As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less of the metropolis than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of Henrietta’s that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; she had a great desire to see something of London, which had always been a city of her imagination. They turned over their scheme together and indulged in visions of aesthetic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn—one of the inns described by Dickens—and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at a coffee-house, and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum, and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, and Gold-smith and Addison. Isabel grew eager, and presently mentioned these bright intentions to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter, which did not express the sympathy she had desired.
‘‘It’s a delightful plan,’’ he said. ‘‘I advise you to go to the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I will have you put down at my club.’’
‘‘Do you mean it’s improper?’’ Isabel asked. ‘‘Dear me, isn’t anything proper here? With Henrietta, surely I may go anywhere; she isn’t hampered in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent, and she can surely find her way about this simple little island.’’
‘‘Ah, then,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘let me take advantage of her protection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!’’
14
MISS STACKPOLE would have prepared to start for London immediately; but Isabel, as we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to Gardencourt, and she believed it to be her duty to remain there and see him. For four or five days he had made no answer to her letter; then he had written, very briefly, to say that he would come to lunch two days later. There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the girl, and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient, not to appear to urge her too grossly; a discretion the more striking that she was so sure he really liked her. Isabel told her uncle that she had written to him, and let Mr. Touchett know of Lord Warburton’s intention of coming; and the old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual, and made his appearance at the lunch-table. This was by no means an act of vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of the company might help to cover the visitor’s temporary absence, in case Isabel should find it needful to give Lord Warburton another hearing. This personage drove over from Lockleigh, and brought the elder of his sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated by considerations of the same order as Mr. Touchett’s. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton’s. Isabel, who was nervous, and had no relish of the prospect of again arguing the question he had so precipitately opened, could not help admiring his good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of that admiration it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eye. He had plenty of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-like forehead, and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner which seemed to denote a conflict between attention and alienation. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh, she was the one that Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabel was sure, moreover, that her mild forehead and silver cross had a romantic meaning—that she was a member of a High Church sisterhood, had taken some picturesque vows. She wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know—that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, was Isabel’s theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in conversation, she was usually occupied in forming theories about her neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton, she would probably be shocked at the young lady’s indifference to such an opportunity; or no, rather (this was our heroine’s last impression) she would impute to the young American a high sense of general fitness.
Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which she now found herself immersed.
‘‘Do you know you are the first lord I have ever seen?’’ she said, very promptly, to her neighbour. ‘‘I suppose you think I am awfully benighted.’’
‘‘You have escaped seeing some very ugly men,’’ Lord Warburton answered, looking vaguely about the table and laughing a little.
‘‘Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they are all handsome and magnificent, and that they wear wonderful robes and crowns.’’
‘‘Ah, the robes and crowns have gone out of fashion,’’ said Lord Warburton, ‘‘like your tomahawks and revolvers.’’
‘‘I am sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,’’ Henrietta declared. ‘‘If it is not that, what is it?’’
‘‘Oh, you know, it isn’t much, at the best,’’ Lord Warburton answered. ‘‘Won’t you have a potato?’’
‘‘I don’t care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn’t know you from an ordinary American gentleman.’’
‘‘Do talk to me as if I were one,’’ said Lord Warburton. ‘‘I don’t see how you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to eat over here.’’
Henrietta was silent a moment; there was a chance that he was not sincere.
‘‘I have had hardly any appetite since I have been here,’’ she went on at last; ‘‘so it doesn’t much matter. I don’t approve of you, you know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that.’’
‘‘Don’t approve of me?’’
‘‘Yes, I don’t suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did they? I don’t approve of lords, as an institution. I think the world has got beyond that— far beyond.’’
‘‘Oh, so do I. I don’t approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes over me—how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don’t you know? But that’s rather good, by the way—not to be vainglorious.’’
‘‘Why don’t you give it up, then?’’ Miss Stackpole inquired.
‘‘Give up—a—?’’ asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a very mellow one.
‘‘Give up being a lord.’’
‘‘Oh, I am so little of one! One would really forget all about it, if you wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do think of giving up—the little there is left of it—one of these days.’’
‘‘I should like to see you do it,’’ Henrietta exclaimed, rather grimly.
‘‘I will invite you to the ceremony; we will have a supper and a dance.’’
‘‘Well,’’ said Miss Stackpole, ‘‘I like to see all sides. I don’t approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have got to say for themselves.’’
‘‘Mighty little, as you see!’’
‘‘I should like to draw you out a little more,’’ Henrietta continued. ‘‘But you are always looking away. You are afraid of meeting my eye. I see you want to escape me.’’
‘‘No, I am only looking for those despised potatoes.’’
‘‘Please explain about that young lady—your sister— then. I don’t understand about her. Is she a Lady?’’
‘‘She’s a capital good girl.’’
‘‘I don’t like the way you say that—as if you wanted to change the subject. Is her position inferior to your
s?’’
‘‘We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she is better off than I, because she has none of the bother.’’
‘‘Yes, she doesn’t look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever you may do.’’
‘‘Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole,’’ said Lord Warburton. ‘‘And then you know we are very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!’’
‘‘I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn’t know what to talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross a badge?’’
‘‘A badge?’’
‘‘A sign of rank.’’
Lord Warburton’s glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the gaze of his neighbour.
‘‘Oh, yes,’’ he answered, in a moment; ‘‘the women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of Viscounts.’’
This was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America.
After lunch he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she knew that he had seen the pictures twenty times, she complied without criticizing this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at the paintings and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: ‘‘I hoped you wouldn’t write to me that way.’’
‘‘It was the only way, Lord Warburton,’’ said the girl. ‘‘Do try and believe that.’’
‘‘If I could believe it, of course I should let you alone. But we can’t believe by willing it; and I confess I don’t understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit what you do——’’
‘‘What have I admitted?’’ Isabel interrupted, blushing a little.
‘‘That you think me a good fellow; isn’t that it?’’ She said nothing, and he went on—‘‘You don’t seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice.’’
‘‘I have a reason, Lord Warburton,’’ said the girl; and she said it in a tone that made his heart contract.
‘‘I should like very much to know it.’’
‘‘I will tell you some day when there is more to show for it.’’
‘‘Excuse my saying that in the meantime I must doubt of it.’’
‘‘You make me very unhappy,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘I am not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?’’ Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw something in her eyes which gave him courage to go on. ‘‘Do you prefer some one else?’’
‘‘That’s a question I would rather not answer.’’
‘‘Ah, you do then!’’ her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: ‘‘You are mistaken! I don’t.’’
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. r />
‘‘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.