he brought it out with conviction. “Why won’t you come to me?”

  It was a question her troubled eyes seemed to tell him he was scarce generous in expecting her definitely to answer, and by looking to him to wait at least she appealed to something that she presently made him feel as his pity. It was on that special shade of tenderness that he thus found himself thrown back; and while he asked of his spirit and of his flesh just what concession they could arrange she pressed him yet again on the subject of her singular remedy for their embarrassment. It might have been irritating had she ever struck him as having in her mind a stupid corner. “You’ll see,” she said, “the difference it will make.”

  Well, since she wasn’t stupid she was intelligent; it was he who was stupid—the proof of which was that he would do what she liked. But he made a last effort to understand, her allusion to the “difference” bringing him round to it. He indeed caught at something subtle but strong even as he spoke. “Is what you meant a moment ago that the difference will be in her being made to believe you hate me?”

  Kate, however, had simply, for this gross way of putting it, one of her more marked shows of impatience; with which in fact she sharply closed their discussion. He opened the door on a sign from her, and she accompanied him to the top of the stairs with an air of having so put their possibilities before him that questions were idle and doubts peryerse. “I verily believe I shall hate you if you spoil for me the beauty of what I see!”

  —III—

  He was really, notwithstanding, to hear more from her of what she saw; and the very next occasion had for him still other surprises than that. He received from Mrs. Lowder on the morning after his visit to Kate the telegraphic expression of a hope that he might be free to dine with them that evening; and his freedom affected him as fortunate even though in some degree qualified by her missive. “Expecting American friends whom I’m so glad to find you know!” His knowledge of American friends was clearly an accident of which he was to taste the fruit to the last bitterness. This apprehension, however, we hasten to add, enjoyed for him, in the immediate event, a certain merciful shrinkage; the immediate event being that, at Lancaster Gate, five minutes after his due arrival, prescribed him for eight-thirty, Mrs. Stringham came in alone. The long daylight, the postponed lamps, the habit of the hour, made dinners late and guests still later; so that, punctual as he was, he had found Mrs. Lowder alone, with Kate herself not yet in the field. He had thus had with her several bewildering moments—bewildering by reason, fairly, of their tacit invitation to him to be supernaturally simple. This was exactly, goodness knew, what he wanted to be; but he had never had it so largely and freely—so supernaturally simply, for that matter—imputed to him as of easy achievement. It was a particular in which Aunt Maud appeared to offer herself as an example, appeared to say quite agreeably : “What I want of you, don’t you see? is to be just exactly as I am.” The quantity of the article required was what might especially have caused him to stagger—he liked so
, in general, the quantities in which Mrs. Lowder dealt. He would have liked as well to ask her how feasible she supposed it for a poor young man to resemble her at any point; but he had after all soon enough perceived that he was doing as she wished by letting his wonder show just a little as silly. He was conscious moreover of a small strange dread of the results of discussion with her—strange, truly, because it was her good nature, not her asperity, that he feared. Asperity might have made him angry—in which there was always a comfort; good nature, in his conditions, had a tendency to make him ashamed—which Aunt Maud indeed, wonderfully, liking him for himself, quite struck him as having guessed. To spare him therefore she also avoided discussion; she kept him down by refusing to quarrel with him. This was what she now proposed to him to enjoy, and his secret discomfort was his sense that on the whole it was what would best suit him. Being kept down was a bore, but his great dread, verily, was of being ashamed, which was a thing distinct; and it mattered but little that he was ashamed of that too.