CHAPTER XXXII
It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stoodat the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of anyof the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what sheshould say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. Whathe would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothingin the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the convictiondoubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, allclearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walkedin no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in anantiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to herapprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on histray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze outof the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she hadheard the door close behind the person who presently entered that shelooked round.
Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head tofoot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offereda greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel'swe shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that toher critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spokepositively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence norweakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the samevoluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had init of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelledhard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. Thisgave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great thingshe's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully hissplendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" Itgave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tellyou how I hoped you wouldn't come!"
"I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not onlyhad he come, but he meant to settle.
"You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?"
"Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?"
"Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral."
"That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to buryme!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of theirsituation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectlyclear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for allthis she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but shewas devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He lookedat her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was sucha want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested onher as a physical weight.
"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish Icould!" he candidly declared.
"I thank you immensely."
"I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man."
"That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a realconviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right tobe."
"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so.I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellestthings you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you'vedone I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shallfeel all my life."
Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour overpropositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather thantouched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gaveher a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressureof this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When didyou leave New York?"
He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago."
"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains."
"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had beenable."
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled.
"Not to you--no. But to me."
"You gain nothing that I see."
"That's for me to judge!"
"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, tochange the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk ofHenrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this younglady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to seeyou?" Isabel then demanded.
"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day Ihad got your letter."
"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
"Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'llhear it quick enough; she hears everything."
"I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabeldeclared, trying to smile again.
Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come rightout," he said.
"On purpose to scold me?"
"I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly."
"I'm 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 enquired.
"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry toplease Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Casparif she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn'tsay so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. Towhich she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it willbe soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an oldfriend of Mr. Osmond's."
"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded.
"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,doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. GilbertOsmond?"
"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourableman. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not knownfor anything in particular."
She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that sheowed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poorCaspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing ather. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?"
She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "Hecomes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."
"You said in your letter he was 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 all defensively. "He hasno profession."
"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the UnitedStates?"
"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contentshimself with Italy."
"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness andno appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" headded abruptly.
"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while herpatience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had donegreat things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;I'm marrying a perfect 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 i
nthe least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you thinkhe's great, though no one else thinks so."
Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might renderperceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come backto what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."
"Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his airof stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there werenothing else that they might discuss.
"You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how littlecomfort 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--even just as you are."
"I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or laterwe should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have beenpleasanter for each of us than this."
"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do.You'll be different then."
"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see."
"That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly.
"Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order tohelp you to resign yourself."
"I shouldn't care if you did!"
Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to thewindow, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned roundher visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him againand stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had justquitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better foryou perhaps than for me."
"I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said.
"You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet."
"It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She hadfelt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was inFlorence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. Shehad been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by hismessenger that he might come when he would. She had not been betterpleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavyimplications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her changeher purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor'sremarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him thatirritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heartbeat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herselfthat she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in thewrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitternessto swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her alittle. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, nopropriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a suddenhorror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her anopportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to hima month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce herengagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desireto defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part todesire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhileheld himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in whichshe suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accusedher: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!"
"Yes, I know that," said Caspar.
"I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose."
"You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a mannerthat I pretty well believed it."
She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised thanmyself at my present intention."
"You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believeit," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but Iremembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, andthat's partly why I came."
"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There'sno mistake whatever."
"I saw that as soon as I came into the room."
"What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with acertain fierceness.
"I should like it better than this."
"You're very selfish, as I said before."
"I know that. I'm selfish as iron."
"Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll 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 madea step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came wasthat I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your havingchanged your mind."
Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you thinkI'm bound to explain?"
He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I didbelieve it."
"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?"
"No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seenyou."
"How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the povertyof her presently replying.
"If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may beat your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and nohand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.
At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leaveFlorence to-morrow," he said without a quaver.
"I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutesafter he had gone out she burst into tears.