CHAPTER V
Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at hismother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admittedthat of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of thesweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said tohimself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, waspaternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insistedon his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph renderedperfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and herthoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after theother nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities ofperformance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressedfor dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and madehim sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about herhusband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving novery brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than everconvinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea ofhis mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that hisown infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which heabsented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England assubordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later hegained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-longresidence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took asimple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he hadno intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach hisonly son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble aproblem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed tohim equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on thegrey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensifythis light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralphspent several terms at an American school and took a degree at anAmerican university, after which, as he struck his father on his returnas even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years inresidence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph becameat last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners thatsurrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyedits independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundlessliberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; atOxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever afellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a careerby returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded inuncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part withhim (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to puta watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom heregarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. DanielTouchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himselfhad no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learningenough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It wasnot this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed topossibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither atHarvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in hisson's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was fullof ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for thelatter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended forthe ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the groundof his general success. He had retained in their freshness most ofhis marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted withpleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At theend of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as hewas rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the dispositionsuperficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he hadnever wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. Itwas perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historicconsciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by Englishlife upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. Therewere certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he hadnever formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards theselatter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought lesswell of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father'sbank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, Ibelieve, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon otherconsiderations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond ofstanding, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the endof some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously outof health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungsand threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first heslighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the leasthe was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested personwith whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improvedon acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudgingtolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makesstrange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had somethingat stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation forordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention ofwhich note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keepingthe poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the otherpromised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweathera dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in whichconsumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond ofLondon, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that hecursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organgrateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at homewhen the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, whenit had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse mighthave slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped toreconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aughtbut that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothinghe had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced thefield of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruitseemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest ofpleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like readinga good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a youngman who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had goodwinters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimesthe sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelledsome three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which thishistory opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual inEngland and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks betweenlife and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use hemade of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. Hesaid to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him tokeep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend theinterval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties becamean exquisite pleasure; it seemed
to him the joys of contemplation hadnever been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hardthat he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the lessdelightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with burstsof inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him morecheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook theirheads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was butthe array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thingin itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interestin the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he wasconsideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enoughfor a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that theimagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--hadstill a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself theriot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with apassion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one."And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What doyou mean to do with her?"
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her tostay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."
"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My fatherwill ask her as a matter of course."
"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."
"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the morereason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or fourpaltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?"
"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."
"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"
"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."
"You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should liketo know what you mean to do with her in a general way."
"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much,"she added.
"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as invitingcompassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me ahint of where you see your duty."
"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice oftwo of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself inFrench, which she already knows very well."
Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her thechoice of two of the countries."
"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel aloneto water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."
"Do you mean she's a gifted being?"
"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clevergirl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of beingbored."
"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How doyou two get on?"
"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think Igreatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sortof girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just whatto expect of each other."
"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expectof you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--inpresenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had neversuspected."
"Do you think her so very pretty?"
"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her generalair of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rarecreature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you makeher acquaintance?"
"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on arainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn'tknow she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed verygrateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--Ishould have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I actedconscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. Itoccurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about andintroduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal ofit--like most American girls; but like most American girls she'sridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do mecredit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there'sno greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. Youknow I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapprovedentirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them whenhe should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to befound and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. Thereare two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only theelder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose nameis Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; shesaid it was just what her sister needed--that some one should takean interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some youngperson of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be thatIsabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her specialline. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, arefuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed veryglad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a littledifficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to beingunder pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposesherself to be travelling at her own expense."
Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which hisinterest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius,"he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance forflirting?"
"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."
"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flattershimself he has made that discovery."
His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. Heneedn't try."
"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should bepuzzled once in a while."
"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"
"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.
"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then.Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declinedhis invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," hepursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give youtrouble?"
"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never dothat."
"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.
"Natural people are not the most trouble."
"No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremelynatural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes troubleto do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable ofmaking herself disagreeable?"
"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out foryourself."
His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said,"you've not told me what you intend to do with her."
"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall doabsolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything shechooses. She gave me notice of that."
"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character'sindependent."
"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send fromAmerica. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."
"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.
"I
must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knewwhat to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, heoffered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as theydescended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of thestaircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oakwhich was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've noplan of marrying her?" he smiled.
"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apartfrom that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has everyfacility."
"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"
"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!"
Ralph went on he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston."As my father says, they're always engaged!"
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at thesource, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. Hehad a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had beenleft together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden overfrom his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took hisdeparture before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. andMrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of theirforms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respectiveapartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she hadbeen travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She wasreally tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthestpoint and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A finehypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, asshe said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the eveningwas usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the picturesto advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel lookeddisappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I shouldlike to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eagerand now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions,"Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation her pressureamused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vaguesquares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it madea sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestickand moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining toone picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck withthat. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in themiddle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the picturesthan on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wanderingglances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; whenpeople had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archersthey had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was darkeven to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her lightgrey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had anenchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of thegallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know morethan I did when I began!"
"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousinreturned.
"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."
"You strike me as different from most girls."
"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmuredIsabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in amoment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?"she went on.
"A ghost?"
"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts inAmerica."
"So we do here, when we see them."
"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."
"It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed ifyou count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance herebut what you may have brought with you."
"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to theright place."
"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,between my father and me."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but yourfather and you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?"
"Very few."
"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."
"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.
"Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Whowas the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"
"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."
"I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.
"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.
"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,immensely."
"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."
"I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.
"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."
"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too manytheories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my fatherand you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother."
"I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel foundherself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.Touchett.
"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.
"I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expectone to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."
"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after mymother," said Ralph.
"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you tryto make them do it."
"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that wasnot altogether jocular.
"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinchthe matter will be to show me the ghost."
Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never seeit. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It hasnever been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You musthave suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserableknowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,"said Ralph.
"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.
"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven'tsuffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see theghost!"
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but witha certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struckhim as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and hewondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: whichseemed quite presumptuous enough.
"You're not afraid of suffering?"
"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I thinkpeople suffer too easily," she added.
"I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands inhis pockets.
"I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutelynecessary to suffer; we were not made for that."
"You were not, certainly."
"I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.
"No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong."
"Only, if you
don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they hadreturned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of thestaircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. Whenyou do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happyas possible."
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her footon the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for,to be as happy as possible. Good-night."
"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad tocontribute to it!"
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, withhis hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.