The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1

CHAPTER I

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeablethan the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. Thereare circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not--somepeople of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Thosethat I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offeredan admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements ofthe little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old Englishcountry-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendidsummer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it wasleft, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real duskwould not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begunto ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth,dense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressedthat sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief sourceof one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock toeight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasionas this the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The personsconcerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were notof the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of theceremony I have mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were straightand angular; they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deepwicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, andof two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front ofhim. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an unusually large cup,of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted in brilliantcolours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holdingit for a long time close to his chin, with his face turned to the house.His companions had either finished their tea or were indifferent totheir privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll.One of them, from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certainattention at the elder man, who, unconscious of observation, rested hiseyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyondthe lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the mostcharacteristic object in the peculiarly English picture I have attemptedto sketch.

It stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames atsome forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, withthe complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts ofpictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presentedto the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windowssmothered in creepers. The house had a name and a history; the oldgentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you thesethings: how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered anight's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person hadextended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bed whichstill formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had beena good deal bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under theRestoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how, finally, after havingbeen remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passedinto the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought itoriginally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth)it was offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at itsugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end oftwenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it,so that he knew all its points and would tell you just where to standto see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows ofits various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, wearybrickwork--were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said,he could have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants,several of whom were known to general fame; doing so, however, with anundemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was notthe least honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portionof the lawn with which we are concerned was not the entrance-front; thiswas in quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the widecarpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extensionof a luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down ashade as dense as that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished,like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs, withthe books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at somedistance; where the ground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking,ceased. But it was none the less a charming walk down to the water.

The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirtyyears before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, hisAmerican physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but hehad kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might havetaken it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At present,obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; hisjourneys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes thegreat rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenlydistributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently aface in which the range of representation was not large, so that the airof contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tellthat he had been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also that hissuccess had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had much of theinoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience ofmen, but there was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile thatplayed upon his lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eyeas he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon thetable. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl wasfolded upon his knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroideredslippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair,watching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in thestill more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling,bustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the othergentlemen.

One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with aface as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched wassomething else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair andfrank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the richadornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate,brilliant exceptional look--the air of a happy temperament fertilised bya high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envy himat a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from along ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; heheld his two hands behind him, and in one of them--a large, white,well-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.

His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a personof quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excitedgrave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wishyourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feeblyput together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished,but by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. Helooked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous; and he worea brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and therewas something in the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate.His gait had a shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm onhis legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair herested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces broughtinto relation, you would easily have seen they were father and son.The father caught his son's eye at last and gave him a mild, responsivesmile.

”I'm getting on very well,” he said.

”Have you drunk your tea?” asked the son.

”Yes, and enjoyed it.”

”Shall I give you some more?”

The old man considered, placidly. ”Well, I guess I'll wait and see.” Hehad, in speaking, the American tone.

”Are you cold?” the son enquired.

The father slowly rubbed his legs. ”Well, I don't know. I can't telltill I feel.”

”Perhaps some one might feel for you,” said the younger man, laughing.

”Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me,Lord Warburton?”

”Oh yes, immensely,” said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton,promptly. ”I'm bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable.”

”Well, I suppose I am, in most respects.” And the old man looked down athis green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. ”The fact is I've beencomfortable so many years that I suppose I've got so used to it I don'tknow it.”

”Yes, that's the bore of comfort,” said Lord Warburton. ”We only knowwhen we're uncomfortable.”

”It strikes me we're rather particular,” his companion remarked.

”Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular,” Lord Warburton murmured.And then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger onesstanding looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. ”Ishould think you would be very unhappy with that shawl,” Lord Warburtonresumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again.

”Oh no, he must have the shawl!” cried the gentleman in the velvet coat.”Don't put such ideas as that into his head.”

”It belongs to my wife,” said the old man simply.

”Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--” And Lord Warburton made agesture of apology.

”I suppose I must give it to her when she comes,” the old man went on.

”You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover yourpoor old legs.”

”Well, you mustn't abuse my legs,” said the old man. ”I guess they areas good as yours.”

”Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine,” his son replied, giving himhis tea.

”Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference.”

”I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?”

”Well, it's rather hot.”

”That's intended to be a merit.”

”Ah, there's a great deal of merit,” murmured the old man, kindly. ”He'sa very good nurse, Lord Warburton.”

”Isn't he a bit clumsy?” asked his lordship.

”Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He'sa very good nurse--for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse becausehe's sick himself.”

”Oh, come, daddy!” the ugly young man exclaimed.

”Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it.”

”I might try: that's an idea,” said the young man.

”Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?” his father asked.

Lord Warburton considered a moment. ”Yes, sir, once, in the PersianGulf.”

”He's making light of you, daddy,” said the other young man. ”That's asort of joke.”

”Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,” daddy replied, serenely.”You don't look as if you had been sick, anyway, Lord Warburton.”

”He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully aboutit,” said Lord Warburton's friend.

”Is that true, sir?” asked the old man gravely.

”If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow totalk to--a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe in anything.”

”That's another sort of joke,” said the person accused of cynicism.

”It's because his health is so poor,” his father explained to LordWarburton. ”It affects his mind and colours his way of looking atthings; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it'salmost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect hisspirits. I've hardly ever seen him when he wasn't cheerful--about as heis at present. He often cheers me up.”

The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. ”Is ita glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to carryout my theories, daddy?”

”By Jove, we should see some queer things!” cried Lord Warburton.

”I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone,” said the old man.

”Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm notin the least bored; I find life only too interesting.”

”Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!”

”I'm never bored when I come here,” said Lord Warburton. ”One gets suchuncommonly good talk.”

”Is that another sort of joke?” asked the old man. ”You've no excuse forbeing bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of such athing.”

”You must have developed very late.”

”No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twentyyears old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working tooth andnail. You wouldn't be bored if you had something to do; but all youyoung men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You're toofastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.”

”Oh, I say,” cried Lord Warburton, ”you're hardly the person to accuse afellow-creature of being too rich!”

”Do you mean because I'm a banker?” asked the old man.

”Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--suchunlimited means.”

”He isn't very rich,” the other young man mercifully pleaded. ”He hasgiven away an immense deal of money.”

”Well, I suppose it was his own,” said Lord Warburton ”and in that casecould there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactortalk of one's being too fond of pleasure.”

”Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's.”

The old man shook his head. ”I don't pretend to have contributedanything to the amusement of my contemporaries.”

”My dear father, you're too modest!”

”That's a kind of joke, sir,” said Lord Warburton.

”You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you'venothing left.”

”Fortunately there are always more jokes,” the ugly young man remarked.

”I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. Youyoung men will find that out.”

”The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunityof jokes.”

”They'll have to be grim jokes,” said the old man. ”I'm convinced therewill be great changes, and not all for the better.”

”I quite agree with you, sir,” Lord Warburton declared. ”I'm very surethere will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things willhappen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your advice;you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' ofsomething. One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the nextmoment be knocked sky-high.”

”You ought to take hold of a pretty woman,” said his companion. ”He'strying hard to fall in love,” he added, by way of explanation, to hisfather.

”The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!” Lord Warburtonexclaimed.

”No, no, they'll be firm,” the old man rejoined; ”they'll not beaffected by the social and political changes I just referred to.”

”You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands onone as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver.”

”The ladies will save us,” said the old man; ”that is the best of themwill--for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one andmarry her, and your life will become much more interesting.”

A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a senseof the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither for hisson nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony had notbeen a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and thesewords may have been intended as a confession of personal error; thoughof course it was not in place for either of his companions to remarkthat apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of the best.

”If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what yousay?” Lord Warburton asked. ”I'm not at all keen about marrying--yourson misrepresented me; but there's no knowing what an interesting womanmight do with me.”

”I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman,” said hisfriend.

”My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly etherealones as mine. If I could only see it myself--that would be a great stepin advance.”

”Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn'tfall in love with my niece,” said the old man.

His son broke into a laugh. ”He'll think you mean that as a provocation!My dear father, you've lived with the English for thirty years, andyou've picked up a good many of the things they say. But you've neverlearned the things they don't say!”

”I say what I please,” the old man returned with all his serenity.

”I haven't the honour of knowing your niece,” Lord Warburton said. ”Ithink it's the first time I've heard of her.”

”She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England.”

Then young Mr. Touchett explained. ”My mother, you know, has beenspending the winter in America, and we're expecting her back. She writesthat she has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come outwith her.”

”I see,--very kind of her,” said Lord Warburton. Is the young ladyinteresting?”

”We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone intodetails. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and hertelegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don't know how to writethem, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of condensation.'Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with niece, firststeamer decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we get from her--thatwas the last that came. But there had been another before, which I thinkcontained the first mention of the niece. 'Changed hotel, very bad,impudent clerk, address here. Taken sister's girl, died last year, go toEurope, two sisters, quite independent.' Over that my father and Ihave scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to admit of so manyinterpretations.”

”There's one thing very clear in it,” said the old man; ”she has giventhe hotel-clerk a dressing.”

”I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the field. Wethought at first that the sister mentioned might be the sister of theclerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to prove that theallusion is to one of my aunts. Then there was a question as to whosethe two other sisters were; they are probably two of my late aunt'sdaughters. But who's 'quite independent,' and in what sense is the termused?--that point's not yet settled. Does the expression apply moreparticularly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does itcharacterise her sisters equally?--and is it used in a moral or in afinancial sense? Does it mean that they've been left well off, orthat they wish to be under no obligations? or does it simply mean thatthey're fond of their own way?”

”Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that,” Mr. Touchettremarked.

”You'll see for yourself,” said Lord Warburton. ”When does Mrs. Touchettarrive?”

”We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin.She may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already havedisembarked in England.”

”In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you.”

”She never telegraphs when you would expect it--only when you don't,”said the old man. ”She likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she'llfind me doing something wrong. She has never done so yet, but she's notdiscouraged.”

”It's her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks of.”Her son's appreciation of the matter was more favourable. ”Whatever thehigh spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a match for it. Shelikes to do everything for herself and has no belief in any one's powerto help her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp withoutgum, and she would never forgive me if I should presume to go toLiverpool to meet her.”

”Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?” Lord Warburtonasked.

”Only on the condition I've mentioned--that you don't fall in love withher!” Mr. Touchett replied.

”That strikes me as hard, don't you think me good enough?”

”I think you too good--because I shouldn't like her to marry you. Shehasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies aredoing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then she's probablyengaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover I'm notsure, after all, that you'd be a remarkable husband.”

”Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many American girls, andthey always were; but I could never see that it made any difference,upon my word! As for my being a good husband,” Mr. Touchett's visitorpursued, ”I'm not sure of that either. One can but try!”

”Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece,” smiled the oldman, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous.

”Ah, well,” said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still, ”perhaps,after all, she's not worth trying on!”