She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the quiet parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing forgetfulness.It was on the contrary because she felt too wide-eyed and wished to check the sense of seeing too many things at once.Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out of the window.She was not accustomed indeed to keep it behind bolts; and at important moments, when she would have been thankful to make use of her judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having given undue encouragement to the faculty of seeing without judging.At present, with her sense that the note of change had been struck, came gradually a host of images of the things she was leaving behind her.The years and hours of her life came back to her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken only by the ticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in review.It had been a very happy life and she had been a very fortunate person- this was the truth that seemed to emerge most vividly.She had had the best of everything, and in a world in which the circumstances of so many people made them unenviable it was an advantage never to have known anything particularly unpleasant.It appeared to Isabel that the unpleasant had been even too absent from her knowledge, for she had gathered from her acquaintance with literature that it was often a source of interest and even of instruction.Her father had kept it away from her- her handsome, much-loved father, who always had such an aversion to it.It was a great felicity to have been his daughter;Isabel rose even to pride in her parentage.Since his death she had seemed to see him as turning his braver side to his children and as not having managed to ignore the ugly quite so much in practice as in aspiration.But this only made her tenderness for him greater; it was scarcely even painful to have to suppose him too generous, too good-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations.Many persons had held that he carried this indifference too far, especially the large number of those to whom he owed money.Of their opinions Isabel was never very definitely informed; but it may interest the reader to know that, while they had recognized in the late Mr.
Archer a remarkably handsome head and a very taking manner (indeed, as one of them had said, he was always taking something), they haddeclared that he was ****** a very poor use of his life.He had squandered a substantial fortune, he had been deplorably convivial, he was known to have gambled freely.A few very harsh critics went so far as to say that he had not even brought up his daughters.They had had no regular education and no permanent home; they had been at once spoiled and neglected; they had lived with nursemaids and governesses (usually very bad ones) or had been sent to superficial schools, kept by the French, from which, at the end of a month, they had been removed in tears.This view of the matter would have excited Isabel's indignation, for to her own sense her opportunities had been large.Even when her father had left his daughters for three months at Neufchatel with a French bonne who had eloped with a Russian nobleman staying at the same hotel- even in this irregular situation (an incident of the girl's eleventh year) she had been neither frightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic episode in a liberal education.Her father had a large way of looking at life, of which his restlessness and even his occasional incoherency of conduct had been only a proof.He wished his daughters, even as children, to see as much of the world as possible; and it was for this purpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, he had transported them three times across the Atlantic, giving them on each occasion, however, but a few months' view of the subject proposed: a course which had whetted our heroine's curiosity without enabling her to satisfy it.She ought to have been a partisan of her father, for she was the member of his trio who most "made up" to him for the disagreeables he didn't mention.In his last days his general willingness to take leave of a world in which the difficulty of doing as one liked appeared to increase as one grew older had been sensibly modified by the pain of separation from his clever, his superior, his remarkable girl.Later, when the journeys to Europe ceased, he still had shown his children all sorts of indulgence, and if he had been troubled about money-matters nothing ever disturbed their irreflective consciousness of many possessions.