by Henry James
CHAPTER LIV
Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was evenquieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a smallhousehold, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so thatinstead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly showninto the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up toher aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry tocome to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--asscared as if the objects about her had begun to show for consciousthings, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was darkand cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. Thehouse was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; ithad filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. Sheleft the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library andalong the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstepmade an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she hadseen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stoodthere. She envied the security of valuable "pieces" which change by nohair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch byinch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walkingabout as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany.She was changed enough since then--that had been the beginning. Itsuddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in justthat way and found her alone, everything might have been different. Shemight have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest.She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture--a charming andprecious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she wasnot looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt hadnot come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.
Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to thebig uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but hereye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed arepository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the mostundecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the firsttime, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or thematron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's hot cheek.
"I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph," Mrs.Touchett said. "The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken herplace. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's goodfor nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there wereanything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to besleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till thenurse came back. I remembered you knew the house."
"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walkingeverywhere," Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much.
"He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure thatit's always sleep."
"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"
Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was thelimit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to herroom. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it'sRalph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have takenyour luggage; I don't suppose you've brought much. Not that I care,however. I believe they've given you the same room you had before; whenRalph heard you were coming he said you must have that one."
"Did he say anything else?"
"Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!" cried Mrs. Touchett as shepreceded her niece up the staircase.
It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been sleptin since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous;Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. "Is there reallyno hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her.
"None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successfullife."
"No--it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself alreadycontradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.
"I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without health.That is a very odd dress to travel in."
Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's notice; I tookthe first that came."
"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed tobe their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemedto have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than blackbrocade."
"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them thetruth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her."
"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time sheshould have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have beenexpensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit toAmerica? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure."
These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece,whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For thisrepast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in themelancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt notto be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman'sinexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back toher. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be ableto feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if shewere not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privatelytrying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet;the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the otherhand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at allit might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it hadcome over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she sawherself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her littlesharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet notmoved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner.And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the daybefore; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemedan intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that anaccident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy;she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. Shenone the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind toRalph; she had seen something of that in Rome.
"He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And shepaused with a gaze like a gimlet.
Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant.But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wishedto gain a moment. "Ah yes--the House of Lords and all that."
"He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At leasthe's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engaged to be married."
"Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed.
"Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know.Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believe it's to take placevery soon.
"And who's the young lady?"
"A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something ofthat sort."
"I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision."
"Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only justbeen made public."
"I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew heraunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness,and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of thiskind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tonealmost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition thatladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers asan offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to showthat however that might be in general she was not offended now. Butmeanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for somemoments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--itwas not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversedhalf Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little,
in thecity of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that LordWarburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of coursenot aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made thisintellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to heraunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other."
Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of thehead. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went onwith their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of LordWarburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that wasall over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. Aservant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested himto leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with herhands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you threequestions," she observed when the servant had gone.
"Three are a great many."
"I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good ones."
"That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst," Isabelanswered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece leftthe table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows,she felt herself followed by her eyes.
"Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?" Mrs.Touchett enquired.
Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dear aunt."
"Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say."
"Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared, smilingstill.
"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'mmisinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crowover you."
"It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel.
"I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over YOU,"Mrs. Touchett added. "Do you still like Serena Merle?" she went on.
"Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to America."
"To America? She must have done something very bad."
"Yes--very bad."
"May I ask what it is?"
"She made a convenience of me."
"Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of every one."
"She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling again andglad that her aunt's questions were over.
It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had beendozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor wasthere, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attendedhis father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; hewas deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope,but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked hismother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without furtherneed of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthewthat her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave nosign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raisedhimself and said he knew that she had come.
How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him noone had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed inthe dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a corner of the room.She told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for therest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and hadmoved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might takeit. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remainedperfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him along time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. Hemight have passed away while she looked at him; he was already thefigure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome,and this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was astrange tranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box.With this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes togreet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It wasnot till midnight that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel,had not seemed long; it was exactly what she had come for. If she hadcome simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days ina kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed towish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, asif he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly wouldcome. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was cominghad already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they werestill together. But they were not always together; there were otherhours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listeningfor a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; shethought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remainedsilent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the CountessGemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.
"I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundlessdimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon herknees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged himnot to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessityserious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its ownerapparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What does itmatter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm inmaking an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people alwaysfeel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what Iwas waiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it would come.I tried two or three times; I was afraid you'd get tired of sittingthere." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voiceseemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his faceturned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "Itwas very good of you to come," he went on. "I thought you would; but Iwasn't sure."
"I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel.
"You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about theangel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You've been like that;as if you were waiting for me."
"I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This isnot death, dear Ralph."
"Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to seeothers die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I'vehad it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With meit's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, tillit rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn'tsee him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," hewent on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She answered nothing;she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He laysilent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, whatis it you have done for me?"
"What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation halfsmothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hidethings. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought themsupremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You didsomething once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What haveI done for you--what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live.But I don't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you." Hervoice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.
"You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall benearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for inlife there's love. Death is good--but there's no love."
"I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!"Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuseherself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for themoment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "Whatmust you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and Ionly know to-day because there are people less stupid than I."
"Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leave people."
She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment topray to him. "Is it true--is it true?" she asked.
"True that
you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensibleintention of wit.
"That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?"
He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last:"Ah, don't speak of that--that was not happy." Slowly he moved his facetoward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that--butfor that--!" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he wailed.
She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; heseemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not hadit she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the onlyknowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they werelooking at the truth together.
"He married me for the money," she said. She wished to say everything;she was afraid he might die before she had done so. He gazed at her alittle, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But heraised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," heanswered.
"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I hadbeen poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want youto understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that'sall over."
"I always understood," said Ralph.
"I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it."
"You don't hurt me--you make me very happy." And as Ralph said thisthere was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent herhead again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I alwaysunderstood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. Youwanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; youwere punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of theconventional!"
"Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.
He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad aboutyour coming?"
"He made it very hard for me. But I don't care."
"It is all over then between you?"
"Oh no; I don't think anything's over."
"Are you going back to him?" Ralph gasped.
"I don't know--I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don'twant to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, andthat's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on myknees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for along time. And I want you to be happy--not to think of anything sad;only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why should there bepain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's notthe deepest thing; there's something deeper."
Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty inspeaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appearedto make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Thenhe murmured simply: "You must stay here."
"I should like to stay--as long as seems right."
"As seems right--as seems right?" He repeated her words. "Yes, you thinka great deal about that."
"Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel.
"I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest thing.No--no. But it's very deep. If I could stay--"
"For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was easy tointerrupt him.
But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's passing now.But love remains. I don't know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps Ishall find out. There are many things in life. You're very young."
"I feel very old," said Isabel.
"You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe--I don'tbelieve--" But he stopped again; his strength failed him.
She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand eachother," she said.
"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you formore than a little."
"Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears.
"And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been hatedyou've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly andlingeringly breathed.
"Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.
CHAPTER LV
He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, thatif she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghostwith which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilledthe necessary condition for the next morning, in the cold, faintdawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain downwithout undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlastthe night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and suchwaiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as thenight wore on she should hear a knock at her door. She heard no knock,but at the time the darkness began vaguely to grow grey she started upfrom her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemedto her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hoveringfigure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw hiswhite face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was notafraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certaintypassed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps thatshone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door shestopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush thatfilled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she werelifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sittingmotionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of hishands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph'sfurther wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses wereat the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, butthe doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's handin a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her veryhard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she hadcome to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and therewas a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six yearsbefore, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her auntand put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thingneither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to thisone, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed;her acute white face was terrible.
"Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.
"Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett, disengagingherself.
Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at theheight of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quietstation in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church whichstood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of thisedifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herselfat the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sextonhimself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs.Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one;there was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weatherhad changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherousMay-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of thehawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, itwas not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had beendying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected andprepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tearsthat blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, thesplendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, thebowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a groupof gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwardslearned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom sheknew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantlingbeside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than therest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel wasconscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder thanhe usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes uponthe churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; shethought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She foundshe had taken for granted that after
accompanying Ralph to Gardencourthe had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country thatpleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; andsomething in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complexintention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtlesssympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of thelittle group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak toher--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta Stackpole.Henrietta had been crying.
Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt,and she made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herselfthat it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It wasfortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have beengreatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she hadleft her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, countingthe hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellent motive.He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't alter the case.Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and werequite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabelthought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at adistance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudderof Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drewback into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she mustdecide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been adecision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no soundand now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. FromPansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had toldher not to write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance;she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm butwith perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs.Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences shemanaged to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexionthat, after all, such things happened to other people and not toherself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son'sdeath, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own wouldbe disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off thanpoor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him,and indeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs.Touchett's mind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage of. Forherself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. Shemade known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son wasburied--several of Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told hereverything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money;of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture ofGardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of theplace for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced bythe sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor personssuffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of thewill Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property,which was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in variousbequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom hisfather had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of smalllegacies.
"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has leftconsiderable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and Iasked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who atvarious times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn'tlike him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that youhad been handsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say Ithink you were--though I don't mean that I ever heard him complain ofit. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, oneby one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes toLord Warburton. And what do you think he has done with his library?It sounds like a practical joke. He has left it to your friend MissStackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he meanher following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? Itcontains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carryit about the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction.She will sell it of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'llset up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?"
This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the littleinterrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on herarrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature thanto-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf oneof the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. Shewas quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at hercommand. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremonyin the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyesoften wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, whichlooked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modestvehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, inrather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always hada high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, underthe circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come downfrom London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchetthe had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself thevalidity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house andwandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt shehad been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable forvisiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first itstruck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have justmentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, andif you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a badconscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of anhour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emergefrom the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidentlyproposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. Shewas in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would havedrawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seenand that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourtwas a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that,as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands ratherstiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparentlywere silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed ittoward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to saywith cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenable nobleman youmight have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however,that was not what they said. They only said "This is rather awkward, youknow, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave, very properand, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her withouta smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile.He looked extremely selfconscious.
"Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me," said Mrs.Touchett. "He tells me he didn't know you were still here. I know he'san old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house Ibrought him out to see for himself."
"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me backin time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantlyexplained. "I'm so glad to find you've not gone."
"I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certain eagerness.
"I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to Englandsooner than--a--than you thought?"
"Yes, I came very suddenly."
Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of thegrounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburtonhesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of askingabout her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. Hecontinued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in aplace over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. Ifhe was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he hadthe cover of the former motive; he could make the most of t
hat. Isabelthought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that wasanother matter; but it was strangely inexpressive.
"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you werestill here--if they had thought you would see them," Lord Warburton wenton. "Do kindly let them see you before you leave England."
"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection ofthem."
"I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two?You know there's always that old promise." And his lordship coloured alittle as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat morefamiliar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of courseyou're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be avisit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days;and if you could come then--as you say you're not to be very long inEngland--I would see that there should be literally no one else."
Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would bethere with her mamma; but she did not express this idea.
"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid Ihardly know about Whitsuntide."
"But I have your promise--haven't I?--for some other time."
There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She lookedat her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation wasthat--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. "Take care youdon't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish you everyhappiness."
He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. "Ah yes,6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at the door. Thank you verymuch." It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her havingreminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye,Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting hereyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back tothem. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the twoladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn.
"Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of her aunt.
"I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, andhe accepted it."
"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"--while her aunt returned to the houseand to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.
She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while shestrolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon theacres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near arustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her asan object recognised. It was not simply that she had seen it before,nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this spot somethingimportant had happened to her--that the place had an air of association.Then she remembered that she had been sitting there, six years before,when a servant brought her from the house the letter in which CasparGoodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that whenshe had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcingthat he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, aninteresting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might havesomething to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now--she feltrather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood thepast came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by whichpersons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of thisagitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influenceof which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I havesaid that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether orno, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of theformer epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this momentshe was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singularabsence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves inthe folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her.There was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in theirseclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long shehad sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilighthad grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. Shequickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what hadbecome of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on theunresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to herin the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprisedher of old.
She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he startedforward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that lookedlike violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by thewrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he hadnot hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there wassomething in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way hehad looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at presentit was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close toher--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almostseemed to her that no one had ever been so close to her as that.All this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she haddisengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You'vefrightened me," she said.
"I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no matter.I came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn't come heredirectly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He tooka fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. Idon't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted tosee you alone. So I've been waiting and walking about. I've walked allover, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There wasa keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because Ihad made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is thatgentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you." Goodwoodspoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank intoherself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let outsail. She had a new sensation he had never produced it before; it wasa feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in hisresolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee,leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemedto darken round them. "I want to speak to you," he repeated; "I'vesomething particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I didthe other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. Icouldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; pleasedon't think I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a momentinto entreaty. "I came here to-day for a purpose. It's very different.It was vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help you."
She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, orbecause such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon but shelistened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deepinto her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; andit was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can youhelp me?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he hadsaid seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.
"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you rememberwhat I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day Iknow on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a goodthing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a good man,a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. Heexplained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member ofyour family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to mycare," said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. "Do you knowwhat he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where hedied? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'll letyou.'"
Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"
"Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, followingher fast. "And he was dying--when a man's dying it's different." Shechecked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening morethan ever; it was
true that he was not the same as that last time. Thathad been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea,which she scented in all her being. "But it doesn't matter!" heexclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hemof her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should haveknown all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin's funeralto see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me any more; forGod's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're themost unhappy of women, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends."
She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?" she cried.
"I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it'snecessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'llspeak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can you pretend you'renot heart-broken? You don't know what to do--you don't know where toturn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind youin Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what itwould cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say itwill"--and he flared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! WhenI know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to saveyou? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see yougo back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay forit!'--that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? Hewas such a near relation!" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim pointagain. "I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say those thingsto me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It wasafter he got home--when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too.I understand all about it: you're afraid to go back. You're perfectlyalone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you knowthat perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of ME."
"To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. Theidea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomedlarge. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it hadbeen a comet in the sky.
"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuadeyou to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shiningeyes. "Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastlyform?"
"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a littleof what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. Shehad believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of thedesert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like meresweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off herfeet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid andstrange, forced open her set teeth.
At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her thathe would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he wasperfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned itall out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only foronce listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking backinto that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It'syou that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Whyshouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'myours for ever--for ever and ever. Here I stand; I'm as firm as a rock.What have you to care about? You've no children; that perhaps would bean obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what youcan of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost apart. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the lookof the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of theworld. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we lookat things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the nextis nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a womandeliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in goingdown into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, andthat's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom underthe sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it thathas the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such aquestion is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were weborn to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew YOUafraid! If you'll only trust me, how little you will be disappointed!The world's all before us--and the world's very big. I know somethingabout that."
Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he werepressing something that hurt her.
"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immensedesire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself saysomething; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had neverseemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the formof a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wantedhelp, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know notwhether she believed everything he said; but she believed just thenthat to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to herdying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which shefelt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with herfeet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest on.
"Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. He had suddenlygiven up argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible,through a confusion of vaguer sounds.
This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as themetaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the restof it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware ofthis. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I beseech youto go away!"
"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried.
She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. "As you loveme, as you pity me, leave me alone!"
He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant shefelt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was likewhite lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; andit was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing inhis hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of hisface, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity andmade one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wreckedand under water following a train of images before they sink. But whendarkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she onlydarted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house;they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--forthe distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (forshe saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She lookedall about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on thelatch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was avery straight path.
Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house inWimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings.He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was openedand Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat andjacket; she was on the point of going out. "Oh, good-morning," he said,"I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond."
Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a gooddeal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Praywhat led you to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me shehad come to London. He believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--insuspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But thismorning she started for Rome."
Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on thedoorstep. "Oh, she started--?" he stammered. And without finishinghis phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn'totherwise move.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put outher hand and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "justyou wait!"
On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with arevulsion, that she simply meant he
was young. She stood shining at himwith that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to hislife. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him nowthe key to patience.
