Archer."
These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the girl; it struck her as the
prelude to something grave: she had heard the sound before and she recognised it. She had no
wish, however, that for the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily as
possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would allow her: "I'm afraid there's
no prospect of my being able to come here again."
"Never?" said Lord Warburton.
"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."
"May I come and see you then some day next week?"
"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"
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"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense that you're always summing
people up."
"You don't of necessity lose by that."
"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is not what I most love. Is Mrs.
Touchett going to take you abroad?"
"I hope so."
"Is England not good enough for you?"
"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I want to see as many countries
as I can."
"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."
"Enjoying, I hope, too."
"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to," said Lord Warburton. "You
strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast designs."
"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill out. Is there anything
mysterious in a purpose entertained and executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty
thousand of my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign travel?"
"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared. "It's already a most
formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us."
"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.
"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought 'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not
so in the least. I protest."
"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel answered with a smile.
Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you don't care," he said
presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The note she had heard in his voice a moment before
reappeared, and mixed with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt and
inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had often heard that the English are a
highly eccentric people, and she had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the
most romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he going to make
her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they had met? She was reassured quickly enough
by her sense of his great good manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already
touched the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young lady who had
confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting to his good manners, for he presently went on,
laughing a little and without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of
course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials; the foibles, the afflictions
of human nature, the peculiarities of nations!"
"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation entertainment for a lifetime. But
we've a long drive, and my aunt will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and
Lord Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the others, "I shall come
and see you next week," he said.
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She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that she couldn't pretend to
herself that it was altogether a painful one. Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly
enough, "Just as you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a game she
played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable to many critics. It came from a
certain fear.
CHAPTER X
The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend Miss Stackpole--a note of
which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy
of the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely
friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided only the night before I left
New York--the Interviewer having come round to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a
veteran journalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where can we
meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have already acquired the correct
accent. Perhaps even you have married a lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some
introductions to the first people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some light
on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are not rose-coloured; but I wish to
talk them over with you, and you know that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also
something very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can; come to London
(I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or else let me come to you, wherever you are. I
will do so with pleasure; for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as
possible of the inner life."
Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she acquainted him with its purport, and,
as she expected, he begged her instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady," he said, "I suppose that,
being an American, she won't show me up, as that other one did. She has seen others like me."
"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was not altogether at ease about
Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which belonged to that side of her friend's character which she
regarded with least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would be very
welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman lost no time in announcing her
prompt approach. She had gone up to London, and it was from that centre that she took the train
for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive her.
"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved along the platform.
"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She doesn't care a straw what men
think of her."
"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster. Is she very ugly?"
"No, she's decidedly pretty."
"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see her," Ralph conceded.
"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as she."
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"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person require more or less pluck. Do
you suppose she'll interview me?"
"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."
"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all, including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she's capable of it then?"
"Perfectly."
"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"
"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her faults."
"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her merits."
"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, proved, as Isabel had
promised, quite delicately, even though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of
medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown
ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking
point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without
impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it
happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss
Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and
Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the
folding. From top to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a voice not
rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she
struck him as not all in the large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to
join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the
acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more to give
the measure of her confidence in her powers.
"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American or English," she broke
out. "If once I knew I could talk to you accordingly."
"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character that reminded him of large
polished buttons--buttons that might have fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he
seemed to see the reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a button is not
usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very
modest man, feel vaguely embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This
sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her company, sensibly diminished,
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though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that
you're an American," she said.
"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"
"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss Stackpole returned.
"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality are no barrier to you,"
Ralph went on.
Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?"
"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius."
"I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the Interviewer; "but I expect I shall
before I leave."
"He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.
"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say I think patriotism is like
charity--it begins at home."
"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.
"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long time before I got here."
"Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged, innocent voice.
"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take. I feel a good deal cramped. I
felt it on the journey from Liverpool to London."
"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.
"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose acquaintance I had made upon
the steamer; a lovely group from Little Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt
something pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very commencement as if I
were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere.
That's the true way--then you can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."
"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll see."
Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was prepared to make a
considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in
spite of this Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task performed,
deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found occasion to desire her to desist from
celebrating the charms of their common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second
morning of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the Interviewer, of which the
title, in her exquisitely neat and legible hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine
remembered at school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss Stackpole,
with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in
her protest.
"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe the place."
Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want, and it's a lovely place."
"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle wants."
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"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted afterwards."
"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it a breach of hospitality."
Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen, very neatly, upon an
elegant little implement which she kept for the purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course
if you don't approve I won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."
"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you. We'll take some drives; I'll
show you some charming scenery."
"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know I'm deeply human,
Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was going to bring in your cousin--the alienated
American. There's a great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a
beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."
"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but of the publicity."
"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have delighted to do your uncle, who
seems to me a much nobler type--the American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how
he can object to my paying him honour."
Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as strange that a nature in which
she found so much to esteem should break down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said,
"you've no sense of privacy."
Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were suffused, while Isabel found
her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity.
"I've never written a word about myself!"
"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for others also!"
"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just let me make a note of it and I'll
put it in somewhere." she was a thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in
as cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady in want of matter. "I'
promised to do the social side," she said to Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I c(ve) an't
describe this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised she would bethink
herself, and the next day, in conversation with her friend, she happened to mention her visit to
Lord Warburton's ancient house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss
Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility."
"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and you'll have a chance to see
him and observe him. Only if you intend to repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him
warning."
"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."
"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue," Isabel declared.
It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had, according to her prophecy, lost
his heart to their visitor, though he had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about
the park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was delightful to float along
the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a
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single companion. Her presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph had
expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect solubility of that of his cousin; for
the correspondent of the Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that the
crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days. Henrietta, on her side, failed a little
to justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph
appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be almost
immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her arrival. "Does he go round
all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied. "I
should like to show him up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend. Later, when she stepped into
the boat on joining the water-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and
would like to drown her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd be such an interesting
one!"
"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your prejudices; that's one comfort."
"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's intellectual poverty for you."
"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your flirtation, or whatever it
is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you
out. She'll see how thin you are."
"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the trouble."
Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort; resorting largely, whenever
the opportunity offered, to the natural expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather
was bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor amusement, offered to
show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through the long gallery in his society, while he pointed
out its principal ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked at the
pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion, and Ralph was gratified by the fact
that she delivered herself of none of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the
visitors to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do her justice, was
but little addicted to the use of conventional terms; there was something earnest and inventive in
her tone, which at times, in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture speaking a
foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had at one time officiated as art
critic to a journal of the other world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket
none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had called her attention to a
charming Constable, she turned and looked at him as if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
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"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph bespoke her attention for a
small Lancret hanging near it, which represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a
ruff, leaning against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing the guitar to two
ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a regular occupation," he said.
Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested upon the picture, he saw she
had missed the subject. She was thinking of something much more serious. "I don't see how you
can reconcile it to your conscience."
