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diff --git a/2834-h/2834-h.htm b/2834-h/2834-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ff7e8c --- /dev/null +++ b/2834-h/2834-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14946 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 (of 2) by Henry James + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Portrait of a Lady + Volume 2 (of 2) + +Author: Henry James + +Release Date: December 1, 2008 [EBook #2834] +Last Updated: September 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY + </h1> + <h2> + VOLUME II (of II) + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Henry James + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <table summary="" border="3" cellpadding="4"> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td> + <a + href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2833/2833-h/2833-h.htm">Previous + Volume</a> + </td> + </tr> + </tbody> + </table> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER XXX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER XXXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER XXXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER XXXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XLI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XLII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XLIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XLIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XLV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XLVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XLVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XLVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XLIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER L </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER LI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER LII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER LIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER LIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER LV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely + and want company,” was Ralph’s greeting. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve some that’s very good which you’ve yet deserted.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better go home,” Lord Warburton said without affectation. + </p> + <p> + “And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over her.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems to have plenty of friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s why I must watch,” said Ralph with the same large + mock-melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “If she doesn’t want you it’s probable she doesn’t want me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you’re different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>? 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the character of that gentleman?” Osmond asked of Isabel after he + had retired. + </p> + <p> + “Irreproachable—don’t you see it?” + </p> + <p> + “He owns about half England; that’s his character,” Henrietta remarked. + “That’s what they call a free country!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, he’s a great proprietor? Happy man!” said Gilbert Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord Warburton’s a great radical,” Isabel said. “He has very advanced + opinions.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t they approve of iron fences?” asked Mr. Bantling. + </p> + <p> + “Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were talking + to <i>you</i> over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?” Osmond went on, + questioning Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Well enough for all the use I have for him.” + </p> + <p> + “And how much of a use is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I like to like him.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Liking to like’—why, it makes a passion!” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “No”—she considered—“keep that for liking to <i>dis</i>like.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to provoke me then,” Osmond laughed, “to a passion for <i>him</i>?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of great ability?” her friend enquired. + </p> + <p> + “Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “My envy’s not dangerous; it wouldn’t hurt a mouse. I don’t want to + destroy the people—I only want to <i>be</i> them. You see it would + destroy only myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d like to be the Pope?” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?” Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows as + if the idea were perfectly fresh. + </p> + <p> + “It serves him right if you have,” said Henrietta while the curtain rose + for the ballet. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; you could easily change your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I have done.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bon voyage</i> then.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re in a great hurry to get rid of me,” said his lordship quite + dismally. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. But I hate partings.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t care what I do,” he went on pitifully. + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at him a moment. “Ah,” she said, “you’re not keeping your + promise!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye then.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” He lingered still, however. “When shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: “Some + day after you’re married.” + </p> + <p> + “That will never be. It will be after you are.” + </p> + <p> + “That will do as well,” she smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite as well. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So I have—the best.” And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call them better company than an English peer?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my English peer left me some time ago.” She got up, speaking with + intention a little dryly. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. “It’s not true. I’m + scrupulously kind.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>for</i> him, and he would + not have waited in vain. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You say you’ll come back; but who knows?” Gilbert Osmond said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Italy’s a part of space,” Isabel answered. “I can take it on the + way.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you find that?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up from her book. “What you despise most in the world is bad, + is stupid art.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me,” she went on. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a taste for old lacquer to excuse me,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by being triumphant?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, doing what you like.” + </p> + <p> + “To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things + one likes is often very tiresome.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I can’t advise you without knowing what it is. But I’m horrid when + I’m tired,” Isabel added with due inconsequence. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “Not even when I lose my temper?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If I could only find it now!” Isabel nervously cried. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She instantly rose. “Ah, keep that till I am tired!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I don’t agree with you there.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t at all <i>know</i> you,” she added abruptly; and then she + coloured as she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year + before to Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “If you were not going away you’d know me better.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall do that some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so. I’m very easy to know.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” she emphatically answered—“there you’re not sincere. + You’re not easy to know; no one could be less so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he laughed, “I said that because I know myself. It may be a boast, + but I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely; but you’re very wise.” + </p> + <p> + “So are you, Miss Archer!” Osmond exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t feel so just now. Still, I’m wise enough to think you had better + go. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t even wish it!” Isabel broke out strangely. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not conventional?” Isabel gravely asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She stood there with lowered eyes. “What service did you speak of just + now?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “It will be a great pleasure to me to go,” Isabel answered. “I’ll tell her + what you say. Once more good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ah, comme cela se trouve!</i>” Madame Merle exclaimed. “I myself have + been thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit + before I go off.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + That personage finely meditated. “After all, why should we both go; + having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?” + </p> + <p> + “Very good; I can easily go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about your going alone—to the house of a handsome + bachelor. He has been married—but so long ago!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel stared. “When Mr. Osmond’s away what does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + “They don’t know he’s away, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “They? Whom do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Every one. But perhaps it doesn’t signify.” + </p> + <p> + “If you were going why shouldn’t I?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m an old frump and you’re a beautiful young woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Granting all that, you’ve not promised.” + </p> + <p> + “How much you think of your promises!” said the elder woman in mild + mockery. + </p> + <p> + “I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right,” Madame Merle audibly reflected. “I really think you wish + to be kind to the child.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish very much to be kind to her.” + </p> + <p> + “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, “<i>Don’t</i> tell her. She + won’t care.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I think that’s what I live for,” Pansy answered. “He has not much + pleasure; he’s rather a sad man.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right to obey him; he’ll never ask you anything unreasonable.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for a long time, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>portone</i>, which gave a wider dazzle as + it opened. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Interviewer</i>. 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 + <i>incognita</i>, 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 <i>eprouvée</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no doubt of that.” And he looked about him for a seat. Not only had + he come, but he meant to settle. + </p> + <p> + “You must be very tired,” said Isabel, seating herself, and generously, as + she thought, to give him his opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?” + </p> + <p> + “Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t feel that; I couldn’t think of you as dead. I wish I could!” + he candidly declared. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you immensely.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather think of you as dead than as married to another man.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + He threw up his head as if calculating. “Seventeen days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.” + </p> + <p> + “I came as fast as I could. I’d have come five days ago if I had been + able.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood,” she coldly smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Not to you—no. But to me.” + </p> + <p> + “You gain nothing that I see.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s for me to judge!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I had + got your letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell her?” Isabel asked with a certain anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no,” said Caspar Goodwood simply; “I didn’t want to do that. She’ll + hear it quick enough; she hears everything.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall write to her, and then she’ll write to me and scold me,” Isabel + declared, trying to smile again. + </p> + <p> + Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. “I guess she’ll come right out,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “On purpose to scold me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you tell me that,” Isabel said. “I must prepare for her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last, + raising them, “Does she know Mr. Osmond?” he enquired. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a marriage your friends won’t like?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I really haven’t an idea. As I say, I don’t marry for my friends.” + </p> + <p> + He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions, + doing it quite without delicacy. “Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert + Osmond?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You said in your letter he was American. Hasn’t he a native place?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he never gone back?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should he go back?” Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. “He has + no profession.” + </p> + <p> + “He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn’t he like the United + States?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t know them. Then he’s very quiet and very simple—he + contents himself with Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 comeback to what others + think? I can’t discuss Mr. Osmond with you.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You see how little you gain,” she accordingly broke out—“how little + comfort or satisfaction I can give you.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t expect you to give me much.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand then why you came.” + </p> + <p> + “I came because I wanted to see you once more—even just as you are.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Waited till after you’re married? That’s just what I didn’t want to do. + You’ll be different then.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + “That will make it all the worse,” said Mr. Goodwood grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re unaccommodating! I can’t promise to dislike you in order to + help you to resign yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t care if you did!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I wished to hear the sound of your voice,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know that,” said Caspar. + </p> + <p> + “I gave you full warning that I’d do as I chose.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you’d probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner + that I pretty well believed it.” + </p> + <p> + She considered this an instant. “No one can be more surprised than myself + at my present intention.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that’s soon done. There’s + no mistake whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw that as soon as I came into the room.” + </p> + <p> + “What good would it do you that I shouldn’t marry?” she asked with a + certain fierceness. + </p> + <p> + “I should like it better than this.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very selfish, as I said before.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that. I’m selfish as iron.” + </p> + <p> + “Even iron sometimes melts! If you’ll be reasonable I’ll see you again.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you call me reasonable now?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to say to you,” she answered with sudden humility. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. “In explanation? Do you think I’m + bound to explain?” + </p> + <p> + He gave her one of his long dumb looks. “You were very positive. I did + believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not. Well,” he added, “I’ve done what I wished. I’ve seen + you.” + </p> + <p> + “How little you make of these terrible journeys,” she felt the poverty of + her presently replying. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re afraid I’m knocked up—in any such way as that—you + may he at your ease about it.” He turned away, this time in earnest, and + no hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them. + </p> + <p> + At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. “I shall leave Florence + to-morrow,” he said without a quaver. + </p> + <p> + “I’m delighted to hear it!” she answered passionately. Five minutes after + he had gone out she burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. “You + needn’t tell me; I know what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how you know.” + </p> + <p> + “The same way that I know when the window’s open—by feeling a + draught. You’re going to marry that man.” + </p> + <p> + “What man do you mean?” Isabel enquired with great dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Merle’s friend—Mr. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why you call him Madame Merle’s friend. Is that the + principal thing he’s known by?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He has taken a great deal for himself!” cried Isabel with a voluntary + laugh. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. “I think he must, after all, to have made + you like him so much.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought he even pleased <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “He did, at one time; and that’s why I’m angry with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Be angry with me, not with him,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m always angry with you; that’s no satisfaction! Was it for this + that you refused Lord Warburton?” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t go back to that. Why shouldn’t I like Mr. Osmond, since + others have done so?” + </p> + <p> + “Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There’s + nothing <i>of</i> him,” Mrs. Touchett explained. + </p> + <p> + “Then he can’t hurt me,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you’re going to be happy? No one’s happy, in such doings, + you should know.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it that Mr. Osmond isn’t rich? Is that what you’re talking about?” + Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Give it to him then; but marry some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “His name’s good enough for me,” the girl went on. “It’s a very pretty + name. Have I such a fine one myself?” + </p> + <p> + “All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen + American names. Do you marry him out of charity?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You never do, and I’m greatly obliged to you. You’ve been very + considerate.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not considerate—it was convenient,” said Mrs. Touchett. “But + I shall talk to Madame Merle.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good friend + to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me.” + </p> + <p> + “What has she done to you?” + </p> + <p> + “She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your + engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t have prevented it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me + she was watching you only in order to interpose.” + </p> + <p> + “She said that to please you,” the girl answered; conscious, however, of + the inadequacy of the explanation. + </p> + <p> + “To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you were + marching away, and she was really beating the drum.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but some one else would.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “Ralph doesn’t abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much + for you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it, + and he argued the other way.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He never pretended he’d prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s as you please. I only meant that it’s rather better the + announcement should come from you than from me.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “From an old friend—an American gentleman,” Isabel said with a + colour in her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “An American gentleman of course. It’s only an American gentleman who + calls at ten o’clock in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t he have come yesterday, at the usual time?” + </p> + <p> + “He only arrived last night.” + </p> + <p> + “He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?” Mrs. Touchett cried. “He’s + an American gentleman truly.” + </p> + <p> + “He is indeed,” said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what + Caspar Goodwood had done for her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry I waked you,” Isabel said; “you look too tired.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you tired of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road’s long and I never arrive.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish to arrive at?” she put to him, closing her parasol. + </p> + <p> + “At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your + engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think too much of it,” she lightly returned. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that it’s none of my business?” + </p> + <p> + “Beyond a certain point, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’ve noticed that. I wondered why you were silent.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why you call it caught.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re going to be put into a cage.” + </p> + <p> + “If I like my cage, that needn’t trouble you,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I wonder at; that’s what I’ve been thinking of.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve been thinking you may imagine how I’ve thought! I’m satisfied + that I’m doing well.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty + beyond everything. You wanted only to see life.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen it,” said Isabel. “It doesn’t look to me now, I admit, such an + inviting expanse.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen that one can’t do anything so general. One must choose a corner + and cultivate that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I should have said ‘Wait a little longer.’” + </p> + <p> + “Wait for what?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for a little more light,” said Ralph with rather an absurd smile, + while his hands found their way into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “Where should my light have come from? From you?” + </p> + <p> + “I might have struck a spark or two.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I’m willing to wound <i>him</i>, + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i> I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course that seems to you too fatuous.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Isabel after a little; “it seems to me too touching.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me.” + </p> + <p> + She stroked out her long gloves again. “I know you’ve a great affection + for me. I can’t get rid of that.” + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake don’t try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince + you how intensely I want you to do well.” + </p> + <p> + “And how little you trust me!” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. “I trust + you, but I don’t trust him,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you’re just.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you ever will,” said Ralph. “It’s not in the least the sort + of marriage I thought you’d make.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of marriage was that, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk’s as grave as mine.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s his affair! If he’s afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he + would.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I believed you’d marry a man of more importance.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Come down, you say?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph shook his head. “I’m not afraid of your not believing that I’ve had + great ideas for you.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?” she pursued. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Small?” She made it sound immense. + </p> + <p> + “I think he’s narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!” + </p> + <p> + “He has a great respect for himself; I don’t blame him for that,” said + Isabel. “It makes one more sure to respect others.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one’s relation to + things—to others. I don’t think Mr. Osmond does that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he’s excellent.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband’s.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve said what I had on my mind—and I’ve said it because I love + you!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No; I want no breakfast; I’m not hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to eat,” said the girl; “you live on air.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I’m in trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “One’s in trouble when one’s in error.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Isabel; “I shall never complain of my trouble to you!” + And she moved up the staircase. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you speaking of my aunt—of my cousin?” Isabel asked. “How do + you know what they think?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she had guessed it,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You think I shall suit <i>you</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For you too, I hope,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Let her stay, please,” said Isabel. “I would rather hear nothing that + Pansy may not!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s old Venetian,” she said; “it’s rather good.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too good for this; you ought to wear it.” + </p> + <p> + “They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I can’t wear mine,” smiled the visitor. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why you shouldn’t! I’ve better lace than that to wear.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. “You’ve some very + good things.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I hate them.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to get rid of them?” the young man quickly asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s good to have something to hate: one works it off!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle opened wide eyes. “Did you come to tell me that?” + </p> + <p> + “I came to ask your advice.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to intercede?” Madame Merle asked with her fine arms + folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very considerate; that’s in your favour. But you assume in rather + an off-hand way that I think you a prize.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been very kind to me,” said the young man. “That’s why I came.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently + strenuous. “Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t suppose that. But you’ve seemed to me intimate with her family, + and I thought you might have influence.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle considered. “Whom do you call her family?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, her father; and—how do you say it in English?—her + belle-mere.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that,” said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. “I + think Mrs. Osmond would favour me.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely—if her husband doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his eyebrows. “Does she take the opposite line from him?” + </p> + <p> + “In everything. They think quite differently.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Rosier, “I’m sorry for that; but it’s none of my business. + She’s very fond of Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she’s very fond of Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves + her as if she were her own mother.” + </p> + <p> + “You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor + child,” said Madame Merle. “Have you declared your sentiments?” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. “Never till I’ve + assured myself of those of the parents.” + </p> + <p> + “You always wait for that? You’ve excellent principles; you observe the + proprieties.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t agitate her—only to agitate her; I love her too much for + that,” said Ned Rosier. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I said you were the person to come to!” her visitor cried with prompt + elation. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you live.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t you even allow her the sprig? She’d be much obliged to you at + any rate for that theory.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “The money’s his wife’s; she brought him a large fortune.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do something.” + </p> + <p> + “For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!” Madame Merle + exclaimed with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Osmond,” Madame Merle went on, “will probably prefer to keep her + money for her own children.” + </p> + <p> + “Her own children? Surely she has none.” + </p> + <p> + “She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago, six + months after his birth. Others therefore may come.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She’s a splendid woman.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>parti</i>. + The absence of vices is hardly a source of income. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I think it may be,” said Rosier quite lucidly. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!” + </p> + <p> + “I think you underrate me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “She does—I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried the young man, “I said you were the person to come to.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t know how you know it, if you haven’t asked her,” Madame Merle + went on. + </p> + <p> + “In such a case there’s no need of asking and telling; as you say, we’re + an innocent couple. How did <i>you</i> know it?” + </p> + <p> + “I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I’ll find + out for you.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do my best. I’ll try to make the most of your advantages.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I’ll say a word to Mrs. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Gardez-vous-en bien!</i>” And Madame Merle was on her feet. “Don’t set + her going, or you’ll spoil everything.” + </p> + <p> + Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess <i>had</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i>. You + say you’re an old friend. Would you make her suffer?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I’ve taken a few + soundings.” + </p> + <p> + “Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I’m in love.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you won’t burn up! Why did you come to me, if you’re not to heed what + I say?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle gave a short laugh. “It has been said before. But his wife + isn’t easy either.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>de confiance</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>piazzetta</i> 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 <i>piano + nobile</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How d’ye do? My wife’s somewhere about.” + </p> + <p> + “Never fear; I shall find her,” said Rosier cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’re not losing your interest?” + </p> + <p> + “In old pots and plates? Yes, I’m losing my interest.” + </p> + <p> + Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. “You’re not + thinking of parting with a—a piece or two?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you want to keep, but not to add,” Rosier remarked brightly. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. I’ve nothing I wish to match.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, please, what young lady?” Rosier was immensely obliging; but this was + not what he had come for. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. “She’s not very lively, and he doesn’t like + dull people.” + </p> + <p> + “But she’s good enough for me? Ah now, that’s hard!” + </p> + <p> + “I only mean that you’ve ideas for two. And then you’re so obliging.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he’s not—to me.” And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a sign he should be doubly so to other women. + </p> + <p> + “So I tell him,” she said, still smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You see I want some tea,” Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond. + </p> + <p> + “That’s perfect. Go and give some to my young lady.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, turning away, “I can’t help you there!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>jeune fille</i>, and one couldn’t make of a <i>jeune fille</i> the + enquiry requisite for throwing light on such a point. A <i>jeune fille</i> + was what Rosier had always dreamed of—a <i>jeune fille</i> 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 <i>was</i> + 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 <i>jeune fille</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, you may go,” said Pansy; “and if you like I’ll show you.” She + was not in the least frightened. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I hoped you’d say; you’re so very kind,” Rosier + murmured. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “To see me?” And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “To see you; that’s what I come for,” Rosier repeated, feeling the + intoxication of a rupture with authority. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And it was not disagreeable to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know. You never told me,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid of offending you.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t offend me,” the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel had + kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “You like me then, Pansy?” Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I like you.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>salottino</i>. + She had known it was for her he came, and yet like what a perfect little + lady she had carried it off! + </p> + <p> + “You’re very dear to me,” he murmured, trying to believe that there was + after all such a thing as hospitality. + </p> + <p> + She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. “Did you say papa + knows?” + </p> + <p> + “You told me just now he knows everything.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you must make sure,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear, when once I’m sure of <i>you</i>!” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He came nearly an hour ago—but he has disappeared,” Osmond said. + </p> + <p> + “And where’s Pansy?” + </p> + <p> + “In the other room. There are several people there.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s probably among them,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to see him?” Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell him that you’ll take time and think it over.” + </p> + <p> + “No, don’t do that. He’ll hang on.” + </p> + <p> + “If I discourage him he’ll do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s a nuisance—with his eternal majolica.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s misery—‘genteel’ misery,” Osmond broke in. “It’s not what I’ve + dreamed of for Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe him?” Osmond asked absentmindedly. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don’t suppose + you consider that that matters.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has + thought of him.” + </p> + <p> + “That opinion’s more convenient,” said Madame Merle quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Has she told you she’s in love with him?” + </p> + <p> + “For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?” Madame Merle + added in a moment. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid that she’ll not do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, where’s the hitch?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t keep him. Keep him yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He has spoken to her,” Madame Merle went on to Osmond. + </p> + <p> + Her companion never turned his head. “So much for your belief in his + promises. He ought to be horsewhipped.” + </p> + <p> + “He intends to confess, poor little man!” + </p> + <p> + Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. “It doesn’t + matter,” he murmured, turning away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You’re very late,” the young creature gently said. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, I’m never later than I intend to be.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I know it, Mr. Rosier.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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—!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel met his hesitation. “When I know what?” + </p> + <p> + “That she’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that we’ve come to an understanding.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s all wrong,” said Isabel. “It won’t do.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t care a straw for one’s money.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but her father does.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, he has proved that!” cried the young man. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn’t have done, a while ago,” he + began. “But you must remember my situation.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember what you said,” she answered coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re offended, and now you’ll never help me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If you <i>could</i>, just a little, I’d never again speak of your husband + save as an angel.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn’t like it at + all,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I’m perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As little as possible? Who’s to measure the possibility?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad that you can take a hint,” Pansy’s father said, slightly closing + his keen, conscious eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be.” + </p> + <p> + “You took it? Where did you take it?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to + Madame Merle?” + </p> + <p> + “I asked her for an opinion—for nothing more. I did so because she + had seemed to me to know you very well.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t know me so well as she thinks,” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for + hope.” + </p> + <p> + Osmond stared into the fire a moment. “I set a great price on my + daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t set a higher one than I do. Don’t I prove it by wishing to + marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to marry her very well,” Osmond went on with a dry impertinence + which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter loves”—and + Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not theorising. Your daughter has spoken.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to me,” Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping + his eyes to his boot-toes. + </p> + <p> + “I have her promise, sir!” cried Rosier with the sharpness of + exasperation. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You apparently don’t recognise me,” he said with a smile that expressed + more than Osmond’s. + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. “You can’t expect + every one to be as hot as yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t pretend to be cold, but I’m cool. What has he been doing to his + daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you take any interest?” Rosier demanded with his sense that she too + was irritating. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she answered nothing; then, “No!” she said abruptly and with + a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me if I don’t believe that. Where’s Miss Osmond?” + </p> + <p> + “In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “She has not given you up,” Isabel said in a low tone and without looking + at him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, thank you for that! Now I’ll leave her alone as long as you think + proper!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,” Osmond + remarked to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we’re greatly + flattered,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, it’s better than stopping in one of those horrible inns,” Osmond + went on. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember that myself,” said Osmond. “I was there at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “We should have been glad to see you at any time,” Osmond observed with + propriety. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. I haven’t been out of England since then. Till a + month ago I really supposed my travels over.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ve heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete + blank.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very pleasant. You’re very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that you’re changed—a little?” + </p> + <p> + She just hesitated. “Yes—a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the + better?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to <i>you</i>,” she + bravely returned. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Brought him with you?” Isabel’s surprise was great. + </p> + <p> + “He’s at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to see him,” she immediately said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s very far gone, Mrs. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes think he <i>is</i> dying,” Lord Warburton said. + </p> + <p> + Isabel sprang up. “I’ll go to him then now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company.” + </p> + <p> + “You went to see him; you’ve been extremely kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, I had nothing to do,” said Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Well now, I suppose you’re very happy and all that sort of thing?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know. I don’t see why not.” + </p> + <p> + “I do then. Fortunately, however, I’m very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got an awfully good house.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s very pleasant. But that’s not my merit—it’s my + husband’s.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean he has arranged it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was nothing when we came.” + </p> + <p> + “He must be very clever.” + </p> + <p> + “He has a genius for upholstery,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a + taste of your own.” + </p> + <p> + “I enjoy things when they’re done, but I’ve no ideas. I can never propose + anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean you accept what others propose?” + </p> + <p> + “Very willingly, for the most part.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please don’t; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young lady + in the blue dress. She has a charming face.” + </p> + <p> + “The one talking to the rosy young man? That’s my husband’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!” + </p> + <p> + “You must make her acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I find it a great change to be married,” said Isabel with mild + gaiety. + </p> + <p> + “It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven’t + gone in for that.” + </p> + <p> + “It rather surprises me.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry,” he + added more simply. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He’s an English lord,” said Rosier. “I don’t know more.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if he’ll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that; I’ve something particular to say to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak so loud every one will hear,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It has just been filled; the servants never know!”—and she sighed + with the weight of her responsibility. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn’t mean + what you said a week ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean + what I say to you.” + </p> + <p> + “He told me you had forgotten me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no, I don’t forget,” said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Then everything’s just the very same?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he done to you?” + </p> + <p> + “He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he + forbade me to marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t mind that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I must indeed. I can’t disobey papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What good will that do me?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, “I don’t know that.” + </p> + <p> + “You disappoint me,” groaned poor Rosier. + </p> + <p> + She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. “Please don’t + talk any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Is this to be all my satisfaction?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa said I was not to talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it’s too much!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d wait a little,” said the girl in a voice just distinct + enough to betray a quaver. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’ll wait if you’ll give me hope. But you take my life away.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll not give you up—oh no!” Pansy went on. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll try and make you marry some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll never do that.” + </p> + <p> + “What then are we to wait for?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t help us much. She’s afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of what?” + </p> + <p> + “Of your father, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy shook her little head. “She’s not afraid of any one. We must have + patience.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX + </h2> + <p> + 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 + <i>him</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>in petto</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t go to Sicily? Where then will you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess I won’t go anywhere,” said Ralph, from the sofa, all + shamelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean you’ll return to England?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear no; I’ll stay in Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “Rome won’t do for you. Rome’s not warm enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It will have to do. I’ll make it do. See how well I’ve been.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce then did you come for?” his lordship enquired. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your cousin’s certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but for you it needn’t have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you + in my train.” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly didn’t mean to let you go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,” Ralph + cried. + </p> + <p> + “I should have gone with you and seen you settled,” said Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very good Christian. You’re a very kind man.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I should have come back here.” + </p> + <p> + “And then you’d have gone to England.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I should have stayed.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Ralph, “if that’s what we are both up to, I don’t see where + Sicily comes in!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ah, vous m’en demandez trop!</i> Let me put a question first. Did you + come with me quite—platonically?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “I suspect we’ve each been playing our little game.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here a + while.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign + Affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen him three times. He’s very amusing.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’ve forgotten what you came for,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I have,” his companion answered rather gravely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I recommend you to get the doctor’s consent, all the same,” Lord + Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor’s consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In your place I should like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Her husband won’t like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you’re not bound to mind + his likings. They’re his affair.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to make any more trouble between them,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Is there so much already?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make the + explosion. Osmond isn’t fond of his wife’s cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Then of course he’d make a row. But won’t he make a row if you stop + here?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not much interested in my health, and I’m deeply interested in Mrs. + Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Does she strike you as very happy?” Ralph enquired, emboldened by this + confidence. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know; I’ve hardly thought. She told me the other night she + was happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, she told <i>you</i>, of course,” Ralph exclaimed, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she + might have complained to.” + </p> + <p> + “Complained? She’ll never complain. She has done it—what she <i>has</i> + done—and she knows it. She’ll complain to you least of all. She’s + very careful.” + </p> + <p> + “She needn’t be. I don’t mean to make love to her again.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of <i>your</i> + duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no,” said Lord Warburton gravely; “none!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her.” + </p> + <p> + “I think her a delightful little person. I don’t know when a girl of that + age has pleased me more.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course there’s the difference in our ages—more than twenty + years.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Warburton,” said Ralph, “are you serious?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly serious—as far as I’ve got.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad. And, heaven help us,” cried Ralph, “how cheered-up old + Osmond will be!” + </p> + <p> + His companion frowned. “I say, don’t spoil it. I shouldn’t propose for his + daughter to please <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll have the perversity to be pleased all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not so fond of me as that,” said his lordship. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “The girl herself? Delighted, surely.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph looked at him a moment. “My dear fellow, what has she to do with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever she chooses. She’s very fond of Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do; you know how to say everything.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, Touchett!” cried Lord Warburton angrily, “for what do you + take me?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>must</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn’t I + waited for you,” Madame Merle said. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t he ask you to sit down?” Isabel asked with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle looked about her. “Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.” + </p> + <p> + “You must stay now.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. I came for a reason; I’ve something on my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you that before,” Isabel said—“that it takes something + extraordinary to bring you to this house.” + </p> + <p> + “And you know what I’ve told <i>you</i>; that whether I come or whether I + stay away, I’ve always the same motive—the affection I bear you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’ve told me that.” + </p> + <p> + “You look just now as if you didn’t believe it,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” Isabel answered, “the profundity of your motives, that’s the last + thing I doubt!” + </p> + <p> + “You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head gravely. “I know you’ve always been kind to me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.” + </p> + <p> + “He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a + week, to talk about Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle hesitated. “I gathered from your husband that perhaps you + didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think. + To-day he doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you been telling him?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. “Do you know you’re a little + dry?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I can’t help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.” + </p> + <p> + “In that there’s some reason. You’re so near the child.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me + dry, I wonder what <i>he</i> thinks.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.” + </p> + <p> + “I can do nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s very much in love,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Very much—for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. “Don’t you think she’s + attractive?” + </p> + <p> + “The dearest little person possible—but very limited.” + </p> + <p> + “She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier’s not + unlimited.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He assures me that she delights in him,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; I’ve not asked her.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never sounded her a little?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re too literal!” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “I must judge for myself.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle gave her smile again. “It isn’t easy to help you.” + </p> + <p> + “To help me?” said Isabel very seriously. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Je n’y peux rien, + moi!</i> I can’t talk to Pansy about him. Especially,” added Madame Merle, + “as I don’t think him a paragon of husbands.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him + know that he’s not welcome.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “That must have pleased him, if you’ve told him,” she answered, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous?” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “So I’ve had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.” + </p> + <p> + “That I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him and you’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not ask him,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter + very much.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. “Likes her, you mean—as + Mr. Rosier means?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know + that he’s charmed with Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’ve never told Osmond?” This observation was immediate, + precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s lips. + </p> + <p> + Isabel’s eyes rested on her. “I suppose he’ll know in time; Lord Warburton + has a tongue and knows how to express himself.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Much better, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It’s really + very kind of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Very kind of him?” + </p> + <p> + “To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond—” + </p> + <p> + “After all, Pansy Osmond’s the most attractive person he has ever known!” + Isabel exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. “Ah, a moment + ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her.” + </p> + <p> + “I said she was limited. And so she is. And so’s Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Rosier’s a nuisance!” Isabel cried abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “All the same, you know, be kind to him.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better wait till he asks her.” + </p> + <p> + “If what you say’s true, he’ll ask her. Especially,” said Madame Merle in + a moment, “if you make him.” + </p> + <p> + “If I make him?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite in your power. You’ve great influence with him.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel frowned a little. “Where did you learn that?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you—never!” said Madame Merle, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I certainly never told you anything of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>might</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Has Lord Warburton been here?” he presently asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he stayed half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he see Pansy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he talk with her much?” + </p> + <p> + “He talked almost only to her.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me he’s attentive. Isn’t that what you call it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call it anything,” said Isabel; “I’ve waited for you to give it a + name.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a consideration you don’t always show,” Osmond answered after a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve determined, this time, to try and act as you’d like. I’ve so often + failed of that.” + </p> + <p> + Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. “Are you trying to quarrel + with me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m trying to live at peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing’s more easy; you know I don’t quarrel myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you call it when you try to make me angry?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve determined never to be angry + again.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s an excellent resolve. Your temper isn’t good.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You were afraid I’d plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven’t you noticed that I’ve + never spoken to you of him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never given you a chance. We’ve so little conversation in these + days. I know he was an old friend of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s fortunate,” Osmond observed. + </p> + <p> + “Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no use talking of him,” Osmond said. “As I tell you, I’ve turned + him out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but a lover outside’s always a lover. He’s sometimes even more of + one. Mr. Rosier still has hope.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit perfectly + quiet to become Lady Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So I think. But you’re not bound to do so.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “No, to please me.” + </p> + <p> + “Me too a little, I think,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she’ll do what I like.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re sure of that, it’s very well,” she went on. + </p> + <p> + “Meantime,” said Osmond, “I should like our distinguished visitor to + speak.” + </p> + <p> + “He has spoken—to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to + him to believe she could care for him.” + </p> + <p> + Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, “Why + didn’t you tell me that?” he asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + “There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I’ve taken the first + chance that has offered.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you speak to him of Rosier?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, a little.” + </p> + <p> + “That was hardly necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it best he should know, so that, so that—” And Isabel + paused. + </p> + <p> + “So that what?” + </p> + <p> + “So that he might act accordingly.” + </p> + <p> + “So that he might back out, do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “No, so that he might advance while there’s yet time.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not the effect it seems to have had.” + </p> + <p> + “You should have patience,” said Isabel. “You know Englishmen are shy.” + </p> + <p> + “This one’s not. He was not when he made love to <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to + her. “I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “You refused to marry him,” said Osmond with his eyes on his book. + </p> + <p> + “I must not presume too much on that,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>in</i> 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 <i>his</i> 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 <i>had</i> 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, <i>then</i> she + had seen where she really was. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>? 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 <i>she</i> 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 <i>him</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII + </h2> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel smiled kindly. “Yes, it’s hers; she gave it to me to hold.” + </p> + <p> + “May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?” the poor young man asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t trust you; I’m afraid you wouldn’t give it back.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the bouquet. + “Choose one yourself. It’s frightful what I’m doing for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!” Rosier exclaimed with his + glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t put it into your button-hole,” she said. “Don’t for the world!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And is that all <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you don’t esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere + Parisian trifler!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i> a little?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; I’m not sure. She’ll always enjoy life.” + </p> + <p> + “It will depend on what you call life!” Mr. Rosier effectively said. “She + won’t enjoy being tortured.” + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be nothing of that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it. She knows what she’s about. You’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She’s dancing,” said Isabel. “You’ll see her somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “As you see, I’m a wall-flower.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you dance with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I’d rather you should dance with the little maid.” + </p> + <p> + “One needn’t prevent the other—especially as she’s engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She + dances very hard, and you’ll be the fresher.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s better, and it’s more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen + oughtn’t to waltz.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss Osmond?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray haven’t I a right to amuse myself?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “The British Empire be hanged! You’re always laughing at it.” + </p> + <p> + “Amuse yourself with talking to me,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t leave my place. Pansy must find me here.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent a little. “You’re wonderfully good to her,” he said + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Isabel stared a little and smiled. “Can you imagine one’s not being?” + </p> + <p> + “No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a + great deal for her.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve taken her out with me,” said Isabel, smiling still. “And I’ve seen + that she has proper clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You’ve talked to her, + advised her, helped her to develop.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, if she isn’t the rose she has lived near it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad of that. I suppose you’ve engaged her for the cotillion.” + </p> + <p> + At this he looked a little awkward. “No, I didn’t ask her for that. It’s a + quadrille.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’re not clever!” said Isabel almost angrily. “I told her to keep + the cotillion in case you should ask for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor little maid, fancy that!” And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. “Of + course I will if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it—!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her + book.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Understand what?” + </p> + <p> + “You told me ten days ago that you’d like to marry my stepdaughter. You’ve + not forgotten it!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “he didn’t mention to me that he had heard from you.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton stammered a little. “I—I didn’t send my letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you forgot <i>that</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “At three o’clock in the morning?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean later, in the course of the day.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. You still wish then to marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “That I would do it with you? I told you I’d do nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly; so that while it’s going on I might find some quiet corner where + we may sit down and talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Isabel gravely, “you’re much too considerate of me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>pretendant</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, if I can’t dance with <i>her</i>!” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “You had better go away then,” said Isabel with the manner of good + counsel. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go till she does!” And he let Lord Warburton pass without + giving him a look. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the young man I’ve told you about, who’s in love with Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad.” + </p> + <p> + “He has reason. My husband won’t listen to him.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with him?” Lord Warburton enquired. “He seems very + harmless.” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn’t money enough, and he isn’t very clever.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this account + of Edward Rosier. “Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is, but my husband’s very particular.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see.” And Lord Warburton paused a moment. “How much money has he + got?” he then ventured to ask. + </p> + <p> + “Some forty thousand francs a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that’s very good, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’ve noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really an + idiot, the young man?” + </p> + <p> + “An idiot? Not in the least; he’s charming. When he was twelve years old I + myself was in love with him.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I wondered + what ailed him.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a just man,” said Isabel. “You’ve a kind thought even for a + rival.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. “A rival! Do you call him my + rival?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely—if you both wish to marry the same person.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but since he has no chance!” + </p> + <p> + “I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It + shows imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh + at.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do you + suppose one could do for him?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I have been praising your imagination I’ll leave you to imagine + that yourself,” Isabel said. “Pansy too would like you for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already.” + </p> + <p> + “Very much, I think.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that it + would probably take her very far.” + </p> + <p> + “That seems to me a very proper feeling,” said Lord Warburton. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; if the wife’s a good one and he thinks she does well!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course you must think that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do; I can’t help it. You call that very British, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head. “You like to think you are while you sit here with + me. But that’s not how you strike me.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you. I’m delighted to have good reasons.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn’t care a straw + for them.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you’re sure,” said Isabel, “it’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Lord Warburton,” she said, smiling, “you may do, so far as I’m + concerned, whatever comes into your head.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I need it,” the young man softly wailed, “when I see you so awfully thick + with him!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. “What has suddenly brought you + round?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Interviewer</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole + remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I knew + about you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t permit it,” said the Countess. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.” + </p> + <p> + “With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you + by name as my companion.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I + put that into my letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Into your letter?” + </p> + <p> + “In the <i>Interviewer</i>. That’s my paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she + pregnantly remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has + changed a great deal. I told her she would.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if + she <i>had</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of + brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?” + </p> + <p> + “Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?” + Henrietta enquired. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s making + love to Isabel.” + </p> + <p> + “Making love to her?” + </p> + <p> + “So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But + Isabel’s pretty safe.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. + “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Not for a week, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta + enquired with unprecedented distinctness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta went + on. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, she may <i>not</i> tell me—that’s what I’m afraid of!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself—in his own old way—I + flatter myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i> so.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They can’t. He can’t love any one.” + </p> + <p> + “I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for Isabel. + I shall positively start to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very vividly. + “I declare I don’t pity her.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were well + not to have illusions. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I wanted to look after her,” Henrietta said serenely. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>c’est bien gentil</i>! Isn’t it what they call + friendship?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only + describe me in the newspaper!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant + it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. “I shall be very glad to + hear what you wish to say.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He + was civil, but not enthusiastic. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of + his patience. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>take</i> trouble + for you.” + </p> + <p> + Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am—some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the + whole that you should go to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>have</i> considered it then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you + were so much attracted.” + </p> + <p> + “Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it won’t do <i>her</i> any good! I don’t flatter myself that.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it do her some harm?—that’s the question.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and that’s why you go.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?” + </p> + <p> + “How will it help you?—that’s what I want to know,” said Miss + Stackpole. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about in + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “It will make you more discontented.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you + know I’m discontented?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have cared + for another.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now I + care to go to Rome.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?—that’s the real + issue.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating look. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then + inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. When do you start?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>not</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned imperturbably. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>could</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. “I want you to answer + me a question. It’s about Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I guess your question,” Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of + which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t say I can do that.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re intimate with him,” she said; “you’ve a great deal of observation + of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should he dissimulate? That’s not his nature.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar,” said Ralph + with an air of private amusement. + </p> + <p> + “To a certain extent—yes. But is he really in love?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much, I think. I can make that out.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Isabel with a certain dryness. + </p> + <p> + Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with + mystification. “You say that as if you were disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully. + “It’s after all no business of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very philosophic,” said her cousin. And then in a moment: “May I + enquire what you’re talking about?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, for Pansy, no!” cried Ralph very positively. + </p> + <p> + “But you said just now he did.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph waited a moment. “That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head gravely. “That’s nonsense, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton’s, not mine.” + </p> + <p> + “That would be very tiresome.” She spoke, as she flattered herself, with + much subtlety. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to tell you indeed,” Ralph went on, “that to me he has denied + it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you + that he’s in love with Pansy?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he really think it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, what Warburton really thinks—!” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to succeed easily,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + Isabel debated. “Yes—but he has not always succeeded.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss + Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he’ll let the + matter drop.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll do nothing dishonourable,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Cruel to the other person perhaps—the one she cares for. But + Warburton isn’t obliged to mind that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He’d be very good to her,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How would your husband like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain + satisfaction himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he commissioned you to obtain it?” Ralph ventured to ask. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. “Let me understand. Are you pleading + his cause?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To jealousy?” + </p> + <p> + “To jealousy of his daughter.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Be frank with me and you’ll see,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not as it should be,” said Isabel coldly. “I love you very much, + but your father loves you better.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father’s wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes,” said the child eagerly, “I must do that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy stared, and then very quickly, “Will you do everything I want?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Before I say yes I must know what such things are.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Very well then, it’s impossible,” Isabel pronounced. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s impossible,” said Pansy without a sigh and with the same + extreme attention in her clear little face. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You think of those who think of you,” she said with a faint smile. “I + know Mr. Rosier thinks of me.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought not to,” said Isabel loftily. “Your father has expressly + requested he shouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “He can’t help it, because he knows I think of <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t think of him. There’s some excuse for him, perhaps; but + there’s none for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would try to find one,” the girl exclaimed as if she were + praying to the Madonna. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I don’t admit Mr. Rosier’s right!” Isabel hypocritically cried. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your father would like you to make a better marriage,” said Isabel. “Mr. + Rosier’s fortune is not at all large.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What should you like me to do?” her companion softly demanded. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To marry some one else, you mean—if he should ask me?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready to + ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he can have been ready,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “It would appear so if he had been sure he’d succeed.” + </p> + <p> + “If he had been sure? Then he wasn’t ready!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. “Lord Warburton won’t + propose simply to please papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father would like you to encourage him,” Isabel went on + mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “How can I encourage him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Your father must tell you that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he has been very kind,” Pansy answered. “That’s what I like him + for.” + </p> + <p> + “Why then is the difficulty so great?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I think I’d rather not,” Pansy unreservedly answered. + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn’t to let him have false hopes.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a + nobleman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a + tradesman with a bill?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He has never written to me.” + </p> + <p> + “So I supposed, from your not having told me.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” Isabel was reduced to replying. “I’ve never had a letter + from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate + correspondence.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you say + to him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She just faltered. “I think I told him not to forget it. + </p> + <p> + “Did you believe there was a danger of that?” + </p> + <p> + “As you say, he’s an odd fish.” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently he has forgotten it,” said Osmond. “Be so good as to remind + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Should you like me to write to him?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no objection whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “You expect too much of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I shall disappoint you,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: “That won’t + be easy, with you working against me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you I would do what I could,” she went on. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that gained you time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He had better wait for warmer weather,” Lord Warburton answered. “I + shouldn’t advise him to travel just now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad it’s the last time,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “So am I. She doesn’t care for me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, she doesn’t care for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wonder at it,” he returned. Then he added with inconsequence: + “You’ll come to England, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I think we had better not.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you owe me a visit. Don’t you remember that you were to have come to + Lockleigh once, and you never did?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything’s changed since then,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going away,” he said. “I want to bid you good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Lord Warburton.” Her voice perceptibly trembled. + </p> + <p> + “And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Lord Warburton,” Pansy answered. + </p> + <p> + He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. “You ought to be very + happy—you’ve got a guardian angel.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I shall be happy,” said Pansy in the tone of a person whose + certainties were always cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I think you <i>are</i> my guardian angel!” she exclaimed very sweetly. + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head. “I’m not an angel of any kind. I’m at the most your + good friend.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very good friend then—to have asked papa to be gentle with + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve asked your father nothing,” said Isabel, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a + very kind kiss.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “that was quite his own idea!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Just now I wish to go to bed. I’m very tired.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the least idea what you mean,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve played a very deep game; you’ve managed it beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it that I’ve managed?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that Lord Warburton’s under an obligation to come back you’re + wrong,” Isabel said. “He’s under none whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be that you’ll not find my cousin,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no doubt she would enjoy it,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I think you very strange.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not even when you insult me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going back to Lord Warburton?” Isabel asked. “I’m very tired of + his name.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall hear it again before we’ve done with it.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of having prevented Pansy’s marriage to Warburton. Are those words plain + enough?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I see what you mean,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the letter you told me he had written me?” her husband demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the least idea; I haven’t asked him.” + </p> + <p> + “You stopped it on the way,” said Osmond. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Pansy doesn’t care for him. She’s very glad he’s gone,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “And he doesn’t care for Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend to + such things yourself.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. “I thought you were very + fond of my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never been more so than to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that + perhaps is natural.” + </p> + <p> + “Is this all you wished to say to me?” Isabel asked, taking a candle that + stood on one of the tables. + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that on the whole you’re disappointed. You’ve had another + opportunity to try to stupefy me.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not that. It’s proved that Pansy can aim high.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Pansy!” said Isabel as she turned away with her candle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>would</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m wretched,” she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say + it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible. + </p> + <p> + “What does he do to you?” Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were + enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor. + </p> + <p> + “He does nothing. But he doesn’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s very hard to please!” cried Miss Stackpole. “Why don’t you leave + him?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t change that way,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, I should like to know? You won’t confess that you’ve made a + mistake. You’re too proud.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t think so always,” said Henrietta. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>have</i> changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don’t + mean to say you like him.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Henrietta gave a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re rather too considerate?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not of him that I’m considerate—it’s of myself!” Isabel + answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>piano nobile</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>. 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: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no idea of doing that,” Ralph answered. “I shall have people with + me.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘people’? Servants whom you pay?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ralph jocosely, “after all, they’re human beings.” + </p> + <p> + “Are there any women among them?” Miss Stackpole desired to know. + </p> + <p> + “You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven’t a <i>soubrette</i> + in my employment.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Henrietta calmly, “you can’t go to England that way. You must + have a woman’s care.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me a + good while.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve not had enough of it yet. I guess I’ll go with you,” said + Henrietta. + </p> + <p> + “Go with me?” Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. “I like you very + much,” he said in a moment. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very good woman,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won’t be easy. + But you had better go, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + Before she left him, Ralph said to her: “Do you really mean to take care + of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mean to try.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens—it’s the golden age! You’re all too kind.” + </p> + <p> + “The kindness on my part is to her; it’s hardly to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Granting that, <i>she’s</i> kind,” smiled Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’d rather stay here than do either,” said Ralph. “There’s really + no need of your coming. Henrietta’s extraordinarily efficient.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure of that. But I’ve promised Mrs. Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + “You can easily get her to let you off.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you see too much in it,” Ralph suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I bore her,” Goodwood went on; “she has nothing to say to me, so she + invented that.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Caspar Goodwood simply, “she thinks I’m watching her.” + </p> + <p> + “Watching her?” + </p> + <p> + “Trying to make out if she’s happy.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s easy to make out,” said Ralph. “She’s the most visibly happy woman + I know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You were very wrong about Lord Warburton,” she remarked to the Countess. + “I think it right you should know that.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He wished to marry your niece; that’s why he came to the house.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he’ll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn’t wish to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I didn’t + know she carried it so far.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is that my + brother’s capable of everything.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what your brother’s capable of,” said Henrietta with + dignity. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspirations + which had made the fortune of her letters to the <i>Interviewer</i>, + “perhaps he’ll be more successful with you than with Isabel!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t do that,” Isabel said, shaking her head with an extension of + faith. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to be alone,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be that so long as you’ve so much company at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, they’re part of the comedy. You others are spectators.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?” Henrietta rather grimly asked. + </p> + <p> + “The tragedy then if you like. You’re all looking at me; it makes me + uncomfortable.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t do that; you leave me much refreshed,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “Very mild refreshment—sour lemonade! I want you to promise me + something.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The worst? What do you call the worst?” + </p> + <p> + “Before your character gets spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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—!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know from whom, leading the life you’ve done.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I might have seen more of you certainly,” Isabel said. “But when one’s + married one has so much occupation.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly she’ll be very conscientious.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s a generous one,” said Isabel, “and it makes me deeply ashamed. + I ought to go with you, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Your husband wouldn’t like that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he wouldn’t like it. But I might go, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a cause + of disagreement between a lady and her husband!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I don’t go,” said Isabel simply—yet not very lucidly. + </p> + <p> + Ralph understood well enough, however. “I should think so, with all those + occupations you speak of.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes,” laughed Ralph; “but to make up for it there’s always some man + awfully afraid of some woman!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear Isabel,” Ralph answered, “he’s used to that. There is nothing + left for Mr. Goodwood.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It was for you that I wanted—that I wanted to live. But I’m of no + use to you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband won’t consent to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I can arrange it.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall keep that for my last pleasure!” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>à la bonne heure</i>! 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>were</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I shall do just as he likes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve nothing else to do,” Caspar said dryly. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you find that as a married man you’re so much occupied?” the young man + mechanically asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not bored,” said Goodwood. “I’ve plenty to think about and to say to + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I’ve no plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Happy man! That’s a little bleak, but it’s very free.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’m very free.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall wait till they are all gone then.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated a moment. “Ah, that will be delightful!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but I don’t like it. I don’t want to leave Rome,” he answered + with almost plaintive honesty. + </p> + <p> + “I can well imagine. It’s wonderfully good of you. I can’t tell you how + kind I think you.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment more he said nothing. “With a few words like that you make me + go.” + </p> + <p> + “You must come back some day,” she brightly returned. + </p> + <p> + “Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; I don’t mean all that.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? I don’t understand! But I said I’d go, and I’ll go,” + Goodwood added. + </p> + <p> + “Come back whenever you like,” said Isabel with attempted lightness. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care a straw for your cousin!” Caspar broke out. + </p> + <p> + “Is that what you wished to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You come very near,” Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning. + </p> + <p> + “And yet I don’t touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done well?” + </p> + <p> + “You ask a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve behaved so well; don’t spoil it,” she uttered softly. + </p> + <p> + “No one hears me. It’s wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I love + you as I’ve never loved you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go.” + </p> + <p> + “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—!” + </p> + <p> + “That I tell you what?” + </p> + <p> + “Whether I may pity you.” + </p> + <p> + “Should you like that?” Isabel asked, trying to smile again. + </p> + <p> + “To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something. I’d + give my life to it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t talk of him,” said Isabel for answer; “we’ve heard so much + of him of late.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it’s too late?” + </p> + <p> + “You had better ask Pansy,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask her what you’ve said to her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening.” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn’t + apply to me for information.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> are one of the persons + concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “No; that’s the last thing I mean. I’m very weary of it all.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle hesitated a little. “Ah yes, your work’s done.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care what you say,” said Isabel very gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your + husband judges you severely.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>?” she asked at + last. + </p> + <p> + “No, because you’d never tell me. And it would be painful for me to know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What truth do you speak of?” Isabel asked, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah then, you take it heroically! I’m very sorry. Don’t think, however, + that I shall do so.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you to do with me?” Isabel went on. + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes + from Isabel’s face. “Everything!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you’re unhappy; I believe you like it,” said Madame + Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Did I say I was unhappy?” Osmond asked with a face grave enough to + suggest that he might have been. + </p> + <p> + “No, but you don’t say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk about gratitude,” he returned dryly. “And don’t aggravate me,” + he added in a moment. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I trouble about them no more than I can help. I’ve quite enough of my + own.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s because they’re so delightful.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Eh moi donc!</i>” cried Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “With you it’s because you fatigue yourself. With me it’s not my own + fault.” + </p> + <p> + “When I fatigue myself it’s for you. I’ve given you an interest. That’s a + great gift.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call it an interest?” Osmond enquired with detachment. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.” + </p> + <p> + “The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never looked better; you’ve never been so agreeable, so + brilliant.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn my brilliancy!” he thoughtfully murmured. “How little, after all, + you know me!” + </p> + <p> + “If I don’t know you I know nothing,” smiled Madame Merle. “You’ve the + feeling of complete success.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shall not have that till I’ve made you stop judging me.” + </p> + <p> + “I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express yourself + more too.” + </p> + <p> + Osmond just hung fire. “I wish you’d express yourself less!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means + to carry out her ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “Her ideas to-day must be remarkable.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better say at once that she was pathetic.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no, I don’t want to encourage you too much.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “What good would it do you to weep?” + </p> + <p> + “It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you.” + </p> + <p> + “If I’ve dried your tears, that’s something. But I’ve seen you shed them.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably didn’t + perceive it,” Osmond answered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>very</i> + bad,” she added with gravity in her emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “Is this the way we’re to end?” Osmond asked with the same studied + coldness. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how we’re to end. I wish I did—How do bad people end?—especially + as to their <i>common</i> crimes. You have made me as bad as yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you. You seem to me quite good enough,” said Osmond, + his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Good enough to be always charming!” Osmond exclaimed, smiling too. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to weep after all?” Osmond asked; and on her remaining + motionless he went on: “Have I ever complained to you?” + </p> + <p> + She dropped her hands quickly. “No, you’ve taken your revenge otherwise—you + have taken it on <i>her</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you haven’t complained. You’ve enjoyed your triumph too much.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m rather curious to know what you call my triumph.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made your wife afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That she should like you so much!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never adored you,” said Madame Merle. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you pretended to!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit,” Madame + Merle went on. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “It appears that I’m to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false + position.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she said softly, “if I had a child—!” + </p> + <p> + Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, “The children of others + may be a great interest!” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “You’re more like a copy-book than I. There’s something after all that + holds us together.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?” Osmond asked. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> + work,” she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter, relaxing + to its habit of smoothness. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things.” + </p> + <p> + “I have the money instead—fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond + think me rich enough now?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it for that you did it?” Isabel asked gently. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll say now that you’re not wise,” said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond + had never said this before. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>her</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend, you deserve to succeed,” said Isabel very kindly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Isabel debated. “That she’ll marry another nobleman.” + </p> + <p> + “What other nobleman?” + </p> + <p> + “One that he’ll pick out.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean to laugh,” said Isabel. “I laugh very seldom. Now you had + better go away.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel looked at him a moment. “She has no influence with her brother.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’re not tired, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, thank you, I’m not tired.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited, + frightened look. “You’re not going away!” Isabel exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to the convent.” + </p> + <p> + “To the convent?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck. + “Think of <i>me</i> sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, “<i>En voilà, ma chère, une pose!</i>” 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>she</i> should take it, + and she may think of it as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in + the right way.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>simpaticissimo</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “When I come to your room I always knock,” he answered, going on with his + work. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin’s dying.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why must you go to Gardencourt?” Osmond asked in the tone of impartial + curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “To see Ralph before he dies.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to be grateful for?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave him alone then. Don’t run after him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not like it if you do,” Osmond remarked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about revenge.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Osmond. “Don’t give me an occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would commit + some folly.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me.” + </p> + <p> + “If I disobeyed you?” said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect of + mildness. + </p> + <p> + “Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the most + deliberate, the most calculated, opposition.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt’s telegram but three + minutes ago.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>us</i>, but I assure you that <i>we</i>, <i>we</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks.” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t live decently together!” cried Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed we don’t if you go to England.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very little; that’s nothing. I might do much more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that if I go you’ll not expect me to come back,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess threw down her book. “Ah, he was so simpatico. I’m awfully + sorry for you.” + </p> + <p> + “You would be sorrier still if you knew.” + </p> + <p> + “What is there to know? You look very badly,” the Countess added. “You + must have been with Osmond.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure then he has been odious!” the Countess cried. “Did he say he was + glad poor Mr. Touchett’s dying?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it’s impossible I should go to England.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does Osmond say it’s impossible?” the Countess asked in a tone which + sufficiently declared that she couldn’t imagine. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I don’t think you can comfort me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not simple enough,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don’t know what you + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s because you’ve such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman with + such a pure mind!” cried the Countess. + </p> + <p> + Isabel slowly got up. “You’re going to tell me something horrible.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. “Your first + sister-in-law?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. Whose wife’s?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>me</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! <i>Ça me depasse</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea,” said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner + that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Things <i>have</i> occurred to me, and perhaps that was + what they all meant.” + </p> + <p> + “She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about Pansy!” + the Countess, before all this view of it, cried. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no idea, for me,” Isabel went on, “ever <i>definitely</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i> + 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, <i>poverina</i>, 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 <i>her</i> + skin, renounced all visible property in the child.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very kind of you to pity her!” she discordantly laughed. “Yes + indeed, you have a way of your own—!” + </p> + <p> + “He must have been false to his wife—and so very soon!” said Isabel + with a sudden check. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>such</i> + a lover as he had been, <i>cara mia</i>, 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 <i>any</i> + of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Isabel mechanically echoed, “the whole past is between them.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say, + they had kept it up.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent a little. “Why then did she want him to marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah my dear, that’s her superiority! Because you had money; and because + she believed you would be good to Pansy.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor woman—and Pansy who doesn’t like her!” cried Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows + it; she knows everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she know that you’ve told me this?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How can she have loved him then?” + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>had</i> never had, what you might call any illusions of <i>intelligence</i>. + 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 <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at + seeing me—!” Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I’m sorry,” Isabel + said. “I’m much obliged to you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How should I take it?” Isabel asked. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>he</i> 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 <i>her</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done wrong to speak—I’ve made you ill!” the Countess cried. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m come to bid Pansy good-bye,” our young woman said at last. “I go to + England to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to England to-night!” Madame Merle repeated sitting there and looking + up at her. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett’s dying.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you’ll feel that.” Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance + to express sympathy. “Do you go alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; without my husband.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she has returned from America.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not enjoy it much,” Isabel answered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel turned away. “I had better go to Pansy. I’ve not much time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you let me remain a little?” this lady asked. “It’s so good to be + here.” + </p> + <p> + “You may remain always if you like!” And the good sister gave a knowing + laugh. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “She looks pale,” Isabel answered. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the pleasure of seeing you. She’s very happy. <i>Elle éclaire la + maison</i>,” said the good sister. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy’s white little face turned red. “To England! Not to come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know when I shall come back.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he’ll probably die. I wish to see + him,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa + go?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I shall go alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you can come and see me; though you’ve not come very often.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing with + me. I can’t amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not to be amused. That’s not what papa wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it hardly matters whether I’m in Rome or in England.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not happy, Mrs. Osmond,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “Not very. But it doesn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to + come out.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish indeed you might.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t leave me here,” Pansy went on gently. + </p> + <p> + Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. “Will you come away + with me now?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Pansy looked at her pleadingly. “Did papa tell you to bring me?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it’s my own proposal.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he knew I was coming.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you thought?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that I must never displease papa.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew that before.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. “Good-bye then. I leave + Rome to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child’s + face. “You look strange, you frighten me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m very harmless,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you won’t come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. I can’t tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won’t leave me!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. “My dear child, what can I do + for you?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—but I’m happier when I think of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You can always think of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not when you’re so far. I’m a little afraid,” said Pansy. + </p> + <p> + “What are you afraid of?” + </p> + <p> + “Of papa—a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see + me.” + </p> + <p> + “You must not say that,” Isabel observed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ll do everything they want. Only if you’re here I shall do it more + easily.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel considered. “I won’t desert you,” she said at last. “Good-bye, my + child.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Isabel hesitated, then stopped. “You must never say that—that you + don’t like Madame Merle.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I’ll come back.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: “<i>Eh bien, chère Madame, qu’en pensez-vous?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “We think it’s enough,” Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she + pushed open the door of the parlour. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a + probability.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m very fond of him. But I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “He has done me many services.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> made me—?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you. It was my uncle’s money.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing but what I’ve guessed. But I’ve guessed that.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Merle raised her eyes. “I shall go to America,” she quietly + remarked while Isabel passed out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Mr. Bantling,” said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely caring + much now whether she should find her maid or not. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I always agree,” said Mr. Bantling. “But she doesn’t, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?” Henrietta enquired. “Your + young lady has probably remained at Calais.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care,” said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never + found so interesting. + </p> + <p> + “Stay with her while I go and see,” Henrietta commanded, leaving the two + for a moment together. + </p> + <p> + They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel + how it had been on the Channel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Now how do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you—except that you look like a person who has been to + Gardencourt.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I look awfully sad? It’s awfully sad there, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you see my cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. “Was + that late in the day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you’d like to know.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m greatly obliged to you. Can I go down to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I don’t think <i>she’ll</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m awfully tired. And I thank you again.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do whatever you wish,” Isabel said. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll come and answer a few questions; that’s what I wish.” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?” Mr. + Bantling enquired jocosely. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come for my sake, Mr. Bantling,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No; I can’t say he made a scene.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t object then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you’d call a scene.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it then?” + </p> + <p> + “It was a very quiet conversation.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure I myself see now,” Isabel replied. “But I did then.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve forgotten your reason perhaps you won’t return.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel waited a moment. “Perhaps I shall find another.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll certainly never find a good one.” + </p> + <p> + “In default of a better my having promised will do,” Isabel suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that’s why I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of it now. I’ve a little time. Coming away was a + complication, but what will going back be?” + </p> + <p> + “You must remember, after all, that he won’t make you a scene!” said + Henrietta with much intention. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the invitation came at last!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally enough.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems very strange,” said Isabel, smiling now. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “One can’t explain one’s marriage,” Isabel answered. “And yours doesn’t + need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn’t a riddle.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “you’re changed indeed! It’s the first time I’ve ever + heard you say anything against your native land.” + </p> + <p> + “I only say that we’re too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after + all, isn’t a vulgar fault. But I <i>am</i> changed; a woman has to change + a good deal to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll be very happy. You will at last—over here—see + something of the inner life.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Henrietta, “she didn’t know what to make of me.” + </p> + <p> + “And was that very enjoyable?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not so intelligent as her brother then,” said Isabel. “He appears + to have understood.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very good in you to humour it.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Henrietta has told me, and I’m very glad,” Isabel said as she gave him + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you think it awfully odd,” Mr. Bantling replied, resting on + his neat umbrella. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think it awfully odd.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn’t move. But I’m not sure that it’s + always sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he see me? Can he speak to me?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear, he doesn’t chatter as he used!” cried Mrs. Touchett as she + preceded her niece up the staircase. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life.” + </p> + <p> + “No—it has only been a beautiful one.” Isabel found herself already + contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean by that; there’s no beauty without health. + That is a very odd dress to travel in.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel glanced at her garment. “I left Rome at an hour’s notice; I took + the first that came.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He has something else to think of now,” Mrs. Touchett returned. And she + paused with a gaze like a gimlet. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, to be married!” Isabel mildly exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And who’s the young lady?” + </p> + <p> + “A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia—something of + that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad,” Isabel said. “It must be a sudden decision.” + </p> + <p> + “Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just + been made public.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Three are a great many.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do with less; I’ve been thinking. They’re all very good ones.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever been sorry you didn’t marry Lord Warburton?” Mrs. Touchett + enquired. + </p> + <p> + Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. “No, dear aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Your believing me’s an immense temptation,” she declared, smiling still. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my husband who doesn’t get on with me,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “I could have told him he wouldn’t. I don’t call that crowing over <i>you</i>,” + Mrs. Touchett added. “Do you still like Serena Merle?” she went on. + </p> + <p> + “Not as I once did. But it doesn’t matter, for she’s going to America.” + </p> + <p> + “To America? She must have done something very bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—very bad.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “She made a convenience of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried Mrs. Touchett, “so she did of me! She does of every one.” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll make a convenience of America,” said Isabel, smiling again and + glad that her aunt’s questions were over. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not sure either till I came,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for—for this. This + is not death, dear Ralph.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mind people,” said Ralph. “I think I’m glad to leave people.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “True that you’ve been stupid? Oh no,” said Ralph with a sensible + intention of wit. + </p> + <p> + “That you made me rich—that all I have is yours?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I always understood,” said Ralph. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you did, and I didn’t like it. But now I like it.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’ve been punished,” Isabel sobbed. + </p> + <p> + He listened to her a little, and then continued: “Was he very bad about + your coming?” + </p> + <p> + “He made it very hard for me. But I don’t care.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all over then between you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; I don’t think anything’s over.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going back to him?” Ralph gasped. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to stay—as long as seems right.” + </p> + <p> + “As seems right—as seems right?” He repeated her words. “Yes, you + think a great deal about that.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course one must. You’re very tired,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “For me you’ll always be here,” she softly interrupted. It was easy to + interrupt him. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel very old,” said Isabel. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + She begged him to be quiet now. “We needn’t speak to understand each + other,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for + more than a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh Ralph, I’m very happy now,” she cried through her tears. + </p> + <p> + “And remember this,” he continued, “that if you’ve been hated you’ve also + been loved. Ah but, Isabel—<i>adored</i>!” he just audibly and + lingeringly breathed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh my brother!” she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Aunt Lydia,” Isabel murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Go and thank God you’ve no child,” said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging + herself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not here for long, you know,” Isabel said with a certain eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not; but I hope it’s for some weeks. You came to England sooner + than—a—than you thought?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I came very suddenly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of + them.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you extremely,” she contented herself with saying; “I’m afraid I + hardly know about Whitsuntide.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have your promise—haven’t I?—for some other time.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you very sure he’s to be married?” Isabel asked of her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and he + accepted it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Isabel, “I give it up!”—while her aunt returned to the + house and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + Isabel suddenly got up. “You had no business to talk about me!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She turned on him as if he had struck her. “Are you mad?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>you</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were + pressing something that hurt her. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t say that. Don’t kill me!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. “As you love + me, as you pity me, leave me alone!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 2834-h.htm or 2834-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/3/2834/ + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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