The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2. Генри Джеймс

And he sat there with his air of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were nothing else that they might discuss.

      “You see how little you gain,” she accordingly broke out—“how little comfort or satisfaction I can give you.”

      “I didn’t expect you to give me much.”

      “I don’t understand then why you came.”

      “I came because I wanted to see you once more—even just as you are.”

      “I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been pleasanter for each of us than this.”

      “Waited till after you’re married? That’s just what I didn’t want to do. You’ll be different then.”

      “Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You’ll see.”

      “That will make it all the worse,” said Mr. Goodwood grimly.

      “Ah, you’re unaccommodating! I can’t promise to dislike you in order to help you to resign yourself.”

      “I shouldn’t care if you did!”

      Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just quitted. “Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That’s better for you perhaps than for me.”

      “I wished to hear the sound of your voice,” he said.

      “You’ve heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet.”

      “It gives me pleasure, all the same.” And with this he got up. She had felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy implications. It implied things she could never assent to—rights, reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed; and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor’s remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel’s part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused her: “I’ve not deceived you! I was perfectly free!”

      “Yes, I know that,” said Caspar.

      “I gave you full warning that I’d do as I chose.”

      “You said you’d probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner that I pretty well believed it.”

      She considered this an instant. “No one can be more surprised than myself at my present intention.”

      “You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe it,” Caspar went on. “I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and that’s partly why I came.”

      “If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that’s soon done. There’s no mistake whatever.”

      “I saw that as soon as I came into the room.”

      “What good would it do you that I shouldn’t marry?” she asked with a certain fierceness.

      “I should like it better than this.”

      “You’re very selfish, as I said before.”

      “I know that. I’m selfish as iron.”

      “Even iron sometimes melts! If you’ll be reasonable I’ll see you again.”

      “Don’t you call me reasonable now?”

      “I don’t know what to say to you,” she answered with sudden humility.

      “I shan’t trouble you for a long time,” the young man went on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. “Another reason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having changed your mind.”

      Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. “In explanation? Do you think I’m bound to explain?”

      He gave her one of his long dumb looks. “You were very positive. I did believe it.”

      “So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?”

      “No, I suppose not. Well,” he added, “I’ve done what I wished. I’ve seen you.”

      “How little you make of these terrible journeys,” she felt the poverty of her presently replying.

      “If you’re afraid I’m knocked up—in any such way as that—you may he at your ease about it.” He turned away, this time in earnest, and no hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.

      At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. “I shall leave Florence to-morrow,” he said without a quaver.

      “I’m delighted to hear it!” she answered passionately. Five minutes after he had gone out she burst into tears.

      CHAPTER XXXIII

      Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and then she began. “Aunt Lydia, I’ve something to tell you.”

      Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. “You needn’t tell me; I know what it is.”

      “I don’t know how you know.”

      “The same way that I know when the window’s open—by feeling a draught. You’re going to marry that man.”

      “What man do you mean?” Isabel enquired with great dignity.

      “Madame Merle’s friend—Mr. Osmond.”

      “I don’t know why you call him Madame Merle’s friend. Is that the principal thing he’s known by?”

      “If he’s not her friend he ought to be—after what she has done for him!” cried Mrs. Touchett. “I shouldn’t have expected it of her; I’m disappointed.”

      “If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement you’re greatly mistaken,” Isabel declared with a sort of ardent coldness.

      “You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman’s