The Portrait of A Lady (14 page)

‘‘Ah, I am afraid he is an imposter!'' Isabel exclaimed. ‘‘Don't you think it's a false position?''

Her companions, evidently, were rapidly getting bewildered. ‘‘My brother's position?'' Miss Molyneux inquired.

‘‘It's thought a very good position,'' said the younger sister. ‘‘It's the first position in the county.''

‘‘I suspect you think me very irreverent,'' Isabel took occasion to observe. ‘‘I suppose you revere your brother, and are rather afraid of him.''

‘‘Of course one looks up to one's brother,'' said Miss Molyneux, simply.

‘‘If you do that, he must be very good—because you, evidently, are very good.''

‘‘He is most kind. It will never be known, the good he does.''

‘‘His ability is known,'' Mildred added; ‘‘every one thinks it's immense.''

‘‘Oh, I can see that,'' said Isabel. ‘‘But if I were he, I should wish to be a conservative. I should wish to keep everything.''

‘‘I think one ought to be liberal,'' Mildred argued, gently. ‘‘We have always been so, even from the earliest times.''

‘‘Ah well,'' said Isabel, ‘‘you have made a great success of it; I don't wonder you like it. I see you are very fond of crewels.''

When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after lunch, it seemed to her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it had been a good deal modernized—some of its best points had lost their purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout, grey pile, of the softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still moat, it seemed to Isabel a castle in a fairy-tale. The day was cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck; and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come to lunch, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him—time enough to institute a search for theological characteristics and give it up as vain. The characteristics of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure, a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite, and a tendency to abundant laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin that, before taking orders, he had been a mighty wrestler, and that he was still, on occasion—in the privacy of the family circle as it were—quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him—she was in the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised some ingenuity in engaging his youngest visitor in a stroll somewhat apart from the others.

‘‘I wish you to see the place properly, seriously,'' he said. ‘‘You can't do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip.'' His own conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which had a very curious history) was not purely archæological; he reverted at intervals to matters more personal—matters personal to the young lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration, returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, ‘‘Ah, well,'' he said, ‘‘I am very glad indeed you like the old house. I wish you could see more of it—that you could stay here awhile. My sisters have taken an immense fancy to you—if that would be any inducement.''

‘‘There is no want of inducements,'' Isabel answered; ‘‘but I am afraid I can't make engagements. I am quite in my aunt's hands.''

‘‘Ah, excuse me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I am pretty sure you can do whatever you want.''

‘‘I am sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice impression to make.''

‘‘It has the merit of permitting me to hope.'' And Lord Warburton paused a moment.

‘‘To hope what?''

‘‘That in future I may see you often.''

‘‘Ah,'' said Isabel, ‘‘to enjoy that pleasure, I needn't be so terribly emancipated.''

‘‘Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle likes me.''

‘‘You are very much mistaken. I have heard him speak very highly of you.''

‘‘I am glad you have talked about me,'' said Lord Warburton. ‘‘But, all the same, I don't think he would like me to keep coming to Gardencourt.''

‘‘I can't answer for my uncle's tastes,'' the girl rejoined, ‘‘though I ought, as far as possible, to take them into account. But, for myself, I shall be very glad to see you.''

‘‘Now that's what I like to hear you say. I am charmed when you say that.''

‘‘You are easily charmed, my lord,'' said Isabel.

‘‘No, I am not easily charmed!'' And then he stopped a moment. ‘‘But you have charmed me, Miss Archer,'' he added.

These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave; she had heard the sound before, and she recognized it. She had no wish, however, that for the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said, as gaily as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would allow her, ‘‘I am afraid there is no prospect of my being able to come here again.''

‘‘Never?'' said Lord Warburton.

‘‘I won't say ‘never'; I should feel very melodramatic.''

‘‘May I come and see you then some day next week?''

‘‘Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?''

‘‘Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I have a sort of sense that you are always judging people.''

‘‘You don't of necessity lose by that.''

‘‘It is very kind of you to say so; but even if I gain, stern justice is not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?''

‘‘I hope so.''

‘‘Is England not good enough for you?''

‘‘That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I want very much to see foreign lands as well.''

‘‘Then you will go on judging, I suppose.''

‘‘Enjoying, I hope, too.''

‘‘Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you are up to,'' said Lord Warburton. ‘‘You strike me as having mysterious purposes—vast designs!''

‘‘You are so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of my fellow-countrymen—the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign travel?''

‘‘You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer,'' her companion declared. ‘‘It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us.''

‘‘Despises you? You are making fun of me,'' said Isabel, seriously.

‘‘Well, you think us picturesque—that's the same thing. I won't be thought picturesque, to begin with; I am not so in the least. I protest.''

‘‘That protest is one of the most picturesque things I have ever heard,'' Isabel answered with a smile.

Lord Warburton was silent a moment. ‘‘You judge only from the outside—you don't care,'' he said presently. ‘‘You only care to amuse yourself!'' The note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed with it now was an audible strain of bitterness— a bitterness so abrupt and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had often heard that the English were a highly eccentric people; and she had even read in some ingenious author that they were, at bottom, the most romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic—was he going to make a scene, in his own house, only the third time they had met? She was reassured, quickly enough, by her sense of his great good manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little, and without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her—‘‘I don't mean, of course, that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials; the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of nations!''

‘‘As regards that,'' said Isabel, ‘‘I should find in my own nation entertainment for a lifetime. But we have a long drive, and my aunt will soon wish to start.'' She turned back toward the others, and Lord Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the others—‘‘I shall come and see you next week,'' he said.

She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that she could not pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one. Nevertheless, she made answer to this declaration, coldly enough, ‘‘Just as you please.'' And her coldness was not coquetry—a quality that she possessed in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable to many critics; it came from a certain fear.

10

THE day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend, Miss Stackpole—a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. ‘‘Here I am, my lovely friend,'' Miss Stackpole wrote; ‘‘I managed to get off at last. I decided only the night before I left New York—the
Interviewer
having come round to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you, and where can we meet? I suppose you are visiting at some castle or other, and have already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps, even, you have married a lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first people, and shall count on you for a few. The
Interviewer
wants some light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know that whatever I am, at least I am not superficial. I have also something very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can; come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you), or else let me come to you,
wherever you are.
I will do so with pleasure; for you know everything interests me, and I wish to see as much as possible of the inner life.''

Isabel did not show this letter to her uncle; but she acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. ‘‘Though she is a literary lady,'' he said, ‘‘I suppose that, being an American, she won't reproduce me, as that other one did. She has seen others like me.''

‘‘She has seen no other so delightful!'' Isabel answered; but she was not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this enterprising young woman lost no time in signifying her intention of arriving. She had gone up to London, and it was from the metropolis that she took the train for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive the visitor.

‘‘Shall I love her, or shall I hate her?'' asked Ralph, while they stood on the platform, before the advent of the train.

‘‘Whichever you do will matter very little to her,'' said Isabel. ‘‘She doesn't care a straw what men think of her.''

‘‘As a man I am bound to dislike her, then. She must be a kind of monster. Is she very ugly?''

‘‘No, she is decidedly pretty.''

‘‘A female interviewer—a reporter in petticoats? I am very curious to see her,'' Ralph declared.

‘‘It is very easy to laugh at her, but it is not easy to be as brave as she.''

‘‘I should think not; interviewing requires bravery. Do you suppose she will interview me?''

‘‘Never in the world. She will not think you of enough importance.''

‘‘You will see,'' said Ralph. ‘‘She will send a description of us all, including Bunchie, to her newspaper.''

‘‘I shall ask her not to,'' Isabel answered.

‘‘You think she is capable of it, then.''

‘‘Perfectly.''

‘‘And yet you have made her your bosom friend?''

‘‘I have not made her my bosom friend; but I like her, in spite of her faults.''

‘‘Ah, well,'' said Ralph, ‘‘I am afraid I shall dislike her, in spite of her merits.''

‘‘You will probably fall in love with her at the end of three days.''

‘‘And have my love-letters published in the
Interviewer
? Never!'' cried the young man.

The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, proved to be, as Isabel had said, decidedly pretty. She was a fair, plump person, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back of her head, and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, who was somewhat disconcerted by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which seemed to indicate that it would not be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. She was very well dressed, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was scrupulously, fastidiously neat. From top to toe she carried not an ink-stain. She spoke in a clear, high voice—a voice not rich, but loud, though after she had taken her place, with her companions, in Mr. Touchett's carriage, she struck him, rather to his surprise, as not an abundant talker. She answered the inquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with a great deal of precision and distinctness; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear), did more to give the measure of her conversational powers.