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Chapter 53

CHAPTER LIII

It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as
Isabel descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped
into the arms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of
Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to her friend from
Turin, and though she had not definitely said to herself that
Henrietta would meet her, she had felt her telegram would produce
some helpful result. On her long journey from Rome her mind had
been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question the
future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took
little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though
they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts
followed their course through other countries--strange-looking,
dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of
seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of
winter. She had plenty to think about; but it was neither
reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of
memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at
their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose
and fell by a logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things
she remembered. Now that she was in the secret, now that she knew
something that so much concerned her and the eclipse of which had
made life resemble an attempt to play whist with an imperfect
pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual relations, their
meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose before her with
a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a thousand
trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a shiver.
She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that they
had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing
seemed of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was
suspended; all desire too save the single desire to reach her
much-embracing refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting-point,
and to those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary
solution to return. She had gone forth in her strength; she would
come back in her weakness, and if the place had been a rest to
her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his
dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect
of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything
more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a
marble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.

She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost
as good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so
passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from
hope and regret, that she recalled to herself one of those
Etruscan figures couched upon the receptacle of their ashes.
There was nothing to regret now--that was all over. Not only the
time of her folly, but the time of her repentance was far. The
only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had been so--well, so
unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped, from literal
inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been. Whatever
it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she
was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an
impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This
impression carried her into the future, of which from time to
time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant
years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live,
and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the present
hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege
was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any
appetite for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her
business for a long time to come. And at moments there was
something inspiring, almost enlivening, in the conviction. It was
a proof of strength--it was a proof she should some day be happy
again. It couldn't be she was to live only to suffer; she was
still young, after all, and a great many things might happen to
her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury of life
repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable, too
capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to
be valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of
precious things? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were
fine one would suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that
one had a certain grossness; but Isabel recognised, as it passed
before her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She
should never escape; she should last to the end. Then the middle
years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of her
indifference closed her in.

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 rejoiced Henrietta had come; 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 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 she had seen before; and
in a moment she recognised 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 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 smiled in return. She felt
she could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr.
Bantling's brave eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed
to say he wished her to remember he was an old friend of her
cousin--that he understood, that it was all right. Isabel gave
him her hand; she thought of him, extravagantly, as a beautiful
blameless knight.

"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
enquired. "Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."

"I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she
had never found 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 believe it was very rough," she said, to her
companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've 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 to Gardencourt."

"Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you
know."

"I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully
kind," said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It
seemed to her 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, he 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. I was at Gardencourt two days
ago."

"Did you see my cousin?"

"Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had
been there the day before. Ralph 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 awfully
jolly and funny all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It's
awfully wretched."

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'd like to know."

"I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?"

"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
awfully tired."

"Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again."

"Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the last
news." On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed
after all 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 the latter was
now at liberty to leave the station. "You know you're not to
think of going to the country to-night," Henrietta remarked to
her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a train or not. You're to
come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be
had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't a
Roman palace, but it will do for a night."

"I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said.

"You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish."

"She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?"
Mr. Bantling enquired jocosely.

Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see
you're in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the
Paddington Station to-morrow morning at ten."

"Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.

"He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her
friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole
Street--to do her justice there had been dinner enough--she asked
those questions to which she had alluded at the station. "Did
your husband make you a scene about your coming?" That was Miss
Stackpole's first enquiry.

"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'd call a
scene."

"What was it then?"

"It was a very quiet conversation."

Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been
hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had
been hellish. 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've only one criticism to make. I don't see
why you promised little Miss Osmond to go back."

"I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did
then."

"If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."

Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another."

"You'll 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've a little time. Coming away was a
complication, but what will going back be?"

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

"He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the
scene of a moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."

For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder,
and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had
requested, announced abruptly: "I've been to stay with Lady
Pensil!"

"Ah, the invitation 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, who
fixed 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 criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr.
Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!"

It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense 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 the
right excess of intensity, "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'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate
right here in London."

"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.

"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I
think I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain."

"One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours
doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."

"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American
humour. He has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've
studied him for many years and I see right through him. He's as
clear as the style of a good prospectus. He's 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're changed indeed! It's the first time
I've ever heard you say anything against your native land."

"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power;
that, after all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman
has to change a good deal to marry."

"I hope you'll 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've as
good a right as any one!" she added with artless elation.
Isabel was duly diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in
her view. Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human and
feminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light
keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment to find
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 himself at least 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's supposed to be a master mind. She
thinks she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman
of my modern type. 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'll never understand
my mixture--never!"

"She's 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
the mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a
kind of fascination."

"It's very good in you to humour it."

"Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've 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'm very glad," Isabel said as she
gave him her hand.

"I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied,
resting on his neat umbrella.

"Yes, I think it awfully odd."

"You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always
rather liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.


Henry James