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Title: The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2
Author: James, Henry
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

VOLUME II (of II)


By Henry James



CHAPTER XXVIII

On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his
friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they
had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying
them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when
he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary
theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act
had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After
scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest
of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was
seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;
and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They
appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their
companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative
coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting
pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At
last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined
him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper
regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his
hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.

“I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely
and want company,” was Ralph’s greeting.

“You’ve some that’s very good which you’ve yet deserted.”

“Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn’t want me. Then
Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss
Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn’t think they wanted me either.
The opera’s very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like
peacocks. I feel very low.”

“You had better go home,” Lord Warburton said without affectation.

“And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over
her.”

“She seems to have plenty of friends.”

“Yes, that’s why I must watch,” said Ralph with the same large
mock-melancholy.

“If she doesn’t want you it’s probable she doesn’t want me.”

“No, you’re different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about.”

Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel’s welcome was as to a
friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer
temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.
Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he
came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in
the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor
that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a
slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,
quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been
mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence
of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to
indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor
Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him,
formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with
such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of
reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play
them on _him_? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera
began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain
if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an
hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows
on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from
his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young
lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was
another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord
Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however;
after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said
nothing to detain him, but it didn’t prevent his being puzzled again.
Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she
would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was
angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry.
Verdi’s music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and
walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic
streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under
the stars.

“What’s the character of that gentleman?” Osmond asked of Isabel after
he had retired.

“Irreproachable--don’t you see it?”

“He owns about half England; that’s his character,” Henrietta remarked.
“That’s what they call a free country!”

“Ah, he’s a great proprietor? Happy man!” said Gilbert Osmond.

“Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?”
 cried Miss Stackpole. “He owns his tenants and has thousands of them.
It’s pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me.
I don’t insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences.”

“It seems to me you own a human being or two,” Mr. Bantling suggested
jocosely. “I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me.”

“Lord Warburton’s a great radical,” Isabel said. “He has very advanced
opinions.”

“He has very advanced stone walls. His park’s enclosed by a gigantic
iron fence, some thirty miles round,” Henrietta announced for the
information of Mr. Osmond. “I should like him to converse with a few of
our Boston radicals.”

“Don’t they approve of iron fences?” asked Mr. Bantling.

“Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were
talking to _you_ over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass.”

“Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?” Osmond went on,
questioning Isabel.

“Well enough for all the use I have for him.”

“And how much of a use is that?”

“Well, I like to like him.”

“‘Liking to like’--why, it makes a passion!” said Osmond.

“No”--she considered--“keep that for liking to _dis_like.”

“Do you wish to provoke me then,” Osmond laughed, “to a passion for
_him_?”

She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a
disproportionate gravity. “No, Mr. Osmond; I don’t think I should ever
dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate,” she more easily
added, “is a very nice man.”

“Of great ability?” her friend enquired.

“Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks.”

“As good as he’s good-looking do you mean? He’s very good-looking. How
detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and
handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your
high favour! That’s a man I could envy.”

Isabel considered him with interest. “You seem to me to be always
envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it’s poor Lord
Warburton.”

“My envy’s not dangerous; it wouldn’t hurt a mouse. I don’t want to
destroy the people--I only want to _be_ them. You see it would destroy
only myself.”

“You’d like to be the Pope?” said Isabel.

“I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But
why”--Osmond reverted--“do you speak of your friend as poor?”

“Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they’ve
hurt them; that’s their great way of showing kindness,” said Ralph,
joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so
transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.

“Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?” Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows
as if the idea were perfectly fresh.

“It serves him right if you have,” said Henrietta while the curtain rose
for the ballet.

Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four
hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she
encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the
lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come
in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert
Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase,
entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her
alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery.
“And I’m leaving Rome,” he added. “I must bid you goodbye.” Isabel,
inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps
because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was
thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,
but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which
made him look at her rather unlightedly. “I’m afraid you’ll think me
very ‘volatile.’ I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop.”

“Oh no; you could easily change your mind.”

“That’s what I have done.”

“_Bon voyage_ then.”

“You’re in a great hurry to get rid of me,” said his lordship quite
dismally.

“Not in the least. But I hate partings.”

“You don’t care what I do,” he went on pitifully.

Isabel looked at him a moment. “Ah,” she said, “you’re not keeping your
promise!”

He coloured like a boy of fifteen. “If I’m not, then it’s because I
can’t; and that’s why I’m going.”

“Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye.” He lingered still, however. “When shall I see you again?”

Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: “Some
day after you’re married.”

“That will never be. It will be after you are.”

“That will do as well,” she smiled.

“Yes, quite as well. Good-bye.”

They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the
shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of
these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their
beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence.
It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of
Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude;
which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on
the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially,
because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The
golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so
vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw
a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows
of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made
them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm
of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their
absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would
sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the
polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all
before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater
because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,
her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional
tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and
then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At
the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance
of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands
behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. “I’m
surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company.

“So I have--the best.” And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun.

“Do you call them better company than an English peer?”

“Ah, my English peer left me some time ago.” She got up, speaking with
intention a little dryly.

Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest
of his question. “I’m afraid that what I heard the other evening is
true: you’re rather cruel to that nobleman.”

Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. “It’s not true. I’m
scrupulously kind.”

“That’s exactly what I mean!” Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such
happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was
fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and
now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example
of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of
taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in
his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert
Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so
much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for
its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing
him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of
such conduct as Isabel’s. It would be proper that the woman he might
marry should have done something of that sort.



CHAPTER XXIX

Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly
qualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond’s personal
merits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of
that gentleman’s conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond
spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended
by affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn’t have
seen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which
perhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial
sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel’s invidious kinsman was
obliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His
good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his
production of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of
a match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man
could be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost
applausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would
never, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a
knuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what
he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too
precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she
had not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as
smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he
was not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing
days of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow
irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the
small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with
everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at
once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening,
going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to
which he prefixed the title of “Rome Revisited.” A day or two later he
showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining
to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of
life by a tribute to the muse.

He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have
admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the
fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his
spirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever
been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was
simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human
heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the
irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded
himself. “Ah no, I’ve not been spoiled; certainly I’ve not been
spoiled,” he used inwardly to repeat. “If I do succeed before I die
I shall thoroughly have earned it.” He was too apt to reason as if
“earning” this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and
might be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his
career had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here
and there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were,
some of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had
been less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that
is had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional
effort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The
desire to have something or other to show for his “parts”--to show
somehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went
on the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected
him more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs
of beer to advertise what one could “stand.” If an anonymous drawing on
a museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this
peculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as
from the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of
style. His “style” was what the girl had discovered with a little help;
and now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world
without his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing _for_ him,
and he would not have waited in vain.

Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young
lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: “Leave
Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other
views. But can’t wait if you dawdle in Rome.” The dawdling in Rome was
very pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know
she would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had
done so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as
his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the
cool shadow of Saint Peter’s. He would not return to Florence for ten
days more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio.
It might be months in this case before he should see her again. This
exchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our
friends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was
to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the
girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful
American family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable
staircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in
travelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages
several that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making
arrangements for the morrow’s journey, and Isabel sat alone in a
wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange;
the walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the
pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and
painted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly
to distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar,
bragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere,
presented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in
her lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient
to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink
tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale
rosiness over the scene.

“You say you’ll come back; but who knows?” Gilbert Osmond said.

“I think you’re much more likely to start on your voyage round the
world. You’re under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what
you choose; you can roam through space.”

“Well, Italy’s a part of space,” Isabel answered. “I can take it on the
way.”

“On the way round the world? No, don’t do that. Don’t put us in a
parenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don’t want to see you on
your travels. I’d rather see you when they’re over. I should like to see
you when you’re tired and satiated,” Osmond added in a moment. “I shall
prefer you in that state.”

Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. “You turn
things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think,
without intending it. You’ve no respect for my travels--you think them
ridiculous.”

“Where do you find that?”

She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the
paper-knife. “You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about
as if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put
into my power to do so. You don’t think a woman ought to do that. You
think it bold and ungraceful.”

“I think it beautiful,” said Osmond. “You know my opinions--I’ve treated
you to enough of them. Don’t you remember my telling you that one ought
to make one’s life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first;
but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be
trying to do with your own.”

She looked up from her book. “What you despise most in the world is bad,
is stupid art.”

“Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good.”

“If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me,” she went
on.

Osmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their
conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had
seen it before. “You have one!”

“That’s exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd.”

“I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it’s one of the countries
I want most to see. Can’t you believe that, with my taste for old
lacquer?”

“I haven’t a taste for old lacquer to excuse me,” said Isabel.

“You’ve a better excuse--the means of going. You’re quite wrong in
your theory that I laugh at you. I don’t know what has put it into your
head.”

“It wouldn’t be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should
have the means to travel when you’ve not; for you know everything and I
know nothing.”

“The more reason why you should travel and learn,” smiled Osmond.
“Besides,” he added as if it were a point to be made, “I don’t know
everything.”

Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she
was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased
her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have
likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress
overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages
or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That
most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a
reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done
the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were
a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be
as well. Happy things don’t repeat themselves, and her adventure wore
already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from
which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the
breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this
strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better
not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the
greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a
pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her
silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. “Go
everywhere,” he said at last, in a low, kind voice; “do everything; get
everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant.”

“What do you mean by being triumphant?”

“Well, doing what you like.”

“To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things
one likes is often very tiresome.”

“Exactly,” said Osmond with his quiet quickness. “As I intimated just
now, you’ll be tired some day.” He paused a moment and then he went on:
“I don’t know whether I had better not wait till then for something I
want to say to you.”

“Ah, I can’t advise you without knowing what it is. But I’m horrid when
I’m tired,” Isabel added with due inconsequence.

“I don’t believe that. You’re angry, sometimes--that I can believe,
though I’ve never seen it. But I’m sure you’re never ‘cross.’”

“Not even when I lose my temper?”

“You don’t lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful.” Osmond
spoke with a noble earnestness. “They must be great moments to see.”

“If I could only find it now!” Isabel nervously cried.

“I’m not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I’m speaking very
seriously.” He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he
bent his eyes on the floor. “What I wish to say to you,” he went on at
last, looking up, “is that I find I’m in love with you.”

She instantly rose. “Ah, keep that till I am tired!”

“Tired of hearing it from others?” He sat there raising his eyes to her.
“No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must
say it now.” She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped
herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this
situation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the
critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply
respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. “I’m
absolutely in love with you.”

He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal
discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke
for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time
they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow
the slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn’t have said
which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful
and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but,
morally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she
had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. “Oh don’t say
that, please,” she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread
of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread
great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have
banished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down,
that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there
like a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to
begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.

“I haven’t the idea that it will matter much to you,” said Osmond. “I’ve
too little to offer you. What I have--it’s enough for me; but it’s not
enough for you. I’ve neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages
of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it
can’t offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It
gives me pleasure, I assure you,” he went on, standing there before her,
considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken
up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of
awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm,
refined, slightly ravaged face. “It gives me no pain, because it’s
perfectly simple. For me you’ll always be the most important woman in
the world.”

Isabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking
she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an
expression of any such complacency. “You don’t offend me; but you
ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded,
troubled.” “Incommoded,” she heard herself saying that, and it struck
her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her.

“I remember perfectly. Of course you’re surprised and startled. But
if it’s nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave
something that I may not be ashamed of.”

“I don’t know what it may leave. You see at all events that I’m not
overwhelmed,” said Isabel with rather a pale smile. “I’m not too
troubled to think. And I think that I’m glad I leave Rome to-morrow.”

“Of course I don’t agree with you there.”

“I don’t at all _know_ you,” she added abruptly; and then she coloured as
she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord
Warburton.

“If you were not going away you’d know me better.”

“I shall do that some other time.”

“I hope so. I’m very easy to know.”

“No, no,” she emphatically answered--“there you’re not sincere. You’re
not easy to know; no one could be less so.”

“Well,” he laughed, “I said that because I know myself. It may be a
boast, but I do.”

“Very likely; but you’re very wise.”

“So are you, Miss Archer!” Osmond exclaimed.

“I don’t feel so just now. Still, I’m wise enough to think you had
better go. Good-night.”

“God bless you!” said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed
to surrender. After which he added: “If we meet again you’ll find me as
you leave me. If we don’t I shall be so all the same.”

“Thank you very much. Good-bye.”

There was something quietly firm about Isabel’s visitor; he might go of
his own movement, but wouldn’t be dismissed. “There’s one thing more.
I haven’t asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you
must do me that justice. But there’s a little service I should like to
ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome’s delightful, and
it’s a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you’re sorry
to leave it; but you’re right to do what your aunt wishes.”

“She doesn’t even wish it!” Isabel broke out strangely.

Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match
these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: “Ah well, it’s
proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that’s proper;
I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don’t
know me, but when you do you’ll discover what a worship I have for
propriety.”

“You’re not conventional?” Isabel gravely asked.

“I like the way you utter that word! No, I’m not conventional: I’m
convention itself. You don’t understand that?” And he paused a moment,
smiling. “I should like to explain it.” Then with a sudden, quick,
bright naturalness, “Do come back again,” he pleaded. “There are so many
things we might talk about.”

She stood there with lowered eyes. “What service did you speak of just
now?”

“Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She’s alone at
the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn’t at all my
ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much,” said Gilbert
Osmond gently.

“It will be a great pleasure to me to go,” Isabel answered. “I’ll tell
her what you say. Once more good-bye.”

On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood
a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of
deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with
folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not
diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something
that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but
here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke
down. The working of this young lady’s spirit was strange, and I can
only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether
natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last
vague space it couldn’t cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked
ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the
winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.



CHAPTER XXX

She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin’s escort, and
Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought
very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried
his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond’s
preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme
of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little
trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling’s aid. Isabel was
to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.
Touchett’s departure, and she determined to devote the last of these
to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for
a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame
Merle’s. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the
point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle
in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that
country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, “forever”)
seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense
crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious
privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had
asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn’t mention that he had
also made her a declaration of love.

“_Ah, comme cela se trouve!_” Madame Merle exclaimed. “I myself have been
thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I
go off.”

“We can go together then,” Isabel reasonably said: “reasonably” because
the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had
prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like
it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic
sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.

That personage finely meditated. “After all, why should we both go;
having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?”

“Very good; I can easily go alone.”

“I don’t know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome
bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!”

Isabel stared. “When Mr. Osmond’s away what does it matter?”

“They don’t know he’s away, you see.”

“They? Whom do you mean?”

“Every one. But perhaps it doesn’t signify.”

“If you were going why shouldn’t I?” Isabel asked.

“Because I’m an old frump and you’re a beautiful young woman.”

“Granting all that, you’ve not promised.”

“How much you think of your promises!” said the elder woman in mild
mockery.

“I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?”

“You’re right,” Madame Merle audibly reflected. “I really think you wish
to be kind to the child.”

“I wish very much to be kind to her.”

“Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I’d have
come if you hadn’t. Or rather,” Madame Merle added, “_don’t_ tell her. She
won’t care.”

As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding
way which led to Mr. Osmond’s hill-top, she wondered what her friend had
meant by no one’s being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,
this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of
the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous
quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for
the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose
that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly
done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which
in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had
time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts
of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming
at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.
Osmond’s drawing-room; the little girl was “practising,” and Isabel was
pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately
came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father’s
house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an
hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the
pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but
conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel’s affairs
that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;
she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower
of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our
admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;
and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel
was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,
as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,
up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not
really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection
of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father’s visitor,
or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that
Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond’s beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows
had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,
through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a
gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview
with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this
question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,
successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor
talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a
friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new
frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could
be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to
resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,
easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to
cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave
to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on
several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her
father’s intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety
of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally
expect.

“Please tell me,” she said, “did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame
Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.
Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education;
it isn’t finished yet, you know. I don’t know what they can do with me
more; but it appears it’s far from finished. Papa told me one day he
thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the
convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa’s
not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for
me, because I don’t think I’m worth it. I don’t learn quickly enough,
and I have no memory. For what I’m told, yes--especially when it’s
pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who
was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she
was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You
don’t say it in English? I hope it isn’t wrong; I only mean they wished
to keep the money to marry her. I don’t know whether it is for that that
papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!”
 Pansy went on with a sigh; “I think papa might make that economy. At
any rate I’m too young to think about it yet, and I don’t care for any
gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like
to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some
strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might
think, for I’ve been so much away from him. Papa has always been
principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I’m very sorry,
and he’ll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.
That’s not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was
very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I’m really
as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I’ve only the occupations of a child. When
did _you_ give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know
how old you are, but I don’t know whether it’s right to ask. At the
convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don’t like to do
anything that’s not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly
taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left
directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off
that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not
to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.
In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I don’t play very well. You play yourself? I wish
very much you’d play something for me; papa has the idea that I should
hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that’s
what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I’ve no voice--just a small sound like the
squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes.”

Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down
to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child
good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. “Be very good,” she said;
“give pleasure to your father.”

“I think that’s what I live for,” Pansy answered. “He has not much
pleasure; he’s rather a sad man.”

Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it
almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged
her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in
her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say
to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her
pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner
became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with
horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of
this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where
he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed
state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She
rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a
moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child’s sweet
slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged
to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in
talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who
was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once
again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that
opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather
wistfully beyond. “I may go no further. I’ve promised papa not to pass
this door.”

“You’re right to obey him; he’ll never ask you anything unreasonable.”

“I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?”

“Not for a long time, I’m afraid.”

“As soon as you can, I hope. I’m only a little girl,” said Pansy, “but
I shall always expect you.” And the small figure stood in the high, dark
doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into
the brightness beyond the big _portone_, which gave a wider dazzle as it
opened.



CHAPTER XXXI

Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval
sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this
interval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is
engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after
her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the
incidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the
smaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses,
and there was that in her expression and attitude which would have
suggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open,
and though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the
garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with
warmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her
hands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest.
Too troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not
be in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should
pass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through
the garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished
rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge
by the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave
she found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of
the lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged,
she would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and
was therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the
frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure
of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She
flattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal
more of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If
her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead
of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have
evoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have
been both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have
been the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been
projected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for
instance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine’s sister and Edmund Ludlow’s
wife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her
relative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought
her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and
tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had
been able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing
the ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies
in Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet,
even from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so
that while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to
a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in
the month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an
Alpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade
of great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as
might be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had
afterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with
costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel,
who in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done,
in a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her
handkerchief.

Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and
wonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined
her found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these
speculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as
he had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or
mystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done
or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow’s mental motions were sufficiently
various. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young
woman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters’, for
instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the
corner from her own; at another she couldn’t conceal her surprise at the
girl’s not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On
the whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the
probabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel’s accession of
fortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her
to offer just the proper setting for her sister’s slightly meagre, but
scarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than
Lily had thought likely--development, to Lily’s understanding, being
somehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties.
Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she
appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs.
Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily’s conception of such
achievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had
expected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done
as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her
husband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe
which the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves
that Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she
might have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to
decide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that
I again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories
public. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor
had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond’s state of mind; and she had had
no better reason for her silence than that she didn’t wish to speak.
It was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of
romance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily’s advice as she
would have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing
of these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister’s career
a strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel’s
silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the
frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very
often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her
courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as
inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it
added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people.

Our young lady’s courage, however, might have been taken as reaching
its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver
things than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it
so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close
correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She
had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and
wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform
at the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the
departure of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her
children to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale;
she was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of
what was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something
that was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest
moment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers.
She would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow
had asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and
she asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away;
she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative
child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and
made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked
back into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could
do whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the
present her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back
from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon
had already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked
weak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long
way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive
enjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order
to get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging
policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle
of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the
London streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops,
the flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That
evening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start
in a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching
at Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by
Ancona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that
of her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground.
Ralph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in
the September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from
the _Interviewer_. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a
fresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and
Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that
he would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to
apologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt
replied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated,
were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt
in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn’t, and what one
“would” have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the
idea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank,
but (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She
easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she
took it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than
formerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext
for going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had
not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a
fortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should
make a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her
friend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been
consumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two
ladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months
in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in
these countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among
the most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose
and reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled
rapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup
after cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess
circulating _incognita_, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel’s
invitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl’s
uncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have
been expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a
companion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however,
had no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking
pair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which
was patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on
acquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend,
who had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an
intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character
had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed
her promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a
consummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related
from the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so
far as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might
say, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years
before, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who
knew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in
startling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person
so _eprouvée_ could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in
life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle’s she obtained a considerable
insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical,
carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed
and bridled like the “favourite” of the jockey. She liked her as much
as ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted;
it was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer,
condemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once
said that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the “old, old”
 world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of
a different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up
under other stars.

She believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course
the morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our
young woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at
the shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth,
that a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this
conviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an
occasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had
raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for
the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might,
in certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in
decadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had
not even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain;
and there were evidently things in the world of which it was not
advantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since
it so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, “Heaven forgive
her, she doesn’t understand me!” Absurd as it may seem this discovery
operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was
even an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the
light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle’s remarkable intelligence;
but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence.
Madame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases
to grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of
equilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection,
in other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other.
However that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for
her sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been.
I do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids
in the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the
broken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point
designated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these
emotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt
and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival
Gilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during
which the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose
house she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he
should see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.
Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long
before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on
this occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin
was still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day
to day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was
prepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.



CHAPTER XXXII

It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood
at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any
of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,
but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,
and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she
should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What
he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing
in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction
doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all
clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked
in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,
and as if she were “worth more” for it, like some curious piece in an
antiquary’s collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her
apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his
tray. “Let the gentleman come in,” she said, and continued to gaze out
of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had
heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she
looked round.

Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood 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 Isabel’s
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
he’s capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his
splendid force! What a pity too that one can’t satisfy everybody!” It
gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: “I can’t tell
you how I hoped you wouldn’t come!”

“I’ve 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, I’m 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.”

“That’s in keeping--you 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 didn’t feel that; I couldn’t think of you as dead. I wish I
could!” he candidly declared.

“I thank you immensely.”

“I’d rather think of you as dead than as married to another man.”

“That’s very selfish of you!” she returned with the ardour of a real
conviction. “If you’re not happy yourself others have yet a right to
be.”

“Very likely it’s selfish; but I don’t in the least mind your saying so.
I don’t mind anything you can say now--I don’t feel it. The cruellest
things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you’ve
done I shall never feel anything--I 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. I’d have come five days ago if I had been
able.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood,” she coldly smiled.

“Not to you--no. But to me.”

“You gain nothing that I see.”

“That’s 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 didn’t want to do that. She’ll
hear it quick enough; she hears everything.”

“I shall write to her, and then she’ll write to me and scold me,” Isabel
declared, trying to smile again.

Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. “I guess she’ll come right
out,” he said.

“On purpose to scold me?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly.”

“I’m 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 doesn’t like him. But of course I don’t 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 didn’t
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn’t know yet. “I can only say it will
be soon. I’ve told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond’s.”

“Is it a marriage your friends won’t like?” he demanded.

“I really haven’t an idea. As I say, I don’t 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. He’s not in business,” said Isabel. “He’s not rich; he’s not known
for anything in particular.”

She disliked Mr. Goodwood’s 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. Hasn’t 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. Doesn’t he like the United
States?”

“He doesn’t know them. Then he’s very quiet and very simple--he 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;
I’m marrying a perfect nonentity. Don’t try to take an interest in him.
You can’t.”

“I can’t appreciate him; that’s what you mean. And you don’t mean in
the least that he’s a perfect nonentity. You think he’s grand, you think
he’s great, though no one else thinks so.”

Isabel’s 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 come back
to what others think? I can’t discuss Mr. Osmond with you.”

“Of course not,” said Caspar reasonably. 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 be
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
having had to be lashed up? You’re quite right. They’re immense, your
attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she
hadn’t put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he
was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him.”

“He has taken a great deal for himself!” cried Isabel with a voluntary
laugh.

Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. “I think he must, after all, to have
made you like him so much.”

“I thought he even pleased _you_.”

“He did, at one time; and that’s why I’m angry with him.”

“Be angry with me, not with him,” said the girl.

“Oh, I’m always angry with you; that’s no satisfaction! Was it for this
that you refused Lord Warburton?”

“Please don’t go back to that. Why shouldn’t I like Mr. Osmond, since
others have done so?”

“Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There’s
nothing _of_ him,” Mrs. Touchett explained.

“Then he can’t hurt me,” said Isabel.

“Do you think you’re going to be happy? No one’s happy, in such doings,
you should know.”

“I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?”

“What _you_ will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as
they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership
you’ll bring everything.”

“Is it that Mr. Osmond isn’t rich? Is that what you’re talking about?”
 Isabel asked.

“He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such
things and I have the courage to say it; I think they’re very precious.
Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some
other reason.”

Isabel hesitated a little. “I think I value everything that’s valuable.
I care very much for money, and that’s why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a
little.”

“Give it to him then; but marry some one else.”

“His name’s good enough for me,” the girl went on. “It’s a very pretty
name. Have I such a fine one myself?”

“All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen
American names. Do you marry him out of charity?”

“It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don’t think it’s my duty
to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn’t be able. So please don’t
remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can’t
talk about it.”

“I don’t remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of
intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle.”

“You never do, and I’m greatly obliged to you. You’ve been very
considerate.”

“It was not considerate--it was convenient,” said Mrs. Touchett. “But I
shall talk to Madame Merle.”

“I don’t see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good
friend to me.”

“Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me.”

“What has she done to you?”

“She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your
engagement.”

“She couldn’t have prevented it.”

“She can do anything; that’s what I’ve always liked her for. I knew she
could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I
didn’t understand that she would play two at the same time.”

“I don’t know what part she may have played to you,” Isabel said;
“that’s between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and
devoted.”

“Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me
she was watching you only in order to interpose.”

“She said that to please you,” the girl answered; conscious, however, of
the inadequacy of the explanation.

“To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased
to-day?”

“I don’t think you’re ever much pleased,” Isabel was obliged to reply.
“If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by
insincerity?”

“She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you
were marching away, and she was really beating the drum.”

“That’s very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and
even if she had given the alarm you wouldn’t have tried to stop me.”

“No, but some one else would.”

“Whom do you mean?” Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.
Touchett’s little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained
her gaze rather than returned it. “Would you have listened to Ralph?”

“Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.”

“Ralph doesn’t abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much
for you.”

“I know he does,” said Isabel; “and I shall feel the value of it now,
for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason.”

“He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,
and he argued the other way.”

“He did it for the sake of argument,” the girl smiled. “You don’t accuse
him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?”

“He never pretended he’d prevent it.”

“I’m glad of that!” cried Isabel gaily. “I wish very much,” she
presently added, “that when he comes you’d tell him first of my
engagement.”

“Of course I’ll mention it,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I shall say nothing
more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others.”

“That’s as you please. I only meant that it’s rather better the
announcement should come from you than from me.”

“I quite agree with you; it’s much more proper!” And on this the aunt
and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her
word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,
however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an
hour before.

“From an old friend--an American gentleman,” Isabel said with a colour
in her cheek.

“An American gentleman of course. It’s only an American gentleman who
calls at ten o’clock in the morning.”

“It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this
evening.”

“Couldn’t he have come yesterday, at the usual time?”

“He only arrived last night.”

“He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?” Mrs. Touchett cried.
“He’s an American gentleman truly.”

“He is indeed,” said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what
Caspar Goodwood had done for her.

Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.
Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed
at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of
his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been
shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten
how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she
wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed
to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to
conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently
complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural
oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and
still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper
and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the
exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was
altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of
relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his
hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and
shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was
perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than
ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own
disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with
Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his
view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was
past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness
had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they
struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be
charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had
hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed
not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him
from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of
being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;
he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to
consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally
sick. Such had been the girl’s impression of her cousin; and when she
had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal
she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had
a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the
giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility
to feel that poor Ralph’s tenure of life was less elastic than it should
be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination
of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.

Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,
and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now
promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was
not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of
her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not
even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for
it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find
fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One’s cousin always
pretended to hate one’s husband; that was traditional, classical; it
was a part of one’s cousin’s always pretending to adore one. Ralph was
nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things
being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any
one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should
square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended
to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was
only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted
him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the
opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a
marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only
give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had
other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the
care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must
have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.
After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman
wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through
the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily
believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo
Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had
literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more
sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett’s maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked
and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the
world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the
house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden
of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head
thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the
heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could
he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?
To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should
succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the
man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only
in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have
damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to
dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.
Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were
daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself
little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,
as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She
had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt
for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,
and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,
during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,
joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while
through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.



CHAPTER XXXIV

One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before
luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and,
instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed
beneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this
moment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over
it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious
caves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a
statue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated
draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his
attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light
footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she
stood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his
eyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his
own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she
was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood
over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of
his increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property
inherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of
which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now
encountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to
have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence;
he had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank
than in the state of Patagonia.

“I’m sorry I waked you,” Isabel said; “you look too tired.”

“I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you.”

“Are you tired of that?”

“Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road’s long and I never arrive.”

“What do you wish to arrive at?” she put to him, closing her parasol.

“At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your
engagement.”

“Don’t think too much of it,” she lightly returned.

“Do you mean that it’s none of my business?”

“Beyond a certain point, yes.”

“That’s the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me
wanting in good manners. I’ve never congratulated you.”

“Of course I’ve noticed that. I wondered why you were silent.”

“There have been a good many reasons. I’ll tell you now,” Ralph said.
He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at
her. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against
his marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands
laid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable;
he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she
was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to
utter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. “I
think I’ve hardly got over my surprise,” he went on at last. “You were
the last person I expected to see caught.”

“I don’t know why you call it caught.”

“Because you’re going to be put into a cage.”

“If I like my cage, that needn’t trouble you,” she answered.

“That’s what I wonder at; that’s what I’ve been thinking of.”

“If you’ve been thinking you may imagine how I’ve thought! I’m satisfied
that I’m doing well.”

“You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty
beyond everything. You wanted only to see life.”

“I’ve seen it,” said Isabel. “It doesn’t look to me now, I admit, such
an inviting expanse.”

“I don’t pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view
of it and wanted to survey the whole field.”

“I’ve seen that one can’t do anything so general. One must choose a
corner and cultivate that.”

“That’s what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible.
I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that
you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me
off my guard.”

“It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew
nothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your
guard, however,” Isabel asked, “what would you have done?”

“I should have said ‘Wait a little longer.’”

“Wait for what?”

“Well, for a little more light,” said Ralph with rather an absurd smile,
while his hands found their way into his pockets.

“Where should my light have come from? From you?”

“I might have struck a spark or two.”

Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay
upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her
expression was not conciliatory. “You’re beating about the bush, Ralph.
You wish to say you don’t like Mr. Osmond, and yet you’re afraid.”

“Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I’m willing to wound _him_,
yes--but not to wound you. I’m afraid of you, not of him. If you marry
him it won’t be a fortunate way for me to have spoken.”

“_If_ I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?”

“Of course that seems to you too fatuous.”

“No,” said Isabel after a little; “it seems to me too touching.”

“That’s the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me.”

She stroked out her long gloves again. “I know you’ve a great affection
for me. I can’t get rid of that.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince
you how intensely I want you to do well.”

“And how little you trust me!”

There was a moment’s silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. “I
trust you, but I don’t trust him,” said Ralph.

She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. “You’ve said it now,
and I’m glad you’ve made it so clear. But you’ll suffer by it.”

“Not if you’re just.”

“I’m very just,” said Isabel. “What better proof of it can there be than
that I’m not angry with you? I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but
I’m not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought
to be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn’t think so. He wants me to know
everything; that’s what I like him for. You’ve nothing to gain, I know
that. I’ve never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have
much reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice;
you’ve often done so. No, I’m very quiet; I’ve always believed in your
wisdom,” she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a
kind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be
just; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a
creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a
moment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had
said. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse,
as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that
direction. “I see you’ve some special idea; I should like very much to
hear it. I’m sure it’s disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange
thing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that
if you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You’ll not move me
an inch; it’s too late. As you say, I’m caught. Certainly it won’t be
pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own
thoughts. I shall never reproach you.”

“I don’t think you ever will,” said Ralph. “It’s not in the least the
sort of marriage I thought you’d make.”

“What sort of marriage was that, pray?”

“Well, I can hardly say. I hadn’t exactly a positive view of it, but I
had a negative. I didn’t think you’d decide for--well, for that type.”

“What’s the matter with Mr. Osmond’s type, if it be one? His being
so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him,” the girl
declared. “What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all.”

“Yes,” Ralph said, “I know him very little, and I confess I haven’t
facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can’t help
feeling that you’re running a grave risk.”

“Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk’s as grave as mine.”

“That’s his affair! If he’s afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he
would.”

Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her
cousin. “I don’t think I understand you,” she said at last coldly. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believed you’d marry a man of more importance.”

Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped
into her face. “Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that
one’s husband should be of importance to one’s self!”

Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking
he proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward,
resting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an
air of the most respectful deliberation.

“I’ll tell you in a moment what I mean,” he presently said. He felt
agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he
wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively
gentle.

Isabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. “In everything
that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may
be nobler natures, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr.
Osmond’s is the finest I know; he’s good enough for me, and interesting
enough, and clever enough. I’m far more struck with what he has and what
he represents than with what he may lack.”

“I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future,” Ralph
observed without answering this; “I had amused myself with planning out
a high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You
were not to come down so easily or so soon.”

“Come down, you say?”

“Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to
me to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light,
over the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a
missile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to
the ground. It hurts me,” said Ralph audaciously, “hurts me as if I had
fallen myself!”

The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion’s face. “I
don’t understand you in the least,” she repeated. “You say you amused
yourself with a project for my career--I don’t understand that.
Don’t amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you’re doing it at my
expense.”

Ralph shook his head. “I’m not afraid of your not believing that I’ve
had great ideas for you.”

“What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?” she pursued.

“I’ve never moved on a higher plane than I’m moving on now. There’s
nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes,” said
poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.

“It’s your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my
dear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a
more active, larger, freer sort of nature.” Ralph hesitated, then added:
“I can’t get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small.” He had
uttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would
flash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of
considering.

“Small?” She made it sound immense.

“I think he’s narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!”

“He has a great respect for himself; I don’t blame him for that,” said
Isabel. “It makes one more sure to respect others.”

Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone.

“Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one’s relation to
things--to others. I don’t think Mr. Osmond does that.”

“I’ve chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he’s excellent.”

“He’s the incarnation of taste,” Ralph went on, thinking hard how he
could best express Gilbert Osmond’s sinister attributes without putting
himself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished
to describe him impersonally, scientifically. “He judges and measures,
approves and condemns, altogether by that.”

“It’s a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite.”

“It’s exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as
his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite
one--ruffled?”

“I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband’s.”

At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph’s lips. “Ah, that’s
wilful, that’s unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in
that way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over
the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!”

Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment
looking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult.
But “You go too far,” she simply breathed.

“I’ve said what I had on my mind--and I’ve said it because I love you!”

Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden
wish to strike him off. “Ah then, you’re not disinterested!”

“I love you, but I love without hope,” said Ralph quickly, forcing a
smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more
than he intended.

Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the
garden; but after a little she turned back to him. “I’m afraid your talk
then is the wildness of despair! I don’t understand it--but it doesn’t
matter. I’m not arguing with you; it’s impossible I should; I’ve only
tried to listen to you. I’m much obliged to you for attempting to
explain,” she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just
sprung up had already subsided. “It’s very good of you to try to warn
me, if you’re really alarmed; but I won’t promise to think of what
you’ve said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it
yourself; you’ve done your duty, and no man can do more. I can’t explain
to you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn’t if I could.” She
paused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph
observed even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of
concession. “I can’t enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can’t do it
justice, because I see him in quite another way. He’s not important--no,
he’s not important; he’s a man to whom importance is supremely
indifferent. If that’s what you mean when you call him ‘small,’ then
he’s as small as you please. I call that large--it’s the largest thing
I know. I won’t pretend to argue with you about a person I’m going to
marry,” Isabel repeated. “I’m not in the least concerned to defend Mr.
Osmond; he’s not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would
seem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and
coldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn’t talk of him at all to any
one but you; and you, after what you’ve said--I may just answer you once
for all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what
they call a marriage of ambition? I’ve only one ambition--to be free to
follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they’ve passed away.
Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he’s not rich? That’s just what I
like him for. I’ve fortunately money enough; I’ve never felt so thankful
for it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and
kneel down by your father’s grave: he did perhaps a better thing than
he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has
borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond
has never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If
that’s to be narrow, if that’s to be selfish, then it’s very well. I’m
not frightened by such words, I’m not even displeased; I’m only sorry
that you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I’m
surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see
one--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows
everything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest,
highest spirit. You’ve got hold of some false idea. It’s a pity, but
I can’t help it; it regards you more than me.” Isabel paused a moment,
looking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which
contradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment,
to which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of
having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness
and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said
nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly
solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. “What
sort of a person should you have liked me to marry?” she asked suddenly.
“You talk about one’s soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one
touches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in
one’s bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother
has never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding
with Lord Warburton, and she’s horrified at my contenting myself with a
person who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title,
no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor
brilliant belongings of any sort. It’s the total absence of all these
things that pleases me. Mr. Osmond’s simply a very lonely, a very
cultivated and a very honest man--he’s not a prodigious proprietor.”

Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said
merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of
the things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself
to the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good
faith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was
dismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that,
having invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not
for what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as
honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing
to put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He
had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor
Ralph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with
a low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion,
and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the
house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together
and reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused,
turning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of
gratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct
clearer to her. “Shall you not come up to breakfast?” she asked.

“No; I want no breakfast; I’m not hungry.”

“You ought to eat,” said the girl; “you live on air.”

“I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another
mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that
if you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That’s how
I feel to-day.”

“Do you think I’m in trouble?”

“One’s in trouble when one’s in error.”

“Very well,” said Isabel; “I shall never complain of my trouble to you!”
 And she moved up the staircase.

Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with
his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and
made him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the
Florentine sunshine.



CHAPTER XXXV

Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse
to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The
discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin
made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was
simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming
to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to
throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she
married to please herself. One did other things to please other people;
one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel’s satisfaction
was confirmed by her lover’s admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was
in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright
days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his
hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief
impression produced on Isabel’s spirit by this criticism was that the
passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the
loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever
known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope
that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her
not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of
anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,
on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly
console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from
her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she
was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk
about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for
a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry
at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the
spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made
him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel
flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the
more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little
free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,
in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert
Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She
tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,
almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed
and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed
virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one’s
right was always made of the wrong of some one else.

The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted
meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on
his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of
men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,
made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten
and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he
never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which
presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.
He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him
a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live
with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness
be all for one’s self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired
the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than
a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one’s
thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought
reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred
it to be freshened in the reproduction even as “words” by music. His
egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this
lady’s intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a
plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give
a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served
dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he
could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew
perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little
favour with the girl’s relations; but he had always treated her so
completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary
to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one
morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. “It’s the difference in our
fortune they don’t like,” he said. “They think I’m in love with your
money.”

“Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?” Isabel asked. “How do you
know what they think?”

“You’ve not told me they’re pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett
the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I
should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you
rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course
when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don’t mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having
the shadow of a doubt. I don’t care what people of whom I ask nothing
think--I’m not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I’ve never so
concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I
have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won’t pretend
I’m sorry you’re rich; I’m delighted. I delight in everything that’s
yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money’s a horrid thing to follow,
but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I’ve
sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than
most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it’s their
business to suspect--that of your family; it’s proper on the whole they
should. They’ll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to
be thankful for life and love.” “It has made me better, loving you,” he
said on another occasion; “it has made me wiser and easier and--I won’t
pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want
a great many things before and to be angry I didn’t have them.
Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself
I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I’m really
satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when
one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the
lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and
finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it
properly I see it’s a delightful story. My dear girl, I can’t tell you
how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It’s the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,
and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,
the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you
love to-day. Upon my honour, I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on. We’ve
got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We’ve the faculty
of admiration and several capital convictions. We’re not stupid, we’re
not mean, we’re not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.
You’re remarkably fresh, and I’m remarkably well-seasoned. We’ve my poor
child to amuse us; we’ll try and make up some little life for her. It’s
all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring.”

They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal
of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live
for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had
been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy
should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old
acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her
a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire
for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense
that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one’s
energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had “seen life” in a year
or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of
that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,
her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient
conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed
in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away
numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the
situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the
stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the
fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be
of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she
could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was
giving.

He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who
was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she
would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who
held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to
go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore
a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.
She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the
end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an
appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance
had the personal touch that the child’s affectionate nature craved.
She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on
them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,
part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the
childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new
relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. “She doesn’t
know,” he said to Isabel; “she doesn’t guess; she thinks it perfectly
natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good
friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it’s
the way I like her to be. No, I’m not a failure, as I used to think;
I’ve succeeded in two things. I’m to marry the woman I adore, and I’ve
brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way.”

He was very fond, in all things, of the “old way”; that had struck
Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. “It occurs to me that
you’ll not know whether you’ve succeeded until you’ve told her,” she
said. “You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she
may be jealous.”

“I’m not afraid of that; she’s too fond of you on her own account. I
should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will
come into her head that if we’re not engaged we ought to be.”

Isabel was impressed by Osmond’s artistic, the plastic view, as it
somehow appeared, of Pansy’s innocence--her own appreciation of it being
more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told
her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,
who had made such a pretty little speech--“Oh, then I shall have a
beautiful sister!” She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not
cried, as he expected.

“Perhaps she had guessed it,” said Isabel.

“Don’t say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it
would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her
good manners are paramount. That’s also what I wished. You shall see for
yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person.”

The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini’s, whither
Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come
in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning
that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the
visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been
ushered into the Countess’s drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her
aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,
who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in
company. It was Isabel’s view that the little girl might have given
lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified
this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself
while they waited together for the Countess. Her father’s decision, the
year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive
the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her
theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.

“Papa has told me that you’ve kindly consented to marry him,” said this
excellent woman’s pupil. “It’s very delightful; I think you’ll suit very
well.”

“You think I shall suit _you_?”

“You’ll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will
suit each other. You’re both so quiet and so serious. You’re not so
quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you’re more quiet than many
others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She’s
always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you’ll see when she
comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,
but I suppose there’s no harm if we judge them favourably. You’ll be a
delightful companion for papa.”

“For you too, I hope,” Isabel said.

“I speak first of him on purpose. I’ve told you already what I myself
think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I
think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You’ll be
my model; I shall try to imitate you though I’m afraid it will be
very feeble. I’m very glad for papa--he needed something more than
me. Without you I don’t see how he could have got it. You’ll be my
stepmother, but we mustn’t use that word. They’re always said to be
cruel; but I don’t think you’ll ever so much as pinch or even push me.
I’m not afraid at all.”

“My good little Pansy,” said Isabel gently, “I shall be ever so kind to
you.” A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need
it had intervened with the effect of a chill.

“Very well then, I’ve nothing to fear,” the child returned with her
note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to
suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!

Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini
was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room
with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead
and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.
She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of
turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand
before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to
a composition of figures already sketched in. “If you expect me to
congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don’t suppose you care
if I do or not; I believe you’re supposed not to care--through being so
clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell
fibs; I never tell them unless there’s something rather good to be
gained. I don’t see what’s to be gained with you--especially as you
wouldn’t believe me. I don’t make professions any more than I make paper
flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don’t know how. My lampshades would be
sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I’m very
glad for my own sake that you’re to marry Osmond; but I won’t pretend
I’m glad for yours. You’re very brilliant--you know that’s the way
you’re always spoken of; you’re an heiress and very good-looking and
original, not banal; so it’s a good thing to have you in the family.
Our family’s very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and
my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.
But we’re dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you’ll pick us up.
I’ve great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to
talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think
they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose
Pansy oughtn’t to hear all this; but that’s what she has come to me
for--to acquire the tone of society. There’s no harm in her knowing what
horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had
designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the
strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be
disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was
enchanted for myself; and after all I’m very selfish. By the way, you
won’t respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.
I should like it, but you won’t. Some day, all the same, we shall be
better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and
see you, though, as you probably know, he’s on no sort of terms with
Osmond. He’s very fond of going to see pretty women, but I’m not afraid
of you. In the first place I don’t care what he does. In the second, you
won’t care a straw for him; he won’t be a bit, at any time, your affair,
and, stupid as he is, he’ll see you’re not his. Some day, if you can
stand it, I’ll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go
out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir.”

“Let her stay, please,” said Isabel. “I would rather hear nothing that
Pansy may not!”



CHAPTER XXXVI

One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of
pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third
floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame
Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face
and a lady’s maid’s manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room
and requested the favour of his name. “Mr. Edward Rosier,” said the
young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear.

The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an
ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered
that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of
several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits
he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this
charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him
which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary
sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at
Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to
pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the
household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate,
he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare
his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go
down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under
bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if
he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in
the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr.
Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it
on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the
young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might
expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in
November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the
brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had
at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to
a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain
to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond’s composition. She was admirably
finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece.
He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have
thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the
bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose
taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate.
That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods
would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame
Merle’s drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every
style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He
had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then “By
Jove, she has some jolly good things!” he had yearningly murmured. The
room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression
of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved.
Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over
the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with
princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before
the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce
attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,
as if he were smelling it.

“It’s old Venetian,” she said; “it’s rather good.”

“It’s too good for this; you ought to wear it.”

“They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation.”

“Ah, but I can’t wear mine,” smiled the visitor.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t! I’ve better lace than that to wear.”

His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. “You’ve some very
good things.”

“Yes, but I hate them.”

“Do you want to get rid of them?” the young man quickly asked.

“No, it’s good to have something to hate: one works it off!”

“I love my things,” said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his
recognitions. “But it’s not about them, nor about yours, that I came
to talk to you.” He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: “I
care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!”

Madame Merle opened wide eyes. “Did you come to tell me that?”

“I came to ask your advice.”

She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her
large white hand. “A man in love, you know, doesn’t ask advice.”

“Why not, if he’s in a difficult position? That’s often the case with a
man in love. I’ve been in love before, and I know. But never so much as
this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what
you think of my prospects. I’m afraid that for Mr. Osmond I’m not--well,
a real collector’s piece.”

“Do you wish me to intercede?” Madame Merle asked with her fine arms
folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left.

“If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There
will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to
believe her father will consent.”

“You’re very considerate; that’s in your favour. But you assume in
rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize.”

“You’ve been very kind to me,” said the young man. “That’s why I came.”

“I’m always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It’s very rare
now, and there’s no telling what one may get by it.” With which the
left-hand corner of Madame Merle’s mouth gave expression to the joke.

But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently
strenuous. “Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!”

“I like you very much; but, if you please, we won’t analyse. Pardon me
if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I
must tell you, however, that I’ve not the marrying of Pansy Osmond.”

“I didn’t suppose that. But you’ve seemed to me intimate with her
family, and I thought you might have influence.”

Madame Merle considered. “Whom do you call her family?”

“Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere.”

“Mr. Osmond’s her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed
a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying
her.”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. “I
think Mrs. Osmond would favour me.”

“Very likely--if her husband doesn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Does she take the opposite line from him?”

“In everything. They think quite differently.”

“Well,” said Rosier, “I’m sorry for that; but it’s none of my business.
She’s very fond of Pansy.”

“Yes, she’s very fond of Pansy.”

“And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves
her as if she were her own mother.”

“You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor
child,” said Madame Merle. “Have you declared your sentiments?”

“Never!” cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. “Never till I’ve
assured myself of those of the parents.”

“You always wait for that? You’ve excellent principles; you observe the
proprieties.”

“I think you’re laughing at me,” the young man murmured, dropping back
in his chair and feeling his small moustache. “I didn’t expect that of
you, Madame Merle.”

She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them.
“You don’t do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and
the best you could adopt. Yes, that’s what I think.”

“I wouldn’t agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for
that,” said Ned Rosier.

“I’m glad, after all, that you’ve told me,” Madame Merle went on. “Leave
it to me a little; I think I can help you.”

“I said you were the person to come to!” her visitor cried with prompt
elation.

“You were very clever,” Madame Merle returned more dryly. “When I say I
can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a
little if it is.”

“I’m awfully decent, you know,” said Rosier earnestly. “I won’t say I’ve
no faults, but I’ll say I’ve no vices.”

“All that’s negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call
vices. What’s the positive side? What’s the virtuous? What have you got
besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?”

“I’ve a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year.
With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an
income.”

“Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you
live.”

“Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris.”

Madame Merle’s mouth rose to the left. “It wouldn’t be famous; you’d
have to make use of the teacups, and they’d get broken.”

“We don’t want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything
pretty it would be enough. When one’s as pretty as she one can
afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but
muslin--without the sprig,” said Rosier reflectively.

“Wouldn’t you even allow her the sprig? She’d be much obliged to you at
any rate for that theory.”

“It’s the correct one, I assure you; and I’m sure she’d enter into it.
She understands all that; that’s why I love her.”

“She’s a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful.
But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing.”

Rosier scarce demurred. “I don’t in the least desire that he should. But
I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man.”

“The money’s his wife’s; she brought him a large fortune.”

“Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do
something.”

“For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!” Madame Merle
exclaimed with a laugh.

“I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it.”

“Mrs. Osmond,” Madame Merle went on, “will probably prefer to keep her
money for her own children.”

“Her own children? Surely she has none.”

“She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago,
six months after his birth. Others therefore may come.”

“I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She’s a splendid woman.”

Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. “Ah, about her there’s much to
be said. Splendid as you like! We’ve not exactly made out that you’re a
_parti_. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.

“Pardon me, I think it may be,” said Rosier quite lucidly.

“You’ll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!”

“I think you underrate me.”

“You’re not so innocent as that? Seriously,” said Madame Merle,
“of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a
combination to be considered. I don’t say it’s to be jumped at, but
there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline
to believe he can do better.”

“_He_ can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can’t do better
than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know,” Rosier added
eagerly.

“She does--I know it.”

“Ah,” cried the young man, “I said you were the person to come to.”

“But I don’t know how you know it, if you haven’t asked her,” Madame
Merle went on.

“In such a case there’s no need of asking and telling; as you say, we’re
an innocent couple. How did _you_ know it?”

“I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I’ll find
out for you.”

Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. “You say that rather coldly.
Don’t simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be.”

“I’ll do my best. I’ll try to make the most of your advantages.”

“Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I’ll say a word to Mrs. Osmond.”

“_Gardez-vous-en bien!_” And Madame Merle was on her feet. “Don’t set her
going, or you’ll spoil everything.”

Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess _had_ been
after all the right person to come to. “I don’t think I understand
you. I’m an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to
succeed.”

“Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the
better, for she doesn’t get on very well with some of her new. But don’t
for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband
may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you
not to multiply points of difference between them.”

Poor Rosier’s face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand
of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste
for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which
he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner’s “best
set” came to his assistance. “I don’t see that I’m bound to consider Mr.
Osmond so very much!” he exclaimed. “No, but you should consider _her_.
You say you’re an old friend. Would you make her suffer?”

“Not for the world.”

“Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I’ve taken a few
soundings.”

“Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I’m in love.”

“Oh, you won’t burn up! Why did you come to me, if you’re not to heed
what I say?”

“You’re very kind; I’ll be very good,” the young man promised. “But I’m
afraid Mr. Osmond’s pretty hard,” he added in his mild voice as he went
to the door.

Madame Merle gave a short laugh. “It has been said before. But his wife
isn’t easy either.”

“Ah, she’s a splendid woman!” Ned Rosier repeated, for departure.
He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was
already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he
had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself
in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond’s home. He reflected
constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his
mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her
_de confiance_, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been
precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had
incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had
known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her
a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for
assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms,
gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had
indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration
among the girl’s people, where she had a rather striking appearance
(Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being
intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these
advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble
for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt
rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the
ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had
appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his
bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three
of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss
Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say
so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like
her to believe it.

It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond’s,
Mrs. Osmond having an “evening”--she had taken the Thursday of each
week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of
civility. The object of Mr. Rosier’s well-regulated affection dwelt in
a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure
overlooking a sunny _piazzetta_ in the neighbourhood of the Farnese
Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure,
but a dungeon to poor Rosier’s apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of
evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious
father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in
a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name,
which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which
was mentioned in “Murray” and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague
survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio
in the _piano nobile_ and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the
wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain
gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he
could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered
into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on
settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this
habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,
and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels
he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details
of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the
conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up
there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of
being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There
was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he
found himself in Mrs. Osmond’s warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which
were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very
strong in “good things.” It was a taste of Osmond’s own--not at all of
hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when,
after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even
better “French” than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit
that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman
should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of
her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a
large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed
a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his
greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice.
Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own.
For “advice” read “cash,” he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert
Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season
confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may
freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented
himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls
of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really
yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme
seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about
for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted
a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took
everything comfortable for granted.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a
concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here
Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place
to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about
the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it
contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.
Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the
resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before
the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up
and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were
talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an
expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged
with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually
thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his
attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was
even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he
had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his
left hand, without changing his attitude.

“How d’ye do? My wife’s somewhere about.”

“Never fear; I shall find her,” said Rosier cheerfully.

Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so
efficiently looked at. “Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn’t like
it,” he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,
but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or
would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,
having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly
resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of
being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without
help, and then in a moment, “I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte
to-day,” he said.

Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his
boot-sole, “I don’t care a fig for Capo di Monte!” he returned.

“I hope you’re not losing your interest?”

“In old pots and plates? Yes, I’m losing my interest.”

Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. “You’re not
thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?”

“No, I’m not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier,” said
Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.

“Ah, you want to keep, but not to add,” Rosier remarked brightly.

“Exactly. I’ve nothing I wish to match.”

Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of
assurance. “Ah, well, I have!” was all he could murmur; and he knew
his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the
adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She
was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had
said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought
of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his
admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it
was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for
authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that
secret of a “lustre” beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,
which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him
to recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such
tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her
youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost
something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately
taken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all
events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the
picture of a gracious lady. “You see I’m very regular,” he said. “But
who should be if I’m not?”

“Yes, I’ve known you longer than any one here. But we mustn’t indulge in
tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady.”

“Ah, please, what young lady?” Rosier was immensely obliging; but this
was not what he had come for.

“She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to.” Rosier
hesitated a moment. “Can’t Mr. Osmond speak to her? He’s within six feet
of her.”

Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. “She’s not very lively, and he doesn’t like
dull people.”

“But she’s good enough for me? Ah now, that’s hard!”

“I only mean that you’ve ideas for two. And then you’re so obliging.”

“No, he’s not--to me.” And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.

“That’s a sign he should be doubly so to other women.

“So I tell him,” she said, still smiling.

“You see I want some tea,” Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.

“That’s perfect. Go and give some to my young lady.”

“Very good; but after that I’ll abandon her to her fate. The simple
truth is I’m dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, turning away, “I can’t help you there!”

Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink,
whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in
making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken
the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable
of occupying this young man’s mind for a considerable time. At last,
however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little
what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to
abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy
Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond
as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild
colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his
small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at
first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at
Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the
Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters
sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at
nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn’t really fill out the
part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree
the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;
and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart
attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it
were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have
been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was
not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.
Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed
were happy enough. “No, she’s unique--she’s absolutely unique,” he used
to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he
have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had
the style of a little princess; if you couldn’t see it you had no eye.
It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression
in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only
looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,
who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her
charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish
prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked
him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him
feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he
had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect _jeune fille_, and
one couldn’t make of a _jeune fille_ the enquiry requisite for throwing
light on such a point. A _jeune fille_ was what Rosier had always dreamed
of--a _jeune fille_ who should yet not be French, for he had felt that
this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had
never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she
had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune
fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and
yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,
nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier
could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of
hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but
he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were
the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he
entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater
importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.
There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his
guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;
it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a
prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he _was_ in love
with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of
circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant
by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely
he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl
in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her
mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that
she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter
departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be
virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;
he had never been alone with a _jeune fille_. It was a great moment; poor
Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond
the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and
lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty
all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;
there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very
temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture;
he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of
stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other
maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on
the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was
frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured
him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed
for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and
look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He
had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was
of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he
didn’t really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He
therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.

“Certainly, you may go,” said Pansy; “and if you like I’ll show you.”
 She was not in the least frightened.

“That’s just what I hoped you’d say; you’re so very kind,” Rosier
murmured.

They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it
seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. “It’s not for
winter evenings; it’s more for summer,” she said. “It’s papa’s taste; he
has so much.”

He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He
looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation.
“Doesn’t Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?” he
asked.

“Oh yes, a great deal; but it’s more for literature,” said Pansy--“and
for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows
everything.”

Rosier was silent a little. “There’s one thing I’m sure he knows!” he
broke out presently. “He knows that when I come here it’s, with all
respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who’s so charming--it’s
really,” said the young man, “to see you!”

“To see me?” And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.

“To see you; that’s what I come for,” Rosier repeated, feeling the
intoxication of a rupture with authority.

Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not
needed to make her face more modest. “I thought it was for that.”

“And it was not disagreeable to you?”

“I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know. You never told me,” said Pansy.

“I was afraid of offending you.”

“You don’t offend me,” the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel
had kissed her.

“You like me then, Pansy?” Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.

“Yes--I like you.”

They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock
was perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from
without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him
the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her
hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,
still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something
ineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now
anything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting
for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever;
but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.
Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his
heart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a
question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow
Empire _salottino_. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like
what a perfect little lady she had carried it off!

“You’re very dear to me,” he murmured, trying to believe that there was
after all such a thing as hospitality.

She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. “Did you say
papa knows?”

“You told me just now he knows everything.”

“I think you must make sure,” said Pansy.

“Ah, my dear, when once I’m sure of _you_!” Rosier murmured in her ear;
whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of
consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.

The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame
Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered.
How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for
she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor
dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the
audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very
tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was
because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest
thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more
striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master
of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these
two--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the
commonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked
if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.

“He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared,” Osmond said.

“And where’s Pansy?”

“In the other room. There are several people there.”

“He’s probably among them,” said Madame Merle.

“Do you wish to see him?” Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone.

Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the
eighth of a note. “Yes, I should like to say to him that I’ve told you
what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly.”

“Don’t tell him that. He’ll try to interest me more--which is exactly
what I don’t want. Tell him I hate his proposal.”

“But you don’t hate it.”

“It doesn’t signify; I don’t love it. I let him see that, myself, this
evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing’s a great
bore. There’s no hurry.”

“I’ll tell him that you’ll take time and think it over.”

“No, don’t do that. He’ll hang on.”

“If I discourage him he’ll do the same.”

“Yes, but in the one case he’ll try to talk and explain--which would be
exceedingly tiresome. In the other he’ll probably hold his tongue and go
in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a
donkey.”

“Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?”

“Oh, he’s a nuisance--with his eternal majolica.”

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. “He’s a gentleman,
he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand
francs!”

“It’s misery--‘genteel’ misery,” Osmond broke in. “It’s not what I’ve
dreamed of for Pansy.”

“Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.”

“Do you believe him?” Osmond asked absentmindedly.

“Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don’t
suppose you consider that that matters.”

“I don’t consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has
thought of him.”

“That opinion’s more convenient,” said Madame Merle quietly.

“Has she told you she’s in love with him?”

“For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?” Madame Merle
added in a moment.

Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other
knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine
forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while
before him. “This kind of thing doesn’t find me unprepared. It’s what I
educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come
up she should do what I prefer.”

“I’m not afraid that she’ll not do it.”

“Well then, where’s the hitch?”

“I don’t see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of
Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.”

“I can’t keep him. Keep him yourself.”

“Very good; I’ll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day.”
 Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing
about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit
to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the
last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out
of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a
few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her
father.

“He has spoken to her,” Madame Merle went on to Osmond.

Her companion never turned his head. “So much for your belief in his
promises. He ought to be horsewhipped.”

“He intends to confess, poor little man!”

Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. “It
doesn’t matter,” he murmured, turning away.

Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner
of unfamiliar politeness. This lady’s reception of her was not more
intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly
smile.

“You’re very late,” the young creature gently said.

“My dear child, I’m never later than I intend to be.”

Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward
Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it
off his mind, “I’ve spoken to her!” he whispered.

“I know it, Mr. Rosier.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come
and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five.” She was severe, and in
the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of
contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.

He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor
the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking
with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady
was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. “You
said just now you wouldn’t help me,” he began to Mrs. Osmond. “Perhaps
you’ll feel differently when you know--when you know--!”

Isabel met his hesitation. “When I know what?”

“That she’s all right.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, that we’ve come to an understanding.”

“She’s all wrong,” said Isabel. “It won’t do.”

Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush
testified to his sense of injury. “I’ve never been treated so,” he said.
“What is there against me, after all? That’s not the way I’m usually
considered. I could have married twenty times.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t. I don’t mean twenty times, but once,
comfortably,” Isabel added, smiling kindly. “You’re not rich enough for
Pansy.”

“She doesn’t care a straw for one’s money.”

“No, but her father does.”

“Ah yes, he has proved that!” cried the young man.

Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without
ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending
to look at Gilbert Osmond’s collection of miniatures, which were neatly
arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without
seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was
certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used
to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such
a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He
searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire
was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to
Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a
rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of
him.

“I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn’t have done, a while ago,” he
began. “But you must remember my situation.”

“I don’t remember what you said,” she answered coldly.

“Ah, you’re offended, and now you’ll never help me.”

She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: “It’s not
that I won’t; I simply can’t!” Her manner was almost passionate.

“If you _could_, just a little, I’d never again speak of your husband save
as an angel.”

“The inducement’s great,” said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he
afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the
eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow
that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,
and he took himself off.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let
him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop
there till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher
expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his
daughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if
one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that
tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his
felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn’t be
a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy
her father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by
precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a
sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of
itself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own
situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world,
and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly
declared, one couldn’t have everything one wanted; she had learned that
lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert
Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter
dropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have
anything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear.

“He doesn’t like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn’t like it at
all,” said Madame Merle.

“I’m perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!”

“If you do that he’ll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the
house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to
me.”

“As little as possible? Who’s to measure the possibility?”

“Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world,
but don’t go at all at odd times, and don’t fret about Pansy. I’ll see
that she understands everything. She’s a calm little nature; she’ll take
it quietly.”

Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was
advised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to
Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he
went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual,
was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so
that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.

“I’m glad that you can take a hint,” Pansy’s father said, slightly
closing his keen, conscious eyes.

“I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be.”

“You took it? Where did you take it?”

It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment,
asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. “Madame Merle
gave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you
declined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain
my wishes to you.” And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly.

“I don’t see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to
Madame Merle?”

“I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had
seemed to me to know you very well.”

“She doesn’t know me so well as she thinks,” said Osmond.

“I’m sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for
hope.”

Osmond stared into the fire a moment. “I set a great price on my
daughter.”

“You can’t set a higher one than I do. Don’t I prove it by wishing to
marry her?”

“I wish to marry her very well,” Osmond went on with a dry impertinence
which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired.

“Of course I pretend she’d marry well in marrying me. She couldn’t
marry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves
more.”

“I’m not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter
loves”--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile.

“I’m not theorising. Your daughter has spoken.”

“Not to me,” Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping
his eyes to his boot-toes.

“I have her promise, sir!” cried Rosier with the sharpness of
exasperation.

As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted
some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement
had subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: “I think she has no
recollection of having given it.”

They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had
uttered these last words the master of the house turned round again
to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a
gentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the
Roman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter
smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face
and a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman.

“You apparently don’t recognise me,” he said with a smile that expressed
more than Osmond’s.

“Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you.”

Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as
usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond
in his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously
indignant, but said to her crudely: “Your husband’s awfully
cold-blooded.”

She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. “You can’t
expect every one to be as hot as yourself.”

“I don’t pretend to be cold, but I’m cool. What has he been doing to his
daughter?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Don’t you take any interest?” Rosier demanded with his sense that she
too was irritating.

For a moment she answered nothing; then, “No!” she said abruptly and
with a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word.

“Pardon me if I don’t believe that. Where’s Miss Osmond?”

“In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there.”

Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by
intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely
given to her occupation. “What on earth has he done to her?” he asked
again imploringly. “He declares to me she has given me up.”

“She has not given you up,” Isabel said in a low tone and without
looking at him.

“Ah, thank you for that! Now I’ll leave her alone as long as you think
proper!”

He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware
that Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had
just entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good
looks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. “Isabel,”
 said her husband, “I bring you an old friend.”

Mrs. Osmond’s face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend’s,
not perfectly confident. “I’m very happy to see Lord Warburton,” she
said. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been
interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He
had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn’t notice what he did.

Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe
him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or
a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her,
was plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey
eyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and
attestation strictly sincere. He was “heavier” than of yore and looked
older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.

“I suppose you didn’t expect to see me,” he said; “I’ve but just
arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I’ve lost
no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on
Thursdays.”

“You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,” Osmond
remarked to his wife.

“It’s very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we’re greatly
flattered,” Isabel said.

“Ah well, it’s better than stopping in one of those horrible inns,”
 Osmond went on.

“The hotel seems very good; I think it’s the same at which I saw you
four years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it’s a
long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?” his lordship
asked of his hostess. “It was in the Capitol, in the first room.”

“I remember that myself,” said Osmond. “I was there at the time.”

“Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry
that, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I’ve never
cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here,” her
old friend went on to Isabel, “and I assure you I’ve often thought of
you. It must be a charming place to live in,” he added with a look,
round him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the
dim ghost of his old ruefulness.

“We should have been glad to see you at any time,” Osmond observed with
propriety.

“Thank you very much. I haven’t been out of England since then. Till a
month ago I really supposed my travels over.”

“I’ve heard of you from time to time,” said Isabel, who had already,
with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what
meeting him again meant for her.

“I hope you’ve heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete
blank.”

“Like the good reigns in history,” Osmond suggested. He appeared to
think his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so
conscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more
nicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife’s old friend. It
was punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a
deficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good
deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. “I’ll leave you and
Mrs. Osmond together,” he added. “You have reminiscences into which I
don’t enter.”

“I’m afraid you lose a good deal!” Lord Warburton called after him, as
he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation
of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the
deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious.
“I’m really very glad to see you.”

“It’s very pleasant. You’re very kind.”

“Do you know that you’re changed--a little?”

She just hesitated. “Yes--a good deal.”

“I don’t mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the
better?”

“I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to _you_,” she bravely
returned.

“Ah well, for me--it’s a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn’t
be something to show for it.” They sat down and she asked him about
his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He
answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments
she saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his
whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without
chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel
felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend’s manner was
certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or
like her at least, to know him for such. “There’s something I must tell
you without more delay,” he resumed. “I’ve brought Ralph Touchett with
me.”

“Brought him with you?” Isabel’s surprise was great.

“He’s at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed.”

“I’ll go to see him,” she immediately said.

“That’s exactly what I hoped you’d do. I had an idea you hadn’t seen
much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a
little more formal. That’s why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton.”

“I’m as fond of Ralph as ever,” Isabel answered. “But why has he come to
Rome?” The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp.

“Because he’s very far gone, Mrs. Osmond.”

“Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined
to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England,
indoors, in what he called an artificial climate.”

“Poor fellow, he doesn’t succeed with the artificial! I went to see him
three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has
been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He
smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed;
the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it
into his head to start for Sicily. I didn’t believe in it--neither did
the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know,
is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea
that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania.
He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself
comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn’t brought anything. I wanted
him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea
and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish,
I made up my mind to come with him. I’m acting as--what do you call it
in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph’s very moderate now. We
left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He
can’t keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the
cold. He has got rather a good man, but I’m afraid he’s beyond human
help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some
sharp young doctor; but he wouldn’t hear of it. If you don’t mind my
saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to
decide on going to America.”

Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. “My
aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When
the date comes round she starts; I think she’d have started if Ralph had
been dying.”

“I sometimes think he _is_ dying,” Lord Warburton said.

Isabel sprang up. “I’ll go to him then now.”

He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his
words. “I don’t mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day,
in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching
Rome--he’s very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago,
when I bade him good-night, he told me he was very tired, but very happy.
Go to him in the morning; that’s all I mean. I didn’t tell him I was
coming here; I didn’t decide to till after we had separated. Then I
remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very
Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he’s here, and let
you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he
said he hadn’t written to you.” There was no need of Isabel’s declaring
that she would act upon Lord Warburton’s information; she looked, as she
sat there, like a winged creature held back. “Let alone that I wanted to
see you for myself,” her visitor gallantly added.

“I don’t understand Ralph’s plan; it seems to me very wild,” she said.
“I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt.”

“He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company.”

“You went to see him; you’ve been extremely kind.”

“Oh dear, I had nothing to do,” said Lord Warburton.

“We hear, on the contrary, that you’re doing great things. Every one
speaks of you as a great statesman, and I’m perpetually seeing your name
in the Times, which, by the way, doesn’t appear to hold it in reverence.
You’re apparently as wild a radical as ever.”

“I don’t feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me.
Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way
from London. I tell him he’s the last of the Tories, and he calls me
the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal
appearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there’s life in him
yet.”

Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from
asking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived
that after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a
conception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say
to herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she
was able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old,
such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted
and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new
trouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live
with her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her
and was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was
not a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to
punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice
to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a
good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation
of a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never
fester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She
gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free
to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course
spoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even
went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly
time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her
marriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond’s
acquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other
occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her
history, but he didn’t apologise to her for this. The only thing he
implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very
much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short
pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a
person amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of
guesses--

“Well now, I suppose you’re very happy and all that sort of thing?”

Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her
almost as the accent of comedy. “Do you suppose if I were not I’d tell
you?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t see why not.”

“I do then. Fortunately, however, I’m very happy.”

“You’ve got an awfully good house.”

“Yes, it’s very pleasant. But that’s not my merit--it’s my husband’s.”

“You mean he has arranged it?”

“Yes, it was nothing when we came.”

“He must be very clever.”

“He has a genius for upholstery,” said Isabel.

“There’s a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a
taste of your own.”

“I enjoy things when they’re done, but I’ve no ideas. I can never
propose anything.”

“Do you mean you accept what others propose?”

“Very willingly, for the most part.”

“That’s a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something.”

“It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I’ve in a few small
ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you
to some of these people.”

“Oh, please don’t; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young
lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face.”

“The one talking to the rosy young man? That’s my husband’s daughter.”

“Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!”

“You must make her acquaintance.”

“In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here.” He ceased
to look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs.
Osmond. “Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?” he
presently went on. “You seem to me, after all, very much the same.”

“And yet I find it a great change to be married,” said Isabel with mild
gaiety.

“It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven’t
gone in for that.”

“It rather surprises me.”

“You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry,” he
added more simply.

“It ought to be very easy,” Isabel said, rising--after which she
reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the
person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the
pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having
contributed then to the facility.

Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy’s
tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she
asked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother.

“He’s an English lord,” said Rosier. “I don’t know more.”

“I wonder if he’ll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea.”

“Never mind that; I’ve something particular to say to you.”

“Don’t speak so loud every one will hear,” said Pansy.

“They won’t hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only
thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil.”

“It has just been filled; the servants never know!”--and she sighed with
the weight of her responsibility.

“Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn’t mean
what you said a week ago.”

“I don’t mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean
what I say to you.”

“He told me you had forgotten me.”

“Ah no, I don’t forget,” said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed
smile.

“Then everything’s just the very same?”

“Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe.”

“What has he done to you?”

“He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he
forbade me to marry you.”

“You needn’t mind that.”

“Oh yes, I must indeed. I can’t disobey papa.”

“Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?”

She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment;
then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. “I love you just as
much.”

“What good will that do me?”

“Ah,” said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, “I don’t know that.”

“You disappoint me,” groaned poor Rosier.

She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. “Please
don’t talk any more.”

“Is this to be all my satisfaction?”

“Papa said I was not to talk with you.”

“Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it’s too much!”

“I wish you’d wait a little,” said the girl in a voice just distinct
enough to betray a quaver.

“Of course I’ll wait if you’ll give me hope. But you take my life away.”

“I’ll not give you up--oh no!” Pansy went on.

“He’ll try and make you marry some one else.”

“I’ll never do that.”

“What then are we to wait for?”

She hesitated again. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she’ll help us.” It
was in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother.

“She won’t help us much. She’s afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of your father, I suppose.”

Pansy shook her little head. “She’s not afraid of any one. We must have
patience.”

“Ah, that’s an awful word,” Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted.
Oblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his
hands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the
carpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about
him and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her
little curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had
introduced.



CHAPTER XXXIX

It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett
should have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done
before that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly
prove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we
know, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him
to resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That
discussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than
the one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl’s zeal in carrying out her
engagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship.
No reference was ever again made between them to Ralph’s opinion of
Gilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they
managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a
difference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She
had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had
gained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn’t care;
and as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions
represented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should
justify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was
of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond’s wife she could never
again be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity
she expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had
attempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the
other hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he
should never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make
her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed
his cousin’s marriage, Ralph’s prevision of the future; and if his
meditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom
of health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed)
beautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united
to Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of
June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of
celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was
what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite
of Osmond’s professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that
this characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the
nearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at
the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of
Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That
severity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result
of the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the
occasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle
had been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had
written a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been
invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr.
Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but
she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle’s, intimating
that, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been
present not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had
taken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel
in the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too
freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject
of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to
Isabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. “It
isn’t in the least that you’ve married--it is that you have married
_him_,” she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen,
much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of
his hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta’s second visit to Europe,
however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the
moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to
that newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he
took Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon
the scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain.
Henrietta’s letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she
had yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the
Alhambra and entitled ‘Moors and Moonlight,’ which generally passed for
her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband’s
not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even
wondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense
of humour, wouldn’t it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself
looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing
to grudge to Henrietta’s violated conscience. Osmond had thought their
alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn’t imagine what they had in
common. For him, Mr. Bantling’s fellow tourist was simply the most
vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned.
Against this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an
ardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his
wife’s tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to
know people who were as different as possible from herself. “Why
then don’t you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?” Osmond
had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her
washerwoman wouldn’t care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much.

Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that
had followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her
residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been
joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him
to England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she
couldn’t induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at
San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but
late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome.
It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face
with Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She
had written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing
he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her
life, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was
making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that
communes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with
her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to
be living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still
remained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It
had given her no pleasure to think of Isabel’s establishment, which she
was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she
rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise
the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her
think of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs.
Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked
of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person
of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle’s relations with Mrs. Touchett had
undergone a perceptible change. Isabel’s aunt had told her, without
circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame
Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one
worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less,
for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of
irritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that
this was an accusation from which she couldn’t stoop to defend herself.
She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only
too simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel
was not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated
visits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top
and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to
herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown
dust in her companion’s eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was
unprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part
in it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly
protested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett’s attitude,
and of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming
seasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months
in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had
done her a wrong; there are some things that can’t be forgiven. But
Madame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite
in her dignity.

Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in
this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the
girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the
game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would
always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in
her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should
fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he
had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in
order to know Isabel’s real situation. At present, however, she neither
taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was
justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was
something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was
not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an
advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a
sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she
could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred
six months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning.
She appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken
of as having a “charming position.” He observed that she produced the
impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among
many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open
to every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people
were not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain
magnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive
it; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even
to admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in
all this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had
no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having
a great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of
fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be
bored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to
explore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain
of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was
much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of
development on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was
a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her
experiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even
spoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage.
Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so
much for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight
in good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked
so charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a
crushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she
appeared now to think there was nothing worth people’s either differing
about or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was
indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was
greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had
gained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a
brilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence
to her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten
her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent
head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become
quite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to
represent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself;
and he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond.
“Good heavens, what a function!” he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost
in wonder at the mystery of things.

He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He
saw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated,
animated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had
material to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects
were deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the
motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior
with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense
of exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every
other, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold
originality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom
Isabel had attributed a superior morality. “He works with superior
material,” Ralph said to himself; “it’s rich abundance compared with his
former resources.” Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his
own sense--been so clever as when he observed, _in petto_, that under the
guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for
the world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was
its very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only
measure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night,
and the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything
he did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the
lookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived
so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his
accomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on
his hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His
solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his
bad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present
to him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was
not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world’s
curiosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great,
ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most
directly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this
case indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel,
who had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found
a fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had
suffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little
sketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth.
It was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his
theory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this
period the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in
the least as an enemy.

For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he
had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all.
He was Isabel’s cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on
this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries,
asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter
climates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on
the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary;
but his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in
the presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward
the end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond’s making it of small ease to
his wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not
jealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But
he made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was
still left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his
suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he
had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been
constantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had
decided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been
better than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous
stroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and
was so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk
been highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The
reader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and
the reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept
Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of
the person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet
satisfied. There was more to come; he couldn’t make up his mind to lose
that. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her
husband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and
he was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held
good; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of
his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an
air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more
accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange,
unremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been
before, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant
land. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal
of the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she
should find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord
Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.

She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert
Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for
him Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed,
at the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought
after all he wouldn’t go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together
after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had
left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar,
which he instantly removed from his lips.

“Won’t go to Sicily? Where then will you go?”

“Well, I guess I won’t go anywhere,” said Ralph, from the sofa, all
shamelessly.

“Do you mean you’ll return to England?”

“Oh dear no; I’ll stay in Rome.”

“Rome won’t do for you. Rome’s not warm enough.”

“It will have to do. I’ll make it do. See how well I’ve been.”

Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying
to see it. “You’ve been better than you were on the journey, certainly.
I wonder how you lived through that. But I don’t understand your
condition. I recommend you to try Sicily.”

“I can’t try,” said poor Ralph. “I’ve done trying. I can’t move further.
I can’t face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I
don’t want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like
Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades.”

“What the deuce then did you come for?” his lordship enquired.

“Because the idea took me. I see it won’t do. It really doesn’t
matter where I am now. I’ve exhausted all remedies, I’ve swallowed
all climates. As I’m here I’ll stay. I haven’t a single cousin in
Sicily--much less a married one.”

“Your cousin’s certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?”

“I haven’t asked him, and I don’t care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond
will bury me. But I shall not die here.”

“I hope not.” Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. “Well,
I must say,” he resumed, “for myself I’m very glad you don’t insist on
Sicily. I had a horror of that journey.”

“Ah, but for you it needn’t have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you
in my train.”

“I certainly didn’t mean to let you go alone.”

“My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,”
 Ralph cried.

“I should have gone with you and seen you settled,” said Lord Warburton.

“You’re a very good Christian. You’re a very kind man.”

“Then I should have come back here.”

“And then you’d have gone to England.”

“No, no; I should have stayed.”

“Well,” said Ralph, “if that’s what we are both up to, I don’t see where
Sicily comes in!”

His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking
up, “I say, tell me this,” he broke out; “did you really mean to go to
Sicily when we started?”

“_Ah, vous m’en demandez trop!_ Let me put a question first. Did you come
with me quite--platonically?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad.”

“I suspect we’ve each been playing our little game.”

“Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here
a while.”

“Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign
Affairs.”

“I’ve seen him three times. He’s very amusing.”

“I think you’ve forgotten what you came for,” said Ralph.

“Perhaps I have,” his companion answered rather gravely.

These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the
absence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome
without an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each.
There was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its
recognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival
in Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same
half-diffident, half-confident silence.

“I recommend you to get the doctor’s consent, all the same,” Lord
Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.

“The doctor’s consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help
it.”

“What then does Mrs. Osmond think?” Ralph’s friend demanded. “I’ve not
told her. She’ll probably say that Rome’s too cold and even offer to go
with me to Catania. She’s capable of that.”

“In your place I should like it.”

“Her husband won’t like it.”

“Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you’re not bound to
mind his likings. They’re his affair.”

“I don’t want to make any more trouble between them,” said Ralph.

“Is there so much already?”

“There’s complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make
the explosion. Osmond isn’t fond of his wife’s cousin.”

“Then of course he’d make a row. But won’t he make a row if you stop
here?”

“That’s what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and
then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it’s my duty to stop
and defend her.”

“My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!” Lord Warburton began with
a smile. But he saw something in his companion’s face that checked him.
“Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question,” he
observed instead.

Ralph for a short time answered nothing. “It’s true that my defensive
powers are small,” he returned at last; “but as my aggressive ones are
still smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At
any rate,” he added, “there are things I’m curious to see.”

“You’re sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?”

“I’m not much interested in my health, and I’m deeply interested in Mrs.
Osmond.”

“So am I. But not as I once was,” Lord Warburton added quickly. This was
one of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make.

“Does she strike you as very happy?” Ralph enquired, emboldened by this
confidence.

“Well, I don’t know; I’ve hardly thought. She told me the other night
she was happy.”

“Ah, she told _you_, of course,” Ralph exclaimed, smiling.

“I don’t know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she
might have complained to.”

“Complained? She’ll never complain. She has done it--what she _has_
done--and she knows it. She’ll complain to you least of all. She’s very
careful.”

“She needn’t be. I don’t mean to make love to her again.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of _your_ duty.”

“Ah no,” said Lord Warburton gravely; “none!”

“Permit me to ask,” Ralph went on, “whether it’s to bring out the fact
that you don’t mean to make love to her that you’re so very civil to the
little girl?”

Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire,
looking at it hard. “Does that strike you as very ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her.”

“I think her a delightful little person. I don’t know when a girl of
that age has pleased me more.”

“She’s a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine.”

“Of course there’s the difference in our ages--more than twenty years.”

“My dear Warburton,” said Ralph, “are you serious?”

“Perfectly serious--as far as I’ve got.”

“I’m very glad. And, heaven help us,” cried Ralph, “how cheered-up old
Osmond will be!”

His companion frowned. “I say, don’t spoil it. I shouldn’t propose for
his daughter to please _him_.”

“He’ll have the perversity to be pleased all the same.”

“He’s not so fond of me as that,” said his lordship.

“As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that
people needn’t be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you.
Now, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that
they loved me.”

Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general
axioms--he was thinking of a special case. “Do you judge she’ll be
pleased?”

“The girl herself? Delighted, surely.”

“No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond.”

Ralph looked at him a moment. “My dear fellow, what has she to do with
it?”

“Whatever she chooses. She’s very fond of Pansy.”

“Very true--very true.” And Ralph slowly got up. “It’s an interesting
question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her.” He stood there
a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. “I
hope, you know, that you’re very--very sure. The deuce!” he broke off.
“I don’t know how to say it.”

“Yes, you do; you know how to say everything.”

“Well, it’s awkward. I hope you’re sure that among Miss Osmond’s merits
her being--a--so near her stepmother isn’t a leading one?”

“Good heavens, Touchett!” cried Lord Warburton angrily, “for what do you
take me?”



CHAPTER XL

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady
having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had
spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a
winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and
gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less
inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the
past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of
the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood
empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a
danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.
Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame
Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much
wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it
was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social
battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished
steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more
and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with
disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own
ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who
knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her
highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was
mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept
going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of
life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew
older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days
when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness
what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had
been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived
possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person
she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:
there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had
suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she
lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel
would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant
friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had
become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of
having made one’s self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.

But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed
acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again
a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done
since her marriage; but by this time Isabel’s needs and inclinations
had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she
would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this
lady’s clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,
and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself
beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an
ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others
in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her
friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be
as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,
considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside
her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which
had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was
almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear
of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion
that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the
vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had
never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle’s conduct, to her
perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always “quiet.”
 But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the
Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a
little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.
She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other
interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and
his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not
after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of
their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was
wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid
as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.

“I _must_ be on my guard,” she said; “I might so easily, without
suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my
intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew
your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you
were a silly woman you might be jealous. You’re not a silly woman; I
know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I’m determined not
to get into trouble. A little harm’s very soon done; a mistake’s made
before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your
husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn’t
likely I shall begin to-day, when I’m so much less attractive than I
was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn’t
belong to me, you wouldn’t make that reflection; you’d simply say I
was forgetting certain differences. I’m determined not to forget them.
Certainly a good friend isn’t always thinking of that; one doesn’t
suspect one’s friends of injustice. I don’t suspect you, my dear, in
the least; but I suspect human nature. Don’t think I make myself
uncomfortable; I’m not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently
prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however,
that if you were to be jealous--that’s the form it would take--I should
be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn’t be your
husband’s.”

Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett’s theory that
Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond’s marriage. We know how she had
at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond’s
marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer’s. That was the
work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of
the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt’s complaint had
been not so much of Madame Merle’s activity as of her duplicity: she had
brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such
guilt would not have been great, to Isabel’s mind; she couldn’t make
a crime of Madame Merle’s having been the producing cause of the most
important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just
before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a
time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the
tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If
Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had
been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly
straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert
Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less
convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,
this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. “Don’t you like
Madame Merle?” Isabel had once said to him. “She thinks a great deal of
you.”

“I’ll tell you once for all,” Osmond had answered. “I liked her once
better than I do to-day. I’m tired of her, and I’m rather ashamed of it.
She’s so almost unnaturally good! I’m glad she’s not in Italy; it makes
for relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don’t talk of her too much;
it seems to bring her back. She’ll come back in plenty of time.”

Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late,
I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime,
if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel’s feelings were
also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as
acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind,
whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as
thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle’s having had a
hand in Gilbert Osmond’s marriage ceased to be one of her titles to
consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not
so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and
Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would
not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an
immediate horror at having made it. “Whatever happens to me let me not
be unjust,” she said; “let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them
upon others!” This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious
apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make
and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something
irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat
discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel’s mind to-day there
was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had
just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little
what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to
explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then
suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;
it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn’t it in a manner
one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so
wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than
Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had
they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.
It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been
summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should
not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had
a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously
discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to
pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its
disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to
be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed
her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was
impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever
a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a
free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.
There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and
chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to
repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.
One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second
one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a
certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been
right, for all that, in taking her precautions.

One day about a month after Ralph Touchett’s arrival in Rome Isabel
came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general
determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for
Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure
and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her
life that had the rightness of the young creature’s attachment or
the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft
presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy’s part it was more than
an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side
her sense of the girl’s dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated
as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said
to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we
must look for it as much as possible. Pansy’s sympathy was a direct
admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent
perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could
hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child
was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to
remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she
now perceived that Pansy’s ambiguities were simply her own grossness of
vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so
extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this
delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It
was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to
interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests
she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.
Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her
company; it had the effect of one’s carrying a nosegay composed all
of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any
provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.
The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel’s society
than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an
intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite
pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel
knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of
pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was
negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which
certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She
was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she
was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to
Isabel’s propositions and which might have implied that she could have
thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,
and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale
when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked
toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes
the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo
Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a
reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to
propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,
for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this
exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.
Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome
parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at
the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this
vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative
posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken
to drive for the first time.

On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of
the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await
them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the
Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate
flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a
walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her
first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved
best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with
a shorter undulation beside her father’s wife, who afterwards, on their
return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit
of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of
flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching
Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into
water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually
occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was
entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond’s rich
devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just
beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the
reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The
impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as
something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take
in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her
bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were
unaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly;
but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their
colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar
silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would
startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from
the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.
Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck
Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was
an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had
arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,
face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange
ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they
were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a
moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their
absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all
over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and
had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had
instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a
walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.

“I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn’t I
waited for you,” Madame Merle said.

“Didn’t he ask you to sit down?” Isabel asked with a smile.

Madame Merle looked about her. “Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.”

“You must stay now.”

“Certainly. I came for a reason; I’ve something on my mind.”

“I’ve told you that before,” Isabel said--“that it takes something
extraordinary to bring you to this house.”

“And you know what I’ve told _you_; that whether I come or whether I stay
away, I’ve always the same motive--the affection I bear you.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that.”

“You look just now as if you didn’t believe it,” said Madame Merle.

“Ah,” Isabel answered, “the profundity of your motives, that’s the last
thing I doubt!”

“You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words.”

Isabel shook her head gravely. “I know you’ve always been kind to me.”

“As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has
to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I’ve come
to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of
my own--to make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about
it.”

“I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.”

“Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I
suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s
about poor Mr. Rosier.”

“Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.”

“He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a
week, to talk about Pansy.”

“Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.”

Madame Merle hesitated. “I gathered from your husband that perhaps you
didn’t.”

“How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the
matter.”

“It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.”

“It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.”

“Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think.
To-day he doesn’t.”

“Haven’t you been telling him?” Isabel asked.

Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. “Do you know you’re a
little dry?”

“Yes; I can’t help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.”

“In that there’s some reason. You’re so near the child.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me
dry, I wonder what _he_ thinks.”

“I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.”

“I can do nothing.”

“You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious
connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to
me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps
coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his
feelings.”

“He’s very much in love,” said Isabel.

“Very much--for him.”

“Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.”

Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. “Don’t you think she’s
attractive?”

“The dearest little person possible--but very limited.”

“She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier’s not
unlimited.”

“No,” said Isabel, “he has about the extent of one’s
pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders.” Her humour had
lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed
of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy’s suitor. “He’s very
kind, very honest,” she presently added; “and he’s not such a fool as he
seems.”

“He assures me that she delights in him,” said Madame Merle.

“I don’t know; I’ve not asked her.”

“You’ve never sounded her a little?”

“It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.”

“Ah, you’re too literal!” said Madame Merle.

“I must judge for myself.”

Madame Merle gave her smile again. “It isn’t easy to help you.”

“To help me?” said Isabel very seriously. “What do you mean?”

“It’s easy to displease you. Don’t you see how wise I am to be careful?
I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of
the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. _Je n’y peux rien,
moi!_ I can’t talk to Pansy about him. Especially,” added Madame Merle,
“as I don’t think him a paragon of husbands.”

Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, “You don’t wash
your hands then!” she said. After which again she added in another tone:
“You can’t--you’re too much interested.”

Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the
intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.
Only this time the latter saw nothing. “Ask him the next time, and
you’ll see.”

“I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let
him know that he’s not welcome.”

“Ah yes,” said Madame Merle, “I forgot that--though it’s the burden of
his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same,” she
went on, “Osmond doesn’t dislike him so much as he thinks.” She had got
up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,
and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the
point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not
opening the way.

“That must have pleased him, if you’ve told him,” she answered, smiling.

“Certainly I’ve told him; as far as that goes I’ve encouraged him. I’ve
preached patience, have said that his case isn’t desperate if he’ll only
hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his
head to be jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.”

Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose.
“Ah!” she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame
Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the
mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.

“Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there’s nothing impossible in Lord
Warburton’s falling in love with Pansy,” Madame Merle went on. Isabel
was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. “It’s true--there’s
nothing impossible,” she returned at last, gravely and more gently.

“So I’ve had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.”

“That I don’t know.”

“Ask him and you’ll see.”

“I shall not ask him,” said Isabel.

“Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course,” Madame Merle
added, “you’ve had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton’s
behaviour than I.”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter
very much.”

Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. “Likes her, you mean--as
Mr. Rosier means?”

“I don’t know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know
that he’s charmed with Pansy.”

“And you’ve never told Osmond?” This observation was immediate,
precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s lips.

Isabel’s eyes rested on her. “I suppose he’ll know in time; Lord
Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself.”

Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly
than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave
the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been
thinking it over a little: “That would be better than marrying poor Mr.
Rosier.”

“Much better, I think.”

“It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It’s really
very kind of him.”

“Very kind of him?”

“To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.”

“I don’t see that.”

“It’s very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--”

“After all, Pansy Osmond’s the most attractive person he has ever
known!” Isabel exclaimed.

Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. “Ah, a moment
ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her.”

“I said she was limited. And so she is. And so’s Lord Warburton.”

“So are we all, if you come to that. If it’s no more than Pansy
deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier
I won’t admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse.”

“Mr. Rosier’s a nuisance!” Isabel cried abruptly.

“I quite agree with you, and I’m delighted to know that I’m not expected
to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be
closed to him.” And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared
to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an
inconsequent request from Isabel.

“All the same, you know, be kind to him.”

She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend.
“I don’t understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan’t be kind to
him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord
Warburton.”

“You had better wait till he asks her.”

“If what you say’s true, he’ll ask her. Especially,” said Madame Merle
in a moment, “if you make him.”

“If I make him?”

“It’s quite in your power. You’ve great influence with him.”

Isabel frowned a little. “Where did you learn that?”

“Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!” said Madame Merle, smiling.

“I certainly never told you anything of the sort.”

“You _might_ have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by
way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very
little; I’ve often thought so since.”

Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction.
But she didn’t admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to
exult in it. “You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,”
 she simply returned.

“She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord
Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject.
Of course I think you’ve done better in doing as you did. But if you
wouldn’t marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of
helping him to marry some one else.”

Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting
the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle’s. But in a moment she said,
reasonably and gently enough: “I should be very glad indeed if, as
regards Pansy, it could be arranged.” Upon which her companion, who
seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more
tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.



CHAPTER XLI

Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming
very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had
spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had
been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged
his books and which he called his study. At ten o’clock Lord Warburton
had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to
be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour.
Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on
purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to
read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if
she mightn’t leave the room. She had come little by little to think
well of the idea of Pansy’s becoming the wife of the master of beautiful
Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to
excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the
match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was
unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by
theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself
of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as
opposed to doing. To “do”--it hardly mattered what--would therefore
be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to
convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her
husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife’s
limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married
to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was
so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her
duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good
wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely,
and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking
had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired
occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse
herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to
Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming
girl. It was a little “weird” he should--being what he was; but there
was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any
one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her
too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was
always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been
looking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They
looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when
they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more
unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for
_her_ it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different;
but he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had,
he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair
had failed, he should think something of quite another sort might
succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but
it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what
happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for
her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed
their path!

At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path
lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that
Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if
she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome
she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing
herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it
into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It
was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men;
the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of
the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It
was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a
statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and
she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress.

It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden
strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this
difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied
in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there
were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly
aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy’s tenacity, which
might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her
as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under
deprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in
a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes,
she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she
clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as
she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel
without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation
most interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy
had been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself,
as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a
patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but
quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which
she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough
for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be
kind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at
Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how
she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been
as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She
had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been
as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy,
however, in spite of _her_ simplicity, really did understand, and was
glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and
bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry,
the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society.
She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with
sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet
oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if
she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded
her, was better than Mr. Rosier’s. But Isabel contented herself at such
moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all
to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken
of her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.

It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch
upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had
been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and
leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in
this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was
trying as much as possible to take her husband’s view. She succeeded
after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all
she couldn’t rise to it; something held her and made this impossible.
It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a
general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience,
and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common
genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that
she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a
while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give
Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered
if she had prevented something which would have happened if she
had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she
pronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor
should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know
it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel
studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after
he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to
this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel
of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that
she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her
transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through.

She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an
hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and
then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had
transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to
Osmond’s face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert
observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not
an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had
made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts,
to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her
answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had
rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever
things she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in
a measure from her husband’s very countenance. It was the same face she
had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating,
on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown
slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one
as very distinguished.

“Has Lord Warburton been here?” he presently asked.

“Yes, he stayed half an hour.”

“Did he see Pansy?”

“Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her.”

“Did he talk with her much?”

“He talked almost only to her.”

“It seems to me he’s attentive. Isn’t that what you call it?”

“I don’t call it anything,” said Isabel; “I’ve waited for you to give it
a name.”

“That’s a consideration you don’t always show,” Osmond answered after a
moment.

“I’ve determined, this time, to try and act as you’d like. I’ve so often
failed of that.”

Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. “Are you trying to
quarrel with me?”

“No, I’m trying to live at peace.”

“Nothing’s more easy; you know I don’t quarrel myself.”

“What do you call it when you try to make me angry?” Isabel asked.

“I don’t try; if I’ve done so it has been the most natural thing in the
world. Moreover I’m not in the least trying now.”

Isabel smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve determined never to be angry
again.”

“That’s an excellent resolve. Your temper isn’t good.”

“No--it’s not good.” She pushed away the book she had been reading and
took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table.

“That’s partly why I’ve not spoken to you about this business of my
daughter’s,” Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most
frequent with him. “I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you
too would have views on the subject. I’ve sent little Rosier about his
business.”

“You were afraid I’d plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven’t you noticed that I’ve
never spoken to you of him?”

“I’ve never given you a chance. We’ve so little conversation in these
days. I know he was an old friend of yours.”

“Yes; he’s an old friend of mine.” Isabel cared little more for him than
for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he
was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to
extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which
fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they
were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion
of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they
belonged to her unmarried life. “But as regards Pansy,” she added in a
moment, “I’ve given him no encouragement.”

“That’s fortunate,” Osmond observed.

“Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little.”

“There’s no use talking of him,” Osmond said. “As I tell you, I’ve
turned him out.”

“Yes; but a lover outside’s always a lover. He’s sometimes even more of
one. Mr. Rosier still has hope.”

“He’s welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit
perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton.”

“Should you like that?” Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not
so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for
Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her.
The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady
Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But
that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should
have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that
he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was
unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert’s constant intimation that for
him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal
with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter
had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore
a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord
Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might
not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary
implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his
wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she
was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost
invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating,
would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of
her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was
terribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also
capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an
almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a
small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great
one.

Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. “I should like it
extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has
another advantage: he’s an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for
him to come into the family. It’s very odd Pansy’s admirers should all
be your old friends.”

“It’s natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they
see Pansy. Seeing her it’s natural they should fall in love with her.”

“So I think. But you’re not bound to do so.”

“If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad,” Isabel went
on frankly. “He’s an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only
to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won’t sit perfectly still. If she
loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!”

Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire.
“Pansy would like to be a great lady,” he remarked in a moment with a
certain tenderness of tone. “She wishes above all to please,” he added.

“To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.”

“No, to please me.”

“Me too a little, I think,” said Isabel.

“Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she’ll do what I like.”

“If you’re sure of that, it’s very well,” she went on.

“Meantime,” said Osmond, “I should like our distinguished visitor to
speak.”

“He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to
him to believe she could care for him.”

Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, “Why
didn’t you tell me that?” he asked sharply.

“There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I’ve taken the first
chance that has offered.”

“Did you speak to him of Rosier?”

“Oh yes, a little.”

“That was hardly necessary.”

“I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--” And Isabel
paused.

“So that what?”

“So that he might act accordingly.”

“So that he might back out, do you mean?”

“No, so that he might advance while there’s yet time.”

“That’s not the effect it seems to have had.”

“You should have patience,” said Isabel. “You know Englishmen are shy.”

“This one’s not. He was not when he made love to _you_.”

She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to
her. “I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,” she returned.

He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the
pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy’s tapestry.
“You must have a great deal of influence with him,” Osmond went on at
last. “The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point.”

This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of
his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said
to herself. “Why should I have influence?” she asked. “What have I ever
done to put him under an obligation to me?”

“You refused to marry him,” said Osmond with his eyes on his book.

“I must not presume too much on that,” she replied.

He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire
with his hands behind him. “Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I
shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think
that over and remember how much I count on you.” He waited a little,
to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently
strolled out of the room.



CHAPTER XLII

She had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before
her and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them
that suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust
herself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and
closed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still
further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation.
A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh
candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had
said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion
from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton--this
had given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it
true that there was something still between them that might be a handle
to make him declare himself to Pansy--a susceptibility, on his part, to
approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not
asked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now
that it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer
frightened her. Yes, there was something--something on Lord Warburton’s
part. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united
them to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been
reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair,
but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself
nothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought;
it was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a
better feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might
be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory
of the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed?
Isabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. But
what were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they
mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor Pansy? Was
he in love with Gilbert Osmond’s wife, and if so what comfort did he
expect to derive from it? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in
love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother
he was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she
possessed in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would
do so for her sake and not for the small creature’s own--was this the
service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty
with which she found herself confronted--from the moment she admitted to
herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection for
her society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive
one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were
pretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another
satisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement
of duplicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believe him
in perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy were a delusion
this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered
among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way;
some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then
she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her
imagination surely did her little honour and that her husband’s did him
even less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she
was no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till
the contrary should be proved; proved more effectually than by a cynical
intimation of Osmond’s.

Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little peace,
for her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to the foreground of
thought as quickly as a place was made for them. What had suddenly set
them into livelier motion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange
impression she had received in the afternoon of her husband’s being in
more direct communication with Madame Merle than she suspected. That
impression came back to her from time to time, and now she wondered it
had never come before. Besides this, her short interview with Osmond
half an hour ago was a striking example of his faculty for making
everything wither that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he
looked at. It was very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty;
the real fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a
presumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye; as if his
presence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Was the fault in
himself, or only in the deep mistrust she had conceived for him? This
mistrust was now the clearest result of their short married life; a gulf
had opened between them over which they looked at each other with eyes
that were on either side a declaration of the deception suffered. It
was a strange opposition, of the like of which she had never dreamed--an
opposition in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of
contempt to the other. It was not her fault--she had practised no
deception; she had only admired and believed. She had taken all the
first steps in the purest confidence, and then she had suddenly found
the infinite vista of a multiplied life to be a dark, narrow alley
with a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading to the high places of
happiness, from which the world would seem to lie below one, so that one
could look down with a sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and
choose and pity, it led rather downward and earthward, into realms of
restriction and depression where the sound of other lives, easier
and freer, was heard as from above, and where it served to deepen the
feeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband--this was
what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but not
so easily explained, and so composite in its character that much time
and still more suffering had been needed to bring it to its actual
perfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active condition; it was
not a chill, a stupor, a despair; it was a passion of thought, of
speculation, of response to every pressure. She flattered herself
that she had kept her failing faith to herself, however,--that no one
suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times when she
thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually--it was not till the first
year of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed
that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to gather; it
was as if Osmond deliberately, almost malignantly, had put the lights
out one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin, and she could
still see her way in it. But it steadily deepened, and if now and again
it had occasionally lifted there were certain corners of her prospect
that were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation from
her own mind: she was very sure of that; she had done her best to be
just and temperate, to see only the truth. They were a part, they were
a kind of creation and consequence, of her husband’s very presence. They
were not his misdeeds, his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing--that
is but of one thing, which was _not_ a crime. She knew of no wrong he had
done; he was not violent, he was not cruel: she simply believed he hated
her. That was all she accused him of, and the miserable part of it was
precisely that it was not a crime, for against a crime she might have
found redress. He had discovered that she was so different, that she was
not what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first
he could change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like.
But she was, after all, herself--she couldn’t help that; and now there
was no use pretending, wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her and
had made up his mind. She was not afraid of him; she had no apprehension
he would hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort.
He would if possible never give her a pretext, never put himself in the
wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that he
would have the better of her there. She would give him many pretexts,
she would often put herself in the wrong. There were times when she
almost pitied him; for if she had not deceived him in intention she
understood how completely she must have done so in fact. She had effaced
herself when he first knew her; she had made herself small, pretending
there was less of her than there really was. It was because she had been
under the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to
put forth. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself, during the
year of his courtship, any more than she. But she had seen only half his
nature then, as one saw the disk of the moon when it was partly masked
by the shadow of the earth. She saw the full moon now--she saw the
whole man. She had kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free
field, and yet in spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.

Ah, she had been immensely under the charm! It had not passed away; it
was there still: she still knew perfectly what it was that made Osmond
delightful when he chose to be. He had wished to be when he made love
to her, and as she had wished to be charmed it was not wonderful he
had succeeded. He had succeeded because he had been sincere; it never
occurred to her now to deny him that. He admired her--he had told her
why: because she was the most imaginative woman he had known. It might
very well have been true; for during those months she had imagined
a world of things that had no substance. She had had a more wondrous
vision of him, fed through charmed senses and oh such a stirred
fancy!--she had not read him right. A certain combination of features
had touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of figures.
That he was poor and lonely and yet that somehow he was noble--that was
what had interested her and seemed to give her her opportunity. There
had been an indefinable beauty about him--in his situation, in his mind,
in his face. She had felt at the same time that he was helpless and
ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness
which was the very flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager
strolling on the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet
not putting to sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion. She
would launch his boat for him; she would be his providence; it would be
a good thing to love him. And she had loved him, she had so anxiously
and yet so ardently given herself--a good deal for what she found in
him, but a good deal also for what she brought him and what might enrich
the gift. As she looked back at the passion of those full weeks she
perceived in it a kind of maternal strain--the happiness of a woman who
felt that she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands. But
for her money, as she saw to-day, she would never have done it. And then
her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett, sleeping under English turf,
the beneficent author of infinite woe! For this was the fantastic fact.
At bottom her money had been a burden, had been on her mind, which
was filled with the desire to transfer the weight of it to some other
conscience, to some more prepared receptacle. What would lighten her
own conscience more effectually than to make it over to the man with the
best taste in the world? Unless she should have given it to a hospital
there would have been nothing better she could do with it; and there was
no charitable institution in which she had been as much interested as
in Gilbert Osmond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her
think better of it and rub off a certain grossness attaching to the good
luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been nothing very delicate
in inheriting seventy thousand pounds; the delicacy had been all in Mr.
Touchett’s leaving them to her. But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring
him such a portion--in that there would be delicacy for her as well.
There would be less for him--that was true; but that was his affair, and
if he loved her he wouldn’t object to her being rich. Had he not had the
courage to say he was glad she was rich?

Isabel’s cheek burned when she asked herself if she had really married
on a factitious theory, in order to do something finely appreciable with
her money. But she was able to answer quickly enough that this was
only half the story. It was because a certain ardour took possession of
her--a sense of the earnestness of his affection and a delight in
his personal qualities. He was better than any one else. This supreme
conviction had filled her life for months, and enough of it still
remained to prove to her that she could not have done otherwise. The
finest--in the sense of being the subtlest--manly organism she had ever
known had become her property, and the recognition of her having but
to put out her hands and take it had been originally a sort of act of
devotion. She had not been mistaken about the beauty of his mind; she
knew that organ perfectly now. She had lived with it, she had lived _in_
it almost--it appeared to have become her habitation. If she had been
captured it had taken a firm hand to seize her; that reflection perhaps
had some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant, more cultivated,
more trained to admirable exercises, she had not encountered; and it was
this exquisite instrument she had now to reckon with. She lost herself
in infinite dismay when she thought of the magnitude of _his_ deception.
It was a wonder, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn’t hate her more.
She remembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it--it had been
like the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of
their life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that
she must get rid of them. He had told her that already, before their
marriage; but then she had not noticed it: it had come back to her only
afterwards. This time she might well have noticed it, because he had
really meant it. The words had been nothing superficially; but when in
the light of deepening experience she had looked into them they had then
appeared portentous. He had really meant it--he would have liked her to
have nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She had known she had
too many ideas; she had more even than he had supposed, many more than
she had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she
_had_ been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had too many ideas
for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with
some one else. One couldn’t pluck them up by the roots, though of course
one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been
this, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She
had no opinions--none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in
the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant
had been the whole thing--her character, the way she felt, the way she
judged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was what he had not
known until he had found himself--with the door closed behind, as it
were--set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at
life which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least
it was a very humble, accommodating way! The strange thing was that
she should not have suspected from the first that his own had been so
different. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly
that of an honest man and a gentleman. Hadn’t he assured her that he had
no superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their
freshness? Hadn’t he all the appearance of a man living in the open air
of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth
and knowledge and believing that two intelligent people ought to look
for them together and, whether they found them or not, find at least
some happiness in the search? He had told her he loved the conventional;
but there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that
sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the
stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had
contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she
had followed him further and he had led her into the mansion of his own
habitation, then, _then_ she had seen where she really was.

She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she
had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she had
lived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of her life.
It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of
suffocation. Osmond’s beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air;
Osmond’s beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high
window and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering;
for physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come
and go; she had her liberty; her husband was perfectly polite. He took
himself so seriously; it was something appalling. Under all his culture,
his cleverness, his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his
knowledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank
of flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken him so
seriously as that. How could she--especially when she had known him
better? She was to think of him as he thought of himself--as the first
gentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought of him at first, and
that indeed was the reason she had married him. But when she began to
see what it implied she drew back; there was more in the bond than she
had meant to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every
one but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied, and for
everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was very
well; she would have gone with him even there a long distance; for
he pointed out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of life,
opened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance
of mankind, that she had been properly impressed with the infinite
vulgarity of things and of the virtue of keeping one’s self unspotted by
it. But this base, if noble world, it appeared, was after all what one
was to live for; one was to keep it forever in one’s eye, in order
not to enlighten or convert or redeem it, but to extract from it some
recognition of one’s own superiority. On the one hand it was despicable,
but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond had talked to Isabel
about his renunciation, his indifference, the ease with which he
dispensed with the usual aids to success; and all this had seemed to
her admirable. She had thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite
independence. But indifference was really the last of his qualities;
she had never seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself,
avowedly, the world had always interested her and the study of her
fellow creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing,
however, to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of
a personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make her
believe it was a gain! This at least was her present conviction; and
the thing certainly would have been easier than to care for society as
Osmond cared for it.

He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never really
done so; he had looked at it out of his window even when he appeared
to be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she had tried to
have hers; only it was strange that people should seek for justice in
such different quarters. His ideal was a conception of high prosperity
and propriety, of the aristocratic life, which she now saw that he
deemed himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never
lapsed from it for an hour; he would never have recovered from the shame
of doing so. That again was very well; here too she would have agreed;
but they attached such different ideas, such different associations and
desires, to the same formulas. Her notion of the aristocratic life was
simply the union of great knowledge with great liberty; the knowledge
would give one a sense of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But
for Osmond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated
attitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated, the transmitted;
so was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an
immense esteem for tradition; he had told her once that the best thing
in the world was to have it, but that if one was so unfortunate as not
to have it one must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he
meant by this that she hadn’t it, but that he was better off; though
from what source he had derived his traditions she never learned. He
had a very large collection of them, however; that was very certain,
and after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in
accordance with them; the great thing not only for him but for her.
Isabel had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person than
their proprietor traditions must be of a thoroughly superior kind; but
she nevertheless assented to this intimation that she too must march
to the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in her
husband’s past; she who of old had been so free of step, so desultory,
so devious, so much the reverse of processional. There were certain
things they must do, a certain posture they must take, certain people
they must know and not know. When she saw this rigid system close about
her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness
and suffocation of which I have spoken took possession of her; she
seemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of
course; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the
situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had
pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for
the aspect and denomination of their life--the cause of other instincts
and longings, of quite another ideal.

Then it was that her husband’s personality, touched as it never had
been, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she had said were
answered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably ashamed
of her. What did he think of her--that she was base, vulgar, ignoble?
He at least knew now that she had no traditions! It had not been in his
prevision of things that she should reveal such flatness; her sentiments
were worthy of a radical newspaper or a Unitarian preacher. The real
offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her
own at all. Her mind was to be his--attached to his own like a small
garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the
flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional nosegay.
It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already
far-reaching. He didn’t wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was
because she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her
intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from
desiring her mind to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would
be richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for
him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences; and
Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no great insolence on the
part of a man so accomplished and a husband originally at least so
tender. But there were certain things she could never take in. To
begin with, they were hideously unclean. She was not a daughter of the
Puritans, but for all that she believed in such a thing as chastity and
even as decency. It would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything
of the sort; some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did
all women have lovers? Did they all lie and even the best have their
price? Were there only three or four that didn’t deceive their husbands?
When Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them than for
the gossip of a village parlour--a scorn that kept its freshness in
a very tainted air. There was the taint of her sister-in-law: did her
husband judge only by the Countess Gemini? This lady very often lied,
and she had practised deceptions that were not simply verbal. It was
enough to find these facts assumed among Osmond’s traditions--it was
enough without giving them such a general extension. It was her scorn
of his assumptions, it was this that made him draw himself up. He
had plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as well
furnished; but that she should turn the hot light of her disdain upon
his own conception of things--this was a danger he had not allowed for.
He believed he should have regulated her emotions before she came to
it; and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched on his
discovering he had been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one
that sensation there was nothing left but to hate her.

She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which at first
had been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the occupation and
comfort of his life. The feeling was deep, because it was sincere; he
had had the revelation that she could after all dispense with him. If
to herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at first as a
kind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite effect might
it not be expected to have had upon _him_? It was very simple; he
despised her; she had no traditions and the moral horizon of a
Unitarian minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand
Unitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living with now for
a time that she had ceased to measure. What was coming--what was before
them? That was her constant question. What would he do--what ought _she_
to do? When a man hated his wife what did it lead to? She didn’t hate
him, that she was sure of, for every little while she felt a passionate
wish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt
afraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she
had deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married, at all
events, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely
spoken to her for a week; his manner was as dry as a burned-out
fire. She knew there was a special reason; he was displeased at Ralph
Touchett’s staying on in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her
cousin--he had told her a week before it was indecent she should go to
him at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph’s invalid
state had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had
to contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this
as she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly
aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband’s
rage as if Osmond had locked her into her room--which she was sure was
what he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she
was not defiant, but she certainly couldn’t pretend to be indifferent to
Ralph. She believed he was dying at last and that she should never see
him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that she had never
known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be
a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There
was an everlasting weight on her heart--there was a livid light on
everything. But Ralph’s little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the
hour that she sat with him her ache for herself became somehow her ache
for _him_. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never
had a brother, but if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying,
he would be dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of
her there was perhaps some reason; it didn’t make Gilbert look better to
sit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him--it
was not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It
was simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There
was something in Ralph’s talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his
being in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the good of the world; he made her feel what
might have been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond--quite apart
from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act of devotion
to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it elaborately; she
was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and before her
again--it lived before her again,--it had never had time to die--that
morning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond.
She had only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to
feel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery,
what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more
intelligent--to arrive at such a judgement as that. Gilbert had never
been so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her at least he
should never know if he was right; and this was what she was taking
care of now. It gave her plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation,
religion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange
exercises, and Isabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin,
had an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a
kindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was,
the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had
once wounded her greatly and that the event had put him to shame, but
that, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge
and even considerately forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face.
Ralph smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary
form of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She
didn’t wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that was
the great thing, and it didn’t matter that such knowledge would rather
have righted him.

For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire
had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in
a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but
her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a
state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to
her there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a
mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and
what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there
half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why
Pansy shouldn’t be married as you would put a letter in the post-office?
When the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for
the lamp had long since gone out and the candles burned down to their
sockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room
and stood there gazing at a remembered vision--that of her husband and
Madame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.



CHAPTER XLIII

Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which
Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as
ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had
not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on
those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her
father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this
unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to
be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper
esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual
and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her
bouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time.
She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a
flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want
of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was
not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service
for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward
Rosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a
look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would
have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom
a hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of
gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify
her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After
he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: “It’s all
pansies; it must be hers!”

Isabel smiled kindly. “Yes, it’s hers; she gave it to me to hold.”

“May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?” the poor young man asked.

“No, I can’t trust you; I’m afraid you wouldn’t give it back.”

“I’m not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly.
But may I not at least have a single flower?”

Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the
bouquet. “Choose one yourself. It’s frightful what I’m doing for you.”

“Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!” Rosier exclaimed with
his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.

“Don’t put it into your button-hole,” she said. “Don’t for the world!”

“I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I
wish to show her that I believe in her still.”

“It’s very well to show it to her, but it’s out of place to show it to
others. Her father has told her not to dance with you.”

“And is that all _you_ can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs.
Osmond,” said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. “You
know our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our
innocent childhood.”

“Don’t make me out too old,” Isabel patiently answered. “You come back
to that very often, and I’ve never denied it. But I must tell you that,
old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry
you I should have refused you on the spot.”

“Ah, you don’t esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere
Parisian trifler!”

“I esteem you very much, but I’m not in love with you. What I mean by
that, of course, is that I’m not in love with you for Pansy.”

“Very good; I see. You pity me--that’s all.” And Edward Rosier looked
all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to
him that people shouldn’t be more pleased; but he was at least too proud
to show that the deficiency struck him as general.

Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the
dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things,
was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness,
after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more
than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form,
was the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with
adversity. “Would you really be very kind to her?” she finally asked in
a low tone.

He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held
in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. “You pity me; but
don’t you pity _her_ a little?”

“I don’t know; I’m not sure. She’ll always enjoy life.”

“It will depend on what you call life!” Mr. Rosier effectively said.
“She won’t enjoy being tortured.”

“There’ll be nothing of that.”

“I’m glad to hear it. She knows what she’s about. You’ll see.”

“I think she does, and she’ll never disobey her father. But she’s coming
back to me,” Isabel added, “and I must beg you to go away.”

Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her
cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he
walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved
this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love.

Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh
and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her
bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers;
whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at
play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she
said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after
he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare
misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however,
she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this
knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she
responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under
acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth
by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had
not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing
through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening;
she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then
“Where’s the little maid?” he asked. It was in this manner that he had
formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.

“She’s dancing,” said Isabel. “You’ll see her somewhere.”

He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy’s eye. “She sees
me, but she won’t notice me,” he then remarked. “Are you not dancing?”

“As you see, I’m a wall-flower.”

“Won’t you dance with me?”

“Thank you; I’d rather you should dance with the little maid.”

“One needn’t prevent the other--especially as she’s engaged.”

“She’s not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She
dances very hard, and you’ll be the fresher.”

“She dances beautifully,” said Lord Warburton, following her with his
eyes. “Ah, at last,” he added, “she has given me a smile.” He stood
there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel
observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was
strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It
struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy’s small fascinations,
nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,
which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. “I
should like to dance with you,” he went on in a moment, turning back to
Isabel; “but I think I like even better to talk with you.”

“Yes, it’s better, and it’s more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen
oughtn’t to waltz.”

“Don’t be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss
Osmond?”

“Ah, that’s different. If you danced with her it would look simply like
a piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you
dance with me you’ll look as if you were doing it for your own.”

“And pray haven’t I a right to amuse myself?”

“No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands.”

“The British Empire be hanged! You’re always laughing at it.”

“Amuse yourself with talking to me,” said Isabel.

“I’m not sure it’s really a recreation. You’re too pointed; I’ve always
to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous
to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?”

“I can’t leave my place. Pansy must find me here.”

He was silent a little. “You’re wonderfully good to her,” he said
suddenly.

Isabel stared a little and smiled. “Can you imagine one’s not being?”

“No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a
great deal for her.”

“I’ve taken her out with me,” said Isabel, smiling still. “And I’ve seen
that she has proper clothes.”

“Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You’ve talked to
her, advised her, helped her to develop.”

“Ah yes, if she isn’t the rose she has lived near it.”

She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain
visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete
hilarity. “We all try to live as near it as we can,” he said after a
moment’s hesitation.

Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she
welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she
thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there
was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case
of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She
felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in
his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of
nature. Yet for all that it didn’t suit her that he should be too near
her, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was
afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn’t. She
felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to
flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with
another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the
first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were
too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which
were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent
that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself
to Pansy’s desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the
injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her
attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were
in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way
connected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be
trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it
was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was
what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy’s dress. If it were
so, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken
account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious,
made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back
into right relations with things the better. He immediately began
to talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he
dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a
little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good
deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his
robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always
seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful
character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she
knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and
wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till
the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be
also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered
flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond’s view of his daughter’s
complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan,
to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own
imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy’s extreme
adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond
had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter’s
duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and
contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think
she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was
because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.

After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her
again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound
his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. “She has promised
to dance with me later,” he said.

“I’m glad of that. I suppose you’ve engaged her for the cotillion.”

At this he looked a little awkward. “No, I didn’t ask her for that. It’s
a quadrille.”

“Ah, you’re not clever!” said Isabel almost angrily. “I told her to keep
the cotillion in case you should ask for it.”

“Poor little maid, fancy that!” And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. “Of
course I will if you like.”

“If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!”

“I’m afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her
book.”

Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there
looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined
to ask him to remove them. She didn’t do so, however; she only said to
him, after a minute, with her own raised: “Please let me understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You told me ten days ago that you’d like to marry my stepdaughter.
You’ve not forgotten it!”

“Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “he didn’t mention to me that he had heard from you.”

Lord Warburton stammered a little. “I--I didn’t send my letter.”

“Perhaps you forgot _that_.”

“No, I wasn’t satisfied with it. It’s an awkward sort of letter to
write, you know. But I shall send it to-night.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“I mean later, in the course of the day.”

“Very good. You still wish then to marry her?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll bore her?” And as her companion stared at
this enquiry Isabel added: “If she can’t dance with you for half an hour
how will she be able to dance with you for life?”

“Ah,” said Lord Warburton readily, “I’ll let her dance with other
people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--”

“That I would do it with you? I told you I’d do nothing.”

“Exactly; so that while it’s going on I might find some quiet corner
where we may sit down and talk.”

“Oh,” said Isabel gravely, “you’re much too considerate of me.”

When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself,
thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions.
Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that
he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite
of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the
ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to
make an exception in Lord Warburton’s favour.

“After all I don’t care to dance,” he said; “it’s a barbarous amusement:
I’d much rather talk.” And he intimated that he had discovered exactly
the corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller
rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere
with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she
wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him,
though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his
daughter. It was with his daughter’s _pretendant_, however; that would
make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon
Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking
at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She
stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.

“Certainly not, if I can’t dance with _her_!” he answered.

“You had better go away then,” said Isabel with the manner of good
counsel.

“I shall not go till she does!” And he let Lord Warburton pass without
giving him a look.

This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he
asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him
somewhere before.

“It’s the young man I’ve told you about, who’s in love with Pansy.”

“Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad.”

“He has reason. My husband won’t listen to him.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Lord Warburton enquired. “He seems very
harmless.”

“He hasn’t money enough, and he isn’t very clever.”

Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this
account of Edward Rosier. “Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young
fellow.”

“So he is, but my husband’s very particular.”

“Oh, I see.” And Lord Warburton paused a moment. “How much money has he
got?” he then ventured to ask.

“Some forty thousand francs a year.”

“Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that’s very good, you know.”

“So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas.”

“Yes; I’ve noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really
an idiot, the young man?”

“An idiot? Not in the least; he’s charming. When he was twelve years old
I myself was in love with him.”

“He doesn’t look much more than twelve to-day,” Lord Warburton rejoined
vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, “Don’t you think we
might sit here?” he asked.

“Wherever you please.” The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a
subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as
our friends came in. “It’s very kind of you to take such an interest in
Mr. Rosier,” Isabel said.

“He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I
wondered what ailed him.”

“You’re a just man,” said Isabel. “You’ve a kind thought even for a
rival.”

Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. “A rival! Do you call him
my rival?”

“Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person.”

“Yes--but since he has no chance!”

“I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It
shows imagination.”

“You like me for it?” And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain
eye. “I think you mean you’re laughing at me for it.”

“Yes, I’m laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh
at.”

“Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do
you suppose one could do for him?”

“Since I have been praising your imagination I’ll leave you to imagine
that yourself,” Isabel said. “Pansy too would like you for that.”

“Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already.”

“Very much, I think.”

He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. “Well then, I
don’t understand you. You don’t mean that she cares for him?”

A quick blush sprang to his brow. “You told me she would have no wish
apart from her father’s, and as I’ve gathered that he would favour
me--!” He paused a little and then suggested “Don’t you see?” through
his blush.

“Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that
it would probably take her very far.”

“That seems to me a very proper feeling,” said Lord Warburton.

“Certainly; it’s a very proper feeling.” Isabel remained silent for some
moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them
with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last
she said: “But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a
man would wish to be indebted for a wife.”

“I don’t know; if the wife’s a good one and he thinks she does well!”

“Yes, of course you must think that.”

“I do; I can’t help it. You call that very British, of course.”

“No, I don’t. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you,
and I don’t know who should know it better than you. But you’re not in
love.”

“Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!”

Isabel shook her head. “You like to think you are while you sit here
with me. But that’s not how you strike me.”

“I’m not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes
it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss
Osmond?”

“No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons.”

“I don’t agree with you. I’m delighted to have good reasons.”

“Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn’t care a straw
for them.”

“Ah, really in love--really in love!” Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding
his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. “You
must remember that I’m forty-two years old. I won’t pretend I’m as I
once was.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Isabel, “it’s all right.”

He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before
him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to
his friend. “Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?” She met his eyes,
and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to
be satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his
expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own
account--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a
hope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an
instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying
her step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or
of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely
personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they
were conscious of at the moment.

“My dear Lord Warburton,” she said, smiling, “you may do, so far as I’m
concerned, whatever comes into your head.”

And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where,
within her companion’s view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of
gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they
had been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself
regretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the
more as Lord Warburton didn’t follow her. She was glad of this, however,
and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that
when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still
planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. “You did
right not to go away. I’ve some comfort for you.”

“I need it,” the young man softly wailed, “when I see you so awfully
thick with him!”

“Don’t speak of him; I’ll do what I can for you. I’m afraid it won’t be
much, but what I can I’ll do.”

He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. “What has suddenly brought you
round?”

“The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!” she answered,
smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with
Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many
other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it
approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to
reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if
she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a
little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by
a movement of her finger, murmured gently: “Don’t forget to send your
letter to her father!”



CHAPTER XLIV

The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase,
to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she
struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an
unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town,
where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose
talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an
obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who
won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in
Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without
currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very
dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared
to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness
needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her
eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she
had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had
been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that
there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been
there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say.
Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much
more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated
Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter’s. They
are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually
summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City
and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The
Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with
her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more
interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening
parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one
had heard of. Since her brother’s marriage her impatience had greatly
increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than
herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual
enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not
even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the
scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about
her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful
time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which
she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a
week there during the first winter of her brother’s marriage, but she
had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn’t want
her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the
same, for after all she didn’t care two straws about Osmond. It was
her husband who wouldn’t let her, and the money question was always
a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her
sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel’s
personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with
clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could
never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really
clever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,
different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she
had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet
upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should
both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived,
with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was
constantly expecting that Isabel would “look down” on her, and she as
constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would
begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she
cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law
regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor
Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as
soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a
grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband’s sister, however;
she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought
her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she
was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably
pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle
was apparently the Countess’s spiritual principle, a little loose nut
that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too
anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there
was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,
had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst
species--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said
at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she
had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake.
The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to
the Countess’s going again to Rome; but at the period with which this
history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend
several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond
himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very
quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had
put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any
terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her
former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the
marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious
thoughts--if any of the Countess’s thoughts were serious--of putting
her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was
reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an
easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it
seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the
taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether
Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see
Osmond overtopped.

Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the
card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription “Henrietta C.
Stackpole.” The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she
didn’t remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant
then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the
Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on
seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact
reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s;
the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only
modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She
recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole
seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly
good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that
sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account
of her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother
was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess could see at a
glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received
an impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in
distant countries--in the character (the professional character) of
literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown
over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet
(oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of
glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of
her “Creole” ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal
and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see,
was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something
brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost
conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever
vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The
Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the _Interviewer_
was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained
that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she
knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to
see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,
but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence
Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett
was not one of her admirations.

“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.

“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to
remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t
know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At
any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it
afterwards in print.”

“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea
I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”

“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole
remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”

“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And
you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let
me see it!”

“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said.
“I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I
quoted your views.”

The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped
hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I
should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my
views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all
like my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of
scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never
forgive you.”

“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole
with bland dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to
come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”

“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I
knew about you.”

“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that
isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my
relations with Isabel.”

“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”

“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”

“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you
by name as my companion.”

The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside
her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it,
but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”

Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I
put that into my letter?”

“Into your letter?”

“In the _Interviewer_. That’s my paper.”

“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”

Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess.
“She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered
that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”

The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she
pregnantly remarked.

“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has
changed a great deal. I told her she would.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t
my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously added.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me;
I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some
people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a
good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s
just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”

“Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired.

“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”

“Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed.

“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a
difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should
like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”

The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. “I know
very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me
any better than he appears to like you.”

“Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively.

“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me--I’m
to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her
exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s
disappointment.

This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if
she _had_ asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t
to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I
shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have
been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s
not all.”

“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of
brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”

“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?”
 Henrietta enquired.

“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s
making love to Isabel.”

“Making love to her?”

“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But
Isabel’s pretty safe.”

Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said
nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly.

“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”

“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”

“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel
receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you
at your pension.” Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; and
suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t
describe our journey!”

Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking
of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I
understand you about Lord Warburton.”

“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”

“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta
enquired with unprecedented distinctness.

The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain
all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.

“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I
should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean
that Isabel’s guilty--guilty--?” And she paused a little, choosing her
expression.

“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that
Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great
deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”

“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.

“Ah, you’re not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more
confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a
comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”

Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her
gaze. “You don’t understand me,” she said after a while. “I haven’t the
idea you seem to suppose. I’m not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I’m
only afraid she’s unhappy--that’s what I want to get at.”

The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and
sarcastic. “That may very well be; for my part I should like to know
whether Osmond is.” Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.

“If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta
went on.

“You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess.

“Ah, she may _not_ tell me--that’s what I’m afraid of!”

“Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself--in his own old way--I flatter
myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined.

“I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta.

“I do immensely! If Isabel’s unhappy I’m very sorry for her, but I can’t
help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I
can’t tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and
marry him for? If she had listened to me she’d have got rid of him. I’ll
forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she
has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don’t know that I shall
even pity her. But I don’t think that’s very likely. I count upon
finding that if she’s miserable she has at least made _him_ so.”

Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful
expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond
unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of
fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose
mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a
capacity for coarseness even there. “It will be better if they love each
other,” she said for edification.

“They can’t. He can’t love any one.”

“I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for
Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.”

“Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very
vividly. “I declare I don’t pity her.”

“It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were
well not to have illusions.

“You can have wanted to, at any rate; that’s something. I believe that’s
what you came from America for,” the Countess suddenly added.

“Yes, I wanted to look after her,” Henrietta said serenely.

Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an
eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come.
“Ah, that’s very pretty _c’est bien gentil_! Isn’t it what they call
friendship?”

“I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.”

“She’s very happy--she’s very fortunate,” the Countess went on. “She
has others besides.” And then she broke out passionately. “She’s more
fortunate than I! I’m as unhappy as she--I’ve a very bad husband; he’s a
great deal worse than Osmond. And I’ve no friends. I thought I had, but
they’re gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you’ve done for
her.”

Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She
gazed at her companion a moment, and then: “Look here, Countess, I’ll do
anything for you that you like. I’ll wait over and travel with you.”

“Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only
describe me in the newspaper!”

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her
understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her
journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On
quitting her she took the way to the Lung’ Arno, the sunny quay beside
the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand
all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of
Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able
to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms
the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the
left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the
hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth
a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after
meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over
her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: “Could
I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?”
 Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with
this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up
his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.
The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about
twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged
it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her
course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which
she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.
Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the
upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with
antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an
empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble
floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but
scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of
artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had
after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the
little Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the
sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands
to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special
devotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautiful
picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she
was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that
they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite
work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it
involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn
into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a
little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

“I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.”

“I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant
it.

“It was not to honour you I did it; I’ve called on you before and I know
you don’t like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.”

He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. “I shall be very glad
to hear what you wish to say.”

“You don’t like to talk with me,” said Henrietta. “But I don’t care for
that; I don’t talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come
and see me; but since I’ve met you here this will do as well.”

“I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He
was civil, but not enthusiastic.

Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was
so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on
any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the
pictures.

“All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.”

“I wonder if you’ve seen my Correggio,” said Henrietta. “I came up on
purpose to have a look at it.” She went into the Tribune and he slowly
accompanied her.

“I suppose I’ve seen it, but I didn’t know it was yours. I don’t
remember pictures--especially that sort.” She had pointed out her
favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to
talk with him.

“No,” said Henrietta, “it’s about something less harmonious!” They
had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to
themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus.
“I want you to do me a favour,” Miss Stackpole went on.

Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at
the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man
than our earlier friend. “I’m sure it’s something I shan’t like,” he
said rather loudly.

“No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious
of his patience.

“You may say there’s no particular reason why you should do me a favour.
Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you’d let me I’d gladly do
you one.” Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect,
had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather
a hard surface, couldn’t help being touched by it. When he was touched
he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed,
nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more
directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued
therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. “I may say
now, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I’ve ever annoyed you (and
I think sometimes I have) it’s because I knew I was willing to suffer
annoyance for you. I’ve troubled you--doubtless. But I’d _take_ trouble
for you.”

Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.”

“Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the
whole that you should go to Rome.”

“I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly.

“You _have_ considered it then?”

“Of course I have, very carefully. I’ve looked all round it. Otherwise
I shouldn’t have come so far as this. That’s what I stayed in Paris two
months for. I was thinking it over.”

“I’m afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because
you were so much attracted.”

“Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded.

“Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.”

“Oh, it won’t do _her_ any good! I don’t flatter myself that.”

“Won’t it do her some harm?--that’s the question.”

“I don’t see what it will matter to her. I’m nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But
if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.”

“Yes, and that’s why you go.”

“Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?”

“How will it help you?--that’s what I want to know,” said Miss
Stackpole.

“That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about
in Paris.”

“It will make you more discontented.”

“Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you
know I’m discontented?”

“Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have
cared for another.”

“How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now
I care to go to Rome.”

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression.
“Well,” she observed at last, “I only wanted to tell you what I think;
I had it on my mind. Of course you think it’s none of my business. But
nothing is any one’s business, on that principle.”

“It’s very kind of you; I’m greatly obliged to you for your interest,”
 said Caspar Goodwood. “I shall go to Rome and I shan’t hurt Mrs.
Osmond.”

“You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that’s the real
issue.”

“Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

“Most women always are,” said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness
and generalising less hopefully than usual. “If you go to Rome,” she
added, “I hope you’ll be a true friend--not a selfish one!” And she
turned off and began to look at the pictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered
round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. “You’ve heard
something about her here,” he then resumed. “I should like to know what
you’ve heard.”

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this
occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after
thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. “Yes, I’ve
heard,” she answered; “but as I don’t want you to go to Rome I won’t
tell you.”

“Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then
inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added.

“Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed.

“I hope not. When do you start?”

“To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?”

Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss
Stackpole’s company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the
same character as Gilbert Osmond’s, but it had at this moment an equal
distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole’s virtues than a
reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,
and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.
Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of
things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters
he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But
it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss
Stackpole didn’t take so much for granted. She took for granted that he
was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when
they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had
repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no
wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was _not_ always thinking of
her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least
colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing
her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t
care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,
that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now
made other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, his
ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to
Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the
European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee
to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found
one’s self objecting with all the added vehemence of one’s wish to have
the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at
least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But
he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the
morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected
woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait
longer than he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day.
She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in
a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of
irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to
put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that;
it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some
moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a
tone of extreme distinctness, “Of course if you’re going to-morrow I’ll
go too, as I may be of assistance to you.”

“Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned
imperturbably.



CHAPTER XLV

I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be
displeased by the continuance of Ralph’s visit to Rome. That knowledge
was very present to her as she went to her cousin’s hotel the day
after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his
sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient
perception of the sources of Osmond’s opposition. He wished her to have
no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle
of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,
that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that
she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband’s aversion to
it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had
not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was
her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort
of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,
however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary
decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled
her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had
lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband’s
intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the
less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back
something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and
monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do
nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her
to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph;
but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this
prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet
made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband’s wish
for the event; she didn’t, to be just, see how he _could_ like her to be
with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond’s
sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively
interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to
decide, and that wouldn’t be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and
her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her
wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would
start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself
in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward.
It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed
preferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacred
act--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous.
To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open
acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that
their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be
no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal
readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was
to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there
was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel
went to the Hôtel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure
of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn’t have been
a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest
appreciation. Isabel’s application of that measure had been particularly
free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn’t
leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This
indeed was Gilbert’s business as well as her own.

She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. “I want you to answer
me a question. It’s about Lord Warburton.”

“I think I guess your question,” Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out
of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.

“Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.”

“Oh, I don’t say I can do that.”

“You’re intimate with him,” she said; “you’ve a great deal of
observation of him.”

“Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!”

“Why should he dissimulate? That’s not his nature.”

“Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar,” said Ralph
with an air of private amusement.

“To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?”

“Very much, I think. I can make that out.”

“Ah!” said Isabel with a certain dryness.

Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with
mystification. “You say that as if you were disappointed.”

Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully.
“It’s after all no business of mine.”

“You’re very philosophic,” said her cousin. And then in a moment: “May I
enquire what you’re talking about?”

Isabel stared. “I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants,
of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I’ve told you that before,
without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I
think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?”

“Ah, for Pansy, no!” cried Ralph very positively.

“But you said just now he did.”

Ralph waited a moment. “That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond.”

Isabel shook her head gravely. “That’s nonsense, you know.”

“Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton’s, not mine.”

“That would be very tiresome.” She spoke, as she flattered herself, with
much subtlety.

“I ought to tell you indeed,” Ralph went on, “that to me he has denied
it.”

“It’s very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you
that he’s in love with Pansy?”

“He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of
course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh.”

“Does he really think it?”

“Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!” said Ralph.

Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves
on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked
up, and then, “Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!” she cried abruptly and
passionately.

It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the
words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of
relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf
between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a
moment: “How unhappy you must be!”

He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the
first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. “When I
talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense,” she said with a quick
smile. “The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments!
The matter’s very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can’t
undertake to see him through.”

“He ought to succeed easily,” said Ralph.

Isabel debated. “Yes--but he has not always succeeded.”

“Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss
Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?”

“It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he’ll let
the matter drop.”

“He’ll do nothing dishonourable,” said Ralph.

“I’m very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to
leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it’s cruel
to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up.”

“Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton
isn’t obliged to mind that.”

“No, cruel to her,” said Isabel. “She would be very unhappy if she were
to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea
seems to amuse you; of course you’re not in love with him. He has the
merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance
that Lord Warburton isn’t.”

“He’d be very good to her,” said Ralph.

“He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said
a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with
perfect propriety.”

“How would your husband like that?”

“Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain
satisfaction himself.”

“Has he commissioned you to obtain it?” Ralph ventured to ask.

“It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton’s--an older
friend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his
intentions.”

“Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?”

Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. “Let me understand. Are you
pleading his cause?”

“Not in the least. I’m very glad he shouldn’t become your stepdaughter’s
husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!” said Ralph,
smiling. “But I’m rather nervous lest your husband should think you
haven’t pushed him enough.”

Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. “He knows me well
enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention
of pushing, I presume. I’m not afraid I shall not be able to justify
myself!” she said lightly.

Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to
Ralph’s infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural
face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage
desire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should
be held accountable for Lord Warburton’s defection. Ralph was certain
that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form
that in such an event Osmond’s displeasure would take. It could only
take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of
it--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It
little mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own
satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not
deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt
cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely
mattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did
she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention?
Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her?
How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her
humorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be
mentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her
trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was
bound to consider. “You’ll be decidedly at variance, all the same,” he
said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce
understood, “You’ll find yourselves thinking very differently,” he
continued.

“That may easily happen, among the most united couples!” She took up her
parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. “It’s a
matter we can hardly quarrel about, however,” she added; “for almost all
the interest is on his side. That’s very natural. Pansy’s after all his
daughter--not mine.” And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.

Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn’t leave him without
his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an
opportunity to lose. “Do you know what his interest will make him say?”
 he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not
discouragingly--and he went on. “It will make him say that your want
of zeal is owing to jealousy.” He stopped a moment; her face made him
afraid.

“To jealousy?”

“To jealousy of his daughter.”

She blushed red and threw back her head. “You’re not kind,” she said in
a voice that he had never heard on her lips.

“Be frank with me and you’ll see,” he answered.

But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he
tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her
mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going
to the girl’s room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was
always in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty
patience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.
At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room
fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in
accordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up
and which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that
the room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo
Roccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy’s virginal
bower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling.
Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of
humanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel,
the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel
had a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as
possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against
betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at
least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to
have guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she
had moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the
fire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a
cushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her
stepmother’s knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own
lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she
desired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke
it. The girl’s father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and
indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of
a disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her
tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest;
Pansy’s supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel
had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the
effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with
her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half
in submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness
of the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked
out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When
Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might
have been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her
silence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire
to leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer
and nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep
longing, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she
begged her to advise her now.

“It’s difficult for me to advise you,” Isabel returned. “I don’t know
how I can undertake that. That’s for your father; you must get his
advice and, above all, you must act on it.”

At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. “I think
I should like your advice better than papa’s,” she presently remarked.

“That’s not as it should be,” said Isabel coldly. “I love you very much,
but your father loves you better.”

“It isn’t because you love me--it’s because you’re a lady,” Pansy
answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. “A lady can
advise a young girl better than a man.”

“I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father’s wishes.”

“Ah yes,” said the child eagerly, “I must do that.”

“But if I speak to you now about your getting married it’s not for your
own sake, it’s for mine,” Isabel went on. “If I try to learn from you
what you expect, what you desire, it’s only that I may act accordingly.”

Pansy stared, and then very quickly, “Will you do everything I want?”
 she asked.

“Before I say yes I must know what such things are.”

Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to
marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so
if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn’t allow it.

“Very well then, it’s impossible,” Isabel pronounced.

“Yes, it’s impossible,” said Pansy without a sigh and with the same
extreme attention in her clear little face.

“You must think of something else then,” Isabel went on; but Pansy,
sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the
least success.

“You think of those who think of you,” she said with a faint smile. “I
know Mr. Rosier thinks of me.”

“He ought not to,” said Isabel loftily. “Your father has expressly
requested he shouldn’t.”

“He can’t help it, because he knows I think of _him_.”

“You shouldn’t think of him. There’s some excuse for him, perhaps; but
there’s none for you.”

“I wish you would try to find one,” the girl exclaimed as if she were
praying to the Madonna.

“I should be very sorry to attempt it,” said the Madonna with unusual
frigidity. “If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you
think of him?”

“No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.”

“Ah, but I don’t admit Mr. Rosier’s right!” Isabel hypocritically cried.

Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking
advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of
disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that
she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And
she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might
never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She
appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of
course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning.
She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This
might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy,
evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness
toward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only
the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite
intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even
by marrying him.

“Your father would like you to make a better marriage,” said Isabel.
“Mr. Rosier’s fortune is not at all large.”

“How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself
so little money; why should I look for a fortune?”

“Your having so little is a reason for looking for more.” With which
Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face
were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was
what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy’s solemn eyes, fixed on her own,
almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light
of the girl’s preference.

“What should you like me to do?” her companion softly demanded.

The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous
vagueness. “To remember all the pleasure it’s in your power to give your
father.”

“To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?”

For a moment Isabel’s answer caused itself to be waited for; then she
heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy’s attention seemed to
make. “Yes--to marry some one else.”

The child’s eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting
her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting
up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands
unclasped and then quavered out: “Well, I hope no one will ask me!”

“There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready
to ask you.”

“I don’t think he can have been ready,” said Pansy.

“It would appear so if he had been sure he’d succeed.”

“If he had been sure? Then he wasn’t ready!”

Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment
looking into the fire. “Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,”
 she resumed; “of course you know it’s of him I speak.” She found
herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of
justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more
crudely than she had intended.

“He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean
that he’ll propose for me I think you’re mistaken.”

“Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely.”

Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. “Lord Warburton won’t
propose simply to please papa.”

“Your father would like you to encourage him,” Isabel went on
mechanically.

“How can I encourage him?”

“I don’t know. Your father must tell you that.”

Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if
she were in possession of a bright assurance. “There’s no danger--no
danger!” she declared at last.

There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her
believing it, which conduced to Isabel’s awkwardness. She felt accused
of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect
she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that
there was a danger. But she didn’t; she only said--in her embarrassment
rather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most
friendly.

“Yes, he has been very kind,” Pansy answered. “That’s what I like him
for.”

“Why then is the difficulty so great?”

“I’ve always felt sure of his knowing that I don’t want--what did you
say I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don’t want to marry,
and he wants me to know that he therefore won’t trouble me. That’s the
meaning of his kindness. It’s as if he said to me: ‘I like you very
much, but if it doesn’t please you I’ll never say it again.’ I
think that’s very kind, very noble,” Pansy went on with deepening
positiveness. “That is all we’ve said to each other. And he doesn’t care
for me either. Ah no, there’s no danger.”

Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which
this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy’s
wisdom--began almost to retreat before it. “You must tell your father
that,” she remarked reservedly.

“I think I’d rather not,” Pansy unreservedly answered.

“You oughtn’t to let him have false hopes.”

“Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he
believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa
won’t propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me,” said
the child very lucidly.

There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion
draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.
Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that
she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock.
Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond,
that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the
influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she
retired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have
done her utmost.

“Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a
nobleman.”

Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for
Isabel to pass. “I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!” she remarked very
gravely.



CHAPTER XLVI

Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond’s drawing-room for several
days, and Isabel couldn’t fail to observe that her husband said nothing
to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn’t fail to
observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that,
though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their
distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four
days he alluded to his absence.

“What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a
tradesman with a bill?”

“I know nothing about him,” Isabel said. “I saw him last Friday at the
German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you.”

“He has never written to me.”

“So I supposed, from your not having told me.”

“He’s an odd fish,” said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel’s making
no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five
days to indite a letter. “Does he form his words with such difficulty?”

“I don’t know,” Isabel was reduced to replying. “I’ve never had a letter
from him.”

“Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate
correspondence.”

She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation
drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the
afternoon, her husband took it up again.

“When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you
say to him?” he asked.

She just faltered. “I think I told him not to forget it.

“Did you believe there was a danger of that?”

“As you say, he’s an odd fish.”

“Apparently he has forgotten it,” said Osmond. “Be so good as to remind
him.”

“Should you like me to write to him?” she demanded.

“I’ve no objection whatever.”

“You expect too much of me.”

“Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.”

“I’m afraid I shall disappoint you,” said Isabel.

“My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment.”

“Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!
If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them
yourself.”

For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: “That
won’t be easy, with you working against me.”

Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of
looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of
her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully
cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable
necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence.
That effect had never been so marked as now. “I think you accuse me of
something very base,” she returned.

“I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn’t after all come
forward it will be because you’ve kept him off. I don’t know that it’s
base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I’ve no
doubt you’ve the finest ideas about it.”

“I told you I would do what I could,” she went on.

“Yes, that gained you time.”

It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him
beautiful. “How much you must want to make sure of him!” she exclaimed
in a moment.

She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her
words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made
a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had
once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich
enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a
horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her
that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing
otherwise, however; he only said quickly: “Yes, I want it immensely.”

At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed
the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing
Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress;
a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a
perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English
address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element
of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving
transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel
remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking
about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn’t known
what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. “No,”
 he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; “I’m only on the point of
going.” And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled
to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. “I’m awfully
sorry to leave poor Touchett!” he ended by exclaiming.

For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back
in his chair, listening. Isabel didn’t look at him; she could only fancy
how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor’s face, where they were
the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them.
Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it
expressive. “You had better take poor Touchett with you,” she heard her
husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.

“He had better wait for warmer weather,” Lord Warburton answered. “I
shouldn’t advise him to travel just now.”

He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon
see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course
he strongly recommended. Why shouldn’t they come to England in the
autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such
pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a
month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but
once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and
intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get
on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what
a good time she had had there and if she didn’t want to try it again.
Didn’t she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really
very good. Touchett didn’t take proper care of it, but it was the sort
of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn’t they
come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn’t
asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to
give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a
mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with
Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the
people they must know there, they really wouldn’t find it half bad. Lord
Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told
him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a
country she deserved to see. Of course she didn’t need to go to England
to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense
success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked
if she were not at home: couldn’t he say good-bye? Not that he liked
good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he
hadn’t said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind
to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What
could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things
one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other
hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn’t, simply from a sense
that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled
one’s wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced
on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn’t think he spoke as he ought she must set
it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond.
He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her
instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a
lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left
the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.

If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the
announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord
Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other
manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was
capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked
him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He
would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the
habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband’s power to
frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on
in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was
proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said
himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her
alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond’s emotion.
She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of
loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as
he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl
his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he
treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so
clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond’s
cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present
appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was
simply a part of Osmond’s habitual system, which was to be inexpressive
exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on
this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to
irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he
treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his
own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so
perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an
inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not
the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any
satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction;
she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same
time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.
Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the
advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it
was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back
in his place, listening but vaguely to the other’s friendly offers and
suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they
were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little
else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had
kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able
to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be
able to look as if the leave-taker’s movements had no relation to his
own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond’s performance was
in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton’s position was after
all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn’t leave
Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short
of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe.
Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that
they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success
Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but
left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.
Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista
which had suddenly opened out in her husband’s mind, with Pansy’s little
figure marching up the middle of it.

Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither
Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of
giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if
it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed
and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it
was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would
rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had
something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she
was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense
with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good
taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish
to say just the last word of all to the ladies. “I’ve a letter to write
before dinner,” he said; “you must excuse me. I’ll see if my daughter’s
disengaged, and if she is she shall know you’re here. Of course when
you come to Rome you’ll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you
about the English expedition: she decides all those things.”

The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little
speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole
it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he
left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, “Your
husband’s very angry”; which would have been extremely disagreeable to
her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: “Oh, don’t be
anxious. He doesn’t hate you: it’s me that he hates!”

It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend
showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair,
handling two or three of the objects that were near him. “I hope he’ll
make Miss Osmond come,” he presently remarked. “I want very much to see
her.”

“I’m glad it’s the last time,” said Isabel.

“So am I. She doesn’t care for me.”

“No, she doesn’t care for you.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” he returned. Then he added with inconsequence:
“You’ll come to England, won’t you?”

“I think we had better not.”

“Ah, you owe me a visit. Don’t you remember that you were to have come
to Lockleigh once, and you never did?”

“Everything’s changed since then,” said Isabel.

“Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we’re concerned. To see
you under my roof”--and he hung fire but an instant--“would be a great
satisfaction.”

She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred.
They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in,
already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek.
She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his
face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship
probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.

“I’m going away,” he said. “I want to bid you good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Lord Warburton.” Her voice perceptibly trembled.

“And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy.”

“Thank you, Lord Warburton,” Pansy answered.

He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. “You ought to be very
happy--you’ve got a guardian angel.”

“I’m sure I shall be happy,” said Pansy in the tone of a person whose
certainties were always cheerful.

“Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should
ever fail you, remember--remember--” And her interlocutor stammered a
little. “Think of me sometimes, you know!” he said with a vague laugh.
Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone.

When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her
stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different.

“I think you _are_ my guardian angel!” she exclaimed very sweetly.

Isabel shook her head. “I’m not an angel of any kind. I’m at the most
your good friend.”

“You’re a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with
me.”

“I’ve asked your father nothing,” said Isabel, wondering.

“He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a
very kind kiss.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “that was quite his own idea!”

She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she
was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn’t put
himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after
their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till
late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him
before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his
usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his
daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was
a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his
wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she
would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the
drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.

“I don’t understand what you wish to do,” he said in a moment. “I should
like to know--so that I may know how to act.”

“Just now I wish to go to bed. I’m very tired.”

“Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a
comfortable place.” And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were
scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not,
however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair.
The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew
her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. “I think you’re trying to
humiliate me,” Osmond went on. “It’s a most absurd undertaking.”

“I haven’t the least idea what you mean,” she returned.

“You’ve played a very deep game; you’ve managed it beautifully.”

“What is it that I’ve managed?”

“You’ve not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again.” And he
stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at
her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know
that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of
thought.

“If you mean that Lord Warburton’s under an obligation to come back
you’re wrong,” Isabel said. “He’s under none whatever.”

“That’s just what I complain of. But when I say he’ll come back I don’t
mean he’ll come from a sense of duty.”

“There’s nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome.”

“Ah no, that’s a shallow judgement. Rome’s inexhaustible.” And Osmond
began to walk about again. “However, about that perhaps there’s no
hurry,” he added. “It’s rather a good idea of his that we should go
to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I
think I should try to persuade you.”

“It may be that you’ll not find my cousin,” said Isabel.

“I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as
possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told
me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must
be a charming thing. And then, you know, I’ve a devotion to the memory
of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to
see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was
right. Pansy ought to see England.”

“I’ve no doubt she would enjoy it,” said Isabel.

“But that’s a long time hence; next autumn’s far off,” Osmond continued;
“and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you
think me so very proud?” he suddenly asked.

“I think you very strange.”

“You don’t understand me.”

“No, not even when you insult me.”

“I don’t insult you; I’m incapable of it. I merely speak of certain
facts, and if the allusion’s an injury to you the fault’s not mine.
It’s surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own
hands.”

“Are you going back to Lord Warburton?” Isabel asked. “I’m very tired of
his name.”

“You shall hear it again before we’ve done with it.”

She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that
this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a
fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,
too different; he didn’t touch her. Still, the working of his morbid
passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in
what light he saw himself justified. “I might say to you that I judge
you’ve nothing to say to me that’s worth hearing,” she returned in a
moment. “But I should perhaps be wrong. There’s a thing that would be
worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse
me.”

“Of having prevented Pansy’s marriage to Warburton. Are those words
plain enough?”

“On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when
you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I
accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it.”

“You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me
more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get
him out of the way.”

“I think I see what you mean,” said Isabel.

“Where’s the letter you told me he had written me?” her husband
demanded.

“I haven’t the least idea; I haven’t asked him.”

“You stopped it on the way,” said Osmond.

Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered
her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first
cousin to that of pity. “Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!” she
exclaimed in a long murmur.

“I was never so fine as you. You’ve done everything you wanted. You’ve
got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you’ve placed
me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has
tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed.”

“Pansy doesn’t care for him. She’s very glad he’s gone,” Isabel said.

“That has nothing to do with the matter.”

“And he doesn’t care for Pansy.”

“That won’t do; you told me he did. I don’t know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction,” Osmond continued; “you might have taken some
other. It doesn’t seem to me that I’ve been presumptuous--that I have
taken too much for granted. I’ve been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn’t originate with me. He began to show that he liked her
before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you.”

“Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend
to such things yourself.”

He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. “I thought you were very
fond of my daughter.”

“I’ve never been more so than to-day.”

“Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that
perhaps is natural.”

“Is this all you wished to say to me?” Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.

“Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?”

“I don’t think that on the whole you’re disappointed. You’ve had another
opportunity to try to stupefy me.”

“It’s not that. It’s proved that Pansy can aim high.”

“Poor little Pansy!” said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.



CHAPTER XLVII

It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had
come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton’s
departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some
importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame
Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor
of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel’s
happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of
women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at
night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her
friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to
her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve.
Isabel’s imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but
every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when
the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness
of respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar
Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to
her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to
Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he
might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage,
had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered
rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then
he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only
one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her
that morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like
a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist,
no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer
wide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the
tiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a
strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It
had been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm
that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only
person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she
couldn’t help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried
with rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to
think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with
his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best
to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent,
and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a
violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her
own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted
three or four days.

The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the
first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a
thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think
of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do
nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to
doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord
Warburton’s; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive,
uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could
never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as
she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith
in Mr. Goodwood’s compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory
was not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed
to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what
he had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic
enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If
he extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the
only form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an
enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because
he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of
bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory
or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social
drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of
human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never
heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this
impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from
time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was
all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had
thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more
than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband
about him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a
reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence
in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man’s
disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her,
she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood’s affairs
could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come
to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that,
considering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone.
Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him.
It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him;
even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her
that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had
the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he
had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to
set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel
that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault.
She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace
with the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to
her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled
with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day
on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was
coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for
him than for any one else to make out--since he _would_ make it out, as
over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate
disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had
invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only
a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her
stress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he
spent several days without coming to see her.

Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and
Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw
herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping
her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been
superficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather
enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously
criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still
marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as
keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her
remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had
put up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her
opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite
unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had
never been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had
managed to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for
everything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when
she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having
already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn’t for a moment pretend
that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do
with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her
independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to
it. “It’s nothing to come to Europe,” she said to Isabel; “it doesn’t
seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay
at home; this is much more important.” It was not therefore with a sense
of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another
pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully
inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her
knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to
be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a
perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after
all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so
little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the
other’s fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because
she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but
she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel’s satisfactions just
now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still
have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified
in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large
concessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all
abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however,
that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this
confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not
in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point
with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of
being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph,
nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.

“Yes, I’m wretched,” she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say
it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.

“What does he do to you?” Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were
enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.

“He does nothing. But he doesn’t like me.”

“He’s very hard to please!” cried Miss Stackpole. “Why don’t you leave
him?”

“I can’t change that way,” Isabel said.

“Why not, I should like to know? You won’t confess that you’ve made a
mistake. You’re too proud.”

“I don’t know whether I’m too proud. But I can’t publish my mistake. I
don’t think that’s decent. I’d much rather die.”

“You won’t think so always,” said Henrietta.

“I don’t know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to
me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one’s deeds. I married
him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do
anything more deliberate. One can’t change that way,” Isabel repeated.

“You _have_ changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don’t mean
to say you like him.”

Isabel debated. “No, I don’t like him. I can tell you, because I’m weary
of my secret. But that’s enough; I can’t announce it on the housetops.”

Henrietta gave a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re rather too considerate?”

“It’s not of him that I’m considerate--it’s of myself!” Isabel answered.

It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in
Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a
young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal
roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she
would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered
that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta
that as Osmond didn’t like her she couldn’t invite her to dine, but
they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss
Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to
drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the
opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a
respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She
complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should
remember everything one said. “I don’t want to be remembered that way,”
 Miss Stackpole declared; “I consider that my conversation refers only
to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits
there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring
them out some day against me.” She could not teach herself to think
favourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of
personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even
uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a
little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her,
so that he might appear to suffer for good manners’ sake. Her immediate
acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in
effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot
enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held
to his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were
elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that
Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice,
so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she
might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the
moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was
nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself
off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife’s
friends; he took occasion to call Isabel’s attention to it.

“You’re certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make
a new collection,” he said to her one morning in reference to nothing
visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived
the remark of all brutal abruptness. “It’s as if you had taken the
trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common
with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his
being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it’s insufferably
tiresome that one can’t tell him so; one must spare him on account of
his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him
privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he’s so desperately ill there’s
only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can’t
say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it,
the cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and
looks at one’s daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries
the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and
almost thinks he’ll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a
lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he
doesn’t think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a
_piano nobile_. And he goes away after having got a month’s lodging in the
poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most
wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn’t
a nerve in one’s body that she doesn’t set quivering. You know I never
have admitted that she’s a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of
a new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel
pen writes; aren’t her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks
and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that
she doesn’t hurt me, inasmuch as I don’t see her. I don’t see her, but I
hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can’t get
rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone
in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give
you great comfort. I don’t like at all to think she talks about me--I
feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat.”

Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather
less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of
which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let
her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that
she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what
comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling
on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of
seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight
in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time.
Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must
have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs.
Touchett’s door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed
just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour
of his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a
strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh
to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and
more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached
high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back
after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like
a February sky.

Miss Stackpole’s other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the
latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States
the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him
considerable attention. She didn’t know how much he had enjoyed it, but
she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn’t the same man
when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and
shown him that England wasn’t everything. He had been very much liked in
most places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English
were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him
affected; she didn’t know whether they meant that his simplicity was an
affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all
the chambermaids were farmers’ daughters--or all the farmers’ daughters
were chambermaids--she couldn’t exactly remember which. He hadn’t seemed
able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much
for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of
everything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had
chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed
really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one
he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest;
he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled
together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting
cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted
to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of
geography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was
perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never
to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was
unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to
confess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent
some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream
from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you
could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn’t, nor fans,
nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite
overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was
the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England,
hunting--“hunting round” Henrietta called it. These amusements were
those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the
pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England
that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in
keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join
her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come
over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of
the ancient regime. They didn’t agree about that, but that was what she
liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been
swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered
on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking
all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the
subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it
now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was
determined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady
Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight.
The mystery about that other one had never been explained.

Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel
a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be
at home at six o’clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what
he was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented
himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who
would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel’s hospitality,
however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in
appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at
least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had
been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not
disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had
not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he
had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the
very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come
for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of
eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the
ghost of this gentleman’s ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome
for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared
for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his
heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were
at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but
he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe
he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence,
though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light
upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general
topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before,
“Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn’t talk.” He spoke a good
deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is,
how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated
to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn’t
like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as
having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say
of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis
exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert;
it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday
evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband
still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not
inviting them.

To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early;
he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every
now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about
him; she thought he might know that she didn’t know what to do with him.
But she couldn’t call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was
only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very
different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with
_him_. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering
herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of
women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any
personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed
probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case
he had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of
this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy
to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat
with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry
her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would
have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which
would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air.
He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn’t easy at
first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the
top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a
little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and
he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that
Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished
to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being
inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to
dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even
desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was
very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English
portmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear
out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the
Campagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly
in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to
him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And
then she added smiling:

“I don’t know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you.”

“You’re the person in the world who has most right,” he answered. “I’ve
given you assurances that I’ve never given any one else.”

The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill
at the Hôtel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr.
Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow
was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt.
Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not
supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the
place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the
Hôtel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of
Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular
change had in fact occurred in this lady’s relations with Ralph
Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on
hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her
own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under
the conviction that they were great enemies. “Oh yes, we’re intimate
enemies,” Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the
humour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality
they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should
never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had
always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent
fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about
everything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had
a thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved
a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with
Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their
inevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking
the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli.
Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after
he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other
matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had
just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole’s
merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither,
after the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a
theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very
sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn’t bear to see a pleasant
man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done.
There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in
this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hôtel de Paris.
It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully
disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she
had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making
him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather
should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr.
Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this,
and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a
constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the
occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely
entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in
one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would
cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel
in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past
was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had
spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I
say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster;
for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The
Countess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her
dresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the
unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been
away somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome
and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame
Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: “What
on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?” As if it were any business of
hers!



CHAPTER XLVIII

One day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made up his mind to
return to England. He had his own reasons for this decision, which
he was not bound to communicate; but Henrietta Stackpole, to whom he
mentioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed them. She
forbore to express them, however; she only said, after a moment, as she
sat by his sofa: “I suppose you know you can’t go alone?”

“I’ve no idea of doing that,” Ralph answered. “I shall have people with
me.”

“What do you mean by ‘people’? Servants whom you pay?”

“Ah,” said Ralph jocosely, “after all, they’re human beings.”

“Are there any women among them?” Miss Stackpole desired to know.

“You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven’t a _soubrette_ in
my employment.”

“Well,” said Henrietta calmly, “you can’t go to England that way. You
must have a woman’s care.”

“I’ve had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me a
good while.”

“You’ve not had enough of it yet. I guess I’ll go with you,” said
Henrietta.

“Go with me?” Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa.

“Yes, I know you don’t like me, but I’ll go with you all the same. It
would be better for your health to lie down again.”

Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. “I like you very
much,” he said in a moment.

Miss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. “You needn’t think
that by saying that you can buy me off. I’ll go with you, and what is
more I’ll take care of you.”

“You’re a very good woman,” said Ralph.

“Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won’t be easy.
But you had better go, all the same.”

Before she left him, Ralph said to her: “Do you really mean to take care
of me?”

“Well, I mean to try.”

“I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!” And it was perhaps a
sign of submission that a few minutes after she had left him alone he
burst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed to him so inconsequent,
such a conclusive proof of his having abdicated all functions and
renounced all exercise, that he should start on a journey across Europe
under the supervision of Miss Stackpole. And the great oddity was that
the prospect pleased him; he was gratefully, luxuriously passive. He
felt even impatient to start; and indeed he had an immense longing to
see his own house again. The end of everything was at hand; it seemed
to him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wanted to
die at home; it was the only wish he had left--to extend himself in the
large quiet room where he had last seen his father lie, and close his
eyes upon the summer dawn.

That same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he informed his
visitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up and was to conduct him back
to England. “Ah then,” said Caspar, “I’m afraid I shall be a fifth wheel
to the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with you.”

“Good heavens--it’s the golden age! You’re all too kind.”

“The kindness on my part is to her; it’s hardly to you.”

“Granting that, _she’s_ kind,” smiled Ralph.

“To get people to go with you? Yes, that’s a sort of kindness,” Goodwood
answered without lending himself to the joke. “For myself, however,” he
added, “I’ll go so far as to say that I would much rather travel with
you and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone.”

“And you’d rather stay here than do either,” said Ralph. “There’s really
no need of your coming. Henrietta’s extraordinarily efficient.”

“I’m sure of that. But I’ve promised Mrs. Osmond.”

“You can easily get her to let you off.”

“She wouldn’t let me off for the world. She wants me to look after you,
but that isn’t the principal thing. The principal thing is that she
wants me to leave Rome.”

“Ah, you see too much in it,” Ralph suggested.

“I bore her,” Goodwood went on; “she has nothing to say to me, so she
invented that.”

“Oh then, if it’s a convenience to her I certainly will take you with
me. Though I don’t see why it should be a convenience,” Ralph added in a
moment.

“Well,” said Caspar Goodwood simply, “she thinks I’m watching her.”

“Watching her?”

“Trying to make out if she’s happy.”

“That’s easy to make out,” said Ralph. “She’s the most visibly happy
woman I know.”

“Exactly so; I’m satisfied,” Goodwood answered dryly. For all his
dryness, however, he had more to say. “I’ve been watching her; I was
an old friend and it seemed to me I had the right. She pretends to be
happy; that was what she undertook to be; and I thought I should like to
see for myself what it amounts to. I’ve seen,” he continued with a harsh
ring in his voice, “and I don’t want to see any more. I’m now quite
ready to go.”

“Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?” Ralph rejoined.
And this was the only conversation these gentlemen had about Isabel
Osmond.

Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she found
it proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who returned at
Miss Stackpole’s pension the visit which this lady had paid her in
Florence.

“You were very wrong about Lord Warburton,” she remarked to the
Countess. “I think it right you should know that.”

“About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was at her house
three times a day. He has left traces of his passage!” the Countess
cried.

“He wished to marry your niece; that’s why he came to the house.”

The Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh: “Is that the
story that Isabel tells? It isn’t bad, as such things go. If he wishes
to marry my niece, pray why doesn’t he do it? Perhaps he has gone to buy
the wedding-ring and will come back with it next month, after I’m gone.”

“No, he’ll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn’t wish to marry him.”

“She’s very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I didn’t
know she carried it so far.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Henrietta coldly, and reflecting that
the Countess was unpleasantly perverse. “I really must stick to my
point--that Isabel never encouraged the attentions of Lord Warburton.”

“My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is that my
brother’s capable of everything.”

“I don’t know what your brother’s capable of,” said Henrietta with
dignity.

“It’s not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it’s her sending
him away. I want particularly to see him. Do you suppose she thought
I would make him faithless?” the Countess continued with audacious
insistence. “However, she’s only keeping him, one can feel that. The
house is full of him there; he’s quite in the air. Oh yes, he has left
traces; I’m sure I shall see him yet.”

“Well,” said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspirations
which had made the fortune of her letters to the _Interviewer_, “perhaps
he’ll be more successful with you than with Isabel!”

When she told her friend of the offer she had made Ralph Isabel replied
that she could have done nothing that would have pleased her more. It
had always been her faith that at bottom Ralph and this young woman were
made to understand each other. “I don’t care whether he understands me
or not,” Henrietta declared. “The great thing is that he shouldn’t die
in the cars.”

“He won’t do that,” Isabel said, shaking her head with an extension of
faith.

“He won’t if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don’t know
what you want to do.”

“I want to be alone,” said Isabel.

“You won’t be that so long as you’ve so much company at home.”

“Ah, they’re part of the comedy. You others are spectators.”

“Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?” Henrietta rather grimly asked.

“The tragedy then if you like. You’re all looking at me; it makes me
uncomfortable.”

Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. “You’re like the stricken
deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense of
helplessness!” she broke out.

“I’m not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.”

“It’s not you I’m speaking of; it’s myself. It’s too much, having come
on purpose, to leave you just as I find you.”

“You don’t do that; you leave me much refreshed,” Isabel said.

“Very mild refreshment--sour lemonade! I want you to promise me
something.”

“I can’t do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such a
solemn one four years ago, and I’ve succeeded so ill in keeping it.”

“You’ve had no encouragement. In this case I should give you the
greatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that’s what I want
you to promise.”

“The worst? What do you call the worst?”

“Before your character gets spoiled.”

“Do you mean my disposition? It won’t get spoiled,” Isabel answered,
smiling. “I’m taking very good care of it. I’m extremely struck,” she
added, turning away, “with the off-hand way in which you speak of a
woman’s leaving her husband. It’s easy to see you’ve never had one!”

“Well,” said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument, “nothing is
more common in our Western cities, and it’s to them, after all, that we
must look in the future.” Her argument, however, does not concern this
history, which has too many other threads to unwind. She announced to
Ralph Touchett that she was ready to leave Rome by any train he might
designate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for departure.
Isabel went to see him at the last, and he made the same remark that
Henrietta had made. It struck him that Isabel was uncommonly glad to get
rid of them all.

For all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, and said in a
low tone, with a quick smile: “My dear Ralph--!”

It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on in the
same way, jocosely, ingenuously: “I’ve seen less of you than I might,
but it’s better than nothing. And then I’ve heard a great deal about
you.”

“I don’t know from whom, leading the life you’ve done.”

“From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let other
people speak of you. They always say you’re ‘charming,’ and that’s so
flat.”

“I might have seen more of you certainly,” Isabel said. “But when one’s
married one has so much occupation.”

“Fortunately I’m not married. When you come to see me in England I
shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor.” He
continued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and succeeded
in making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion to
his term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast the
summer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality
was sufficiently distinct without their erecting finger-posts in
conversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, though
about this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never been egotistic.
Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he should
divide it, of the precautions he should take. “Henrietta’s my greatest
precaution,” he went on. “The conscience of that woman’s sublime.”

“Certainly she’ll be very conscientious.”

“Will be? She has been! It’s only because she thinks it’s her duty that
she goes with me. There’s a conception of duty for you.”

“Yes, it’s a generous one,” said Isabel, “and it makes me deeply
ashamed. I ought to go with you, you know.”

“Your husband wouldn’t like that.”

“No, he wouldn’t like it. But I might go, all the same.”

“I’m startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a
cause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!”

“That’s why I don’t go,” said Isabel simply--yet not very lucidly.

Ralph understood well enough, however. “I should think so, with all
those occupations you speak of.”

“It isn’t that. I’m afraid,” said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, as
if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: “I’m afraid.”

Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely
deliberate--apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do public
penance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were her
words simply an attempt at enlightened self-analysis? However this
might be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. “Afraid of your
husband?”

“Afraid of myself!” she said, getting up. She stood there a moment and
then added: “If I were afraid of my husband that would be simply my
duty. That’s what women are expected to be.”

“Ah yes,” laughed Ralph; “but to make up for it there’s always some man
awfully afraid of some woman!”

She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a different
turn. “With Henrietta at the head of your little band,” she exclaimed
abruptly, “there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!”

“Ah, my dear Isabel,” Ralph answered, “he’s used to that. There is
nothing left for Mr. Goodwood.”

She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him. They
stood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his. “You’ve
been my best friend,” she said.

“It was for you that I wanted--that I wanted to live. But I’m of no use
to you.”

Then it came over her more poignantly that she should not see him again.
She could not accept that; she could not part with him that way. “If you
should send for me I’d come,” she said at last.

“Your husband won’t consent to that.”

“Oh yes, I can arrange it.”

“I shall keep that for my last pleasure!” said Ralph.

In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and that
evening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among the
first to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with Gilbert
Osmond, who almost always was present when his wife received. They sat
down together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemed
possessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back with his
legs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, more restless, but
not at all lively, shifted his position, played with his hat, made the
little sofa creak beneath him. Osmond’s face wore a sharp, aggressive
smile; he was as a man whose perceptions have been quickened by good
news. He remarked to Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him;
he himself should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligent
men--they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to come
back; there was something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian like
himself, in talking with a genuine outsider.

“I’m very fond of Rome, you know,” Osmond said; “but there’s nothing
I like better than to meet people who haven’t that superstition. The
modern world’s after all very fine. Now you’re thoroughly modern and yet
are not at all common. So many of the moderns we see are such very poor
stuff. If they’re the children of the future we’re willing to die young.
Of course the ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and I like
everything that’s really new--not the mere pretence of it. There’s
nothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see plenty
of that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of progress, of
light. A revelation of vulgarity! There’s a certain kind of vulgarity
which I believe is really new; I don’t think there ever was anything
like it before. Indeed I don’t find vulgarity, at all, before the
present century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in the
last, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate things
are literally not recognised. Now, we’ve liked you--!” With which
he hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood’s knee and
smiling with a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. “I’m going to say
something extremely offensive and patronising, but you must let me
have the satisfaction of it. We’ve liked you because--because you’ve
reconciled us a little to the future. If there are to be a certain
number of people like you--_à la bonne heure_! I’m talking for my wife as
well as for myself, you see. She speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn’t
I speak for her? We’re as united, you know, as the candlestick and the
snuffers. Am I assuming too much when I say that I think I’ve understood
from you that your occupations have been--a--commercial? There’s a
danger in that, you know; but it’s the way you have escaped that
strikes us. Excuse me if my little compliment seems in execrable taste;
fortunately my wife doesn’t hear me. What I mean is that you might have
been--a--what I was mentioning just now. The whole American world was
in a conspiracy to make you so. But you resisted, you’ve something about
you that saved you. And yet you’re so modern, so modern; the most modern
man we know! We shall always be delighted to see you again.”

I have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these remarks will give
ample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal than he
usually cared to be, and if Caspar Goodwood had attended to them more
closely he might have thought that the defence of delicacy was in rather
odd hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very well what
he was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of patronage with a
grossness not in his habits he had an excellent reason for the escapade.
Goodwood had only a vague sense that he was laying it on somehow; he
scarcely knew where the mixture was applied. Indeed he scarcely knew
what Osmond was talking about; he wanted to be alone with Isabel, and
that idea spoke louder to him than her husband’s perfectly-pitched
voice. He watched her talking with other people and wondered when she
would be at liberty and whether he might ask her to go into one of the
other rooms. His humour was not, like Osmond’s, of the best; there was
an element of dull rage in his consciousness of things. Up to this time
he had not disliked Osmond personally; he had only thought him very
well-informed and obliging and more than he had supposed like the person
whom Isabel Archer would naturally marry. His host had won in the open
field a great advantage over him, and Goodwood had too strong a sense
of fair play to have been moved to underrate him on that account. He
had not tried positively to think well of him; this was a flight of
sentimental benevolence of which, even in the days when he came
nearest to reconciling himself to what had happened, Goodwood was
quite incapable. He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of the
amateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which it amused
him to work off in little refinements of conversation. But he only half
trusted him; he could never make out why the deuce Osmond should lavish
refinements of any sort upon _him_. It made him suspect that he found some
private entertainment in it, and it ministered to a general impression
that his triumphant rival had in his composition a streak of perversity.
He knew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish him evil; he
had nothing to fear from him. He had carried off a supreme advantage and
could afford to be kind to a man who had lost everything. It was true
that Goodwood had at times grimly wished he were dead and would have
liked to kill him; but Osmond had no means of knowing this, for practice
had made the younger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible
to-day to any violent emotion. He cultivated this art in order to
deceive himself, but it was others that he deceived first. He cultivated
it, moreover, with very limited success; of which there could be no
better proof than the deep, dumb irritation that reigned in his
soul when he heard Osmond speak of his wife’s feelings as if he were
commissioned to answer for them.

That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this
evening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even
than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at Palazzo
Roccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and his
wife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to each
of them to say “we” as to say “I”. In all this there was an air of
intention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could
only reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond’s relations with her
husband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that her
husband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface of
things was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never given
him the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him that
she had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made Miss
Stackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since
her arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty well
ceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said for
her, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seen
the reality of Isabel’s situation, and it had inspired her with a just
reserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form of
assistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her
wrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state
of Mr. Goodwood’s feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending
him choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, of
which she received several by every post and which she always perused
with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed
in an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her own
hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn’t
he come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the
least authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence of
authorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh-ness
with which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he now
recognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothing
more for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth;
apparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she _were_
unhappy. He was hopeless, helpless, useless. To this last character
she had called his attention by her ingenious plan for making him
leave Rome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he could for
her cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that of all the
services she might have asked of him this was the one she had been eager
to select. There had been no danger of her choosing one that would have
kept him in Rome.

To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to leave her
to-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the knowledge
that he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had gained no
knowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt the
old bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his
throat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life.
Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that he was touching
again upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for a
moment that the man had a kind of demonic imagination; it was impossible
that without malice he should have selected so unusual a topic. But what
did it matter, after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whether
she loved him or hated him? She might hate him to the death without
one’s gaining a straw one’s self. “You travel, by the by, with Ralph
Touchett,” Osmond said. “I suppose that means you’ll move slowly?”

“I don’t know. I shall do just as he likes.”

“You’re very accommodating. We’re immensely obliged to you; you must
really let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we
feel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more than
once as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it’s
worse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it’s a kind
of indelicacy. I wouldn’t for the world be under such an obligation to
Touchett as he has been to--to my wife and me. Other people inevitably
have to look after him, and every one isn’t so generous as you.”

“I’ve nothing else to do,” Caspar said dryly.

Osmond looked at him a moment askance. “You ought to marry, and then
you’d have plenty to do! It’s true that in that case you wouldn’t be
quite so available for deeds of mercy.”

“Do you find that as a married man you’re so much occupied?” the young
man mechanically asked.

“Ah, you see, being married’s in itself an occupation. It isn’t always
active; it’s often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then my
wife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we make music,
we walk, we drive--we talk even, as when we first knew each other. I
delight, to this hour, in my wife’s conversation. If you’re ever bored
take my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that
case; but you’ll never bore yourself. You’ll always have something to
say to yourself--always have a subject of reflection.”

“I’m not bored,” said Goodwood. “I’ve plenty to think about and to say
to myself.”

“More than to say to others!” Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh.
“Where shall you go next? I mean after you’ve consigned Touchett to his
natural caretakers--I believe his mother’s at last coming back to look
after him. That little lady’s superb; she neglects her duties with a
finish--! Perhaps you’ll spend the summer in England?”

“I don’t know. I’ve no plans.”

“Happy man! That’s a little bleak, but it’s very free.”

“Oh yes, I’m very free.”

“Free to come back to Rome I hope,” said Osmond as he saw a group of
new visitors enter the room. “Remember that when you do come we count on
you!”

Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without
his having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of several
associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy
with which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour discovered an
intention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There was
absolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clear
hospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he would come and help
her to entertain some of her visitors. To such suggestions, however, he
opposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talked
to the few people he knew, who found him for the first time rather
self-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though he
often contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Roccanera,
and it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed to
contain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning to
go, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he might
not speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assured
himself was empty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but found
her self absolutely prevented. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. People are
saying good-night, and I must be where they can see me.”

“I shall wait till they are all gone then.”

She hesitated a moment. “Ah, that will be delightful!” she exclaimed.

And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several
people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess
Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no
consciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a little
circle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then broke
into a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared--he never bade good-bye to
people; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her
custom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed.
Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish her sister-in-law
would sound a lower note and let the last loiterers depart in peace.

“May I not say a word to you now?” Goodwood presently asked her. She
got up immediately, smiling. “Certainly, we’ll go somewhere else if you
like.” They went together, leaving the Countess with her little circle,
and for a moment after they had crossed the threshold neither of them
spoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the middle of the room
slowly fanning herself; she had for him the same familiar grace. She
seemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her all the
passion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his
eyes and made things swim round him. The bright, empty room grew dim and
blurred, and through the heaving veil he felt her hover before him with
gleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would
have perceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced--that she was
frightened at what she saw in his own face. “I suppose you wish to bid
me goodbye?” she said.

“Yes--but I don’t like it. I don’t want to leave Rome,” he answered with
almost plaintive honesty.

“I can well imagine. It’s wonderfully good of you. I can’t tell you how
kind I think you.”

For a moment more he said nothing. “With a few words like that you make
me go.”

“You must come back some day,” she brightly returned.

“Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.”

“Oh no; I don’t mean all that.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand! But I said I’d go, and I’ll go,”
 Goodwood added.

“Come back whenever you like,” said Isabel with attempted lightness.

“I don’t care a straw for your cousin!” Caspar broke out.

“Is that what you wished to tell me?”

“No, no; I didn’t want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you--” he
paused a moment, and then--“what have you really made of your life?” he
said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but
she said nothing, and he went on: “I can’t understand, I can’t penetrate
you! What am I to believe--what do you want me to think?” Still she said
nothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending to
ease. “I’m told you’re unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it.
That would be something for me. But you yourself say you’re happy, and
you’re somehow so still, so smooth, so hard. You’re completely changed.
You conceal everything; I haven’t really come near you.”

“You come very near,” Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning.

“And yet I don’t touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done
well?”

“You ask a great deal.”

“Yes--I’ve always asked a great deal. Of course you won’t tell me. I
shall never know if you can help it. And then it’s none of my business.”
 He had spoken with a visible effort to control himself, to give a
considerate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But the sense that
it was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that she
would think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him a
lash and added a deep vibration to his low voice. “You’re perfectly
inscrutable, and that’s what makes me think you’ve something to hide. I
tell you I don’t care a straw for your cousin, but I don’t mean that I
don’t like him. I mean that it isn’t because I like him that I go away
with him. I’d go if he were an idiot and you should have asked me. If
you should ask me I’d go to Siberia to-morrow. Why do you want me to
leave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were as
contented as you pretend you are you wouldn’t care. I’d rather know the
truth about you, even if it’s damnable, than have come here for nothing.
That isn’t what I came for. I thought I shouldn’t care. I came because I
wanted to assure myself that I needn’t think of you any more. I haven’t
thought of anything else, and you’re quite right to wish me to go away.
But if I must go, there’s no harm in my letting myself out for a single
moment, is there? If you’re really hurt--if _he_ hurts you--nothing I say
will hurt you. When I tell you I love you it’s simply what I came for. I
thought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn’t
say it if I didn’t believe I should never see you again. It’s the last
time--let me pluck a single flower! I’ve no right to say that, I know;
and you’ve no right to listen. But you don’t listen; you never listen,
you’re always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of
course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason,
not a real one. I can’t judge by your husband,” he went on irrelevantly,
almost incoherently; “I don’t understand him; he tells me you adore each
other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say
that to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you’ve
something to hide. It’s none of my business--very true. But I love you,”
 said Caspar Goodwood.

As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which
they had entered and raised her fan as if in warning.

“You’ve behaved so well; don’t spoil it,” she uttered softly.

“No one hears me. It’s wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I
love you as I’ve never loved you.”

“I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go.”

“You can’t help it--of course not. You would if you could, but
you can’t, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask
nothing--nothing, that is, I shouldn’t. But I do ask one sole
satisfaction:--that you tell me--that you tell me--!”

“That I tell you what?”

“Whether I may pity you.”

“Should you like that?” Isabel asked, trying to smile again.

“To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something.
I’d give my life to it.”

She raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except her eyes.
They rested a moment on his. “Don’t give your life to it; but give a
thought to it every now and then.” And with that she went back to the
Countess Gemini.



CHAPTER XLIX

Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the
evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents,
and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it.
Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability,
and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been
mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord
Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel
(whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first
utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman,
for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.

“Please don’t talk of him,” said Isabel for answer; “we’ve heard so much
of him of late.”

Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and
smiled at the left corner of her mouth. “You’ve heard, yes. But you must
remember that I’ve not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be
able to congratulate Pansy.”

“You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.”

“How you say that! Don’t you know I had set my heart on it?” Madame
Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation
of good-humour.

Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too.
“You shouldn’t have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to
watch the affair.”

“I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it’s too late?”

“You had better ask Pansy,” said Isabel.

“I shall ask her what you’ve said to her.”

These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused
on Isabel’s part by her perceiving that her visitor’s attitude was a
critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto;
she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling.
But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since
she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation
which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had
suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel’s surprise--our heroine
having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy’s marriage; and
she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond’s alarm. More
clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from
she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare
that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of
the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her
destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her
nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The
sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened
to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own
husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet
taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a
different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention
in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes,
there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to
herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was
it that brought home to her that Madame Merle’s intention had not been
good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which
married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor’s
challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge
which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless
vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend’s
professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to
interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere
with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in
casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several
years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a
strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle’s interest was
identical with Osmond’s: that was enough. “I think Pansy will tell
you nothing that will make you more angry,” she said in answer to her
companion’s last remark.

“I’m not in the least angry. I’ve only a great desire to retrieve the
situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?”

“I can’t tell you; I don’t understand you. It’s all over; please let it
rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I’ve nothing
more to say or to hear. I’ve no doubt,” Isabel added, “that he’ll be
very happy to discuss the subject with you.”

“I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening.”

“As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn’t
apply to me for information.”

“It isn’t information I want. At bottom it’s sympathy. I had set my
heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do--it satisfied
the imagination.”

“Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned.”

“You mean by that of course that I’m not concerned. Of course not
directly. But when one’s such an old friend one can’t help having
something at stake. You forget how long I’ve known Pansy. You mean,
of course,” Madame Merle added, “that _you_ are one of the persons
concerned.”

“No; that’s the last thing I mean. I’m very weary of it all.”

Madame Merle hesitated a little. “Ah yes, your work’s done.”

“Take care what you say,” said Isabel very gravely.

“Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your
husband judges you severely.”

Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with
bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle’s informing her
that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife
that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was
meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only
when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not
right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an
open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as
well as in his thoughts. “Should you like to know how I judge _him_?” she
asked at last.

“No, because you’d never tell me. And it would be painful for me to
know.”

There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel
thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her.
“Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don’t despair,” she said
abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.

But Madame Merle’s expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only
gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the
air a faint, agreeable fragrance. “I don’t despair; I feel encouraged.
And I didn’t come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I
know you’ll tell it if I ask you. It’s an immense blessing with you that
one can count upon that. No, you won’t believe what a comfort I take in
it.”

“What truth do you speak of?” Isabel asked, wondering.

“Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own
movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to
please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite
of having lost a little of it,” Madame Merle continued with a smile, “to
ask such a question as that!” She sat looking at her friend, to judge
the effect of her words, and then went on: “Now don’t be heroic, don’t
be unreasonable, don’t take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour
in speaking so. I don’t know another woman to whom I would do it. I
haven’t the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And
don’t you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It’s
true that he doesn’t appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to
extract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn’t
alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his
daughter’s prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord
Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that’s one thing, and it’s
a pity. If he gave her up to please you it’s another. That’s a pity too,
but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you’d perhaps resign
yourself to not being pleased--to simply seeing your step-daughter
married. Let him off--let us have him!”

Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and
apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew
pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her
visitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this
was not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. “Who
are you--what are you?” Isabel murmured. “What have you to do with my
husband?” It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as
if she had loved him.

“Ah then, you take it heroically! I’m very sorry. Don’t think, however,
that I shall do so.”

“What have you to do with me?” Isabel went on.

Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes
from Isabel’s face. “Everything!” she answered.

Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost
a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman’s eyes seemed
only a darkness. “Oh misery!” she murmured at last; and she fell
back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a
high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married
her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.

Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away,
under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread
upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her
confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a
less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that
had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her
secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern
quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a
sun-warmed angle on a winter’s day, or stood in a mouldy church to which
no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness.
Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the
continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the
greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it
interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it
chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to
her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from
pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the
musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was
no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of
worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could
not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor
have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy,
as we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess
Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage;
but she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her
mood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several
resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low
parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front
of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the
far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain,
between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After
the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than
usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the
other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch
of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind,
rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to
tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where
the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the
flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and
gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness
of the scene--at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft
confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the
hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.

On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution
not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this
lady’s image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an
almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate
friend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were
to be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary
works; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance
with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life,
and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with
some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it
was not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that
was what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel’s Aunt
Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her
niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much
richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own
career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor
stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted;
she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which
could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much
have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making
passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great
artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of
marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage
but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain,
and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her
naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was
imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed
to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly
affectionate after Mr. Touchett’s death and after learning that her
young friend had been subject to the good old man’s charity. She had
found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in
the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young
woman’s fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her
closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert
occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with
the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the
least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money.
Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought
a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular
injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying
to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman
for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least
he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her
money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let
her go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett’s great charity would but help her to-day it
would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame
Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the
boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in
regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they
have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but
a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive
she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: “Poor, poor Madame
Merle!”

Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same
afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of
time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the
lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which
we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that
apartment, towards six o’clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his
hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion
commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to
its apparent as to its real importance.

“I don’t believe you’re unhappy; I believe you like it,” said Madame
Merle.

“Did I say I was unhappy?” Osmond asked with a face grave enough to
suggest that he might have been.

“No, but you don’t say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude.”

“Don’t talk about gratitude,” he returned dryly. “And don’t aggravate
me,” he added in a moment.

Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white
hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were,
to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. “On
your side, don’t try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my
thoughts.”

“I trouble about them no more than I can help. I’ve quite enough of my
own.”

“That’s because they’re so delightful.”

Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at
his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an
expression of fatigue. “You do aggravate me,” he remarked in a moment.
“I’m very tired.”

“_Eh moi donc!_” cried Madame Merle.

“With you it’s because you fatigue yourself. With me it’s not my own
fault.”

“When I fatigue myself it’s for you. I’ve given you an interest. That’s
a great gift.”

“Do you call it an interest?” Osmond enquired with detachment.

“Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.”

“The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.”

“You’ve never looked better; you’ve never been so agreeable, so
brilliant.”

“Damn my brilliancy!” he thoughtfully murmured. “How little, after all,
you know me!”

“If I don’t know you I know nothing,” smiled Madame Merle. “You’ve the
feeling of complete success.”

“No, I shall not have that till I’ve made you stop judging me.”

“I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express
yourself more too.”

Osmond just hung fire. “I wish you’d express yourself less!”

“You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I’ve never been a
chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to
say to you first. Your wife doesn’t know what to do with herself,” she
went on with a change of tone.

“Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means
to carry out her ideas.”

“Her ideas to-day must be remarkable.”

“Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever.”

“She was unable to show me any this morning,” said Madame Merle. “She
seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was
completely bewildered.”

“You had better say at once that she was pathetic.”

“Ah no, I don’t want to encourage you too much.”

He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one
foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. “I should like to
know what’s the matter with you,” he said at last.

“The matter--the matter--!” And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went
on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a
clear sky: “The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to
weep, and that I can’t!”

“What good would it do you to weep?”

“It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you.”

“If I’ve dried your tears, that’s something. But I’ve seen you shed
them.”

“Oh, I believe you’ll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a
wolf. I’ve a great hope, I’ve a great need, of that. I was vile this
morning; I was horrid,” she said.

“If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably
didn’t perceive it,” Osmond answered.

“It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn’t help it; I
was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don’t know.
You’ve not only dried up my tears; you’ve dried up my soul.”

“It’s not I then that am responsible for my wife’s condition,” Osmond
said. “It’s pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your
influence upon her. Don’t you know the soul is an immortal principle?
How can it suffer alteration?”

“I don’t believe at all that it’s an immortal principle. I believe it
can perfectly be destroyed. That’s what has happened to mine, which
was a very good one to start with; and it’s you I have to thank for it.
You’re _very_ bad,” she added with gravity in her emphasis.

“Is this the way we’re to end?” Osmond asked with the same studied
coldness.

“I don’t know how we’re to end. I wish I did--How do bad people
end?--especially as to their _common_ crimes. You have made me as bad as
yourself.”

“I don’t understand you. You seem to me quite good enough,” said Osmond,
his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words.

Madame Merle’s self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and
she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the
pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile
betrayed a painful effort. “Good enough for anything that I’ve done with
myself? I suppose that’s what you mean.”

“Good enough to be always charming!” Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.

“Oh God!” his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe
freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on
Isabel’s part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her
hands.

“Are you going to weep after all?” Osmond asked; and on her remaining
motionless he went on: “Have I ever complained to you?”

She dropped her hands quickly. “No, you’ve taken your revenge
otherwise--you have taken it on _her_.”

Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling
and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the
heavenly powers. “Oh, the imagination of women! It’s always vulgar, at
bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist.”

“Of course you haven’t complained. You’ve enjoyed your triumph too
much.”

“I’m rather curious to know what you call my triumph.”

“You’ve made your wife afraid of you.”

Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on
his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at
his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one’s valuation
of anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a
peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse
with. “Isabel’s not afraid of me, and it’s not what I wish,” he said
at last. “To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as
that?”

“I’ve thought over all the harm you can do me,” Madame Merle answered.
“Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you
she feared.”

“You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I’m not
responsible for that. I didn’t see the use of your going to see her at
all: you’re capable of acting without her. I’ve not made you afraid of
me that I can see,” he went on; “how then should I have made her? You’re
at least as brave. I can’t think where you’ve picked up such rubbish;
one might suppose you knew me by this time.” He got up as he spoke and
walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if
he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare
porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it
in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel,
he pursued: “You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you
lose sight of the real. I’m much simpler than you think.”

“I think you’re very simple.” And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup.
“I’ve come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it’s
only since your marriage that I’ve understood you. I’ve seen better what
you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please
be very careful of that precious object.”

“It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack,” said Osmond dryly as he put
it down. “If you didn’t understand me before I married it was cruelly
rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box
myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I
only asked that she should like me.”

“That she should like you so much!”

“So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she
should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that.”

“I never adored you,” said Madame Merle.

“Ah, but you pretended to!”

“It’s true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit,” Madame
Merle went on.

“My wife has declined--declined to do anything of the sort,” said
Osmond. “If you’re determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy’s
hardly for her.”

“The tragedy’s for me!” Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long
low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her
mantel-shelf.

“It appears that I’m to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false
position.”

“You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for
our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn’t like me, at least
my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I
haven’t a fault to find with her.”

“Ah,” she said softly, “if I had a child--!”

Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, “The children of
others may be a great interest!” he announced.

“You’re more like a copy-book than I. There’s something after all that
holds us together.”

“Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?” Osmond asked.

“No; it’s the idea of the good I may do for you. It’s that,” Madame
Merle pursued, “that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be
_my_ work,” she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter,
relaxing to its habit of smoothness.

Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the
former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, “On the whole, I
think,” he said, “you had better leave it to me.”

After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the
mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the
existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. “Have I
been so vile all for nothing?” she vaguely wailed.



CHAPTER L

As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments
Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics
and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who
professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made
an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if
they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense,
though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself
the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only
desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour
every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a
condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was
not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they
offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs
of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary
of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the
Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference
was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most
interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the
Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect
that she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the
vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble
that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be
divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents’ guest
might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when
the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild
afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional
puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together,
but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often
ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to
bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed)
bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed
to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the
Countess often asked more from one’s attention than she gave in return;
and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the
dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so
remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt
to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks
the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the
western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of
travertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the
immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking
up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of
swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware
that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had
turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with
a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before
perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose.
Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and
this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of
speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied
he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters
she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She
replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only
give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon
a broken block.

“It’s very soon told,” said Edward Rosier. “I’ve sold all my bibelots!”
 Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had
told her he had had all his teeth drawn. “I’ve sold them by auction at
the Hôtel Drouot,” he went on. “The sale took place three days ago, and
they’ve telegraphed me the result. It’s magnificent.”

“I’m glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things.”

“I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think
me rich enough now?”

“Is it for that you did it?” Isabel asked gently.

“For what else in the world could it be? That’s the only thing I think
of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn’t stop for the
sale; I couldn’t have seen them going off; I think it would have killed
me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I
should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my
pocket, and he can’t say I’m poor!” the young man exclaimed defiantly.

“He’ll say now that you’re not wise,” said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond
had never said this before.

Rosier gave her a sharp look. “Do you mean that without my bibelots I’m
nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That’s what they
told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn’t seen
her!”

“My dear friend, you deserve to succeed,” said Isabel very kindly.

“You say that so sadly that it’s the same as if you said I shouldn’t.”
 And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had
the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and
is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful
suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons
still have the perversity to think him diminutive. “I know what happened
here while I was away,” he went on; “What does Mr. Osmond expect after
she has refused Lord Warburton?”

Isabel debated. “That she’ll marry another nobleman.”

“What other nobleman?”

“One that he’ll pick out.”

Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket.
“You’re laughing at some one, but this time I don’t think it’s at me.”

“I didn’t mean to laugh,” said Isabel. “I laugh very seldom. Now you had
better go away.”

“I feel very safe!” Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but
it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather
a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and
looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience.
Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience
than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions
had returned from their excursion. “You must really go away,” she said
quickly. “Ah, my dear lady, pity me!” Edward Rosier murmured in a voice
strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then
he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by
a happy thought: “Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I’ve a great desire
to be presented to her.”

Isabel looked at him a moment. “She has no influence with her brother.”

“Ah, what a monster you make him out!” And Rosier faced the Countess,
who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps
to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in
conversation with a very pretty young man.

“I’m glad you’ve kept your enamels!” Isabel called as she left him. She
went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short,
with lowered eyes. “We’ll go back to the carriage,” she said gently.

“Yes, it’s getting late,” Pansy returned more gently still. And she
went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel,
however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had
immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had
removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced
himself, while the Countess’s expressive back displayed to Isabel’s eye
a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost
to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.
Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her
lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel’s. There shone out
of each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which
touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over
her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal
of the child with her own dry despair. “Poor little Pansy!” she
affectionately said.

“Oh never mind!” Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then
there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. “Did you show
your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?” Isabel asked at last.

“Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.”

“And you’re not tired, I hope.”

“Oh no, thank you, I’m not tired.”

The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman
to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently
returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not
to wait--she would come home in a cab!

About a week after this lady’s quick sympathies had enlisted themselves
with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found
Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her;
she got up from her low chair. “Pardon my taking the liberty,” she said
in a small voice. “It will be the last--for some time.”

Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited,
frightened look. “You’re not going away!” Isabel exclaimed.

“I’m going to the convent.”

“To the convent?”

Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round
Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,
perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver
of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel
nevertheless pressed her. “Why are you going to the convent?”

“Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl’s better, every now
and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the
world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little
seclusion--a little reflexion.” Pansy spoke in short detached sentences,
as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph
of self-control: “I think papa’s right; I’ve been so much in the world
this winter.”

Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a
larger meaning than the girl herself knew. “When was this decided?” she
asked. “I’ve heard nothing of it.”

“Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn’t be
too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine’s to come for me at a
quarter past seven, and I’m only to take two frocks. It’s only for a few
weeks; I’m sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who
used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being
educated. I’m very fond of little girls,” said Pansy with an effect
of diminutive grandeur. “And I’m also very fond of Mother Catherine. I
shall be very quiet and think a great deal.”

Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck.
“Think of _me_ sometimes.”

“Ah, come and see me soon!” cried Pansy; and the cry was very different
from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.

Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how
little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,
tender kiss.

Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had
arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to
the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and
this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful
toss of the head, “_En voilà, ma chère, une pose!_” But if it was an
affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She
could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.
It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him
that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after
he had come in, to allude to his daughter’s sudden departure: she
spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden
herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a
declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. “I shall miss
Pansy very much.”

He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of
flowers in the middle of the table. “Ah yes,” he said at last, “I had
thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I
dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I
can make you understand. It doesn’t matter; don’t trouble yourself about
it. That’s why I had not spoken of it. I didn’t believe you would enter
into it. But I’ve always had the idea; I’ve always thought it a part
of the education of one’s daughter. One’s daughter should be fresh and
fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present
time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy’s a little
dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This
bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her
out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very
salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under
the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are
gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books
and her drawing, she will have her piano. I’ve made the most liberal
arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there’s just to be a
certain little sense of sequestration. She’ll have time to think, and
there’s something I want her to think about.” Osmond spoke deliberately,
reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at
the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so
much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into
pictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the
picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he
went on: “The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great
institution; we can’t do without it; it corresponds to an essential need
in families, in society. It’s a school of good manners; it’s a school
of repose. Oh, I don’t want to detach my daughter from the world,” he
added; “I don’t want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This
one’s very well, as _she_ should take it, and she may think of it as much
as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way.”

Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found
it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her
husband’s desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of
playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She
could not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it
better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced
that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to
herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do
something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to
mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that
if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural
he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he
wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill
into Isabel’s heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and
had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were
very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite
hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the
impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough.
The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel’s imagination,
and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of
her husband’s genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of
flowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond
wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it
hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently,
in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess
too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a
different conclusion from Isabel.

“It’s very absurd, my dear Osmond,” she said, “to invent so many pretty
reasons for poor Pansy’s banishment. Why don’t you say at once that you
want to get her out of my way? Haven’t you discovered that I think very
well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me _simpaticissimo_. He has
made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you’ve
made up your mind that with those convictions I’m dreadful company for
Pansy.”

Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured.
“My dear Amy,” he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece
of gallantry, “I don’t know anything about your convictions, but if
I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to
banish _you_.”



CHAPTER LI

The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her tenure
of her brother’s hospitality. A week after this incident Isabel received
a telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt and bearing the stamp of
Mrs. Touchett’s authorship. “Ralph cannot last many days,” it ran, “and
if convenient would like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must come
only if you’ve not other duties. Say, for myself, that you used to talk
a good deal about your duty and to wonder what it was; shall be curious
to see whether you’ve found it out. Ralph is really dying, and there’s
no other company.” Isabel was prepared for this news, having received
from Henrietta Stackpole a detailed account of her journey to England
with her appreciative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive,
but she had managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he had taken to
his bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave
again. She added that she had really had two patients on her hands
instead of one, inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly
use, was quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett.
Afterwards she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to
Mrs. Touchett, who had just returned from America and had promptly given
her to understand that she didn’t wish any interviewing at Gardencourt.
Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came to Rome, letting
her know of his critical condition and suggesting that she should
lose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an
acknowledgement of this admonition, and the only further news Isabel
received from her was the second telegram I have just quoted.

Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then, thrusting it
into her pocket, she went straight to the door of her husband’s study.
Here she again paused an instant, after which she opened the door and
went in. Osmond was seated at the table near the window with a folio
volume before him, propped against a pile of books. This volume was open
at a page of small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he
had been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box of
water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already
transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate, finely-tinted
disk. His back was turned toward the door, but he recognised his wife
without looking round.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said.

“When I come to your room I always knock,” he answered, going on with
his work.

“I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin’s dying.”

“Ah, I don’t believe that,” said Osmond, looking at his drawing through
a magnifying glass. “He was dying when we married; he’ll outlive us
all.”

Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the careful
cynicism of this declaration; she simply went on quickly, full of
her own intention “My aunt has telegraphed for me; I must go to
Gardencourt.”

“Why must you go to Gardencourt?” Osmond asked in the tone of impartial
curiosity.

“To see Ralph before he dies.”

To this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to give his
chief attention to his work, which was of a sort that would brook no
negligence. “I don’t see the need of it,” he said at last. “He came to
see you here. I didn’t like that; I thought his being in Rome a great
mistake. But I tolerated it because it was to be the last time you
should see him. Now you tell me it’s not to have been the last. Ah,
you’re not grateful!”

“What am I to be grateful for?”

Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck of dust
from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time looked at his
wife. “For my not having interfered while he was here.”

“Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let me know you
didn’t like it. I was very glad when he went away.”

“Leave him alone then. Don’t run after him.”

Isabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his little
drawing. “I must go to England,” she said, with a full consciousness
that her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly
obstinate.

“I shall not like it if you do,” Osmond remarked.

“Why should I mind that? You won’t like it if I don’t. You like nothing
I do or don’t do. You pretend to think I lie.”

Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. “That’s why you must
go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me.”

“I know nothing about revenge.”

“I do,” said Osmond. “Don’t give me an occasion.”

“You’re only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would
commit some folly.”

“I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me.”

“If I disobeyed you?” said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect of
mildness.

“Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the
most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition.”

“How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt’s telegram but three
minutes ago.”

“You calculate rapidly; it’s a great accomplishment. I don’t see why we
should prolong our discussion; you know my wish.” And he stood there as
if he expected to see her withdraw.

But she never moved; she couldn’t move, strange as it may seem; she
still wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an extraordinary
degree, of making her feel this need. There was something in her
imagination he could always appeal to against her judgement. “You’ve no
reason for such a wish,” said Isabel, “and I’ve every reason for going.
I can’t tell you how unjust you seem to me. But I think you know. It’s
your own opposition that’s calculated. It’s malignant.”

She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and the
sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed no
surprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had believed
his wife would in fact be unable to resist for ever his ingenious
endeavour to draw her out. “It’s all the more intense then,” he
answered. And he added almost as if he were giving her a friendly
counsel: “This is a very important matter.” She recognised that; she
was fully conscious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that between
them they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her careful; she
said nothing, and he went on. “You say I’ve no reason? I have the very
best. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, what you intend to do. It’s
dishonourable; it’s indelicate; it’s indecent. Your cousin is nothing
whatever to me, and I’m under no obligation to make concessions to him.
I’ve already made the very handsomest. Your relations with him, while he
was here, kept me on pins and needles; but I let that pass, because from
week to week I expected him to go. I’ve never liked him and he has never
liked me. That’s why you like him--because he hates me,” said Osmond
with a quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. “I’ve an ideal of what
my wife should do and should not do. She should not travel across Europe
alone, in defiance of my deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other
men. Your cousin’s nothing to you; he’s nothing to us. You smile most
expressively when I talk about _us_, but I assure you that _we_, _we_, Mrs.
Osmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously; you appear to
have found a way of not doing so. I’m not aware that we’re divorced or
separated; for me we’re indissolubly united. You are nearer to me than
any human creature, and I’m nearer to you. It may be a disagreeable
proximity; it’s one, at any rate, of our own deliberate making. You
don’t like to be reminded of that, I know; but I’m perfectly willing,
because--because--” And he paused a moment, looking as if he had
something to say which would be very much to the point. “Because I think
we should accept the consequences of our actions, and what I value most
in life is the honour of a thing!”

He spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasm had dropped
out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked his wife’s quick
emotion; the resolution with which she had entered the room found itself
caught in a mesh of fine threads. His last words were not a command,
they constituted a kind of appeal; and, though she felt that any
expression of respect on his part could only be a refinement of egotism,
they represented something transcendent and absolute, like the sign
of the cross or the flag of one’s country. He spoke in the name of
something sacred and precious--the observance of a magnificent form.
They were as perfectly apart in feeling as two disillusioned lovers
had ever been; but they had never yet separated in act. Isabel had not
changed; her old passion for justice still abode within her; and now, in
the very thick of her sense of her husband’s blasphemous sophistry, it
began to throb to a tune which for a moment promised him the victory. It
came over her that in his wish to preserve appearances he was after
all sincere, and that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Ten minutes
before she had felt all the joy of irreflective action--a joy to which
she had so long been a stranger; but action had been suddenly changed to
slow renunciation, transformed by the blight of Osmond’s touch. If she
must renounce, however, she would let him know she was a victim rather
than a dupe. “I know you’re a master of the art of mockery,” she said.
“How can you speak of an indissoluble union--how can you speak of
your being contented? Where’s our union when you accuse me of falsity?
Where’s your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion in
your heart?”

“It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks.”

“We don’t live decently together!” cried Isabel.

“Indeed we don’t if you go to England.”

“That’s very little; that’s nothing. I might do much more.”

He raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he had lived
long enough in Italy to catch this trick. “Ah, if you’ve come to
threaten me I prefer my drawing.” And he walked back to his table, where
he took up the sheet of paper on which he had been working and stood
studying it.

“I suppose that if I go you’ll not expect me to come back,” said Isabel.

He turned quickly round, and she could see this movement at least was
not designed. He looked at her a little, and then, “Are you out of your
mind?” he enquired.

“How can it be anything but a rupture?” she went on; “especially if all
you say is true?” She was unable to see how it could be anything but a
rupture; she sincerely wished to know what else it might be.

He sat down before his table. “I really can’t argue with you on the
hypothesis of your defying me,” he said. And he took up one of his
little brushes again.

She lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embrace with her eye
his whole deliberately indifferent yet most expressive figure; after
which she quickly left the room. Her faculties, her energy, her passion,
were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly
encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme degree the art of
eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her room she found the
Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in
which a small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged.
The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she appeared to have been
glancing down a page which failed to strike her as interesting. At the
sound of Isabel’s step she raised her head.

“Ah my dear,” she said, “you, who are so literary, do tell me some
amusing book to read! Everything here’s of a dreariness--! Do you think
this would do me any good?”

Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without
reading or understanding it. “I’m afraid I can’t advise you. I’ve had
bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying.”

The Countess threw down her book. “Ah, he was so simpatico. I’m awfully
sorry for you.”

“You would be sorrier still if you knew.”

“What is there to know? You look very badly,” the Countess added. “You
must have been with Osmond.”

Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an
intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of
her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present
embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady’s
fluttering attention. “I’ve been with Osmond,” she said, while the
Countess’s bright eyes glittered at her.

“I’m sure then he has been odious!” the Countess cried. “Did he say he
was glad poor Mr. Touchett’s dying?”

“He said it’s impossible I should go to England.”

The Countess’s mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she
already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to
Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then
there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for
a moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid,
picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment.
After all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had
already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for
Isabel’s trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel’s trouble
was deep.

It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had
no hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the expression
of her sister-in-law’s eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous
expectation, for if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped the
conditions looked favourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to
England she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing
would induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt
an immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England. “Nothing’s
impossible for you, my dear,” she said caressingly. “Why else are you
rich and clever and good?”

“Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.”

“Why does Osmond say it’s impossible?” the Countess asked in a tone
which sufficiently declared that she couldn’t imagine.

From the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew
back; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately
taken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. “Because
we’re so happy together that we can’t separate even for a fortnight.”

“Ah,” cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, “when I want to make
a journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!”

Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour. It
may appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble, and it is
certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed herself easily
to be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she fully measured the
great undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as
this, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one’s
husband. “I’m afraid--yes, I’m afraid,” she said to herself more than
once, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was not her
husband--his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her
own later judgement of her conduct a consideration which had often held
her in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when
Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between
them, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was
a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with
which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what
he was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for
all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with
whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank
down on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions.

When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her.
She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin
lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She
lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now
she was leaning far out. “I knocked,” she began, “but you didn’t
answer me. So I ventured in. I’ve been looking at you for the past five
minutes. You’re very unhappy.”

“Yes; but I don’t think you can comfort me.”

“Will you give me leave to try?” And the Countess sat down on the
sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something
communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have
a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her
sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her
glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. “After
all,” she soon resumed, “I must tell you, to begin with, that I don’t
understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so
many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my
husband’s dearest wish was to make me miserable--of late he has simply
let me alone--ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel,
you’re not simple enough.”

“No, I’m not simple enough,” said Isabel.

“There’s something I want you to know,” the Countess declared--“because
I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you’ve guessed it.
But if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you
shouldn’t do as you like.”

“What do you wish me to know?” Isabel felt a foreboding that made her
heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this
alone was portentous.

But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject.
“In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really
suspected?”

“I’ve guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don’t know what
you mean.”

“That’s because you’ve such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman
with such a pure mind!” cried the Countess.

Isabel slowly got up. “You’re going to tell me something horrible.”

“You can call it by whatever name you will!” And the Countess rose
also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood
a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even
then, of ugliness; after which she said: “My first sister-in-law had no
children.”

Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. “Your
first sister-in-law?”

“I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has
been married before! I’ve never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it
mightn’t be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must
have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died
childless. It wasn’t till after her death that Pansy arrived.”

Isabel’s brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in pale,
vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much more to
follow than she could see. “Pansy’s not my husband’s child then?”

“Your husband’s--in perfection! But no one else’s husband’s. Some one
else’s wife’s. Ah, my good Isabel,” cried the Countess, “with you one
must dot one’s i’s!”

“I don’t understand. Whose wife’s?” Isabel asked.

“The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died--how long?--a dozen, more
than fifteen, years ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, nor, knowing
what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and there was no
reason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to
fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife’s having died in
childbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror, banished the little
girl from his sight for as long as possible before taking her home from
nurse. His wife had really died, you know, of quite another matter and
in quite another place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had
gone, one August, because her health appeared to require the air, but
where she was suddenly taken worse--fatally ill. The story passed,
sufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so long as nobody
heeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But of course I knew--without
researches,” the Countess lucidly proceeded; “as also, you’ll
understand, without a word said between us--I mean between Osmond and
me. Don’t you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle
it?--that is to settle _me_ if I should say anything. I said nothing,
right or left--never a word to a creature, if you can believe that of
me: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all
this time, as I’ve never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me,
from the first, that the child was my niece--from the moment she was
my brother’s daughter. As for her veritable mother--!” But with this
Pansy’s wonderful aunt dropped--as, involuntarily, from the impression
of her sister-in-law’s face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to
look at her than she had ever had to meet.

She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips, an
echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head.
“Why have you told me this?” she asked in a voice the Countess hardly
recognised.

“Because I’ve been so bored with your not knowing. I’ve been bored,
frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly, all this
time I couldn’t have managed! _Ça me depasse_, if you don’t mind my saying
so, the things, all round you, that you’ve appeared to succeed in not
knowing. It’s a sort of assistance--aid to innocent ignorance--that
I’ve always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this connexion, that
of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally
found itself exhausted. It’s not a black lie, moreover, you know,” the
Countess inimitably added. “The facts are exactly what I tell you.”

“I had no idea,” said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner
that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession.

“So I believed--though it was hard to believe. Had it never occurred to
you that he was for six or seven years her lover?”

“I don’t know. Things _have_ occurred to me, and perhaps that was what
they all meant.”

“She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about
Pansy!” the Countess, before all this view of it, cried.

“Oh, no idea, for me,” Isabel went on, “ever _definitely_ took that form.”
 She appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what hadn’t.
“And as it is--I don’t understand.”

She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess seemed to
have seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of effect. She
had expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had barely extracted a
spark. Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have
been, as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister
passage of public history. “Don’t you recognise how the child could
never pass for _her_ husband’s?--that is with M. Merle himself,” her
companion resumed. “They had been separated too long for that, and he
had gone to some far country--I think to South America. If she had ever
had children--which I’m not sure of--she had lost them. The conditions
happened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a
pinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife was
dead--very true; but she had not been dead too long to put a certain
accommodation of dates out of the question--from the moment, I mean,
that suspicion wasn’t started; which was what they had to take care of.
What was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond, at a distance and
for a world not troubling about trifles, should have left behind her,
_poverina_, the pledge of her brief happiness that had cost her her life?
With the aid of a change of residence--Osmond had been living with her
at Naples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in due course
left it for ever--the whole history was successfully set going. My poor
sister-in-law, in her grave, couldn’t help herself, and the real mother,
to save _her_ skin, renounced all visible property in the child.”

“Ah, poor, poor woman!” cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears. It
was a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high reaction
from weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in which the
Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture.

“It’s very kind of you to pity her!” she discordantly laughed. “Yes
indeed, you have a way of your own--!”

“He must have been false to his wife--and so very soon!” said Isabel
with a sudden check.

“That’s all that’s wanting--that you should take up her cause!” the
Countess went on. “I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too
soon.”

“But to me, to me--?” And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as
if her question--though it was sufficiently there in her eyes--were all
for herself.

“To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you
call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another
woman--_such_ a lover as he had been, _cara mia_, between their risks and
their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had
passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her
own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances
so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may
therefore imagine what it was--when he couldn’t patch it on conveniently
to _any_ of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them.”

“Yes,” Isabel mechanically echoed, “the whole past is between them.”

“Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say,
they had kept it up.”

She was silent a little. “Why then did she want him to marry me?”

“Ah my dear, that’s her superiority! Because you had money; and because
she believed you would be good to Pansy.”

“Poor woman--and Pansy who doesn’t like her!” cried Isabel.

“That’s the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows
it; she knows everything.”

“Will she know that you’ve told me this?”

“That will depend upon whether you tell her. She’s prepared for it, and
do you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your believing that
I lie. Perhaps you do; don’t make yourself uncomfortable to hide it.
Only, as it happens this time, I don’t. I’ve told plenty of little
idiotic fibs, but they’ve never hurt any one but myself.”

Isabel sat staring at her companion’s story as at a bale of fantastic
wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet at her
feet. “Why did Osmond never marry her?” she finally asked.

“Because she had no money.” The Countess had an answer for everything,
and if she lied she lied well. “No one knows, no one has ever known,
what she lives on, or how she has got all those beautiful things. I
don’t believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she wouldn’t have married
him.”

“How can she have loved him then?”

“She doesn’t love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I
suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband was
living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined--I won’t say his ancestors,
because he never had any--her relations with Osmond had changed, and she
had grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had, about him,”
 the Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically
afterwards--“she _had_ never had, what you might call any illusions of
_intelligence_. She hoped she might marry a great man; that has always
been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and prayed; but
she has never succeeded. I don’t call Madame Merle a success, you know.
I don’t know what she may accomplish yet, but at present she has very
little to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved--except,
of course, getting to know every one and staying with them free of
expense--has been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did
that, my dear; you needn’t look as if you doubted it. I’ve watched
them for years; I know everything--everything. I’m thought a great
scatterbrain, but I’ve had enough application of mind to follow up those
two. She hates me, and her way of showing it is to pretend to be for
ever defending me. When people say I’ve had fifteen lovers she looks
horrified and declares that quite half of them were never proved. She
has been afraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in the
vile, false things people have said about me. She has been afraid I’d
expose her, and she threatened me one day when Osmond began to pay his
court to you. It was at his house in Florence; do you remember that
afternoon when she brought you there and we had tea in the garden? She
let me know then that if I should tell tales two could play at that
game. She pretends there’s a good deal more to tell about me than about
her. It would be an interesting comparison! I don’t care a fig what she
may say, simply because I know _you_ don’t care a fig. You can’t trouble
your head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge
as she chooses; I don’t think she’ll frighten you very much. Her great
idea has been to be tremendously irreproachable--a kind of full-blown
lily--the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god.
There should be no scandal about Caesar’s wife, you know; and, as I say,
she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she wouldn’t
marry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people would put
things together--would even see a resemblance. She has had a terror
lest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the
mother has never done so.”

“Yes, yes, the mother has done so,” said Isabel, who had listened to
all this with a face more and more wan. “She betrayed herself to me the
other day, though I didn’t recognise her. There appeared to have been a
chance of Pansy’s making a great marriage, and in her disappointment at
its not coming off she almost dropped the mask.”

“Ah, that’s where she’d dish herself!” cried the Countess. “She has
failed so dreadfully that she’s determined her daughter shall make it
up.”

Isabel started at the words “her daughter,” which her guest threw off
so familiarly. “It seems very wonderful,” she murmured; and in this
bewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being personally
touched by the story.

“Now don’t go and turn against the poor innocent child!” the Countess
went on. “She’s very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin. I myself
have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but because she
had become yours.”

“Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at
seeing me--!” Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought.

“I don’t believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed.
Osmond’s marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before
that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought? That
you might take such a fancy to the child that you’d do something for
her. Osmond of course could never give her a portion. Osmond was really
extremely poor; but of course you know all about that. Ah, my dear,”
 cried the Countess, “why did you ever inherit money?” She stopped a
moment as if she saw something singular in Isabel’s face. “Don’t tell
me now that you’ll give her a dot. You’re capable of that, but I would
refuse to believe it. Don’t try to be too good. Be a little easy and
natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfort of it, once in
your life!”

“It’s very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I’m sorry,” Isabel
said. “I’m much obliged to you.”

“Yes, you seem to be!” cried the Countess with a mocking laugh.
“Perhaps you are--perhaps you’re not. You don’t take it as I should have
thought.”

“How should I take it?” Isabel asked.

“Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of.” Isabel made
no answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on. “They’ve
always been bound to each other; they remained so even after she broke
off--or _he_ did. But he has always been more for her than she has been
for him. When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that
each should give the other complete liberty, but that each should also
do everything possible to help the other on. You may ask me how I know
such a thing as that. I know it by the way they’ve behaved. Now see how
much better women are than men! She has found a wife for Osmond, but
Osmond has never lifted a little finger for _her_. She has worked for him,
plotted for him, suffered for him; she has even more than once found
money for him; and the end of it is that he’s tired of her. She’s an old
habit; there are moments when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn’t
miss her if she were removed. And, what’s more, to-day she knows it. So
you needn’t be jealous!” the Countess added humorously.

Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of breath;
her head was humming with new knowledge. “I’m much obliged to you,” she
repeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a different tone: “How
do you know all this?”

This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel’s
expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold
stare, with which, “Let us assume that I’ve invented it!” she cried. She
too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel’s
arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: “Now will you
give up your journey?”

Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a
moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a
minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed
eyes and pale lips.

“I’ve done wrong to speak--I’ve made you ill!” the Countess cried.

“Ah, I must see Ralph!” Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in
the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of
far-reaching, infinite sadness.



CHAPTER LII

There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn’t turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o’clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.

The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment
only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned
at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got
up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her
extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect
was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision
that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,
seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her
falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these
dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the
room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of
handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It
made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot
she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to
her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one’s relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off
not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her
habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she
had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a
peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw
that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the
whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her
young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a
cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their
last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had
been irritated then, she was reconciled now.

“You can leave us alone,” she said to the portress; “in five minutes
this lady will ring for you.” And then she turned to Isabel, who, after
noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let
her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished
never to look at Madame Merle again. “You’re surprised to find me here,
and I’m afraid you’re not pleased,” this lady went on. “You don’t see
why I should have come; it’s as if I had anticipated you. I confess I’ve
been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission.” There
was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply
and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could
not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. “But I’ve not
been sitting long,” Madame Merle continued; “that is I’ve not been long
with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon
that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.
It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I
can’t tell. At any rate it’s a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the
chance. I knew of course that you’d come, and her father as well;
still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman--what’s her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I
stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not
in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it’s all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I’ve seen her. She may even have a
maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears
a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don’t
find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most
coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says
it’s a great happiness for them to have her. She’s a little saint of
heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame
Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the
signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me
go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you
that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was
of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I
requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she
supposed I would treat you!”

So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had
long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases
and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel’s
ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion’s face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse
in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle
modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely
new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in
the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in
the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person
who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a
very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was
tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of
women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed
on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had
the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with
a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her
will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice
refused to improve--she couldn’t help it--while she heard herself say
she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able
only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.

Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large
clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might
have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and
saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,
this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with
her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side
of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she
saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become
a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in
which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry
staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,
as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if
she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during
which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous
vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world
standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel’s only revenge was to be silent still--to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame
Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel’s face. She might see
what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse
her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the
opportunity to defend herself.

“I’m come to bid Pansy good-bye,” our young woman said at last. “I go to
England to-night.”

“Go to England to-night!” Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.

“I’m going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett’s dying.”

“Ah, you’ll feel that.” Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance
to express sympathy. “Do you go alone?”

“Yes; without my husband.”

Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. “Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I’m sorry
he’s dying. Shall you see his mother?”

“Yes; she has returned from America.”

“She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have
changed,” said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a
moment, then added: “And you’ll see dear old Gardencourt again!”

“I shall not enjoy it much,” Isabel answered.

“Naturally--in your grief. But it’s on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I
don’t venture to send a message to the people,” Madame Merle added; “but
I should like to give my love to the place.”

Isabel turned away. “I had better go to Pansy. I’ve not much time.”

While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet
smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump
white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she
had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly
and said: “It will be good for her to see you. I’ll take you to her
myself.” Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.

“Will you let me remain a little?” this lady asked. “It’s so good to be
here.”

“You may remain always if you like!” And the good sister gave a knowing
laugh.

She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long
staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;
so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine
gently pushed open the door of Pansy’s room and ushered in the visitor;
then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and
embraced.

“She’s glad to see you,” she repeated; “it will do her good.” And she
placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement
to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. “How does this dear child
look?” she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.

“She looks pale,” Isabel answered.

“That’s the pleasure of seeing you. She’s very happy. _Elle éclaire la
maison_,” said the good sister.

Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. “They’re very good to me--they
think of everything!” she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to
accommodate.

“We think of you always--you’re a precious charge,” Madame Catherine
remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and
whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with
a leaden weight on Isabel’s ears; it seemed to represent the surrender
of a personality, the authority of the Church.

When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid
her head in her stepmother’s lap. So she remained some moments, while
Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and
looking about the room. “Don’t you think I’ve arranged it well? I’ve
everything I have at home.”

“It’s very pretty; you’re very comfortable.” Isabel scarcely knew what
she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn’t let her think she had
come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend
to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: “I’ve come to
bid you good-bye. I’m going to England.”

Pansy’s white little face turned red. “To England! Not to come back?”

“I don’t know when I shall come back.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had
no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.

“My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he’ll probably die. I wish to see
him,” Isabel said.

“Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa
go?”

“No; I shall go alone.”

For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she
thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never
by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed
them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel
was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands
and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet
even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have
stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the
saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted
heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would
(for very solemnity’s sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,
so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own. “You’ll be very far away,” she presently went on.

“Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter,” Isabel
explained; “since so long as you’re here I can’t be called near you.”

“Yes, but you can come and see me; though you’ve not come very often.”

“I’ve not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing
with me. I can’t amuse you.”

“I’m not to be amused. That’s not what papa wishes.”

“Then it hardly matters whether I’m in Rome or in England.”

“You’re not happy, Mrs. Osmond,” said Pansy.

“Not very. But it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to
come out.”

“I wish indeed you might.”

“Don’t leave me here,” Pansy went on gently.

Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. “Will you come
away with me now?” she asked.

Pansy looked at her pleadingly. “Did papa tell you to bring me?”

“No; it’s my own proposal.”

“I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?”

“I don’t think he knew I was coming.”

“He thinks I’ve not had enough,” said Pansy. “But I have. The ladies are
very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some
very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for
yourself. All that’s very delightful. But I’ve had enough. Papa wished
me to think a little--and I’ve thought a great deal.”

“What have you thought?”

“Well, that I must never displease papa.”

“You knew that before.”

“Yes; but I know it better. I’ll do anything--I’ll do anything,” said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into
her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been
vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!
Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy’s as if to let her know that her
look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl’s
momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only
her tribute to the truth of things. She didn’t presume to judge others,
but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no
vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of
sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her
pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.
Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!

Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. “Good-bye then. I leave
Rome to-night.”

Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child’s
face. “You look strange, you frighten me.”

“Oh, I’m very harmless,” said Isabel.

“Perhaps you won’t come back?”

“Perhaps not. I can’t tell.”

“Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won’t leave me!”

Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. “My dear child, what can I do
for you?” she asked.

“I don’t know--but I’m happier when I think of you.”

“You can always think of me.”

“Not when you’re so far. I’m a little afraid,” said Pansy.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me.”

“You must not say that,” Isabel observed.

“Oh, I’ll do everything they want. Only if you’re here I shall do it
more easily.”

Isabel considered. “I won’t desert you,” she said at last. “Good-bye, my
child.”

Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor
to the top of the staircase. “Madame Merle has been here,” she remarked
as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: “I
don’t like Madame Merle!”

Isabel hesitated, then stopped. “You must never say that--that you don’t
like Madame Merle.”

Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a
reason for non-compliance. “I never will again,” she said with exquisite
gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it
appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she
reached the bottom the girl was standing above. “You’ll come back?” she
called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.

“Yes--I’ll come back.”

Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of
the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. “I won’t
go in,” said the good sister. “Madame Merle’s waiting for you.”

At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking
if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment’s reflexion
assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her
desire to avoid Pansy’s other friend. Her companion grasped her arm
very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said
in French and almost familiarly: “_Eh bien, chère Madame, qu’en
pensez-vous?_”

“About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you.”

“We think it’s enough,” Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she
pushed open the door of the parlour.

Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so
absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame
Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been
thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full
possession of her resources. “I found I wished to wait for you,” she
said urbanely. “But it’s not to talk about Pansy.”

Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame
Merle’s declaration she answered after a moment: “Madame Catherine says
it’s enough.”

“Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about
poor Mr. Touchett,” Madame Merle added. “Have you reason to believe that
he’s really at his last?”

“I’ve no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a
probability.”

“I’m going to ask you a strange question,” said Madame Merle. “Are
you very fond of your cousin?” And she gave a smile as strange as her
utterance.

“Yes, I’m very fond of him. But I don’t understand you.”

She just hung fire. “It’s rather hard to explain. Something has occurred
to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never
guessed it?”

“He has done me many services.”

“Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman.”

“_He_ made me--?”

Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more
triumphantly: “He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required
to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it’s him you’ve to thank.” She
stopped; there was something in Isabel’s eyes.

“I don’t understand you. It was my uncle’s money.”

“Yes; it was your uncle’s money, but it was your cousin’s idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!”

Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by
lurid flashes. “I don’t know why you say such things. I don’t know what
you know.”

“I know nothing but what I’ve guessed. But I’ve guessed that.”

Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment
with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: “I
believed it was you I had to thank!”

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. “You’re very unhappy, I know. But I’m more so.”

“Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again.”

Madame Merle raised her eyes. “I shall go to America,” she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out.



CHAPTER LIII

It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel
descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the
arms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole.
She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not
definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt
her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from
Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question
the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took
little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they
were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their
course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless
lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,
a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but
it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of
memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their
will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a
logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now
that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much
concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt
to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,
their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their
horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She
remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity
of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that
they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of
use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all
desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.
Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers
it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in
her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had
been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph
his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect
of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything
more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble
tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.

She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as
good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,
simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and
regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures
couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret
now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of
her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle
had been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped,
from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been.
Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was
going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she
should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into
the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She
saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who
had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of
the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was
evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite
for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a
long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost
enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a
proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn’t be she was to live
only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury
of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,
too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be
valuable? Wasn’t all history full of the destruction of precious things?
Wasn’t it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? It
involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but
Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow
of a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end.
Then the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of
her indifference closed her in.

Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid
she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,
looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she
wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.
She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an
arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,
the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her
with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend’s. She
remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty
spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered
how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded
streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the
incident came before her as the deed of another person.

“It’s too beautiful that you should have come,” said Henrietta, looking
at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the
proposition. “If you hadn’t--if you hadn’t; well, I don’t know,”
 remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval.

Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another
figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment
she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little
apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about
him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of
abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their
embraces.

“There’s Mr. Bantling,” said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely
caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.

“Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!” Henrietta
exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile
tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. “Isn’t it lovely she
has come?” Henrietta asked. “He knows all about it,” she added; “we had
quite a discussion. He said you wouldn’t, I said you would.”

“I thought you always agreed,” Isabel smiled in return. She felt she
could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling’s brave
eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to
remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that
it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him,
extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight.

“Oh, I always agree,” said Mr. Bantling. “But she doesn’t, you know.”

“Didn’t I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?” Henrietta enquired.
“Your young lady has probably remained at Calais.”

“I don’t care,” said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never
found so interesting.

“Stay with her while I go and see,” Henrietta commanded, leaving the two
for a moment together.

They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel
how it had been on the Channel.

“Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough,” she said, to her
companion’s obvious surprise. After which she added: “You’ve been to
Gardencourt, I know.”

“Now how do you know that?”

“I can’t tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to
Gardencourt.”

“Do you think I look awfully sad? It’s awfully sad there, you know.”

“I don’t believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind,”
 said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she
should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.

Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed
a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,
and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. “You can ask Miss
Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago.”

“Did you see my cousin?”

“Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been
there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he
was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can’t speak,”
 Mr. Bantling pursued. “He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He
was just as clever as ever. It’s awfully wretched.”

Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. “Was
that late in the day?”

“Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you’d like to know.”

“I’m greatly obliged to you. Can I go down to-night?”

“Ah, I don’t think _she’ll_ let you go,” said Mr. Bantling. “She wants you
to stop with her. I made Touchett’s man promise to telegraph me to-day,
and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. ‘Quiet and easy,’
that’s what it says, and it’s dated two o’clock. So you see you can wait
till to-morrow. You must be awfully tired.”

“Yes, I’m awfully tired. And I thank you again.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Bantling, “We were certain you would like the last news.”
 On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to
agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel’s maid, whom she had caught
in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of
losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress’s
luggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station.
“You know you’re not to think of going to the country to-night,”
 Henrietta remarked to her. “It doesn’t matter whether there’s a train
or not. You’re to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn’t a
corner to be had in London, but I’ve got you one all the same. It isn’t
a Roman palace, but it will do for a night.”

“I’ll do whatever you wish,” Isabel said.

“You’ll come and answer a few questions; that’s what I wish.”

“She doesn’t say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?” Mr.
Bantling enquired jocosely.

Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. “I see you’re
in a great hurry to get your own. You’ll be at the Paddington Station
to-morrow morning at ten.”

“Don’t come for my sake, Mr. Bantling,” said Isabel.

“He’ll come for mine,” Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into
a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her
justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which
she had alluded at the station. “Did your husband make you a scene about
your coming?” That was Miss Stackpole’s first enquiry.

“No; I can’t say he made a scene.”

“He didn’t object then?”

“Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you’d call a scene.”

“What was it then?”

“It was a very quiet conversation.”

Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. “It must have been hellish,”
 she then remarked. And Isabel didn’t deny that it had been hellish. But
she confined herself to answering Henrietta’s questions, which was easy,
as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no
new information. “Well,” said Miss Stackpole at last, “I’ve only one
criticism to make. I don’t see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go
back.”

“I’m not sure I myself see now,” Isabel replied. “But I did then.”

“If you’ve forgotten your reason perhaps you won’t return.”

Isabel waited a moment. “Perhaps I shall find another.”

“You’ll certainly never find a good one.”

“In default of a better my having promised will do,” Isabel suggested.

“Yes; that’s why I hate it.”

“Don’t speak of it now. I’ve a little time. Coming away was a
complication, but what will going back be?”

“You must remember, after all, that he won’t make you a scene!” said
Henrietta with much intention.

“He will, though,” Isabel answered gravely. “It won’t be the scene of a
moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life.”

For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and
then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested,
announced abruptly: “I’ve been to stay with Lady Pensil!”

“Ah, the invitation came at last!”

“Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me.”

“Naturally enough.”

“It was more natural than I think you know,” said Henrietta, who fixed
her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:
“Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don’t know why? Because I
criticised you, and yet I’ve gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at
least, was born on the other side!”

It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so
modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel’s mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with
a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately
recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,
“Henrietta Stackpole,” she asked, “are you going to give up your
country?”

“Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won’t pretend to deny it; I look the fact
in the face. I’m going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in
London.”

“It seems very strange,” said Isabel, smiling now.

“Well yes, I suppose it does. I’ve come to it little by little. I think
I know what I’m doing; but I don’t know as I can explain.”

“One can’t explain one’s marriage,” Isabel answered. “And yours doesn’t
need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn’t a riddle.”

“No, he isn’t a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature,” Henrietta went on. “I’ve studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He’s as clear as the style of a good
prospectus. He’s not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the
other hand he doesn’t exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in
the United States.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “you’re changed indeed! It’s the first time I’ve ever
heard you say anything against your native land.”

“I only say that we’re too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after
all, isn’t a vulgar fault. But I _am_ changed; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something
of the inner life.”

Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. “That’s the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn’t endure to be kept off. Now I’ve as good
a right as any one!” she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly
diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,
after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she
had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was
a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was
subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her
marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to
Isabel’s sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A
little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. But she didn’t see how Henrietta could give up her country.
She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her
country as it had been Henrietta’s. She presently asked her if she had
enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.

“Oh yes,” said Henrietta, “she didn’t know what to make of me.”

“And was that very enjoyable?”

“Very much so, because she’s supposed to be a master mind. She thinks
she knows everything; but she doesn’t understand a woman of my modern
type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better
or a little worse. She’s so puzzled; I believe she thinks it’s my duty
to go and do something immoral. She thinks it’s immoral that I should
marry her brother; but, after all, that isn’t immoral enough. And she’ll
never understand my mixture--never!”

“She’s not so intelligent as her brother then,” said Isabel. “He appears
to have understood.”

“Oh no, he hasn’t!” cried Miss Stackpole with decision. “I really
believe that’s what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the
mystery and the proportions of it. That’s a fixed idea--a kind of
fascination.”

“It’s very good in you to humour it.”

“Oh well,” said Henrietta, “I’ve something to find out too!” And Isabel
saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She
was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.

Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington
Station, where she found herself, at ten o’clock, in the company both
of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his
perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found
out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting
in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had
been on his guard against this deficiency.

“Henrietta has told me, and I’m very glad,” Isabel said as she gave him
her hand.

“I dare say you think it awfully odd,” Mr. Bantling replied, resting on
his neat umbrella.

“Yes, I think it awfully odd.”

“You can’t think it so awfully odd as I do. But I’ve always rather liked
striking out a line,” said Mr. Bantling serenely.



CHAPTER LIV

Isabel’s arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even
quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small
household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that
instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown
into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to
her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to
come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as
scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious
things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark
and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The
house was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it
had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She
left the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and
along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep
made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had
seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood
there. She envied the security of valuable “pieces” which change by no
hair’s breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by
inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking
about as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany.
She was changed enough since then--that had been the beginning. It
suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just
that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She
might have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest.
She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture--a charming and
precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was
not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had
not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.

Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the
big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her
eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a
repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most
undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first
time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the
matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel’s hot cheek.

“I’ve kept you waiting because I’ve been sitting with Ralph,” Mrs.
Touchett said. “The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her
place. He has a man who’s supposed to look after him, but the man’s good
for nothing; he’s always looking out of the window--as if there were
anything to see! I didn’t wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be
sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the
nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house.”

“I find I know it better even than I thought; I’ve been walking
everywhere,” Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much.

“He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn’t move. But I’m not sure that
it’s always sleep.”

“Will he see me? Can he speak to me?”

Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. “You can try him,” was the
limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her
room. “I thought they had taken you there; but it’s not my house, it’s
Ralph’s; and I don’t know what they do. They must at least have taken
your luggage; I don’t suppose you’ve brought much. Not that I care,
however. I believe they’ve given you the same room you had before; when
Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have that one.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Ah, my dear, he doesn’t chatter as he used!” cried Mrs. Touchett as she
preceded her niece up the staircase.

It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept
in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous;
Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. “Is there really
no hope?” our young woman asked as she stood before her.

“None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful
life.”

“No--it has only been a beautiful one.” Isabel found herself already
contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.

“I don’t know what you mean by that; there’s no beauty without health.
That is a very odd dress to travel in.”

Isabel glanced at her garment. “I left Rome at an hour’s notice; I took
the first that came.”

“Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to
be their principal interest. I wasn’t able to tell them--but they seemed
to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black
brocade.”

“They think I’m more brilliant than I am; I’m afraid to tell them the
truth,” said Isabel. “Lily wrote me you had dined with her.”

“She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she
should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been
expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to
America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn’t go for my pleasure.”

These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece,
whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this
repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the
melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not
to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman’s
inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to
her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able
to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she
were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately
trying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet;
the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other
hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all
it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had
come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw
herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little
sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not
moved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner.
And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day
before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed
an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an
accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy;
she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She
none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to
Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome.

“He has something else to think of now,” Mrs. Touchett returned. And she
paused with a gaze like a gimlet.

Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant.
But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished
to gain a moment. “Ah yes--the House of Lords and all that.”

“He’s not thinking of the Lords; he’s thinking of the ladies. At least
he’s thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he’s engaged to be married.”

“Ah, to be married!” Isabel mildly exclaimed.

“Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know.
Poor Ralph can’t go to the wedding, though I believe it’s to take place
very soon.

“And who’s the young lady?”

“A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of
that sort.”

“I’m very glad,” Isabel said. “It must be a sudden decision.”

“Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just
been made public.”

“I’m very glad,” Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her
aunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness,
and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this
kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone
almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that
ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as
an offence to themselves. Isabel’s first care therefore was to show
that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But
meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some
moments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett’s observation--it
was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed
half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the
city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord
Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course
not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this
intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her
aunt: “He was sure to do it some time or other.”

Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the
head. “Ah, my dear, you’re beyond me!” she cried suddenly. They went on
with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord
Warburton’s death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was
all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A
servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him
to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her
hands folded on the edge of the table. “I should like to ask you three
questions,” she observed when the servant had gone.

“Three are a great many.”

“I can’t do with less; I’ve been thinking. They’re all very good ones.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. The best questions are the worst,” Isabel
answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left
the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows,
she felt herself followed by her eyes.

“Have you ever been sorry you didn’t marry Lord Warburton?” Mrs.
Touchett enquired.

Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. “No, dear aunt.”

“Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say.”

“Your believing me’s an immense temptation,” she declared, smiling
still.

“A temptation to lie? I don’t recommend you to do that, for when I’m
misinformed I’m as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don’t mean to crow
over you.”

“It’s my husband who doesn’t get on with me,” said Isabel.

“I could have told him he wouldn’t. I don’t call that crowing over _you_,”
 Mrs. Touchett added. “Do you still like Serena Merle?” she went on.

“Not as I once did. But it doesn’t matter, for she’s going to America.”

“To America? She must have done something very bad.”

“Yes--very bad.”

“May I ask what it is?”

“She made a convenience of me.”

“Ah,” cried Mrs. Touchett, “so she did of me! She does of every one.”

“She’ll make a convenience of America,” said Isabel, smiling again and
glad that her aunt’s questions were over.

It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been
dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was
there, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended
his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he
was deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope,
but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked his
mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further
need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew
that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel’s arrival Ralph gave no
sign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised
himself and said he knew that she had come.

How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no
one had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in
the dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a corner of the room.
She told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for the
rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had
moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take
it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained
perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a
long time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He
might have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the
figure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome,
and this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was a
strange tranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box.
With this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes to
greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was
not till midnight that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel,
had not seemed long; it was exactly what she had come for. If she had
come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in
a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to
wish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as
if he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would
come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming
had already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were
still together. But they were not always together; there were other
hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening
for a voice that was not poor Ralph’s. She had a constant fear; she
thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained
silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess
Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.

“I feel better to-night,” he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless
dimness of her vigil; “I think I can say something.” She sank upon her
knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him
not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity
serious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner
apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. “What does it
matter if I’m tired when I’ve all eternity to rest? There’s no harm in
making an effort when it’s the very last of all. Don’t people always
feel better just before the end? I’ve often heard of that; it’s what I
was waiting for. Ever since you’ve been here I thought it would come.
I tried two or three times; I was afraid you’d get tired of sitting
there.” He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice
seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face
turned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. “It
was very good of you to come,” he went on. “I thought you would; but I
wasn’t sure.”

“I was not sure either till I came,” said Isabel.

“You’ve been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about the
angel of death. It’s the most beautiful of all. You’ve been like that;
as if you were waiting for me.”

“I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is
not death, dear Ralph.”

“Not for you--no. There’s nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see
others die. That’s the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I’ve
had it--even I. But now I’m of no use but to give it to others. With me
it’s all over.” And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till
it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn’t
see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. “Isabel,” he
went on suddenly, “I wish it were over for you.” She answered nothing;
she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay
silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. “Ah, what
is it you have done for me?”

“What is it you did for me?” she cried, her now extreme agitation half
smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide
things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them
supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. “You did
something once--you know it. O Ralph, you’ve been everything! What have
I done for you--what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live.
But I don’t wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you.” Her
voice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.

“You won’t lose me--you’ll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be
nearer to you than I’ve ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in
life there’s love. Death is good--but there’s no love.”

“I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!”
 Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse
herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the
moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. “What
must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I
only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I.”

“Don’t mind people,” said Ralph. “I think I’m glad to leave people.”

She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to
pray to him. “Is it true--is it true?” she asked.

“True that you’ve been stupid? Oh no,” said Ralph with a sensible
intention of wit.

“That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?”

He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last:
“Ah, don’t speak of that--that was not happy.” Slowly he moved his face
toward her again, and they once more saw each other. “But for that--but
for that--!” And he paused. “I believe I ruined you,” he wailed.

She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he
seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had
it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only
knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were
looking at the truth together.

“He married me for the money,” she said. She wished to say everything;
she was afraid he might die before she had done so. He gazed at her a
little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he
raised them in a moment, and then, “He was greatly in love with you,” he
answered.

“Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn’t have married me if I had
been poor. I don’t hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you
to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that’s
all over.”

“I always understood,” said Ralph.

“I thought you did, and I didn’t like it. But now I like it.”

“You don’t hurt me--you make me very happy.” And as Ralph said this
there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her
head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. “I always
understood,” he continued, “though it was so strange--so pitiful. You
wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you
were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the
conventional!”

“Oh yes, I’ve been punished,” Isabel sobbed.

He listened to her a little, and then continued: “Was he very bad about
your coming?”

“He made it very hard for me. But I don’t care.”

“It is all over then between you?”

“Oh no; I don’t think anything’s over.”

“Are you going back to him?” Ralph gasped.

“I don’t know--I can’t tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don’t
want to think--I needn’t think. I don’t care for anything but you, and
that’s enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my
knees, with you dying in my arms, I’m happier than I have been for a
long time. And I want you to be happy--not to think of anything sad;
only to feel that I’m near you and I love you. Why should there be
pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That’s not
the deepest thing; there’s something deeper.”

Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in
speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared
to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then
he murmured simply: “You must stay here.”

“I should like to stay--as long as seems right.”

“As seems right--as seems right?” He repeated her words. “Yes, you think
a great deal about that.”

“Of course one must. You’re very tired,” said Isabel.

“I’m very tired. You said just now that pain’s not the deepest thing.
No--no. But it’s very deep. If I could stay--”

“For me you’ll always be here,” she softly interrupted. It was easy to
interrupt him.

But he went on, after a moment: “It passes, after all; it’s passing now.
But love remains. I don’t know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I
shall find out. There are many things in life. You’re very young.”

“I feel very old,” said Isabel.

“You’ll grow young again. That’s how I see you. I don’t believe--I don’t
believe--” But he stopped again; his strength failed him.

She begged him to be quiet now. “We needn’t speak to understand each
other,” she said.

“I don’t believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for
more than a little.”

“Oh Ralph, I’m very happy now,” she cried through her tears.

“And remember this,” he continued, “that if you’ve been hated
you’ve also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--_adored_!” he just audibly and
lingeringly breathed.

“Oh my brother!” she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.



CHAPTER LV

He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that
if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost
with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled
the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint
dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down
without undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast
the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and such
waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the
night wore on she should hear a knock at her door. She heard no knock,
but at the time the darkness began vaguely to grow grey she started up
from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed
to her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering
figure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his
white face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not
afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty
passed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that
shone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph’s door she
stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that
filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were
lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting
motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his
hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph’s
further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were
at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but
the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph’s hand
in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very
hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had
come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there
was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years
before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt
and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing
neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this
one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed;
her acute white face was terrible.

“Dear Aunt Lydia,” Isabel murmured.

“Go and thank God you’ve no child,” said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging
herself.

Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the
height of the London “season,” to take a morning train down to a quiet
station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which
stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this
edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself
at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton
himself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs.
Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one;
there was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weather
had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous
May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the
hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it
was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been
dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and
prepared. There were tears in Isabel’s eyes, but they were not tears
that blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the
splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the
bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group
of gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards
learned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she
knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling
beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the
rest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was
conscious of Mr. Goodwood’s gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than
he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon
the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she
thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found
she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt
he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that
pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and
something in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex
intention. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, though there was doubtless
sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the
little group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to
her--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta Stackpole.
Henrietta had been crying.

Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt,
and she made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself
that it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was
fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been
greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had
left her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting
the hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellent motive.
He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn’t alter the case.
Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were
quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel
thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a
distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder
of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew
back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,
postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must
decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a
decision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound
and now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From
Pansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told
her not to write.

Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel’s company, but offered her no assistance;
she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but
with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs.
Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she
managed to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion
that, after all, such things happened to other people and not to
herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son’s
death, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would
be disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off than
poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him,
and indeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs.
Touchett’s mind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage of. For
herself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. She
made known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was
buried--several of Ralph’s testamentary arrangements. He had told her
everything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money;
of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of
Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the
place for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced by
the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor persons
suffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the
will Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property,
which was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various
bequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his
father had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small
legacies.

“Some of them are extremely peculiar,” said Mrs. Touchett; “he has left
considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I
asked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at
various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn’t
like him, for he hasn’t left you a penny. It was his opinion that you
had been handsomely treated by his father, which I’m bound to say I
think you were--though I don’t mean that I ever heard him complain of
it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one
by one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to
Lord Warburton. And what do you think he has done with his library?
It sounds like a practical joke. He has left it to your friend Miss
Stackpole--‘in recognition of her services to literature.’ Does he mean
her following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It
contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can’t carry
it about the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction.
She will sell it of course at Christie’s, and with the proceeds she’ll
set up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?”

This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little
interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her
arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than
to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one
of the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She
was quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at her
command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremony
in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes
often wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, which
looked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modest
vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in
rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had
a high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under
the circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down
from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett
he had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the
validity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house and
wandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she
had been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for
visiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it
struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have just
mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and
if you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad
conscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an
hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge
from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently
proposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She
was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have
drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen
and that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt
was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that,
as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather
stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently
were silent; but Mrs. Touchett’s thin little glance, as she directed it
toward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to say
with cutting sharpness: “Here’s the eminently amenable nobleman you
might have married!” When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however,
that was not what they said. They only said “This is rather awkward, you
know, and I depend upon you to help me.” He was very grave, very proper
and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without
a smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile.
He looked extremely selfconscious.

“Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me,” said Mrs.
Touchett. “He tells me he didn’t know you were still here. I know he’s
an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I
brought him out to see for himself.”

“Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back
in time for dinner,” Mrs. Touchett’s companion rather irrelevantly
explained. “I’m so glad to find you’ve not gone.”

“I’m not here for long, you know,” Isabel said with a certain eagerness.

“I suppose not; but I hope it’s for some weeks. You came to England
sooner than--a--than you thought?”

“Yes, I came very suddenly.”

Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the
grounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton
hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking
about her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He
continued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a
place over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If
he was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he had
the cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel
thought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was
another matter; but it was strangely inexpressive.

“My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were
still here--if they had thought you would see them,” Lord Warburton went
on. “Do kindly let them see you before you leave England.”

“It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of
them.”

“I don’t know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two?
You know there’s always that old promise.” And his lordship coloured a
little as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more
familiar air. “Perhaps I’m not right in saying that just now; of course
you’re not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a
visit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days;
and if you could come then--as you say you’re not to be very long in
England--I would see that there should be literally no one else.”

Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be
there with her mamma; but she did not express this idea.

“Thank you extremely,” she contented herself with saying; “I’m afraid I
hardly know about Whitsuntide.”

“But I have your promise--haven’t I?--for some other time.”

There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She looked
at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was
that--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. “Take care you
don’t miss your train,” she said. And then she added: “I wish you every
happiness.”

He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. “Ah yes,
6.40; I haven’t much time, but I’ve a fly at the door. Thank you very
much.” It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her having
reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. “Good-bye,
Mrs. Osmond; good-bye.” He shook hands with her, without meeting her
eyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to
them. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the two
ladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn.

“Are you very sure he’s to be married?” Isabel asked of her aunt.

“I can’t be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and
he accepted it.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “I give it up!”--while her aunt returned to the house
and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.

She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she
strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the
acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near a
rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as
an object recognised. It was not simply that she had seen it before,
nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this spot something
important had happened to her--that the place had an air of association.
Then she remembered that she had been sitting there, six years before,
when a servant brought her from the house the letter in which Caspar
Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that when
she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing
that he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an
interesting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have
something to say to her. She wouldn’t sit down on it now--she felt
rather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the
past came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which
persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this
agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence
of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have
said that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether or
no, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the
former epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment
she was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular
absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in
the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her.
There was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their
seclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she
had sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight
had grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She
quickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had
become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,
who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the
unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her
in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised
her of old.

She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started
forward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked
like violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by the
wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had
not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was
something in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he
had looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at present
it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to
her--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost
seemed to her that no one had ever been so close to her as that.
All this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she had
disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. “You’ve
frightened me,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to,” he answered, “but if I did a little, no matter.
I came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn’t come here
directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took
a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I
don’t know who he was, but I didn’t want to come with him; I wanted to
see you alone. So I’ve been waiting and walking about. I’ve walked all
over, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was
a keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I
had made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is that
gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you.” Goodwood
spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.
Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into
herself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out
sail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was
a feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his
resolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee,
leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemed
to darken round them. “I want to speak to you,” he repeated; “I’ve
something particular to say. I don’t want to trouble you--as I did
the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. I
couldn’t help it; I knew I was wrong. But I’m not wrong now; please
don’t think I am,” he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment
into entreaty. “I came here to-day for a purpose. It’s very different.
It was vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help you.”

She couldn’t have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or
because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she
listened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep
into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and
it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. “How can you
help me?” she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he had
said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.

“By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember
what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I
know on good authority; everything’s clear to me to-day. It was a good
thing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a good man,
a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He
explained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member of
your family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to my
care,” said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. “Do you know
what he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he
died? He said: ‘Do everything you can for her; do everything she’ll let
you.’”

Isabel suddenly got up. “You had no business to talk about me!”

“Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?” he demanded, following
her fast. “And he was dying--when a man’s dying it’s different.” She
checked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening more
than ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That
had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea,
which she scented in all her being. “But it doesn’t matter!” he
exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem
of her garment. “If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have
known all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin’s funeral
to see what’s the matter with you. You can’t deceive me any more; for
God’s sake be honest with a man who’s so honest with you. You’re the
most unhappy of women, and your husband’s the deadliest of fiends.”

She turned on him as if he had struck her. “Are you mad?” she cried.

“I’ve never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don’t think it’s
necessary to defend him. But I won’t say another word against him; I’ll
speak only of you,” Goodwood added quickly. “How can you pretend you’re
not heart-broken? You don’t know what to do--you don’t know where to
turn. It’s too late to play a part; didn’t you leave all that behind you
in Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what it
would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it
will”--and he flared almost into anger: “give me one word of truth! When
I know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save
you? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see you
go back to your reward? ‘It’s awful, what she’ll have to pay for
it!’--that’s what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn’t I? He
was such a near relation!” cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point
again. “I’d sooner have been shot than let another man say those things
to me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was
after he got home--when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too.
I understand all about it: you’re afraid to go back. You’re perfectly
alone; you don’t know where to turn. You can’t turn anywhere; you know
that perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of _me_.”

“To think of ‘you’?” Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. The
idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed
large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had
been a comet in the sky.

“You don’t know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade
you to trust me,” Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining
eyes. “Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastly
form?”

“To get away from you!” she answered. But this expressed only a little
of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She
had believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the
desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere
sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her
feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and
strange, forced open her set teeth.

At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that
he would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he was
perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it
all out. “I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you’ll only for
once listen to me. It’s too monstrous of you to think of sinking back
into that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It’s
you that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why
shouldn’t we be happy--when it’s here before us, when it’s so easy? I’m
yours for ever--for ever and ever. Here I stand; I’m as firm as a rock.
What have you to care about? You’ve no children; that perhaps would be
an obstacle. As it is you’ve nothing to consider. You must save what you
can of your life; you mustn’t lose it all simply because you’ve lost a
part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the look
of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the
world. We’ve nothing to do with all that; we’re quite out of it; we look
at things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next
is nothing; it’s the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woman
deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going
down into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and
that’s why I’m here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under
the sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that
has the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a
question is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we
born to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew _you_
afraid! If you’ll only trust me, how little you will be disappointed!
The world’s all before us--and the world’s very big. I know something
about that.”

Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were
pressing something that hurt her.

“The world’s very small,” she said at random; she had an immense
desire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say
something; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never
seemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form
of a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted
help, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not
whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then
that to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her
dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she
felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with her
feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest on.

“Ah, be mine as I’m yours!” she heard her companion cry. He had suddenly
given up argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible,
through a confusion of vaguer sounds.

This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the
metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest
of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware of
this. “Do me the greatest kindness of all,” she panted. “I beseech you
to go away!”

“Ah, don’t say that. Don’t kill me!” he cried.

She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. “As you love
me, as you pity me, leave me alone!”

He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she
felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like
white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and
it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in
his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his
face, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and
made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked
and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when
darkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she only
darted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house;
they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for
the distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (for
she saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked
all about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the
latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a
very straight path.

Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in
Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings.
He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened
and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and
jacket; she was on the point of going out. “Oh, good-morning,” he said,
“I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond.”

Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good
deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. “Pray
what led you to suppose she was here?”

“I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she
had come to London. He believed she was to come to you.”

Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in
suspense. “She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this
morning she started for Rome.”

Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the
doorstep. “Oh, she started--?” he stammered. And without finishing
his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn’t
otherwise move.

Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out
her hand and grasped his arm. “Look here, Mr. Goodwood,” she said; “just
you wait!”

On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a
revulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him
with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his
life. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now
the key to patience.





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