The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James

  Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped. She was so glad Henrietta was there; there was something terrible in an arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station, the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend’s. She remembered that she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty spectacle, in which there was something that touched her. She remembered how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the incident came before her as the deed of another person.

  ‘‘It’s too beautiful that you should have come,’’ said Henrietta, looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the proposition. ‘‘If you hadn’t—if you hadn’t; well, I don’t know,’’ remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval.

  Isabel looked about, without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another figure, however, which she felt that she had seen before; and in a moment she recognized the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken—that of abstracting himself, discreetly, while the two ladies performed their embraces.

  ‘‘There’s Mr. Bantling,’’ said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.

  ‘‘Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!’’ Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile—a smile tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. ‘‘Isn’t it lovely that she has come?’’ Henrietta asked. ‘‘He knows all about it,’’ she added; ‘‘we had quite a discussion; he said you wouldn’t; I said you would.’’

  ‘‘I thought you always agreed,’’ Isabel answered, smiling. She found she could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling’s excellent eye, that he had good news for her. It seemed to say that he wished her to remember that he was an old friend of her cousin—that he understood—that it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought him so kind.

  ‘‘Oh, I always agree,’’ said Mr. Bantling. ‘‘But she doesn’t, you know.’’

  ‘‘Didn’t I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?’’ Henrietta inquired. ‘‘Your young lady has probably remained at Calais.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care,’’ said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never thought so interesting.

  ‘‘Stay with her while I go and see,’’ Henrietta commanded, leaving the two for a moment together.

  They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel how it had been on the Channel.

  ‘‘Very fine. No, I think it was rather rough,’’ said Isabel, to her companion’s obvious surprise. After which she added, ‘‘You have been to Gardencourt, I know.’’

  ‘‘Now how do you know that?’’

  ‘‘I can’t tell you—except that you look like a person who has been there.’’

  ‘‘Do you think I look sad? It’s very sad there, you know.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe you ever look sad. You look kind,’’ said Isabel, with a frankness that cost her no effort. It seemed to her that she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.

  Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed a good deal, and laughed, and assured her that he was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce.

  ‘‘You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know,’’ he said. ‘‘I was at Gardencourt two days ago.’’

  ‘‘Did you see my cousin?’’

  ‘‘Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton was there the day before. Touchett was just the same as usual, except that he was in bed, and that he looks tremendously ill, and that he can’t speak,’’ Mr. Bantling pursued. ‘‘He was immensely friendly all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It’s awfully sad.’’

  Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. ‘‘Was that late in the day?’’

  ‘‘Yes; I went on purpose; we thought you would like to know.’’

  ‘‘I am very much obliged to you. Can I go down to-night?’’

  ‘‘Ah, I don’t think she’ll let you go,’’ said Mr. Bantling. ‘‘She wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett’s man promise to telegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. ‘Quiet and easy,’ that’s what it says, and it’s dated two o’clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow. You must be very tired.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am very tired. And I thank you again.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ said Mr. Bantling, ‘‘we were certain you would like the last news.’’ While Isabel vaguely noted that after all he and Henrietta seemed to agree.

  Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel’s maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress’s luggage, so that now Isabel was at liberty to leave the station.

  ‘‘You know you are not to think of going to the country to-night,’’ Henrietta remarked to her. ‘‘It doesn’t matter whether there is a train or not. You are to come straight to me, in Wimpole Street. There isn’t a corner to be had in London, but I have got you one all the same. It isn’t a Roman palace, but it will do for a night.’’

  ‘‘I will do whatever you wish,’’ Isabel said.

  ‘‘You will come and answer a few questions; that’s what I wish.’’

  ‘‘She doesn’t say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?’’ Mr. Bantling inquired jocosely.

  Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. ‘‘I see you are in a great hurry to get to your own. You will be at the Paddington Station to-morrow morning at ten.’’

  ‘‘Don’t come for my sake, Mr. Bantling,’’ said Isabel.

  ‘‘He will come for mine,’’ Henrietta declared, as she ushered Isabel into a cab.

  Later, in a large, dusky parlour in Wimpole Street— to do her justice, there had been dinner enough—she asked Isabel those questions to which she had alluded at the station.

  ‘‘Did your husband make a scene about your coming?’’ That was Miss Stackpole’s first inquiry.

  ‘‘No; I can’t say he made a scene.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t object then?’’

  ‘‘Yes; he objected very much. But it was not what you would call a scene.’’

  ‘‘What was it then?’’

  ‘‘It was a very quiet conversation.’’

  Henrietta for a moment contemplated her friend.

  ‘‘It must have been awful,’’ she then remarked. And Isabel did not deny that it had been awful. But she confined herself to answering Henrietta’s questions, which was easy, as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no new information. ‘‘Well,’’ said Miss Stackpole at last, ‘‘I have only one criticism to make. I don’t see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go back.’’

  ‘‘I am not sure that I see myself, now,’’ Isabel replied. ‘‘But I did then.’’

  ‘‘If you have forgotten your reason perhaps you won’t return.’’

  Isabel for a moment said nothing, then: ‘‘Perhaps I shall find another,’’ she rejoined.

  ‘‘You will certainly never find a good one.’’

  ‘‘In default of a better, my having promised will do,’’ Isabel suggested.

  ‘‘Yes; that’s why I hate it.’’

  ‘‘Don’t speak of it now. I have a little time. Coming away was hard; but going back will be harder still.’’

  ‘‘You must remember, after all, that he won’t make a
scene!’’ said Henrietta, with much intention.

  ‘‘He will, though,’’ Isabel answered gravely. ‘‘It will not be the scene of a moment; it will be a scene that will last always.’’

  For some minutes the two women sat gazing at this prospect; and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested, announced abruptly: ‘‘I have been to stay with Lady Pensil!’’

  ‘‘Ah, the letter came at last!’’

  ‘‘Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me.’’

  ‘‘Naturally enough.’’

  ‘‘It was more natural than I think you know,’’ said Henrietta, fixing her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly: ‘‘Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don’t know why? Because I criticized you, and yet I have gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!’’

  It was a moment before Isabel perceived her meaning; it was so modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel’s mind was not possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately recovered herself, however, and with a gravity too pathetic to be real: ‘‘Henrietta Stackpole,’’ she asked, ‘‘are you going to give up your country?’’

  ‘‘Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won’t pretend to deny it; I look the fact in the face. I am going to marry Mr. Bantling, and I am going to reside in London.’’

  ‘‘It seems very strange,’’ said Isabel, smiling now.

  ‘‘Well yes, I suppose it does. I have come to it little by little. I think I know what I am doing; but I don’t know that I can explain.’’

  ‘‘One can’t explain one’s marriage,’’ Isabel answered. ‘‘And yours doesn’t need to be explained. Mr. Bantling is very good.’’

  Henrietta said nothing; she seemed lost in reflection.

  ‘‘He has a beautiful nature,’’ she remarked at last. ‘‘I have studied him for many years, and I see right through him. He’s as clear as glass—there’s no mystery about him. He is not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the other hand, he doesn’t exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in the United States.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ said Isabel, ‘‘you are changed indeed! It’s the first time I have ever heard you say anything against your native land.’’

  ‘‘I only say that we are too intellectual; that, after all, is a glorious fault. But I am changed; a woman has to change a good deal to marry.’’

  ‘‘I hope you will be very happy. You will at last—over here—see something of the inner life.’’

  Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. ‘‘That’s the key to the mystery, I believe. I couldn’t endure to be kept off. Now I have as good a right as any one!’’ she added, with artless elation.

  Isabel was deeply diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta, after all, was human and feminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was rather a disappointment to find that she had personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her marrying him—there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to Isabel’s sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A little later, indeed, she reflected that Mr. Bantling, after all, was original. But she didn’t see how Henrietta could give up her country. She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her country as it had been Henrietta’s. She presently asked her if she had enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.

  ‘‘Oh, yes,’’ said Henrietta, ‘‘she didn’t know what to make of me.’’

  ‘‘And was that very enjoyable?’’

  ‘‘Very much so, because she is supposed to be very talented. She thinks she knows everything; but she doesn’t understand a lady-correspondent! It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better or a little worse. She’s so puzzled; I believe she thinks it’s my duty to go and do something immoral. She thinks it’s immoral that I should marry her brother; but, after all, that isn’t immoral enough. And she will never understand— never!’’

  ‘‘She is not so intelligent as her brother, then,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘He appears to have understood.’’

  ‘‘Oh no, he hasn’t!’’ cried Miss Stackpole, with decision. ‘‘I really believe that’s what he wants to marry me for—just to find out. It’s a fixed idea—a kind of fascination.’’

  ‘‘It’s very good in you to humour it.’’

  ‘‘Oh well,’’ said Henrietta, ‘‘I have something to find out too!’’ And Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.

  Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington Station, where she found herself, at ten o’clock, in the company both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything, he had found out at least the great point—that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had been on his guard against this deficiency.

  ‘‘Henrietta has told me, and I am very glad,’’ Isabel said, as she gave him her hand.

  ‘‘I dare say you think it’s very odd,’’ Mr. Bantling replied, resting on his neat umbrella.

  ‘‘Yes, I think it’s very odd.’’

  ‘‘You can’t think it’s so odd as I do. But I have always rather liked striking out a line,’’ said Mr. Bantling, serenely.

  54

  ISABEL’S arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that Isabel, instead of being conducted to her own apartment, was coldly shown into the drawing-room, and left to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared to be in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and even frightened. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still—a stillness that Isabel remembered; it had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She left the drawing-room and wandered about—strolled into the library and along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognized everything that she had seen years before; it might have been only yesterday that she stood there. She reflected that things change but little, while people change so much, and she became aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the day that she came to see her in Albany. She was changed enough since then—that had been the beginning. It suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She might have had another life, and today she might have been a happier woman. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture—a beautiful and valuable Bonington—upon which her eyes rested for a long time. But she was not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.

  Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress, of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first time, whether her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the matron of a jail. Her lips felt very thin indeed as Isabel kissed her.

  ‘‘I have kept you waiting because I have been sitting with Ralph,’’ Mrs. Touchett said. ‘‘The nurse had gone to her lunch and I had taken her place. He has a man who is supposed to look after him, but the man is good for nothing; he is always looking out of the
window—as if there were anything to see! I didn’t wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping, and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse came back; I remembered that you knew the house.’’

  ‘‘I find I know it better even than I thought; I have been walking,’’ Isabel answered. And then she asked whether Ralph slept much.

  ‘‘He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn’t move. But I am not sure that it’s always sleep.’’

  ‘‘Will he see me? Can he speak to me?’’

  Mrs. Touchett hesitated a moment. ‘‘You can try him,’’ she said. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her room. ‘‘I thought they had taken you there; but it’s not my house, it’s Ralph’s; and I don’t know what they do. They must at least have taken your luggage; I don’t suppose you have brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they have given you the same room you had before; when Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have that one.’’

  ‘‘Did he say anything else?’’

  ‘‘Ah, my dear, he doesn’t chatter as he used!’’ cried Mrs. Touchett, as she preceded her niece up the staircase.

  It was the same room, and something told Isabel that it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there, and it was not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment, with her eyes upon it.

  ‘‘Is there really no hope?’’ Isabel asked, standing before her aunt.

  ‘‘None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life.’’

  ‘‘No—it has only been a beautiful one.’’ Isabel found herself already contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.