chapter
stringlengths 277
57.9k
| text
stringlengths 47
20.9k
| type
stringclasses 2
values |
|---|---|---|
There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.
The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment
only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned
at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got
up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her
extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect
was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision
that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,
seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her
falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these
dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the
room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of
handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It
made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot
she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to
her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off
not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her
habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she
had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a
peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw
that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the
whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her
young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a
cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their
last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had
been irritated then, she was reconciled now.
"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes
this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after
noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let
her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished
never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here,
and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see
why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've
been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There
was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply
and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could
not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not
been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long
with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon
that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.
It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I
can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the
chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;
still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I
stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not
in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a
maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears
a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't
find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most
coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says
it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of
heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame
Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the
signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me
go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you
that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was
of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I
requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she
supposed I would treat you!"
So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had
long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases
and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's
ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse
in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle
modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely
new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in
the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in
the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person
who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a
very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was
tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of
women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed
on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had
the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with
a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her
will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice
refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say
she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able
only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.
Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large
clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might
have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and
saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,
this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with
her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side
of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she
saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become
a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in
which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry
staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,
as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if
she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during
which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous
vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world
standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame
Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see
what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse
her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the
opportunity to defend herself.
"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to
England to-night."
"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.
"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance
to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have
changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a
moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I
don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but
I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet
smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump
white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she
had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly
and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her
myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.
"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be
here."
"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing
laugh.
She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long
staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;
so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine
gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;
then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and
embraced.
"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she
placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement
to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child
look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.
"She looks pale," Isabel answered.
"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la
maison," said the good sister.
Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they
think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to
accommodate.
"We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine
remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and
whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with
a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender
of a personality, the authority of the Church.
When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid
her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while
Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and
looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've
everything I have at home."
"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what
she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had
come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend
to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to
bid you good-bye. I'm going to England."
Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?"
"I don't know when I shall come back."
"Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had
no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.
"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see
him," Isabel said.
"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa
go?"
"No; I shall go alone."
For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she
thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never
by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed
them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel
was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands
and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet
even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have
stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the
saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted
heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would
(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,
so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.
"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel
explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."
"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."
"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing
with me. I can't amuse you."
"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."
"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."
"You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.
"Not very. But it doesn't matter."
"That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to
come out."
"I wish indeed you might."
"Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.
Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come
away with me now?" she asked.
Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"
"No; it's my own proposal."
"I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"
"I don't think he knew I was coming."
"He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are
very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some
very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for
yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished
me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal."
"What have you thought?"
"Well, that I must never displease papa."
"You knew that before."
"Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into
her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been
vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!
Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her
look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's
momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only
her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others,
but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no
vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of
sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her
pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.
Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!
Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave
Rome to-night."
Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's
face. "You look strange, you frighten me."
"Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.
"Perhaps you won't come back?"
"Perhaps not. I can't tell."
"Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"
Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do
for you?" she asked.
"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."
"You can always think of me."
"Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me."
"You must not say that," Isabel observed.
"Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it
more easily."
Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my
child."
Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor
to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked
as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I
don't like Madame Merle!"
Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't
like Madame Merle."
Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a
reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite
gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it
appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she
reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she
called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.
"Yes--I'll come back."
Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of
the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't
go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."
At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking
if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion
assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her
desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm
very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said
in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en
pensez-vous?"
"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."
"We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she
pushed open the door of the parlour.
Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so
absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame
Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been
thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full
possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she
said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."
Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame
Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says
it's enough."
"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about
poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that
he's really at his last?"
"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a
probability."
"I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are
you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her
utterance.
"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."
She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred
to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never
guessed it?"
"He has done me many services."
"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."
"HE made me--?"
Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more
triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required
to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She
stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.
"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."
"Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"
Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by
lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what
you know."
"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."
Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment
with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I
believed it was you I had to thank!"
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."
"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again."
Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out.
|
Before Isabel leaves Rome, she goes to see Pansy at the convent. When she arrives, she is greeted by Madame Merle. She doesnt want to see this person, but knows she must for the sake of appearances. She realizes as she stands there that Madame Merle has sensed her knowledge. She is surprised to recognize that Madame Merle is, for the first time, at a loss for what to say. When she sees Pansy, she cant help but think of the convent as a refined prison. Pansy says her father doesnt think shes had enough confinement, but that she thinks she has had enough. She says she will do anything now that he asks of her. Isabel thinks it is a good thing that Edward Rosier retained a few of his precious keepsakes. Pansy wonders why Isabel looks so intense. Isabel tells her she must leave for England and doesnt know when she will return. Pansy asks her to come back to be with her. She says she will have to obey her father but that if Isabel is there it will be easier to do so. As they part, she tells Isabel she doesnt like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her she must never say that. They embrace and Isabel assures her that she wont desert her. As she goes down the stairs, Pansy calls out to her "Youll come back?" Isabel replies, "Yes-- Ill come back." Isabel is displeased to find out that Madame Merle is still waiting for her. When she says good-bye to Madame Catharine, the nun tells her they all think Pansy has had enough of confinement. Isabel reluctantly goes in to see Madame Merle, who reveals that it was Ralph who arranged for his father to give Isabel her fortune. She says she has just realized it. As Isabel leaves, she says, "I believed it was you I had to thank." Madame Merle says she knows Isabel is unhappy but she is more so. She says she is going to America.
|
summary
|
There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.
The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment
only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned
at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got
up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her
extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect
was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision
that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,
seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her
falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these
dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the
room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of
handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It
made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot
she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to
her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off
not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her
habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she
had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a
peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw
that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the
whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her
young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a
cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their
last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had
been irritated then, she was reconciled now.
"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes
this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after
noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let
her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished
never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here,
and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see
why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've
been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There
was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply
and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could
not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not
been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long
with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon
that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.
It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I
can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the
chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;
still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I
stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not
in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a
maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears
a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't
find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most
coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says
it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of
heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame
Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the
signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me
go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you
that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was
of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I
requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she
supposed I would treat you!"
So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had
long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases
and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's
ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse
in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle
modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely
new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in
the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in
the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person
who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a
very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was
tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of
women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed
on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had
the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with
a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her
will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice
refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say
she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able
only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.
Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large
clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might
have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and
saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,
this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with
her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side
of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she
saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become
a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in
which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry
staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,
as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if
she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during
which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous
vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world
standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame
Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see
what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse
her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the
opportunity to defend herself.
"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to
England to-night."
"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.
"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance
to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have
changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a
moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I
don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but
I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet
smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump
white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she
had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly
and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her
myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.
"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be
here."
"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing
laugh.
She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long
staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;
so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine
gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;
then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and
embraced.
"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she
placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement
to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child
look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.
"She looks pale," Isabel answered.
"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la
maison," said the good sister.
Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they
think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to
accommodate.
"We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine
remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and
whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with
a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender
of a personality, the authority of the Church.
When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid
her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while
Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and
looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've
everything I have at home."
"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what
she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had
come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend
to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to
bid you good-bye. I'm going to England."
Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?"
"I don't know when I shall come back."
"Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had
no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.
"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see
him," Isabel said.
"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa
go?"
"No; I shall go alone."
For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she
thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never
by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed
them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel
was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands
and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet
even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have
stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the
saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted
heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would
(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,
so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.
"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel
explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."
"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."
"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing
with me. I can't amuse you."
"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."
"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."
"You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.
"Not very. But it doesn't matter."
"That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to
come out."
"I wish indeed you might."
"Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.
Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come
away with me now?" she asked.
Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"
"No; it's my own proposal."
"I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"
"I don't think he knew I was coming."
"He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are
very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some
very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for
yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished
me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal."
"What have you thought?"
"Well, that I must never displease papa."
"You knew that before."
"Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into
her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been
vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!
Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her
look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's
momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only
her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others,
but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no
vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of
sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her
pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.
Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!
Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave
Rome to-night."
Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's
face. "You look strange, you frighten me."
"Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.
"Perhaps you won't come back?"
"Perhaps not. I can't tell."
"Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"
Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do
for you?" she asked.
"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."
"You can always think of me."
"Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me."
"You must not say that," Isabel observed.
"Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it
more easily."
Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my
child."
Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor
to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked
as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I
don't like Madame Merle!"
Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't
like Madame Merle."
Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a
reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite
gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it
appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she
reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she
called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.
"Yes--I'll come back."
Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of
the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't
go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."
At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking
if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion
assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her
desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm
very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said
in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en
pensez-vous?"
"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."
"We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she
pushed open the door of the parlour.
Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so
absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame
Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been
thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full
possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she
said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."
Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame
Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says
it's enough."
"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about
poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that
he's really at his last?"
"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a
probability."
"I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are
you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her
utterance.
"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."
She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred
to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never
guessed it?"
"He has done me many services."
"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."
"HE made me--?"
Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more
triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required
to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She
stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.
"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."
"Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"
Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by
lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what
you know."
"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."
Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment
with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I
believed it was you I had to thank!"
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."
"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again."
Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out.
|
Notes The visit to the convent reveals the next greatest plot complication in the novel. If it werent for her ties to Pansy, Isabel could leave Gilbert and Rome forever. She loves Pansy, though, and knows that she is the only part of Pansys life that is not mean-spirited, manipulating, and selfishly cruel. Pansys last appeal, "Youll come back?" is answered quickly by Isabel in the affirmative. Pansy is her daughter in spirit and Isabel it seems will sacrifice her last chance at escape in order to comfort Pansy in her confinement. The chapter is framed by two interviews with Madame Merle. Isabel reluctantly confronts Madame Merle. She realizes that Madame Merle sees her knowledge in her manner. Madame Merle loses her composure momentarily, the only bit of revenge Isabel gets. In the second part of the frame, Madame Merle reveals that it was Ralph who made it so that Isabel would inherit her fortune from her uncle. Since Madame Merle is the one who seized on the opportunities the money provided, it is only right that it would be she who would guess the origins of the money. Strangely, Madame Merles last words are that she will go to America. Its hard to imagine someone like Madame Merle in America, though she is American in origin. It seems as if this last destination is to be regarded as a defeat. All her schemes of marrying a noble or marrying her daughter to a noble have failed. She has realized that Gilbert Osmond is capable of cruelty to their daughter and she has no standing in her daughters life.
|
analysis
|
It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel
descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the
arms, 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 not
definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt
her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from
Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question
the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took
little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they
were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their
course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless
lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,
a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but
it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of
memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their
will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a
logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now
that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much
concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt
to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,
their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their
horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She
remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity
of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that
they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of
use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all
desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.
Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers
it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in
her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had
been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph
his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect
of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything
more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble
tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.
She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as
good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,
simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and
regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures
couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret
now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of
her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle
had 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; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was
going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she
should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into
the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She
saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who
had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of
the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was
evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite
for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a
long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost
enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a
proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live
only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury
of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,
too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be
valuable? 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? It
involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but
Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow
of 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 of
her indifference closed her in.
Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid
she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,
looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she
wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.
She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an
arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,
the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her
with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She
remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty
spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered
how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded
streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the
incident came before her as the deed of another person.
"It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, looking
at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the
proposition. "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 another
figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment
she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little
apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about
him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of
abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their
embraces.
"There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely
caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.
"Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henrietta
exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile
tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she
has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had
quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would."
"I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she
could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave
eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to
remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that
it 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 never
found so interesting.
"Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the two
for a moment together.
They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel
how it had been on the Channel.
"Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her
companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to
Gardencourt, I know."
"Now how do you know that?"
"I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to
Gardencourt."
"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 she
should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.
Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed
a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,
and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask Miss
Stackpole, 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 been
there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he
was 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. He
was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched."
Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Was
that 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 you
to 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 wait
till 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 to
agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught
in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of
losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's
luggage, 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 train
or not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a
corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't
a 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're
in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station
to-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 into
a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her
justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which
she had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene about
your 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. But
she confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy,
as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no
new information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one
criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go
back."
"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 a
complication, but what will going back be?"
"You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said
Henrietta with much intention.
"He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of a
moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."
For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and
then 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 fixed
her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:
"Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I
criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at
least, was born on the other side!"
It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so
modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with
a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately
recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,
"Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your
country?"
"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact
in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in
London."
"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.
"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think
I 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't
need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."
"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good
prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the
other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in
the United States."
"Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever
heard you say anything against your native land."
"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after
all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry."
"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something
of the inner life."
Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good
a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly
diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,
after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she
had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was
a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was
subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her
marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to
Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A
little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. 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 her
country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had
enjoyed 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 thinks
she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern
type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better
or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty
to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should
marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll
never understand my mixture--never!"
"She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appears
to have understood."
"Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really
believe that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the
mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of
fascination."
"It's very good in you to humour it."
"Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And Isabel
saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She
was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.
Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington
Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both
of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his
perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found
out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting
in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had
been on his guard against this deficiency.
"Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave him
her hand.
"I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting on
his neat umbrella.
"Yes, I think it awfully odd."
"You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked
striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.
|
Isabel is greeted by Henrietta Stackpole at Charring Cross railway station. She remembers that five years ago she had walked from this station into the crowd with so much confidence. Now she feels overwhelmed by the mass of people and holds onto Henriettas arm for safety. When she sees Mr. Bantling, she feels relieved. He seems so stable and sure. Henrietta tells her she will be staying the night in London instead of going directly to Gardencourt. Mr. Bantling tells her he just received a wire that day from Gardencourt that Ralph was doing well enough. That evening Henrietta tells her she will be marrying Mr. Bantling. She feels a little disappointed in this news. It seems such an anti-climax for Henrietta. It seems such a departure from what seemed like such an original relationship between a man and a women. Henrietta has been invited to see Lady Pensil, who cant figure her out. She thinks she should be either bad or good. She doesnt understand the modern woman that Henrietta is. The next morning when they arrive at the station and Isabel congratulates Mr. Bantling.
|
summary
|
It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel
descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the
arms, 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 not
definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt
her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from
Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question
the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took
little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they
were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their
course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless
lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,
a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but
it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of
memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their
will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a
logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now
that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much
concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt
to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,
their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their
horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She
remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity
of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that
they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of
use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all
desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.
Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers
it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in
her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had
been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph
his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect
of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything
more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble
tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.
She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as
good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,
simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and
regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures
couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret
now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of
her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle
had 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; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was
going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she
should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into
the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She
saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who
had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of
the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was
evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite
for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a
long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost
enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a
proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live
only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury
of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,
too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be
valuable? 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? It
involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but
Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow
of 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 of
her indifference closed her in.
Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid
she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,
looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she
wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.
She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an
arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,
the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her
with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She
remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty
spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered
how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded
streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the
incident came before her as the deed of another person.
"It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, looking
at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the
proposition. "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 another
figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment
she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little
apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about
him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of
abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their
embraces.
"There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely
caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.
"Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henrietta
exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile
tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she
has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had
quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would."
"I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she
could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave
eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to
remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that
it 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 never
found so interesting.
"Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the two
for a moment together.
They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel
how it had been on the Channel.
"Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her
companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to
Gardencourt, I know."
"Now how do you know that?"
"I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to
Gardencourt."
"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 she
should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.
Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed
a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,
and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask Miss
Stackpole, 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 been
there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he
was 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. He
was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched."
Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Was
that 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 you
to 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 wait
till 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 to
agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught
in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of
losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's
luggage, 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 train
or not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a
corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't
a 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're
in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station
to-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 into
a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her
justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which
she had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene about
your 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. But
she confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy,
as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no
new information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one
criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go
back."
"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 a
complication, but what will going back be?"
"You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said
Henrietta with much intention.
"He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of a
moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."
For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and
then 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 fixed
her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:
"Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I
criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at
least, was born on the other side!"
It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so
modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with
a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately
recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,
"Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your
country?"
"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact
in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in
London."
"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.
"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think
I 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't
need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."
"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good
prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the
other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in
the United States."
"Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever
heard you say anything against your native land."
"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after
all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry."
"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something
of the inner life."
Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good
a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly
diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,
after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she
had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was
a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was
subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her
marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to
Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A
little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. 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 her
country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had
enjoyed 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 thinks
she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern
type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better
or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty
to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should
marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll
never understand my mixture--never!"
"She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appears
to have understood."
"Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really
believe that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the
mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of
fascination."
"It's very good in you to humour it."
"Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And Isabel
saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She
was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.
Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington
Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both
of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his
perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found
out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting
in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had
been on his guard against this deficiency.
"Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave him
her hand.
"I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting on
his neat umbrella.
"Yes, I think it awfully odd."
"You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked
striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.
|
Notes This chapter gives the reader a bit of a respite from the more eventful preceding ones. Its news, that Henrietta Stackpole will marry Mr. Bantling and live in London, is surprising, but not shocking as the news Isabel has been receiving of late about her husband. Perhaps the main function of placing this bit of news here in the novel is that the reader gets a chance to see Isabels jaded response to news of a wedding. She finds it anti-climactic and is a bit disappointed in her original friend.
|
analysis
|
Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even
quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small
household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that
instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown
into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to
her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to
come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as
scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious
things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark
and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The
house was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it
had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She
left the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and
along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep
made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had
seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood
there. She envied the security of valuable "pieces" which change by no
hair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by
inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking
about 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. It
suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just
that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She
might 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 and
precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was
not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had
not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.
Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the
big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her
eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a
repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most
undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first
time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the
matron 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 her
place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's good
for nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there were
anything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be
sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the
nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house."
"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking
everywhere," 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 that
it's always sleep."
"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"
Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was the
limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her
room. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it's
Ralph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have taken
your 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; when
Ralph 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 she
preceded her niece up the staircase.
It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept
in 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 really
no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her.
"None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful
life."
"No--it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself already
contradicting 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 took
the first that came."
"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to
be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemed
to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black
brocade."
"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the
truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her."
"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she
should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been
expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to
America? 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 this
repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the
melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not
to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's
inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to
her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able
to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she
were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately
trying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet;
the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other
hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all
it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had
come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw
herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little
sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not
moved, 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 day
before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed
an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an
accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy;
she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She
none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to
Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome.
"He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And she
paused 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 wished
to 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 least
he'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 place
very soon.
"And who's the young lady?"
"A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of
that 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 just
been made public."
"I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her
aunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness,
and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this
kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone
almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that
ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as
an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show
that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But
meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some
moments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--it
was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed
half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the
city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord
Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course
not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this
intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her
aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other."
Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the
head. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on
with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord
Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was
all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A
servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him
to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her
hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you three
questions," 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," Isabel
answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left
the 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, smiling
still.
"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm
misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow
over 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 and
glad that her aunt's questions were over.
It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been
dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was
there, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended
his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he
was 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 his
mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further
need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew
that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no
sign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised
himself and said he knew that she had come.
How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no
one had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in
the 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 the
rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had
moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take
it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained
perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a
long time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He
might have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the
figure 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 a
strange 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 to
greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was
not 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 had
come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in
a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to
wish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as
if he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would
come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming
had already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were
still together. But they were not always together; there were other
hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening
for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she
thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained
silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess
Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.
"I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless
dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon her
knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him
not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity
serious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner
apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What does it
matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in
making an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always
feel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I
was 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 sitting
there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice
seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face
turned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "It
was very good of you to come," he went on. "I thought you would; but I
wasn'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 the
angel 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 is
not death, dear Ralph."
"Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see
others die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've
had it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With me
it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till
it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't
see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," he
went 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 lay
silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, what
is it you have done for me?"
"What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation half
smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide
things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them
supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You did
something once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have
I 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." Her
voice 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 be
nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in
life 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 accuse
herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the
moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "What
must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I
only 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 to
pray to him. "Is it true--is it true?" she asked.
"True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible
intention 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 face
toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that--but
for 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; he
seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had
it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only
knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were
looking 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 a
little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he
raised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," he
answered.
"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had
been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you
to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's
all 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 this
there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her
head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I always
understood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. You
wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you
were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the
conventional!"
"Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.
He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad about
your 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't
want to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, and
that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my
knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a
long 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 be
pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not
the deepest thing; there's something deeper."
Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in
speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared
to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then
he 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 think
a 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 to
interrupt 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 I
shall 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't
believe--" But he stopped again; his strength failed him.
She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each
other," she said.
"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for
more 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 hated
you've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly and
lingeringly breathed.
"Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.
|
Isabel arrives at Gardencourt. The house is very quiet. She waits a long time for Mrs. Touchett to come down. She wanders through the art gallery thinking of her life. She wonders what would have come of it if Mrs. Touchett had never come to her in Albany and taken her to England. She wonders if she would have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett tells her news of her sisters, who seem to be consumed with curiosity over what Isabel is wearing. She tells her that Lord Warburton is to be married soon to an English lady. At dinner, Mrs. Toucehett asks Isabel if she is sorry she refused Lord Warburton. Isabel assures her that she isnt. Mrs. Touchett interrupts the conversation to say that Isabel must be honest in her answers or she will not be easy to get along with. Isabel tells her it is her husband who cant get along with her. Next, Mrs. Touchett wants to know if Isabel still likes Serena Merle. Isabel says she doesnt but it doesnt matter since shes planning to go to America. Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle must have done something very bad to have to leave Europe. Isabel says "she made a convenience out of me." Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle did the same to her and that she does it to everyone. That evening, Isabel sits with Ralph and for the three days following. On the third night, he rouses himself enough to talk. He tells her shes been like a beautiful angel sitting beside his bed. He tells her he wishes her hard times were over. She bursts into sobs and he asks her what it is that she has done for him in coming to him. She asks him what he has done for her. He says the money he got his father to leave her ruined her chances at happiness. he says, "You wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional!" She agrees that she has been punished. He wants to know if she plans to go back to Rome. She cant answer because she isnt sure. He tells her that even though she feels old now, she will grow young again. He says love remains and that she cant be punished for long for such a generous mistake as the one she made in marrying Gilbert Osmond. He tells her to remember that if she has been hated, she has also been loved, "adored. " She calls him her brother.
|
summary
|
Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even
quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small
household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that
instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown
into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to
her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to
come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as
scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious
things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark
and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The
house was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it
had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She
left the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and
along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep
made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had
seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood
there. She envied the security of valuable "pieces" which change by no
hair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by
inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking
about 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. It
suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just
that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She
might 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 and
precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was
not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had
not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.
Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the
big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her
eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a
repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most
undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first
time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the
matron 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 her
place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's good
for nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there were
anything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be
sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the
nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house."
"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking
everywhere," 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 that
it's always sleep."
"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"
Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was the
limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her
room. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it's
Ralph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have taken
your 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; when
Ralph 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 she
preceded her niece up the staircase.
It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept
in 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 really
no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her.
"None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful
life."
"No--it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself already
contradicting 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 took
the first that came."
"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to
be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemed
to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black
brocade."
"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the
truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her."
"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she
should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been
expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to
America? 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 this
repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the
melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not
to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's
inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to
her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able
to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she
were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately
trying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet;
the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other
hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all
it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had
come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw
herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little
sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not
moved, 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 day
before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed
an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an
accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy;
she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She
none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to
Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome.
"He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And she
paused 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 wished
to 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 least
he'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 place
very soon.
"And who's the young lady?"
"A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of
that 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 just
been made public."
"I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her
aunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness,
and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this
kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone
almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that
ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as
an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show
that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But
meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some
moments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--it
was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed
half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the
city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord
Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course
not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this
intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her
aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other."
Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the
head. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on
with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord
Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was
all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A
servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him
to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her
hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you three
questions," 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," Isabel
answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left
the 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, smiling
still.
"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm
misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow
over 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 and
glad that her aunt's questions were over.
It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been
dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was
there, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended
his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he
was 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 his
mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further
need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew
that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no
sign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised
himself and said he knew that she had come.
How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no
one had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in
the 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 the
rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had
moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take
it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained
perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a
long time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He
might have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the
figure 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 a
strange 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 to
greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was
not 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 had
come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in
a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to
wish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as
if he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would
come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming
had already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were
still together. But they were not always together; there were other
hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening
for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she
thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained
silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess
Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.
"I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless
dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon her
knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him
not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity
serious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner
apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What does it
matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in
making an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always
feel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I
was 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 sitting
there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice
seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face
turned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "It
was very good of you to come," he went on. "I thought you would; but I
wasn'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 the
angel 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 is
not death, dear Ralph."
"Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see
others die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've
had it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With me
it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till
it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't
see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," he
went 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 lay
silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, what
is it you have done for me?"
"What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation half
smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide
things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them
supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You did
something once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have
I 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." Her
voice 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 be
nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in
life 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 accuse
herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the
moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "What
must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I
only 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 to
pray to him. "Is it true--is it true?" she asked.
"True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible
intention 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 face
toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that--but
for 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; he
seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had
it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only
knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were
looking 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 a
little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he
raised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," he
answered.
"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had
been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you
to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's
all 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 this
there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her
head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I always
understood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. You
wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you
were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the
conventional!"
"Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.
He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad about
your 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't
want to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, and
that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my
knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a
long 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 be
pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not
the deepest thing; there's something deeper."
Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in
speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared
to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then
he 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 think
a 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 to
interrupt 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 I
shall 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't
believe--" But he stopped again; his strength failed him.
She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each
other," she said.
"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for
more 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 hated
you've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly and
lingeringly breathed.
"Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.
|
Notes The two conversations in this chapter, one with Mrs. Touchett and one with Ralph, are ones in which Isabel returns to her family and is open about her life. Mrs. Touchett asks her three questions: if she is sorry not to have married Lord Warburton, if she still likes Serena Merle, and the third, unspoken, seems to be if she is happy in her choice of a husband. Isabel replies straightforwardly to each question. In her last conversation with Ralph, Isabel finally relaxes into the comfort of being open about how unhappy her life is. The conversation is very limited in what it reveals. The reader already knows all of it. Its value is in its pathos. Ralph and Isabel are able to show each other how much they love each other and have always done.
|
analysis
|
He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that
if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost
with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled
the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint
dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down
without undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast
the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and such
waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the
night 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 up
from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed
to her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering
figure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his
white face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not
afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty
passed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that
shone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door she
stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that
filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were
lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting
motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his
hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's
further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were
at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but
the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand
in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very
hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had
come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there
was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years
before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt
and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing
neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this
one, 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, disengaging
herself.
Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the
height of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quiet
station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which
stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this
edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself
at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton
himself 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 weather
had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous
May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the
hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it
was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been
dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and
prepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears
that blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the
splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the
bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group
of gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards
learned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she
knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling
beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the
rest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was
conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than
he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon
the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she
thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found
she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt
he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that
pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and
something in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex
intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless
sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the
little group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to
her--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 herself
that it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was
fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been
greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had
left her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting
the 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 were
quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel
thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a
distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder
of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew
back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,
postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must
decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a
decision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound
and now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From
Pansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told
her not to write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance;
she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but
with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs.
Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she
managed to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion
that, after all, such things happened to other people and not to
herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's
death, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would
be disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off than
poor 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. For
herself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. She
made known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was
buried--several of Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told her
everything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money;
of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of
Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the
place for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced by
the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor persons
suffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the
will Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property,
which was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various
bequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his
father had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small
legacies.
"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has left
considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I
asked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at
various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn't
like him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you
had been handsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say I
think you were--though I don't mean that I ever heard him complain of
it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one
by one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to
Lord 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 Miss
Stackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean
her following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It
contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry
it 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'll
set up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?"
This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little
interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her
arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than
to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one
of the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She
was quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at her
command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremony
in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes
often wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, which
looked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modest
vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in
rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had
a high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under
the circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down
from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett
he had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the
validity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house and
wandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she
had been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for
visiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it
struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have just
mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and
if you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad
conscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an
hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge
from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently
proposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She
was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have
drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen
and that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt
was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that,
as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather
stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently
were silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed it
toward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to say
with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenable nobleman you
might have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however,
that was not what they said. They only said "This is rather awkward, you
know, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave, very proper
and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without
a 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's
an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I
brought him out to see for himself."
"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back
in time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly
explained. "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 England
sooner than--a--than you thought?"
"Yes, I came very suddenly."
Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the
grounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton
hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking
about her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He
continued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a
place over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If
he was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he had
the cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel
thought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was
another matter; but it was strangely inexpressive.
"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were
still here--if they had thought you would see them," Lord Warburton went
on. "Do kindly let them see you before you leave England."
"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of
them."
"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 a
little as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more
familiar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course
you're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a
visit. 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 in
England--I would see that there should be literally no one else."
Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be
there with her mamma; but she did not express this idea.
"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I
hardly 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 looked
at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was
that--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. "Take care you
don't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish you every
happiness."
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 very
much." It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her having
reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye,
Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her
eyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to
them. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the two
ladies 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, and
he accepted it."
"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"--while her aunt returned to the house
and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.
She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she
strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the
acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near a
rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as
an 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 something
important 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 Caspar
Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that when
she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing
that he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an
interesting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have
something to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now--she felt
rather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the
past came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which
persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this
agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence
of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have
said that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether or
no, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the
former epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment
she was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular
absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in
the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her.
There was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their
seclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she
had sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight
had grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She
quickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had
become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,
who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the
unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her
in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised
her of old.
She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started
forward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked
like violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by the
wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had
not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was
something in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he
had looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at present
it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to
her--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost
seemed 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 had
disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You've
frightened 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 here
directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took
a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I
don't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted to
see you alone. So I've been waiting and walking about. I've walked all
over, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was
a keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I
had made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is that
gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you." Goodwood
spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.
Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into
herself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out
sail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was
a feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his
resolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee,
leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemed
to darken round them. "I want to speak to you," he repeated; "I've
something particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I did
the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. I
couldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please
don't think I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment
into 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, or
because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she
listened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep
into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and
it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you
help me?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he had
said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.
"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember
what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I
know on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a good
thing 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. He
explained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member of
your family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to my
care," said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. "Do you know
what he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he
died? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'll let
you.'"
Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"
"Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, following
her fast. "And he was dying--when a man's dying it's different." She
checked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening more
than ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That
had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea,
which she scented in all her being. "But it doesn't matter!" he
exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem
of her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have
known all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin's funeral
to see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me any more; for
God's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're the
most 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's
necessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'll
speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can you pretend you're
not heart-broken? You don't know what to do--you don't know where to
turn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind you
in Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what it
would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it
will"--and he flared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! When
I know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save
you? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see you
go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay for
it!'--that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He
was such a near relation!" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point
again. "I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say those things
to me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was
after 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 perfectly
alone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know
that 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. The
idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed
large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had
been a comet in the sky.
"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade
you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining
eyes. "Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastly
form?"
"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a little
of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She
had believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the
desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere
sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her
feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and
strange, forced open her set teeth.
At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that
he would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he was
perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it
all out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for
once listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking back
into that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It's
you that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why
shouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'm
yours 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 be
an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what you
can of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a
part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the look
of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the
world. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look
at things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next
is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woman
deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going
down into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and
that's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under
the sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that
has the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a
question is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we
born to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew YOU
afraid! 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 something
about that."
Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were
pressing something that hurt her.
"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immense
desire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say
something; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never
seemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form
of a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted
help, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not
whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then
that to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her
dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she
felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with her
feet, 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 suddenly
given 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 the
metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest
of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware of
this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I beseech you
to 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 love
me, as you pity me, leave me alone!"
He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she
felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like
white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and
it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in
his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his
face, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and
made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked
and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when
darkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she only
darted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house;
they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for
the distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (for
she saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked
all about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the
latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a
very straight path.
Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in
Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings.
He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened
and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and
jacket; 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 good
deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Pray
what led you to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she
had come to London. He believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in
suspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this
morning she started for Rome."
Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the
doorstep. "Oh, she started--?" he stammered. And without finishing
his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn't
otherwise move.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out
her hand and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just
you wait!"
On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a
revulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him
with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his
life. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now
the key to patience.
|
Isabel remembers that when she first came to Gardencourt, she asked Ralph to show her its ghost. He had told her that she would have to suffer before she could see the ghost. On this night, she finally sees it. She has been in bed, half asleep, but fully clothed, because shes expected Ralph to die during the night. Suddenly, she wakes to see that Ralph is standing beside her bed with his kind face. She rushes to his room and finds that he has died. Lydia Touchett says, "Go and thank God youve no child." At the funeral, she is surprised to see Caspar Goodwood. He seems to have some "complex intention" in being there and it makes Isabel uneasy. She spends the next days wandering around Gardencourt worrying over what to do about returning to Rome. She tires to postpone dealing with it, closing her eyes and trying not to think. Mrs. Touchett tells her about Ralphs behest. He has given his money all away, some to charitable institutions, his library to Henrietta Stackpole, his house to his mother, and nothing whatsoever to Isabel. One day Isabel is at home when she hears that Lord Warburton has arrived to visit. She goes out to the garden, hoping to avoid him. After a while, she sees Mrs. Touchett and Lord Warburton coming out to join them. he looks very solemn and tells her he must leave soon. He invites her to come see his sisters. She congratulates him on his marriage and he blushes. Then he leaves. Mrs. Touchett has already gone inside, so Isabelle wanders around the garden longer. She comes upon the same bench that she had been sitting on six years before when she had gotten word that Caspar Goodwood was in London. At the same bench, Lord Warburton had proposed marriage to her. Just as shes standing there, Caspar Goodwood approaches. He takes her wrist and pulls her down on the bench with him. She feels frightened at his forcefulness. He tells her he spoke with Ralph about her and Ralph asked him to help her in any way he could. He tells her he wants her to come away with him and forget about going back to her hellish existence in Rome. Then he kisses her with great passion. Isabel feels overwhelmed as if she is dying. She feels like she sees all the images of her life flashing in front of her eyes. When he releases her, she rushes back to the house. The next day, Caspar Goodwood knocks on Henrietta Stackpoles door. She is just leaving. He says he is looking for Isabelle whom he has found out has left Gardencourt. Henrietta tells him Isabel has already gone back to Rome. He is shocked at the news. Henrietta tells him not to worry that he just has to wait. At first he thinks shes trying to give him hope about Isabel, but then he realizes she is just being glib about his being young. He feels like he ages thirty years just standing there being consoled with such a "cheap comfort." Henrietta takes his arm and leads him down the street "as if she had given him now the key to patience."
|
summary
|
He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that
if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost
with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled
the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint
dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down
without undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast
the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and such
waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the
night 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 up
from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed
to her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering
figure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his
white face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not
afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty
passed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that
shone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door she
stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that
filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were
lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting
motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his
hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's
further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were
at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but
the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand
in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very
hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had
come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there
was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years
before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt
and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing
neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this
one, 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, disengaging
herself.
Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the
height of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quiet
station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which
stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this
edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself
at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton
himself 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 weather
had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous
May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the
hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it
was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been
dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and
prepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears
that blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the
splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the
bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group
of gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards
learned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she
knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling
beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the
rest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was
conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than
he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon
the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she
thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found
she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt
he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that
pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and
something in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex
intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless
sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the
little group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to
her--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 herself
that it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was
fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been
greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had
left her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting
the 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 were
quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel
thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a
distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder
of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew
back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,
postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must
decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a
decision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound
and now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From
Pansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told
her not to write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance;
she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but
with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs.
Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she
managed to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion
that, after all, such things happened to other people and not to
herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's
death, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would
be disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off than
poor 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. For
herself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. She
made known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was
buried--several of Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told her
everything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money;
of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of
Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the
place for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced by
the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor persons
suffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the
will Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property,
which was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various
bequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his
father had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small
legacies.
"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has left
considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I
asked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at
various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn't
like him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you
had been handsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say I
think you were--though I don't mean that I ever heard him complain of
it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one
by one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to
Lord 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 Miss
Stackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean
her following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It
contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry
it 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'll
set up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?"
This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little
interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her
arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than
to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one
of the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She
was quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at her
command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremony
in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes
often wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, which
looked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modest
vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in
rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had
a high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under
the circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down
from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett
he had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the
validity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house and
wandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she
had been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for
visiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it
struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have just
mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and
if you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad
conscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an
hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge
from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently
proposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She
was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have
drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen
and that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt
was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that,
as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather
stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently
were silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed it
toward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to say
with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenable nobleman you
might have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however,
that was not what they said. They only said "This is rather awkward, you
know, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave, very proper
and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without
a 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's
an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I
brought him out to see for himself."
"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back
in time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly
explained. "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 England
sooner than--a--than you thought?"
"Yes, I came very suddenly."
Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the
grounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton
hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking
about her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He
continued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a
place over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If
he was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he had
the cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel
thought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was
another matter; but it was strangely inexpressive.
"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were
still here--if they had thought you would see them," Lord Warburton went
on. "Do kindly let them see you before you leave England."
"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of
them."
"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 a
little as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more
familiar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course
you're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a
visit. 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 in
England--I would see that there should be literally no one else."
Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be
there with her mamma; but she did not express this idea.
"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I
hardly 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 looked
at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was
that--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. "Take care you
don't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish you every
happiness."
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 very
much." It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her having
reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye,
Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her
eyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to
them. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the two
ladies 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, and
he accepted it."
"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"--while her aunt returned to the house
and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.
She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she
strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the
acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near a
rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as
an 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 something
important 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 Caspar
Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that when
she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing
that he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an
interesting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have
something to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now--she felt
rather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the
past came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which
persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this
agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence
of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have
said that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether or
no, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the
former epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment
she was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular
absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in
the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her.
There was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their
seclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she
had sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight
had grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She
quickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had
become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,
who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the
unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her
in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised
her of old.
She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started
forward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked
like violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by the
wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had
not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was
something in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he
had looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at present
it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to
her--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost
seemed 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 had
disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You've
frightened 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 here
directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took
a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I
don't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted to
see you alone. So I've been waiting and walking about. I've walked all
over, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was
a keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I
had made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is that
gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you." Goodwood
spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.
Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into
herself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out
sail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was
a feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his
resolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee,
leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemed
to darken round them. "I want to speak to you," he repeated; "I've
something particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I did
the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. I
couldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please
don't think I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment
into 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, or
because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she
listened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep
into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and
it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you
help me?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he had
said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.
"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember
what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I
know on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a good
thing 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. He
explained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member of
your family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to my
care," said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. "Do you know
what he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he
died? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'll let
you.'"
Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"
"Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, following
her fast. "And he was dying--when a man's dying it's different." She
checked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening more
than ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That
had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea,
which she scented in all her being. "But it doesn't matter!" he
exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem
of her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have
known all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin's funeral
to see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me any more; for
God's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're the
most 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's
necessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'll
speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can you pretend you're
not heart-broken? You don't know what to do--you don't know where to
turn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind you
in Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what it
would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it
will"--and he flared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! When
I know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save
you? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see you
go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay for
it!'--that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He
was such a near relation!" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point
again. "I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say those things
to me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was
after 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 perfectly
alone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know
that 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. The
idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed
large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had
been a comet in the sky.
"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade
you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining
eyes. "Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastly
form?"
"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a little
of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She
had believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the
desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere
sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her
feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and
strange, forced open her set teeth.
At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that
he would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he was
perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it
all out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for
once listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking back
into that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It's
you that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why
shouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'm
yours 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 be
an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what you
can of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a
part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the look
of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the
world. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look
at things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next
is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woman
deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going
down into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and
that's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under
the sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that
has the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a
question is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we
born to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew YOU
afraid! 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 something
about that."
Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were
pressing something that hurt her.
"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immense
desire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say
something; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never
seemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form
of a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted
help, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not
whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then
that to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her
dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she
felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with her
feet, 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 suddenly
given 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 the
metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest
of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware of
this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I beseech you
to 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 love
me, as you pity me, leave me alone!"
He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she
felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like
white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and
it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in
his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his
face, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and
made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked
and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when
darkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she only
darted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house;
they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for
the distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (for
she saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked
all about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the
latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a
very straight path.
Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in
Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings.
He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened
and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and
jacket; 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 good
deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Pray
what led you to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she
had come to London. He believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in
suspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this
morning she started for Rome."
Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the
doorstep. "Oh, she started--?" he stammered. And without finishing
his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn't
otherwise move.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out
her hand and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just
you wait!"
On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a
revulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him
with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his
life. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now
the key to patience.
|
Notes Henry Jamess sense of the dramatic helps him set the stage of the last scene of the novel. He places Isabel at the same bench in the gardens of Gardencourt at which she received Caspar Goodwoods telegram announcing he had followed her to Europe, and at which she had received Lord Warburtons proposal. Here again, she sees the two men. Here again, she sends them both away and goes to the alternative, Gilbert Osmond. It seems that at the end of the novel, these choices are still fixed. She still finds Lord Warburton kind but less than compelling and she still finds Caspar Goodwood too compelling. In fact, here, he kisses her against her will, sending her running for the house and, very soon, back to Rome and Gilbert Osmond.
|
analysis
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.