The Wings of the Dove, Volume 2

She took this account of the matter as quite sufficient; she glossed over whatever might be awkward. 'I'm sorry—but I of course often see her.' He felt the discrimination in his favour and how it justified Kate. This was Milly's tone when the matter was left to her. Well, it should now be wholly left.

BOOK SEVENTH

I

When Kate and Densher abandoned her to Mrs. Stringham on the day of her meeting them together and bringing them to luncheon, Milly, face to face with that companion, had had one of those moments in which the warned, the anxious fighter of the battle of life, as if once again feeling for the sword at his side, carries his hand straight to the quarter of his courage. She laid hers firmly on her heart, and the two women stood there showing each other a strange front. Susan Shepherd had received their great doctor's visit, which had been clearly no small affair for her; but Milly had since then, with insistence, kept in place, against communication and betrayal, as she now practically confessed, the barrier of their invited guests. 'You've been too dear. With what I see you're full of you treated them beautifully. Isn't Kate charming when she wants to be?'

Poor Susie's expression, contending at first, as in a high fine spasm, with different dangers, had now quite let itself go. She had to make an effort to reach a point in space already so remote. 'Miss Croy? Oh she was pleasant and clever. She knew,' Mrs. Stringham added. 'She knew.'

Milly braced herself—but conscious above all, at the moment, of a high compassion for her mate. She made her out as struggling—struggling in all her nature against the betrayal of pity, which in itself, given her nature, could only be a torment. Milly gathered from the struggle how much there was of the pity, and how therefore it was both in her tenderness and in her conscience that Mrs. Stringham suffered. Wonderful and beautiful it was that this impression instantly steadied the girl. Ruefully asking herself on what basis of ease, with the drop of their barrier, they were to find themselves together, she felt the question met with a relief that was almost joy. The basis, the inevitable basis, was that she was going to be sorry for Susie, who, to all appearance, had been condemned in so much more uncomfortable a manner to be sorry for her. Mrs. Stringham's sorrow would hurt Mrs. Stringham, but how could her own ever hurt? She had, the poor girl, at all events, on the spot, five minutes of exaltation in which she turned the tables on her friend with a pass of the hand, a gesture of an energy that made a wind in the air. 'Kate knew,' she asked, 'that you were full of Sir Luke Strett?'

'She spoke of nothing, but she was gentle and nice; she seemed to want to help me through.' Which the good lady had no sooner said, however, than she almost tragically gasped at herself. She glared at Milly with a pretended pluck. 'What I mean is that she saw one had been taken up with something. When I say she knows I should say she's a person who guesses.' And her grimace was also, on its side, heroic. 'But she doesn't matter, Milly.'

The girl felt she by this time could face anything. 'Nobody matters, Susie. Nobody.' Which her next words, however, rather contradicted. 'Did he take it ill that I wasn't here to see him? Wasn't it really just what he wanted—to have it out, so much more simply, with you?'

'We didn't have anything 'out,' Milly,' Mrs. Stringham delicately quavered.

'Didn't he awfully like you,' Milly went on, 'and didn't he think you the most charming person I could possibly have referred him to for an account of me? Didn't you hit it off tremendously together and in fact fall quite in love, so that it will really be a great advantage for you to have me as a common ground? You're going to make, I can see, no end of a good thing of me.'

'My own child, my own child!' Mrs. Stringham pleadingly murmured; yet showing as she did so that she feared the effect even of deprecation.

'Isn't he beautiful and good too himself?—altogether, whatever he may say, a lovely acquaintance to have made? You're just the right people for me—I see it now; and do you know what, between you, you must do?' Then as Susie still but stared, wonderstruck and holding herself: 'You must simply see me through. Any way you choose. Make it out together. I, on my side, will be beautiful too, and we'll be—the three of us, with whatever others, oh as many as the case requires, any one you like!—a sight for the gods. I'll be as easy for you as carrying a feather.' Susie took it for a moment in such silence that her young friend almost saw her—and scarcely withheld the observation—as taking it for 'a part of the disease.' This accordingly helped Milly to be, as she judged, definite and wise. 'He's at any rate awfully interesting, isn't he?—which is so much to the good. We haven't at least—as we might have, with the way we tumbled into it—got hold of one of the dreary.'

'Interesting, dearest?'—Mrs. Stringham felt her feet firmer. 'I don't know if he's interesting or not; but I do know, my own,' she continued to quaver, 'that he's just as much interested as you could possibly desire.'

'Certainly—that's it. Like all the world.'

'No, my precious, not like all the world. Very much more deeply and intelligently.'

'Ah there you are!' Milly laughed. 'That's the way, Susie, I want you. So 'buck' up, my dear. We'll have beautiful times with him. Don't worry.'

'I'm not worrying, Milly.' And poor Susie's face registered the sublimity of her lie.

It was at this that, too sharply penetrated, her companion went to her, met by her with an embrace in which things were said that exceeded speech. Each held and clasped the other as if to console her for this unnamed woe, the woe for Mrs. Stringham of learning the torment of helplessness, the woe for Milly of having her, at such a time, to think of. Milly's assumption was immense, and the difficulty for her friend was that of not being able to gainsay it without bringing it more to the proof than tenderness and vagueness could permit. Nothing in fact came to the proof between them but that they could thus cling together—except indeed that, as we have indicated, the pledge of protection and support was all the younger woman's own. 'I don't ask you,' she presently said, 'what he told you for yourself, nor what he told you to tell me, nor how he took it, really, that I had left him to you, nor what passed between you about me in any way. It wasn't to get that out of you that I took my means to make sure of your meeting freely—for there are things I don't want to know. I shall see him again and again and shall know more than enough. All I do want is that you shall see me through on his basis, whatever it is; which it's enough—for the purpose—that you yourself should know: that is with him to show you how. I'll make it charming for you—that's what I mean; I'll keep you up to it in such a way that half the time you won't know you're doing it. And for that you're to rest upon me. There. It's understood. We keep each other going, and you may absolutely feel of me that I shan't break down. So, with the way you haven't so much as a dig of the elbow to fear, how could you be safer?'

'He told me I can help you—of course he told me that,' Susie, on her side, eagerly contended. 'Why shouldn't he, and for what else have I come out with you? But he told me nothing dreadful— nothing, nothing, nothing,' the poor lady passionately protested. 'Only that you must do as you like and as he tells you—which is just simply to do as you like.'

'I must keep in sight of him. I must from time to time go to him. But that's of course doing as I like. It's lucky,' Milly smiled, 'that I like going to him.'

Mrs. Stringham was here in agreement; she gave a clutch at the account of their situation that most showed it as workable. 'That's what will be charming for me, and what I'm sure he really wants of