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
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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?"
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"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 tomorrow.
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
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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
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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.
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"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.
CHAPTER LIV
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 instead of being conducted to her own apartment she 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 in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous
and scared--as scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious things, watching
her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners
of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still--with 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 recognised everything she had seen
years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the security of
valuable "pieces" which change by no hair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose
inch by inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking about as her
aunt had done on the day she had come 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 she might have been a woman more blest. She stopped in the gallery in front of a
small picture--a charming and precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested 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, if her remarkable kinswoman
resembled more a queen-regent or the matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's
hot cheek.
"I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph," Mrs. Touchett said. "The nurse had
gone to luncheon and I had taken her place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but
the man's good for nothing; he's 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 you knew the house."
"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking everywhere," Isabel answered. And
then she asked if Ralph slept much.
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"He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure that it's always sleep."
"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"
Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was the limit of her extravagance.
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've brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they've 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 it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her
luggage was there and was not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon
it. "Is there really no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her.
"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.
"I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without health. That is a very odd dress to
travel in."
Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's notice; I took the first that came."
"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to be their principal
interest. I wasn't able to tell them --but they seemed to have the right idea: that you never wear
anything less than black brocade."
"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote
me you had dined with her."
"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she should have let me alone.
The dinner was very good; it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I
enjoy my visit to America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure."
These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece, whom she was to meet in half
an hour at the midday meal. For this repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table
