The Portrait of A Lady (26 page)

Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon the name of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had ceased speaking that he raised them. When he did so, the sight of a certain rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabel's face threw some confusion into his attempt to analyse what she had said. ‘‘I will go home—I will go to-morrow—I will leave you alone,'' he murmured at last. ‘‘Only,'' he added in a louder tone— ‘‘I hate to lose sight of you!''

‘‘Never fear. I will do no harm.''

‘‘You will marry some one else,'' said Caspar Goodwood.

‘‘Do you think that is a generous charge?''

‘‘Why not? Plenty of men will ask you.''

‘‘I told you just now that I don't wish to marry, and that I shall probably never do so.''

‘‘I know you did; but I don't believe it.''

‘‘Thank you very much. You appear to think I am attempting to deceive you; you say very delicate things.''

‘‘Why should I not say that? You have given me no promise that you will not marry.''

‘‘No, that is all that would be wanting!'' cried Isabel, with a bitter laugh.

‘‘You think you won't, but you will,'' her visitor went on, as if he were preparing himself for the worst.

‘‘Very well, I will then. Have it as you please.''

‘‘I don't know, however,'' said Caspar Goodwood, ‘‘that my keeping you in sight would prevent it.''

‘‘Don't you indeed? I am, after all, very much afraid of you. Do you think I am so very easily pleased?'' she asked suddenly, changing her tone.

‘‘No, I don't; I shall try and console myself with that. But there are a certain number of very clever men in the world; if there were only one, it would be enough. You will be sure to take no one who is not.''

‘‘I don't need the aid of a clever man to teach me how to live,'' said Isabel. ‘‘I can find it out for myself.''

‘‘To live alone, do you mean? I wish that when you have found that out, you would teach me.''

Isabel glanced at him a moment; then, with a quick smile—‘‘Oh,
you
ought to marry!'' she said.

Poor Caspar may be pardoned if for an instant this exclamation seemed to him to have the infernal note, and I cannot take upon myself to say that Isabel uttered it in obedience to an impulse strictly celestial. It was a fact, however, that it had always seemed to her that Caspar Goodwood, of all men, ought to enjoy the whole devotion of some tender woman. ‘‘God forgive you!'' he murmured between his teeth, turning away.

Her exclamation had put her slightly in the wrong, and after a moment she felt the need to right herself. The easiest way to do it was to put her suitor in the wrong. ‘‘You do me great injustice—you say what you don't know!'' she broke out. ‘‘I should not be an easy victim—I have proved it.''

‘‘Oh, to me, perfectly.''

‘‘I have proved it to others as well.'' And she paused a moment. ‘‘I refused a proposal of marriage last week— what they call a brilliant one.''

‘‘I am very glad to hear it,'' said the young man, gravely.

‘‘It was a proposal that many girls would have accepted; it had everything to recommend it.'' Isabel had hesitated to tell this story, but now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking it out and doing herself justice took possession of her. ‘‘I was offered a great position and a great fortune—by a person whom I like extremely.''

Caspar gazed at her with great interest. ‘‘Is he an Englishman?''

‘‘He is an English nobleman,'' said Isabel.

Mr. Goodwood received this announcement in silence; then, at last, he said—‘‘I am glad he is disappointed.''

‘‘Well, then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the best of it.''

‘‘I don't call him a companion,'' said Caspar, grimly.

‘‘Why not—since I declined his offer absolutely?''

‘‘That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an Englishman.''

‘‘And pray is not an Englishman a human being?'' Isabel inquired.

‘‘Oh, no; he's superhuman.''

‘‘You are angry,'' said the girl. ‘‘We have discussed this matter quite enough.''

‘‘Oh, yes. I am angry. I plead guilty to that!''

Isabel turned away from him, walked to the open window and stood a moment looking into the dusky vacancy of the street, where a turbid gas-light alone represented social animation. For some time neither of these young persons spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece, with his eyes gloomily fixed upon our heroine. She had virtually requested him to withdraw—he knew that; but at the risk of making himself odious to her he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him to be easily forfeited, and he had sailed across the Atlantic to extract some pledge from her. Presently she left the window and stood before him again.

‘‘You do me very little justice,'' she said, ‘‘—after my telling you what I told you just now. I am sorry I told you—since it matters so little to you.''

‘‘Ah,'' cried the young man, ‘‘if you were thinking of
me
when you did it!'' And then he paused, with the fear that she might contradict so happy a thought.

‘‘I was thinking of you a little,'' said Isabel.

‘‘A little? I don't understand. If the knowledge that I love you had any weight with you at all, it must have had a good deal.''

Isabel shook her head impatiently, as if to carry off a blush. ‘‘I have refused a noble gentleman. Make the most of that.''

‘‘I thank you, then,'' said Caspar Goodwood, gravely. ‘‘I thank you immensely.''

‘‘And now you had better go home.''

‘‘May I not see you again?'' he asked.

‘‘I think it is better not. You will be sure to talk of this, and you see it leads to nothing.''

‘‘I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you.''

Isabel reflected a little, and then she said—‘‘I return in a day or two to my uncle's, and I can't propose to you to come there; it would be very inconsistent.''

Caspar Goodwood, on his side, debated within himself. ‘‘You must do me justice too. I received an invitation to your uncle's more than a week ago, and I declined it.''

‘‘From whom was your invitation?'' Isabel asked, surprised.

‘‘From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I declined it because I had not your authorization to accept it. The suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me appeared to have come from Miss Stackpole.''

‘‘It certainly did not come from me. Henrietta certainly goes very far,'' Isabel added.

‘‘Don't be too hard on her—that touches me.''

‘‘No; if you declined, that was very proper of you, and I thank you for it.'' And Isabel gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought that Lord Warburton and Mr. Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt: it would have been so awkward for Lord Warburton!

‘‘When you leave your uncle, where are you going?'' Caspar asked.

‘‘I shall go abroad with my aunt—to Florence and other places.''

The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young man's heart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which he was inexorably excluded. Nevertheless he went on quickly with his questions. ‘‘And when shall you come back to America?''

‘‘Perhaps not for a long time; I am very happy here.''

‘‘Do you mean to give up your country?''

‘‘Don't be an infant.''

‘‘Well, you will be out of my sight indeed!'' said Caspar Goodwood.

‘‘I don't know,'' she answered, rather grandly. ‘‘The world strikes me as small.''

‘‘It is too large for me!'' Caspar exclaimed, with a simplicity which our young lady might have found touching if her face had not been set against concessions.

This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment—‘‘Don't think me unkind if I say that it's just that—being out of your sight—that I like. If you were in the same place as I, I should feel as if you were watching me, and I don't like that. I like my liberty too much. If there is a thing in the world that I am fond of,'' Isabel went on, with a slight recurrence of the grandeur that had shown itself a moment before, ‘‘it is my personal independence.''

But whatever there was of grandeur in this speech moved Caspar Goodwood's admiration; there was nothing that displeased him in the sort of feeling it expressed. This feeling not only did no violence to his way of looking at the girl he wished to make his wife, but seemed a grace the more in so ardent a spirit. To his mind she had always had wings, and this was but the flutter of those stainless pinions. He was not afraid of having a wife with certain largeness of movement; he was a man of long steps himself. Isabel's words, if they had been meant to shock him, failed of the mark, and only made him smile with the sense that here was common ground. ‘‘Who would wish less to curtail your liberty than I?'' he asked. ‘‘What can give me greater pleasure than to see you perfectly independent—doing whatever you like? It is to make you independent that I want to marry you.''

‘‘That's a beautiful sophism,'' said the girl, with a smile more beautiful still.

‘‘An unmarried woman—a girl of your age—is not independent. There are all sorts of things she can't do. She is hampered at every step.''

‘‘That's as she looks at the question,'' Isabel answered, with much spirit. ‘‘I am not in my first youth—I can do what I choose—I belong quite to the independent class. I have neither father nor mother; I am poor; I am of a serious disposition, and not pretty. I therefore am not bound to be timid and conventional; indeed I can't afford such luxuries. Besides, I try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more honourable than not to judge at all. I don't wish to be a mere sheep in the flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something of human affairs beyond what other people think it compatible with propriety to tell me.'' She paused a moment, but not long enough for her companion to reply. He was apparently on the point of doing so, when she went on— ‘‘Let me say this to you, Mr. Goodwood. You are so kind as to speak of being afraid of my marrying. If you should hear a rumour that I am on the point of doing so—girls are liable to have such things said about them—remember what I have told you about my love of liberty, and venture to doubt it.''

There was something almost passionately positive in the tone in which Isabel gave him this advice, and he saw a shining candour in her eyes which helped him to believe her. On the whole he felt reassured, and you might have perceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly—‘‘You want simply to travel for two years? I am quite willing to wait two years, and you may do what you like in the interval. If that is all you want, pray say so. I don't want you to be conventional; do I strike you as conventional myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind is quite good enough for me; but if it interests you to wander about awhile and see different countries, I shall be delighted to help you, in any way in my power.''

‘‘You are very generous; that is nothing new to me. The best way to help me will be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as possible.''

‘‘One would think you were going to commit a crime!'' said Caspar Goodwood.

‘‘Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that, if the fancy takes me.''

‘‘Well then,'' he said, slowly, ‘‘I will go home.'' And he put out his hand, trying to look contented and confident.

Isabel's confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of committing a crime; but, turn it over as he would, there was something ominous in the way she reserved her option. As Isabel took his hand, she felt a great respect for him; she knew how much he cared for her, and she thought him magnanimous. They stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a handclasp which was not merely passive on her side. ‘‘That's right,'' she said, very kindly, almost tenderly. ‘‘You will lose nothing by being a reasonable man.''

‘‘But I will come back, wherever you are, two years hence,'' he returned, with characteristic grimness.

We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she suddenly changed her note. ‘‘Ah, remember, I promise nothing—absolutely nothing!'' Then more softly, as if to help him to leave her, she added—‘‘And remember, too, that I shall not be an easy victim!''

‘‘You will get very sick of your independence.''

‘‘Perhaps I shall; it is even very probable. When that day comes I shall be very glad to see you.''

She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her own room, and she waited a moment to see whether her visitor would not take his departure. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an immense unwillingness in his attitude—a deep remonstrance in his eyes.

‘‘I must leave you now,'' said Isabel; and she opened the door, and passed into the other room.

This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague radiance sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and Isabel could make out the masses of the furniture, the dim shining of the mirror, and the looming of the big four-postered bed. She stood still a moment, listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the sitting-room and close the door behind him. She stood still a moment longer, and then, by an irresistible impulse, she dropped on her knees before her bed, and hid her face in her arms.