Essential Novelists - Henry James. Генри Джеймс

light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. “That reason that I wouldn’t tell you—I’ll tell it you after all. It’s that I can’t escape my fate.”

      “Your fate?”

      “I should try to escape it if I were to marry you.”

      “I don’t understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as anything else?”

      “Because it’s not,” said Isabel femininely. “I know it’s not. It’s not my fate to give up—I know it can’t be.”

      Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. “Do you call marrying me giving up?”

      “Not in the usual sense. It’s getting—getting—getting a great deal. But it’s giving up other chances.”

      “Other chances for what?”

      “I don’t mean chances to marry,” said Isabel, her colour quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.

      “I don’t think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you’ll gain more than you’ll lose,” her companion observed.

      “I can’t escape unhappiness,” said Isabel. “In marrying you I shall be trying to.”

      “I don’t know whether you’d try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!” he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.

      “I mustn’t—I can’t!” cried the girl.

      “Well, if you’re bent on being miserable I don’t see why you should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for me.”

      “I’m not bent on a life of misery,” said Isabel. “I’ve always been intensely determined to be happy, and I’ve often believed I should be. I’ve told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself.”

      “By separating yourself from what?”

      “From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer.”

      Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. “Why, my dear Miss Archer,” he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, “I don’t offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I’m not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I’m devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever—not even from your friend Miss Stackpole.”

      “She’d never approve of it,” said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so.

      “Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?” his lordship asked impatiently. “I never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds.”

      “Now I suppose you’re speaking of me,” said Isabel with humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.

      Lord Warburton’s sister addressed him with a certain timidity and reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer—apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss Molyneux—as if he had been Royalty—stood like a lady-in-waiting.

      “Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!” said Henrietta Stackpole. “If I wanted to go he’d have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he’d have to do it.”

      “Oh, Warburton does everything one wants,” Miss Molyneux answered with a quick, shy laugh. “How very many pictures you have!” she went on, turning to Ralph.

      “They look a good many, because they’re all put together,” said Ralph. “But it’s really a bad way.”

      “Oh, I think it’s so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I’m so very fond of pictures,” Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.

      “Ah yes, pictures are very convenient,” said Ralph, who appeared to know better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.

      “They’re so very pleasant when it rains,” the young lady continued. “It has rained of late so very often.”

      “I’m sorry you’re going away, Lord Warburton,” said Henrietta. “I wanted to get a great deal more out of you.”

      “I’m not going away,” Lord Warburton answered.

      “Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies.”

      “I’m afraid we have some people to tea,” said Miss Molyneux, looking at her brother.

      “Very good, my dear. We’ll go.”

      “I hoped you would resist!” Henrietta exclaimed. “I wanted to see what Miss Molyneux would do.”

      “I never do anything,” said this young lady.

      “I suppose in your position it’s sufficient for you to exist!” Miss Stackpole returned. “I should like very much to see you at home.”

      “You must come to Lockleigh again,” said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel’s friend. Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton—the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she said: “I’m afraid I can never come again.”

      “Never again?”

      “I’m afraid I’m going away.”

      “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” said Miss Molyneux. “I think that’s so very wrong of you.”

      Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.

      “I should like to see you at home,” said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton found beside him. “I should like an hour’s talk with you; there are a great many questions I wish to ask you.”

      “I shall be delighted to see you,” the proprietor of Lockleigh answered; “but I’m certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When will you come?”

      “Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We’re thinking of going to London, but we’ll go and see you first. I’m determined to get some satisfaction out of you.”

      “If it depends upon Miss Archer I’m afraid you won’t get much. She won’t come to Lockleigh; she doesn’t like the place.”

      “She told me it was lovely!” said Henrietta.

      Lord Warburton hesitated. “She won’t come, all the same. You had better come alone,” he added.

      Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. “Would you make that remark to an English