Henry James: The Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, The Tragic Muse & Daisy Miller (4 Books in One Edition). Henry Foss James
It would be too inconsistent.”
Caspar Goodwood, on his side, considered. “You must do me justice too. I received an invitation to your uncle’s more than a week ago, and I declined it.”
She betrayed surprise. “From whom was your invitation?”
“From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I declined it because I had not your authorisation to accept it. The suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me appeared to have come from Miss Stackpole.”
“It certainly never did from me. Henrietta really goes very far,” Isabel added.
“Don’t be too hard on her — that touches ME.”
“No; if you declined you did quite right, and I thank you for it.” And she gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought that Lord Warburton and Mr. Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt: it would have been so awkward for Lord Warburton.
“When you leave your uncle where do you go?” her companion asked.
“I go abroad with my aunt — to Florence and other places.”
The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young man’s heart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which he was inexorably excluded. Nevertheless he went on quickly with his questions. “And when shall you come back to America?”
“Perhaps not for a long time. I’m very happy here.”
“Do you mean to give up your country?”
“Don’t be an infant!”
“Well, you’ll be out of my sight indeed!” said Caspar Goodwood.
“I don’t know,” she answered rather grandly. “The world — with all these places so arranged and so touching each other — comes to strike one as rather small.”
“It’s a sight too big for ME!” Caspar exclaimed with a simplicity our young lady might have found touching if her face had not been set against concessions.
This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment: “Don’t think me unkind if I say it’s just THAT— being out of your sight — that I like. If you were in the same place I should feel you were watching me, and I don’t like that — I like my liberty too much. If there’s a thing in the world I’m fond of,” she went on with a slight recurrence of grandeur, “it’s my personal independence.”
But whatever there might be of the too superior in this speech moved Caspar Goodwood’s admiration; there was nothing he winced at in the large air of it. He had never supposed she hadn’t wings and the need of beautiful free movements — he wasn’t, with his own long arms and strides, afraid of any force in her. Isabel’s words, if they had been meant to shock him, failed of the mark and only made him smile with the sense that here was common ground. “Who would wish less to curtail your liberty than I? What can give me greater pleasure than to see you perfectly independent — doing whatever you like? It’s to make you independent that I want to marry you.”
“That’s a beautiful sophism,” said the girl with a smile more beautiful still.
“An unmarried woman — a girl of your age — isn’t independent. There are all sorts of things she can’t do. She’s hampered at every step.”
“That’s as she looks at the question,” Isabel answered with much spirit. “I’m not in my first youth — I can do what I choose — I belong quite to the independent class. I’ve neither father nor mother; I’m poor and of a serious disposition; I’m not pretty. I therefore am not bound to be timid and conventional; indeed I can’t afford such luxuries. Besides, I try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more honourable than not to judge at all. I don’t wish to be a mere sheep in the flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something of human affairs beyond what other people think it compatible with propriety to tell me.” She paused a moment, but not long enough for her companion to reply. He was apparently on the point of doing so when she went on: “Let me say this to you, Mr. Goodwood. You’re so kind as to speak of being afraid of my marrying. If you should hear a rumour that I’m on the point of doing so — girls are liable to have such things said about them — remember what I have told you about my love of liberty and venture to doubt it.”
There was something passionately positive in the tone in which she gave him this advice, and he saw a shining candour in her eyes that helped him to believe her. On the whole he felt reassured, and you might have perceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly: “You want simply to travel for two years? I’m quite willing to wait two years, and you may do what you like in the interval. If that’s all you want, pray say so. I don’t want you to be conventional; do I strike you as conventional myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind’s quite good enough for me; but if it interests you to wander about a while and see different countries I shall be delighted to help you in any way in my power.”
“You’re very generous; that’s nothing new to me. The best way to help me will be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as possible.”
“One would think you were going to commit some atrocity!” said Caspar Goodwood.
“Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that if the fancy takes me.”
“Well then,” he said slowly, “I’ll go home.” And he put out his hand, trying to look contented and confident.
Isabel’s confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of committing an atrocity; but, turn it over as he would, there was something ominous in the way she reserved her option. As she took his hand she felt a great respect for him; she knew how much he cared for her and she thought him magnanimous. They stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a hand-clasp which was not merely passive on her side. “That’s right,” she said very kindly, almost tenderly. “You’ll lose nothing by being a reasonable man.”
“But I’ll come back, wherever you are, two years hence,” he returned with characteristic grimness.
We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she suddenly changed her note. “Ah, remember, I promise nothing — absolutely nothing!” Then more softly, as if to help him to leave her: “And remember too that I shall not be an easy victim!”
“You’ll get very sick of your independence.”
“Perhaps I shall; it’s even very probable. When that day comes I shall be very glad to see you.”
She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her room, and she waited a moment to see whether her visitor would not take his departure. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an immense unwillingness in his attitude and a sore remonstrance in his eyes. “I must leave you now,” said Isabel; and she opened the door and passed into the other room.
This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague radiance sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and Isabel could make out the masses of the furniture, the dim shining of the mirror and the looming of the big four-posted bed. She stood still a moment, listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the sitting-room and close the door behind him. She stood still a little longer, and then, by an irresistible impulse, dropped on her knees before her bed and hid her face in her arms.
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