The Wings of the Dove, Volume II. Генри Джеймс

wondered. "After the tremendous time you've all been telling me she has had?"

      "That's it. There's a shadow across it."

      "The shadow, you consider, of some physical break-up?"

      "Some physical break-down. Nothing less. She's scared. She has so much to lose. And she wants more."

      "Ah well," said Densher with a sudden strange sense of discomfort, "couldn't one say to her that she can't have everything?"

      "No—for one wouldn't want to. She really," Kate went on, "has been somebody here. Ask Aunt Maud—you may think me prejudiced," the girl oddly smiled. "Aunt Maud will tell you—the world's before her. It has all come since you saw her, and it's a pity you've missed it, for it certainly would have amused you. She has really been a perfect success—I mean of course so far as possible in the scrap of time—and she has taken it like a perfect angel. If you can imagine an angel with a thumping bank-account you'll have the simplest expression of the kind of thing. Her fortune's absolutely huge; Aunt Maud has had all the facts, or enough of them, in the last confidence, from 'Susie,' and Susie speaks by book. Take them then, in the last confidence, from me. There she is." Kate expressed above all what it most came to. "It's open to her to make, you see, the very greatest marriage. I assure you we're not vulgar about her. Her possibilities are quite plain."

      Densher showed he neither disbelieved nor grudged them. "But what good then on earth can I do her?"

      Well, she had it ready. "You can console her."

      "And for what?"

      "For all that, if she's stricken, she must see swept away. I shouldn't care for her if she hadn't so much," Kate very simply said. And then as it made him laugh not quite happily: "I shouldn't trouble about her if there were one thing she did have." The girl spoke indeed with a noble compassion. "She has nothing."

      "Not all the young dukes?"

      "Well we must see—see if anything can come of them. She at any rate does love life. To have met a person like you," Kate further explained, "is to have felt you become, with all the other fine things, a part of life. Oh she has you arranged!"

      "You have, it strikes me, my dear"—and he looked both detached and rueful. "Pray what am I to do with the dukes?"

      "Oh the dukes will be disappointed!"

      "Then why shan't I be?"

      "You'll have expected less," Kate wonderfully smiled. "Besides, you will be. You'll have expected enough for that."

      "Yet it's what you want to let me in for?"

      "I want," said the girl, "to make things pleasant for her. I use, for the purpose, what I have. You're what I have of most precious, and you're therefore what I use most."

      He looked at her long. "I wish I could use you a little more." After which, as she continued to smile at him, "Is it a bad case of lungs?" he asked.

      Kate showed for a little as if she wished it might be. "Not lungs, I think. Isn't consumption, taken in time, now curable?"

      "People are, no doubt, patched up." But he wondered. "Do you mean she has something that's past patching?" And before she could answer: "It's really as if her appearance put her outside of such things—being, in spite of her youth, that of a person who has been through all it's conceivable she should be exposed to. She affects one, I should say, as a creature saved from a shipwreck. Such a creature may surely, in these days, on the doctrine of chances, go to sea again with confidence. She has had her wreck—she has met her adventure."

      "Oh I grant you her wreck!"—Kate was all response so far. "But do let her have still her adventure. There are wrecks that are not adventures."

      "Well—if there be also adventures that are not wrecks!" Densher in short was willing, but he came back to his point. "What I mean is that she has none of the effect—on one's nerves or whatever—of an invalid."

      Kate on her side did this justice. "No—that's the beauty of her."

      "The beauty—?"

      "Yes, she's so wonderful. She won't show for that, any more than your watch, when it's about to stop for want of being wound up, gives you convenient notice or shows as different from usual. She won't die, she won't live, by inches. She won't smell, as it were, of drugs. She won't taste, as it were, of medicine. No one will know."

      "Then what," he demanded, frankly mystified now, "are we talking about? In what extraordinary state is she?"

      Kate went on as if, at this, making it out in a fashion for herself. "I believe that if she's ill at all she's very ill. I believe that if she's bad she's not a little bad. I can't tell you why, but that's how I see her. She'll really live or she'll really not. She'll have it all or she'll miss it all. Now I don't think she'll have it all."

      Densher had followed this with his eyes upon her, her own having thoughtfully wandered, and as if it were more impressive than lucid. "You 'think' and you 'don't think,' and yet you remain all the while without an inkling of her complaint?"

      "No, not without an inkling; but it's a matter in which I don't want knowledge. She moreover herself doesn't want one to want it: she has, as to what may be preying upon her, a kind of ferocity of modesty, a kind of—I don't know what to call it—intensity of pride. And then and then—" But with this she faltered.

      "And then what?"

      "I'm a brute about illness. I hate it. It's well for you, my dear," Kate continued, "that you're as sound as a bell."

      "Thank you!" Densher laughed. "It's rather good then for yourself too that you're as strong as the sea."

      She looked at him now a moment as for the selfish gladness of their young immunities. It was all they had together, but they had it at least without a flaw—each had the beauty, the physical felicity, the personal virtue, love and desire of the other. Yet it was as if that very consciousness threw them back the next moment into pity for the poor girl who had everything else in the world, the great genial good they, alas, didn't have, but failed on the other hand of this. "How we're talking about her!" Kate compunctiously sighed. But there were the facts. "From illness I keep away."

      "But you don't—since here you are, in spite of all you say, in the midst of it."

      "Ah I'm only watching—!"

      "And putting me forward in your place? Thank you!"

      "Oh," said Kate, "I'm breaking you in. Let it give you the measure of what I shall expect of you. One can't begin too soon."

      She drew away, as from the impression of a stir on the balcony, the hand of which he had a minute before possessed himself; and the warning brought him back to attention. "You haven't even an idea if it's a case for surgery?"

      "I dare say it may be; that is that if it comes to anything it may come to that. Of course she's in the highest hands."

      "The doctors are after her then?"

      "She's after them—it's the same thing. I think I'm free to say it now—she sees Sir Luke Strett."

      It made him quickly wince. "Ah fifty thousand knives!" Then after an instant: "One seems to guess."

      Yes, but she waved it away. "Don't guess. Only do as I tell you."

      For a moment now, in silence, he took it all in, might have had it before him. "What you want of me then is to make up to a sick girl."

      "Ah but you admit yourself that she doesn't affect you as sick. You understand moreover just how much—and just how little."

      "It's amazing," he presently answered, "what you think I understand."

      "Well, if you've brought me to it, my dear," she returned, "that has been your way of breaking me in. Besides which, so far as making up to her goes, plenty of others will."

      Densher for a little, under this suggestion, might have been seeing their young friend on a pile of cushions and in a perpetual tea-gown, amid flowers and with drawn blinds, surrounded by the higher nobility. "Others can follow their tastes. Besides, others are free."

      "But