The Portrait of A Lady (22 page)

He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor.

‘‘I can't even be glad of that,'' he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall, ‘‘for that would be an excuse.''

Isabel raised her eyebrows, with a certain eagerness.

‘‘An excuse? Must I excuse myself?''

He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head.

‘‘Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?''

‘‘I can't object to your political opinions, Lord Warburton,'' said the girl, ‘‘because I don't understand them.''

‘‘You don't care what I think,'' he cried, getting up. ‘‘It's all the same to you.''

Isabel walked away, to the other side of the gallery, and stood there, showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture, as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something young and flexible in her movement, which her companion noticed. Isabel's eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round, her face was pale, and the expression of her eyes was strange.

‘‘That reason that I wouldn't tell you,'' she said, ‘‘I will tell it you, after all. It is that I can't escape my fate.''

‘‘Your fate?''

‘‘I should try to escape it if I should marry you.''

‘‘I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate, as well as anything else?''

‘‘Because it is not,'' said Isabel, femininely. ‘‘I know it is not. It's not my fate to give up—I know it can't be.''

Poor Lord Warburton stared, with an interrogative point in either eye.

‘‘Do you call marrying me giving up?''

‘‘Not in the usual sense. It is getting—getting—getting a great deal. But it is giving up other chances.''

‘‘Other chances?'' Lord Warburton repeated, more and more puzzled.

‘‘I don't mean chances to marry,'' said Isabel, her colour rapidly coming back to her. And then she stooped down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.

‘‘I don't think it is presumptuous in me to say that I think you will gain more than you will lose,'' Lord Warburton observed.

‘‘I can't escape unhappiness,'' said Isabel. ‘‘In marrying you, I shall be trying to.''

‘‘I don't know whether you would try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!'' Lord Warburton exclaimed, with an anxious laugh.

‘‘I must not—I can't!'' cried the girl.

‘‘Well, if you are bent on being miserable, I don't see why you should make me so. Whatever charms unhappiness may have for you, it has none for me.''

‘‘I am not bent on being miserable,'' said Isabel. ‘‘I have always been intensely determined to be happy, and I have often believed I should be. I have told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself.''

‘‘By separating yourself from what?''

‘‘From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer.''

Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope.

‘‘Why, my dear Miss Archer,'' he began to explain, with the most considerate eagerness, ‘‘I don't offer you any exoneration from life, or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I am not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I am devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever—not even from your friend Miss Stackpole.''

‘‘She would never approve of it,'' said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so.

‘‘Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?'' Lord Warburton asked, impatiently. ‘‘I never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds.''

‘‘Now I suppose you are speaking of me,'' said Isabel, with humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.

Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity, and reminded him that she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was expecting some company. He made no answer—apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied—with good reason. Miss Molyneux looked ladylike and patient, and awaited his pleasure.

‘‘Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!'' said Henrietta Stackpole. ‘‘If I wanted to go, he would have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing, he would have to do it.''

‘‘Oh, Warburton does everything one wants,'' Miss Molyneux answered, with a quick, shy laugh. ‘‘How very many pictures you have!'' she went on, turning to Ralph.

‘‘They look a good many, because they are all put together,'' said Ralph. ‘‘But it's really a bad way.''

‘‘Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I am so very fond of pictures,'' Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid that Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.

‘‘Oh yes, pictures are very indispensable,'' said Ralph, who appeared to know better what style of reflection was acceptable to her.

‘‘They are so very pleasant when it rains,'' the young lady continued. ‘‘It rains so very often.''

‘‘I am sorry you are going away, Lord Warburton,'' said Henrietta. ‘‘I wanted to get a great deal more out of you.''

‘‘I am not going away,'' Lord Warburton answered.

‘‘Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies.''

‘‘I am afraid we have got some people to tea,'' said Miss Molyneux, looking at her brother.

‘‘Very good, my dear. We'll go.''

‘‘I hoped you would resist!'' Henrietta exclaimed. ‘‘I wanted to see what Miss Molyneux would do.''

‘‘I never do anything,'' said this young lady.

‘‘I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!'' Miss Stackpole rejoined. ‘‘I should like very much to see you at home.''

‘‘You must come to Lockleigh again,'' said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend.

Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey depths the reflection of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton—the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux, and then she said: ‘‘I am afraid I can never come again.''

‘‘Never again?''

‘‘I am afraid I am going away.''

‘‘Oh, I am so very sorry,'' said Miss Molyneux. ‘‘I think that's so very wrong of you.''

Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture, with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.

‘‘I should like to see you at home,'' said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton found beside him. ‘‘I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a great many questions I wish to ask you.''

‘‘I shall be delighted to see you,'' the proprietor of Lockleigh answered; ‘‘but I am certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When will you come?''

‘‘Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We are thinking of going to London, but we will go and see you first. I am determined to get some satisfaction out of you.''

‘‘If it depends upon Miss Archer, I am afraid you won't get much. She will not come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place.''

‘‘She told me it was lovely!'' said Henrietta.

Lord Warburton hesitated a moment.

‘‘She won't come, all the same. You had better come alone,'' he added.

Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded.

‘‘Would you make that remark to an English lady?'' she inquired, with soft asperity.

Lord Warburton stared.

‘‘Yes, if I liked her enough.''

‘‘You would be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit your place again, it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same—that I oughtn't to bring in individuals.''

Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character, and did not catch her allusion.

‘‘Miss Archer has been warning you!'' she went on.

‘‘Warning me?''

‘‘Isn't that why she came off alone with you here—to put you on your guard?''

‘‘Oh, dear no,'' said Lord Warburton, blushing; ‘‘our talk had no such solemn character as that.''

‘‘Well, you have been on your guard—intensely. I suppose it's natural to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss Molyneux—she wouldn't commit herself.
You
have been warned, anyway,'' Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady, ‘‘but for you it wasn't necessary.''

‘‘I hope not,'' said Miss Molyneux, vaguely.

‘‘Miss Stackpole takes notes,'' Ralph explained, humorously. ‘‘She is a great satirist; she sees through us all, and she works us up.''

‘‘Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!'' Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton, and from this nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. ‘‘There is something the matter with you all; you are as dismal as if you had got a bad telegram.''

‘‘You do see through us, Miss Stackpole,'' said Ralph in a low tone, giving her a little intelligent nod, as he led the party out of the gallery. ‘‘There is something the matter with us all.''

Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side, with his hands behind him, and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then: ‘‘Is it true that you are going to London?'' he asked.

‘‘I believe it has been arranged.''

‘‘And when shall you come back?''

‘‘In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I am going to Paris with my aunt.''

‘‘When, then, shall I see you again?''

‘‘Not for a good while,'' said Isabel; ‘‘but some day or other, I hope.''

‘‘Do you really hope it?''

‘‘Very much.''

He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped, and put out his hand.

‘‘Good-bye.''

‘‘Good-bye,'' said Isabel.

Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart; after which, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room.

In this apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the drawing-room.

‘‘I may as well tell you,'' said her aunt, ‘‘that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton.''

Isabel hesitated an instant.

‘‘Relations? They are hardly relations. That is the strange part of it; he has seen me but three or four times.''

‘‘Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?'' Mrs. Touchett inquired, dryly, but dispassionately.

Again Isabel hesitated.

‘‘Because he knows Lord Warburton better.''

‘‘Yes, but I know you better.''

‘‘I am not sure of that,'' said Isabel, smiling.

‘‘Neither am I, after all; especially when you smile that way. One would think you had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better.''

‘‘Ah, my uncle didn't say that!'' cried Isabel, smiling still.

15

IT had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to London under Ralph's escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little favour upon the plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she inquired if the correspondent of the
Interviewer
was to take the party to stay at a boarding-house.

‘‘I don't care where she takes us to stay, so long as there is local colour,'' said Isabel. ‘‘That is what we are going to London for.''

‘‘I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord she may do anything,'' her aunt rejoined. ‘‘After that one needn't stand on trifles.''

‘‘Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton?'' Isabel inquired.

‘‘Of course I should.''

‘‘I thought you disliked the English so much.''

‘‘So I do; but it's all the more reason for making use of them.''

‘‘Is that your idea of marriage?'' And Isabel ventured to add that her aunt appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett.