Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told her everything, had consulted her about
everything. He left her no money; of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of
Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the place for a year; after which it
was to be sold. The money produced by the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for
poor persons suffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the will Lord
Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property, which was to be withdrawn from the
bank, was disposed of in various bequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom
his father had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small legacies.
"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has left considerable sums to
persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I asked then who some of them were, and he told
me they were people who at various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you
didn't like him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you had been handsomely
treated by his father, which I'm bound to say I think you were--though I don't mean that I ever
heard him complain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one by
one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what do
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you think he has done with his library? It sounds like a practical joke. He has left it to your friend
Miss Stackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean her following him up
from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It contains a great many rare and valuable books, and
as she can't carry it about the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction. She will
sell it of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'll set up a newspaper. Will that be a service
to literature?"
This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little interrogatory to which she had
deemed it necessary to submit on her arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in
literature than to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one of the rare
and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She was quite unable to read; her
attention had never been so little at her command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after
the ceremony in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes often wandered
from the book in her hand to the open window, which looked down the long avenue. It was in this
way that she saw a modest vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in
rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had a high standard of courtesy,
and it was therefore not remarkable, under the circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble
to come down from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett he had come
to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the validity of this thesis Isabel presently
stepped out of the house and wandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she
had been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for visiting the grounds. This
evening, however, was fine, and at first it struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The
theory I have just mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and if you had
seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad conscience. She was not pacified when at
the end of a quarter of an hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge
from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently proposed to Lord Warburton
that they should come in search of her. She was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a
chance, would have drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen and
that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt was a vast expanse this took
some time; during which she observed that, as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept
his hands rather stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently were
silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed it toward Isabel, had even at a distance
an expression. It seemed to say with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenable nobleman
you might have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however, that was not what
they said. They only said "This is rather awkward, you know, and I depend upon you to help me."
He was very grave, very proper and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her
without a smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile. He looked
extremely selfconscious.
"Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me," said Mrs. Touchett. "He tells me he
didn't know you were still here. I know he's an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not
in the house I brought him out to see for himself."
"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back in time for dinner," Mrs.
Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly explained. "I'm so glad to find you've not gone."
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"I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certain eagerness.
"I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to England sooner than--a--than you
thought?"
"Yes, I came very suddenly."
Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the grounds, which indeed
was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on
the point of asking about her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He
continued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a place over which death
had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If he was conscious of personal reasons it was very
fortunate that he had the cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel
thought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was another matter; but it was strangely
inexpressive.
"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were still here--if they had
thought you would see them," Lord Warburton went on. "Do kindly let them see you before you
leave England."
"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of them."
"I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two? You know there's always
that old promise." And his lordship coloured a little as he made this suggestion, which gave his
face a somewhat more familiar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course you're
not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a visit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh
at Whitsuntide for five days; and if you could come then--as you say you're not to be very long in
England--I would see that there should be literally no one else."
Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be there with her mamma; but
she did not express this idea.
"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I hardly know about
Whitsuntide."
"But I have your promise--haven't I?--for some other time."
There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She looked at her interlocutor a moment,
and the result of her observation was that--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. "Take
care you don't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish you every happiness."
He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. "Ah yes, 6.40; I haven't much
time, but I've a fly at the door. Thank you very much." It was not apparent whether the thanks
applied to her having reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye,
Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her eyes, and then he turned
to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to them. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a
moment the two ladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn.
"Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of her aunt.
"I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and he accepted it."
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"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"--while her aunt returned to the house and to those avocations
which the visitor had interrupted.
She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she strolled again under the great oaks
whose shadows were long upon the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself
near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as an object recognised.
It was not simply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this
spot something important had happened to her--that the place had an air of association. Then she
remembered that she had been sitting there, six years before, when a servant brought her from the
house the letter in which Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and
that when she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing that he should
like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an interesting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if
it might have something to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now-- she felt rather afraid of it.
She only stood before it, and while she stood the past came back to her in one of those rushing
waves of emotion by which persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this
agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence of which she overcame her
scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and unable to occupy
herself; and whether or no, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the
former epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment she was the image of a victim
of idleness. Her attitude had a singular absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost
themselves in the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her. There was nothing to
recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their seclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite
hour. How long she had sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight had grown
thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She quickly straightened herself, glancing
about, and then saw what had become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,
who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the unresonant turf, as he came
near, she had not heard. It occurred to her in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton
had surprised her of old.
She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started forward. She had had
time only to rise when, with a motion that looked like violence, but felt like--she knew not what,
he grasped her by the wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had not
hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was something in his face that she
wished not to see. That was the way he had looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at
present it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to her--beside her on the
bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost seemed to her that no one had ever been so close to
her as that. All this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she had disengaged her wrist,
turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You've frightened me," she said.
"I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no matter. I came from London a while ago by
the train, but I couldn't come here directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me.
He took a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I don't know who he was,
but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted to see you alone. So I've been waiting and walking
about. I've walked all over, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was a
keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I had made his acquaintance when
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I came here with your cousin. Is that gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to
you." Goodwood spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome. Isabel had
hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into herself as she perceived that, on the
contrary, he had only let out sail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was
a feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his resolution. She gazed
straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee, leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The
twilight seemed to darken round them. "I want to speak to you," he repeated; "I've something
particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I did the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it
only distressed you. I couldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please don't
think I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment into entreaty. "I came here today
for a purpose. It's very different. It was vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help
you."
She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or because such a voice in the
darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she listened to him as she had never listened before; his
words dropped deep into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and it was
with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you help me?" she asked in a low
tone, as if she were taking what he had said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.
"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember what I asked you in
Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I know on good authority; everything's clear to me
to-day. It was a good thing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a good man,
a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He explained everything; he
guessed my sentiments. He was a member of your family and he left you--so long as you should be
in England--to my care," said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. "Do you know what
he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he died? He said: 'Do everything you
can for her; do everything she'll let you.'"
Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"
"Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, following her fast. "And he was
dying--when a man's dying it's different." She checked the movement she had made to leave him;
she was listening more than ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That had
been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea, which she scented in all her being.
"But it doesn't matter!" he exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem
of her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have known all the same. I had
only to look at you at your cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me
any more; for God's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're the most unhappy
of women, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends."
She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?" she cried.
"I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it's necessary to defend him. But I
won't say another word against him; I'll speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can
you pretend you're not heart-broken? You don't know what to do-- you don't know where to turn.
It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind you in Rome? Touchett knew all about it,
and I knew it too--what it would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it
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will"--and he flared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! When I know such a horror as
that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save you? What would you think of me if I should
stand still and see you go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay for it!'--that's
what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He was such a near relation!" cried
Goodwood, making his queer grim point again. "I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say
those things to me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was after he got
home--when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too. I understand all about it: you're afraid to
go back. You're perfectly alone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know
that perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of ME."
"To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. The idea of which she had caught
a glimpse a few moments before now loomed large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at
it as if it had been a comet in the sky.
"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade you to trust me,"
Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining eyes. "Why should you go back--why
should you go through that ghastly form?"
"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a little of what she felt. The rest
was that she had never been loved before. She had believed it, but this was different; this was the
hot wind of the desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere sweet airs of
the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her feet, while the very taste of it, as of something
potent, acrid and strange, forced open her set teeth.
At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that he would break out into greater
violence. But after an instant he was perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had
reasoned it all out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for once listen to me.
It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking back into that misery, of going to open your mouth to
that poisoned air. It's you that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why
shouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'm yours for ever--for ever and
ever. Here I stand; I'm as firm as a rock. What have you to care about? You've no children; that
perhaps would be an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what you can of
your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a part. It would be an insult to you to
assume that you care for the look of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy
of the world. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look at things as they are.
You took the great step in coming away; the next is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand
here, that a woman deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going down into
the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and that's why I'm here. We can do
absolutely as we please; to whom under the sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what
is it that has the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a question is between
ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we born to rot in our misery--were we born to be
afraid? I never knew YOU afraid! If you'll only trust me, how little you will be disappointed! The
world's all before us--and the world's very big. I know something about that."
Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were pressing something that hurt
her.
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"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immense desire to appear to resist. She
said it at random, to hear herself say something; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth,
had never seemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form of a mighty sea,
where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and here was help; it had come in a
rushing torrent. I know not whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then that
to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her dying. This belief, for a moment,
was a kind of rapture, in which she felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat
with her feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest on.
"Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. He had suddenly given up argument,
and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible, through a confusion of vaguer sounds.
This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the metaphysicians say; the confusion, the
noise of waters, all the rest of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware
of this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I beseech you to go away!"
"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried.
She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. "As you love me, as you pity me, leave
me alone!"
He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she felt his arms about her and
his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again,
and stayed; and it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in his hard
manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his face, his figure, his presence,
justified of its intense identity and made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those
wrecked and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when darkness returned
she was free. She never looked about her; she only darted from the spot. There were lights in the
windows of the house; they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for the
distance was considerable-- she had moved through the darkness (for she saw nothing) and reached
the door. Here only she paused. She looked all about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand
on the latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a very straight path.
Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in Wimpole Street in
which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings. He had hardly removed his hand from the
knocker when the door was opened and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her
hat and jacket; she was on the point of going out. "Oh, good-morning," he said, "I was in hopes I
should find Mrs. Osmond."
Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good deal of expression about
Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Pray what led you to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she had come to London. He
believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in suspense. "She came
here yesterday, and spent the night. But this morning she started for Rome."
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Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the doorstep. "Oh, she
started--?" he stammered. And without finishing his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted
himself. But he couldn't otherwise move.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out her hand and grasped his
arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just you wait!"
On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a revulsion, that she simply
meant he was young. She stood shining at him with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot,
thirty years to his life. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now the
key to patience.
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