“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 brainpower; 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 anyone!” 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.
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
