Chương Chương 17 · Chapter XVII

She was not praying; she was trembling--trembling all over. Vibration

was easy to her, was in fact too constant with her, and she found

herself now humming like a smitten harp. She only asked, however, to put

on the cover, to case herself again in brown holland, but she wished to

resist her excitement, and the attitude of devotion, which she kept for

some time, seemed to help her to be still. She intensely rejoiced that

Caspar Goodwood was gone; there was something in having thus got rid of

him that was like the payment, for a stamped receipt, of some debt

too long on her mind. As she felt the glad relief she bowed her head a

little lower; the sense was there, throbbing in her heart; it was part

of her emotion, but it was a thing to be ashamed of--it was profane and

out of place. It was not for some ten minutes that she rose from her

knees, and even when she came back to the sitting-room her tremor had

not quite subsided. It had had, verily, two causes: part of it was to be

accounted for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might be

feared that the rest was simply the enjoyment she found in the exercise

of her power. She sat down in the same chair again and took up her book,

but without going through the form of opening the volume. She leaned

back, with that low, soft, aspiring murmur with which she often

uttered her response to accidents of which the brighter side was not

superficially obvious, and yielded to the satisfaction of having refused

two ardent suitors in a fortnight. That love of liberty of which she

had given Caspar Goodwood so bold a sketch was as yet almost exclusively

theoretic; she had not been able to indulge it on a large scale. But it

appeared to her she had done something; she had tasted of the delight,

if not of battle, at least of victory; she had done what was truest to

her plan. In the glow of this consciousness the image of Mr. Goodwood

taking his sad walk homeward through the dingy town presented itself

with a certain reproachful force; so that, as at the same moment the

door of the room was opened, she rose with an apprehension that he

had come back. But it was only Henrietta Stackpole returning from her

dinner.

Miss Stackpole immediately saw that our young lady had been “through”

something, and indeed the discovery demanded no great penetration. She

went straight up to her friend, who received her without a greeting.

Isabel’s elation in having sent Caspar Goodwood back to America

presupposed her being in a manner glad he had come to see her; but at

the same time she perfectly remembered Henrietta had had no right to set

a trap for her. “Has he been here, dear?” the latter yearningly asked.

Isabel turned away and for some moments answered nothing. “You acted

very wrongly,” she declared at last.

“I acted for the best. I only hope you acted as well.”

“You’re not the judge. I can’t trust you,” said Isabel.

This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too unselfish

to heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only for what it intimated

with regard to her friend. “Isabel Archer,” she observed with equal

abruptness and solemnity, “if you marry one of these people I’ll never

speak to you again!”

“Before making so terrible a threat you had better wait till I’m asked,”

Isabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss Stackpole about Lord

Warburton’s overtures, she had now no impulse whatever to justify

herself to Henrietta by telling her that she had refused that nobleman.

“Oh, you’ll be asked quick enough, once you get off on the Continent.

Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy--poor plain little Annie.”

“Well, if Annie Climber wasn’t captured why should I be?”

“I don’t believe Annie was pressed; but you’ll be.”

“That’s a flattering conviction,” said Isabel without alarm.

“I don’t flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth!” cried her friend.

“I hope you don’t mean to tell me that you didn’t give Mr. Goodwood some

hope.”

“I don’t see why I should tell you anything; as I said to you just now,

I can’t trust you. But since you’re so much interested in Mr. Goodwood I

won’t conceal from you that he returns immediately to America.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve sent him off?” Henrietta almost shrieked.

“I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same, Henrietta.” Miss

Stackpole glittered for an instant with dismay, and then passed to the

mirror over the chimney-piece and took off her bonnet. “I hope you’ve

enjoyed your dinner,” Isabel went on.

But her companion was not to be diverted by frivolous propositions. “Do

you know where you’re going, Isabel Archer?”

“Just now I’m going to bed,” said Isabel with persistent frivolity.

“Do you know where you’re drifting?” Henrietta pursued, holding out her

bonnet delicately.

“No, I haven’t the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not to know.

A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads

that one can’t see--that’s my idea of happiness.”

“Mr. Goodwood certainly didn’t teach you to say such things as

that--like the heroine of an immoral novel,” said Miss Stackpole.

“You’re drifting to some great mistake.”

Isabel was irritated by her friend’s interference, yet she still tried

to think what truth this declaration could represent. She could think

of nothing that diverted her from saying: “You must be very fond of me,

Henrietta, to be willing to be so aggressive.”

“I love you intensely, Isabel,” said Miss Stackpole with feeling.

“Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone. I asked that

of Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you.”

“Take care you’re not let alone too much.”

“That’s what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must take the risks.”

“You’re a creature of risks--you make me shudder!” cried Henrietta.

“When does Mr. Goodwood return to America?”

“I don’t know--he didn’t tell me.”

“Perhaps you didn’t enquire,” said Henrietta with the note of righteous

irony.

“I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask questions

of him.”

This assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to bid defiance to

comment; but at last she exclaimed: “Well, Isabel, if I didn’t know you

I might think you were heartless!”

“Take care,” said Isabel; “you’re spoiling me.”

“I’m afraid I’ve done that already. I hope, at least,” Miss Stackpole

added, “that he may cross with Annie Climber!”

Isabel learned from her the next morning that she had determined not to

return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett had promised her a renewed

welcome), but to await in London the arrival of the invitation that Mr.

Bantling had promised her from his sister Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole

related very freely her conversation with Ralph Touchett’s sociable

friend and declared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got

hold of something that would lead to something. On the receipt of Lady

Pensil’s letter--Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed the arrival of

this document--she would immediately depart for Bedfordshire, and if

Isabel cared to look out for her impressions in the _Interviewer_

she would certainly find them. Henrietta was evidently going to see

something of the inner life this time.

“Do you know where you’re drifting, Henrietta Stackpole?” Isabel asked,

imitating the tone in which her friend had spoken the night before.

“I’m drifting to a big position--that of the Queen of American

Journalism. If my next letter isn’t copied all over the West I’ll

swallow my penwiper!”

She had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, the young lady

of the continental offers, that they should go together to make

those purchases which were to constitute Miss Climber’s farewell to a

hemisphere in which she at least had been appreciated; and she presently

repaired to Jermyn Street to pick up her companion. Shortly after her

departure Ralph Touchett was announced, and as soon as he came in Isabel

saw he had something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin into his

confidence. He had received from his mother a telegram to the effect

that his father had had a sharp attack of his old malady, that she

was much alarmed and that she begged he would instantly return to

Gardencourt. On this occasion at least Mrs. Touchett’s devotion to the

electric wire was not open to criticism.

“I’ve judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew Hope,

first,” Ralph said; “by great good luck he’s in town. He’s to see me

at half-past twelve, and I shall make sure of his coming down to

Gardencourt--which he will do the more readily as he has already seen

my father several times, both there and in London. There’s an express

at two-forty-five, which I shall take; and you’ll come back with me or

remain here a few days longer, exactly as you prefer.”

“I shall certainly go with you,” Isabel returned. “I don’t suppose I can

be of any use to my uncle, but if he’s ill I shall like to be near him.”

“I think you’re fond of him,” said Ralph with a certain shy pleasure

in his face. “You appreciate him, which all the world hasn’t done. The

quality’s too fine.”

“I quite adore him,” Isabel after a moment said.

“That’s very well. After his son he’s your greatest admirer.” She

welcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a small sigh of relief

at the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those admirers who couldn’t

propose to marry her. This, however, was not what she spoke; she went on

to inform Ralph that there were other reasons for her not remaining in

London. She was tired of it and wished to leave it; and then Henrietta

was going away--going to stay in Bedfordshire.

“In Bedfordshire?”

“With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has answered for an

invitation.”

Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh. Suddenly,

none the less, his gravity returned. “Bantling’s a man of courage. But

if the invitation should get lost on the way?”

“I thought the British post-office was impeccable.”

“The good Homer sometimes nods,” said Ralph. “However,” he went on more

brightly, “the good Bantling never does, and, whatever happens, he’ll

take care of Henrietta.”

Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope, and Isabel

made her arrangements for quitting Pratt’s Hotel. Her uncle’s danger

touched her nearly, and while she stood before her open trunk, looking

about her vaguely for what she should put into it, the tears suddenly

rose to her eyes. It was perhaps for this reason that when Ralph came

back at two o’clock to take her to the station she was not yet ready. He

found Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where she had just

risen from her luncheon, and this lady immediately expressed her regret

at his father’s illness.

“He’s a grand old man,” she said; “he’s faithful to the last. If it’s

really to be the last--pardon my alluding to it, but you must often

have thought of the possibility--I’m sorry that I shall not be at

Gardencourt.”

“You’ll amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire.”

“I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time,” said Henrietta

with much propriety. But she immediately added: “I should like so to

commemorate the closing scene.”

“My father may live a long time,” said Ralph simply. Then, adverting

to topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss Stackpole as to her own

future.

Now that Ralph was in trouble she addressed him in a tone of larger

allowance and told him that she was much indebted to him for having made

her acquainted with Mr. Bantling. “He has told me just the things I

want to know,” she said; “all the society items and all about the royal

family. I can’t make out that what he tells me about the royal family is

much to their credit; but he says that’s only my peculiar way of looking

at it. Well, all I want is that he should give me the facts; I can put

them together quick enough, once I’ve got them.” And she added that Mr.

Bantling had been so good as to promise to come and take her out that

afternoon.

“To take you where?” Ralph ventured to enquire.

“To Buckingham Palace. He’s going to show me over it, so that I may get

some idea how they live.”

“Ah,” said Ralph, “we leave you in good hands. The first thing we shall

hear is that you’re invited to Windsor Castle.”

“If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I’m not

afraid. But for all that,” Henrietta added in a moment, “I’m not

satisfied; I’m not at peace about Isabel.”

“What is her last misdemeanour?”

“Well, I’ve told you before, and I suppose there’s no harm in my going

on. I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Goodwood was here last

night.”

Ralph opened his eyes; he even blushed a little--his blush being

the sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered that Isabel, in

separating from him in Winchester Square, had repudiated his suggestion

that her motive in doing so was the expectation of a visitor at Pratt’s

Hotel, and it was a new pang to him to have to suspect her of duplicity.

On the other hand, he quickly said to himself, what concern was it of

his that she should have made an appointment with a lover? Had it not

been thought graceful in every age that young ladies should make a

mystery of such appointments? Ralph gave Miss Stackpole a diplomatic

answer. “I should have thought that, with the views you expressed to me

the other day, this would satisfy you perfectly.”

“That he should come to see her? That was very well, as far as it went.

It was a little plot of mine; I let him know that we were in London, and

when it had been arranged that I should spend the evening out I sent him

a word--the word we just utter to the ‘wise.’ I hoped he would find her

alone; I won’t pretend I didn’t hope that you’d be out of the way. He

came to see her, but he might as well have stayed away.”

“Isabel was cruel?”--and Ralph’s face lighted with the relief of his

cousin’s not having shown duplicity.

“I don’t exactly know what passed between them. But she gave him no

satisfaction--she sent him back to America.”

“Poor Mr. Goodwood!” Ralph sighed.

“Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him,” Henrietta went on.

“Poor Mr. Goodwood!” Ralph repeated. The exclamation, it must be

confessed, was automatic; it failed exactly to express his thoughts,

which were taking another line.

“You don’t say that as if you felt it. I don’t believe you care.”

“Ah,” said Ralph, “you must remember that I don’t know this interesting

young man--that I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I didn’t

believe Isabel would come round,” Miss Stackpole added--“well, I’d give

up myself. I mean I’d give _her_ up!”