The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XII

  She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile ofwelcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at hercoolness.

  "They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton "and as therewas no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, Icame out with no more ado."

  Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should notsit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."

  "Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over fromLockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendlyand pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance ofgood-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl'sfirst impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine Juneweather.

  "We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divestherself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and whowished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity aboutit. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her onthat occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed ofseveral elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeedspent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating thepleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her fromthe painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was bothprecipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, ifthe charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit ofthe former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorialmagnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with hercharms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with itreally more questions than it would answer. She had received a strongimpression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself inexamining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidenceof her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been momentswhen this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her anaggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree ofan inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been nopersonages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such atall in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence shehad thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what onemight like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was acharacter--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto hervisions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largelywith moral images--things as to which the question would be whether theypleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largelyand brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not tobe measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort ofappreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judgingquickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared todemand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed todo. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnatehad conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which herather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtuallyshe had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other thingsbesides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; thata girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that itwould be very interesting to see something of his system from his ownpoint of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently agreat deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of everyhour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupidwhich would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man latelycome from America who had no system at all, but who had a characterof which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that theimpression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried inher pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany whodebated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offeredhimself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could dobetter. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a greatdeal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have thesatisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise onlyat the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a directappeal to charity.

  Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything thatIsabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual airof being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled besideher for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her knowit, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirectedlaughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may returnto it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people inthe world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He wasabout to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displeasea great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommendit. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queercountry across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as theywere generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifiesa man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent abouttwenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--theperversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of themost liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, asexemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he hadlooked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them fromhis thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in hisbuttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part ofa lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeableto his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is notdiscredited by irritating associations.

  "I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed hercompanion's hesitancy.

  "It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought mehere."

  "Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more surethat he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge himif he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if heproceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which afew weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an oldEnglish country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (asshe supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, oncareful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies withherself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeededscarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.

  "I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only foryou."

  "You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and Ican't believe you're serious."

  These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubtwhatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, ofwhich she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered wouldhave excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, ifanything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburtonwas not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone inwhich he replied would quite have served the purpose.

  "One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months itwould make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than Iam to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression datesfrom the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with youthen. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not afancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those twodays I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I wasdoing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the gre
atest possibleattention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost uponme. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you wentaway--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think itover and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I'vedone nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a veryjudicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it'sfor life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburtonrepeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had everheard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passionthat had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in awindless place.

  By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, howlittle you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew herhand away.

  "Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappyenough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seemsto me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall knowyou, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be ableto say it's from ignorance."

  "If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.

  "You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like merather, don't you?"

  "I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this momentshe liked him immensely.

  "I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as astranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of lifevery creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in whichI offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask thepeople who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."

  "I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.

  "Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."

  "Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, withthe pleasure of feeling she did.

  The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave along exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me loseall I possess!"

  She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as hewould have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to thememory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offeringhis hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mindwas tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what itwas best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. Whatshe should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to saysomething if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. Hiswords had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all somysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for youroffer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour."

  "Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say somethinglike that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. Idon't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you forlistening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with sucha thumper! Of course it's a great question I must tell you thatI'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you'velistened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope."

  "Don't hope too much," Isabel said.

  "Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in hisseriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the playof high spirits, the exuberance of elation.

  "Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope atall?" Isabel asked.

  "Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;it would be a feeling very much worse."

  Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very surethat, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I shouldknow you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that youwouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out ofconventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."

  "I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.

  "It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."

  "I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over aslong as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait along time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends onyour answer."

  "I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.

  "Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hencethan a bad one to-day."

  "But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be ableto give you one that you'd think good."

  "Why not, since you really like me?"

  "Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.

  "Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"

  "It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suityou; I really don't think I should."

  "You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a betterroyalist than the king."

  "It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry anyone."

  "Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin thatway," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the leastbelieve in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "Butthey're frequently persuaded."

  "Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Hersuitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence."I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," hesaid presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your owncountry."

  Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had neveroccurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonialprospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"

  "I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americansgenerally."

  "He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England."Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, butwhich expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outwardfelicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take arestricted view.

  It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah,my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, youknow! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little."

  "Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it thisway."

  "Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see yourobjection to what I propose."

  "I'm afraid I can't make you understand."

  "You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are youafraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."

  These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like theembrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in herface, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strangegardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger atthat moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "LordWarburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." Butthough she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to moveback into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature ina vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatestshe could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying wassomething very different--something that deferred the need of reallyfacing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no moreabout this to-day."

  "Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you forthe world."

  "You've given me a great
deal to think about, and I promise you to do itjustice."

  "That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember howabsolutely my happiness is in your hands."

  Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she saidafter a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is someway of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting youknow it without making you miserable."

  "There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuseme you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shalllive to no purpose."

  "You'll live to marry a better woman than I."

  "Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fairto neither of us."

  "To marry a worse one then."

  "If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all Ican say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accountingfor tastes."

  His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by againrequesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to youmyself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."

  "At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it mustseem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."

  "I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind alittle."

  He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with hishands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Doyou know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?"

  Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question madeher start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned hislook a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost haveappealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.

  His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the facultyof pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.

  "I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."

  "Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." Andthen he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance ofBunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been saidand of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit ofcuriosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more,"he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it'sdamp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles ofit. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn'tdream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; thereare plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don'tlike a moat, you know. Good-bye."

  "I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."

  He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment longenough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, stillagitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, hewalked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.

  Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she wouldhave imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a greatdifficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in thequestion. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton the idea failed to supportany enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life thatshe had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty wascomparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that itstruck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her solittle to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualificationsone would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; thesituation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, mightcontain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out oftwenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why thenupon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view oflife, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she thatpretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If shewouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she mustdo something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself fromtime to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could bemore sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: theisolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of adesert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her acceptingLord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was soconscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was thevery softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him toomuch to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there wasa fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he sawit--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency tocriticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised himshe would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, shewandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself inmeditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. Butthis was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going ratherquickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, reallyfrightened at herself.