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The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James · English · Gutenberg #2834 · 647,271 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

Author: Henry James


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2834]
                Most recently updated: September 20, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY — VOLUME 2 ***




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THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

VOLUME II (of II)


By Henry James




CHAPTER XXVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She seems to have plenty of friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Irreproachable--don’t you see it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how much of a use is that?”

“Well, I like to like him.”

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

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

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

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

“Of great ability?” her friend enquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what I have done.”

“_Bon voyage_ then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good-bye then.”

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

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

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

“That will do as well,” she smiled.

“Yes, quite as well. Good-bye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where do you find that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean by being triumphant?”

“Well, doing what you like.”

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

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

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

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

“Not even when I lose my temper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall do that some other time.”

“I hope so. I’m very easy to know.”

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

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

“Very likely; but you’re very wise.”

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

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

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

“Thank you very much. Good-bye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXX

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

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

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

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

“Very good; I can easily go alone.”

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

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

“They don’t know he’s away, you see.”

“They? Whom do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish very much to be kind to her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not for a long time, I’m afraid.”

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



CHAPTER XXXI

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXII

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

Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to
foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered
a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel’s
we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to
her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,
strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke
positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor
weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same
voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in
it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled
hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This
gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: “Poor fellow, what great things
he’s capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his
splendid force! What a pity too that one can’t satisfy everybody!” It
gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: “I can’t tell
you how I hoped you wouldn’t come!”

“I’ve no doubt of that.” And he looked about him for a seat. Not only
had he come, but he meant to settle.

“You must be very tired,” said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,
as she thought, to give him his opportunity.

“No, I’m not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?”

“Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?”

“Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.
These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral.”

“That’s in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury
me!” And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their
situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly
clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all
this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she
was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked
at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such
a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on
her as a physical weight.

“No, I didn’t feel that; I couldn’t think of you as dead. I wish I
could!” he candidly declared.

“I thank you immensely.”

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

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

“Very likely it’s selfish; but I don’t in the least mind your saying so.
I don’t mind anything you can say now--I don’t feel it. The cruellest
things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you’ve
done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall
feel all my life.”

Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,
in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over
propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than
touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave
her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure
of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. “When did
you leave New York?”

He threw up his head as if calculating. “Seventeen days ago.”

“You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.”

“I came as fast as I could. I’d have come five days ago if I had been
able.”

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

“Not to you--no. But to me.”

“You gain nothing that I see.”

“That’s for me to judge!”

“Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself.” And then, to
change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.
He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of
Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young
lady had been with him just before he left America. “She came to see
you?” Isabel then demanded.

“Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I
had got your letter.”

“Did you tell her?” Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.

“Oh no,” said Caspar Goodwood simply; “I didn’t want to do that. She’ll
hear it quick enough; she hears everything.”

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

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

“On purpose to scold me?”

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

“I’m glad you tell me that,” Isabel said. “I must prepare for her.”

Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last,
raising them, “Does she know Mr. Osmond?” he enquired.

“A little. And she doesn’t like him. But of course I don’t marry to
please Henrietta,” she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar
if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn’t
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn’t know yet. “I can only say it will
be soon. I’ve told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond’s.”

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

“I really haven’t an idea. As I say, I don’t marry for my friends.”

He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,
doing it quite without delicacy. “Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert
Osmond?”

“Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable
man. He’s not in business,” said Isabel. “He’s not rich; he’s not known
for anything in particular.”

She disliked Mr. Goodwood’s questions, but she said to herself that she
owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor
Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at
her. “Where does he come from? Where does he belong?”

She had never been so little pleased with the way he said “belawng.” “He
comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy.”

“You said in your letter he was American. Hasn’t he a native place?”

“Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.”

“Has he never gone back?”

“Why should he go back?” Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. “He has
no profession.”

“He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn’t he like the United
States?”

“He doesn’t know them. Then he’s very quiet and very simple--he contents
himself with Italy.”

“With Italy and with you,” said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and
no appearance of trying to make an epigram. “What has he ever done?” he
added abruptly.

“That I should marry him? Nothing at all,” Isabel replied while her
patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. “If he had done
great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;
I’m marrying a perfect nonentity. Don’t try to take an interest in him.
You can’t.”

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

Isabel’s colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,
and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render
perceptions she had never taken for fine. “Why do you always come back
to what others think? I can’t discuss Mr. Osmond with you.”

“Of course not,” said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air
of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were
nothing else that they might discuss.

“You see how little you gain,” she accordingly broke out--“how little
comfort or satisfaction I can give you.”

“I didn’t expect you to give me much.”

“I don’t understand then why you came.”

“I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are.”

“I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later
we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been
pleasanter for each of us than this.”

“Waited till after you’re married? That’s just what I didn’t want to do.
You’ll be different then.”

“Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You’ll see.”

“That will make it all the worse,” said Mr. Goodwood grimly.

“Ah, you’re unaccommodating! I can’t promise to dislike you in order to
help you to resign yourself.”

“I shouldn’t care if you did!”

Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the
window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round
her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again
and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just
quitted. “Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That’s better for
you perhaps than for me.”

“I wished to hear the sound of your voice,” he said.

“You’ve heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet.”

“It gives me pleasure, all the same.” And with this he got up. She had
felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in
Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She
had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his
messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better
pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy
implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,
reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change
her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;
and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor’s
remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that
irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart
beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself
that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the
wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness
to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a
little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no
propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden
horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an
opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him
a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her
engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire
to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel’s part to
desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile
held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which
she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused
her: “I’ve not deceived you! I was perfectly free!”

“Yes, I know that,” said Caspar.

“I gave you full warning that I’d do as I chose.”

“You said you’d probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner
that I pretty well believed it.”

She considered this an instant. “No one can be more surprised than
myself at my present intention.”

“You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe
it,” Caspar went on. “I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I
remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and
that’s partly why I came.”

“If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that’s soon done. There’s
no mistake whatever.”

“I saw that as soon as I came into the room.”

“What good would it do you that I shouldn’t marry?” she asked with a
certain fierceness.

“I should like it better than this.”

“You’re very selfish, as I said before.”

“I know that. I’m selfish as iron.”

“Even iron sometimes melts! If you’ll be reasonable I’ll see you again.”

“Don’t you call me reasonable now?”

“I don’t know what to say to you,” she answered with sudden humility.

“I shan’t trouble you for a long time,” the young man went on. He made
a step towards the door, but he stopped. “Another reason why I came was
that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having
changed your mind.”

Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. “In explanation? Do you think
I’m bound to explain?”

He gave her one of his long dumb looks. “You were very positive. I did
believe it.”

“So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?”

“No, I suppose not. Well,” he added, “I’ve done what I wished. I’ve seen
you.”

“How little you make of these terrible journeys,” she felt the poverty
of her presently replying.

“If you’re afraid I’m knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be
at your ease about it.” He turned away, this time in earnest, and no
hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.

At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. “I shall leave
Florence to-morrow,” he said without a quaver.

“I’m delighted to hear it!” she answered passionately. Five minutes
after he had gone out she burst into tears.



CHAPTER XXXIII

Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had
vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this
expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;
Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She
had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact
public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about
it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a
somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;
she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the
mid-day breakfast, and then she began. “Aunt Lydia, I’ve something to
tell you.”

Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. “You
needn’t tell me; I know what it is.”

“I don’t know how you know.”

“The same way that I know when the window’s open--by feeling a draught.
You’re going to marry that man.”

“What man do you mean?” Isabel enquired with great dignity.

“Madame Merle’s friend--Mr. Osmond.”

“I don’t know why you call him Madame Merle’s friend. Is that the
principal thing he’s known by?”

“If he’s not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for
him!” cried Mrs. Touchett. “I shouldn’t have expected it of her; I’m
disappointed.”

“If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement
you’re greatly mistaken,” Isabel declared with a sort of ardent
coldness.

“You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman’s
having had to be lashed up? You’re quite right. They’re immense, your
attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she
hadn’t put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he
was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him.”

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

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

“I thought he even pleased _you_.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then he can’t hurt me,” said Isabel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What has she done to you?”

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

“She couldn’t have prevented it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but some one else would.”

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

“Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.”

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

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

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

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

“He never pretended he’d prevent it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He only arrived last night.”

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXIV

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

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

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

“Are you tired of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Beyond a certain point, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait for what?”

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

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

“I might have struck a spark or two.”

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

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

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

“Of course that seems to you too fatuous.”

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

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

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

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

“And how little you trust me!”

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

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

“Not if you’re just.”

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

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

“What sort of marriage was that, pray?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come down, you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Small?” She made it sound immense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think I’m in trouble?”

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps she had guessed it,” said Isabel.

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

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

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

“You think I shall suit _you_?”

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

“For you too, I hope,” Isabel said.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but I hate them.”

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

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

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

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

“I came to ask your advice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In everything. They think quite differently.”

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

“Yes, she’s very fond of Pansy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Her own children? Surely she has none.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you underrate me.”

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

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

“She does--I know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not for the world.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And it was not disagreeable to you?”

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

“I was afraid of offending you.”

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

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

“Yes--I like you.”

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

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

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

“You told me just now he knows everything.”

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

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

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

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

“And where’s Pansy?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But you don’t hate it.”

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

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

“No, don’t do that. He’ll hang on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you believe him?” Osmond asked absentmindedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then, where’s the hitch?”

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

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

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

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

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

“He intends to confess, poor little man!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know it, Mr. Rosier.”

“Did she tell you?”

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

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

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

“That she’s all right.”

“What do you mean by that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but her father does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You took it? Where did you take it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve no idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve got an awfully good house.”

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

“You mean he has arranged it?”

“Yes, it was nothing when we came.”

“He must be very clever.”

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

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

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

“Do you mean you accept what others propose?”

“Very willingly, for the most part.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You must make her acquaintance.”

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

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

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

“It rather surprises me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He told me you had forgotten me.”

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

“Then everything’s just the very same?”

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

“What has he done to you?”

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

“You needn’t mind that.”

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

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

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

“What good will that do me?”

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

“You disappoint me,” groaned poor Rosier.

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

“Is this to be all my satisfaction?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll never do that.”

“What then are we to wait for?”

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

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

“Afraid of what?”

“Of your father, I suppose.”

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

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




CHAPTER XXXIX

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

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

Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in
this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the
girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the
game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would
always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in
her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should
fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he
had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in
order to know Isabel’s real situation. At present, however, she neither
taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was
justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was
something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was
not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an
advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a
sorrow she scarcely spoke

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