The Portrait of A Lady (12 page)

These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his puzzling over them. It even suggested that there might be a compensation for the intolerable
ennui
of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether he were falling in love with this spontaneous young woman from Albany; but he decided that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for a week, he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a thoroughly interesting woman. Ralph wondered how Lord Warburton had found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was conscious that she was an entertainment of a high order. ‘‘A character like that,'' he said to himself, ‘‘is the finest thing in nature. It is finer than the finest work of art—than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic cathedral. It is very pleasant to be so well-treated where one least looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week before she came; I had never expected less that something agreeable would happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall—a Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful edifice is thrust into my hand, and I am told to walk in and admire. My poor boy, you have been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very quiet and never grumble again.'' The sentiment of these reflections was very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside, and admired it greatly; he looked in at the windows, and received an impression of proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses, and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature; but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular, for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitude more or less gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of having intentions of her own. ‘‘Whenever she executes them,'' said Ralph, ‘‘may I be there to see!''

It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr. Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of a rather grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself to Ralph, duty and inclination were harmoniously mingled. He was not a great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin—a pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate; and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a phaeton—a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it largely, and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to the groom as ‘‘knowing,'' was never weary of driving her uncle's capital horses through winding lanes and by-ways full of the rural incidents she had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered, past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When they reached home, they usually found that tea had been served upon the lawn, and that Mrs. Touchett had not absolved herself from the obligation of handing her husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her knitting, and wearing that appearance of extraordinary meditation with which some ladies contemplate the movement of their needles.

One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young people, after spending an hour upon the river, strolled back to the house and perceived Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau, and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he had made indeed a tolerably vivid impression on her mind, and she had thought of him several times. She had hoped that she should see him again—hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the place itself was so delightful, her uncle was such a perfection of an uncle, and Ralph was so unlike any cousin she had ever encountered—her view of cousins being rather monotonous. Then her impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as yet hardly a sense of vacancy in the prospect. But Isabel had need to remind herself that she was interested in human nature, and that her foremost hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people. When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, ‘‘I wonder you find this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of our friends—because we have really got a few, though you would never suppose it''—when he offered to invite what he called a ‘‘lot of people,'' and make the young girl acquainted with English society, she encouraged the hospitable impulse and promised, in advance, to be delighted. Little, however, for the present, had come of Ralph's offers, and it may be confided to the reader that, if the young man delayed to carry them out, it was because he found the labour of entertaining his cousin by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel had spoken to him very often about ‘‘specimens''; it was a word that played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by figures.

‘‘Well now, there's a specimen,'' he said to her, as they walked up from the riverside, and he recognized Lord Warburton.

‘‘A specimen of what?'' asked the girl.

‘‘A specimen of an English gentleman.''

‘‘Do you mean they are all like him?''

‘‘Oh no; they are not all like him.''

‘‘He's a favourable specimen, then,'' said Isabel; ‘‘because I am sure he is good.''

‘‘Yes, he is very good. And he is very fortunate.''

The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine, and hoped she was very well. ‘‘But I needn't ask that,'' he said, ‘‘since you have been handling the oars.''

‘‘I have been rowing a little,'' Isabel answered; ‘‘but how should you know it?''

‘‘Oh, I know
he
doesn't row; he's too lazy,'' said his lordship, indicating Ralph Touchett, with a laugh.

‘‘He has a good excuse for his laziness,'' Isabel rejoined, lowering her voice a little.

‘‘Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!'' cried Lord Warburton, still with his deep, agreeable laugh.

‘‘My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well,'' said Ralph. ‘‘She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!''

‘‘It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer,'' Lord Warburton declared.

‘‘Be touched in the right sense, and you will never look the worse for it,'' said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of herself always needed to be supported by proof; though it is possible that this fact is not the sign of a milder egotism.

Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was ended, he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During this period he addressed much of his conversation to Isabel, who accepted this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself liking him extremely; the first impression he had made upon her was pleasant, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she thought him quite one of the most delectable persons she had met. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a quickened consciousness of the pleasantness of life. ‘‘It's very nice to know two such charming people as those,'' she said, meaning by ‘‘those'' her cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added, moreover, that an incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good humour to the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party. She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then, rising, she said to Isabel that it was time they should bid the gentlemen good night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she replied, very simply: ‘‘Need I go, dear aunt? I will come up in half an hour.''

‘‘It's impossible I should wait for you,'' Mrs. Touchett answered.

‘‘Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle,'' said Isabel, smiling.

‘‘I will light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!'' Lord Warburton exclaimed. ‘‘Only I beg it shall not be before midnight.''

Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him for a moment, and then transferred them to her niece.

‘‘You can't stay alone with the gentlemen. You are not—you are not at Albany, my dear.''

Isabel rose, blushing.

‘‘I wish I were,'' she said.

‘‘Oh, I say, mother!'' Ralph broke out.

‘‘My dear Mrs. Touchett,'' Lord Warburton murmured.

‘‘I didn't make your country, my lord,'' Mrs. Touchett said majestically. ‘‘I must take it as I find it.''

‘‘Can't I stay with my own cousin?'' Isabel inquired.

‘‘I am not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin.''

‘‘Perhaps I had better go to bed!'' the visitor exclaimed. ‘‘That will arrange it.''

Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair, and sat down again.

‘‘Oh, if it's necessary, I will stay up till midnight,'' she said.

Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her; it had seemed to him that her temper was stirred—an accident that might be interesting. But if he had expected an exhibition of temper, he was disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good night, and withdrew, accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs, the two ladies separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way up.

‘‘Of course you are displeased at my interfering with you,'' said Mrs. Touchett.

Isabel reflected a moment.

‘‘I am not displeased, but I am surprised—and a good deal puzzled. Was it not proper I should remain in the drawing-room?''

‘‘Not in the least. Young girls here don't sit alone with the gentlemen late at night.''

‘‘You were very right to tell me then,'' said Isabel. ‘‘I don't understand it, but I am very glad to know it.''

‘‘I shall always tell you,'' her aunt answered, ‘‘whenever I see you taking what seems to be too much liberty.''

‘‘Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just.''

‘‘Very likely not. You are too fond of your liberty.''

‘‘Yes, I think I am very fond of it. But I always want to know the things one shouldn't do.''

‘‘So as to do them?'' asked her aunt.

‘‘So as to choose,'' said Isabel.

8

AS she was much interested in the picturesque, Lord Warburton ventured to express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, which was a very curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness to attend upon the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord Warburton assured our heroine that in the meantime his sisters would come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having interrogated him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt, on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested, she asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker, she asked him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her that he had four sisters and two brothers, and had lost both his parents. The brothers and sisters were very good people—‘‘Not particularly clever, you know,'' he said, ‘‘but simple and respectable and trustworthy''; and he was so good as to hope that Miss Archer should know them well. One of the brothers was in the Church, settled in the parsonage at Lockleigh, which was rather a largish parish, and was an excellent fellow, in spite of his thinking different from himself on every conceivable topic. And then Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which were opinions that Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of them, indeed, she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her that she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that, if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of them over very attentively, he declared that she was only another example of what he had often been struck with—the fact that, of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them; there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more mediaeval than many of their views; they had ideas that people in England now-a-days were ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence, moreover, said his lordship, laughing, to pretend they know more about the needs and dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it and owned a considerable part of it—the more shame to him! From all of which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pigheaded, and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to pay—one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. ‘‘I don't think I will pay any more,'' said Warburton; ‘‘he lives a monstrous deal better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries, and thinks himself a much finer gentleman than I. As I am a consistent radical, I go in only for equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers.'' Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so. The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives, was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire in Norfolk, and, though she was married only the other day, had already five children. This information, and much more, Lord Warburton imparted to his young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. ‘‘He thinks I am a barbarian,'' she said, ‘‘and that I have never seen forks and spoons''; and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap—‘‘It's a pity you can't see me in my warpaint and feathers,'' she remarked; ‘‘if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages, I would have brought over my national costume!'' Lord Warburton had travelled through the United States, and knew much more about them than Isabel; he was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained to them. ‘‘If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!'' he said. ‘‘I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact, I was quite bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose; they are rather clever about that over there. But when I explain, you can trust me; about what I tell you there is no mistake.'' There was no mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated, and knowing almost everything in the world. Although he said the most interesting and entertaining things, Isabel perceived that he never said them to exhibit himself, and though he had a great good fortune, he was as far as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not spoiled his sense of proportion. His composition was a mixture of good-humoured manly force and a modesty that at times was almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which—it was as agreeable as something tasted—lost nothing from the addition of a tone of kindness which was not boyish, inasmuch as there was a good deal of reflection and of conscience in it.