The Portrait of A Lady (51 page)

He threw up his head a moment, as if he were calculating. ‘‘Seventeen days ago.''

‘‘You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.''

‘‘I came as fast as I could. I would have come five days ago if I had been able.''

‘‘It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood,'' said Isabel, smiling.

‘‘Not to you—no. But to me.''

‘‘You gain nothing that I see.''

‘‘That is for me to judge!''

‘‘Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself.'' And then, to change the subject, Isabel asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.

He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk about Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered distinctly enough, that this young lady had come to see him just before he left America.

‘‘She came to see you?''

‘‘Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I had got your letter.''

‘‘Did you tell her?'' Isabel asked, with a certain anxiety.

‘‘Oh no,'' said Caspar Goodwood, simply; ‘‘I didn't want to. She will hear it soon enough; she hears everything.''

‘‘I shall write to her; and then she will write to me and scold me,'' Isabel declared, trying to smile again.

Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. ‘‘I guess she'll come out,'' he said.

‘‘On purpose to scold me?''

‘‘I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly.''

‘‘I am glad you tell me that,'' Isabel said. ‘‘I must prepare for her.''

Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last, raising them—‘‘Does she know Mr. Osmond?'' he asked.

‘‘A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to please Henrietta,'' Isabel added.

It would have been better for poor Caspar if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he did not say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place.

‘‘I don't know yet. I can only say it will be soon. I have told no one but yourself and one other person— an old friend of Mr. Osmond's.''

‘‘It is a marriage your friends won't like?'' Caspar Goodwood asked.

‘‘I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends.''

He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions.

‘‘What is Mr. Osmond?''

‘‘What is he? Nothing at all but a very good man. He is not in business,'' said Isabel. ‘‘He is not rich; he is not known for anything in particular.''

She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible.

The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was certainly small; he sat very upright, gazing at her.

‘‘Where does he come from?'' he went on.

‘‘From nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy.''

‘‘You said in your letter that he was an American. Hasn't he a native place?''

‘‘Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.''

‘‘Has he never gone back?''

‘‘Why should he go back?'' Isabel asked, flushing a little, and defensively. ‘‘He has no profession.''

‘‘He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United States?''

‘‘He doesn't know them. Then he is very simple—he contents himself with Italy.''

‘‘With Italy and with you,'' said Mr. Goodwood, with gloomy plainness, and no appearance of trying to make an epigram. ‘‘What has he ever done?'' he added, abruptly.

‘‘That I should marry him? Nothing at all,'' Isabel replied, with a smile that had gradually become a trifle defiant. ‘‘If he had done great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; I am marrying a nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him; you can't.''

‘‘I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in the least that he is a nonentity. You think he is a great man, though no one else thinks so.''

Isabel's colour deepened; she thought this very clever of her companion, and it was certainly a proof of the clairvoyance of such a feeling as his.

‘‘Why do you always come back to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you.''

‘‘Of course not,'' said Caspar, reasonably.

And he sat there with his air of stiff helplessness, as if not only this was true, but there were nothing else that they might discuss.

‘‘You see how little you gain,'' Isabel broke out, ‘‘—how little comfort or satisfaction I can give you.''

‘‘I didn't expect you to give me much.''

‘‘I don't understand, then, why you came.''

‘‘I came because I wanted to see you once more—as you are.''

‘‘I appreciate that; but if you had waited awhile, sooner or later we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been pleasanter for each of us than this.''

‘‘Waited till after you are married? That is just what I didn't want to do. You will be different then.''

‘‘Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You will see.''

‘‘That will make it all the worse,'' said Mr. Goodwood, grimly.

‘‘Ah, you are unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you, in order to help you to resign yourself.''

‘‘I shouldn't care if you did!''

Isabel got up, with a movement of repressed impatience, and walked to the window, where she remained a moment, looking out. When she turned round, her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came towards him again and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just quitted.

‘‘Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for you, perhaps, than for me.''

‘‘I wished to hear the sound of your voice,'' said Caspar.

‘‘You have heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet.''

‘‘It gives me pleasure, all the same.''

And with this he got up.

She had felt pain and displeasure when she received that morning the note in which he told her that he was in Florence, and, with her permission, would come within an hour to see her. She had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of implication. It implied things she could never assent to—rights, reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed; and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him which irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand which made her heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself that she was as angry as a woman who had been in the wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away, she felt a sudden horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give an opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry.

If he had not held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused her: ‘‘I have not deceived you! I was perfectly free!''

‘‘Yes, I know that,'' said Caspar.

‘‘I gave you full warning that I would do as I chose.''

‘‘You said you would probably never marry, and you said it so positively that I pretty well believed it.''

Isabel was silent an instant.

‘‘No one can be more surprised than myself at my present intention.''

‘‘You told me that if I heard you were engaged, I was not to believe it,'' Caspar went on. ‘‘I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and that is partly why I came.''

‘‘If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that is soon done. There is no mistake at all.''

‘‘I saw that as soon as I came into the room.''

‘‘What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?'' Isabel asked, with a certain fierceness.

‘‘I should like it better than this.''

‘‘You are very selfish, as I said before.''

‘‘I know that. I am selfish as iron.''

‘‘Even iron sometimes melts. If you will be reasonable I will see you again.''

‘‘Don't you call me reasonable now?''

‘‘I don't know what to say to you,'' she answered, with sudden humility.

‘‘I shan't trouble you for a long time,'' the young man went on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. ‘‘Another reason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having changed your mind.''

Isabel's humbleness as suddenly deserted her.

‘‘In explanation? Do you think I am bound to explain?''

Caspar gave her one of his long dumb looks.

‘‘You were very positive. I did believe it.''

‘‘So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?''

‘‘No, I suppose not. Well,'' he added, ‘‘I have done what I wished. I have seen you.''

‘‘How little you make of these terrible journeys,'' Isabel murmured.

‘‘If you are afraid I am tired, you may be at your ease about that.'' He turned away, this time in earnest, and no handshake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them. At the door he stopped, with his hand on the knob. ‘‘I shall leave Florence to-morrow,'' he said.

‘‘I am delighted to hear it!'' she answered, passionately. And he went out. Five minutes after he had gone she burst into tears.

33

HER fit of weeping, however, was of brief duration, and the signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and now she had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the midday breakfast, and then she said to her: ‘‘Aunt Lydia, I have something to tell you.''

Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at the girl almost fiercely.

‘‘You needn't tell me; I know what it is.''

‘‘I don't know how you know.''

‘‘The same way that I know when the window is open—by feeling a draught. You are going to marry that man.''

‘‘What man do you mean?'' Isabel inquired, with great dignity.

‘‘Madame Merle's friend—Mr. Osmond.''

‘‘I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the principal thing he is known by?''

‘‘If he is not her friend he ought to be—after what she has done for him!'' cried Mrs. Touchett. ‘‘I shouldn't have expected it of her; I am disappointed.''

‘‘If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement you are greatly mistaken,'' Isabel declared, with a sort of ardent coldness.

‘‘You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman being urged? You are quite right. They are immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she had not put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him.''

‘‘He has taken a great deal for himself!'' cried Isabel, with a voluntary laugh.

Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod.

‘‘I think he must, after all, to have made you like him.''

‘‘I thought you liked him yourself.''

‘‘I did, and that is why I am angry with him.''

‘‘Be angry with me, not with him,'' said the girl.

‘‘Oh, I am always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this that you refused Lord Warburton?''

‘‘Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since you did?''

‘‘I never wanted to marry him; there is nothing of him.''

‘‘Then he can't hurt me,'' said Isabel.

‘‘Do you think you are going to be happy? No one is happy.''

‘‘I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?''

‘‘What you will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as they go into partnership—to set up a house. But in your partnership you will bring everything.''

‘‘Is it that Mr. Osmond is not rich? Is that what you are talking about?'' Isabel asked.

‘‘He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such things and I have the courage to say it; I think they are very precious. Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some other reason!''