Portrait of a Lady. Генри Джеймс
“Lord Warburton's a very amiable young man – a very fine young man. He has a hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes – cares for literature, for art, for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure – more perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over there – what does he call it, Lockleigh? – is very attractive; but I don't think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however – he has so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as he is: he's too much liked.”
“Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!” Isabel sighed. “That's a very poor position.”
“He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one,” said the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. “I shall never make any one a martyr.”
“You'll never be one, I hope.”
“I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?”
Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. “Yes, I do, after all!”
Chapter IX
The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them. Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of “ornamental water,” set, in parterres, among the geraniums.
“They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are,” our heroine said to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh, where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very, very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep: they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she would come while the people were there.
“I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable,” said the elder sister; “but I dare say you'll take us as you find us.”
“I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you are,” replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.
Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone, that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the first time they had been called enchanting.
“I can't help it,” Isabel answered. “I think it's lovely to be so quiet and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that.”
“Heaven forbid!” cried Ralph with ardour.
“I mean to try and imitate them,” said Isabel. “I want very much to see them at home.”
She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother, she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs. Touchett.
“Is it true your brother's such a great radical?” Isabel asked. She knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.
“Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced,” said Mildred, the younger sister.
“At the same time Warburton's very reasonable,” Miss Molyneux observed.
Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not made an impertinence. “Do you suppose your brother's sincere?” Isabel enquired with a smile.
“Oh, he must be, you know!” Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder sister gazed at our heroine in silence.
“Do you think he would stand the test?”
“The test?”
“I mean for instance having to give up all this.”
“Having to give up Lockleigh?” said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.
“Yes, and the other places; what are they called?”
The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. “Do you mean – do you mean on account of the expense?” the younger one asked.
“I dare say he might let one or two of his houses,” said the other.
“Let them for nothing?” Isabel demanded.
“I can't fancy his giving up his property,” said Miss Molyneux.
“Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!” Isabel returned. “Don't you think it's a false position?”
Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. “My brother's position?” Miss Molyneux enquired.
“It's thought a very good position,” said the younger sister. “It's the first position in this part of the county.”
“I dare say you think me very irreverent,” Isabel took occasion to remark. “I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of him.”
“Of course one looks up to one's brother,” said Miss Molyneux simply.
“If you do that he must be very good – because you, evidently, are beautifully good.”
“He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does.”
“His ability is known,” Mildred added; “every one thinks it's immense.”
“Oh, I can see that,” said Isabel. “But if I were he I should wish to fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold it tight.”
“I think one ought to be liberal,” Mildred argued gently. “We've always been so, even from the earliest times.”
“Ah well,” said Isabel, “you've made a great success of it; I don't wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels.”
When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it had been a good deal modernised – some of its best points had lost their purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still moat, it affected the young visitor as