The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER LIII

  It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in othercircumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabeldescended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into thearms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole.She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had notdefinitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felther telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey fromRome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to questionthe future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and tooklittle pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though theywere in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed theircourse through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathlesslands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; butit was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams ofmemory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at theirwill, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by alogic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Nowthat she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so muchconcerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attemptto play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part theirhorror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. Sheremembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneityof a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw thatthey had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles afterall, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed ofuse to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; alldesire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambersit was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth inher strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place hadbeen a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralphhis dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfectof all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anythingmore--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marbletank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.

  She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost asgood as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope andregret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figurescouched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regretnow--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time ofher repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merlehad been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped,from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been.Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; anddoubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she wasgoing. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that sheshould never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her intothe future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. Shesaw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman whohad her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit ofthe present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege wasevidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetitefor renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for along time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almostenlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was aproof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to liveonly to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many thingsmight happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injuryof life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupidto think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to bevaluable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of precious things?Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? Itinvolved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; butIsabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadowof a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end.Then the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain ofher indifference closed her in.

  Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraidshe should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; shewished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in anarrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled herwith a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. Sheremembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mightyspectacle in which there was something that touched her. She rememberedhow she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowdedstreets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and theincident came before her as the deed of another person.

  "It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, lookingat her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge theproposition. "If you hadn't--if you hadn't; well, I don't know,"remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval.

  Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on anotherfigure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a momentshe recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a littleapart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed abouthim to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that ofabstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed theirembraces.

  "There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcelycaring much now whether she should find her maid or not.

  "Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henriettaexclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smiletempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely shehas come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we hadquite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would."

  "I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt shecould smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's braveeyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her toremember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, thatit was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him,extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight.

  "Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, you know."

  "Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta enquired."Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."

  "I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had neverfound so interesting.

  "Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the twofor a moment together.

  They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabelhow it had been on the Channel.

  "Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to hercompanion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been toGardencourt, I know."

  "Now how do you know that?"

  "I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been toGardencourt."

  "Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know."

  "I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind,"said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her sheshould never again feel a superficial embarrassment.

  Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blusheda good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,and that when he w
as blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask MissStackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago."

  "Did you see my cousin?"

  "Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had beenthere the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that hewas in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can't speak,"Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. Hewas just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched."

  Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Wasthat late in the day?"

  "Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know."

  "I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?"

  "Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She wants youto stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me to-day,and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and easy,'that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can waittill to-morrow. You must be awfully tired."

  "Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again."

  "Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the last news."On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all toagree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caughtin the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead oflosing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress'sluggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station."You know you're not to think of going to the country to-night,"Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a trainor not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't acorner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn'ta Roman palace, but it will do for a night."

  "I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said.

  "You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish."

  "She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr.Bantling enquired jocosely.

  Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see you'rein a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Stationto-morrow morning at ten."

  "Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.

  "He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend intoa cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do herjustice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to whichshe had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene aboutyour coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry.

  "No; I can't say he made a scene."

  "He didn't object then?"

  "Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a scene."

  "What was it then?"

  "It was a very quiet conversation."

  Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been hellish,"she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been hellish. Butshe confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy,as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her nonew information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only onecriticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to goback."

  "I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then."

  "If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."

  Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another."

  "You'll certainly never find a good one."

  "In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel suggested.

  "Yes; that's why I hate it."

  "Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was acomplication, but what will going back be?"

  "You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" saidHenrietta with much intention.

  "He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of amoment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."

  For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, andthen Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested,announced abruptly: "I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!"

  "Ah, the invitation came at last!"

  "Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me."

  "Naturally enough."

  "It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta, who fixedher eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:"Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because Icriticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, atleast, was born on the other side!"

  It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was somodestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was notpossessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted witha quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediatelyrecovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,"Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up yourcountry?"

  "Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the factin the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here inLondon."

  "It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.

  "Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I thinkI know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain."

  "One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours doesn'tneed to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."

  "No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. Hehas a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for manyyears and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a goodprospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On theother hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do inthe United States."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've everheard you say anything against your native land."

  "I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, afterall, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change agood deal to marry."

  "I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see somethingof the inner life."

  Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to themystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as gooda right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was dulydiverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom shehad hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It wasa disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she wassubject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling hadnot been completely original. There was a want of originality in hermarrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, toIsabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. Alittle later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least wasoriginal. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her country.She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been hercountry as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she hadenjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.

  "Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make of me."

  "And was that very enjoyable?"

  "Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She thinksshe knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my moderntype. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little betteror a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my dutyto go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I shouldmarry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'llnever understand my mixture--never!"

  "She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appearsto have understood."

  "Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I reallybelieve that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out themystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind offascination."

  "It's very good in you to humour it."

  "Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've
something to find out too!" And Isabelsaw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. Shewas at last about to grapple in earnest with England.

  Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the PaddingtonStation, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company bothof Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore hisperplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had foundout at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wantingin initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he hadbeen on his guard against this deficiency.

  "Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave himher hand.

  "I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting onhis neat umbrella.

  "Yes, I think it awfully odd."

  "You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather likedstriking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.