by Henry James
CHAPTER XI
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even whenMiss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. Hebethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneousorganisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted arepresentative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with herin strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal oftact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacleto the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the generalapplication of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciationherself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, renderedIsabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--hersituation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had shenot conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom shehad at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of thehouse. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was ofthe lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpolebehaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuressand a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she hadexpressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her ownaffair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrictthe girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a verysmall society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think Ilike any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. Whenit comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like MissStackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so muchtoo loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which onedoesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and Idetest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if Iprefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tellyou that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detestboarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt agreat deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almosttoo much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there'sno use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two afterMiss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions onAmerican hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the partof the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of herprofession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every formof caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotelswere the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewedstruggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healingthe breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that theestablishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. Thiscontribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected withscorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they werethe worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett."I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treatedas an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're theslaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and thenegro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" MissStackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, nowonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenelysaid. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones inFlorence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't helpobserving. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surroundingme in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimedMrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husbandasked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph."It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. MissStackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was somethingtreasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which sheprivately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It wasperhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she sufferedsome days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dearfriend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool Isaid I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me whatit is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I hadforgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it."You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You'rechanged--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," saidIsabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which triedIsabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean thatyou're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughingat?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in thesteamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has comeafter you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly."He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned alittle pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could havetalked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; hedrank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn'tto be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and hisearnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look sohandsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwoodhimself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered noanswer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of greatconfidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've beenaffected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwoo
d!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with aslightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he askyou to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when hebade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friendcontinued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas aspossible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old oneshave been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regardto Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacableglitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwoodwhat he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for shedisliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpoleanswered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. Heis a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always dosomething, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but ittouched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man'sof that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," saidIsabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you havechanged. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in thealarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood wouldpresent himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated herdisbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feelingpressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be achange of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been soagreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would befor the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. Shehad walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, andafter strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless andrestless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of thehouse, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamentedwith black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a gracefuland harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments withtalking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownershipdivided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--asimpartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathieswould allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had beenmainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she woulddo well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had beenable, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seatof consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not tobe denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she hadreminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a completeset of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool greenturf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by thearrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore theLondon postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into hervision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voiceor his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of mycoming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be asurprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal atAlbany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had theright on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you wouldlet me bring you over to my conviction my reasons for entertaining thishope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted thatyou were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, youare not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it isthat I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm notdisagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that shouldbe. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at homeafter you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. IfI like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I havebeen to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not comeand see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish ofyours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had notperceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing beforeher.