Caspar Goodwood stood therestood and received a moment, from head to foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabels we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: Poor fellow, what great things hes capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his splendid force! What a pity too that one cant satisfy everybody! It gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: I cant tell you how I hoped you wouldnt come!
Ive no doubt of that. And he looked about him for a seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to settle.
You must be very tired, said Isabel, seating herself, and generously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
No, Im not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?
Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?
Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral.
Thats in keepingyou must have felt as if you were coming to bury me! And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on her as a physical weight.
No, I didnt feel that; I couldnt think of you as dead. I wish I could! he candidly declared.
I thank you immensely.
Id rather think of you as dead than as married to another man.
Thats very selfish of you! she returned with the ardour of a real conviction. If youre not happy yourself others have yet a right to be.
Very likely its selfish; but I dont in the least mind your saying so. I dont mind anything you can say nowI dont feel it. The cruellest things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what youve done I shall never feel anythingI mean anything but that. That I shall feel all my life.
Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness, in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. When did you leave New York?
He threw up his head as if calculating. Seventeen days ago.
You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.
I came as fast as I could. Id have come five days ago if I had been able.
It wouldnt have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood, she coldly smiled.
Not to youno. But to me.
You gain nothing that I see.
Thats for me to judge!
Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself. And then, to change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole. He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young lady had been with him just before he left America. She came to see you? Isabel then demanded.
Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I had got your letter.
Did you tell her? Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
Oh no, said Caspar Goodwood simply; I didnt want to do that. Shell hear it quick enough; she hears everything.
I shall write to her, and then shell write to me and scold me, Isabel declared, trying to smile again.
Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. I guess shell come right out, he said.
On purpose to scold me?
I dont know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly.
Im glad you tell me that, Isabel said. I must prepare for her.
Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last, raising them, Does she know Mr. Osmond? he enquired.
A little. And she doesnt like him. But of course I dont marry to please Henrietta, she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didnt say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To which she made answer that she didnt know yet. I can only say it will be soon. Ive told no one but yourself and one other personan old friend of Mr. Osmonds.
Is it a marriage your friends wont like? he demanded.
I really havent an idea. As I say, I dont marry for my friends.
He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions, doing it quite without delicacy. Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert Osmond?
Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable man. Hes not in business, said Isabel. Hes not rich; hes not known for anything in particular.
She disliked Mr. Goodwoods questions, but she said to herself that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at her. Where does he come from? Where does he belong?
She had never been so little pleased with the way he said belawng. He comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy.
You said in your letter he was American. Hasnt he a native place?
Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.
Has he never gone back?
Why should he go back? Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. He has no profession.
He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesnt he like the United States?
He doesnt know them. Then hes very quiet and very simplehe contents himself with Italy.
With Italy and with you, said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and no appearance of trying to make an epigram. What has he ever done? he added abruptly.
That I should marry him? Nothing at all, Isabel replied while her patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. If he had done great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; Im marrying a perfect nonentity. Dont try to take an interest in him. You cant.
I cant appreciate him; thats what you mean. And you dont mean in the least that hes a perfect nonentity. You think hes grand, you think hes great, though no one else thinks so.
Isabels colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion, and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render perceptions she had never taken for fine. Why do you always comeback to what others think? I cant discuss Mr. Osmond with you.