textfiles/etext/FICTION/james-portrait-134.txt

                                      1881

                             THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

                                 by Henry James

                                      1881

  CHAPTER 1

  Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more
agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon
tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the
tea or not- some people of course never do- the situation is in itself
delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this
simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime.
The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn
of an old English country-house, in what I should call the perfect
middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had
waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest
and rarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the
flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grown mellow,
the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened
slowly, however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still
to come which is perhaps the chief source of one's enjoyment of such a
scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to eight is on certain
occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the
interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The persons
concerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were
not of the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of
the ceremony I have mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were
straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a
deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served,
and of two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in
front of him. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an unusually
large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted
in brilliant colours. He disposed of its contents with much
circumspection, holding it for a long time close to his chin, with his
face turned to the house. His companions had either finished their tea
or were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they
continued to stroll. One of them, from time to time, as he passed,
looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconscious
of observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his
dwelling. The house that rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay
such consideration and was the most characteristic object in the
peculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch.

  It stood upon a low hill, above the river- the river being the
Thames at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red
brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather had played
all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine
it, presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered
chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. The house had a name
and a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been
delighted to tell you these things: how it had been built under Edward
the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the great Elizabeth
(whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent, and
terribly angular bed which still formed the principal honour of the
sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced in
Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and much
enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and
disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful
keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally
because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was
offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its
ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of
twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it,
so that he knew all its points and would tell you just where to
stand to see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows of
its various protuberances- which fell so softly upon the warm, weary
brickwork- were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he
could have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants,
several of whom were known to general fame; doing so, however, with an
undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was
not the least honourable. The front of the house overlooking that
portion of the lawn with which we are concerned was not the
entrance-front; this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here
reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the level
hill-top seemed but the extension of a luxurious interior. The great
still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvet
curtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned
seats, with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and papers that lay
upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where the ground began
to slope, the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the
less a charming walk down to the water.

  The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty
years before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his
American physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but
he had kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have
taken it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At
present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace
himself; his journeys were over, and he was taking the rest that
precedes the great rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with
features evenly distributed and an expression of placid acuteness.
It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not
large, so that the air of contented shrewdness was all the more of a
merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful in life, yet it
seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and
invidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of failure. He
had certainly had a great experience of men, but there was an almost
rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean,
spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly
and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the table. He was
neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his
knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A
beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair, watching the
master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still
more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling,
bustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other
gentlemen.

  One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with
a face as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched
was something else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair
and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the
rich adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain
fortunate, brilliant exceptional look- the air of a happy
temperament fertilized by a high civilization- which would have made
almost any observer envy him at a venture. He was booted and
spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore a white
hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him,
and in one of them- a large, white, well-shaped fist- was crumpled a
pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.

  His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a
person of quite a different pattern, who, although he might have
excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked
you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean,
loosely and feebly put together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty,
charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling
moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill- a combination by no
means felicitous; and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his
hands in his pockets, and there was something in the way he did it
that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling,
wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said,
whenever he passed the old man in the chair he rested his eyes upon
him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you
would easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his
son's eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive smile.

  "I'm getting on very well," he said.

  "Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son.

  "Yes, and enjoyed it."

  "Shall I give you some more?"

  The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and see."
He had, in speaking, the American tone.

  "Are you cold?" the son enquired.

  The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't tell
till I feel."

  "Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger man,
laughing.

  "Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me,
Lord Warburton?"

  "Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton,
promptly. "I'm bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable."

  "Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old man looked
down at his green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. "The fact is
I've been comfortable so many years that I suppose I've got so used to
it I don't know it."

  "Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "We only
know when we're uncomfortable."

  "It strikes me we're rather particular," his companion remarked.

  "Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburton
murmured. And then the three men remained silent a while; the two
younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently asked
for more tea. "I should think you would be very unhappy with that
shawl," Lord Warburton resumed while his companion filled the old
man's cup again.

  "Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in the velvet
coat. "Don't put such ideas as that into his head."

  "It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply.

  "Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons-" And Lord Warburton made a
gesture of apology.

  "I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went
on.

  "You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover
your poor old legs."

  "Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they
are as good as yours."

  "Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving
him his tea.

  "Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference."

  "I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?"

  "Well, it's rather hot."

  "That's intended to be a merit."

  "Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly.
"He's a very good nurse, Lord Warburton."

  "Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship.

  "Oh no, he's not clumsy- considering that he's an invalid himself.
He's a very good nurse- for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse
because he's sick himself."

  "Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed.

  "Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help
it."

  "I might try: that's an idea," said the young man.

  "Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked.

  Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the
Persian Gulf."

  He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man.
"That's a sort of joke."

  "Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied, serenely.
"You don't look as if you had been sick, any way, Lord Warburton."

  "He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully
about it," said Lord Warburton's friend.

  "Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely.

  "If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow
to talk to- a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe in anything."

  "That's another sort of joke," said the person accused of cynicism.

  "It's because his health is so poor," his father explained to Lord
Warburton. "It affects his mind and colours his way of looking at
things; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it's
almost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his
spirits. I've hardly ever seen him when he wasn't cheerful- about as
he is at present. He often cheers me up."

  The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. "Is
it a glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me
to carry out my theories, daddy?"

  "By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried Lord Warburton.

  "I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the old man.

  "Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm
not in the least bored; I find life only too interesting."

  "Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!"

  "I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton. "One gets
such uncommonly good talk."

  "Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've no excuse
for being bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of
such a thing."

  "You must have developed very late."

  "No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was
twenty years old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working
tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you had something to do;
but all you young men are too idle. You think too much of your
pleasure. You're too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich."

  "Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the person to
accuse a fellow-creature of being too rich!"

  "Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man.

  "Because of that, if you like; and because you have- haven't you?-
such unlimited means."

  "He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded. "He
has given away an immense deal of money."

  "Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and in
that case could there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public
benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure."

  "Daddy's very fond of pleasure- of other people's."

  The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contributed
anything to the amusement of my contemporaries."

  "My dear father, you're too modest!"

  "That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton.

  "You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've
nothing left."

  "Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young man
remarked.

  "I don't believe it- I believe things are getting more serious.
You young men will find that out."

  "The increasing seriousness of things, then- that's the great
opportunity of jokes."

  "They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm convinced
there will be great changes; and not all for the better."

  "I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'm very
sure there will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things
will happen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your
advice; you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold'
of something. One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the
next moment be knocked sky-high."

  "You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his companion.
"He's trying hard to fall in love," he added, by way of explanation,
to his father.

  "The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" Lord Warburton
exclaimed.

  "No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not be
affected by the social and political changes I just referred to."

  "You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay my
hands on one as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a
life-preserver."

  "The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best of
them will- for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one
and marry her, and your life will become much more interesting."

  A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a
sense of the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither
for his son nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony
had not been a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference;
and these words may have been intended as a confession of personal
error; though of course it was not in place for either of his
companions to remark that apparently the lady of his choice had not
been one of the best.

  "If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what
you say?" Lord Warburton asked. "I'm not at all keen about marrying-
your son misrepresented me; but there's no knowing what an interesting
woman might do with me."

  "I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," said his
friend.

  "My dear fellow, you can't see ideas- especially such highly
ethereal ones as mine. If I could only see myself- that would be a
great step in advance."

  "Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you
mustn't fall in love with my niece," said the old man.

  His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as a
provocation! My dear father, you've lived with the English for
thirty years, and you've picked up a good many of the things they say.
But you've never learned the things they don't say!"

  "I say what I please," the old man returned with all his serenity.

  "I haven't the honour of knowing your niece," Lord Warburton said.
"I think it's the first time I've heard of her."

  "She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England."

  Then young Mr. Touchett explained. "My mother, you know, has been
spending the winter in America, and we're expecting her back. She
writes that she has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to
come out with her."

  "I see- very kind of her," said Lord Warburton. "Is the young lady
interesting?"

  "We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone into
details. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and
her telegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don't know how to
write them, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of
condensation. 'Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with
niece, first steamer decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we
get from her- that was the last that came. But there had been
another before, which I think contained the first mention of the
niece. 'Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk, address here. Taken
sister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite
independent.' Over that my father and I have scarcely stopped
puzzling; it seems to admit of so many interpretations."

  "There's one thing very clear in it," said the old man; "she has
given the hotel-clerk a dressing."

  "I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the
field. We thought at first that the sister mentioned might be the
sister of the clerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to
prove that the allusion is to one of my aunts. There there was a
question as to whose the two other sisters were; they are probably two
of my late aunt's daughters. But who's 'quite independent,' and in
what sense is the term used?- that point's not yet settled. Does the
expression apply more particularly to the young lady my mother has
adopted, or does it characterize her sisters equally?- and is it
used in a moral or in a financial sense? Does it mean that they've
been left well off, or that they wish to be under no obligations? or
does it simply mean that they're fond of their own way?"

  "Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that," Mr.
Touchett remarked.

  "You'll see for yourself," said Lord Warburton. "When does Mrs.
Touchett arrive?"

  "We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin.
She may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already
have disembarked in England."

  "In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you."

  "She never telegraphs when you would expect it- only when you
don't," said the old man. "She likes to drop in on me suddenly; she
thinks she'll find me doing something wrong. She has never done so
yet, but she's not discouraged."

  "It's her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks
of." Her son's appreciation of the matter was more favourable.
"Whatever the high spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a
match for it. She likes to do everything for herself and has no belief
in any one's power to help her. She thinks me of no more use than a
postage-stamp without gum, and she would never forgive me if I
should presume to go to Liverpool to meet her."

  "Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?" Lord
Warburton asked.

  "Only on the condition I've mentioned- that you don't fall in love
with her!" Mr. Touchett replied.

  "That strikes me as hard. Don't you think me good enough?"

  "I think you too good- because I shouldn't like her to marry you.
She hasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young
ladies are doing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then
she's probably engaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe.
Moreover I'm not sure, after all, that you'd be a remarkable husband."

  "Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many American girls,
and they always were; but I could never see that it made any
difference, upon my word! As for my being a good husband," Mr.
Touchett's visitor pursued, "I'm not sure of that either. One can
but try!"

  "Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece," smiled the
old man, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous.

  "Ah, well," said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still,
"perhaps after all, she's not worth trying on!"

  CHAPTER 2

  While this exchange of pleasantries took place between the two Ralph
Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouching gait, his
hands in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrier at his heels. His
face was turned toward the house, but his eyes were bent musingly on
the lawn; so that he had been an object of observation to a person who
had just made her appearance in the ample doorway for some moments
before he perceived her. His attention was called to her by the
conduct of his dog, who had suddenly darted forward with a little
volley of shrill barks, in which the note of welcome, however, was
more sensible than that of defiance. The person in question was a
young lady, who seemed immediately to interpret the greeting of the
small beast. He advanced with great rapidity and stood at her feet,
looking up and barking hard; whereupon, without hesitation, she
stooped and caught him in her hands, holding him face to face while he
continued his quick chatter. His master now had had time to follow and
to see that Bunchie's new friend was a tall girl in a black dress, who
at first sight looked pretty. She was bareheaded, as if she were
staying in the house- a fact which conveyed perplexity to the son of
its master, conscious of that immunity from visitors which had for
some time been rendered necessary by the latter's ill-health. Meantime
the two other gentlemen had also taken note of the new-comer.

  "Dear me, who's that strange woman?" Mr. Touchett had asked.

  "Perhaps it's Mrs. Touchett's niece- the independent young lady,"
Lord Warburton suggested. "I think she must be, from the way she
handles the dog."

  The collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted, and
he trotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowly setting his
tail in motion as he went.

  "But where's my wife then?" murmured the old man.

  "I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that's a part of
the independence."

  The girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the
terrier. "Is this your little dog, sir?"

  "He was mine a moment ago; but you've suddenly acquired a remarkable
air of property in him."

  "Couldn't we share him?" asked the girl. "He's such a perfect little
darling."

  Ralph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty. "You
may have him altogether," he then replied.

  The young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence, both in
herself and in others; but this abrupt generosity made her blush. "I
ought to tell you that I'm probably your cousin," she brought out,
putting down the dog. "And here's another!" she added quickly, as
the collie came up.

  "Probably?" the young man exclaimed, laughing. "I supposed it was
quite settled! Have you arrived with my mother?

  "Yes, half an hour ago."

  "And has she deposited you and departed again?"

  "No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I
should see you, I was to say to you that you must come to her there at
a quarter to seven."

  The young man looked at his watch. "Thank you very much; I shall
be punctual." And then he looked at his cousin. "You're very welcome
here. I'm delighted to see you."

  She was looking at everything, with an eye that denoted clear
perception- at her companion, at the two dogs, at the two gentlemen
under the trees, at the beautiful scene that surrounded her. "I've
never seen anything so lovely as this place. I've been all over the
house; it's too enchanting."

  "I"m sorry you should have been here so long without our knowing
it."

  "Your mother told me that in England people arrived very quietly; so
I thought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemen your father?"

  "Yes, the elder one- the one sitting down," said Ralph.

  The girl gave a laugh. "I don't suppose it's the other. Who's the
other?"

  "He's a friend of ours- Lord Warburton."

  "Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!" And
then, "Oh you adorable creature!" she suddenly cried, stooping down
and picking up the small dog again.

  She remained standing where they had met, making no offer to advance
or to speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingered so near the
threshold, slim and charming, her interlocutor wondered if she
expected the old man to come and pay her his respects. American
girls were used to a great deal of deference, and it had been
intimated that this one had a high spirit. Indeed, Ralph could see
that in her face.

  "Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father?" he
nevertheless ventured to ask. "He's old and infirm- he doesn't leave
his chair."

  "Ah, poor man, I'm very sorry!" the girl exclaimed, immediately
moving forward. "I got the impression from your mother that he was
rather- rather intensely active."

  Ralph Touchett was silent a moment. "She hasn't seen him for a
year."

  "Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound."

  "It's a dear old place," said the young man, looking sidewise at his
neighbour.

  "What's his name?" she asked, her attention having again reverted to
the terrier.

  "My father's name?"

  "Yes," said the young lady with amusement; "but don't tell him I
asked you.

  They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was sitting,
and he slowly got up from his chair to introduce himself.

  "My mother has arrived," said Ralph, "and this is Miss Archer."

  The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked at her a
moment with extreme benevolence and then gallantly kissed her. "It's a
great pleasure to me to see you here; but I wish you had given us a
chance to receive you."

  "Oh, we were received," said the girl. "There were about a dozen
servants in the hall. And there was an old woman curtseying at the
gate."

  "We can do better than that- if we have notice!" And the old man
stood there smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shaking his head
at her. "But Mrs. Touchett doesn't like receptions."

  "She went straight to her room."

  "Yes- and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I suppose I
shall see her next week." And Mrs. Touchett's husband slowly resumed
his former posture.

  "Before that," said Miss Archer. "She's coming down to dinner- at
eight o'clock. Don't you forget a quarter to seven," she added,
turning with a smile to Ralph.

  "What's to happen at a quarter to seven?"

  "I'm to see my mother," said Ralph.

  "Ah, happy boy!" the old man commented. "You must sit down- you must
have some tea," he observed to his wife's niece.

  "They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there," this
young lady answered. "I'm sorry you're out of health," she added,
resting her eyes upon her venerable host.

  "Oh, I'm an old man, my dear; it's time for me to be old. But I
shall be the better for having you here."

  She had been looking all round her again- at the lawn, the great
trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while
engaged in this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a
comprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a
young woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had
seated herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in
her lap, were folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye
lighted, her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that,
in sympathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught
impressions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were all
reflected in a clear, still smile. "I've never seen anything so
beautiful as this."

  "It's looking very well," said Mr. Touchett. "I know the way it
strikes you. I've been through all that. But you're very beautiful
yourself," he added with a politeness by no means crudely jocular
and with the happy consciousness that his advanced age gave him the
privilege of saying such things- even to young persons who might
possibly take alarm at them.

  What degree of alarm this young person took need not be exactly
measured; she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was not a
refutation. "Oh yes, of course I'm lovely!" she returned with a
quick laugh. "How old is your house? Is it Elizabethan?"

  "It's early Tudor," said Ralph Touchett.

  She turned toward him, watching his face. "Early Tudor? How very
delightful! And I suppose there are a great many others."

  "There are many much better ones."

  "Don't say that, my son!" the old man protested. "There's nothing
better than this."

  "I've got a very good one; I think in some respects it's rather
better," said Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, but who had
kept an attentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightly inclined
himself, smiling; he had an excellent manner with women. The girl
appreciated it in an instant; she had not forgotten that this was Lord
Warburton. "I should like very much to show it to you," he added.

  "Don't believe him," cried the old man; "don't look at it! It's a
wretched old barrack- not to be compared with this."

  "I don't know- I can't judge," said the girl, smiling at Lord
Warburton.

  In this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever; he
stood with his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if he should
like to renew his conversation with his new-found cousin. "Are you
very fond of dogs?" he enquired by way of beginning. He seemed to
recognize that it was an awkward beginning for a clever man.

  "Very fond of them indeed."

  "You must keep the terrier, you know," he went on, still awkwardly.

  "I'll keep him while I'm here, with pleasure."

  "That will be for a long time, I hope."

  "You're very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that."

  "I'll settle it with her- at a quarter to seven." And Ralph looked
at his watch again.

  "I'm glad to be here at all," said the girl.

  "I don't believe you allow things to be settled for you."

  "Oh yes; if they're settled as I like them."

  "I shall settle this as I like it," said Ralph. "It's most
unaccountable that we should never have known you."

  "I was there- you had only to come and see me."

  "There? Where do you mean?"

  "In the United States: in New York and Albany and other American
places."

  "I've been there- all over, but I never saw you. I can't make it
out."

  Miss Archer just hesitated. "It was because there had been some
disagreement between your mother and my father, after my mother's
death, which took place when I was a child. In consequence of it we
never expected to see you."

  "Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels- heaven forbid!"
the young man cried. "You've lately lost your father?" he went on more
gravely.

  "Yes, more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kind to
me; she came to see me and proposed that I should come with her to
Europe."

  "I see," said Ralph. "She has adopted you."

  "Adopted me?" The girl stared, and her blush came back to her,
together with a momentary look of pain which gave her interlocutor
some alarm. He had underestimated the effect of his words. Lord
Warburton, who appeared constantly desirous of a nearer view of Miss
Archer, strolled toward the two cousins at the moment, and as he did
so she rested her wider eyes on him. "Oh no; she has not adopted me.
I'm not a candidate for adoption."

  "I beg a thousand pardons," Ralph murmured. "I meant- I meant-" He
hardly knew what he meant.

  "You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to take people up.
She has been very kind to me; but," she added with a certain visible
eagerness of desire to be explicit, "I'm very fond of my liberty."

  "Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?" the old man called out from
his chair. "Come here, my dear, and tell me about her. I'm always
thankful for information."

  The girl hesitated again, smiling. "She's really very benevolent,"
she answered; after which she went over to her uncle, whose mirth
was excited by her words.

  Lord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, to whom in a
moment he said: "You wished a while ago to see my idea of an
interesting woman. There it is!"

  CHAPTER 3

  Mrs. Touchett was certainly a person of many oddities, of which
her behaviour on returning to her husband's house after many months
was a noticeable specimen. She had her own way of doing all that she
did, and this is the simplest description of a character which,
although by no means without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in
giving an impression of suavity. Mrs. Touchett might do a great deal
of good, but she never pleased. This way of her own, of which she
was so fond, was not intrinsically offensive- it was just
unmistakeably distinguished from the ways of others. The edges of
her conduct were so very clear-cut that for susceptible persons it
sometimes had a knife-like effect. That hard fineness came out in
her deportment during the first hours of her return from America,
under circumstances in which it might have seemed that her first act
would have been to exchange greetings with her husband and son. Mrs.
Touchett, for reasons which she deemed excellent, always retired on
such occasions into impenetrable seclusion, postponing the more
sentimental ceremony until she had repaired the disorder of dress with
a completeness which had the less reason to be of high importance as
neither beauty nor vanity were concerned in it. She was a
plain-faced old woman, without graces and without any great
elegance, but with an extreme respect for her own motives. She was
usually prepared to explain these- when the explanation was asked as a
favour; and in such a case they proved totally different from those
that had been attributed to her. She was virtually separated from
her husband, but she appeared to perceive nothing irregular in the
situation. It had become clear, at an early stage of their
community, that they should never desire the same thing at the same
moment, and this appearance had prompted her to rescue disagreement
from the vulgar realm of accident. She did what she could to erect
it into a law- a much more edifying aspect of it- by going to live
in Florence, where she bought a house and established herself; and
by leaving her husband to take care of the English branch of his bank.
This arrangement greatly pleased her; it was so felicitously definite.
It struck her husband in the same light, in a foggy square in
London, where it was at times the most definite fact he discerned; but
he would have preferred that such unnatural things should have a
greater vagueness. To agree to disagree had cost him an effort; he was
ready to agree to almost anything but that, and saw no reason why
either assent or dissent should be so terribly consistent. Mrs.
Touchett indulged in no regrets nor speculations, and usually came
once a year to spend a month with her husband, a period during which
she apparently took pains to convince him that she had adopted the
right system. She was not fond of the English style of life, and had
three or four reasons for it to which she currently alluded; they bore
upon minor points of that ancient order, but for Mrs. Touchett they
amply justified non-residence. She detested bread-sauce, which, as she
said, looked like a poultice and tasted like soap; she objected to the
consumption of beer by her maid-servants; and she affirmed that the
British laundress (Mrs. Touchett was very particular about the
appearance of her linen) was not a mistress of her art. At fixed
intervals she paid a visit to her own country; but this last had
been longer than any of its predecessors.

  She had taken up her niece- there was little doubt of that. One
wet afternoon, some four months earlier than the occurrence lately
narrated, this young lady had been seated alone with a book. To say
she was so occupied is to say that her solitude did not press upon
her; for her love of knowledge had a fertilizing quality and her
imagination was strong. There was at this time, however, a want of
fresh taste in her situation which the arrival of an unexpected
visitor did much to correct. The visitor had not been announced; the
girl heard her at last walking about the adjoining room. It was in
an old house at Albany, a large, square, double house, with a notice
of sale in the windows of one of the lower apartments. There were
two entrances, one of which had long been out of use but had never
been removed. They were exactly alike- large white doors, with an
arched frame and wide side-lights, perched upon little "stoops" of red
stone, which descended sidewise to the brick pavement of the street.
The two houses together formed a single dwelling, the party-wall
having been removed and the rooms placed in communication. These
rooms, above-stairs, were extremely numerous, and were painted all
over exactly alike, in a yellowish white which had grown sallow with
time. On the third floor there was a sort of arched passage,
connecting the two sides of the house, which Isabel and her sisters
used in their childhood to call the tunnel and which, though it was
short and well-lighted, always seemed to the girl to be strange and
lonely, especially on winter afternoons. She had been in the house, at
different periods, as a child; in those days her grandmother lived
there. Then there had been an absence of ten years, followed by a
return to Albany before her father's death. Her grandmother, old
Mrs. Archer, had exercised, chiefly within the limits of the family, a
large hospitality in the early period, and the little girls often
spent weeks under her roof- weeks of which Isabel had the happiest
memory. The manner of life was different from that of her own home-
larger, more plentiful, practically more festal; the discipline of the
nursery was delightfully vague and the opportunity of listening to the
conversation of one's elders (which with Isabel was a highly-valued
pleasure) almost unbounded. There was a constant coming and going; her
grandmother's sons and daughters and their children appeared to be
in the enjoyment of standing invitations to arrive and remain, so that
the house offered to a certain extent the appearance of a bustling
provincial inn kept by a gentle old landlady who sighed a great deal
and never presented a bill.

  Isabel of course knew nothing about bills; but even as a child she
thought her grandmother's home romantic. There was a covered piazza
behind it, furnished with a swing which was a source of tremulous
interest; and beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the
stable and containing peach-trees of barely credible familiarity.
Isabel had stayed with her grandmother at various seasons, but somehow
all her visits had a flavour of peaches. On the other side, across the
street, was an old house that was called the Dutch House- a peculiar
structure dating from the earliest colonial time, composed of bricks
that had been painted yellow, crowned with a gable that was pointed
out to strangers, defended by a rickety wooden paling and standing
sidewise to the street. It was occupied by a primary school for
children of both sexes, kept or rather let go, by a demonstrative lady
of whom Isabel's chief recollection was that her hair was fastened
with strange bedroomy combs at the temples and that she was the
widow of some one of consequence. The little girl had been offered the
opportunity of laying a foundation of knowledge in this establishment;
but having spent a single day in it, she had protested against its
laws and had been allowed to stay at home, where, in the September
days, when the windows of the Dutch House were open, she used to
hear the hum of childish voices repeating the multiplication-table- an
incident in which the elation of liberty and the pain of exclusion
were indistinguishably mingled. The foundation of her knowledge was
really laid in the idleness of her grandmother's house, where, as most
of the other inmates were not reading people, she had uncontrolled use
of a library full of books with frontispieces, which she used to climb
upon a chair to take down. When she had found one to her taste- she
was guided in the selection chiefly by the frontispiece- she carried
it into a mysterious apartment which lay beyond the library and
which was called, traditionally, no one knew why, the office. Whose
office it had been and at what period it had flourished, she never
learned; it was enough for her that it contained an echo and a
pleasant musty smell and that it was a chamber of disgrace for old
pieces of furniture whose infirmities were not always apparent (so
that the disgrace seemed unmerited and rendered them victims of
injustice) and with which, in the manner of children, she had
established relations almost human, certainly dramatic. There was an
old haircloth sofa in especial, to which she had confided a hundred
childish sorrows. The place owed much of its mysterious melancholy
to the fact that it was properly entered from the second door of the
house, the door that had been condemned, and that it was secured by
bolts which a particularly slender little girl found it impossible
to slide. She knew that this silent, motionless portal opened into the
street; if the sidelights had not been filled with green paper she
might have looked out upon the little brown stoop and the well-worn
brick pavement. But she had no wish to look out, for this would have
interfered with her theory that there was a strange, unseen place on
the other side- a place which became to the child's imagination,
according to its different moods, a region of delight of terror.

  It was in the "office" still that Isabel was sitting on that
melancholy afternoon of early spring which I have just mentioned. At
this time she might have had the whole house to choose from, and the
room she had selected was the most depressed of its scenes. She had
never opened the bolted door nor removed the green paper (renewed by
other hands) from its sidelights; she had never assured herself that
the vulgar street lay beyond. A crude, cold rain fell heavily; the
spring-time was indeed an appeal- and it seemed a cynical, insincere
appeal- to patience. Isabel, however, gave as little heed as
possible to cosmic treacheries; she kept her eyes on her book and
tried to fix her mind. It had lately occurred to her that her mind was
a good deal of a vagabond, and she had spent much ingenuity in
training it to a military step and teaching it to advance, to halt, to
retreat, to perform even more complicated manoeuvres, at the word of
command. Just now she had given it marching orders and it had been
trudging over the sandy plains of a history of German Thought.
Suddenly she became aware of a step very different from her own
intellectual pace; she listened a little and perceived that some one
was moving in the library, which communicated with the office. It
struck her first as the step of a person from whom she was looking for
a visit, then almost immediately announced itself as the tread of a
woman and a stranger- her possible visitor being neither. It had an
inquisitive, experimental quality which suggested that it would not
stop short of the threshold of the office; and in fact the doorway
of this apartment was presently occupied by a lady who paused there
and looked very hard at our heroine. She was a plain, elderly woman,
dressed in a comprehensive waterproof mantle; she had a face with a
good deal of rather violent point.

  "Oh," she began, "is that where you usually sit?" She looked about
at the heterogeneous chairs and tables.

  "Not when I have visitors," said Isabel, getting up to receive the
intruder.

  She directed their course back to the library while the visitor
continued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of other
rooms; they're in rather better condition. But everything's
immensely worn."

  "Have you come to look at the house?" Isabel asked. "The servant
will show it to you."

  "Send her away; I don't want to buy it. She has probably gone to
look for you and is wandering about upstairs; she didn't seem at all
intelligent. You had better tell her it's no matter." And then,
since the girl stood there hesitating and wondering, this unexpected
critic said to her abruptly: "I suppose you're one of the daughters?"

  Isabel thought she had very strange manners. "It depends upon
whose daughters you mean."

  "The late Mr. Archer's- and my poor sister's."

  "Ah," said Isabel slowly, "you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!"

  "Is that what your father told you to call me? I'm your Aunt
Lydia, but I'm not at all crazy: I haven't a delusion! And which of
the daughters are you?"

  "I'm the youngest of the three, and my name's Isabel."

  "Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the prettiest?"

  "I haven't the least idea," said the girl.

  "I think you must be." And in this way the aunt and the niece made
friends. The aunt had quarrelled years before with her brother-in-law,
after the death of her sister, taking him to task for the manner in
which he brought up his three girls. Being a high-tempered man he
had requested her to mind her own business, and she had taken him at
his word. For many years she held no communication with him and
after his death had addressed not a word to his daughters, who had
been bred in that disrespectful view of her which we have just seen
Isabel betray. Mrs. Touchett's behaviour was, as usual, perfectly
deliberate. She intended to go to America to look after her
investments (with which her husband, in spite of his great financial
position, had nothing to do) and would take advantage of this
opportunity to enquire into the condition of her nieces. There was
no need of writing, for she should attach no importance to any account
of them she should elicit by letter; she believed, always, in seeing
for one's self. Isabel found, however, that she knew a good deal about
them, and knew about the marriage of the two elder girls; knew that
their poor father had left very little money, but that the house in
Albany, which had passed into his hands, was to be sold for their
benefit; knew, finally, that Edmund Ludlow, Lilian's husband, had
taken upon himself to attend to this matter, in consideration of which
the young couple, who had come to Albany during Mr. Archer's
illness, were remaining there for the present and, as well as Isabel
herself, occupying the old place.

  "How much money do you expect for it?" Mrs. Touchett asked of her
companion, who had brought her to sit in the front parlour, which
she had inspected without enthusiasm.

  "I haven't the least idea," said the girl.

  "That's the second time you have said that to me," her aunt
rejoined. "And yet you don't look at all stupid."

  "I'm not stupid; but I don't know anything about money."

  "Yes, that's the way you were brought up- as if you were to
inherit a million. What have you in point of fact inherited?"

  "I really can't tell you. You must ask Edmund and Lilian; they'll be
back in half an hour."

  "In Florence we should call it a very bad house," said Mrs.
Touchett; "but here, I dare say, it will bring a high price. It
ought to make a considerable sum for each of you. In addition to
that you must have something else; it's most extraordinary your not
knowing. The position's of value, and they'll probably pull it down
and make a row of shops. I wonder you don't do that yourself; you
might let the shops to great advantage."

  Isabel stared; the idea of letting shops was new to her. "I hope
they won't pull it down," she said; "I'm extremely fond of it."

  "I don't see what makes you fond of it; your father died here."

  "Yes, but I don't dislike it for that," the girl rather strangely
returned. "I like places in which things have happened- even if
they're sad things. A great many people have died here; the place
has been full of life."

  "Is that what you call being full of life?"

  "I mean full of experience- of people's feelings and sorrows. And
not of their sorrows only, for I've been very happy here as a child."

  "You should go to Florence if you like houses in which things have
happened- especially deaths. I live in an old palace in which three
people have been murdered; three that were known and I don't know
how many more besides."

  "In an old palace?" Isabel repeated.

  "Yes, my dear; a very different affair from this. This is very
bourgeois."

  Isabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly of her
grandmother's house. But the emotion was of a kind which led her to
say: "I should like very much to go to Florence."

  "Well, if you'll be very good, and do everything I tell you I'll
take you there," Mrs. Touchett declared.

  Our young woman's emotion deepened; she flushed a little and
smiled at her aunt in silence. "Do everything you tell me? I don't
think I can promise that."

  "No, you don't look like a person of that sort. You're fond of
your own way; but it's not for me to blame you."

  "And yet, to go to Florence," the girl exclaimed in a moment, "I'd
promise almost anything!"

  Edmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchett had an
hour's uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found her a strange
and interesting figure: a figure essentially- almost the first she had
ever met. She was as eccentric as Isabel had always supposed; and
hitherto, whenever the girl had heard people described as eccentric,
she had thought of them as offensive or alarming. The term had
always suggested to her something grotesque and even sinister. But her
aunt made it a matter of high but easy irony, or comedy, and led her
to ask herself if the common tone, which was all she had known, had
ever been as interesting. No one certainly had on any occasion so held
her as this little thin-lipped, bright-eyed, foreign-looking woman,
who retrieved an insignificant appearance by a distinguished manner
and, sitting there in a well-worn waterproof, talked with striking
familiarity of the courts of Europe. There was nothing flighty about
Mrs. Touchett, but she recognized no social superiors, and, judging
the great ones of the earth in a way that spoke of this, enjoyed the
consciousness of making an impression on a candid and susceptible
mind. Isabel at first had answered a good many questions, and it was
from her answers apparently that Mrs. Touchett derived a high
opinion of her intelligence. But after this she had asked a good many,
and her aunt's answers, whatever turn they took, struck her as food
for deep reflexion. Mrs. Touchett waited for the return of her other
niece as long as she thought reasonable, but as at six o'clock Mrs.
Ludlow bad not come in she prepared to take her departure.

  "Your sister must be a great gossip. Is she accustomed to staying
out so many hours?"

  "You've been out almost as long as she," Isabel replied; "she can
have left the house but a short time before you came in."

  Mrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment; she appeared to
enjoy a bold retort and to be disposed to be gracious. "Perhaps she
hasn't had so good an excuse as I. Tell her at any rate that she
must come and see me this evening at that horrid hotel. She may
bring her husband if she likes, but she needn't bring you. I shall see
plenty of you later."

  CHAPTER 4

  Mrs. Ludlow was the eldest of the three sisters, and was usually
thought the most sensible; the classification being in general that
Lilian was the practical one, Edith the beauty and Isabel the
"intellectual" superior. Mrs. Keyes, the second of the group, was
the wife of an officer of the United States Engineers, and as our
history is not further concerned with her it will suffice that she was
indeed very pretty and that she formed the ornament of those various
military stations, chiefly in the unfashionable West, to which, to her
deep chagrin, her husband was successively relegated. Lilian had
married a New York lawyer, a young man with a loud voice and an
enthusiasm for his profession; the match was not brilliant, any more
than Edith's, but Lilian had occasionally been spoken of as a young
woman who might be thankful to marry at all- she was so much plainer
than her sisters. She was, however, very happy, and now, as the mother
of two peremptory little boys and the mistress of a wedge of brown
stone violently driven into Fifty-third Street, seemed to exult in her
condition as in a bold escape. She was short and solid, and her
claim to figure was questioned, but she was conceded presence,
though not majesty; she had moreover, as people said, improved since
her marriage, and the two things in life of which she was most
distinctly conscious were her husband's force in argument and her
sister Isabel's originality. "I've never kept up with Isabel- it would
have taken all my time," she had often remarked; in spite of which,
however, she held her rather wistfully in sight; watching her as a
motherly spaniel might watch a free greyhound. "I want to see her
safely married- that's what I want to see," she frequently noted to
her husband.

  "Well, I must say I should have no particular desire to marry
her," Edmund Ludlow was accustomed to answer in an extremely audible
tone.

  "I know you say that for argument; you always take the opposite
ground. I don't see what you've against her except that she's so
original."

  "Well, I don't like originals; I like translations," Mr. Ludlow
had more than once replied. "Isabel's written in a foreign tongue. I
can't make her out. She ought to marry an Armenian or a Portuguese."

  "That's just what I'm afraid she'll do!" cried Lilian, who thought
Isabel capable of anything.

  She listened with great interest to the girl's account of Mrs.
Touchett's appearance and in the evening prepared to comply with their
aunt's commands. Of what Isabel then said no report has remained,
but her sister's words had doubtless prompted a word spoken to her
husband as the two were making ready for their visit. "I do hope
immensely she'll do something handsome for Isabel; she has evidently
taken a great fancy to her."

  "What is it you wish her to do?" Edmund Ludlow asked. "Make her a
big present?"

  "No indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her-
sympathize with her. She's evidently just the sort of person to
appreciate her. She has lived so much in foreign society; she told
Isabel all about it. You know you've always thought Isabel rather
foreign."

  "You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don't you
think she gets enough at home?"

  "Well, she ought to go abroad," said Mrs. Ludlow. "She's just the
person to go abroad."

  "And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?"

  "She has offered to take her- she's dying to have Isabel go. But
what I want her to do when she gets her there is to give her all the
advantages. I'm sure all we've got to do," said Mrs. Ludlow, "is to
give her a chance."

  "A chance for what?"

  "A chance to develop."

  "Oh, Moses!" Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. "I hope she isn't going to
develop any more!"

  "If I were not sure you only said that for argument I should feel
very badly," his wife replied. "But you know you love her."

  "Do you know I love you?" the young man said, jocosely, to Isabel
a little later, while he brushed his hat.

  "I'm sure I don't care whether you do or not!" exclaimed the girl;
whose voice and smile, however, were less haughty than her words.

  "Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett's visit," said her
sister.

  But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of
seriousness. "You must not say that, Lily. I don't feel grand at all."

  "I'm sure there's no harm," said the conciliatory Lily.

  "Ah, but there's nothing in Mrs. Touchett's visit to make one feel
grand."

  "Oh," exclaimed Ludlow, "she's grander than ever!"

  "Whenever I feel grand," said the girl, "it will be for a better
reason."

  Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt different, felt
as if something had happened to her. Left to herself for the evening
she sat a while under the lamp, her hands empty, her usual
avocations unheeded. Then she rose and moved about the room, and
from one room to another, preferring the places where the vague
lamplight expired. She was restless and even agitated; at moments
she trembled a little. The importance of what had happened was out
of proportion to its appearance; there had really been a change in her
life. What it would bring with it was as yet extremely indefinite; but
Isabel was in a situation that gave a value to any change. She had a
desire to leave the past behind her and, as she said to herself, to
begin afresh. This desire indeed was not a birth of the present
occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the rain upon the
window and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many times.
She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the
quiet parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing
forgetfulness. It was on the contrary because she felt too wide-eyed
and wished to check the sense of seeing too many things at once. Her
imagination was by habit ridiculously active; when the door was not
open it jumped out of the window. She was not accustomed indeed to
keep it behind bolts; and at important moments, when she would have
been thankful to make use of her judgement alone, she paid the penalty
of having given undue encouragement to the faculty of seeing without
judging. At present, with her sense that the note of change had been
struck, came gradually a host of images of the things she was
leaving behind her. The years and hours of her life came back to
her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken only by the ticking of
the big bronze clock, she passed them in review. It had been a very
happy life and she had been a very fortunate person- this was the
truth that seemed to emerge most vividly. She had had the best of
everything, and in a world in which the circumstances of so many
people made them unenviable it was an advantage never to have known
anything particularly unpleasant. It appeared to Isabel that the
unpleasant had been even too absent from her knowledge, for she had
gathered from her acquaintance with literature that it was often a
source of interest and even of instruction. Her father had kept it
away from her- her handsome, much-loved father, who always had such an
aversion to it. It was a great felicity to have been his daughter;
Isabel rose even to pride in her parentage. Since his death she had
seemed to see him as turning his braver side to his children and as
not having managed to ignore the ugly quite so much in practice as
in aspiration. But this only made her tenderness for him greater; it
was scarcely even painful to have to suppose him too generous, too
good-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations. Many persons
had held that he carried this indifference too far, especially the
large number of those to whom he owed money. Of their opinions
Isabel was never very definitely informed; but it may interest the
reader to know that, while they had recognized in the late Mr.
Archer a remarkably handsome head and a very taking manner (indeed, as
one of them had said, he was always taking something), they had
declared that he was making a very poor use of his life. He had
squandered a substantial fortune, he had been deplorably convivial, he
was known to have gambled freely. A few very harsh critics went so far
as to say that he had not even brought up his daughters. They had
had no regular education and no permanent home; they had been at
once spoiled and neglected; they had lived with nursemaids and
governesses (usually very bad ones) or had been sent to superficial
schools, kept by the French, from which, at the end of a month, they
had been removed in tears. This view of the matter would have
excited Isabel's indignation, for to her own sense her opportunities
had been large. Even when her father had left his daughters for
three months at Neufchatel with a French bonne who had eloped with a
Russian nobleman staying at the same hotel- even in this irregular
situation (an incident of the girl's eleventh year) she had been
neither frightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic
episode in a liberal education. Her father had a large way of
looking at life, of which his restlessness and even his occasional
incoherency of conduct had been only a proof. He wished his daughters,
even as children, to see as much of the world as possible; and it
was for this purpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, he had
transported them three times across the Atlantic, giving them on
each occasion, however, but a few months' view of the subject
proposed: a course which had whetted our heroine's curiosity without
enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to have been a partisan of her
father, for she was the member of his trio who most "made up" to him
for the disagreeables he didn't mention. In his last days his
general willingness to take leave of a world in which the difficulty
of doing as one liked appeared to increase as one grew older had
been sensibly modified by the pain of separation from his clever,
his superior, his remarkable girl. Later, when the journeys to
Europe ceased, he still had shown his children all sorts of
indulgence, and if he had been troubled about money-matters nothing
ever disturbed their irreflective consciousness of many possessions.
Isabel, though she danced very well, had not the recollection of
having been in New York a successful member of the choregraphic
circle; her sister Edith was, as every one said, so very much more
fetching. Edith was so striking an example of success that Isabel
could have no illusions as to what constituted this advantage, or as
to the limits of her own power to frisk and jump and shriek- above all
with rightness of effect. Nineteen persons out of twenty (including
the younger sister herself pronounced Edith infinitely the prettier of
the two; but the twentieth, besides reversing this judgement, had
the entertainment of thinking all the others aesthetic vulgarians.
Isabel had in the depths of her nature an even more unquenchable
desire to please than Edith; but the depths of this young lady's
nature were a very out-of-the-way place, between which and the surface
communication was interrupted by a dozen capricious forces. She saw
the young men who came in large numbers to see her sister; but as a
general thing they were afraid of her; they had a belief that some
special preparation was required for talking with her. Her
reputation of reading a great deal hung about her like the cloudy
envelope of a goddess in an epic; it was supposed to engender
difficult questions and to keep the conversation at a low temperature.
The poor girl liked to be thought clever, but she hated to be
thought bookish; she used to read in secret and, though her memory was
excellent, to abstain from showy reference. She had a great desire for
knowledge, but she really preferred almost any source of information
to the printed page; she had an immense curiosity about life and was
constantly staring and wondering. She carried within herself a great
fund of life, and her deepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity
between the movements of her own soul and the agitations of the world.
For this reason she was fond of seeing great crowds and large
stretches of country, of reading about revolutions and wars, of
looking at historical pictures- a class of efforts as to which she had
often committed the conscious solecism of forgiving them much bad
painting for the sake of the subject. While the Civil War went on
she was still a very young girl; but she passed months of this long
period in a state of almost passionate excitement, in which she felt
herself at times (to her extreme confusion) stirred almost
indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Of course the
circumspection of suspicious swains had never gone the length of
making her a social proscript; for the number of those whose hearts,
as they approached her, beat only just fast enough to remind them they
had heads as well, had kept her unacquainted with the supreme
discipline of her sex and age. She had had everything a girl could
have: kindness, admiration, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of
exclusion from none of the privileges of the world she lived in,
abundant opportunity for dancing, plenty of new dresses, the London
Spectator, the latest publications, the music of Gounod, the poetry of
Browning, the prose of George Eliot.

  These things now, as memory played over them, resolved themselves
into a multitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten things came back
to her; many others, which she had lately thought of great moment,
dropped out of sight. The result was kaleidoscopic, but the movement
of the instrument was checked at last by the servant's coming in
with the name of a gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar
Goodwood; he was a straight young man from Boston, who had known
Miss Archer for the last twelvemonth and who, thinking her the most
beautiful young woman of her time, had pronounced the time,
according to the rule I have hinted at, a foolish period of history.
He sometimes wrote to her and had within a week or two written from
New York. She had thought it very possible he would come in- had
indeed all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him. Now that she
learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness to receive
him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen, was indeed quite a
splendid young man; he inspired her with a sentiment of high, of
rare respect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any other
person. He was supposed by the world in general to wish to marry
her, but this of course was between themselves. It at least may be
affirmed that he had travelled from New York to Albany expressly to
see her; having learned in the former city, where he was spending a
few days and where he had hoped to find her, that she was still at the
State capital. Isabel delayed for some minutes to go to him; she moved
about the room with a new sense of complications. But at last she
presented herself and found him standing near the lamp. He was tall,
strong and somewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He was not
romantically, he was much rather obscurely, handsome; but his
physiognomy had an air of requesting your attention, which it rewarded
according to the charm you found in blue eyes of remarkable fixedness,
the eyes of a complexion other than his own, and a jaw of the somewhat
angular mould which is supposed to bespeak resolution. Isabel said
to herself that it bespoke resolution to-night; in spite of which,
in half an hour, Caspar Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as
resolute, took his way back to his lodging with the feeling of a man
defeated. He was not, it may be added, a man weakly to accept defeat.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted that
of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was
paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day,
gubernatorial. She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and
had always insisted on his spending three months of the year with her.
Ralph rendered perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her
thoughts and her thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn
always came after the other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the
various punctualities of performance of the workers of her will. He
found her completely dressed for dinner, but she embraced her boy with
her gloved hands and made him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired
scrupulously about her husband's health and about the young man's own,
and, receiving no very brilliant account of either, remarked that
she was more than ever convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself
to the English climate. In this case she also might have given way.
Ralph smiled at the idea of his mother's giving way, but made no point
of reminding her that his own infirmity was not the result of the
English climate, from which he absented himself for a considerable
part of each year.

  He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,
a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as
subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he
gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a
life-long residence in his adopted country, of which, from the
first, he took a simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he
said to himself, he had no intention of dis-americanizing, nor had
he a desire to teach his only son any such subtle art. It had been for
himself so very soluble a problem to live in England assimilated yet
unconverted that it seemed to him equally simple his lawful heir
should after his death carry on the grey old bank in the white
American light. He was at pains to intensify this light, however, by
sending the boy home for his education. Ralph spent several terms at
an American school and took a degree at an American university,
after which, as he struck his father on his return as even redundantly
native, he was placed for some three years in residence at Oxford.
Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became at last English
enough. His outward conformity to the manners that surrounded him
was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed its
independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise;
at Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable
satisfaction, and the people about him said it was a thousand pities
so clever a fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had
a career by returning to his own country (though this point is
shrouded in uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing
to part with him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with
him to put a watery waste permanently between himself and the old
man whom he regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of
his father, he admired him- he enjoyed the opportunity of observing
him. Daniel Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and
though he himself had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a
point of learning enough of it to measure the great figure his
father had played. It was not this, however, he mainly relished; it
was the fine ivory surface, polished as by the English air, that the
old man had opposed to possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett
had been neither at Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if
he had placed in his son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph,
whose head was full of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a
high esteem for the latter's originality. Americans, rightly or
wrongly, are commended for the ease with which they adapt themselves
to foreign conditions; but Mr. Touchett had made of the very limits of
his pliancy half the ground of his general success. He had retained in
their freshness most of his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as
his son always noted with pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant
parts of New England. At the end of his life he had become, on his own
ground, as mellow as he was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness
with the disposition superficially to fraternize, and his "social
position," on which he had never wasted a care, had the firm
perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It was perhaps his want of
imagination and of what is called the historic consciousness; but to
many of the impressions usually made by English life upon the
cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There were
certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had
never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards
these latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have
thought less well of him.

  Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;
after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his
father's bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not,
I believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon
other considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was
fond of standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this
exercise, however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period,
for at the end of some eighteen months he had become aware of his
being seriously out of health. He had caught a violent cold, which
fixed itself on his lungs and threw them into dire confusion. He had
to give up work and apply, to the letter, the sorry injunction to take
care of himself. At first he slighted the task; it appeared to him
it was not himself in the least he was taking care of, but an
uninteresting and uninterested person with whom he had nothing in
common. This person, however, improved on acquaintance, and Ralph grew
at last to have a certain grudging tolerance, even an
undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows,
and our young man, feeling that he had something at stake in the
matter- it usually struck him as his reputation for ordinary wit-
devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of which note
was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping the poor
fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other promised to
follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather a dozen
winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which
consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of
London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that
he cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive
organ grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter
hand. He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped
at home when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or
twice, when it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.

  A secret hoard of indifference- like a thick cake a fond old nurse
might have slipped into his first school outfit- came to his aid and
helped to reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill
for aught but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was
really nothing he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at
least not renounced the field of valour. At present, however, the
fragrance of forbidden fruit seemed occasionally to float past him and
remind him that the finest of pleasures is the rush of action.
Living as he now lived was like reading a good book in a poor
translation- a meagre entertainment for a young man who felt that he
might have been an excellent linguist. He had good winters and poor
winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes the sport of a
vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled some three
years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this history
opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in England
and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers. He
arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between
life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use
he made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but
once. He said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it
behoved him to keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him
to spend the interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such
a preoccupation. With the prospect of losing them the simple use of
his faculties became an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the
joys of contemplation had never been sounded. He was far from the time
when he had found it hard that he should be obliged to give up the
idea of distinguishing himself; an idea none the less importunate
for being vague and none the less delightful for having had to
struggle in the same breast with bursts of inspiring self-criticism.
His friends at present judged him more cheerful, and attributed it
to a theory, over which they shook their heads knowingly, that he
would recover his health. His serenity was but the array of wild
flowers niched in his ruin.

  It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed
thing in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred
interest in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not
insipid. If he was consideringly disposed, something told him, here
was occupation enough for a succession of days. It may be added, in
summary fashion, that the imagination of loving- as distinguished from
that of being loved- had still a place in his reduced sketch. He had
only forbidden himself the riot of expression. However, he shouldn't
inspire his cousin with a passion, nor would she be able, even
should she try, to help him to one. "And now tell me about the young
lady," he said to his mother. "What do you mean to do with her?"

  Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her
to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."

  "You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My
father will ask her as a matter of course."

  "I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."

  "Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the
more reason for his asking her. But after that- I mean after three
months (for it's absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three
or four paltry weeks)- what do you mean to do with her?"

  "I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."

  "Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"

  "I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."

  "You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should
like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way."

  "My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very
much," she added.

  "No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting
compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me
a hint of where you see your duty."

  "In showing her four European countries- I shall leave her the
choice of two of them- and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting
herself in French, which she already knows very well."

  Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry- even allowing her
the choice of two of the countries."

  "If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel
alone to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."

  "Do you mean she's a gifted being?"

  "I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever girl-
with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being bored."

  "I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How
do you two get on?"

  "Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me
one. Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I
think I greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her; I
know the sort of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we
know just what to expect of each other."

  "Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect
of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day- in
presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never
suspected."

  "Do you think her so very pretty?"

  "Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her
general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is
this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how
did you make her acquaintance?"

  "I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room
on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death.
She didn't know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it
she seemed very grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have
enlightened her- I should have let her alone. There's a good deal in
that, but I acted conscientiously; I thought she was meant for
something better. It occurred to me that it would be a kindness to
take her about and introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows
a great deal of it- like most American girls; but like most American
girls she's ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought
she would do me credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a
woman of my age there's no greater convenience, in some ways, than
an attractive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my sister's
children for years; I disapproved entirely of the father. But I always
meant to do something for them when he should have gone to his reward.
I ascertained where they were to be found and, without any
preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There are two others of
them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the elder, who has,
by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name is Lily,
jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was
just what her sister needed- that some one should take an interest
in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young person of
genius- in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that
Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special
line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;
they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of
rescue, a refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself
seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was
a little difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse
to being under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and
she supposes herself to be travelling at her own expense."

  Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which
his interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a
genius," he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by
chance for flirting?"

  "I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be
wrong. You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."

  "Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He
flatters himself he has made that discovery."

  His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her.
He needn't try."

  "He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be
puzzled once in a while."

  "Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.

  Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"

  "Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."

  Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.
Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.

  "At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.

  Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour
then. Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett
declined his invitation, declaring that he must find out for
himself, "Well," he pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But
won't she also give you trouble?"

  "I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never
do that."

  "She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.

  "Natural people are not the most trouble."

  "No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're
extremely natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It
takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is
Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?"

  "Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out
for yourself."

  His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he
said, "you've not told me what you intend to do with her."

  "Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do
absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she
chooses. She gave me notice of that."

  "What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's
independent."

  "I never know what I mean in my telegrams- especially those I send
from America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."

  "It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.

  "I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered.

  Ralph knew what to think of his father's impatience; but, making
no rejoinder, he offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power,
as they descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing
of the staircase- the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of
time-blackened oak which was one of the most striking features of
Gardencourt. "You've no plan of marrying her?" he smiled.

  "Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart
from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every
facility."

  "Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"

  "I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston-!"

  Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in
Boston. "As my father says, they're always engaged!"

  His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the
source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He
had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been
left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over
from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his
departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and
Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their
forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their
respective apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin;
though she had been travelling half the day she appeared in no
degree spent. She was really tired; she knew it, and knew she should
pay for it on the morrow; but it was her habit at this period to carry
exhaustion to the furtherest point and confess to it only when
dissimulation broke down. A fine hypocrisy was for the present
possible; she was interested; she was, as she said to herself,
floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures; there were a
great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing. The best
were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions, which
had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening was
usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures to
advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow. This
suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked disappointed-
smiling still, however- and said: "If you please I should like to
see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager and now
seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions," Ralph
said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure
amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,
and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague
squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it
made a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a
candlestick and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel,
inclining to one picture after another, indulged in little
exclamations and murmurs. She was evidently a judge; she had a natural
taste; he was struck with that. She took a candlestick herself and
held it slowly here and there; she lifted it high, and as she did so
he found himself pausing in the middle of the place and bending his
eyes much less upon the pictures than on her presence. He lost
nothing, in truth, by these wandering glances, for she was better
worth looking at than most works of art. She was undeniably spare, and
ponderably light, and proveably tall; when people had wished to
distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers they had always called
her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark even to blackness, had
been an object of envy to many women; her light grey eyes, a little
too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an enchanting range of
concession. They walked slowly up one side of the gallery and down the
other, and then she said:

  "Well, now I know more than I did when I began!"

  "You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin
returned.

  "I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."

  "You strike me as different from most girls."

  "Ah, some of them would- but the way they're talked to!" murmured
Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a
moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me- isn't there a
ghost?" she went on.

  "A ghost?"

  "A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in
America."

  "So we do here, when we see them."

  "You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."

  "It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed
if you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no
romance here but what you may have brought with you."

  "I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to
the right place."

  "To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it
here, between my father and me."

  Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your
father and you?"

  "My mother, of course."

  "Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other
people?"

  "Very few."

  "I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."

  "Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.

  "Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely.
"Who was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"

  "A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."

  "I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.

  "Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.

  "Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,
immensely."

  "You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."

  "I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.

  "You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."

  "I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too
many theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.

  Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my
father and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my
mother."

  "I like your mother very much, because- because-" And Isabel found
herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.
Touchett.

  "Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.

  "I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't
expect one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."

  "So you adore her- out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after
my mother," said Ralph.

  "I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you
try to make them do it."

  "Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that
was not altogether jocular.

  "But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to
clinch the matter will be to show me the ghost."

  Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never
see it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable.
It has never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you.
You must have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained
some miserable knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I
saw it long ago," said Ralph.

  "I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.

  "Yes, of happy knowledge- of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't
suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the
ghost!"

  She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but
with a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she
had struck him as rather presumptuous- indeed it was a part of her
charm; and he wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know,"
she said: which seemed quite presumptuous enough.

  "You're not afraid of suffering?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I
think people suffer too easily," she added.

  "I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his
hands in his pockets.

  "I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely
necessary to suffer; we were not made for that."

  "You were not, certainly."

  "I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.

  "No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be
strong."

  "Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.

  They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had
returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of
the staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom
candle, which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call
you. When you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to
be as happy as possible."

  She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed
her foot on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came
to Europe for, to be as happy as possible. Good-night."

  "Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to
contribute to it!"

  She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then,
with his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty
drawing-room.

  CHAPTER 6

  Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination
was remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind
than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger
perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was
tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries
she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these
excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of
intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of
Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read
the classic authors- in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs.
Varian, once spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book- Mrs.
Varian having a reverence for books, and averred that the girl would
distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of
literature, for which she entertained that esteem that is connected
with a sense of privation. Her own large house, remarkable for its
assortment of mosaic tables and decorated ceilings, was unfurnished
with a library, and in the way of printed volumes contained nothing
but half a dozen novels in paper on a shelf in the apartment of one of
the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs. Varian's acquaintance with
literature was confined to The New York Interviewer; as she very
justly said, after you had read the Interviewer you had lost all faith
in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather to keep the
Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was determined to
bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her impression
with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl had never
attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels of
authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the
consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people
were right when they treated her as if she were rather superior.
Whether or no she were superior, people were right in admiring her
if they thought her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved
more quickly than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might
easily be confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without
delay that Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of
self-esteem; she often surveyed with complacency the field of her
own nature; she was in the habit of taking for granted, on scanty
evidence, that she was right; she treated herself to occasions of
homage. Meanwhile her errors and delusions were frequently such as a
biographer interested in preserving the dignity of his subject must
shrink from specifying. Her thoughts were a tangle of vague outlines
which had never been corrected by the judgement of people speaking
with authority. In matters of opinion she had had her own way, and
it had led her into a thousand ridiculous zigzags. At moments she
discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then she treated herself
to a week of passionate humility. After this she held her head
higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an
unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it
was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should
be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organization (she
couldn't help knowing her organization was fine), should move in a
realm of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration
gracefully chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of
one's self as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should
try to be one's own best friend and to give one's self, in this
manner, distinguished company. The girl had a certain nobleness of
imagination which rendered her a good many services and played her a
great many tricks. She spent half her time in thinking of beauty and
bravery and magnanimity; she had a fixed determination to regard the
world as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible
action: she held it must be detestable to be afraid or ashamed. She
had an infinite hope that she should never do anything wrong. She
had resented so strongly, after discovering them, her mere errors of
feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if she had escaped
from a trap which might have caught her and smothered her) that the
chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another person,
presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold her
breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen to
her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about the
things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when she
fixed them hard she recognized them. It was wrong to be mean, to be
jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the
evil of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to
hurt each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit;
it seemed indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high
spirit was the danger of inconsistency- the danger of keeping up the
flag after the place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked
as to be almost a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little
of the sorts of artillery to which young women are exposed,
flattered herself that such contradictions would never be noted in her
own conduct. Her life should always be in harmony with the most
pleasing impression she should produce; she would be what she
appeared, and she would appear what she was. Sometimes she went so far
as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficult
position, so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic as
the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre knowledge, her
inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and dogmatic, her
temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of curiosity and
fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire to look
very well and to be if possible even better, her determination to see,
to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,
flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions:
she would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not
intended to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and
more purely expectant.

  It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate
in being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened
use of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much
less of singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and,
besides, her sister Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She
had a friend whose acquaintance she had made shortly before her
father's death, who offered so high an example of useful activity that
Isabel always thought of her as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the
advantage of an admired ability; she was thoroughly launched in
journalism, and her letters to the Interviewer, from Washington,
Newport, the White Mountains and other places, were universally
quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence "ephemeral," but she
esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer, who,
without parents and without property, had adopted three of the
children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their
school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was
in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her
cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of
letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view- an
enterprise the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what
her opinions would be and to how many objections most European
institutions lay open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she
wished to start at once; thinking, naturally, that it would be
delightful the two should travel together. She had been obliged,
however, to postpone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious
creature, and had spoken of her covertly in some of her letters,
though she never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not
have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the
Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman
might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were of the
obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and a
genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to
want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation, no
beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being
frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be
hollow. If one should wait with the right patience one would find some
happy work to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young
lady was not without a collection of views on the subject of marriage.
The first on the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking
too much of it. From lapsing into eagerness on this point she
earnestly prayed she might be delivered; she held that a woman ought
to be able to live to herself, in the absence of exceptional
flimsiness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy without the
society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The
girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered; something pure and proud
that there was in her- something cold and dry an unappreciated
suitor with a taste for analysis might have called it- had hitherto
kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the article of
possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a ruinous
expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them should
present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience. Deep
in her soul- it was the deepest thing there- lay a belief that if a
certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but
this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive.
Isabel's thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long;
after a little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she
thought too much about herself; you could have made her colour, any
day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning
out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her
progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like
quality, a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers
and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was,
after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the
recesses of one's spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a
lapful of roses. But she was often reminded that there were other
gardens in the world than those of her remarkable soul, and that there
were moreover a great many places which were not gardens at all-
only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted thick with ugliness and misery.
In the current of that repaid episode on curiosity on which she had
lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this beautiful old
England and might carry her much further still, she often checked
herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were less
happy than herself- a thought which for the moment made her fine, full
consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with
the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self?
It must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was
too young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She
always returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all
every one thought clever should begin by getting a general
impression of life. This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes,
and after it should be secured she might make the unfortunate
condition of others a subject of special attention.

  England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted
as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she
had seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window;
Paris, not London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his
interests there his children had naturally not entered. The images
of that time moreover had grown faint and remote, and the old-world
quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of
strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a picture made real; no
refinement of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; the rich
perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified a
need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the
deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark,
polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always
peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a
"property"- a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where
the tread was muffled by the earth itself and in the thick mild air
all friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk-
these things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste
played a considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast
friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had
had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting
with folded hands like a placid, homely household god, a god of
service, who had done his work and received his wages and was trying
to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel
amused him more than she suspected- the effect she produced upon
people was often different from what she supposed- and he frequently
gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter. It was by this term
that he qualified her conversation, which had much of the "point"
observable in that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear
of the world is more directly presented than to their sisters in other
lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to
express herself; her remarks had been attended to; she had been
expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her opinions had
doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed away in the
utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit of
seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her
words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many
people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to
think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her
teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to
understand, to speak- so many characteristics of her niece- that he
had fallen in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy
to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been
like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was
full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they
had had any young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving,
clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of
flowing water. He wanted to do something for her and wished she
would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but questions; it is true
that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had a great fund of
answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms that puzzled him.
She questioned him immensely about England, about the British
constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the
manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the
aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and
in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired
whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The
old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he
smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.

  "The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books.
You must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself- got
my information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;
I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good
opportunities- better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm
of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you
were to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching
you more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five
years, and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable
information. It's a very fine country on the whole- finer perhaps than
what we give it credit for on the other side. There are several
improvements I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of
them doesn't seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of a
thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish it; but they
seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly
feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first came
over; I suppose it's because I've had a considerable degree of
success. When you're successful you naturally feel more at home."

  "Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel
asked.

  "I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be
successful. They like American young ladies very much over here;
they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much
at home, you know."

  "Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially
emphasized. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like
the people."

  "The people are very good people; especially if you like them."

  "I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they
pleasant in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make
themselves agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't
hesitate to say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe
they're very nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels."

  "I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the
novels have a great deal of ability, but I don't suppose they're
very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she
was a friend of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very
positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person
you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy- I suppose that was
it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was
understood to have given a representation- something in the nature
of a caricature, as you might say- of my unworthy self. I didn't
read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages
marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation;
American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and
stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn't have
listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report
of my conversation, if she liked; but I didn't like the idea that
she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an
American- I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've made
them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters, and
as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance to
notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young
women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their
position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the
middle."

  "Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About
fifty, I suppose."

  "Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much
notice of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here;
you don't belong to any class."

  "I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English
class!"

  "Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable- especially
towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I
trust and the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong
to the first."

  "I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of
taking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as
rapidly as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes
misjudged, she was thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was
simply unwilling to show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that
was to show too much. "I'm sure the English are very conventional,"
she added.

  "They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted.
"It's all settled beforehand- they don't leave it to the last moment."

  "I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl.
"I like more unexpectedness."

  Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well,
it's settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he
rejoined. "I suppose you'll like that."

  "I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional.
I'm not in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary.
That's what they won't like."

  "No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what
they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal
interest."

  "Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands
clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down
the lawn- "that will suit me perfectly!"

  CHAPTER 7

  The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the
attitude of the British public as if the young lady had been in a
position to appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained
for the present profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose
fortune had dropped her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in
England. Her gouty uncle received very little company, and Mrs.
Touchett, not having cultivated relations with her husband's
neighbours, was not warranted in expecting visits from them. She
had, however, a peculiar taste; she liked to receive cards. For what
is usually called social intercourse she had very little relish; but
nothing pleased her more than to find her hall-table whitened with
oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that
she was a very just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth that
nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had played no social
part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be supposed that,
in the surrounding country, a minute account should be kept of her
comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she did not
feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and that
her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in
the neighbourhood had, not much to do with the acrimony of her
allusions to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found
herself in the singular situation of defending the British
constitution against her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit
of sticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an
impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any
damage on the tough old parchment, but because it seemed to her aunt
might make better use of her sharpness. She was very critical herself-
it was incidental to her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was
very sentimental as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's
dryness that set her own moral fountains flowing.

  "Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you
criticize everything here you should have a point of view. Yours
doesn't seem to be American- you thought everything over there so
disagreeable. When I criticize I have mine; it's thoroughly American!"

  "My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many
points of view in the world as there are people of sense to take them.
You may say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in
the world; that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is
personal!"

  Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a
tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not
have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less
advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett
such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She
risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a
great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a
large license to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to
chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating
everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges
such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of
seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such
slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his
father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his
father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his
fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his
adopted, and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I
keep a band of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has
orders to play without stopping; it renders me two excellent services.
It keeps the sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments,
and it makes the world think that dancing's going on within." It was
dance-music indeed that you usually heard when you came within
ear-shot of Ralph's band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon
the air. Isabel often found herself irritated by this perpetual
fiddling; she would have liked to pass through the ante-room, as her
cousin called it, and enter the private apartments. It mattered little
that he had assured her they were a very dismal place; she would
have been glad to undertake to sweep them and set them in order. It
was but half-hospitality to let her remain outside; to punish him
for which Isabel administered innumerable taps with the ferule of
her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit was exercised
to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused himself
with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so heated
that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was
represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of
the prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner.
Isabel's chief dread in life at this period of her development was
that she should appear narrow-minded; what she feared next
afterwards was that she should really be so. But she nevertheless made
no scruple of abounding in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh
for the charms of her native land. She would be as American as it
pleased him to regard her, and if he chose to laugh at her she would
give him plenty of occupation. She defended England against his
mother, but when Ralph sang its praises on purpose, as she said, to
work her up, she found herself able to differ from him on a variety of
points. In fact, the quality of this small ripe country seemed as
sweet to her as the taste of an October pear; and her satisfaction was
at the root of the good spirits which enabled her to take her cousin's
chaff and return it in kind. If her good-humour flagged at moments
it was not because she thought herself ill-used, but because she
suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to her he was talking as a
blind and had little heart in what he said.

  "I don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once;
"but I suspect you're a great humbug."

  "That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to
being so crudely addressed.

  "I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for
anything. You don't really care for England when you praise it; you
don't care for America even when you pretend to abuse it."

  "I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph.

  "If I could believe even that, I should be very glad."

  "Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.

  Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the
truth. He thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present
to his mind. At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a
burden to him her sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an
open-handed gift of fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them
wings and something to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks
steeped in melancholy; his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the
shadow of a deeper cloud. He had grown anxious about his father, whose
gout, hitherto confined to his legs, had begun to ascend into
regions more vital. The old man had been gravely ill in the spring,
and the doctors had whispered to Ralph that another attack would be
less easy to deal with. Just now he appeared disburdened of pain,
but Ralph could not rid himself of a suspicion that this was a
subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to take him off his guard. If
the manoeuvre should succeed there would be little hope of any great
resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted that his father would
survive him- that his own name would be the first grimly called. The
father and son had been close companions, and the idea of being left
alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his hands was not
gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly counted upon
his elder's help in making the best of a poor business. At the
prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one
inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very
well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he
should barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the
incentive of feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a
rule with his mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of
course that it had been a small kindness to his father to wish that,
of the two, the active rather than the passive party should know the
felt wound; he remembered that the old man had always treated his
own forecast of an early end as a clever fallacy, which he should be
delighted to discredit so far as he might by dying first. But of the
two triumphs, that of refuting a sophistical son and that of holding
on a while longer to a state of being which, with all abatements, he
enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to hope the latter might be vouchsafed
to Mr. Touchett.

  These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his
puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation
for the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered
whether he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman
from Albany; but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he
had known her for a week he quite made up his mind to this, and
every day he felt a little more sure. Lord Warburton had been right
about her; she was a really interesting little figure. Ralph
wondered how their neighbour had found it out so soon; and then he
said it was only another proof of his friend's high abilities, which
he had always greatly admired. If his cousin were to be nothing more
than an entertainment to him, Ralph was conscious she was an
entertainment of a high order. "A character like that," he said to
himself,- "a real little passionate force to see at play is the finest
thing in nature." It's finer than the finest work of art- than a Greek
bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic cathedral. It's very
pleasant to be so well treated where one had least looked for it. I
had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week before she came;
I had never expected less that anything pleasant would happen.
Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall- a
Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a
beautiful edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in
and admire. My poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had
better keep very quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of
these reflexions was very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph
Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His cousin was a very
brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal of knowing;
but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with regard to her,
though it was contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He
surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired it greatly; he
looked in at the windows and received an impression of proportions
equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses and that
he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and though
he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them
would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free
nature; but what was she going to do with herself? This question was
irregular, for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most
women did with themselves nothing at all; they waited, attitudes
more or less gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and
furnish them with a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave
one an impression of having intentions of her own. "Whenever she
executes them," said Ralph, "may I be there to see!"

  It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.
Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that
of rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened
itself to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was
not a great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin-
a pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency
not allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the
climate; and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the
measure of her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the
dear little river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore
seemed still a part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove
over the country in a phaeton- a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton
formerly much used by Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to
enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it largely and, handling the reins in a manner
which approved itself to the groom as "knowing," was never weary of
driving her uncle's capital horses through winding lanes and byways
full of the rural incidents she had confidently expected to find; past
cottages thatched and timbered, past ale-houses latticed and sanded,
past patches of ancient common and glimpses of empty parks, between
hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When they reached home they usually
found tea had been served on the lawn and that Mrs. Touchett had not
shrunk from the extremity of handing her husband his cup. But the
two for the most part sat silent; the old man with his head back and
his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her knitting and wearing
that appearance of rare profundity with which some ladies consider the
movement of their needles.

  One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons,
after spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and
perceived Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in
conversation, of which even at a distance the desultory character
was appreciable, with Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own
place with a portmanteau and had asked, as the father and son often
invited him to do, for a dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him
for half an hour on the day of her arrival, had discovered in this
brief space that she liked him; he had indeed rather sharply
registered himself on her fine sense and she had thought of him
several times. She had hoped she should see him again- hoped too
that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the
place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a sort of
golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had ever
encountered- her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her
impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there
was as yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need
to remind herself that she was interested in human nature and that her
foremost hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great
many people. When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times,
"I wonder you find this endurable; you ought to see some of the
neighbours and some of our friends, because we have really got a
few, though you would never suppose it"- when he offered to invite
what he called a "lot of people" and make her acquainted with
English society, she encouraged the hospitable impulse and promised in
advance to hurl herself into the fray. Little, however, for the
present, had come of his offers, and it may be confided to the
reader that if the young man delayed to carry them out it was
because he found the labour of providing for his companion by no means
so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel had spoken to him very
often about "specimens"; it was a word that played a considerable part
in her vocabulary; she had given him to understand that she wished
to see English society illustrated by eminent cases.

  "Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up
from the riverside and he recognized Lord Warburton.

  "A specimen of what?" asked the girl.

  "A specimen of an English gentleman."

  "Do you mean they're all like him?"

  "Oh no; they're not all like him."

  "He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure
he's nice."

  "Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."

  The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our
heroine and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he
said, "since you've been handling the oars."

  "I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you
know it?"

  "Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,
indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.

  "He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering
her voice a little.

  "Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton,
still with his sonorous mirth.

  "My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said
Ralph. "She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't
adorn!"

  "It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton
declared.

  "Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for
it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her
accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such
complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there
were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of
herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed
to be supported by proof.

  Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was
persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was
ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow.
During this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who
accepted this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found
herself liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on
her had had weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his
society she scarce fell short of seeing him- though quite without
luridity- as a hero of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of
good fortune, with a quickened consciousness of possible felicities.
"It's very nice to know two such charming people as those," she
said, meaning by "those" her cousin and her cousin's friend. It must
be added moreover that an incident had occurred which might have
seemed to put her good-humour to the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at
half-past nine o'clock, but his wife remained in the drawing-room with
the other members of the party. She prolonged her vigil for
something less than an hour, and then, rising, observed to Isabel that
it was time they should bid the gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as
yet no desire to go to bed; the occasion wore, to her sense, a festive
character, and feasts were not in the habit of terminating so early.
So, without further thought, she replied, very simply-

  "Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour."

  "It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered.

  "Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily
engaged.

  "I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss
Archer!" Lord Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be
before midnight."

  Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and
transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the
gentlemen. You're not- you're not at your blest Albany, my dear."

  Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said.

  "Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out.

  "My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured.

  "I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said
majestically. "I must take it as I find it."

  "Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired.

  "I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."

  "Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That
will arrange it."

  Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh,
if it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."

  Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been
watching her; it had seemed to him her temper was involved- an
accident that might be interesting. But if he had expected anything of
a flare he was disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little,
nodded good-night and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he
was annoyed at his mother, though he thought she was right.
Above-stairs the two ladies separated at Mrs. Touchett's door.
Isabel had said nothing on her way up.

  "Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs.
Touchett.

  Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised- and a good
deal mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?"

  "Not in the least. Young girls here- in decent houses- don't sit
alone with the gentlemen late at night."

  "You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't
understand it, but I'm very glad to know it."

  "I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you
taking what seems to me too much liberty."

  "Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance
just."

  "Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways."

  "Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the
things one shouldn't do."

  "So as to do them?" asked her aunt.

  "So as to choose," said Isabel.

  CHAPTER 8

  As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to
express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a
very curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that
she bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his
willingness to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare
him. Lord Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his
sisters, would come and see her. She knew something about his sisters,
having sounded him, during the hours they spent together while he
was at Gardencourt, on many points connected with his family. When
Isabel was interested she asked a great many questions, and as her
companion was a copious talker she urged him on this occasion by no
means in vain. He told her he had four sisters and two brothers and
had lost both his parents. The brothers and sisters were very good
people- "not particularly clever, you know," he said, "but very decent
and pleasant"; and he was so good as to hope Miss Archer might know
them well. One of the brothers was in the Church, settled in the
family living, that of Lockleigh, which was a heavy, sprawling parish,
and was an excellent fellow in spite of his thinking differently
from himself on every conceivable topic. And then Lord Warburton
mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which were
opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to
be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many
of them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured
her she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she
had doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend
that, if she thought them over a little, she would find there was
nothing in them. When she answered that she had already thought
several of the questions involved over very attentively he declared
that she was only another example of what he had often been struck
with- the fact that, of all the people in the world, the Americans
were the most grossly superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots,
every one of them; there were no conservatives like American
conservatives. Her uncle and her cousin were there to prove it;
nothing could be more mediaeval than many of their views; they had
ideas that people in England nowadays were ashamed to confess to;
and they had the impudence moreover, said his lordship, laughing, to
pretend they knew more about the needs and dangers of this poor dear
stupid old England than he who was born in it and owned a considerable
slice of it- the more shame to him! From all of which Isabel
gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest pattern, a
reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other brother,
who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed and had
not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to pay-
one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't
think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous
deal better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a
much finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in
only for equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger
brothers." Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were
married, one of them having done very well, as they said, the other
only so-so. The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good
fellow, but unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good
English wives, was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a
smallish squire in Norfolk and, though married but the other day,
had already five children. This information and much more Lord
Warburton imparted to his young American listener, taking pains to
make many things clear and to lay bare to her apprehension the
peculiarities of English life. Isabel was often amused at his
explicitness and at the small allowance he seemed to make either for
her own experience or for her imagination. "He thinks I'm a
barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and spoons"; and
she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of hearing
him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap, "It's a
pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she remarked; "if
I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would have
brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled
through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel;
he was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in
the world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the
idea that Americans in England would need to have a great many
things explained to them. "If I had only had you to explain things
to me in America!" he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country;
in fact I was quite bewildered, and the trouble was that the
explanations only puzzled me more. You know I think they often gave me
the wrong ones on purpose; they're rather clever about that over
there. But when I explain you can trust me; about what I tell you
there's no mistake." There was no mistake at least about his being
very intelligent and cultivated and knowing almost everything in the
world. Although he gave the most interesting and thrilling glimpses
Isabel felt he never did it to exhibit himself, and though he had
had rare chances and had tumbled in, as she put it, for high prizes,
he was as far as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed
the best things of life, but they had not spoiled his sense of
proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect of rich
experienced, so easily come by!- with a modesty at times almost
boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which- it was as agreeable
as something tasted- lost nothing from the addition of a tone of
responsible kindness.

  "I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to
Ralph after Lord Warburton had gone.

  "I like him too- I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him
more."

  Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only fault-
that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything, to
know everything, to be everything."

  "Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted.

  "I suppose you don't mean in health?"

  "No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a
man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it.
He doesn't take himself seriously."

  "Does he regard himself as a joke?"

  "Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition- as an abuse."

  "Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.

  "Perhaps he is- though on the whole I don't think so. But in that
case what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse
planted by other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its
injustice? For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of
Buddha. He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great
responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great
wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a
great country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position,
his power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim
of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he
doesn't know what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because
if I were he I know very well what I should believe in) he calls me
a pampered bigot. I believe he seriously thinks me an awful
Philistine; he says I don't understand my time. I understand it
certainly better than he, who can neither abolish himself as a
nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution."

  "He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed.

  "Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste,
I think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a
being of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe
he is."

  "I don't," said Isabel.

  "Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"

  In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where
the old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his
large cup of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation
he asked her what she thought of their late visitor.

  Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming."

  "He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend
you to fall in love with him."

  "I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your
recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather
a sad account of Lord Warburton."

  "Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must
remember that Ralph must talk."

  "He thinks your friend's too subversive- or not subversive enough! I
don't quite understand which," said Isabel.

  The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I
don't know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible
he doesn't go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many
things, but he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's
natural, but rather inconsistent."

  "Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be
done away with his friends would miss him sadly."

  "Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.
I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always
amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.
There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very
fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do-
whether they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate
they'll put it off till after I'm gone. You see they want to
disestablish everything; but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I
don't want to be disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had
thought they were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on
with expanding hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was
a safe country. I call it a regular fraud if they are going to
introduce any considerable changes; there'll be a large number
disappointed in that case."

  "Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed "I
should delight in seeing a revolution."

  "Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget
whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new.
I've heard you take such opposite views."

  "I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of
everything. In a revolution- after it was well begun- I think I should
be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathizes more with them, and they've
a chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely."

  "I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving
picturesquely, but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear."

  "Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted.

  "I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going
gracefully to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If
you want to see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You
see, when you come to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at
their word."

  "Of whom are you speaking?"

  "Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends- the radicals of the
upper class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk
about the changes, but I don't think they quite realize. You and I,
you know, we know what it is to have lived under democratic
institutions: I always thought them very comfortable, but I was used
to them from the first. And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my
dear, but I ain't a lord. Now over here I don't think it quite comes
home to them. It's a matter of every day and every hour, and I don't
think many of them would find it as pleasant as what they've got. Of
course if they want to try, it's their own business; but I expect they
won't try very hard."

  "Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked.

  "Well, they want to feel earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it
seems as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views
are a kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and
they might have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very
luxurious, and these progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury.
They make them feel moral and yet don't damage their position. They
think a great deal of their position; don't let one of them ever
persuade you he doesn't, for if you were to proceed on that basis
you'd be pulled up very short."

  Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his
quaint distinctness, most attentively, and though she wag unacquainted
with the British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her
general impressions of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a
protest on Lord Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord
Warburton's a humbug; I don't care what the others are. I should
like to see Lord Warburton put to the test."

  "Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord
Warburton's a very amiable young man- a very fine young man. He has
a hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of
this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has
half a dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I
have one at my own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes- cares for
literature, for art, for science, for charming young ladies. The
most elegant is his taste for the new views. It affords him a great
deal of pleasure- more perhaps than anything else, except the young
ladies. His old house over there- what does he call it, Lockleigh?- is
very attractive; but I don't think it's as pleasant as this. That
doesn't matter, however- he has so many others. His views don't hurt
any one as far as I can see; they certainly don't hurt himself. And if
there were to be a revolution he would come off very easily. They
wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as he is: he's too much liked."

  "Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed.
"That's a very poor position."

  "He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man.

  Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable
in the fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never
make any one a martyr."

  "You'll never be one, I hope."

  "I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?

  Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do,
after all!"

  CHAPTER 9

  The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently
to call upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who
appeared to her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when
she described them to her cousin by that term he declared that no
epithet could be less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux,
since there were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly
resembled them. Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors
retained that of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of
having, as she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles
of "ornamental water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums.

  "They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine
said to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three
of the friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge
(they would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of
Isabel's having occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own.
The Misses Molyneux were not in their first youth, but they had
bright, fresh complexions and something of the smile of childhood.
Yes, their eyes, which Isabel admired, were round, quiet and
contented, and their figures, also of a generous roundness, were
encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness was great, so great
that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they seemed somewhat
afraid of the young lady from the other side of the world and rather
looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear to her
that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh, where they
lived with their brother, and then they might see her very, very
often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day and sleep:
they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she
would come while the people were there.

  "I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder
sister; "but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."

  "I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as
you are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.

  Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,
that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think
she was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it
was the first time they had been called enchanting.

  "I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so
quiet and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that."

  "Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour.

  "I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much
to see them at home."

  She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his
mother, she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux
sitting in a vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of
several) in a wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this
occasion in black velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home
than she had done at Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with
the fact that they were not morbid. It had seemed to her before that
if they had a fault it was a want of play of mind; but she presently
saw they were capable of deep emotion. Before luncheon she was alone
with them for some time, on one side of the room, while Lord
Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs. Touchett.

  "Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked.
She knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human
nature was keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.

  "Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger
sister.

  "At the same time Warburton's very reasonable." Miss Molyneux
observed.

  Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was
clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett.
Ralph had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire
that the temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses,
had not made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?"
Isabel enquired with a smile.

  "Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the
elder sister gazed at our heroine in silence.

  "Do you think he would stand the test?"

  "The test?"

  "I mean for instance having to give up all this."

  "Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her
voice.

  "Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"

  The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean-
do you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked.

  "I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other.

  "Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded.

  "I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux.

  "Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you
think it's a false position?"

  Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother
position?" Miss Molyneux enquired.

  "It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister.
"It's the first position in this part of the country."

  "I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to
remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of
him."

  "Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux
simply.

  "If you do that he must be very good- because you, evidently, are
beautifully good."

  "He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does."

  "His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's
immense."

  "Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish
to fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should
hold it tight."

  "I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've
always been so, even from the earliest times."

  "Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I
don't wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."

  When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, seemed
to her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within,
it had been a good deal modernized- some of its best points had lost
their purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey
pile, of the softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a
broad, still moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a
legend. The day was cool and rather lustreless; the first note of
autumn had been struck, and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in
blurred and desultory gleams, washing them, as it were, in places
tenderly chosen, where the ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's
brother, the Vicar, had come to luncheon, and Isabel had had five
minutes' talk with him- time enough to institute a search for a rich
ecclesiasticism and give it up as vain. The marks of the Vicar of
Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure, a candid, natural
countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to indiscriminate
laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin that before taking
orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he was still, on
occasion- in the privacy of the family circle as it were- quite
capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him- she was in the mood for
liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal taxed to
think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on leaving
lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised
some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll
apart from the others.

  "I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You
can't do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His
own conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house,
which had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he
reverted at intervals to matters more personal- matters personal to
the young lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of
some duration, returning for a moment to their ostensible theme,
"Ah, well," he said, "I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I
wish you could see more of it- that you could stay here a while. My
sisters have taken an immense fancy to you- if that would be any
inducement."

  "There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I
can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands."

  "Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty
sure you can do whatever you want."

  "I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a
nice impression to make."

  "It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton
paused a moment.

  "To hope what?"

  "That in future I may see you often."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so
terribly emancipated."

  "Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your
uncle likes me."

  "You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of
you."

  "I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I
nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt."

  "I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I
ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I
shall be very glad to see you."

  "Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say
that."

  "You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.

  "No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But
you've charmed me, Miss Archer."

  These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled
the girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had
heard the sound before and she recognized it. She had no wish,
however, that for the moment such a prelude should have a sequel,
and she said as gaily as possible and as quickly as an appreciable
degree of agitation would allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect
of my being able to come here again."

  "Never?" said Lord Warburton.

  "I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."

  "May I come and see you then some day next week?"

  "Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"

  "Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of
sense that you're always summing people up."

  "You don't of necessity lose by that."

  "It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice
is not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?"

  "I hope so."

  "Is England not good enough for you?"

  "That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I
want to see as many countries as I can."

  "Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."

  "Enjoying, I hope, too."

  "Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up
to," said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious
purposes- vast designs."

  "You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all
fill out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and
executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of
my fellow-countrymen- the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign
travel?"

  "You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion
declared. "It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on
us all; it despises us."

  "Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.

  "Well, you think us 'quaint'- that's the same thing. I won't be
thought 'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest."

  "That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard,"
Isabel answered with a smile.

  Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside-
you don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself."
The note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and
mixed with it now was an audible strain of bitterness- a bitterness so
abrupt and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She
had often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and
she had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the
most romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning
romantic- was he going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the
third time they had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense
of his great good manners, which was not impaired by the fact that
he had already touched the furthest limit of good taste in
expressing his admiration of a young lady who had confided in his
hospitality. She was right in trusting to his good manners, for he
presently went on, laughing a little and without a trace of the accent
that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of course that you amuse
yourself with trifles. You select great materials; the foibles, the
afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of nations!"

  "As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation
entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt will
soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord
Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the
others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said.

  She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she
felt that she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a
painful one. Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly
enough, "Just as you please." And her coldness was not the calculation
of her effect- a game she played in a much smaller degree than would
have seemed probable to many critics. It came from a certain fear.

  CHAPTER 10

  The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her
friend Miss Stackpole- a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in
conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of
the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion.
"Here I am, my lovely friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get
off at last. I decided only the night before I left New York- the
Interviewer having come round to my figure. I put a few things into
a bag, like a veteran journalist, and came down to the steamer in a
street-car. Where are you and where can we meet? I suppose you're
visiting at some castle or other and have already acquired the correct
accent. Perhaps even you have married a lord; I almost hope you
have, for I want some introductions to the first people and shall
count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some light on the
nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are not
rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know
that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something
very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you
can; come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with
you) or else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with
pleasure; for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as
much as possible of the inner life."

  Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she
acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary
lady," he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show
me up, as that other one did. She has seen others like me."

  "She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she
was not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts,
which belonged to that side of her friend's character which she
regarded with least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however,
that she would be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this
alert young woman lost no time in announcing her prompt approach.
She had gone up to London, and it was from that centre that she took
the train for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and
Ralph were in waiting to receive her.

  "Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.

  "Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."

  "As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of
monster. Is she very ugly?"

  "No, she's decidedly pretty."

  "A female interviewer- a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to
see her," Ralph conceded.

  "It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."

  "I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"

  "Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."

  "You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."

  "I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.

  "You think she's capable of it then?"

  "Perfectly."

  "And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"

  "I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."

  "Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of
her merits."

  "You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."

  "And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!"
cried the young man.

  The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly
descending, proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even
though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of
medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate
complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back of her head
and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking
point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ,
which rested without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious
exercise of a natural right, upon every object it happened to
encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, a little
arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which
hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove
of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies,
and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new and
comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top to toe she
had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice- a voice
not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her
companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the
large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which
the young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in
the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of
Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear)
did more to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.

  "Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves
American or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to
you accordingly."

  "Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally
answered.

  She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their
character that reminded him of large polished buttons- buttons that
might have fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed
to see the reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The
expression of a button is not usually deemed human, but there was
something in Miss Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest
man, feel vaguely embarrassed- less inviolate, more dishonoured,
than he liked. This sensation, it must be added, after he had spent
a day or two in her company, sensibly diminished, though it never
wholly lapsed. "I don't suppose that you're going to undertake to
persuade me that you're an American," she said.

  "To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"

  "Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss
Stackpole returned.

  "I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of
nationality are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.

  Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign
languages?"

  "The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit- the genius."

  "I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of
the Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave."

  "He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.

  "That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I
must say I think patriotism is like charity- it begins at home."

  "Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.

  "I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended
a long time before I got here."

  "Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,
innocent voice.

  "Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall
take. I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from
Liverpool to London."

  "Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.

  "Yes, but it was crowded with friends- a party of Americans whose
acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little
Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped- I felt something
pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very
commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But
I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way- then
you can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."

  "Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and
you'll see.

  Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was
prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied
herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this
Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task
performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily
found occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms
of their common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second
morning of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to
the Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and
legible hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine
remembered at school) was "Americans and Tudors- Glimpses of
Gardencourt." Miss Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world,
offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her
protest.

  "I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to
describe the place."

  Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people
want, and it's a lovely place."

  "It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my
uncle wants."

  "Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted
afterwards."

  "My uncle won't be delighted- nor my cousin either. They'll consider
it a breach of hospitality."

  Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her
pen, very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept
for the purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you
don't approve I won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."

  "There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round
you. We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery."

  "Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You
know I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined.
"I was going to bring in your cousin- the alienated American.
There's a great demand just now for the alienated American, and your
cousin's a beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."

  "He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the
severity, but of the publicity."

  "Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have
delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type- the
American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he
can object to my paying him honour."

  Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her
as strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should
break down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no
sense of privacy."

  Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes
were suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent.
"You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've
never written a word about myself!"

  "I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest
for others also!"

  "Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again.
"Just let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." She
was a thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in
as cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a
newspaper-lady in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social
side," she said to Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If
I can't describe this place don't you know some place I can describe?"
Isabel promised she would bethink herself, and the next day, in
conversation with her friend, she happened to mention her visit to
Lord Warburton's ancient house. "Ah, you must take me there- that's
just the place for me!" Miss Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of
the nobility."

  "I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming
here, and you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you
intend to repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning."

  "Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."

  "An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his
tongue," Isabel declared.

  It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin
had, according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor,
though he had spent a good deal of time in her society. They
strolled about the park together and sat under the trees, and in the
afternoon, when it was delightful to float along the Thames, Miss
Stackpole occupied a place in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had
but a single companion. Her presence proved somehow less irreducible
to soft particles than Ralph had expected in the natural
perturbation of his sense of the perfect solubility of that of his
cousin; for the correspondent of the Interviewer prompted mirth in
him, and he had long since decided that the crescendo of mirth
should be the flower of his declining days. Henrietta, on her side,
failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her
indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have
presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be
almost immoral not to work out.

  "What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of
her arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"

  "He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large
leisure."

  "Well, I call that a shame- when I have to work like a
car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him
up."

  "He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.

  "Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her
friend. Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the
water-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her
and would like to drown her.

  "Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And
you'd be such an interesting one!"

  "Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your
prejudices; that's one comfort."

  "My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with.
There's intellectual poverty for you."

  "The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I
spoil your flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your
cousin; but I don't care for that, as I render her the service of
drawing you out. She'll see how thin you are."

  "Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take
the trouble."

  Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no
effort; resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the
natural expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather
was bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing
indoor amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled
through the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its
principal ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss
Stackpole looked at the pictures in perfect silence, committing
herself to no opinion, and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she
delivered herself of none of the little ready-made ejaculations of
delight of which the visitors to Gardencourt were so frequently
lavish. This young lady indeed, to do her justice, was but little
addicted to the use of conventional terms; there was something earnest
and inventive in her tone, which at times, in its strained
deliberation, suggested a person of high culture speaking a foreign
language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had at one time
officiated as art-critic to a journal of the other world; but she
appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket none of the
small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had called her
attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at him as
if he himself had been a picture.

  "Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.

  "I seldom spend it so agreeably."

  "Well, you know what I mean- without any regular occupation."

  "Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."

  Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and
playing the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal
of a regular occupation," he said.

  Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had
rested upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was
thinking of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can
reconcile it to your conscience."

  "My dear lady, I have no conscience!"

  "Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time
you go to America."

  "I shall probably never go again."

  "Are you ashamed to show yourself?"

  Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no
conscience one has no shame."

  "Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do
you consider it right to give up your country?"

  "Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives up
one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice- elements of
one's composition that are not to be eliminated."

  "I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do
they think of you over here?"

  "They delight in me."

  "That's because you truckle to them."

  "Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed.

  "I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any
charm it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired- or at least you've
tried hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've
succeeded. It's a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself
useful in some way, and then we'll talk about it."

  "Well, now, tell me what I shall do," said Ralph.

  "Go right home, to begin with."

  "Yes, I see. And then?"

  "Take right hold of something."

  "Well, now, what sort of thing?"

  "Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea,
some big work."

  "Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired.

  "Not if you put your heart into it."

  "Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart-!"

  "Haven't you got a heart?"

  "I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since."

  "You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the
matter with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again
permitted him to fix her attention and on the later occasion
assigned a different cause to her mysterious perversity.

  "I know what's the matter with you, Mr. Touchett," she said. "You
think you're too good to get married."

  "I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and
then I suddenly changed my mind."

  "Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned.

  "Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough."

  "It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty."

  "Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty
too?"

  "Of course it is- did you never know that before? It's every one's
duty to get married."

  Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something
in Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she
was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She
was wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave:
she went into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled
lion-tamer. He had not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts,
but these last words struck him as a false note. When a marriageable
young woman urges matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most
obvious explanation of her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.

  "Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph
rejoined.

  "There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it
looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no
woman was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one
else in the world? In America it's usual for people to marry."

  "If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as
well?"

  Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have
you the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as
good a right to marry as any one else."

  "Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single.
It delights me rather."

  "You're not serious yet. You never will be."

  "Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to
give up the practice of going around alone?"

  Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed
to announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging.
But to his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself
into an appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even
then," she answered dryly. After which she walked away.

  "I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that
evening to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it."

  "And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.

  Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"

  "She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of
Europeans towards women."

  "Does she call me a European?"

  "One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an
American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it."

  Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an
extraordinary combination. Did she think I was making love to her?"

  "No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought
you mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind
construction on it."

  "I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her.
Was that unkind?"

  Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry."

  "My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded.
"Miss Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers,
in general, to see I do mine!"

  "She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has
indeed, and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like
her for. She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to
yourself. That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was
trying to- to attract you, you were very wrong."

  "It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to
attract me. Forgive my depravity."

  "You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never
supposed you would think she had."

  "One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said
humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal- considering
that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking
at the door."

  "Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognize the
existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't
think them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should
stand ajar. But I persist in liking her."

  "I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined,
naturally somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly
deceived in Miss Stackpole.

  "Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's
rather vulgar that I like her."

  "She would be flattered by your reason!"

  "If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should
say it's because there's something of the 'people' in her."

  "What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that
matter?"

  "She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind
of emanation of the great democracy- of the continent, the country,
the nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too
much to ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it."

  "You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on
those very grounds I object to her."

  "Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many
things! If a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it.
I don't want to swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like
people to be totally different from Henrietta- in the style of Lord
Warburton's sisters for instance. So long as I look at the Misses
Molyneux they seem to me to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta
presents herself, and I'm straightway convinced by her; not so much in
respect to herself as in respect to what masses behind her."

  "Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested.

  "What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be
serious. I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers
and across the prairies, blooming and smiling, and spreading till it
stops at the green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise
from it, and Henrietta- pardon my simile- has something of that
odour in her garments."

  Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,
together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so
becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she
had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he
said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however,
does smell of the Future- it almost knocks one down!"

  CHAPTER 11

  He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly.
He bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and
homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too
perverted a representative of the nature of man to have a right to
deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a
great deal of tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with
him no obstacle to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry,
the general application of her confidence. Her situation at
Gardencourt therefore, appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel
and full of appreciation herself of that free play of intelligence
which, to her sense, rendered Isabel's character a sister-spirit,
and of the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose noble tone, as
she said, met with her full approval- her situation at Gardencourt
would have been perfectly comfortable had she not conceived an
irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she had at first
supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the house. She
presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of the
lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an
adventuress and a bore- adventuresses usually giving one more of a
thrill; she had expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected
such a friend, yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's
friends were her own affair and that she had never undertaken to
like them all or to restrict the girl to those she liked.

  "If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have
a very small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't
think I like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you.
When it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole- everything about her displeases me; she talks so much too
loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her- which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house,
and I detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you
ask me if I prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad,
I'll tell you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I
detest boarding-house civilization, and she detests me for detesting
it, because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like
Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I
find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together
therefore, and there's no use trying."

  Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of
her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or
two after Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious
reflexions on American hotels, which excited a vein of counterargument
on the part of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the
exercise of her profession had acquainted herself, in the western
world, with every form of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion
that American hotels were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett,
fresh from a renewed struggle with them, recorded a conviction that
they were the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality,
suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay between
the two extremes and that the establishments in question ought to be
described as fair middling. This contribution to the discussion,
however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Middling indeed! If
they were not the best in the world they were the worst, but there was
nothing middling about an American hotel.

  "We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs.
Touchett. "I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be
treated as a 'party.'"

  "I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be
treated as an American lady."

  "Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're
the slaves of slaves."

  "They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.

  "They're the companions of their servants- the Irish chambermaid and
the negro waiter. They share their work."

  "Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?"
Miss Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat
them, no wonder you don't like America."

  "If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett
serenely said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect
ones in Florence."

  "I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons
surrounding me in that menial position."

  "I like them in that position better than in some others,"
proclaimed Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.

  "Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.

  "I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."

  "The companions of freemen- I like that, Miss Stackpole," said
Ralph. "It's a beautiful description."

  "When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"

  And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she
suffered some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to
Isabel: "My dear friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."

  "Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"

  "No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."

  "Faithless to my country then?"

  "Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me
what it is. Is it because you've suspected?"

  "Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel. "I
remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had forgotten
it. What have you to tell me?"

  Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it. "You
don't ask that right- as if you thought it important. You're
changed- you're thinking of other things."

  "Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."

  "Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."

  "I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean
that you're going to be married?"

  "Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you
laughing at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came
out in the steamer with me."

  "Ah!" Isabel responded.

  "You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."

  "Did he tell you so?"

  "No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta
cleverly. "He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good
deal."

  Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had
turned a little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at
last.

  "It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could
have talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so
intense; he drank it all in."

  "What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.

  "I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."

  "I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he
oughtn't to be encouraged."

  "He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and
his earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look
so handsome."

  "He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."

  "There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."

  "It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."

  "You don't say that as if you were sure."

  Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr.
Goodwood himself."

  "He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of
great confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued.
"You've been affected by your new surroundings."

  "Very likely. I'm affected by everything."

  "By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.

  Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he
ask you to speak to me?"

  "Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it- and his handshake,
when he bade me good-bye."

  "Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.

  "Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.

  "I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."

  "Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old
ones have been the right ones."

  Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with
regard to Mr. Goodwood-!" But she faltered before her friend's
implacable glitter.

  "My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."

  Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of
which, however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did
encourage him." And then she asked if her companion had learned from
Mr. Goodwood what he intended to do. It was a concession to her
curiosity, for she disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta
wanting in delicacy.

  "I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing.
He is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always
do something, and whatever he does will always be right."

  "I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy,
but it touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.

  "Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.

  "Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a
man's of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one
feels?"

  "It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."

  "Ah, what it matters to me- that's not what we're discussing,"
said Isabel with a cold smile.

  This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."

  "I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.

  "I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of
it."

  To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed
in the alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar
Goodwood would present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to
herself, however, that she thought the event impossible, and, later,
she communicated her disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight
hours, nevertheless, she stood prepared to hear the young man's name
announced. The feeling pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if
there were to be a change of weather; and the weather, socially
speaking, had been so agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt
that any change would be for the worse. Her suspense indeed was
dissipated the second day. She had walked into the park in company
with the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling about for some time, in
a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself on a garden
bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in
a white dress ornamented with black ribbons, she formed among the
flickering shadows a graceful and harmonious image. She entertained
herself for some moments with talking to the little terrier, as to
whom the proposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been
applied as impartially as possible- impartially as Bunchie's own
somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was
notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character
of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its
extent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a
book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help
of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to
the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to be denied, literature
had seemed a fading light, and even after she had reminded herself
that her uncle's library was provided with a complete set of those
authors which no gentleman's collection should be without, she sat
motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green turf of
the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of
a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the London postmark
and was addressed in a hand she knew- that came into her vision,
already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice or
his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.

  MY DEAR MISS ARCHER- I don't know whether you will have heard of
my coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my
dismissal at Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I
protested against it. You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to
admit that I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with
the hope that you would let me bring you over to my conviction; my
reasons for entertaining this hope had been of the best. But you
disappointed it; I found you changed, and you were able to give me
no reason for the change. You admitted that you were unreasonable, and
it was the only concession you would make; but it was a very cheap
one, because that's not your character. No, you are not, and you never
will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is that I believe you
will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not disagreeable to
you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should be. I shall
always think of you; I shall never think of any one else. I came to
England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home after you
had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If I like
this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have been
to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully

                                            CASPAR GOODWOOD

  Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her.

  CHAPTER 12

  She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile
of welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised
at her coolness.

  "They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there
was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see,
I came out with no more ado."

  Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should
not sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."

  "Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from
Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly and
pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of
good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's
first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June
weather.

  "We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not
divest herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor
and who wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her
curiosity about it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it
had given her on that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This
alarm was composed of several elements, not all of which were
disagreeable; she had indeed spent some days in analyzing them and had
succeeded in separating the pleasant part of the idea of Lord
Warburton's "making up" to her from the painful. It may appear to some
readers that the young lady was both precipitate and unduly
fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if the charge be true,
may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of the former. She was
not eager to convince herself that a territorial magnate, as she had
heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her charms; the fact
of a declaration from such a source carrying with it really more
questions than it would answer. She had received a strong impression
of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in
examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence
of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments
when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to
her an aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the
degree of an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there
had been no personages, in this sense, in her life; there were
probably none such at all in her native land. When she had thought
of individual eminence she had thought of it on the basis of character
and wit- of what one might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk.
She herself was a character- she couldn't help being aware of that;
and hitherto her visions of a completed consciousness had connected
themselves largely with moral images- things as to which the
question would be whether they pleased her sublime soul. Lord
Warburton loomed up before her, largely and brightly, as a
collection of attributes and powers which were not to be measured by
this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of appreciation-
an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging quickly and
freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to demand of
her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to do. What
she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate had
conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he rather
invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious, but
persuasive, told her to resist- murmured to her that virtually she had
a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things besides-
things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that a girl
might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it would
be very interesting to see something of his system from his own
point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently
a great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of
every hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and
stupid which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man
lately come from America who had no system at all, but who had a
character of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself
that the impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried
in her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile
not, however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from
Albany who debated whether she should accept an English peer before he
had offered himself and who was disposed to believe that on the
whole she could do better. She was a person of great good faith, and
if there was a great deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her
severely may have the satisfaction of finding that, later, she
became consistently wise only at the cost of an amount of folly
which will constitute almost a direct appeal to charity.

  Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do
anything that Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance
with his usual air of being particularly pleased to exercise a
social virtue. But he was, nevertheless, not in command of his
emotions, and as he strolled beside her for a moment, in silence,
looking at her without letting her know it, there was something
embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected laughter. Yes,
assuredly- as we have touched on the point, we may return to it for
a moment again- the English are the most romantic people in the
world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was
about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and
displease a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to
recommend it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come
from a queer country across the sea which he knew a good deal about;
her antecedents, her associations were very vague to his mind except
in so far as they were generic, and in this sense they showed as
distinct and unimportant. Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the
sort of beauty that justifies a man to the multitude, and he
calculated that he had spent about twenty-six hours in her company. He
had summed up all this- the perversity of the impulse, which had
declined to avail itself of the most liberal opportunities to subside,
and the judgement of mankind, as exemplified particularly in the
more quickly-judging half of it: he had looked these things well in
the face and then had dismissed them from his thoughts. He cared no
more for them than for the rosebud in his buttonhole. It is the good
fortune of a man who for the greater part of a lifetime has
abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable to his
friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not
discredited by irritating associations.

  "I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her
companion's hesitancy.

  "It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it
brought me here."

  "Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure
that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him
if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he
proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one
which a few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the
park of an old English country-house, with the foreground
embellished by a "great" (as she supposed) nobleman in the act of
making love to a young lady who, on careful inspection, should be
found to present remarkable analogies with herself. But if she was now
the heroine of the situation she succeeded scarcely the less in
looking at it from the outside.

  "I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only
for you.

  "You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I
can't believe you're serious."

  These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no
doubt whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to
the fact, of which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just
uttered would have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world.
And, moreover, if anything beside the sense she had already acquired
that Lord Warburton was not a loose thinker had been needed to
convince her, the tone in which he replied would quite have served the
purpose.

  "One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss
Archer; it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three
months it would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I
mean than I am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my
impression dates from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I
fell in love with you then. It was at first sight, as the novels
say; I know now that's not a fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of
novels for evermore. Those two days I spent here settled it; I don't
know whether you suspected I was doing so, but I paid- mentally
speaking I mean- the greatest possible attention to you. Nothing you
said, nothing you did, was lost upon me. When you came to Lockleigh
the other day- or rather when you went away- I was perfectly sure.
Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it over and to question myself
narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've done nothing else. I don't
make mistakes about such things; I'm a very judicious animal. I
don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's for life. It's for
life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton repeated in the
kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever heard, and
looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion that
had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion- the heat, the
violence, the unreason- and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a
windless place.

  By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more
slowly, and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord
Warburton, how little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently
too she drew her hand away.

  "Don't taunt me with that, that I don't know you better makes me
unhappy enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want,
and it seems to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then
I shall know you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you
you'll not be able to say it's from ignorance."

  "If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.

  "You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on
acquaintance? Ah, of course that's very possible. But think, to
speak to you as I do, how determined I must be to try and give
satisfaction! You do like me rather, don't you?"

  "I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this
moment she liked him immensely.

  "I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a
stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life
very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one- in
which I offer myself to you- seeing that I care so much more about it.
Ask the people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."

  "I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.

  "Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."

  "Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly,
with the pleasure of feeling she did.

  The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a
long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me
lose all I possess!"

  She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was
rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was sinking
that, as he would have said himself; and indeed he might safely
leave it to the memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to
whom he was offering his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be
agitated, and her mind was tranquil enough, even while she listened
and asked herself what it was best she should say, to indulge in
this incidental criticism. What she should say, had she asked herself?
Her foremost wish was to say something if possible not less kind
than what he had said to her. His words had carried perfect conviction
with them; she felt she did, all so mysteriously, matter to him. "I
thank you more than I can say for your offer," she returned at last.
"It does me great honour."

  "Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say
something like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of
thing. I don't see why you should thank me- it's I who ought to
thank you for listening to me: a man you know so little coming down to
you with such a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must
tell you that I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the
way you've listened- or at least your having listened at all- gives me
some hope."

  "Don't hope too much," Isabel said.

  "Oh, Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his
seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the
play of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.

  "Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at
all?" Isabel asked.

  "Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be
that; it would be a feeling very much worse."

  Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very
sure that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I
should know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that
you wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of
conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."

  "I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.

  "It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."

  "I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over
as long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait
a long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness
depends on your answer."

  "I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.

  "Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence
than a bad one to-day."

  "But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be
able to give you one that you'd think good."

  "Why not, since you really like me?"

  "Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.

  "Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"

  "It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should
suit you; I really don't think I should."

  "You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a
better royalist than the king."

  "It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry
any one."

  "Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin
that way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least
believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But
they're frequently persuaded."

  "Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed.

  Her suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in
silence. "I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you
hesitate," he said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to
marry in your own country."

  Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never
occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her
matrimonial prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"

  "I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans
generally."

  "He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in
England." Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little
perverse, but which expressed both her constant perception of her
uncle's outward felicity and her general disposition to elude any
obligation to take a restricted view.

  It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth:
"Ah, my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country,
you know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a
little."

  "Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton; leave it alone. I like it
this way.

  "Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your
objection to what I propose."

  "I'm afraid I can't make you understand."

  "You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you
afraid- afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.
You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."

  These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the
embrace of strong arms- that was like the fragrance straight in her
face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange
gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger
at that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer:
"Lord Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful
world, I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty."
But though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed
to move back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught
creature in a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was
not the greatest she could conceive. What she finally bethought
herself of saying was something very different- something that
deferred the need of really facing her crisis. "Don't think me
unkind if I ask you to say no more about this to-day."

  "Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you
for the world."

  "You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to
do it justice."

  "That's all I ask of you, of course- and that you'll remember how
absolutely my happiness is in your hands."

  Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she
said after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is
some way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible-
letting you know it without making you miserable."

  "There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you
refuse me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse;
I shall live to no purpose.

  "You'll live to marry a better woman than I."

  "Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely.
"That's fair to neither of us."

  "To marry a worse one then."

  "If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's
all I can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no
accounting for tastes."

  His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by
again requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll
speak to you myself- very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."

  "At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take,
it must seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."

  "I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind
a little."

  He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with
his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop.
"Do you know I'm very much afraid of it- of that remarkable mind of
yours?"

  Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question
made her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She
returned his look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that
might almost have appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!"
she oddly exclaimed.

  His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the
faculty of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he
murmured.

  "I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."

  "Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know."
And then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant
countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all
that had been said and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion
by a simulated fit of curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak.
"There's one thing more," he went on. "You know, if you don't like
Lockleigh- if you think it's damp or anything of that sort- you need
never go within fifty miles of it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had
the house thoroughly examined; it's perfectly safe and right. But if
you shouldn't fancy it you needn't dream of living in it. There's no
difficulty whatever about that; there are plenty of houses. I
thought I'd just mention it; some people don't like a moat, you
know. Good-bye."

  "I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."

  He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment- a moment
long enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then,
still agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the
chase, he walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.

  Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would
have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great
difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in
the question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to
support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of
life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of
entertaining. She must write this to him, she must convince him, and
that duty was comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the
sense that it struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it
cost her so little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever
qualifications one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great
opportunity; the situation might have discomforts, might contain
oppressive, might contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a
stupefying anodyne; but she did her sex no injustice in believing that
nineteen women out of twenty would have accommodated themselves to
it without a pang. Why then upon her also should it not irresistibly
impose itself? Who was she, what was she, that she should hold herself
superior? What view of life, what design upon fate, what conception of
happiness, had she that pretended to be larger than these large, these
fabulous occasions? If she wouldn't do such a thing as that then she
must do great things, she must do something greater. Poor Isabel found
ground to remind herself from time to time that she must not be too
proud, and nothing could be more sincere than her prayer to be
delivered from such a danger: the isolation and loneliness of pride
had for her mind the horror of a desert place. If it had been pride
that interfered with her accepting Lord Warburton such a betise was
singularly misplaced; and she was so conscious of liking him that
she ventured to assure herself it was the very softness, and the
fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too much to marry him,
that was the truth; something assured her there was a fallacy
somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition- as he saw it-
even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it; and
to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to
criticize would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised
him she would consider his question, and when, after he had left
her, she wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost
herself in meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her
vow. But this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a
cold, hard, priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and
going rather quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her
friend, really frightened at herself.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice- she had no
desire whatever for that- that led her to speak to her uncle of what
had taken place. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more
natural, more human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented
himself in a more attractive light than either her aunt or her
friend Henrietta. Her cousin of course was a possible confidant; but
she would have had to do herself violence to air this special secret
to Ralph. So the next day, after breakfast, she sought her occasion.
Her uncle never left his apartment till the afternoon, but he received
his cronies, as he said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite
taken her place in the class so designated, which, for the rest,
included the old man's son, his physician, his personal servant, and
even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett did not figure in the list, and
this was an obstacle the less to Isabel's finding her host alone. He
sat in a complicated mechanical chair, at the open window of his room,
looking westward over the park and the river, with his newspapers
and letters piled up beside him, his toilet freshly and minutely made,
and his smooth, speculative face composed to benevolent expectation.

  She approached her point directly. "I think I ought to let you
know that Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I
ought to tell my aunt; but it seems best to tell you first."

  The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the
confidence she showed him.

  "Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?" he then enquired.

  "I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little time to
think of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not
accept him."

  Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking
that, whatever interest he might take in the matter from the point
of view of sociability, he had no active voice in it. "Well, I told
you you'd be a success over here. Americans are highly appreciated."

  "Very highly indeed," said Isabel. "But at the cost of seeming
both tasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry Lord
Warburton."

  "Well," her uncle went on, "of course an old man can't judge for a
young lady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you made up your mind. I
suppose I ought to tell you," he added slowly, but as it were not of
much consequence, "that I've known all about it these three days."

  "About Lord Warburton's state of mind?"

  "About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant
letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?"
the old man obligingly asked.

  "Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad he wrote
to you; it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do
what was right."

  "Ah well, I guess you do like him!" Mr. Touchett declared. "You
needn't pretend you don't."

  "I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don't wish
to marry any one just now."

  "You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well,
that's very likely," said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show
his kindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and
finding cheerful reasons for it.

  "I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton
quite well enough." She fell into that appearance of a sudden change
of point of view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased
her interlocutors.

  Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these
impressions. "He's a very fine man," he resumed in a tone which
might have passed for that of encouragement. "His letter was one of
the pleasantest I've received for some weeks. I suppose one of the
reasons I like it was that it was all about you; that is all except
the part that was about himself. I suppose he told you all that."

  "He would have told me everything I wished to ask him," Isabel said.

  "But you didn't feel curious?"

  "My curiosity would have been idle- once I had determined to decline
his offer."

  "You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?" Mr. Touchett enquired.

  She was silent a little. "I suppose it was that," she presently
admitted. "But I don't know why."

  "Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons," said her
uncle. "There's a great deal that's attractive about such an idea; but
I don't see why the English should want to entice us away from our
native land. I know that we try to attract them over there, but that's
because our population is insufficient. Here, you know, they're rather
crowded. However, I presume there's room for charming young ladies
everywhere."

  "There seems to have been room here for you," said Isabel, whose
eyes had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park.

  Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. "There's room
everywhere, my dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I've paid
too much for this. Perhaps you also might have to pay too much."

  "Perhaps I might," the girl replied.

  That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she
had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her
uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was
concerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and not
altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague ambitions-
ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal,
reaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable. In
so far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour
at this juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a
union with Caspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted
conquest at her English suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as
far removed from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take
positive possession of her. The sentiment in which she sought refuge
after reading his letter was a critical view of his having come
abroad; for it was part of the influence he had upon her that he
seemed to deprive her of the sense of freedom. There was a
disagreeably strong push, a kind of hardness of presence, in his way
of rising before her. She had been haunted at moments by the image, by
the danger, of his disapproval and had wondered- a consideration she
had never paid in equal degree to any one else- whether he would
like what she did. The difficulty was that more than any man she had
ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give
his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood expressed
for her an energy- and she had already felt it as a power- that was of
his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of his "advantages"-
it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes
like some tireless watcher at a window. She might like it or not,
but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force: even in
one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The idea
of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at
present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her
independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe
and yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed
to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest
fact she knew; she said to herself at such moments that she might
evade him for a time, but that she must make terms with him at last-
terms which would be certain to be favourable to himself. Her
impulse had been to avail herself of the things that helped her to
resist such an obligation; and this impulse had been much concerned in
her eager acceptance of her aunt's invitation, which had come to her
at an hour when she expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and
when she was glad to have an answer ready for something she was sure
he would say to her. When she had told him at Albany, on the evening
of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that she couldn't then discuss difficult
questions, dazzled as she was by the great immediate opening of her
aunt's offer of "Europe," he declared that this was no answer at
all; and it was now to obtain a better one that he was following her
across the sea. To say to herself that he was a kind of grim fate
was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was able to take much
for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a nearer and a
clearer view.

  He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in
Massachusetts- a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable
fortune in the exercise of this industry. Caspar at present managed
the works, and with a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen
competition and languid years, had kept their prosperity from
dwindling. He had received the better part of his education at Harvard
College, where, however, he had gained renown rather as a gymnast
and an oarsman than as a gleaner of more dispersed knowledge. Later on
he had learned that the finer intelligence too could vault and pull
and strain- might even, breaking the record, treat itself to rare
exploits. He had thus discovered in himself a sharp eye for the
mystery of mechanics, and had invented an improvement in the
cotton-spinning process which was now largely used and was known by
his name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in connection
with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he had given to
Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York Interviewer an
exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent- an article not prepared
by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his more
sentimental interests. There were intricate, bristling things he
rejoiced in; he liked to organize, to contend, to administer; he could
make people work his will, believe in him, march before him and
justify him. This was the art, as they said, of managing men- which
rested, in him, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struck
those who knew him well that he might do greater things than carry
on a cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar
Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he would somehow and
somewhere write himself in bigger letters. But it was as if
something large and confused, something dark and ugly, would have to
call upon him: he was not after all in harmony with mere smug peace
and greed and gain, an order of things of which the vital breath was
ubiquitous advertisement. It pleased Isabel to believe that he might
have ridden, on a plunging steed, the whirlwind of a great war- a
war like the Civil strife that had overdarkened her conscious
childhood and his ripening youth.

  She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in
fact a mover of men- liked it much better than some other points in
his nature and aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill- the
Goodwood patent left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him
no ounce less of his manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be
rather nicer if he looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw
was too square and set and his figure too straight and stiff: these
things suggested a want of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms
of life. Then she viewed with reserve a habit he had of dressing
always in the same manner; it was not apparently that he wore the same
clothes continually, for, on the contrary, his garments had a way of
looking rather too new. But they all seemed of the same piece; the
figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual. She had reminded herself
more than once that this was a frivolous objection to a person of
his importance; and then she had amended the rebuke by saying that
it would be a frivolous objection only if she were in love with him.
She was not in love with him and therefore might criticize his small
defects as well as his great- which latter consisted in the collective
reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, not of his being so,
since one could never be, but certainly of his seeming so. He showed
his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one was alone
with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when other
people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet he
was of supremely strong, clean make- which was so much: she saw the
different fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and
portraits, the different fitted parts of armoured warriors- in
plates of steel handsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange:
where, ever, was any tangible link between her impression and her act?
Caspar Goodwood had never corresponded to her idea of a delightful
person, and she supposed that this was why he left her so harshly
critical. When, however, Lord Warburton, who not only did correspond
with it, but gave an extension to the term, appealed to her
approval, she found herself still unsatisfied. It was certainly
strange.

  The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr.
Goodwood's letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while
unhonoured. If he had determined to persecute her he must take the
consequences; foremost among which was his being left to perceive
how little it charmed her that he should come down to Gardencourt. She
was already liable to the incursions of one suitor at this place,
and though it might be pleasant to be appreciated in opposite quarters
there was a kind of grossness in entertaining two such passionate
pleaders at once, even in a case where the entertainment should
consist of dismissing them. She made no reply to Mr. Goodwood; but
at the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warburton, and the letter
belongs to our history.

   DEAR LORD WARBURTON- A great deal of earnest thought has not led me
to change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make
me the other day. I am not, I am really and truly not, able to
regard you in the light of a companion for life; or to think of your
home- your various homes- as settled seat of my existence. These
things cannot be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you
not to return to the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see
our lives from our own point of view; that is the privilege of the
weakest and humblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in
the manner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do me the
justice to believe that I have given your proposal the deeply
respectful consideration it deserves. It is with this very great
regard that I remain sincerely yours,

                                           ISABEL ARCHER

  While the author of this missive was making up her mind to
despatch it Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied
by no demur. She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the
garden, and when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed
constantly to testify to his high expectations, she informed him
that she had a favour to ask of him. It may be admitted that at this
information the young man flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole
had struck him as apt to push an advantage. The alarm was
unreasoned, however; for he was clear about the area of her
indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth, and he made a
very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid of her
and presently told her so. "When you look at me in a certain way my
knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filled with
trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute your commands.
You've an address that I've never encountered in any woman."

  "Well," Henrietta replied good-humouredly, "if I had not known
before that you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it
now. Of course I'm easy game- I was brought up with such different
customs and ideas. I'm not used to your arbitrary standards, and
I've never been spoken to in America as you have spoken to me. If a
gentleman conversing with me over there were to speak to me like
that I shouldn't know what to make of it. We take everything more
naturally over there, and, after all, we're a great deal more
simple. I admit that; I'm very simple myself. Of course if you
choose to laugh at me for it you're very welcome; but I think on the
whole I would rather be myself than you. I'm quite content to be
myself; I don't want to change. There are plenty of people that
appreciate me just as I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born
Americans!" Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless
innocence and large concession. "I want you to assist me a little,"
she went on. "I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while
you do so; or, rather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should
be your reward. I want you to help me about Isabel."

  "Has she injured you?" Ralph asked.

  "If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you. What
I'm afraid of is that she'll injure herself."

  "I think that's very possible," said Ralph.

  His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps
the very gaze that unnerved him. "That too would amuse you, I suppose.
The way you do things! I never heard any one so indifferent."

  "To Isabel? Ah, not that!"

  "Well, you're not in love with her, I hope."

  "How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?"

  "You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!" Miss Stackpole
declared. "Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once
in your life here's a chance; and if you really care for your cousin
here's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expect you to understand
her; that's too much to ask. But you needn't do that to grant my
favour. I'll supply the necessary intelligence."

  "I shall enjoy that immensely!" Ralph exclaimed. "I'll be Caliban
and you shall be Ariel."

  "You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated, and
Caliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary characters; I'm
talking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What I wish to tell you
is that I find her fearfully changed."

  "Since you came, do you mean?"

  "Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as she once so
beautifully was."

  "As she was in America?"

  "Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can't
help it, but she does."

  "Do you want to change her back again?"

  "Of course I do, and I want you to help me."

  "Ah," said Ralph, "I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero."

  "You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You've
acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett."

  "I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has
acted on me- yes; she acts on every one. But I've been absolutely
passive."

  "You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be
careful. Isabel's changing every day; she's drifting away- right out
to sea. I've watched her and I can see it. She's not the bright
American girl she was. She's taking different views, a different
colour, and turning away from her old ideals. I want to save those
ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that's where you come in."

  "Not surely as an ideal?"

  "Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied promptly. "I've got a fear
in my heart that she's going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and
I want to prevent it."

  "Ah, I see," cried Ralph; "and to prevent it you want me to step
in and marry her?"

  "Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you're
the typical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I
wish you to take an interest in another person- a young man to whom
she once gave great encouragement and whom she now doesn't seem to
think good enough. He's a thoroughly grand man and a very dear
friend of mine, and I wish very much you would invite him to pay a
visit here."

  Ralph was puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the
credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first
in the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his
fault was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world
could really be as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole's
appeared. That a young woman should demand that a gentleman whom she
described as her very dear friend should be furnished with an
opportunity to make himself agreeable to another young woman, a
young woman whose attention had wandered and whose charms were
greater- this was an anomaly which for the moment challenged all his
ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines was easier than
to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished the
gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was the sign not
so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even from this venial
act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force
that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward light on
the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the
conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent
of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of
hers. This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it
was perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's
imperturbable gaze. He returned this challenge a moment,
consciously, resisting an inclination to frown as one frowns in the
presence of larger luminaries. "Who's the gentleman you speak of?"

  "Mr. Caspar Goodwood- of Boston. He has been extremely attentive
to Isabel- just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed
her out here and he's at present in London. I don't know his
address, but I guess I can obtain it."

  "I've never heard of him," said Ralph.

  "Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't believe
he has ever heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabel shouldn't
marry him."

  Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. "What a rage you have for
marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the
other day?"

  "I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas. Mr.
Goodwood does, however; and that's what I like about him. He's a
splendid man and a perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it."

  "Is she very fond of him?"

  "If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her."

  "And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph reflectively.

  "It would be an act of true hospitality."

  "Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued- "it's rather a striking name."

  "I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel
Jenkins, and I should say the same. He's the only man I have ever seen
whom I think worthy of Isabel."

  "You're a very devoted friend," said Ralph.

  "Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't care."

  "I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck with it."

  "You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr.
Goodwood."

  "I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that,"
said Ralph.

  In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you are; now
you're too serious."

  "You're difficult to please."

  "Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr. Goodwood."

  "I don't know," said Ralph. "I'm capable of strange things. Tell
me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?"

  "He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a
cotton-factory; a very fine one."

  "Has he pleasant manners?" asked Ralph.

  "Splendid manners- in the American style."

  "Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?"

  "I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd
concentrate on Isabel."

  "And how would my cousin like that?"

  "Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call
back her thoughts."

  "Call them back- from where?"

  "From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she
gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her,
and it's not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply
because she has changed the scene. I've changed the scene too, and the
effect of it has been to make me care more for my old associations
than ever. It's my belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again
the better. I know her well enough to know that she would never be
truly happy over here, and I wish her to form some strong American tie
that will act as a preservative."

  "Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?" Ralph enquired.
"Don't you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old
England?"

  "A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never too much in a
hurry to save a precious human creature from drowning."

  "As I understand it then," said Ralph, "you wish me to push Mr.
Goodwood overboard after her. Do you know," he added, "that I've never
heard her mention his name?"

  Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. "I'm delighted to hear that; it
proves how much she thinks of him."

  Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he
surrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. "If
I should invite Mr. Goodwood," he finally said, "it would be to
quarrel with him."

  "Don't do that; he'd prove the better man."

  "You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really
don't think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to, him."

  "It's just as you please," Henrietta returned. "I had no idea you
were in love with her yourself."

  "Do you really believe that?" the young man asked with lifted
eyebrows.

  "That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Of
course I believe it," Miss Stackpole ingeniously said.

  "Well," Ralph concluded, "to prove to you that you're wrong I'll
invite him. It must be of course as a friend of yours."

  "It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it will not
be to prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him- but to prove
it to yourself!"

  These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two presently
separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was
obliged to recognize; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a
recognition that, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more
indiscreet to keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood
a note of six lines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr.
Touchett the elder that he should join a little party at
Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole was a valued member. Having
sent his letter (to the care of a banker whom Henrietta suggested)
he waited in some suspense. He had heard this fresh formidable
figure named for the first time; for when his mother had mentioned
on her arrival that there was a story about the girl's having an
"admirer" at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality and he had
taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would involve
only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native
admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more
concrete; it took the form of a young man who had followed her to
London, who was interested in a cotton-mill and had manners in the
most splendid of the American styles. Ralph had two theories about
this intervener. Either his passion was a sentimental fiction of
Miss Stackpole's (there was always a sort of tacit understanding among
women, born of the solidarity of the sex, that they should discover or
invent lovers for each other), in which case he was not to be feared
and would probably not accept the invitation; or else he would
accept the invitation and in this event prove himself a creature too
irrational to demand further consideration. The latter clause of
Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent; but it embodied his
conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in Isabel in the
serious manner described by Miss Stackpole he would not care to
present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter lady.
"On this supposition," said Ralph, "he must regard her as a thorn on
the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in
tact."

  Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short
note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that
other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and
presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note
to Henrietta, who, when she had read it, exclaimed: "Well, I never
have heard of anything so stiff!"

  "I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose,"
Ralph observed.

  "No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's very
deep. But I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to
know what he means."

  His refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the
moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think
him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether
Isabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not
rivals of his and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius.
Nevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss
Stackpole's promised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's
stiffness- a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when
he asked her three days later if she had written to London she was
obliged to confess she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not
replied.

  "I suppose he's thinking it over," she said; "he thinks everything
over; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accustomed to having
my letters answered the same day." She presently proposed to Isabel,
at all events, that they should make an excursion to London
together. "If I must tell the truth," she observed, "I'm not seeing
much at this place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I've not
even seen that aristocrat- what's his name?- Lord Washburton. He seems
to let you severely alone."

  "Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know," replied her
friend, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer
to her own letter. "You'll have every opportunity of turning him
inside out."

  "Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter when you want
to write fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vicinity and
raved about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you
please, scenery doesn't make a vital letter. I must go back to
London and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three
days before I came away, and that's hardly time to get in touch."

  As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen
even less of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy
suggestion of Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of
pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; she was curious of the
thick detail of London, which had always loomed large and rich to her.
They turned over their schemes together and indulged in visions of
romantic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn- one of
the inns described by Dickens- and drive over the town in those
delightful hansoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great
advantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere
and do everything. They would dine at a coffee-house and go afterwards
to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum
and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, and Goldsmith and
Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently unveiled the bright vision to
Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter which scarce expressed the
sympathy she had desired.

  "It's a delightful plan," he said. "I advise you to go to the Duke's
Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and
I'll have you put down at my club."

  "Do you mean it's improper?" Isabel asked. "Dear me, isn't
anything proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she
isn't hampered in that way. She has travelled over the whole
American continent and can at least find her way about this minute
island."

  "Ah then," said Ralph, "let me take advantage of her protection to
go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!"

  CHAPTER 14

  Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel,
as we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come
again to Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and
see him. For four or five days he had made no response to her
letter; then he had written, very briefly, to say he would come to
luncheon two days later. There was something in these delays and
postponements that touched the girl and renewed her sense of his
desire to be considerate and patient, not to appear to urge her too
grossly; a consideration the more studied that she was so sure he
"really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she had written to him,
mentioning also his intention of coming; and the old man, in
consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his
appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of
vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his
being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away
in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That
personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his
sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the
same order as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss
Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord
Warburton's. Isabel, who was nervous and had no relish for the
prospect of again arguing the question he had so prematurely opened,
could not help admiring his good-humoured self-possession, which quite
disguised the symptoms of that preoccupation with her presence it
was natural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at her
nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that he avoided
meeting her eyes. He had plenty of talk for the others, however, and
he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination and appetite. Miss
Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-like forehead and wore a large
silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with
Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a
manner suggesting a conflict between deep alienation and yearning
wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she was the one Isabel had
liked best; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her.
Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and silver cross
referred to some weird Anglican mystery- some delightful reinstitution
perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered what Miss
Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had refused her
brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know-
that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of her and
kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least,
was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her
neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn
what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would
probably be shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather
(this was our heroine's last position) she would impute to the young
American but a due consciousness of inequality.

  Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,
Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which
she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord
I've ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose
you think I'm awfully benighted."

  "You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered,
looking a trifle absently about the table.

  "Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that
they're all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful
robes and crowns."

  "Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord
Warburton, "like your tomahawks and revolvers."

  "I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,"
Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"

  "Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed.
"Won't you have a potato?"

  "I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you
from an ordinary American gentleman."

  "Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't
see how you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few
things to eat over here."

  Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not
sincere. "I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went
on at last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you
know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that."

  "Don't approve of me?"

  "Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you
before, did they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I
think the world has got beyond them- far beyond."

  "Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it
comes over me- how I should object to myself if I were not myself,
don't you know? But that's rather good, by the way- not to be
vainglorious."

  "Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired.

  "Give up- a-?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion
with a very mellow one.

  "Give up being a lord."

  "Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if
you wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I
do think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these
days."

  "I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.

  "I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance."

  "Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't
approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to
say for themselves."

  "Mighty little, as you see!"

  "I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta
continued. "But you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting
my eye. I see you want to escape me."

  "No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes."

  "Please explain about that young lady- your sister- then. I don't
understand about her. Is she a Lady?"

  "She's a capital good girl."

  "I don't like the way you say that- as if you wanted to change the
subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"

  "We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better
off than I, because she has none of the bother."

  "Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as
little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever
else you may do."

  "Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord
Warburton. "And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when
we try!"

  "I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to
talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver
cross a badge?"

  "A badge?"

  "A sign of rank."

  Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met
the gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the
women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest
daughters of Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having
occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America. After
luncheon he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at
the pictures; and though she knew he had seen the pictures twenty
times she complied without criticizing this pretext. Her conscience
now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt
particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the
gallery, staring at its contents and saying nothing; and then he
suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't write to me that way."

  "It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and
believe that."

  "If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we
can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could
understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that
you should admit you do-"

  "What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.

  "That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said
nothing, and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and
that gives me a sense of injustice."

  "I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made
his heart contract.

  "I should like very much to know it."

  "I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."

  "Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it."

  "You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.

  "I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will
you kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but
he apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go
on. "Do you prefer some one else?"

  "That's a question I'd rather not answer."

  "Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.

  The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I
don't."

  He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor.
"I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse
myself?"

  He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come
into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too
far?"

  "I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't
understand them."

  "You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the
same to you.

  Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there
showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of
her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark
braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the
purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free
in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes,
however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a
moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears
away; but when she turned round her face was pale and the expression
of her eyes strange. "That reason that I wouldn't tell you- I'll
tell it you after all. It's that I can't escape my fate."

  "Your fate?"

  "I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."

  "I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as
anything else?"

  "Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's
not my fate to give up- I know it can't be."

  Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye.
"Do you call marrying me giving up?"

  "Not in the usual sense. It's getting- getting- getting a great
deal. But it's giving up other chances."

  "Other chances for what?"

  "I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly
coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep
frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.

  "I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain
more than you'll lose," her companion observed.

  "I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I
shall be trying to."

  "I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that
I must in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.

  "I mustn't- I can't!" cried the girl.

  "Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you
should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for
you, it has none for me."

  "I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been
intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.
I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every
now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not
by turning away, by separating myself."

  "By separating yourself from what?"

  "From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most
people know and suffer."

  Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why, my
dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate
eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any
chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would!
For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor
of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in
a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the
common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you
shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever- not
even from your friend Miss Stackpole."

  "She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take
advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for
doing so.

  "Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently.
"I never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds."

  "Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility;
and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the
gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.

  Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and
reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was
expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer- apparently
not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss
Molyneux- as if he had been Royalty- stood like a lady-in-waiting.

  "Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I
wanted to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing
he'd have to do it."

  "Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered
with a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went
on, turning to Ralph.

  "They look a good many, because they're all put together," said
Ralph. "But it's really a bad way."

  "Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm
so very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to
Ralph, as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again.
Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.

  "Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared
to know better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.

  "They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady
continued. "It has rained of late so very often."

  "I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I
wanted to get a great deal more out of you."

  "I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.

  "Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the
ladies."

  "I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking
at her brother.

  "Very good, my dear. We'll go."

  "I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see
what Miss Molyneux would do."

  "I never do anything," said this young lady.

  "I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!"
Miss Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home."

  "You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very
sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend.

  Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment
seemed to see in their grey depths the reflexion of everything she had
rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton- the peace, the kindness, the
honour, the possessions, a deep security and a great exclusion. She
kissed Miss Molyneux and then she said: "I'm afraid I can never come
again."

  "Never again?"

  "I'm afraid I'm going away."

  "Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very
wrong of you."

  Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away
and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the
picture with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been
watching him.

  "I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord
Warburton found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you;
there are a great many questions I wish to ask you."

  "I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh
answered; "but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your
questions. When will you come?"

  "Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to
London, but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some
satisfaction out of you."

  "If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She
won't come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."

  "She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.

  Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had
better come alone," he added.

  Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded.
"Would you make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with
soft asperity.

  Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough."

  "You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit
your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what
she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same- that I oughtn't to
bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been
made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and
failed to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!"
she therefore went on.

  "Warning me?"

  "Isn't that why she came off alone with you here- to put you on your
guard?"

  "Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such
solemn character as that."

  "Well, you've been on your guard- intensely. I suppose it's
natural to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too,
Miss Molyneux- she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned,
anyway," Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you
it wasn't necessary."

  "I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely.

  "Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a
great satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up."

  "Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of had
material!" Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton
and from this nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's
something the matter with you all; you're as dismal as if you had
got a bad cable."

  "You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone,
giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the
gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."

  Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her
immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished
floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind
him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and
then, "Is it true you're going to London?" he asked.

  "I believe it has been arranged."

  "And when shall you come back?"

  "In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to
Paris with my aunt."

  "When, then, shall I see you again?"

  "Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I
hope."

  "Do you really hope it?"

  "Very much."

  He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his
hand. "Good-bye."

  "Good-bye," said Isabel.

  Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After
it, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own
room; in which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs.
Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the saloon. "I may as well
tell you," said that lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your
relations with Lord Warburton."

  Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's
the strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."

  "Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett
dispassionately asked.

  Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."

  "Yes, but I know you better."

  "I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.

  "Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather
conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself
and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer
like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."

  "Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.

  CHAPTER 15

  It had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to
London under Ralph's escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little
favour on the plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that
Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she enquired if the
correspondent of the Interviewer was to take the party to stay at a
boarding-house.

  "I don't care where she takes us to stay, so long as there's local
colour," said Isabel. "That's what we're going to London for."

  "I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord she may
do anything," her aunt rejoined. "After that one needn't stand on
trifles."

  "Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton?" Isabel enquired.

  "Of course I should."

  "I thought you disliked the English so much."

  "So I do; but it's all the greater reason for making use of them."

  "Is that your idea of marriage?" And Isabel ventured to add that her
aunt appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett.

  "Your uncle's not an English nobleman," said Mrs. Touchett,
"though even if he had been I should still probably have taken up my
residence in Florence."

  "Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better than I am?"
the girl asked with some animation. "I don't mean I'm too good to
improve. I mean- I mean that I don't love Lord Warburton enough to
marry him."

  "You did right to refuse him then," said Mrs. Touchett in her
smallest, sparest voice. "Only, the next great offer you get, I hope
you'll manage to come up to your standard."

  "We had better wait till the offer comes before we talk about it.
I hope very much I may have no more offers for the present. They upset
me completely."

  "You probably won't be troubled with them if you adopt permanently
the Bohemian manner of life. However, I've promised Ralph not to
criticize."

  "I'll do whatever Ralph says is right," Isabel returned. "I've
unbounded confidence in Ralph."

  "His mother's much obliged to you!" this lady dryly laughed.

  "It seems to me indeed she ought to feel it!" Isabel irrepressibly
answered.

  Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of decency in
their paying a visit- the little party of three- to the sights of
the metropolis; but Mrs. Touchett took a different view. Like many
ladies of her country who had lived a long time in Europe, she had
completely lost her native tact on such points, and in her reaction,
not in itself deplorable, against the liberty allowed to young persons
beyond the seas, had fallen into gratuitous and exaggerated
scruples. Ralph accompanied their visitors to town and established
them at a quiet inn in a street that ran at right angles to
Piccadilly. His first idea had been to take them to his father's house
in Winchester Square, a large, dull mansion which at this period of
the year was shrouded in silence and brown holland; but he bethought
himself that, the cook being at Gardencourt, there was no one in the
house to get them their meals, and Pratt's Hotel accordingly became
their resting-place. Ralph, on his side, found quarters in
Winchester Square, having a "den" there of which he was very fond
and being familiar with deeper fears than that of a cold kitchen. He
availed himself largely indeed of the resources of Pratt's Hotel,
beginning his day with an early visit to his fellow travellers, who
had Mr. Pratt in person, in a large bulging white waistcoat, to remove
their dishcovers. Ralph turned up, as he said, after breakfast, and
the little party made out a scheme of entertainment for the day. As
London wears in the month of September a face blank but for its smears
of prior service, the young man, who occasionally took an apologetic
tone, was obliged to remind his companion, to Miss Stackpole's high
derision, that there wasn't a creature in town.

  "I suppose you mean the aristocracy are absent," Henrietta answered;
"but I don't think you could have a better proof that if they were
absent altogether they wouldn't be missed. It seems to me the place is
about as full as it can be. There's no one here, of course, but
three or four millions of people. What is it you call them- the
lower-middle class? They're only the population of London, and
that's of no consequence."

  Ralph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void that Miss
Stackpole herself didn't fill, and that a more contented man was
nowhere at that moment to be found. In this he spoke the truth, for
the stale September days, in the huge half-empty town, had a charm
wrapped in them as a coloured gem might be wrapped in a dusty cloth.
When he went home at night to the empty house in Winchester Square,
after a chain of hours with his comparatively ardent friends, he
wandered into the big dusky dining-room, where the candle he took from
the hall-table, after letting himself in, constituted the only
illumination. The square was still, the house was still; when he
raised one of the windows of the dining-room to let in the air he
heard the slow creak of the boots of a lone constable. His own step,
in the empty place, seemed loud and sonorous; some of the carpets
had been raised, and whenever he moved he roused a melancholy echo. He
sat down in one of the armchairs; the big dark dining table twinkled
here and there in the small candle-light; the pictures on the wall,
all of them very brown, looked vague and incoherent. There was a
ghostly presence as of dinners long since digested, of table-talk that
had lost its actuality. This hint of the supernatural perhaps had
something to do with the fact that his imagination took a flight and
that he remained in his chair a long time beyond the hour at which
he should have been in bed; doing nothing, not even reading the
evening paper. I say he did nothing, and I maintain the phrase in
the face of the fact that he thought at these moments of Isabel. To
think of Isabel could only be for him an idle pursuit, leading to
nothing and profiting little to any one. His cousin had not yet seemed
to him so charming as during these days spent in sounding,
tourist-fashion, the deeps and shallows of the metropolitan element.
Isabel was full of premises, conclusions, emotions; if she had come in
search of local colour she found it everywhere. She asked more
questions than he could answer, and launched brave theories, as to
historic cause and social effect, that he was equally unable to accept
or to refute. The party went more than once to the British Museum
and to that brighter palace of art which reclaims for antique
variety so large an area of a monotonous suburb; they spent a
morning in the Abbey and went on a penny-steamer to the Tower; they
looked at pictures both in public and private collections and sat on
various occasions beneath the great trees in Kensington Gardens.
Henrietta proved an indestructible sight-seer and a more lenient judge
than Ralph had ventured to hope. She had indeed many
disappointments, and London at large suffered from her vivid
remembrance of the strong points of the American civic idea; but she
made the best of its dingy dignities and only heaved an occasional
sigh and uttered a desultory "Well!" which led no further and lost
itself in retrospect. The truth was that, as she said herself, she was
not in her element. "I've not a sympathy with inanimate objects,"
she remarked to Isabel at the National Gallery; and she continued to
suffer from the meagreness of the glimpse that had as yet been
vouchsafed to her of the inner life. Landscapes by Turner and Assyrian
bulls were a poor substitute for the literary dinner-parties at
which she had hoped to meet the genius and renown of Great Britain.

  "Where are your public men, where are your men and women of
intellect?" she enquired of Ralph, standing in the middle of Trafalgar
Square as if she had supposed this to be a place where she would
naturally meet a few. "That's one of them on the top of the column,
you say- Lord Nelson? Was he a lord too? Wasn't he high enough, that
they had to stick him a hundred feet in the air? That's the past- I
don't care about the past; I want to see some of the leading minds
of the present. I won't say of the future, because I don't believe
much in your future." Poor Ralph had few leading minds among his
acquaintance and rarely enjoyed the pleasure of button-holing a
celebrity; a state of things which appeared to Miss Stackpole to
indicate a deplorable want of enterprise. "If I were on the other side
I should call," she said, "and tell the gentleman, whoever he might
be, that I had heard a great deal about him and had come to see for
myself. But I gather from what you say that this is not the custom
here. You seem to have plenty of meaningless customs, but none of
those that would help along. We are in advance, certainly. I suppose I
shall have to give up the social side altogether"; and Henrietta,
though she went about with her guidebook and pencil and wrote a letter
to the Interviewer about the Tower (in which she described the
execution of Lady Jane Grey), had a sad sense of falling below her
mission.

  The incident that had preceded Isabel's departure from Gardencourt
left a painful trace in our young woman's mind: when she felt again in
her face, as from a recurrent wave, the cold breath of her last
suitor's surprise, she could only muffle her head till the air
cleared. She could not have done less than what she did; this was
certainly true. But her necessity, all the same, had been as graceless
as some physical act in a strained attitude, and she felt no desire to
take credit for her conduct. Mixed with this imperfect pride,
nevertheless, was a feeling of freedom which in itself was sweet and
which, as she wandered through the great city with her ill-matched
companions, occasionally throbbed into odd demonstrations. When she
walked in Kensington Gardens she stopped the children (mainly of the
poorer sort) whom she saw playing on the grass; she asked them their
names and gave them sixpence and, when they were pretty, kissed
them. Ralph noticed these quaint charities; he noticed everything
she did. One afternoon, that his companions might pass the time, he
invited them to tea in Winchester Square, and he had the house set
in order as much as possible for their visit. There was another
guest to meet them, an amiable bachelor, an old friend of Ralph's
who happened to be in town and for whom prompt commerce with Miss
Stackpole appeared to have neither difficulty nor dread. Mr. Bantling,
a stout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully dressed, universally
informed and incoherently amused, laughed immoderately at everything
Henrietta said, gave her several cups of tea, examined in her
society the bric-a-brac, of which Ralph had a considerable collection,
and afterwards, when the host proposed they should go out into the
square and pretend it was a fete-champetre, walked round the limited
enclosure several times with her and, at a dozen turns of their
talk, bounded responsive- as with a positive passion for argument-
to her remarks upon the inner life.

  "Oh, I see; I dare say you found it very quiet at Gardencourt.
Naturally there's not much going on there when there's such a lot of
illness about. Touchett's very bad, you know; the doctors have
forbidden his being in England at all, and he has only come back to
take care of his father. The old man, I believe, has half a dozen
things the matter with him. They call it gout, but to my certain
knowledge he has organic disease so developed that you may depend upon
it he'll go, some day soon, quite quickly. Of course that sort of
thing makes a dreadfully dull house; I wonder they have people when
they can do so little for them. Then I believe Mr. Touchett's always
squabbling with his wife; she lives away from her husband, you know,
in that extraordinary American way of yours. If you want a house where
there's always something going on, I recommend you to go down and stay
with my sister, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire. I'll write to her
tomorrow and I'm sure she'll be delighted to ask you. I know just what
you want- you want a house where they go in for theatricals and
picnics and that sort of thing. My sister's just that sort of woman;
she's always getting up something or other and she's always glad to
have the sort of people who help her. I'm sure she'll ask you down
by return of post: she's tremendously fond of distinguished people and
writers. She writes herself, you know; but I haven't read everything
she has written. It's usually poetry, and I don't go in much for
poetry- unless it's Byron. I suppose you think a great deal of Byron
in America," Mr. Bantling continued, expanding in the stimulating
air of Miss Stackpole's attention, bringing up his sequences
promptly and changing his topic with an easy turn of hand. Yet he none
the less gracefully kept in sight of the idea, dazzling to
Henrietta, of her going to stay with Lady Pensil in Bedfordshire. "I
understand what you want; you want to see some genuine English
sport. The Touchetts aren't English at all, you know; they have
their own habits, their own language, their own food- some odd
religion even, I believe, of their own. The old man thinks it's wicked
to hunt, I'm told. You must get down to my sister's in time for the
theatricals, and I'm sure she'll be glad to give you a part. I'm
sure you act well; I know you're very clever. My sister's forty
years old and has seven children, but she's going to play the
principal part. Plain as she is she makes up awfully well- I will
say for her. Of course you needn't act if you don't want to."

  In this manner Mr. Bantling delivered himself while they strolled
over the grass in Winchester Square, which, although it had been
peppered by the London soot, invited the tread to linger. Henrietta
thought her blooming, easy-voiced bachelor, with his impressibility to
feminine merit and his splendid range of suggestion, a very
agreeable man, and she valued the opportunity he offered her. "I don't
know but I would go, if your sister should ask me. I think it would be
my duty. What do you call her name?"

  "Pensil. It's an odd name, but it isn't a bad one."

  "I think one name's as good as another. But what's her rank?"

  "Oh, she's a baron's wife; a convenient sort of rank. You're fine
enough and you're not too fine."

  "I don't know but what she'd be too fine for me. What do you call
the place she lives in- Bedfordshire?"

  "She lives away in the northern corner of it. It's a tiresome
country, but I dare say you won't mind it. I'll try and run down while
you're there."

  All this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she was sorry to
be obliged to separate from Lady Pensil's obliging brother. But it
happened that she had met the day before, in Piccadilly, some
friends whom she had not seen for a year: the Miss Climbers, two
ladies from Wilmington, Delaware, who had been travelling on the
Continent and were now preparing to re-embark. Henrietta had had a
long interview with them on the Piccadilly pavement, and though the
three ladies all talked at once they had not exhausted their store. It
had been agreed therefore that Henrietta should come and dine with
them in their lodgings in Jermyn Street at six o'clock on the
morrow, and she now bethought herself of this engagement. She prepared
to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave first of Ralph Touchett and
Isabel, who, seated on garden chairs in another part of the enclosure,
were occupied- if the term may be used- with an exchange of
amenities less pointed than the practical colloquy of Miss Stackpole
and Mr. Bantling. When it had been settled between Isabel and her
friend that they should be reunited at some reputable hour at
Pratt's Hotel, Ralph remarked that the latter must have a cab. She
couldn't walk all the way to Jermyn Street.

  "I suppose you mean it's improper for me to walk alone!" Henrietta
exclaimed. "Merciful powers, have I come to this?"

  "There's not the slightest need of your walking alone," Mr. Bantling
gaily interposed. "I should be greatly pleased to go with you."

  "I simply meant that you'd be late for dinner," Ralph returned.
"Those poor ladies may easily believe that we refuse, at the last,
to spare you."

  "You had better have a hansom, Henrietta," said Isabel.

  "I'll get you a hansom if you'll trust me," Mr. Bantling went on.
"We might walk a little till we meet one."

  "I don't see why I shouldn't trust him, do you?" Henrietta
enquired of Isabel.

  "I don't see what Mr. Bantling could do to you," Isabel obligingly
answered; "but, if you like, we'll walk with you till you find your
cab."

  "Never mind; we'll go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling, and take care
you get me a good one."

  Mr. Bantling promised to do his best, and the two took their
departure, leaving the girl and her cousin together in the square,
over which a clear September twilight had now begun to gather. It
was perfectly still; the wide quadrangle of dusky houses showed lights
in none of the windows, where the shutters and blinds were closed; the
pavements were a vacant expanse, and, putting aside two small children
from a neighbouring slum, who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal
animation in the interior, poked their faces between the rusty rails
of the enclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big red
pillar-post on the southeast corner.

  "Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her to
Jermyn Street," Ralph observed. He always spoke of Miss Stackpole as
Henrietta.

  "Very possibly," said his companion.

  "Or rather, no, she won't," he went on. "But Bantling will ask leave
to get in."

  "Very likely again. I'm very glad they're such good friends."

  "She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman. It may go
far," said Ralph.

  Isabel was briefly silent. "I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman,
but I don't think it will go far. They would never really know each
other. He has not the least idea what she really is, and she has no
just comprehension of Mr. Bantling."

  "There's no more usual basis of union than a mutual
misunderstanding. But it ought not to be so difficult to understand
Bob Bantling," Ralph added. "He is a very simple organism."

  "Yes, but Henrietta's a simpler one still. And, pray, what am I to
do?" Isabel asked, looking about her through the fading light, in
which the limited landscape-gardening of the square took on a large
and effective appearance. "I don't imagine that you'll propose that
you and I, for our amusement, shall drive about London in a hansom."

  "There's no reason we shouldn't stay here- if you don't dislike
it. It's very warm; there will be half an hour yet before dark; and if
you permit it I'll light a cigarette."

  "You may do what you please," said Isabel, "if you'll amuse me
till seven o'clock. I propose at that hour to go back and partake of a
simple and solitary repast- two poached eggs and a muffin- at
Pratt's Hotel."

  "Mayn't I dine with you?" Ralph asked.

  "No, you'll dine at your club."

  They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the square
again, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would have given him
extreme pleasure to be present in person at the modest little feast
she had sketched; but in default of this he liked even being
forbidden. For the moment, however, he liked immensely being alone
with her, in the thickening dusk, in the centre of the multitudinous
town; it made her seem to depend upon him and to be in his power. This
power he could exert but vaguely; the best exercise of it was to
accept her decisions submissively- which indeed there was already an
emotion in doing. "Why won't you let me dine with you?" he demanded
after a pause.

  "Because I don't care for it."

  "I suppose you're tired of me."

  "I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of
foreknowledge."

  "Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile," said Ralph. But he said
nothing more, and as she made no rejoinder they sat sometime in a
stillness which seemed to contradict his promise of entertainment.
It seemed to him she was preoccupied, and he wondered what she was
thinking about; there were two or three very possible subjects. At
last he spoke again. "Is your objection to my society this evening
caused by your expectation of another visitor?"

  She turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes.
"Another visitor? What visitor should I have?"

  He had none to suggest; which made his question seem to himself
silly as well as brutal. "You've a great many friends that I don't
know. You've a whole past from which I was perversely excluded."

  "You were reserved for my future. You must remember that my past
is over there across the water. There's none of it here in London."

  "Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Capital
thing to have your future so handy." And Ralph lighted another
cigarette and reflected that Isabel probably meant she had received
news that Mr. Caspar Goodwood had crossed to Paris. After he had
lighted his cigarette he puffed it a while, and then he resumed. "I
promised just now to be very amusing; but you see I don't come up to
the mark, and the fact is there's a good deal of temerity in one's
undertaking to amuse a person like you. What do you care for my feeble
attempts? You've grand ideas- you've a high standard in such
matters. I ought at least to bring in a band of music or a company
of mountebanks."

  "One mountebank's enough, and you do very well. Pray go on, and in
another ten minutes I shall begin to laugh."

  "I assure you I'm very serious," said Ralph. "You do really ask a
great deal."

  "I don't know what you mean. I ask nothing!"

  "You accept nothing," said Ralph. She coloured, and now suddenly
it seemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But why should he speak
to her of such things? He hesitated a little and then he continued:
"There's something I should like very much to say to you. It's a
question I wish to ask. It seems to me I've a right to ask it, because
I've a kind of interest in the answer."

  "Ask what you will," Isabel replied gently, "and I'll try to satisfy
you."

  "Well then, I hope you won't mind my saying that Warburton has
told me of something that has passed between you."

  Isabel suppressed a start; he sat looking at her open fan. "Very
good; I suppose it was natural he should tell you."

  "I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has some hope
still," said Ralph.

  "Still?"

  "He had it a few days ago."

  "I don't believe he has any now," said the girl.

  "I'm very sorry for him then; he's such an honest man."

  "Pray, did he ask you to talk to me?"

  "No, not that. But he told me because he couldn't help it. We're old
friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent me a line asking
me to come and see him, and I drove over to Lockleigh the day before
he and his sister lunched with us. He was very heavy-hearted; he had
just got a letter from you."

  "Did he show you the letter?" asked Isabel with momentary loftiness.

  "By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I was very sorry
for him," Ralph repeated.

  For some moments Isabel said nothing; then at last, "Do you know how
often he had seen me?" she enquired. "Five or six times."

  "That's to your glory."

  "It's not for that I say it."

  "What then do you say it for? Not to prove that poor Warburton's
state of mind's superficial, because I'm pretty sure you don't think
that."

  Isabel certainly was unable to say she thought it but presently
she said something else. "If you've not been requested by Lord
Warburton to argue with me, then you're doing it disinterestedly- or
for the love of argument."

  "I've no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to leave you
alone. I'm simply greatly interested in your own sentiments."

  "I'm greatly obliged to you!" cried Isabel with a slightly nervous
laugh.

  "Of course you mean that I'm meddling in what doesn't concern me.
But why shouldn't I speak to you of this matter without annoying you
or embarrassing myself? What's the use of being your cousin if I can't
have a few privileges? What's the use of adoring you without hope of a
reward if I can't have a few compensations? What's the use of being
ill and disabled and restricted to mere spectatorship at the game of
life if I really can't see the show when I've paid so much for my
ticket? Tell me this," Ralph went on while she listened to him with
quickened attention. "What had you in mind when you refused Lord
Warburton?"

  "What had I in mind?"

  "What was the logic- the view of your situation- that dictated so
remarkable an act?"

  "I didn't wish to marry him- if that's logic."

  "No, that's not logic- and I knew that before. It's really
nothing, you know. What was it you said to yourself? You certainly
said more than that?"

  Isabel reflected a moment, then answered with a question of her own.
"Why do you call it a remarkable act? That's what your mother thinks
too.

  "Warburton's such a thorough good sort; as a man, I consider he
has hardly a fault. And then he's what they call here no end of a
swell. He has immense possessions, and his wife would be thought a
superior being. He unites the intrinsic and the extrinsic advantages."

  Isabel watched her cousin as to see how far he would go. "I
refused him because he was too perfect then. I'm not perfect myself,
and he's too good for me. Besides, his perfection would irritate me."

  "That's ingenious rather than candid," said Ralph. "As a fact you
think nothing in the world too perfect for you."

  "Do you think I'm so good?"

  "No, but you're exacting, all the same, without the excuse of
thinking yourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty, however, even of
the most exacting sort, would have managed to do with Warburton.
Perhaps you don't know how he has been stalked."

  "I don't wish to know. But it seems to me," said Isabel, "that one
day when we talked of him you mentioned odd things in him."

  Ralph smokingly considered. "I hope that what I said then had no
weight with you; for they were not faults, the things I spoke of: they
were simply peculiarities of his position. If I had known he wished to
marry you I'd never have alluded to them. I think I said that as
regards that position he was rather a sceptic. It would have been in
your power to make him a believer."

  "I think not. I don't understand the matter, and I'm not conscious
of any mission of that sort. You're evidently disappointed," Isabel
added, looking at her cousin with rueful gentleness. "You'd have liked
me to make such a marriage."

  "Not in the least. I'm absolutely without a wish on the subject. I
don't pretend to advise you, and I content myself with watching you-
with the deepest interest."

  She gave rather a conscious sigh. "I wish I could be as
interesting to myself as I am to you!"

  "There you're not candid again; you're extremely interesting to
yourself. Do you know, however," said Ralph, "that if you've really
given Warburton his final answer I'm rather glad it has been what it
was. I don't mean I'm glad for you, and still less of course for
him. I'm glad for myself."

  "Are you thinking of proposing to me?"

  "By no means. From the point of view I speak of that would be fatal;
I should kill the goose that supplies me with the material of my
inimitable omelettes. I use that animal as the symbol of my insane
illusions. What I mean is that I shall have the thrill of seeing
what a young lady does who won't marry Lord Warburton."

  "That's what your mother counts upon too," said Isabel.

  "Ah, there will be plenty of spectators! We shall hang on the rest
of your career. I shall not see all of it, but I shall probably see
the most interesting years. Of course if you were to marry our
friend you'd still have a career- a very decent, in fact a very
brilliant one. But relatively speaking it would be a little prosaic.
It would be definitely marked out in advance; it would be wanting in
the unexpected. You know I'm extremely fond of the unexpected, and now
that you've kept the game in your hands I depend on your giving us
some grand example of it."

  "I don't understand you very well," said Isabel, "but I do so well
enough to be able to say that if you look for grand examples of
anything from me I shall disappoint you."

  "You'll do so only by disappointing yourself- and that will go
hard with you!"

  To this she made no direct reply; there was an amount of truth in it
that would bear consideration. At last she said abruptly: "I don't see
what harm there is in my wishing not to tie myself. I don't want to
begin life by marrying. There are other things a woman can do."

  "There's nothing she can do so well. But you're of course so
many-sided."

  "If one's two-sided it's enough," said Isabel.

  "You're the most charming of polygons!" her companion broke out.
At a glance from his companion, however, he became grave, and to prove
it went on: "You want to see life- you'll be hanged if you don't, as
the young men say.

  "I don't think I want to see it as the young men want to see it. But
I do want to look about me."

  "You want to drain the cup of experience."

  "No, I don't wish to touch the cup of experience. It's a poisoned
drink! I only want to see for myself."

  "You want to see, but not to feel," Ralph remarked.

  "I don't think that if one's a sentient being one can make the
distinction. I'm a good deal like Henrietta. The other day when I
asked her if she wished to marry she said: 'Not till I've seen
Europe!' I too don't wish to marry till I've seen Europe."

  "You evidently expect a crowned head will be struck with you."

  "No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton. But it's
getting very dark," Isabel continued, "and I must go home." She rose
from her place, but Ralph only sat still and looked at her. As he
remained there she stopped, and they exchanged a gaze that was full on
either side, but especially on Ralph's, of utterances too vague for
words.

  "You've answered my question," he said at last. "You've told me what
I wanted. I'm greatly obliged to you."

  "It seems to me I've told you very little."

  "You've told me the great thing: that the world interests you and
that you want to throw yourself into it."

  Her silvery eyes shone a moment in the dusk. "I never said that."

  "I think you meant it. Don't repudiate it. It's so fine!"

  "I don't know what you're trying to fasten upon me, for I'm not in
the least an adventurous spirit. Women are not like men."

  Ralph slowly rose from his seat and they walked together to the gate
of the square. "No," he said; "women rarely boast of their courage.
Men do so with a certain frequency."

  "Men have it to boast of!

  "Women have it too. You've a great deal."

  "Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt's Hotel, but not more."

  Ralph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he fastened
it. "We'll find your cab," he said; and as they turned toward a
neighbouring street in which this quest might avail he asked her again
if he mightn't see her safely to the inn.

  "By no means," she answered; "you're very tired; you must go home
and go to bed."

  The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a moment at
the door. "When people forget I'm a poor creature I'm often
incommoded," he said. "But it's worse when they remember it!"

  CHAPTER 16

  She had had no hidden motive in wishing him not to take her home; it
simply struck her that for some days past she had consumed an
inordinate quantity of his time, and the independent spirit of the
American girl whom extravagance of aid places in an attitude that
she ends by finding "affected" had made her decide that for these
few hours she must suffice to herself. She had moreover a great
fondness for intervals of solitude, which since her arrival in England
had been but meagrely met. It was a luxury she could always command at
home and she had wittingly missed it. That evening, however, an
incident occurred which- had there been a critic to note it- would
have taken all colour from the theory that the wish to be quite by
herself had caused her to dispense with her cousin's attendance.
Seated toward nine o'clock in the dim illumination of Pratt's Hotel
and trying with the aid of two tall candles to lose herself in a
volume she had brought from Gardencourt, she succeeded only to the
extent of reading other words than those printed on the page- words
that Ralph had spoken to her that afternoon. Suddenly the well-muffled
knuckle of the waiter was applied to the door, which presently gave
way to his exhibition, even as a glorious trophy, of the card of a
visitor. When this memento had offered to her fixed sight the name
of Mr. Caspar Goodwood she let the man stand before her without
signifying her wishes.

  "Shall I show the gentleman up, ma'am?" he asked with a slightly
encouraging inflexion.

  Isabel hesitated still and while she hesitated glanced at the
mirror. "He may come in," she said at last; and waited for him not
so much smoothing her hair as girding her spirit.

  Caspar Goodwood was accordingly the next moment shaking hands with
her, but saying nothing till the servant had left the room. "Why
didn't you answer my letter?" he then asked in a quick, full, slightly
peremptory tone- the tone of a man whose questions were habitually
pointed and who was capable of much insistence.

  She answered by a ready question, "How did you know I was here?"

  "Miss Stackpole let me know," said Caspar Goodwood. "She told me you
would probably be at home alone this evening and would be willing to
see me."

  "Where did she see you- to tell you that?"

  "She didn't see me; she wrote to me." Isabel was silent; neither had
sat down; they stood there with an air of defiance, or at least of
contention. "Henrietta never told me she was writing to you," she said
at last. "This is not kind of her."

  "Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?" asked the young man.

  "I didn't expect it. I don't like such surprises."

  "But you knew I was in town; it was natural we should meet."

  "Do you call this meeting? I hoped I shouldn't see you. In so big
a place as London it seemed very possible."

  "It was apparently repugnant to you even to write to me," her
visitor went on.

  Isabel made no reply; the sense of Henrietta Stackpole's
treachery, as she momentarily qualified it, was strong within her.
"Henrietta's certainly not a model of all the delicacies!" she
exclaimed with bitterness: "It was a great liberty to take."

  "I suppose I'm not a model either- of those virtues or of any
others. The fault's mine as much as hers."

  As Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had never been
more square. This might have displeased her, but she took a
different turn. "No, it's not your fault so much as hers. What
you've done was inevitable, I suppose, for you."

  "It was indeed!" cried Caspar Goodwood with a voluntary laugh.
"And now that I've come, at any rate, mayn't I stay?"

  "You may sit down, certainly."

  She went back to her chair again, while her visitor took the first
place that offered, in the manner of a man accustomed to pay little
thought to that sort of furtherance. "I've been hoping every day for
an answer to my letter. You might have written me a few lines."

  "It wasn't the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could as
easily have written you four pages as one. But my silence was an
intention," Isabel said. "I thought it the best thing."

  He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she spoke; then he
lowered them and attached them to a spot in the carpet as if he were
making a strong effort to say nothing but what he ought. He was a
strong man in the wrong, and he was acute enough to see that an
uncompromising exhibition of his strength would only throw the falsity
of his position into relief. Isabel was not incapable of tasting any
advantage of position over a person of this quality, and though little
desirous to flaunt it in his face she could enjoy being able to say
"You know you oughtn't to have written to me yourself!" and to say
it with an air of triumph.

  Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to her own again; they seemed to
shine through the vizard of a helmet. He had a strong sense of justice
and was ready any day in the year- over and above this- to argue the
question of his rights. "You said you hoped never to hear from me
again; I know that. But I never accepted any such rule as my own. I
warned you that you should hear very soon."

  "I didn't say I hoped never to hear from you," said Isabel.

  "Not for five years then; for ten years; twenty years. It's the same
thing."

  "Do you find it so? It seems to me there's a great difference. I can
imagine that at the end of ten years we might have a very pleasant
correspondence. I shall have matured my epistolary style."

  She looked away while she spoke these words, knowing them of so much
less earnest a cast than the countenance of her listener. Her eyes,
however, at last came back to him, just as he said very
irrelevantly: "Are you enjoying your visit to your uncle?"

  "Very much indeed." She dropped, but then she broke out. "What
good do you expect to get by insisting?

  "The good of not losing you."

  "You've no right to talk of losing what's not yours. And even from
your own point of view," Isabel added, "you ought to know when to
let one alone."

  "I disgust you very much," said Caspar Goodwood gloomily; not as
if to provoke her to compassion for a man conscious of this
blighting fact, but as if to set it well before himself, so that he
might endeavour to act with his eyes on it.

  "Yes, you don't at all delight me, you don't fit in, not in any way,
just now, and the worst is that your putting it to the proof in this
manner is quite unnecessary." It wasn't certainly as if his nature had
been soft, so that pin-pricks would draw blood from it; and from the
first of her acquaintance with him, and of her having to defend
herself against a certain air that he had of knowing better what was
good for her than she knew herself, she had recognized the fact that
perfect frankness was her best weapon. To attempt to spare his
sensibility or to escape from him edgewise, as one might do from a man
who had barred the way less sturdily- this, in dealing with Caspar
Goodwood, who would grasp at everything of every sort that one might
give him, was wasted agility. It was not that he had not
susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as well as his active,
was large and hard, and he might always be trusted to dress his
wounds, so far as they required it, himself. She came back, even for
her measure of possible pangs and aches in him, to her old sense
that he was naturally plated and steeled, armed essentially for
aggression.

  "I can't reconcile myself to that," he simply said. There was a
dangerous liberality about it; for she felt how open it was to him
to make the point that he had not always disgusted her.

  "I can't reconcile myself to it either, and it's not the state of
things that ought to exist between us. If you'd only try to banish
me from your mind for a few months we should be on good terms again."

  "I see. If I should cease to think of you at all for a prescribed
time, I should find I could keep it up indefinitely."

  "Indefinitely is more than I ask. It's more even than I should
like."

  "You know that what you ask is impossible," said the young man,
taking his adjective for granted in a manner she found irritating.

  "Aren't you capable of making a calculated effort?" she demanded.
"You're strong for everything else; why shouldn't you be strong for
that?"

  "An effort calculated for what?" And then as she hung fire, "I'm
capable of nothing with regard to you," he went on, "but just of being
infernally in love with you. If one's strong one loves only the more
strongly."

  "There's a good deal in that"; and indeed our young lady felt the
force of it- felt it thrown off, into the vast of truth and poetry, as
practically a bait to her imagination. But she promptly came round.
"Think of me or not, as you find most possible; only leave me alone."

  "Until when?"

  "Well, for a year or two."

  "Which do you mean? Between one year and two there's all the
difference in the world."

  "Call it two then," said Isabel with a studied effect of eagerness.

  "And what shall I gain by that?" her friend asked with no sign of
wincing.

  "You'll have obliged me greatly."

  "And what will be my reward?"

  "Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?"

  "Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice."

  "There's no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don't
understand such things. If you make the sacrifice you'll have all my
admiration."

  "I don't care a cent for your admiration- not one straw, with
nothing to show for it. When will you marry me? That's the only
question."

  "Never- if you go on making me feel only as I feel at present."

  "What do I gain then by not trying to make you feel otherwise?"

  "You'll gain quite as much as by worrying me to death!" Caspar
Goodwood bent his eyes again and gazed a while into the crown of his
hat. A deep flush overspread his face; she could see her sharpness had
at last penetrated. This immediately had a value- classic, romantic,
redeeming, what did she know?- for her; "the strong man in pain" was
one of the categories of the human appeal, little charm as he might
exert in the given case. "Why do you make me say such things to
you?" she cried in a trembling voice. "I only want to be gentle- to be
thoroughly kind. It's not delightful to me to feel people care for
me and yet to have to try and reason them out of it. I think others
also ought to be considerate; we have each to judge for ourselves. I
know you're considerate, as much as you can be; you've good reasons
for what you do. But I really don't want to marry, or to talk about it
at all now. I shall probably never do it- no, never. I've a perfect
right to feel that way, and it's no kindness to a woman to press her
so hard, to urge her against her will. If I give you pain I can only
say I'm very sorry. It's not my fault; I can't marry you simply to
please you. I won't say that I shall always remain your friend,
because when women say that, in these situations, it passes, I
believe, for a sort of mockery. But try me some day."

  Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon
the name of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had
ceased speaking that he raised them. When he did so the sight of a
rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabel's face threw some confusion into
his attempt to analyze her words. "I'll go home- I'll go to-morrow-
I'll leave you alone," he brought out at last. "Only," he heavily
said, "I hate to lose sight of you!"

  "Never fear. I shall do no harm."

  "You'll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here," Caspar Goodwood
declared.

  "Do you think that a generous charge?"

  "Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you."

  "I told you just now that I don't wish to marry and that I almost
certainly never shall."

  "I know you did, and I like your 'almost certainly'! I put no
faith in what you say."

  "Thank you very much. Do you accuse me of lying to shake you off?
You say very delicate things."

  "Why should I not say that? You've given me no pledge of anything at
all."

  "No, that's all that would be wanting!"

  "You may perhaps even believe you're safe- from wishing to be. But
you're not," the young man went on as if preparing himself for the
worst.

  "Very well then. We'll put it that I'm not safe. Have it as you
please."

  "I don't know, however," said Caspar Goodwood, "that my keeping
you in sight would prevent it."

  "Don't you indeed? I'm after all very much afraid of you. Do you
think I'm so very easily pleased?" she asked suddenly, changing her
tone.

  "No- I don't; I shall try to console myself with that. But there are
a certain number of very dazzling men in the world, no doubt; and if
there were only one it would be enough. The most dazzling of all
will make straight for you. You'll be sure to take no one who isn't
dazzling."

  "If you mean by dazzling brilliantly clever," Isabel said- "and I
can't imagine what else you mean- I don't need the aid of a clever man
to teach me how to live. I can find it out for myself."

  "Find out how to live alone? I wish that, when you have, you'd teach
me!"

  She looked at him a moment; then with a quick smile, "Oh, you
ought to marry!" she said.

  He might be pardoned if for an instant this exclamation seemed to
him to sound the infernal note, and it is not on record that her
motive for discharging such a shaft had been of the clearest. He
oughtn't to stride about lean and hungry, however- she certainly
felt that for him. "God forgive you!" he murmured between his teeth as
he turned away.

  Her accent had put her slightly in the wrong, and after a moment she
felt the need to right herself. The easiest way to do it was to
place him where she had been. "You do me great injustice- you say what
you don't know!" she broke out. "I shouldn't be an easy victim- I've
proved it."

  "Oh, to me, perfectly."

  "I've proved it to others as well." And she paused a moment. "I
refused a proposal of marriage last week; what they call- no doubt-
a dazzling one."

  "I'm very glad to hear it," said the young man gravely.

  "It was a proposal many girls would have accepted; it had everything
to recommend it." Isabel had not proposed to herself to tell this
story, but, now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking it out and
doing herself justice took possession of her. "I was offered a great
position and a great fortune- by a person whom I like extremely."

  Caspar watched her with intense interest. "Is he an Englishman?"

  "He's an English nobleman," said Isabel.

  Her visitor received this announcement at first in silence, but at
last said: "I'm glad he's disappointed."

  "Well then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the best of
it."

  "I don't call him a companion," said Caspar grimly.

  "Why not- since I declined his offer absolutely?"

  "That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an Englishman."

  "And pray isn't an Englishman a human being?" Isabel asked.

  "Oh, those people? They're not of my humanity, and I don't care what
becomes of them."

  "You're very angry," said the girl. "We've discussed this matter
quite enough."

  "Oh yes, I'm very angry. I plead guilty to that!"

  She turned away from him, walked to the open window and stood a
moment looking into the dusky void of the street, where a turbid
gaslight alone represented social animation. For some time neither
of these young persons spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece
with eyes gloomily attached. She had virtually requested him to go- he
knew that; but at the risk of making himself odious he kept his
ground. She was too nursed a need to be easily renounced, and he had
crossed the sea all to wring from her some scrap of a vow. Presently
she left the window and stood again before him. "You do me very little
justice- after my telling you what I told you just now. I'm sorry I
told you- since it matters so little to you."

  "Ah," cried the young man, "if you were thinking of me when you
did it!" And then he paused with the fear that she might contradict so
happy a thought.

  "I was thinking of you a little," said Isabel.

  "A little? I don't understand. If the knowledge of what I feel for
you had any weight with you at all, calling it a 'little' is a poor
account of it."

  Isabel shook her head as if to carry off a blunder. "I've refused
a most kind, noble gentleman. Make the most of that."

  "I thank you then," said Caspar Goodwood gravely. "I thank you
immensely."

  "And now you had better go home."

  "May I not see you again?" he asked.

  "I think it's better not. You'll be sure to talk of this, and you
see it leads to nothing."

  "I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you."

  Isabel reflected and then answered: "I return in a day or two to
my uncle's, and I can't propose to you to come there. It would be
too inconsistent."

  Caspar Goodwood, on his side, considered. "You must do me justice
too. I received an invitation to your uncle's more than a week ago,
and I declined it."

  She betrayed surprise. "From whom was your invitation?"

  "From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I
declined it because I had not your authorization to accept it. The
suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me appeared to have come
from Miss Stackpole."

  "It certainly never did from me. Henrietta really goes very far,"
Isabel added.

  "Don't be too hard on her- that touches me."

  "No; if you declined you did quite right, and I thank you for it."
And she gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought that Lord
Warburton and Mr. Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt: it would
have been so awkward for Lord Warburton.

  "When you leave your uncle where do you go?" her companion asked.

  "I go abroad with my aunt- to Florence and other places."

  The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young
man's heart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which
he was inexorably excluded. Nevertheless he went on quickly with his
questions. "And when shall you come back to America?"

  "Perhaps not for a long time. I'm very happy here."

  "Do you mean to give up your country?"

  "Don't be an infant!"

  "Well, you'll be out of my sight indeed!" said Caspar Goodwood.

  "I don't know," she answered rather grandly. "The world- with all
these places so arranged and so touching each other- comes to strike
one as rather small."

  "It's a sight too big for me!" Caspar exclaimed with a simplicity
our young lady might have found touching if her face had not been
set against concessions.

  This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately
embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment: "Don't think
me unkind if I say it's just that- being out of your sight- that I
like. If you were in the same place I should feel you were watching
me, and I don't like that- I like my liberty too much. If there's a
thing in the world I'm fond of," she went on with a slight
recurrence of grandeur, "it's my personal independence."

  But whatever there might be of the too superior in this speech moved
Caspar Goodwood's admiration; there was nothing he winced at in the
large air of it. He had never supposed she hadn't wings and the need
of beautiful free movements- he wasn't, with his own long arms and
strides, afraid of any force in her. Isabel's words, if they had
been meant to shock him, failed of the mark and only made him smile
with the sense that here was common ground. "Who would wish less to
curtail your liberty than I? What can give me greater pleasure than to
see you perfectly independent- doing whatever you like? It's to make
you independent that I want to marry you.

  "That's a beautiful sophism," said the girl with a smile more
beautiful still.

  "An ummarried woman- a girl of your age- isn't independent. There
are all sorts of things she can't do. She's hampered at every step."

  "That's as she looks at the question," Isabel answered with much
spirit. not in my first youth- I can do what I choose- I belong
quite to the independent class. I've neither father nor mother; I'm
poor and of a serious disposition; I'm not pretty. I therefore am
not bound to be timid and conventional; indeed I can't afford such
luxuries. Besides, I try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I
think, is more honourable than not to judge at all. I don't wish to be
a mere sheep in the flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something
of human affairs beyond what other people think it compatible with
propriety to tell me." She paused a moment, but not long enough for
her companion to reply. He was apparently on the point of doing so
when she went on: "Let me say this to you, Mr. Goodwood. You're so
kind as to speak of being afraid of my marrying. If you should hear
a rumour that I'm on the point of doing so- girls are liable to have
such things said about them- remember what I have told you about my
love of liberty and venture to doubt it."

  There was something passionately positive in the tone in which she
gave him this advice, and he saw a shining candour in her eyes that
helped him to believe her. On the whole he felt reassured, and you
might have perceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly:
"You want simply to travel for two years? I'm quite willing to wait
two years, and you may do what you like in the interval. If that's all
you want, pray say so. I don't want you to be conventional; do I
strike you as conventional myself? Do you want to improve your mind?
Your mind's quite good enough for me; but if it interests you to
wander about a while and see different countries I shall be
delighted to help you in any way in my power."

  "You're very generous; that's nothing new to me. The best way to
help me will be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as
possible."

  "One would think you were going to commit some atrocity!" said
Caspar Goodwood.

  "Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that if the fancy
takes me."

  "Well then," he said slowly, "I'll go home." And he put out his
hand, trying to look contented and confident.

  Isabel's confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could
feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of committing an
atrocity; but, turn it over as he would, there was something ominous
in the way she reserved her option. As she took his hand she felt a
great respect for him; she knew how much he cared for her and she
thought him magnanimous. They stood so for a moment, looking at each
other, united by a hand-clasp which was not merely passive on her
side. "That's right," she said very kindly, almost tenderly. "You'll
lose nothing by being a reasonable man."

  "But I'll come back, wherever you are, two years hence," he returned
with characteristic grimness.

  We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she
suddenly changed her note. "Ah, remember, I promise nothing-
absolutely nothing!" Then more softly, as if to help him to leave her:
"And remember too that I shall not be an easy victim!"

  "You'll get very sick of your independence."

  "Perhaps I shall; it's even very probable. When that day comes I
shall be very glad to see you."

  She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her
room, and she waited a moment to see whether her visitor would not
take his departure. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an
immense unwillingness in his attitude and a sore remonstrance in his
eyes. "I must leave you now," said Isabel; and she opened the door and
passed into the other room.

  This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague
radiance sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and
Isabel could make out the masses of the furniture, the dim shining
of the mirror and the looming of the big four-posted bed. She stood
still a moment, listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood
walk out of the sitting-room and close the door behind him. She
stood still a little longer, and then, by an irresistible impulse,
dropped on her knees before her bed and hid her face in her arms.

  CHAPTER 17

  She was not praying; she was trembling- trembling all over.
Vibration was easy to her, was in fact too constant with her, and
she found herself now humming like a smitten harp. She only asked,
however, to put on the cover, to case herself again in brown
holland, but she wished to resist her excitement, and the attitude
of devotion, which she kept for some time, seemed to help her to be
still. She intensely rejoiced that Caspar Goodwood was gone; there was
something in having thus got rid of him that was like the payment, for
a stamped receipt, of some debt too long on her mind. As she felt
the glad relief she bowed her head a little lower; the sense was
there, throbbing in her heart; it was part of her emotion, but it
was a thing to be ashamed of- it was profane and out of place. It
was not for some ten minutes that she rose from her knees, and even
when she came back to the sitting-room her tremor had not quite
subsided. It had had, verily, two causes: part of it was to be
accounted for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might
be feared that the rest was simply the enjoyment she found in the
exercise of her power. She sat down in the same chair again and took
up her book, but without going through the form of opening the volume.
She leaned back, with that low, soft, aspiring murmur with which she
often uttered her response to accidents of which the brighter side was
not superficially obvious, and yielded to the satisfaction of having
refused two ardent suitors in a fortnight. That love of liberty of
which she had given Caspar Goodwood so bold a sketch was as yet almost
exclusively theoretic; she had not been able to indulge it on a
large scale. But it appeared to her she had done something; she had
tasted of the delight, if not of battle, at least of victory; she
had done what was truest to her plan. In the glow of this
consciousness the image of Mr. Goodwood taking his sad walk homeward
through the dingy town presented itself with a certain reproachful
force; so that, as at the same moment the door of the room was opened,
she rose with an apprehension that he had come back. But it was only
Henrietta Stackpole returning from her dinner.

  Miss Stackpole immediately saw that our young lady had been
"through" something, and indeed the discovery demanded no great
penetration. She went straight up to her friend, who received her
without a greeting. Isabel's elation in having sent Caspar Goodwood
back to America presupposed her being in a manner glad he had come
to see her; but at the same time she perfectly remembered Henrietta
had had no right to set a trap for her. "Has he been here, dear?"
the latter yearningly asked.

  Isabel turned away and for some moments answered nothing. "You acted
very wrongly," she declared at last.

  "I acted for the best. I only hope you acted as well."

  "You're not the judge. I can't trust you," said Isabel.

  This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too
unselfish to heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only for what it
intimated with regard to her friend. "Isabel Archer," she observed
with equal abruptness and solemnity, "if you marry one of these people
I'll never speak to you again!"

  "Before making so terrible a threat you had better wait till I'm
asked," Isabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss Stackpole
about Lord Warburton's overtures, she had now no impulse whatever to
justify herself to Henrietta by telling her that she had refused
that nobleman.

  "Oh, you'll be asked quick enough, once you get off on the
Continent. Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy- poor plain
little Annie."

  "Well, if Annie Climber wasn't captured why should I be?"

  "I don't believe Annie was pressed; but you'll be."

  "That's a flattering conviction," said Isabel without alarm.

  "I don't flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth!" cried her
friend. "I hope you don't mean to tell me that you didn't give Mr.
Goodwood some hope."

  "I don't see why I should tell you anything; as I said to you just
now, I can't trust you. But since you're so much interested in Mr.
Goodwood I won't conceal from you that he returns immediately to
America."

  "You don't mean to say you've sent him off? " Henrietta almost
shrieked.

  "I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same,
Henrietta." Miss Stackpole glittered for an instant with dismay and
then passed to the mirror over the chimney-piece and took off her
bonnet. "I hope you've enjoyed your dinner," Isabel went on.

  But her companion was not to be diverted by frivolous
propositions. "Do you know where you're going, Isabel Archer?"

  "Just now I'm going to bed," said Isabel with persistent frivolity.

  "Do you know where you're drifting?" Henrietta pursued, holding
out her bonnet delicately.

  "No, I haven't the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not to
know. A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses
over roads that one can't see- that's my idea of happiness."

  "Mr. Goodwood certainly didn't teach you to say such things as that-
like the heroine of an immoral novel," said Miss Stackpole. "You're
drifting to some great mistake."

  Isabel was irritated by her friend's interference, yet she still
tried to think what truth this declaration could represent. She
could think of nothing that diverted her from saying: "You must be
very fond of me, Henrietta, to be willing to be so aggressive."

  "I love you intensely, Isabel," said Miss Stackpole with feeling.

  "Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone. I asked
that of Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you."

  "Take care you're not let alone too much."

  "That's what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must take the
risks."

  "You're a creature of risks- you make me shudder!" cried
Henrietta. "When does Mr. Goodwood return to America?"

  "I don't know- he didn't tell me."

  "Perhaps you didn't enquire," said Henrietta with the note of
righteous irony.

  "I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask
questions of him."

  This assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to bid defiance
to comment; but at last she exclaimed: "Well, Isabel, if I didn't know
you I might think you were heartless!"

  "Take care," said Isabel; "you're spoiling me."

  "I'm afraid I've done that already. I hope, at least," Miss
Stackpole added, "that he may cross with Annie Climber!"

  Isabel learned from her the next morning that she had determined not
to return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett had promised her a
renewed welcome), but to await in London the arrival of the invitation
that Mr. Bantling had promised her from his sister Lady Pensil. Miss
Stackpole related very freely her conversation with Ralph Touchett's
sociable friend and declared to Isabel that she really believed she
had now got hold of something that would lead to something. On the
receipt of Lady Pensil's letter- Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed
the arrival of this document- she would immediately depart for
Bedfordshire, and if Isabel cared to look out for her impressions in
the Interviewer she would certainly find them. Henrietta was evidently
going to see something of the inner life this time.

  "Do you know where you're drifting, Henrietta Stackpole?" Isabel
asked, imitating the tone in which her friend had spoken the night
before.

  "I'm drifting to a big position- that of the Queen of American
Journalism. If my next letter isn't copied all over the West I'll
swallow my pen-wiper!"

  She had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, the young
lady of the continental offers, that they should go together to make
those purchases which were to constitute Miss Climber's farewell to
a hemisphere in which she at least had been appreciated; and she
presently repaired to Jermyn Street to pick up her companion.
Shortly after her departure Ralph Touchett was announced, and as
soon as he came in Isabel saw he had something on his mind. He very
soon took his cousin into his confidence. He had received from his
mother a telegram to the effect that his father had had a sharp attack
of his old malady, that she was much alarmed and that she begged he
would instantly return to Gardencourt. On this occasion at least
Mrs. Touchett's devotion to the electric wire was not open to
criticism.

  "I've judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew Hope,
first," Ralph said; "by great good luck he's in town. He's to see me
at half-past twelve, and I shall make sure of his coming down to
Gardencourt- which he will do the more readily as he has already
seen my father several times, both there and in London. There's an
express at two-forty-five, which I shall take; and you'll come back
with me or remain here a few days longer, exactly as you prefer."

  "I shall certainly go with you," Isabel returned. "I don't suppose I
can be of any use to my uncle, but if he's ill I shall like to be near
him."

  "I think you're fond of him," said Ralph with a certain shy pleasure
in his face. "You appreciate him, which all the world hasn't done. The
quality's too fine."

  "I quite adore him," Isabel after a moment said.

  "That's very well. After his son he's your greatest admirer."

  She welcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a small sigh of
relief at the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those admirers
who couldn't propose to marry her. This, however, was not what she
spoke; she went on to inform Ralph that there were other reasons for
her not remaining in London. She was tired of it and wished to leave
it; and then Henrietta was going away- going to stay in Bedfordshire.

  "In Bedfordshire?"

  "With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has answered
for an invitation."

  Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh.
Suddenly, none the less, his gravity returned. "Bantling's a man of
courage. But if the invitation should get lost on the way?"

  "I thought the British post-office was impeccable."

  "The good Homer sometimes nods," said Ralph. "However," he went on
more brightly, "the good Bantling never does, and, whatever happens,
he'll take care of Henrietta."

  Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope, and Isabel
made her arrangements for quitting Pratt's Hotel. Her uncle's danger
touched her nearly, and while she stood before her open trunk, looking
about her vaguely for what she should put into it, the tears
suddenly rose to her eyes. It was perhaps for this reason that when
Ralph came back at two o'clock to take her to the station she was
not yet ready. He found Miss Stackpole, however, in the
sitting-room, where she had just risen from her luncheon, and this
lady immediately expressed her regret at his father's illness.

  "He's a grand old man," she said; "he's faithful to the last. If
it's really to be the last- pardon my alluding to it, but you must
often have thought of the possibility- I'm sorry that I shall not be
at Gardencourt."

  "You'll amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire."

  "I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time," said Henrietta
with much propriety. But she immediately added: "I should like so to
commemorate the closing scene."

  "My father may live a long time," said Ralph simply. Then, adverting
to topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss Stackpole as to her
own future.

  Now that Ralph was in trouble she addressed him in a tone of
larger allowance and told him that she was much indebted to him for
having made her acquainted with Mr. Bantling. "He has told me just the
things I want to know," she said; "all the society-items and all about
the royal family. I can't make out that what he tells me about the
royal family is much to their credit; but he says that's only my
peculiar way of looking at it. Well, all I want is that he should give
me the facts; I can put them together quick enough, once I've got
them." And she added that Mr. Bantling had been so good as to
promise to come and take her out that afternoon.

  "To take you where?" Ralph ventured to enquire.

  "To Buckingham Palace. He's going to show me over it, so that I
may get some idea how they live."

  "Ah," said Ralph, "we leave you in good hands. The first thing we
shall hear is that you're invited to Windsor Castle."

  "If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I'm not
afraid. But for all that," Henrietta added in a moment, "I'm not
satisfied; I'm not at peace about Isabel."

  "What is her last misdemeanour?"

  "Well, I've told you before, and I suppose there's no harm in my
going on. I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Goodwood was
here last night."

  Ralph opened his eyes; he even blushed a little- his blush being the
sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered that Isabel, in
separating from him in Winchester Square, had repudiated his
suggestion that her motive in doing so was the expectation of a
visitor at Prates Hotel, and it was a new pang to him to have to
suspect her of duplicity. On the other hand, he quickly said to
himself, what concern was it of his that she should have made an
appointment with a lover? Had it not been thought graceful in every
age that young ladies should make a mystery of such appointments?
Ralph gave Miss Stackpole a diplomatic answer. "I should have
thought that, with the views you expressed to me the other day, this
would satisfy you perfectly."

  "That he should come to see her? That was very well, as far as it
went. It was a little plot of mine; I let him know that we were in
London, and when it had been arranged that I should spend the
evening out I sent him a word- the word we just utter to the 'wise.' I
hoped he would find her alone; I won't pretend I didn't hope that
you'd be out of the way. He came to see her, but he might as well have
stayed away."

  "Isabel was cruel?"- and Ralph's face lighted with the relief of his
cousin's not having shown duplicity.

  "I don't exactly know what passed between them. But she gave him
no satisfaction- she sent him back to America."

  "Poor Mr. Goodwood!" Ralph sighed.

  "Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him," Henrietta went on.

  "Poor Mr. Goodwood!" Ralph repeated. The exclamation, it must be
confessed, was automatic; it failed exactly to express his thoughts,
which were taking another line.

  "You don't say that as if you felt it. I don't believe you care."

  "Ah," said Ralph, "you must remember that I don't know this
interesting young man- that I've never seen him."

  "Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I
didn't believe Isabel would come round," Miss Stackpole added-
"well, I'd give up myself. I mean I'd give her up!"

  CHAPTER 18

  It had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel's parting
with her friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went
down to the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who, after a
slight delay, followed with the traces of an unaccepted
remonstrance, as he thought, in her eyes. The two made the journey
to Gardencourt in almost unbroken silence, and the servant who met
them at the station had no better news to give them of Mr. Touchett- a
fact which caused Ralph to congratulate himself afresh on Sir
Matthew Hope's having promised to come down in the five o'clock
train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett, he learned, on reaching
home, had been constantly with the old man and was with him at that
moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himself that, after all,
what his mother wanted was just easy occasion. The finer natures
were those that shone at the larger times. Isabel went to her own
room, noting throughout the house that perceptible hush which precedes
a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she came downstairs in
search of her aunt, whom she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She
went into the library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as the
weather, which had been damp and chill, was now altogether spoiled, it
was not probable she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds.
Isabel was on the point of ringing to send a question to her room,
when this purpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound- the sound of
low music proceeding apparently from the saloon. She knew her aunt
never touched the piano, and the musician was therefore probably
Ralph, who played for his own amusement. That he should have
resorted to this recreation at the present time indicated apparently
that his anxiety about his father had been relieved; so that the
girl took her way, almost with restored cheer, toward the source of
the harmony. The drawing-room at Gardencourt was an apartment of great
distances, and, as the piano was placed at the end of it furthest
removed from the door at which she entered, her arrival was not
noticed by the person seated before the instrument. This person was
neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whom Isabel immediately
saw to be a stranger to herself, though her back was presented to
the door. This back- an ample and well-dressed one- Isabel viewed
for some moments with surprise. The lady was of course a visitor who
had arrived during her absence and who had not been mentioned by
either of the servants- one of them her aunt's maid- of whom she had
had speech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, with
what treasures of reserve the function of receiving orders may be
accompanied, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated
with dryness by her aunt's maid, through whose hands she had slipped
perhaps a little too mistrustfully and with an effect of plumage but
the more lustrous.

  The advent of a guest was in itself far from disconcerting; she
had not yet divested herself of a young faith that each new
acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life. By
the time she had made these reflexions she became aware that the
lady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playing something of
Schubert's- Isabel knew not what, but recognized Schubert- and she
touched the piano with a discretion of her own. It showed skill, it
showed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and
waited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a
strong desire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so,
while at the same time the stranger turned quickly round, as if but
just aware of her presence.

  "That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful
still," said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually
uttered a truthful rapture.

  "You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?" the musician
answered as sweetly as this compliment deserved. "The house is so
large and his room so far away that I thought I might venture,
especially as I played just- just du bout des doigts."

  "She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says that as
if she were French." And this supposition made the visitor more
interesting to our speculative heroine. "I hope my uncle's doing
well," Isabel added. "I should think that to hear such lovely music as
that would really make him feel better."

  The lady smiled and discriminated. "I'm afraid there are moments
in life when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit,
however, that they are our worst."

  "I'm not in that state now then," said Isabel. "On the contrary I
should be so glad if you would play something more."

  "If it will give you pleasure- delighted." And this obliging
person took her place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel
sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with
her hands on the keys, half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She
was forty years old and not pretty, though her expression charmed.
"Pardon me," she said; "but are you the niece- the young American?"

  "I'm my aunt's niece," Isabel replied with simplicity.

  The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air
of interest over her shoulder. "That's very well; we're
compatriots." And then she began to play.

  "Ah then she's not French," Isabel murmured; and as the opposite
supposition had made her romantic it might have seemed that this
revelation would have marked a drop. But such was not the fact;
rarer even than to be French seemed it to be American on such
interesting terms.

  The lady played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly,
and while she played the shadows deepened in the room. The autumn
twilight gathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain,
which had now begun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn and
the wind shaking the great trees. At last, when the music had
ceased, her companion got up and, coming nearer with a smile, before
Isabel had time to thank her again, said: "I'm very glad you've come
back; I've heard a great deal about you."

  Isabel thought her a very attractive person, but nevertheless
spoke with a certain abruptness in reply to this speech. "From whom
have you heard about me?"

  The stranger hesitated a single moment and then, "From your
uncle," she answered. "I've been here three days, and the first day he
let me come and pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly
of you."

  "As you didn't know me that must rather have bored you."

  "It made me want to know you. All the more that since then- your
aunt being so much with Mr. Touchett- I've been quite alone and have
got rather tired of my own society. I've not chosen a good moment
for my visit."

  A servant had come in with lamps and was presently followed by
another bearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this repast Mrs.
Touchett had apparently been notified, for she now arrived and
addressed herself to the tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not
differ materially from her manner of raising the lid of this
receptacle in order to glance at the contents: in neither act was it
becoming to make a show of avidity. Questioned about her husband she
was unable to say he was better; but the local doctor was with him,
and much light was expected from this gentleman's consultation with
Sir Matthew Hope.

  "I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance," she pursued.
"If you haven't I recommend you to do so; for so long as we
continue- Ralph and I- to cluster about Mr. Touchett's bed you're
not likely to have much society but each other."

  "I know nothing about you but that you're a great musician,"
Isabel said to the visitor.

  "There's a good deal more than that to know," Mrs. Touchett affirmed
in her little dry tone.

  "A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!" the lady
exclaimed with a light laugh. "I'm an old friend of your aunt's.
I've lived much in Florence. I'm Madame Merle." She made this last
announcement as if she were referring to a person of tolerably
distinct identity. For Isabel, however, it represented little; she
could only continue to feel that Madame Merle had as charming a manner
as any she had ever encountered.

  "She's not a foreigner in spite of her name," said Mrs. Touchett.
"She was born- I always forget where you were born."

  "It's hardly worth while then I should tell you."

  "On the contrary," said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a logical
point; "if I remembered your telling me would be quite superfluous."

  Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-wide smile, a
thing that over-reached frontiers. "I was born under the shadow of the
national banner."

  "She's too fond of mystery," said Mrs. Touchett; "that's her great
fault."

  "Ah," exclaimed Madame Merle, "I've great faults, but I don't
think that's one of them; it certainly isn't the greatest. I came into
the world in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in
the United States Navy, and had a post- a post of responsibility- in
that establishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but
I hate it. That's why I don't return to America. I love the land;
the great thing is to love something."

  Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with the
force of Mrs. Touchett's characterization of her visitor, who had an
expressive, communicative, responsive face, by no means of the sort
which, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secretive disposition. It was a
face that told of an amplitude of nature and of quick and free motions
and, though it had no regular beauty, was in the highest degree
engaging and attaching. Madame Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman;
everything in her person was round and replete, though without those
accumulations which suggest heaviness. Her features were thick but
in perfect proportion and harmony, and her complexion had a healthy
clearness. Her grey eyes were small but full of light and incapable of
stupidity- incapable, according to some people, even of tears; she had
a liberal, full-rimmed mouth which when she smiled drew itself
upward to the left side in a manner that most people thought very odd,
some very affected and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range
herself in the last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair,
arranged somehow "classically" and as if she were a Bust, Isabel
judged- a Juno or a Niobe; and large white hands, of a perfect
shape, a shape so perfect that their possessor, preferring to leave
them unadorned, wore no jewelled rings. Isabel had taken her at first,
as we have seen, for a Frenchwoman; but extended observation might
have ranked her as a German- a German of high degree, perhaps an
Austrian, a baroness, a countess, a princess. It would never have been
supposed she had come into the world in Brooklyn- though one could
doubtless not have carried through any argument that the air of
distinction marking her in so eminent a degree was inconsistent with
such a birth. It was true that the national banner had floated
immediately over her cradle, and the breezy freedom of the stars and
stripes might have shed an influence upon the attitude she there
took towards life. And yet she had evidently nothing of the fluttered,
flapping quality of a morsel of bunting in the wind; her manner
expressed the repose and confidence which come from a large
experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; it had
simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a word a woman of
strong impulses kept in admirable order. This commended itself to
Isabel as an ideal combination.

  The girl made these reflections while the three ladies sat at
their tea, but that ceremony was interrupted before long by the
arrival of the great doctor from London, who had been immediately
ushered into the drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the
library for a private talk; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted,
to meet again at dinner. The idea of seeing more of this interesting
woman did much to mitigate Isabel's sense of the sadness now
settling on Gardencourt.

  When she came into the drawing-room before dinner she found the
place empty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His
anxiety about his father had been lightened; Sir Matthew Hope's view
of his condition was less depressed than his own had been. The
doctor recommended that the nurse alone should remain with the old man
for the next three or four hours; so that Ralph, his mother and the
great physician himself were free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett
and Sir Matthew appeared; Madame Merle was the last.

  Before she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing
before the fireplace. "Pray who is this Madame Merle?"

  "The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself," said Ralph.

  "I thought she seemed very pleasant."

  "I was sure you'd think her very pleasant."

  "Is that why you invited her?"

  "I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I didn't
know she was here. No one invited her. She's a friend of my
mother's, and just after you and I went to town my mother got a note
from her. She had arrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though
she has first and last spent a good deal of time here), and asked
leave to come down for a few days. She's a woman who can make such
proposals with perfect confidence; she's so welcome wherever she goes.
And with my mother there could be no question of hesitating; she's the
one person in the world whom my mother very much admires. If she
were not herself (which she after all much prefers), she would like to
be Madame Merle. It would indeed be a great change."

  "Well, she's very charming," said Isabel. "And she plays
beautifully."

  "She does everything beautifully. She's complete."

  Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. "You don't like her."

  "On the contrary, I was once in love with her."

  "And she didn't care for you, and that's why you don't like her."

  "How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle was then
living."

  "Is he dead now?"

  "So she says."

  "Don't you believe her?"

  "Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The
husband of Madame Merle would be likely to pass away."

  Isabel gazed at her cousin again. "I don't know what you mean. You
mean something- that you don't mean. What was Monsieur Merle?"

  "The husband of Madame."

  "You're very odious. Has she any children?"

  "Not the least little child- fortunately."

  "Fortunately?"

  "I mean fortunately for the child. She'd be sure to spoil it."

  Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the
third time that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by
the arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling
in quickly, apologizing for being late, fastening a bracelet,
dressed in dark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was
ineffectually covered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered
her his arm with the exaggerated alertness of a man who was no
longer a lover.

  Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had
other things to think about. The great doctor spent the night at
Gardencourt and, returning to London on the morrow, after another
consultation with Mr. Touchett's own medical adviser, concurred in
Ralph's desire that he should see the patient again on the day
following. On the day following Sir Matthew Hope reappeared at
Gardencourt, and now took a less encouraging view of the old man,
who had grown worse in the twenty-four hours. His feebleness was
extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat by his bedside, it often
seemed that his end must be at hand. The local doctor, a very
sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence than in
his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir
Matthew Hope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of the
time unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a
great desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him
at hours when his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not
the least regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and
she always said to herself, "Suppose he should die while I'm sitting
here"; an idea which excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened
his eyes for a while and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when
she went to him, hoping he would recognize her, he closed them and
relapsed into stupor. The day after this, however, he revived for a
longer time; but on this occasion Ralph only was with him. The old man
began to talk, much to his son's satisfaction, who assured him that
they should presently have him sitting up.

  "No, my boy," said Mr. Touchett, "not unless you bury me in a
sitting posture, as some of the ancients- was it the ancients?- used
to do."

  "Ah, daddy, don't talk about that," Ralph murmured. "You mustn't
deny that you're getting better."

  "There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say it," the
old man answered. "Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We
never prevaricated before. I've got to die some time, and it's
better to die when one's sick than when one's well. I'm very sick-
as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you don't want to prove that I
shall ever be worse than this? That would be too bad. You don't?
Well then."

  Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next
time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to
conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone
in charge, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard
since dinner. The room was lighted only by the flickering fire,
which of late had become necessary, and Ralph's tall shadow was
projected over wall and ceiling with an outline constantly varying but
always grotesque.

  "Who's that with me- is it my son?" the old man asked.

  "Yes, it's your son, daddy."

  "And is there no one else?"

  "No one else."

  Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, "I want to talk a
little," he went on.

  "Won't it tire you?" Ralph demurred.

  "It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to
talk about you.

  Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his
hand on his father's. "You had better select a brighter topic."

  "You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I
should like so much to think you'd do something."

  "If you leave us," said Ralph, "I shall do nothing but miss you."

  "That's just what I don't want; it's what I want to talk about.
You must get a new interest."

  "I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I
know what to do with."

  The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of
the dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to
be reckoning over Ralph's interests. "Of course you have your mother,"
he said at last. "You'll take care of her."

  "My mother will always take care of herself," Ralph returned.

  "Well," said his father, "perhaps as she grows older she'll need a
little help."

  "I shall not see that. She'll outlive me."

  "Very likely she will; but that's no reason-!" Mr. Touchett let
his phrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sigh and
remained silent again.

  "Don't trouble yourself about us," said his son. "My mother and I
get on very well together, you know."

  "You get on by always being apart; that's not natural."

  "If you leave us we shall probably see more of each other."

  "Well," the old man observed with wandering irrelevance, "it can't
be said that my death will make much difference in your mother's
life."

  "It will probably make more than you think."

  "Well, she'll have more money," said Mr. Touchett. "I've left her
a good wife's portion, just as if she had been a good wife."

  "She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never
troubled you."

  "Ah, some troubles are pleasant," Mr. Touchett murmured. "Those
you've given me for instance. But your mother has been less- less-
what shall I call it? less out of the way since I've been ill. I
presume she knows I've noticed it."

  "I shall certainly tell her so; I'm so glad you mention it."

  "It won't make any difference to her; she doesn't do it to please
me. She does it to please- to please-" And he lay a while trying to
think why she did it. "She does it because it suits her. But that's
not what I want to talk about," he added. "It's about you. You'll be
very well off."

  "Yes," said Ralph, "I know that. But I hope you've not forgotten the
talk we had a year ago- when I told you exactly what money I should
need and begged you to make some good use of the rest."

  "Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will- in a few days. I suppose
it was the first time such a thing had happened- a young man trying to
get a will made against him."

  "It is not against me," said Ralph. "It would be against me to
have a large property to take care of. It's impossible for a man in my
state of health to spend much money, and enough is as good as a
feast."

  "Well, you'll have enough- and something over. There will be more
than enough for one- there will be enough for two."

  "That's too much," said Ralph.

  "Ah, don't say that. The best thing you can do, when I'm gone,
will be to marry."

  Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this
suggestion was by no means fresh. It had long been Mr. Touchett's most
ingenious way of taking the cheerful view of his son's possible
duration. Ralph had usually treated it facetiously; but present
circumstances proscribed the facetious. He simply fell back in his
chair and returned his father's appealing gaze.

  "If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have had a
very happy life," said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further
still, "what a life mightn't you have if you should marry a person
different from Mrs. Touchett. There are more different from her than
there are like her." Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his
father resumed softly: "What do you think of your cousin?"

  At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strained smile.
"Do I understand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?"

  "Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you like Isabel?"

  "Yes, very much." And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered
over to the fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped
and stirred it mechanically.

  "I like Isabel very much," he repeated.

  "Well," said his father, "I know she likes you. She has told me
how much she likes you."

  "Did she remark that she would like to marry me?"

  "No, but she can't have anything against you. And she's the most
charming young lady I've ever seen. And she would be good to you. I
have thought a great deal about it."

  "So have I," said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. "I
don't mind telling you that."

  "You are in love with her then? I should think you would be. It's as
if she came over on purpose."

  "No, I'm not in love with her; but I should be if- if certain things
were different."

  "Ah, things are always different from what they might be," said
the old man. "If you wait for them to change you'll never do anything.
I don't know whether you know," he went on; "but I suppose there's
no harm in my alluding to it at such an hour as this: there was some
one wanted to marry Isabel the other day, and she wouldn't have him."

  "I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself."

  "Well, that proves there's a chance for somebody else."

  "Somebody else took his chance the other day in London- and got
nothing by it."

  "Was it you?" Mr. Touchett eagerly asked.

  "No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from
America to see about it."

  "Well, I'm sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves what
I say- that the way's open to you."

  "If it is, dear father, it's all the greater pity that I'm unable to
tread it. I haven't many convictions; but I have three or four that
I hold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not
marry their cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of
pulmonary disorder had better not marry at all."

  The old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and fro before
his face. "What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way
that would make everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin
that you had never seen for more than twenty years of her life?
We're all each other's cousins, and if we stopped at that the human
race would die out. It's just the same with your bad lung. You're a
great deal better than you used to be. All you want is to lead a
natural life. It is a great deal more natural to marry a pretty
young lady that you're in love with than it is to remain single on
false principles."

  "I'm not in love with Isabel," said Ralph.

  "You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it wrong. I
want to prove to you that it isn't wrong."

  "It will only tire you, dear daddy," said Ralph, who marvelled at
his father's tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. "Then
where shall we all be?"

  "Where shall you be if I don't provide for you? You won't have
anything to do with the bank, and you won't have me to take care of.
You say you've so many interests; but I can't make them out."

  Ralph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyes were fixed
for some time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly
mustering courage, "I take a great interest in my cousin," he said,
"but not the sort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years;
but I hope I shall live long enough to see what she does with herself.
She's entirely independent of me; I can exercise very little influence
upon her life. But I should like to do something for her."

  "What should you like to do?"

  "I should like to put a little wind in her sails."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she
wants. She wants to see the world for instance. I should like to put
money in her purse."

  "Ah, I'm glad you've thought of that," said the old man. "But I've
thought of it too. I've left her a legacy- five thousand pounds."

  "That's capital; it's very kind of you. But I should like to do a
little more."

  Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been on
Daniel Touchett's part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a
financial proposition still lingered in the face in which the
invalid had not obliterated the man of happiness. "I shall be happy to
consider it," he said softly.

  "Isabel's poor then. My mother tells me that she has but a few
hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich."

  "What do you mean by rich?"

  "I call people rich when they're able to meet the requirements of
their imagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination."

  "So have you, my son," said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively
but a little confusedly.

  "You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is
that you should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and make it over
to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal halves and give her
the second."

  "To do what she likes with?"

  "Absolutely what she likes."

  "And without an equivalent?"

  "What equivalent could there be?"

  "The one I've already mentioned."

  "Her marrying- some one or other? It's just to do away with anything
of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income
she'll never have to marry for a support. That's what I want cannily
to prevent. She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her
free."

  "Well, you seem to have thought it out," said Mr. Touchett. "But I
don't see why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can
easily give it to her yourself."

  Ralph openly stared. "Ah, dear father, I can't offer Isabel money!"

  The old man gave a groan. "Don't tell me you're not in love with
her! Do you want me to have the credit of it?"

  "Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will,
without the slightest reference to me."

  "Do you want me to make a new will then?"

  "A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel
a little lively."

  "You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I'll do nothing without my
solicitor."

  "You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow."

  "He'll think we've quarrelled, you and I," said the old man.

  "Very probably; I shall like him to think it," said Ralph,
smiling; "and, to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall
be very sharp, quite horrid and strange, with you."

  The humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay a little
while taking it in. "I'll do anything you like," Mr. Touchett said
at last; "but I'm not sure it's right. You say you want to put wind in
her sails; but aren't you afraid of putting too much?"

  "I should like to see her going before the breeze!" Ralph answered.

  "You speak as if it were for your mere amusement."

  "So it is, a good deal."

  "Well, I don't think I understand," said Mr. Touchett with a sigh.
"Young men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a
girl- when I was young- I wanted to do more than look at her. You've
scruples that I shouldn't have had, and you've ideas that I
shouldn't have had either. You say Isabel wants to be free, and that
her being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think
that she's a girl to do that?"

  "By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before.
Her father then gave her everything, because he used to spend his
capital. She has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on,
and she doesn't really know how meagre they are- she has yet to
learn it. My mother has told me all about it. Isabel will learn it
when she's really thrown upon the world, and it would be very
painful to me to think of her coming to the consciousness of a lot
of wants she should be unable to satisfy."

  "I've left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many
wants with that."

  "She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three
years."

  "You think she'd be extravagant then?"

  "Most certainly," said Ralph, smiling serenely.

  Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to pure
confusion. "It would merely be a question of time then, her spending
the larger sum?"

  "No- though at first I think she'd plunge into that pretty freely:
she'd probably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But
after that she'd come to her senses, remember she has still a lifetime
before her, and live within her means."

  "Well, you have worked it out," said the old man helplessly. "You do
take an interest in her, certainly."

  "You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go
further."

  "Well, I don't know," Mr. Touchett answered. "I don't think I
enter into your spirit. It seems to me immoral."

  "Immoral, dear daddy?"

  "Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so easy for a
person."

  "It surely depends upon the person. When the person's good, your
making things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the
execution of good impulses, what can be a nobler act?"

  This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered
it for a while. At last he said: "Isabel's a sweet young thing; but do
you think she's so good as that?"

  "She's as good as her best opportunities," Ralph returned.

  "Well," Mr. Touchett declared, "she ought to get a great many
opportunities for sixty thousand pounds."

  "I've no doubt she will."

  "Of course I'll do what you want," said the old man. "I only want to
understand it a little."

  "Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now?" his son caressingly
asked. "If you don't we won't take any more trouble about it. We'll
leave it alone."

  Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had given up
the attempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he began again.
"Tell me this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a young lady with
sixty thousand pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters?"

  "She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one."

  "Well, one's too many."

  "Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. I
think it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm prepared to
take it."

  Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity, and his
perplexity now passed into admiration. "Well, you have gone into
it!" he repeated. "But I don't see what good you're to get of it."

  Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothed them;
he was aware their talk had been unduly prolonged. "I shall get just
the good I said a few moments ago I wished to put into Isabel's reach-
that of having met the requirements of my imagination. But it's
scandalous, the way I've taken advantage of you!"

  CHAPTER 19

  As Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle were thrown
much together during the illness of their host, so that if they had
not become intimate it would have been almost a breach of good
manners. Their manners were of the best, but in addition to this
they happened to please each other. It is perhaps too much to say that
they swore an eternal friendship, but tacitly at least they called the
future to witness. Isabel did so with a perfectly good conscience,
though she would have hesitated to admit she was intimate with her new
friend in the high sense she privately attached to this term. She
often wondered indeed if she ever had been, or ever could be, intimate
with any one. She had an ideal of friendship as well as of several
other sentiments, which it failed to seem to her in this case- it
had not seemed to her in other cases- that the actual completely
expressed. But she often reminded herself that there were essential
reasons why one's ideal could never become concrete. It was a thing to
believe in, not to see- a matter of faith, not of experience.
Experience, however, might supply us with very creditable imitations
of it, and the part of wisdom was to make the best of these.
Certainly, on the whole, Isabel had never encountered a more agreeable
and interesting figure than Madame Merle; she had never met a person
having less of that fault which is the principal obstacle to
friendship- the air of reproducing the more tiresome, the stale, the
too-familiar parts of one's own character. The gates of the girl's
confidence were opened wider than they had ever been; she said
things to this amiable auditress that she had not yet said to any one.
Sometimes she took alarm at her candour: it was as if she had given to
a comparative stranger the key to her cabinet of jewels. These
spiritual gems were the only ones of any magnitude that Isabel
possessed, but there was all the greater reason for their being
carefully guarded. Afterwards, however, she always remembered that one
should never regret a generous error and that if Madame Merle had
not the merits she attributed to her, so much the worse for Madame
Merle. There was no doubt she had great merits- she was charming,
sympathetic, intelligent, cultivated. More than this (for it had not
been Isabel's ill-fortune to go through life without meeting in her
own sex several persons of whom no less could fairly be said), she was
rare, superior and preeminent. There are many amiable people in the
world, and Madame Merle was far from being vulgarly good natured and
restlessly witty. She knew how to think- an accomplishment rare in
women; and she had thought to very good purpose. Of course, too, she
knew how to feel; Isabel couldn't have spent a week with her without
being sure of that. This was indeed Madame Merle's great talent, her
most perfect gift. Life had told upon her; she had felt it strongly,
and it was part of the satisfaction to be taken in her society that
when the girl talked of what she was pleased to call serious matters
this lady understood her so easily and quickly. Emotion, it is true,
had become with her rather historic; she made no secret of the fact
that the fount of passion, thanks to having been rather violently
tapped at one period, didn't flow quite so freely as of yore. She
proposed moreover, as well as expected, to cease feeling; she freely
admitted that of old she had been a little mad, and now she
pretended to be perfectly sane.

  "I judge more than I used to," she said to Isabel, "but it seems
to me one has earned the right. One can't judge till one's forty;
before that we're too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much
too ignorant. I'm sorry for you; it will be a long time before
you're forty. But every gain's a loss of some kind; I often think that
after forty one can't really feel. The freshness, the quickness have
certainly gone. You'll keep them longer than most people; it will be a
great satisfaction to me to see you some years hence. I want to see
what life makes of you. One thing's certain- it can't spoil you. It
may pull you about horribly, but I defy it to break you up."

  Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting
from a slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour, might
receive a pat on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such a
recognition of merit it seemed to come with authority. How could the
lightest word do less on the part of a person who was prepared to say,
of almost everything Isabel told her, "Oh, I've been in that, my dear;
it passes, like everything else." On many of her interlocutors
Madame Merle might have produced an irritating effect; it was
disconcertingly difficult to surprise her. But Isabel, though by no
means incapable of desiring to be effective, had not at present this
impulse. She was too sincere, too interested in her judicious
companion. And then moreover Madame Merle never said such things in
the tone of triumph or of boastfulness; they dropped from her like
cold confessions.

  A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days
grew shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the
lawn. But our young woman had long indoor conversations with her
fellow visitor, and in spite of the rain the two ladies often
sallied forth for a walk, equipped with the defensive apparatus
which the English climate and the English genius have between them
brought to such perfection. Madame Merle liked almost everything,
including the English rain. "There's always a little of it and never
too much at once," she said; "and it never wets you and it always
smells good." She declared that in England the pleasures of smell were
great- that in this inimitable island there was a certain mixture of
fog and beer and soot which, however odd it might sound, was the
national aroma, and was most agreeable to the nostril; and she used to
lift the sleeve of her British overcoat and bury her nose in it,
inhaling the clear, fine scent of the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as
soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a
prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the house, and
he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows with his hands in his
pockets and, from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical, watch
Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a pair of
umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, even in the worst
weather, that the two ladies always came back with a healthy glow in
their cheeks, looking at the soles of their neat, stout boots and
declaring that their walk had done them inexpressible good. Before
luncheon, always, Madame Merle was engaged; Isabel admired and
envied her rigid possession of her morning. Our heroine had always
passed for a person of resources and had taken a certain pride in
being one; but she wandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a
private garden, round the enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes
of Madame Merle. She found herself desiring to emulate them, and in
twenty such ways this lady presented herself as a model. "I should
like awfully to be so!" Isabel secretly exclaimed, more than once,
as one after another of her friend's fine aspects caught the light,
and before long she knew that she had learned a lesson from a high
authority. It took no great time indeed for her to feel herself, as
the phrase is, under an influence. "What's the harm," she wondered,
"so long as it's a good one? The more one's under a good influence the
better. The only thing is to see our steps as we take them- to
understand them as we go. That, no doubt, I shall always do. I needn't
be afraid of becoming too pliable; isn't it my fault that I'm not
pliable enough?" It is said that imitation is the sincerest
flattery; and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at her friend
aspiringly and despairingly it was not so much because she desired
herself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp for
Madame Merle. She liked her extremely, but was even more dazzled
than attracted. She sometimes asked herself what Henrietta Stackpole
would say to her thinking so much of this perverted product of their
common soil, and had a conviction that it would be severely judged.
Henrietta would not at all subscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons
she could not have defined this truth came home to the girl. On the
other hand she was equally sure that, should the occasion offer, her
new friend would strike off some happy view of her old: Madame Merle
was too humorous, too observant, not to do justice to Henrietta, and
on becoming acquainted with her would probably give the measure of a
tact which Miss Stackpole couldn't hope to emulate. She appeared to
have in her experience a touchstone for everything, and somewhere in
the capacious pocket of her genial memory she would find the key to
Henrietta's value. "That's the great thing," Isabel solemnly pondered;
"that's the supreme good fortune: to be in a better position for
appreciating people than they are for appreciating you." And she added
that such, when one considered it, was simply the essence of the
aristocratic situation. In this light, if in none other, one should
aim at the aristocratic situation.

  I may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isabel
to think of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic- a view of it
never expressed in any reference made to it by that lady herself.
She had known great things and great people, but she had never
played a great part. She was one of the small ones of the earth; she
had not been born to honours; she knew the world too well to nourish
fatuous illusions on the article of her own place in it. She had
encountered many of the fortunate few and was perfectly aware of those
points at which their fortune differed from hers. But if by her
informed measure she was no figure for a high scene, she had yet to
Isabel's imagination a sort of greatness. To be so cultivated and
civilized, so wise and so easy, and still make so light of it- that
was really to be a great lady, especially when one so carried and
presented one's self. It was as if somehow she had all society under
contribution, and all the arts and graces it practised- or was the
effect rather that of charming uses found for her, even from a
distance, subtle service rendered by her to a clamorous world wherever
she might be? After breakfast she wrote a succession of letters, as
those arriving for her appeared innumerable: her correspondence was
a source of surprise to Isabel when they sometimes walked together
to the village post-office to deposit Madame Merle's offering to the
mail. She knew more people, as she told Isabel, than she knew what
to do with, and something was always turning up to be written about.
Of painting she was devotedly fond, and made no more of brushing in
a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At Gardencourt she was
perpetually taking advantage of an hour's sunshine to go out with a
camp-stool and a box of water-colours. That she was a brave musician
we have already perceived, and it was evidence of the fact that when
she seated herself at the piano, as she always did in the evening, her
listeners resigned themselves without a murmur to losing the grace
of her talk. Isabel, since she had known her, felt ashamed of her
own facility, which she now looked upon as basely inferior; and
indeed, though she had been thought rather a prodigy at home, the loss
to society when, in taking her place upon the music-stool, she
turned her back to the room, was usually deemed greater than the gain.
When Madame Merle was neither writing, nor painting, nor touching
the piano, she was usually employed upon wonderful tasks of rich
embroidery, cushions, curtains, decorations for the chimney-piece;
an art in which her bold, free invention was as noted as the agility
of her needle. She was never idle, for when engaged in none of the
ways I have mentioned she was either reading (she appeared to Isabel
to read "everything important"), or walking out, or playing patience
with the cards, or talking with her fellow inmates. And with all
this she had always the social quality, was never rudely absent and
yet never too seated. She laid down her pastimes as easily as she took
them up; she worked and talked at the same time, and appeared to
impute scant worth to anything she did. She gave away her sketches and
tapestries; she rose from the piano or remained there, according to
the convenience of her auditors, which she always unerringly
divined. She was in short the most comfortable, profitable, amenable
person to live with. If for Isabel she had a fault it was that she was
not natural; by which the girl meant, not that she was either affected
or pretentious, since from these vulgar vices no woman could have been
more exempt, but that her nature had been too much overlaid by
custom and her angles too much rubbed away. She had become too
flexible, too useful, was too ripe and too final. She was in a word
too perfectly the social animal that man and woman are supposed to
have been intended to be; and she had rid herself of every remnant
of that tonic wildness which we may assume to have belonged even to
the most amiable persons in the ages before country-house life was the
fashion. Isabel found it difficult to think of her in any detachment
or privacy, she existed only in her relations, direct or indirect,
with her fellow mortals. One might wonder what commerce she could
possibly hold with her own spirit. One always ended, however, by
feeling that a charming surface doesn't necessarily prove one
superficial; this was an illusion in which, in one's youth, one had
but just escaped being nourished. Madame Merle was not superficial-
not she. She was deep, and her nature spoke none the less in her
behaviour because it spoke a conventional tongue. "What's language
at all but a convention?" said Isabel. "She has the good taste not
to pretend, like some people I've met, to express herself by
original signs."

  "I'm afraid you've suffered much," she once found occasion to say to
her friend in response to some allusion that had appeared to reach
far.

  "What makes you think that?" Madame Merle asked with the amused
smile of a person seated at a game of guesses. "I hope I haven't too
much the droop of the misunderstood."

  "No; but you sometimes say things that I think people who have
always been happy wouldn't have found out."

  "I haven't always been happy," said Madame Merle, smiling still, but
with a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a secret. "Such
a wonderful thing!"

  But Isabel rose to the irony. "A great many people give me the
impression of never having for a moment felt anything."

  "It's very true; there are many more iron pots certainly than
porcelain. But you may depend on it that every one bears some mark;
even the hardest iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole
somewhere. I flatter myself that I'm rather stout, but if I must
tell you the truth I've been shockingly chipped and cracked. I do very
well for service yet, because I've been cleverly mended; and I try
to remain in the cupboard- the quiet, dusky cupboard where there's
an odour of stale spices- as much as I can. But when I've to come
out and into a strong light- then, my dear, I'm a horror!"

  I know not whether it was on this occasion or on some other that
when the conversation had taken the turn I have just indicated she
said to Isabel that she would some day a tale unfold. Isabel assured
her she should delight to listen to one, and reminded her more than
once of this engagement. Madame Merle, however, begged repeatedly
for a respite, and at last frankly told her young companion that
they must wait till they knew each other better. This would be sure to
happen; a long friendship so visibly lay before them. Isabel assented,
but at the same time enquired if she mightn't be trusted- if she
appeared capable of a betrayal of confidence.

  "It's not that I'm afraid of your repeating what I say," her
fellow visitor answered; "I'm afraid, on the contrary, of your
taking it too much to yourself. You'd judge me too harshly; you're
of the cruel age." She preferred for the present to talk to Isabel
of Isabel, and exhibited the greatest interest in our heroine's
history, sentiments, opinions, prospects. She made her chatter and
listened to her chatter infinite good nature. This flattered and
quickened the girl, who was struck with all the distinguished people
her friend had known and with her having lived, as Mrs. Touchett said,
in the best company in Europe. Isabel thought the better of herself
for enjoying the favour of a person who had so large a field of
comparison; and it was perhaps partly to gratify the sense of
profiting by comparison that she often appealed to these stores of
reminiscence. Madame Merle had been a dweller in many lands and had
social ties in a dozen different countries. "I don't pretend to be
educated," she would say, "but I think I know my Europe"; and she
spoke one day of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend, and
another of proceeding to Malta to follow up a new acquaintance. With
England, where she had often dwelt, she was thoroughly familiar, and
for Isabel's benefit threw a great deal of light upon the customs of
the country and the character of the people, who "after all," as she
was fond of saying, were the most convenient in the world to live
with.

  "You mustn't think it strange her remaining here at such a time as
this, when Mr. Touchett's passing away," that gentleman's wife
remarked to her niece. "She is incapable of a mistake; she's the
most tactful woman I know. It's a favour to me that she stays; she's
putting off a lot of visits at great houses," said Mrs. Touchett,
who never forgot that when she herself was in England her social value
sank two or three degrees in the scale. "She has her pick of places;
she's not in want of a shelter. But I've asked her to put in this time
because I wish you to know her. I think it will be a good thing for
you. Serena Merle hasn't a fault."

  "If I didn't already like her very much that description might alarm
me," Isabel returned.

  "She's never the least little bit 'off.' I've brought you out here
and I wish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me she
hoped I would give you plenty of opportunities. I give you one in
putting you in relation with Madame Merle. She's one of the most
brilliant women in Europe."

  "I like her better than I like your description of her," Isabel
persisted in saying.

  "Do you flatter yourself that you'll ever feel her open to
criticism? I hope you'll let me know when you do."

  "That will be cruel- to you," said Isabel.

  "You needn't mind me. You won't discover a fault in her."

  "Perhaps not. But I dare say I shan't miss it."

  "She knows absolutely everything on earth there is to know," said
Mrs. Touchett.

  Isabel after this observed to their companion that she hoped she
knew Mrs. Touchett considered she hadn't a speck on her perfection. On
which "I'm obliged to you," Madame Merle replied, "but I'm afraid your
aunt imagines, or at least alludes to, no aberrations that the
clock-face doesn't register."

  "So that you mean you've a wild side that's unknown to her?"

  "Ah no, I fear my darkest sides are my tamest. I mean that having no
faults, for your aunt, means that one's never late for dinner- that is
for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, when you
came back from London; the clock was just at eight when I came into
the drawing-room; it was the rest of you that were before the time. It
means that one answers a letter the day one gets it and that when
one comes to stay with her one doesn't bring too much luggage and is
careful not to be taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute
virtue; it's a blessing to be able to reduce it to its elements."

  Madame Merle's own conversation, it will be perceived, was
enriched with bold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they
had a restrictive effect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It
couldn't occur to the girl for instance that Mrs. Touchett's
accomplished guest was abusing her; and this for very good reasons. In
the first place Isabel rose eagerly to the sense of her shades; in the
second Madame Merle implied that there was a great deal more to say;
and it was clear in the third that for a person to speak to one
without ceremony of one's near relations was an agreeable sign of that
person's intimacy with one's self. These signs of deep communion
multiplied as the days elapsed, and there was none of which Isabel was
more sensible than of her companion's preference for making Miss
Archer herself a topic. Though she referred frequently to the
incidents of her own career she never lingered upon them; she was as
little of a gross egotist as she was of a flat gossip.

  "I'm old and stale and faded," she said more than once; "I'm of no
more interest than last week's newspaper. You're young and fresh and
of to-day; you've the great thing- you've actuality. I once had it- we
all have it for an hour. You, however, will have it for longer. Let us
talk about you then; you can say nothing I shall not care to hear.
It's a sign that I'm growing old- that I like to talk with younger
people. I think it's a very pretty compensation. If we can't have
youth within us we can have it outside, and I really think we see it
and feel it better that way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it-
that I shall always be. I don't know that I shall ever be
ill-natured with old people- I hope not; there are certainly some
old people I adore. But I shall never be anything but abject with
the young; they touch me and appeal to me too much. I give you carte
blanche then; you can even be impertinent if you like; I shall let
it pass and horribly spoil you. I speak as if I were a hundred years
old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; I was born before the
French Revolution. Ah, my dear, je viens de loin; I belong to the old,
old world. But it's not of that I want to talk; I want to talk about
the new. You must tell me more about America; you never tell me
enough. Here I've been since I was brought here as a helpless child,
and it's ridiculous, or rather it's scandalous, how little I know
about that splendid, dreadful, funny country- surely the greatest
and drollest of them all. There are a great many of us like that in
these parts, and I must say I think we're a wretched set of people.
You should live in your own land; whatever it may be you have your
natural place there. If we're not good Americans we're certainly
poor Europeans; we've no natural place here. We're mere parasites,
crawling over the surface; we haven't our feet in the soil. At least
one can know it and not have illusions. A woman perhaps can get on;
a woman, it seems to me, has no natural place anywhere; wherever she
finds herself she has to remain on the surface and, more or less, to
crawl. You protest, my dear? you're horrified? you declare you'll
never crawl? It's very true that I don't see you crawling; you stand
more upright than a good many poor creatures. Very good; on the whole,
I don't think you'll crawl. But the men, the Americans; je vous
demande un peu, what do they make of it over here? I don't envy them
trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor Ralph Touchett: what sort
of a figure do you call that? Fortunately he has a consumption; I
say fortunately, because it gives him something to do. His
consumption's his carriere; it's a kind of position. You can say:
'Oh Mr. Touchett, he takes care of his lungs, he knows a great deal
about climates.' But without that who would he be, what would he
represent? 'Mr. Ralph Touchett: an American who lives in Europe.' That
signifies absolutely nothing- it's impossible anything should
signify less. 'He's very cultivated,' they say: 'he has a very
pretty collection of old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that's
wanted to make it pitiful. I'm tired of the sound of the word; I think
it's grotesque. With the poor old father it's different; he has his
identity, and it's rather a massive one. He represents a great
financial house, and that, in our day, is as good as anything else.
For an American, at any rate, that will do very well. But I persist in
thinking your cousin very lucky to have a chronic malady so long as he
doesn't die of it. It's much better than the snuff-boxes. If he
weren't ill, you say, he'd do something?- he'd take his father's place
in the house. My poor child, I doubt it; I don't think he's at all
fond of the house. However, you know him better than I, though I
used to know him rather well, and he may have the benefit of the
doubt. The worst case, I think, is a friend of mine, a countryman of
ours, who lives in Italy (where he also was brought before he knew
better), and who is one of the most delightful men I know. Some day
you must know him. I'll bring you together and then you'll see what
I mean. He's Gilbert Osmond- he lives in Italy; that's all one can say
about him or make of him. He's exceedingly clever, a man made to be
distinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust the description when
you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement in Italy. No career,
no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future, no anything.
Oh yes, he paints, if you please- paints in water-colours; like me,
only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'm rather
glad of that. Fortunately he's very indolent, so indolent that it
amounts to a sort of position. He can say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm
too deadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at five
o'clock in the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of exception;
you feel he might do something if he'd only rise early. He never
speaks of his painting- to people at large; he's too clever for
that. But he has a little girl- a dear little girl; he does speak of
her. He's devoted to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent
father he'd be very distinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better
than the snuff-boxes; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do
in America," pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be observed
parenthetically, did not deliver herself all at once of these
reflexions, which are presented in a cluster for the convenience of
the reader. She talked of Florence, where Mr. Osmond lived and where
Mrs. Touchett occupied a mediaeval palace; she talked of Rome, where
she herself had a little pied-a-terre with some rather good old
damask. She talked of places, of people and even, as the phrase is, of
"subjects"; and from time to time she talked of their kind old host
and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first she had thought
this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the positive,
discriminating, competent way in which she took the measure of his
remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that he
wouldn't live.

  "Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper," she said;
"standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself very
agreeable, the great doctor. I don't mean his saying that has anything
to do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had told him
I felt ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me so
indiscreet- it wasn't as if I could nurse. 'You must remain, you
must remain,' he answered; 'your office will come later.' Wasn't
that a very delicate way of saying both that poor Mr. Touchett would
go and that I might be of some use as a consoler? In fact, however,
I shall not be of the slightest use. Your aunt will console herself;
she, and she alone, knows just how much consolation she'll require. It
would be a very delicate matter for another person to undertake to
administer the dose. With your cousin it will be different; he'll miss
his father immensely. But I should never presume to condole with Mr.
Ralph; we're not on those terms." Madame Merle had alluded more than
once to some undefined incongruity in her relations with Ralph
Touchett; so Isabel took this occasion of asking her if they were
not good friends.

  "Perfectly, but he doesn't like me."

  "What have you done to him?"

  "Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that."

  "For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason."

  "You're very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day you
begin."

  "Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin."

  "I hope not; because if you do you'll never end. That's the way with
your cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an antipathy of nature- if I
can call it that when it's all on his side. I've nothing whatever
against him and don't bear him the least little grudge for not doing
me justice. Justice is all I want. However, one feels that he's a
gentleman and would never say anything underhand about one. Cartes sur
table," Madame Merle subjoined in a moment, "I'm not afraid of him."

  "I hope not indeed," said Isabel, who added something about his
being the kindest creature living. She remembered, however, that on
her first asking him about Madame Merle he had answered her in a
manner which this lady might have thought injurious without being
explicit. There was something between them, Isabel said to herself,
but she said nothing more than this. If it were something of
importance it should inspire respect; if it were not it was not
worth her curiosity. With all her love of knowledge she had a
natural shrinking from raising curtains and looking into unlighted
corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in her mind with the finest
capacity for ignorance.

  But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her
raise her clear eyebrows at the time and think of the words
afterwards. "I'd give a great deal to be your age again," she broke
out once with a bitterness which, though diluted in her customary
amplitude of ease, was imperfectly disguised by it. "If I could only
begin again- if I could have my life before me!"

  "Your life's before you yet," Isabel answered gently, for she was
vaguely awe-struck.

  "No; the best part's gone, and gone for nothing."

  "Surely not for nothing," said Isabel.

  "Why not- what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor
fortune, nor position, nor the traces of a beauty that I never had."

  "You have many friends, dear lady."

  "I'm not so sure!" cried Madame Merle.

  "Ah, you're wrong. You have memories, graces, talents-"

  But Madame Merle interrupted her. "What have my talents brought
me? Nothing but the need of using them still, to get through the
hours, the years, to cheat myself with some pretence of movement, of
unconsciousness. As for my graces and memories the less said about
them the better. You'll be my friend till you find a better use for
your friendship."

  "It will be for you to see that I don't then," said Isabel.

  "Yes; I would make an effort to keep you." And her companion
looked at her gravely. "When I say I should like to be your age I mean
with your qualities- frank, generous, sincere like you. In that case I
should have made something better of my life."

  "What should you have liked to do that you've not done?"

  Madame Merle took a sheet of music- she was seated at the piano
and had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she first spoke-
and mechanically turned the leaves. "I'm very ambitious!" she at
last replied.

  "And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must have been
great."

  "They were great. I should make myself ridiculous by talking of
them."

  Isabel wondered what they could have been- whether Madame Merle
had aspired to wear a crown. "I don't know what your idea of success
may be, but you seem to me to have been successful. To me indeed
you're a vivid image of success."

  Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. "What's your idea
of success?"

  "You evidently think it must be a very tame one. It's to see some
dream of one's youth come true."

  "Ah," Madame Merle exclaimed, "that I've never seen! But my dreams
were so great- so preposterous. Heaven forgive me, I'm dreaming
now!" And she turned back to the piano and began grandly to play. On
the morrow she said to Isabel that her definition of success had
been very pretty, yet frightfully sad. Measured in that way, who had
succeeded? The dreams of one's youth, why they were enchanting, they
were divine! Who had ever seen such things come to pass?

  "I myself- a few of them," Isabel ventured to answer.

  "Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday."

  "I began to dream very young," Isabel smiled.

  "Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood- that of having a
pink sash and a doll that could close her eyes."

  "No, I don't mean that."

  "Or a young man with a fine moustache going down on his knees to
you."

  "No, nor that either," Isabel declared with still more emphasis.

  Madame Merle appeared to note this eagerness. "I suspect that's what
you do mean. We've all had the young man with the moustache. He's
the inevitable young man; he doesn't count."

  Isabel was silent a little but then spoke with extreme and
characteristic inconsequence. "Why shouldn't he count? There are young
men and young men."

  "And yours was a paragon- is that what you mean?" asked her friend
with a laugh. "If you've had the identical young man you dreamed of,
then that was success, and I congratulate you with all my heart.
Only in that case why didn't you fly with him to his castle in the
Apennines?"

  "He has no castle in the Apennines."

  "What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don't tell
me that; I refuse to recognize that as an ideal."

  "I don't care anything about his house," said Isabel.

  "That's very crude of you. When you've lived as long as I you'll see
that every human being has his shell and that you must take the
shell into account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of
circumstances. There's no such thing as an isolated man or woman;
we're each of us made up of some cluster of appurtenances. What
shall we call our 'self'? Where does it begin? where does it end? It
overflows into everything that belongs to us- and then it flows back
again. I know a large part of myself is in the clothes I choose to
wear. I've a great respect for things! One's self- for other people-
is one's expression of one's self; and one's house, one's furniture,
one's garments, the books one reads, the company one keeps- these
things are all expressive."

  This was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than several
observations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel was fond of
metaphysics, but was unable to accompany her friend into this bold
analysis of the human personality. "I don't agree with you. I think
just the other way. I don't know whether I succeed in expressing
myself, but I know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that
belongs to me is any measure of me; everything's on the contrary a
limit, a barrier, and a perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly the clothes
which, as you say, I choose to wear, don't express me; and heaven
forbid they should!"

  "You dress very well," Madame Merle lightly interposed.

  "Possibly; but I don't care to be judged by that. My clothes may
express the dressmaker, but they don't express me. To begin with
it's not my own choice that I wear them; they're imposed upon me by
society."

  "Should you prefer to go without them?" Madame Merle enquired in a
tone which virtually terminated the discussion.

  I am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit on the
sketch I have given of the youthful loyalty practiced by our heroine
toward this accomplished woman, that Isabel had said nothing
whatever to her about Lord Warburton and had been equally reticent
on the subject of Caspar Goodwood. She had not, however, concealed the
fact that she had had opportunities of marrying and had even let her
friend know of how advantageous a kind they had been. Lord Warburton
had left Lockleigh and was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters with
him; and though he had written to Ralph more than once to ask about
Mr. Touchett's health the girl was not liable to the embarrassment
of such enquiries as, had he still been in the neighbourhood, he would
probably have felt bound to make in person. He had excellent ways, but
she felt sure that if he had come to Gardencourt he would have seen
Madame Merle, and that if he had seen her he would have liked her
and betrayed to her that he was in love with her young friend. It so
happened that during this lady's previous visits to Gardencourt-
each of them much shorter than the present- he had either not been
at Lockleigh or had not called at Mr. Touchett's. Therefore, though
she knew him by name as the great man of that country, she had no
cause to suspect him as a suitor of Mrs. Touchett's freshly-imported
niece.

  "You've plenty of time," she had said to Isabel in return for the
mutilated confidences which our young woman made her and which
didn't pretend to be perfect, though we have seen that at moments
the girl had compunctions at having said so much. "I'm glad you've
done nothing yet- that you have it still to do. It's a very good thing
for a girl to have refused a few good offers- so long of course as
they are not the best she's likely to have. Pardon me if my tone seems
horribly corrupt; one must take the worldly view sometimes. Only don't
keep on refusing for the sake of refusing. It's a pleasant exercise of
power; but accepting's after all an exercise of power as well. There's
always the danger of refusing once too often. It was not the one I
fell into- I didn't refuse often enough. You're an exquisite creature,
and I should like to see you married to a prime minister. But speaking
strictly, you know, you're not what is technically called a parti.
You're extremely good-looking and extremely clever; in yourself you're
quite exceptional. You appear to have the vaguest ideas about your
earthly possessions; but from what I can make out you're not
embarrassed with an income. I wish you had a little money."

  "I wish I had!" said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting for the
moment that her poverty had been a venial fault for two gallant
gentlemen.

  In spite of Sir Matthew Hope's benevolent recommendation Madame
Merle did not remain to the end, as the issue of poor Mr. Touchett's
malady had now come frankly to be designated. She was under pledges to
other people which had at last to be redeemed, and she left
Gardencourt with the understanding that she should in any event see
Mrs. Touchett there again, or else in town, before quitting England.
Her parting with Isabel was even more like the beginning of a
friendship than their meeting had been. "I'm going to six places in
succession, but I shall see no one I like so well as you. They'll
all be old friends, however; one doesn't make new friends at my age.
I've made a great exception for you. You must remember that and must
think as well of me as possible. You must reward me by believing in
me."

  By way of answer Isabel kissed her, and, though some women kiss with
facility, there are kisses and kisses, and this embrace was
satisfactory to Madame Merle. Our young lady, after this, was much
alone; she saw her aunt and cousin only at meals, and discovered
that of the hours during which Mrs. Touchett was invisible only a
minor portion was now devoted to nursing her husband. She spent the
rest in her own apartments, to which access was not allowed even to
her niece, apparently occupied there with mysterious and inscrutable
exercises. At table she was grave and silent; but her solemnity was
not an attitude- Isabel could see it was a conviction. She wondered if
her aunt repented of having taken her own way so much; but there was
no visible evidence of this- no tears, no sighs, no exaggeration of
a zeal always to its own sense adequate. Mrs. Touchett seemed simply
to feel the need of thinking things over and summing them up; she
had a little moral account-book- with columns unerringly ruled and a
sharp steel clasp- which she kept with exemplary neatness. Uttered
reflection had with her ever, at any rate, a practical ring. "If I had
foreseen this I'd not have proposed your coming abroad now," she
said to Isabel after Madame Merle had left the house. "I'd have waited
and sent for you next year."

  "So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle? It's a great
happiness to me to have come now."

  "That's very well. But it was not that you might know your uncle
that I brought you to Europe." A perfectly veracious speech; but, as
Isabel thought, not as perfectly timed. She had leisure to think of
this and other matters. She took a solitary walk every day and spent
vague hours in turning over books in the library. Among the subjects
that engaged her attention were the adventures of her friend Miss
Stackpole, with whom she was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked
her friend's private epistolary style better than her public; that
is she felt her public letters would have been excellent if they had
not been printed. Henrietta's career, however, was not so
successful, as might have been wished even in the interest of her
private felicity; that view of the inner life of Great Britain which
she was so eager to take appeared to dance before her like an ignis
fatuus. The invitation from Lady Pensil, for mysterious reasons, had
never arrived; and poor Mr. Bantling himself, with all his friendly
ingenuity, had been unable to explain so grave a dereliction on the
part of a missive that had obviously been sent. He had evidently taken
Henrietta's affairs much to heart, and believed that he owed her a
set-off to this illusory visit to Bedfordshire. "He says he should
think I would go to the Continent," Henrietta wrote; and as he
thinks of going there himself I suppose his advice is sincere. He
wants to know why I don't take a view of French life; and it's a
fact that I want very much to see the new Republic. Mr. Bantling
doesn't care much about the Republic, but he thinks of going over to
Paris anyway. I must say he's quite as attentive as I could wish,
and at least I shall have seen one polite Englishman. I keep telling
Mr. Bantling that he ought to have been an American, and you should
see how that pleases him. Whenever I say so he always breaks out
with the same exclamation- 'Ah, but really, come now!'" A few days
later she wrote that she had decided to go to Paris at the end of
the week and that Mr. Bantling had promised to see her off perhaps
even would go as far as Dover with her. She would wait in Paris till
Isabel should arrive, Henrietta added; speaking quite as if Isabel
were to start on her continental journey alone and making no
allusion to Mrs. Touchett. Bearing in mind his interest in their
late companion, our heroine communicated several passages from this
correspondence to Ralph, who followed with an emotion akin to suspense
the career of the representative of the Interviewer.

  "It seems to me she's doing very well," he said, "going over to
Paris with an ex-Lancer! If she wants something to write about she has
only to describe that episode."

  "It's not conventional, certainly," Isabel answered; "but if you
mean that- as far as Henrietta is concerned- it's not perfectly
innocent, you're very much mistaken. You'll never understand
Henrietta."

  "Pardon me, I understand her perfectly. I didn't at all at first,
but now I've the point of view. I'm afraid, however, that Bantling
hasn't; he may have some surprises. Oh, I understand Henrietta as well
as if I had made her!"

  Isabel was by no means sure of this, but she abstained from
expressing further doubt, for she was disposed in these days to extend
a great charity to her cousin. One afternoon less than a week after
Madame Merle's departure she was seated in the library with a volume
to which her attention was not fastened. She had placed herself in a
deep window-bench, from which she looked out into the dull, damp park;
and as the library stood at right angles to the entrance-front of
the house she could see the doctor's brougham, which had been
waiting for the last two hours before the door. She was struck with
his remaining so long, but at last she saw him appear in the
portico, stand a moment slowly drawing on his gloves and looking at
the knees of his horse, and then get into the vehicle and roll away.
Isabel kept her place for half an hour; there was a great stillness in
the house. It was so great that when she at last heard a soft, slow
step on the deep carpet of the room she was almost startled by the
sound. She turned quickly away from the window and saw Ralph
Touchett standing there with his hands still in his pockets, but
with a face absolutely void of its usual latent smile. She got up
and her movement and glance were a question.

  "It's all over," said Ralph.

  "Do you mean that my uncle-?" And Isabel stopped.

  "My dear father died an hour ago."

  "Ah, my poor Ralph!" she gently wailed, putting out her two hands to
him.

  CHAPTER 20

  Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab to
the house in Winchester Square. As she descended from her vehicle
she observed, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large,
neat, wooden tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed in
white paint the words- "This noble freehold mansion to be sold";
with the name of the agent to whom application should be made. "They
certainly lose no time," said the visitor as, after sounding the big
brass knocker, she waited to be admitted; "it's a practical
country!" And within the house, as she ascended to the drawing-room,
she perceived numerous signs of abdication; pictures removed from
the walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped and floors laid
bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her and intimated in a few
words that condolences might be taken for granted.

  "I know what you're going to say- he was a very good man. But I know
it better than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it.
In that I think I was a good wife." Mrs. Touchett added that at the
end her husband apparently recognized this fact. "He has treated me
most liberally," she said; "I won't say more liberally than I
expected, because I didn't expect. You know that as a general thing
I don't expect. But he chose, I presume, to recognize the fact that
though I lived much abroad and mingled- you may say freely- in foreign
life, I never exhibited the smallest preference for any one else."

  "For any one but yourself," Madame Merle mentally observed; but
the reflexion was perfectly inaudible.

  "I never sacrificed my husband to another," Mrs. Touchett
continued with her stout curtness.

  "Oh no," thought Madame Merle; "you never did anything for another!"

  There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands an
explanation; the more so as they are not in accord either with the
view- somewhat superficial perhaps- that we have hitherto enjoyed of
Madame Merle's character or with the literal facts of Mrs.
Touchett's history; the more so, too, as Madame Merle had a
well-founded conviction that her friend's last remark was not in the
least to be construed as a side-thrust at herself. The truth is that
the moment she had crossed the threshold she received an impression
that Mr. Touchett's death had had subtle consequences and that these
consequences had been profitable to a little circle of persons among
whom she was not numbered. Of course it was an event which would
naturally have consequences; her imagination had more than once rested
upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt. But it had been one
thing to foresee such a matter mentally and another to stand among its
massive records. The idea of a distribution of property- she would
almost have said of spoils- just now pressed upon her senses and
irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far from wishing to
picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious hearts of the
general herd, but we have already learned of her having desires that
had never been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she would of
course have admitted- with a fine proud smile- that she had not the
faintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett's relics. "There was never
anything in the world between us," she would have said. "There was
never that, poor man!"- with a fillip of her thumb and her third
finger. I hasten to add, moreover, that if she couldn't at the present
moment keep from quite perversely yearning she was careful not to
betray herself. She had after all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's
gain as for her losses.

  "He has left me this house," the newly-made widow said; "but of
course I shall not live in it; I've a much better one in Florence. The
will was opened only three days since, but I've already offered the
house for sale. I've also a share in the bank; but I don't yet
understand if I'm obliged to leave it there. If not I shall
certainly take it out. Ralph, of course, has Gardencourt; but I'm
not sure that he'll have means to keep up the place. He's naturally
left very well off, but his father has given away an immense deal of
money; there are bequests to a string of third cousins in Vermont.
Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt and would be quite capable
of living there- in summer- with a maid-of-all-work and a gardener's
boy. There's one remarkable clause in my husband's will," Mrs.
Touchett added. "He has left my niece a fortune."

  "A fortune!" Madame Merle softly repeated.

  "Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds."

  Madame Merle's hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised
them, still clasped, and held them a moment against her bosom while
her eyes, a little dilated, fixed themselves on those of her friend.
"Ah," she cried, "the clever creature!"

  Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. "What do you mean by that?"

  For an instant Madame Merle's colour rose and she dropped her
eyes. "It certainly is clever to achieve such results- without an
effort!"

  "There assuredly was no effort. Don't call it an achievement."

  Madame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of retracting what
she had said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and
placing it in a favourable light. "My dear friend, Isabel would
certainly not have had seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not
been the most charming girl in the world. Her charm includes great
cleverness."

  "She never dreamed, I'm sure, of my husband's doing anything for
her; and I never dreamed of it either, for he never spoke to me of his
intention," Mrs. Touchett said. "She had no claim upon him whatever;
it was no great recommendation to him that she was my niece.
Whatever she achieved she achieved unconsciously."

  "Ah," rejoined Madame Merle, "those are the greatest strokes!"

  Mrs. Touchett reserved her opinion. "The girl's fortunate; I don't
deny that. But for the present she's simply stupefied."

  "Do you mean that she doesn't know what to do with the money?"

  "That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn't know what
to think about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were
suddenly fired off behind her; she's feeling herself to see if she
be hurt. It's but three days since she received a visit from the
principal executor, who came in person, very gallantly, to notify her.
He told me afterwards that when he had made his little speech she
suddenly burst into tears. The money's to remain in the affairs of the
bank, and she's to draw the interest."

  Madame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite benignant
smile. "How very delicious! After she has done that two or three times
she'll get used to it." Then after a silence, "What does your son
think of it?" she abruptly asked.

  "He left England before the will was read- used up by his fatigue
and anxiety and hurrying off to the south. He's on his way to the
Riviera and I've not yet heard from him. But it's not likely he'll
ever object to anything done by his father."

  "Didn't you say his own share had been cut down?"

  "Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do something
for the people in America. He's not in the least addicted to looking
after number one."

  "It depends upon whom he regards as number one!" said Madame
Merle. And she remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent on the
floor. "Am I not to see your happy niece?" she asked at last as she
raised them.

  "You may see her; but you'll not be struck with her being happy. She
has looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cimabue Madonna!" And
Mrs. Touchett rang for a servant.

  Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call
her; and Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett's
comparison had its force. The girl was pale and grave- an effect not
mitigated by her deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest
moments came into her face as she saw Madame Merle, who went
forward, laid her hand on our heroine's shoulder and, after looking at
her a moment, kissed her as if she were returning the kiss she had
received from her at Gardencourt. This was the only allusion the
visitor, in her great good taste, made for the present to her young
friend's inheritance.

  Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of her
house. After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wished
to transport to her other abode, she left the rest of its contents
to be disposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the
Continent. She was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece,
who now had plenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise
handle the windfall on which Madame Merle had covertly congratulated
her. Isabel thought very often of the fact of her accession of
means, looking at it in a dozen different lights; but we shall not now
attempt to follow her train of thought or to explain exactly why her
new consciousness was at first oppressive. This failure to rise to
immediate joy was indeed but brief; the girl presently made up her
mind that to be rich was a virtue because it was to be able to do, and
that to do could only be sweet. It was the graceful contrary of the
stupid side of weakness- especially the feminine variety. To be weak
was, for a delicate young person, rather graceful, but, after all,
as Isabel said to herself, there was a larger grace than that. Just
now, it is true, there was not much to do- once she had sent off a
cheque to Lily, and another to poor Edith; but she was thankful for
the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt's fresh
widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition of power
made her serious; she scrutinized her power with a kind of tender
ferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so
during a stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in
Paris, though in ways that will inevitably present themselves as
trivial. They were the ways most naturally imposed in a city in
which the shops are the admiration of the world, and that were
prescribed unreservedly by the guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a
rigidly practical view of the transformation of her niece from a
poor girl to a rich one. "Now that you're a young woman of fortune you
must know how to play the part- I mean to play it well," she said to
Isabel once for all; and she added that the girl's first duty was to
have everything handsome. "You don't know how to take care of your
things, but you must learn," she went on; this was Isabel's second
duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her imagination was not
kindled; she longed for opportunities, but these were not the
opportunities she meant.

  Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended
before her husband's death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw
no reason to deprive herself- still less to deprive her companion-
of this advantage. Though they would live in great retirement she
might still present her niece, informally, to the little circle of her
fellow countrymen dwelling upon the skirts of the Champs Elysees. With
many of these amiable colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared
their expatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui.
Isabel saw them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt's
hotel, and pronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be
accounted for by the temporary exaltation of her sense of human
duty. She made up her mind that their lives were, though luxurious,
inane, and incurred some disfavour by expressing this view on bright
Sunday afternoons, when the American absentees were engaged in calling
on each other. Though her listeners passed for people kept exemplarily
genial by their cooks and dressmakers, two or three of them thought
her cleverness, which was generally admitted, inferior to that of
the new theatrical pieces. "You all live here this way, but what
does it lead to?" she was pleased to ask. "It doesn't seem to lead
to anything, and I should think you'd get very tired of it."

  Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta Stackpole.
The two ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw
her; so that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself
that if her niece were not clever enough to originate almost anything,
she might be suspected of having borrowed that style of remark from
her journalistic friend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken
was that of a visit paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend
of Mrs. Touchett's and the only person in Paris she now went to see.
Mrs. Luce had been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe;
she used to say jocosely that she was one of the generation of 1830- a
joke of which the point was not always taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce
used to explain- "Oh yes, I'm one of the romantics"; her French had
never become quite perfect. She was always at home on Sunday
afternoons and surrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the
same. In fact she was at home at all times, and reproduced with
wondrous truth in her well-cushioned little corner of the brilliant
city, the domestic tone of her native Baltimore. This reduced Mr.
Luce, her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed
gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little too
much on the back of his head, to mere platonic praise of the
"distractions" of Paris- they were his great word- since you would
never have guessed from what cares he escaped to them. One of them was
that he went every day to the American banker's, where he found a
post-office that was almost as sociable and colloquial an
institution as in an American country town. He passed an hour (in fine
weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonly
well at his own table, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs.
Luce's happiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in the
French capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the Cafe
Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of
felicity to his companions and an object of admiration even to the
headwaiter of the establishment. These were his only known pastimes,
but they had beguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, and
they doubtless justified his frequent declaration that there was no
place like Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce
flatter himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like
Paris, but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of
this scene of his dissipations than in earlier days. In the list of
his resources his political reflections should not be omitted, for
they were doubtless the animating principle of many hours that
superficially seemed vacant. Like many of his fellow colonists Mr.
Luce was a high- or rather a deep- conservative, and gave no
countenance to the government lately established in France. He had
no faith in its duration and would assure you from year to year that
its end was close at hand. "They want to be kept down, sir, to be kept
down; nothing but the strong hand- the iron heel- will do for them,"
he would frequently say of the French people; and his ideal of a
fine showy clever rule was that of the superseded Empire. "Paris is
much less attractive than in the days of the Emperor; he knew how to
make a city pleasant," Mr. Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett,
who was quite of his own way of thinking and wished to know what one
had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from republics.

  "Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to the Palace
of Industry, I've seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass
up and down as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when
they went as high as nine. What do you see now? It's no use talking,
the style's all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and
there'll be a dark cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the
Empire back again."

  Among Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man with
whom Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she found
full of valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier- Ned Rosier as he was
called- was native to New York and had been brought up in Paris,
living there under the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been
an early and intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier
remembered Isabel as a little girl; it had been his father who came to
the rescue of the small Archers at the inn at Neufchatel (he was
travelling that way with the boy and had stopped at the hotel by
chance), after their bonne had gone off with the Russian prince and
when Mr. Archer's whereabouts remained for some days a mystery. Isabel
remembered perfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt of
a delicious cosmetic and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to
lose sight of him under no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the
pair beside the lake and thought little Edward as pretty as an
angel- a comparison by no means conventional in her mind, for she
had a very definite conception of a type of features which she
supposed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illustrated.
A small pink face surmounted by a blue velvet bonnet and set off by
a stiff embroidered collar had become the countenance of her
childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for some time
afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in a
queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest
sentiments, as when Edward told her that he was "defended" by his
bonne to go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey
to one's bonne. Ned Rosier's English had improved; at least it
exhibited in a less degree the French variation. His father was dead
and his bonne dismissed, but the young man still conformed to the
spirit of their teaching- he never went to the edge of the lake. There
was still something agreeable to the nostrils about him and
something not offensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentle and
gracious youth, with what are called cultivated tastes- an
acquaintance with old china, with good wine, with the bindings of
books, with the Almanach de Gotha, with the best shops, the best
hotels, the hours of railway-trains. He could order a dinner almost as
well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as his experience
accumulated he would be a worthy successor to that gentleman, whose
rather grim politics he also advocated in a soft and innocent voice.
He had some charming rooms in Paris, decorated with old Spanish
altar-lace, the envy of his female friends, who declared that his
chimney-piece was better draped than the high shoulders of many a
duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and
had once passed a couple of months in the United States.

  He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk
at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He
seemed to recognize this same tendency in the subversive enquiry
that I quoted a moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine's
question with greater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. "What does it
lead to, Miss Archer? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can't go
anywhere unless you come here first. Every one that comes to Europe
has got to pass through. You don't mean it in that sense so much?
You mean what good it does you? Well, how can you penetrate
futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead? If it's a pleasant road
I don't care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer; I like
the dear old asphalte. You can't get tired of it- you can't if you
try. You think you would, but you wouldn't; there's always something
new and fresh. Take the Hotel Drouot, now; they sometimes have three
and four sales a week. Where can you get such things as you can
here? In spite of all they say I maintain they're cheaper too, if
you know the right places. I know plenty of places, but I keep them to
myself. I'll tell you, if you like, as a particular favour; only you
mustn't tell any one else. Don't you go anywhere without asking me
first; I want you to promise me that. As a general thing avoid the
Boulevards; there's very little to be done on the Boulevards. Speaking
conscientiously- sans blague- I don't believe any one knows Paris
better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfast with me
some day, and I'll show you my things; je ne vous dis que ca! There
has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it's the fashion
to cry up London. But there's nothing in it- you can't do anything
in London. No Louis Quinze- nothing of the First Empire; nothing but
their eternal Queen Anne. It's good for one's bed-room, Queen Anne-
for one's washing-room; but it isn't proper for a salon. Do I spend my
life at the auctioneer's?" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to another
question of Isabel's. "Oh no; I haven't the means. I wish I had. You
think I'm a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of your face-
you've got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don't mind my
saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to do
something, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you
come to the point you see you have to stop. I can't go home and be a
shopkeeper. You think I'm very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you
overrate me. I can buy very well, but I can't sell; you should see
when I sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more
ability to make other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think
how clever they must be, the people who make me buy! Ah no; I couldn't
be a shopkeeper. I can't be a doctor; it's a repulsive business. I
can't be a clergyman; I haven't got convictions. And then I can't
pronounce the names right in the Bible. They're very difficult, in the
Old Testament particularly. I can't be a lawyer; I don't understand-
how do you call it?- the American procedure. Is there anything else?
There's nothing for a gentleman in America. I should like to be a
diplomatist; but American diplomacy- that's not for gentlemen
either. I'm sure if you had seen the last min-"

  Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr.
Rosier, coming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed
himself after the fashion I have sketched, usually interrupted the
young man at this point and read him a lecture on the duties of the
American citizen. She thought him most unnatural; he was worse than
poor Ralph Touchett. Henrietta, however, was at this time more than
ever addicted to fine criticism, for her conscience had been freshly
alarmed as regards Isabel. She had not congratulated this young lady
on her augmentations and begged to be excused from doing so.

  "If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money,"
she frankly asserted, "I'd have said to him 'Never!"

  "I see," Isabel had answered, "You think it will prove a curse in
disguise. Perhaps it will."

  "Leave it to some one you care less for- that's what I should have
said."

  "To yourself for instance?" Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, "Do
you really believe it will ruin me?" she asked in quite another tone.

  "I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your
dangerous tendencies."

  "Do you mean the love of luxury- of extravagance?"

  "No, no," said Henrietta; "I mean your exposure on the moral side. I
approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look
at the luxury of our western cities; I've seen nothing over here to
compare with it. I hope you'll never become grossly sensual; but I'm
not afraid of that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the
world of your own dreams. You're not enough in contact with reality-
with the toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world
that surrounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many graceful
illusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and
more to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will
be interested in keeping them up."

  Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. "What are
my illusions?" she asked. "I try so hard not to have any."

  "Well," said Henrietta, "you think you can lead a romantic life,
that you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You'll
find you're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in
it- to make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that
it ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And
you can't always please yourself; you must sometimes please other
people. That, I admit, you're very ready to do; but there's another
thing that's still more important- you must often displease others.
You must always be ready for that- you must never shrink from it. That
doesn't suit you at all- you're too fond of admiration, you like to be
thought well of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking
romantic views- that's your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You
must be prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all-
not even yourself."

  Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened.
"This, for you, Henrietta," she said, "must be one of those
occasions!"

  It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to
Paris, which had been professionally more remunerative than her
English sojourn, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr.
Bantling, who had now returned to England, was her companion for the
first four weeks of her stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing
dreamy. Isabel learned from her friend that the two had led a life
of great personal intimacy and that this had been a peculiar advantage
to Henrietta, owing to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of
Paris. He had explained everything, shown her everything, been her
constant guide and interpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined
together, gone to the theatre together, supped together, really in a
manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henrietta more than
once assured our heroine; and she had never supposed that she could
like any Englishman so well. Isabel could not have told you why, but
she found something that ministered to mirth in the alliance the
correspondent of the Interviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's
brother; her amusement moreover subsisted in face of the fact that she
thought it a credit to each of them. Isabel couldn't rid herself of
a suspicion that they were playing somehow at cross-purposes- that the
simplicity of each had been entrapped. But this simplicity was on
either side none the less honourable. It was as graceful on
Henrietta's part to believe that Mr. Bantling took an interest in
the diffusion of lively journalism and in consolidating the position
of lady-correspondents as it was on the part of his companion to
suppose that the cause of the Interviewer- a periodical of which he
never formed a very definite conception- was, if subtly analyzed (a
task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal), but the cause of
Miss Stackpole's need of demonstrative affection. Each of these
groping celibates supplied at any rate a want of which the other was
impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow and a
discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, who charmed
him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind of
bandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a
mind to which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on
the other hand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared
somehow, in his way, made, by expensive, roundabout, almost "quaint"
processes, for her use, and whose leisured state, though generally
indefensible, was a decided boon to a breathless mate, and who was
furnished with an easy, traditional, though by no means exhaustive,
answer to almost any social or practical question that could come
up. She often found Mr. Bantling's answers very convenient, and in the
press of catching the American post would largely and showily
address them to publicity. It was to be feared that she was indeed
drifting toward those abysses of sophistication as to which Isabel,
wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her. There might be
danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to be hoped that
Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in any adoption
of the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel
continued to warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil's obliging
brother was sometimes, on our heroine's lips, an object of
irreverent and facetious allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed
Henrietta's amiability on this point; she used to abound in the
sense of Isabel's irony and to enumerate with elation the hours she
had spent with this perfect man of the world- a term that had ceased
to make with her, as previously, for opprobrium. Then, a few moments
later, she would forget that they had been talking jocosely and
would mention with impulsive earnestness some expedition she had
enjoyed in his company. She would say: "Oh, I know all about
Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. I was bound to see it
thoroughly- I warned him when we went out there that I was thorough:
so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered all over the place.
It was lovely weather- a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We
just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can't tell me anything about
Versailles." Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meet
her gallant friend during the spring in Italy.

  CHAPTER 21

  Mrs. Touchett, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day for her
departure and by the middle of February had begun to travel southward.
She interrupted her journey to pay a visit to her son, who at San
Remo, on the Italian shore of the Mediterranean, had been spending a
dull, bright winter beneath a slow-moving white umbrella. Isabel
went with her aunt as a matter of course, though Mrs. Touchett, with
homely, customary logic, had laid before her a pair of alternatives.

  "Now, of course, you're completely your own mistress and are as free
as the bird on the bough. I don't mean you were not so before, but
you're at present on a different footing- property erects a kind of
barrier. You can do a great many things if you're rich which would
be severely criticized if you were poor. You can go and come, you
can travel alone, you can have your own establishment: I mean of
course if you'll take a companion- some decayed gentlewoman, with a
darned cashmere and dyed hair, who paints on velvet. You don't think
you'd like that? Of course you can do as you please; I only want you
to understand how much you're at liberty. You might take Miss
Stackpole as your dame de compagnie; she'd keep people off very
well. I think, however, that it's a great deal better you should
remain with me, in spite of there being no obligation. It's better for
several reasons, quite apart from your liking it. I shouldn't think
you'd like it, but I recommend you to make the sacrifice. Of course
whatever novelty there may have been at first in my society has
quite passed away, and you see me as I am- a dull, obstinate,
narrow-minded old woman."

  "I don't think you're at all dull," Isabel had replied to this.

  "But you do think I'm obstinate and narrow-minded? I told you so!"
said Mrs. Touchett with much elation at being justified.

  Isabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, in spite
of eccentric impulses, she had a great regard for what was usually
deemed decent, and a young gentlewoman without visible relations had
always struck her as a flower without foliage. It was true that Mrs.
Touchett's conversation had never again appeared so brilliant as
that first afternoon in Albany, when she sat in her damp waterproof
and sketched the opportunities that Europe would offer to a young
person of taste. This, however, was in a great measure the girl's
own fault; she had got a glimpse of her aunt's experience, and her
imagination constantly anticipated the judgements and emotions of a
woman who had very little of the same faculty. Apart from this, Mrs.
Touchett had a great merit; she was as honest as a pair of
compasses. There was a comfort in her stiffness and firmness; you knew
exactly where to find her and were never liable to chance encounters
and concussions. On her own ground she was perfectly present, but
was never over-inquisitive as regards the territory of her
neighbour. Isabel came at last to have a kind of undemonstrable pity
for her; there seemed something so dreary in the condition of a person
whose nature had, as it were, so little surface- offered so limited
a face to the accretions of human contact. Nothing tender, nothing
sympathetic, had ever had a chance to fasten upon it- no wind-sown
blossom, no familiar softening moss. Her offered, her passive
extent, in other words, was about that of a knife-edge. Isabel had
reason to believe none the less that as she advanced in life she
made more of those concessions to the sense of something obscurely
distinct from convenience- more of them than she independently
exacted. She was learning to sacrifice consistency to considerations
of that inferior order for which the excuse must be found in the
particular case. It was not to the credit of her absolute rectitude
that she should have gone the longest way round to Florence in order
to spend a few weeks with her invalid son; since in former years it
had been one of her most definite convictions that when Ralph wished
to see her he was at liberty to remember that Palazzo Crescentini
contained a large apartment known as the quarter of the signorino.

  "I want to ask you something," Isabel said to this young man the day
after her arrival at San Remo- "something I've thought more than
once of asking you by letter, but that I've hesitated on the whole
to write about. Face to face, nevertheless, my question seems easy
enough. Did you know your father intended to leave me so much money?"

  Ralph stretched his legs a little further than usual and gazed a
little more fixedly at the Mediterranean. "What does it matter, my
dear Isabel, whether I knew? My father was very obstinate."

  "So," said the girl, "you did know."

  "Yes; he told me. We even talked it over a little."

  "What did he do it for?" asked Isabel abruptly.

  "Why, as a kind of compliment."

  "A compliment on what?"

  "On your so beautifully existing."

  "He liked me too much," she presently declared.

  "That's a way we all have."

  "If I believed that I should be very unhappy. Fortunately I don't
believe it. I want to be treated with justice; I want nothing but
that."

  "Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovely being
is after all a florid sort of sentiment."

  "I'm not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very moment
when I'm asking such odious questions? I must seem to you delicate!"

  "You seem to me troubled," said Ralph.

  "I am troubled."

  "About what?"

  For a moment she answered nothing; then she broke out: "Do you think
it good for me suddenly to be made so rich? Henrietta doesn't."

  "Oh, hang Henrietta!" said Ralph coarsely. "If you ask me I'm
delighted at it."

  "Is that why your father did it- for your amusement?"

  "I differ with Miss Stackpole," Ralph went on more gravely. "I think
it very good for you to have means."

  Isabel looked at him with serious eyes. "I wonder whether you know
what's good for me- or whether you care."

  "If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is? Not
to torment yourself."

  "Not to torment you, I suppose you mean."

  "You can't do that; I'm proof. Take things more easily. Don't ask
yourself so much whether this or that is good for you. Don't
question your conscience so much- it will get out of tune like a
strummed piano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try so much to form
your character- it's like trying to pull open a tight, tender young
rose. Live as you like best, and your character will take care of
itself. Most things are good for you; the exceptions are very rare,
and a comfortable income's not one of them." Ralph paused, smiling;
Isabel had listened quickly. "You've too much power of thought-
above all too much conscience," Ralph added. "It's out of all
reason, the number of things you think wrong. Put back your watch.
Diet your fever. Spread your wings; rise above the ground. It's
never wrong to do that."

  She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature to
understand quickly. "I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you
do, you take a great responsibility."

  "You frighten me a little, but I think I'm right," said Ralph,
persisting in cheer.

  "All the same what you say is very true," Isabel pursued. "You could
say nothing more true. I'm absorbed in myself- I look at life too much
as a doctor's prescription. Why indeed should we perpetually be
thinking whether things are good for us, as if we were patients
lying in a hospital? Why should I be so afraid of not doing right?
As if it mattered to the world whether I do right or wrong!"

  "You're a capital person to advise," said Ralph; "you take the
wind out of my sails!"

  She looked at him as if she had not heard him- though she was
following out the train of reflexion which he himself had kindled.
"I try to care more about the world than about myself- but I always
come back to myself. It's because I'm afraid." She stopped; her
voice had trembled a little. "Yes, I'm afraid; I can't tell you. A
large fortune means freedom, and I'm afraid of that. It's such a
fine thing, and one should make such a good use of it. If one
shouldn't one would be ashamed. And one must keep thinking; it's a
constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a greater happiness to be
powerless."

  "For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. For weak
people the effort not to be contemptible must be great."

  "And how do you know I'm not weak?" Isabel asked.

  "Ah," Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, "if you are
I'm awfully sold!"

  The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine
on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of
admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before
her as a land of promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful
might be comforted by endless knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon
the shore with her cousin- and she was the companion of his daily
walk- she looked across the sea, with longing eyes, to where she
knew that Genoa lay. She was glad to pause, however, on the edge of
this larger adventure; there was such a thrill even in the preliminary
hovering. It affected her moreover as a peaceful interlude, as a
hush of the drum and fife in a career which she had little warrant
as yet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless she was
constantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes, her
fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which
reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently
dramatic. Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs. Touchett that after their
young friend had put her hand into her pocket half a dozen times she
would be reconciled to the idea that it had been filled by a
munificent uncle; and the event justified, as it had so often
justified before, that lady's perspicacity. Ralph Touchett had praised
his cousin for being morally inflammable, that is for being quick to
take a hint that was meant as good advice. His advice had perhaps
helped the matter; she had at any rate before leaving San Remo grown
used to feeling rich. The consciousness in question found a proper
place in rather a dense little group of ideas that she had about
herself, and often it was by no means the least agreeable. It took
perpetually for granted a thousand good intentions. She lost herself
in a maze of visions; the fine things to be done by a rich,
independent, generous girl who took a large human view of occasions
and obligations were sublime in the mass. Her fortune therefore became
to her mind a part of her better self; it gave her importance, gave
her even, to her own imagination, a certain ideal beauty. What it
did for her in the imagination of others is another affair, and on
this point we must also touch in time. The visions I have just
spoken of were mixed with other debates. Isabel liked better to
think of the future than of the past; but at times, as she listened to
the murmur of the Mediterranean waves, her glance took a backward
flight. It rested upon two figures which, in spite of increasing
distance, were still sufficiently salient; they were recognizable
without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton.
It was strange how quickly these images of energy had fallen into
the background of our young lady's life. It was in her disposition
at all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she
could summon back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but
the effort was often painful even when the reality had been
pleasant. The past was apt to look dead and its revival rather to show
the livid light of a judgement-day. The girl moreover was not prone to
take for granted that she herself lived in the mind of others- she had
not the fatuity to believe she left indelible traces. She was
capable of being wounded by the discovery that she had been forgotten;
but of all liberties the one she herself found sweetest was the
liberty to forget. She had not given her last shilling,
sentimentally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or to Lord
Warburton, and yet couldn't but feel them appreciably in debt to
her. She had of course reminded herself that she was to hear from
Mr. Goodwood again; but this was not to be for another year and a
half, and in that time a great many things might happen. She had
indeed failed to say to herself that her American suitor might find
some other girl more comfortable to woo; because, though it was
certain many other girls would prove so, she had not the smallest
belief that this merit would attract him. But she reflected that she
herself might know the humiliation of change, might really, for that
matter, come to the end of the things that were not Caspar (even
though there appeared so many of them), and find rest in those very
elements of his presence which struck her now as impediments to the
finer respiration. It was conceivable that these impediments should
some day prove a sort of blessing in disguise- a clear and quiet
harbour enclosed by a brave granite breakwater. But that day could
only come in its order, and she couldn't wait for it with folded
hands. That Lord Warburton should continue to cherish her image seemed
to her more than a noble humility or an enlightened pride ought to
wish to reckon with. She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no
record of what had passed between them that a corresponding effort
on his own part would be eminently just. This was not, as it may seem,
merely a theory tinged with sarcasm. Isabel candidly believed that his
lordship would, in the usual phrase, get over his disappointment. He
had been deeply affected- this she believed, and she was still capable
of deriving pleasure from the belief; but it was absurd that a man
both so intelligent and so honourably dealt with should cultivate a
scar out of proportion to any wound. Englishmen liked moreover to be
comfortable, said Isabel, and there could be little comfort for Lord
Warburton, in the long run, in brooding over a self-sufficient
American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance. She flattered
herself that, should she hear from one day to another that he had
married some young woman of his own country who had done more to
deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang even of
surprise. It would have proved that he believed she was firm- which
was what she wished to seem to him. That alone was grateful to her
pride.

  CHAPTER 22

  On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.
Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a
painter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of
an ancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman
gate of Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking
structure, with the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which,
on the hills that encircle Florence, when considered from a
distance, make so harmonious a rectangle with the straight, dark,
definite cypresses that usually rise in groups of three or four beside
it. The house had a front upon a little grassy, empty, rural piazza
which occupied a part of the hill-top; and this front, pierced with
a few windows in irregular relations and furnished with a stone
bench lengthily adjusted to the base of the structure and useful as
a lounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or less of that
air of undervalued merit which in Italy, for some reason or other,
always gracefully invests any one who confidently assumes a
perfectly passive attitude- this antique, solid, weather-worn, yet
imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative character. It was the
mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy lids, but no eyes; the
house in reality looked another way- looked off behind, into
splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light. In that
quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long valley
of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in
the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses
and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of
the terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the
ground declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is
not, however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned;
on this bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to
prefer the shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as
you saw them from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions,
extremely architectural; but their function seemed less to offer
communication with the world than to defy the world to look in. They
were massively cross-barred, and placed at such a height that
curiosity, even on tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an
apartment lighted by a row of three of these jealous apertures- one of
the several distinct apartments into which the villa was divided and
which were mainly occupied by foreigners of random race long
resident in Florence- a gentleman was seated in company with a young
girl and two good sisters from a religious house. The room was,
however, less sombre than our indications may have represented, for it
had a wide, high door, which now stood open into the tangled garden
behind; and the tall iron lattices admitted on occasion more than
enough of the Italian sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed
of luxury, telling of arrangements subtly studied and refinements
frankly proclaimed, and containing a variety of those faded hangings
of damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carved and
time-polished oak, those angular specimens of pictorial art in
frames as pedantically primitive, those perverse looking relics of
mediaeval brass and pottery, of which Italy has long been the not
quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept terms with articles of
modern furniture in which large allowance had been made for a lounging
generation; it was to be noticed that all the chairs were deep and
well padded and that much space was occupied by a writing-table of
which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London and the
nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines and
newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in
water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel
before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the
young girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the
picture in silence.

  Silence- absolute silence- had not fallen upon her companions; but
their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good
sisters had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their
attitude expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of
prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind
of business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their
stiffened linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on
frames gave an advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in
spectacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more
discriminating manner than her colleague, as well as the
responsibility of their errand, which apparently related to the
young girl. This object of interest wore her hat- an ornament of
extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslin gown, too
short for her years, though it must already have been "let out." The
gentleman who might have been supposed to be entertaining the two nuns
was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of his function, it being in
its way as arduous to converse with the very meek as with the very
mighty. At the same time he was clearly much occupied with their quiet
charge, and while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely
on her slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high but
well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense, but prematurely
grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow, extremely
modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just this
effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to
which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut
in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted
by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish,
gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was
a gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however,
eyes at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive
of the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that
he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he
sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine
his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs
that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one.
If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some
French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he
was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for
general circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off
for a special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking
figure, and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a
man dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no
vulgar things.

  "Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked the young girl.
He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this
would not have convinced you he was Italian.

  The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. "It's
very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?"

  "Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?"

  "Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures."
And she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a
fixed and intensely sweet smile.

  "You should have brought me a specimen of your powers."

  "I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk."

  "She draws very- very carefully," the elder of the nuns remarked,
speaking in French.

  "I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?"

  "Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est pas
ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've
an excellent drawing-master, Mr.- Mr.- what is his name?" she asked of
her companion.

  Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a German name,"
she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.

  "Yes," the other went on. "he's a German, and we've had him many
years."

  The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered
away to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the
garden. "And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman.

  "Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils in my
own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries-
English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper language."

  The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been under the care
of one of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw that his visitors
suspected a joke, though failing to understand it, "You're very
complete," he instantly added.

  "Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of
the best."

  "We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark. "But
not dangerous."

  "I hope not. Is that your branch?" A question which provoked much
candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of
which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she
had grown.

  "Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain- not big," said
the French sister.

  "I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books- very good and not too
long. But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reason why my
child should be short."

  The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things
might be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very good health; that's
the best thing."

  "Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watched her a
moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked in French.

  "I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice and with
an accent as good as his own.

  "Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out
and gather some for ces dames."

  The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure.
"May I truly?"

  "Ah, when I tell you," said her father.

  The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma mere?"

  "Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blushing
again.

  The child, satisfied with this authorization, descended from the
threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoil them,"
said her father gaily.

  "For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is
freely granted, but they must ask it."

  "Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent.
I sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith."

  "One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through
her spectacles.

  "Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?"

  The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian, monsieur."

  Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the
movement had in each case a different spring. "Yes, and what else?"

  He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would
say that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity
she was not so crude as that. "A charming young lady- a real little
woman- a daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment."

  "She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's really
pretty."

  "She's perfect. She has no faults."

  "She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her
none."

  "We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with dignity.
"And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est
pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say.
We've had her since she was so small."

  "Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss
most," the younger woman murmured deferentially.

  "Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold
her up to the new ones." And at this the good sister appeared to
find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment,
presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.

  "It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," their
host rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the
tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself.

  "We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to
leave us."

  "Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet
used, "it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep
her always!"

  "Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good
as she is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera."

  "If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the
world get on?" her companion softly enquired, rising also.

  This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman
apparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonizing
view by saying comfortably: "Fortunately there are good people
everywhere."

  "If you're going there will be two less here," her host remarked
gallantly.

  For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and
they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their
confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with
two large bunches of roses- one of them all white, the other red.

  "I give you your choice, Mamman Catherine," said the child. "It's
only the colour that's different, Mamman Justine; there are just as
many roses in one bunch as in the other."

  The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with
"Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose."

  "I'll take the red, thank you," said mother Catherine in the
spectacles. I'm so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to
Rome."

  "Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. "I wish I could give
you something that would last!"

  "You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will
last!"

  "I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue
beads," the child went on.

  "And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired.

  "Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas."

  "Are you not tired?"

  "We are never tired."

  "Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress.

  "Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu
vous garde, ma fille."

  Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went
forward to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he
did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The
door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved
with red tiles; and into this ante-chamber a lady had just been
admitted by a servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering
her toward the apartment in which our friends were grouped. The
gentleman at the door, after dropping his exclamation, remained
silent; in silence too the lady advanced. He gave her no further
audible greeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her
pass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. "Is there any
one?" she asked.

  "Some one you may see."

  She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their
pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of
each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady,
who had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a
little soft cry:

  "Ah, Madame Merle!"

  The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next
instant was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to
welcome you home." And she held out two hands to the girl, who
immediately came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed.
Madame Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person and
then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a
decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of
this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her
something of the radiance of the outer world.

  "These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return
to the convent," the gentleman explained.

  "Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very
lovely now," said Madame Merle.

  The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their
sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the
house asked his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome.
"She came to see me at the convent," said the young girl before the
lady addressed had time to reply.

  "I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared. "Am I
not your great friend in Rome?"

  "I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me
I should come away."

  "Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked.

  "I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've
been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me."

  "I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't
know such things by inspiration- though I suppose one ought. You had
better sit down."

  These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice- a tone
half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from
any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat.
"You're going to the door with these women? Let me of course not
interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in
French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.

  "This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the
convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her
judgement, and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall
return to you at the end of the holidays."

  "I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in
spectacles ventured to remark.

  "That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame
Merle, but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good
school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very
naturally meant for the world."

  "That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's
precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at
Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's
elegant apparel.

  "Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the
world," said Pansy's father.

  The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not
meant for you, papa?"

  Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the
world, Pansy."

  "Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and
wise and happy in any case, my daughter."

  "I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned,
recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by
Madame Merle.

  "Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the
good ladies to the door."

  Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently
impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one
who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the
operation of her fate. "May I not see Mamman Catherine get into the
carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently.

  "It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame
Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to
the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.

  "Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame
Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She
stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears.

  "I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's
what good little girls should do."

  "Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness,
almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her
piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.

  Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and
looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to
deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope
they always see that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little
girls usually dislike them."

  "I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made
answer.

  "Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen."

  "I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded
with interest.

  Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours."

  "But very pretty?"

  "Are you very fond of pretty things?"

  "Yes; but- but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.

  "Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a
laugh. She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after
which, looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she
went on.

  "Yes- when I think of her."

  "Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame
Merle, "you'll have another mother."

  "I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little
soft conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the
convent."

  Her father's step sounded again in the ante-chamber, and Madame
Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the
door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two
chairs back into their places. His visitor waited a moment for him
to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I
hoped you'd have come to Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished
yourself to fetch Pansy away."

  "That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first
time I've acted in defiance of your calculations."

  "Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse."

  Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room- there was plenty
of space in it to move about- in the fashion of a man mechanically
seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be
embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there
was nothing left for him- unless he took up a book- but to stand
with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and
see the last of Mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French.

  Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her
to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in
another place.

  "Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a
chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his
elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.

  "She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy.

  "You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle
observed.

  "You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have
everything she needs."

  "I should think she had had enough of the nuns."

  "If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of
the room."

  "Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else."

  "If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance
of candour which imposed conviction.

  "You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand,"
her father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open
door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her
innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly,
addressing himself to his other companion. "You're looking
particularly well."

  "I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.

  "You always are the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman."

  "Yes, I think I am."

  "You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return
from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present."

  "I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my
intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have
lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time
uncertain."

  "That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for
your friends."

  Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less
characteristic than your comment upon it- which is perfectly
insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added,
"because if you don't believe what you say there's no reason why you
should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your
praise. I care greatly for myself."

  "Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves- so much of
every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life
touched so many other lives."

  "What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's
appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"

  "I call your life your ambitions," said Osmond.

  Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she
understands that," she murmured.

  "You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a
joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or
two for Madame Merle," he went on in French.

  "That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with
promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the
open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but
remained standing, or rather strolling to and from as if to
cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be
wanting.

  "My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking
up at him with a certain courage.

  "That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life- I and a
thousand others. You're not selfish- I can't admit that. If you were
selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?"

  "You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault."

  "I'm afraid it's really my best."

  "You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely.

  "No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call
that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to
Rome. But it was only one of them."

  "It's not of importance- to me at least- that you didn't go;
though I should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome
now- which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a
month ago. There's something I should like you to do at present in
Florence."

  "Please remember my indolence," said Osmond.

  "I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll
have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and
it may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new
acquaintance?"

  "I don't think I've made any since I made yours."

  "It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine
I want you to know."

  Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and
was looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense
sunshine. "What good will it do me?" he asked with a sort of genial
crudity.

  Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was nothing crude in
this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered.

  "If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, coming
toward her. "There are some points in which my confidence in you is
complete. I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good
society from bad."

  "Society is all bad."

  "Pardon me. That isn't- the knowledge I impute to you- a common sort
of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way- experimentally; you've
compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each
other."

  "Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge."

  "To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?"

  "It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only
induce you to make an effort!"

  "Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in
the world- that's likely to turn up here- is worth an effort?"

  Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don't be foolish,
Osmond. No one knows better than you what is worth an effort.
Haven't I seen you in old days?"

  "I recognize some things. But they're none of them probable in
this poor life."

  "It's the effort that makes them probable," said Madame Merle.

  "There's something in that. Who then is your friend?"

  "The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs.
Touchett, whom you'll not have forgotten."

  "A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what
you're coming to."

  "Yes, she's young- twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of
mine. I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and
we struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I
don't do every day- I admire her. You'll do the same."

  "Not if I can help it."

  "Precisely. But you won't be able to help it."

  "Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent
and unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I
care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago
never to speak to me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that
description. I know plenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any
more."

  "Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She
corresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her.
She fills all your requirements."

  "More or less, of course."

  "No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and,
for an American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable,
and she has a handsome fortune."

  Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in
his mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do you want to do
with her?" he asked at last.

  "What you see. Put her in your way."

  "Isn't she meant for something better than that?"

  "I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said Madame
Merle. "I only know what I can do with them."

  "I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared.

  Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in her I
take note of it."

  The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla,
looking down at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Osmond
repeated still less relevantly than before. "You have some idea.
You're never so well as when you've got an idea; they're always
becoming to you."

  In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any
juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others,
was something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each
other obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of
each appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the
self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off
any embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had
not on this occasion the form she would have liked to have- the
perfect self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host.
The point to be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element
between them, whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them
more closely face to face than either ever was with any one else. This
was what had happened now. They stood there knowing each other well
and each on the whole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as
a compensation for the inconvenience- whatever it might be- of being
known. "I wish very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merle
quietly said. "It has always been against you, and it will be
against you now."

  "I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something
touches me- as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions
are for me. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they
should be. But it touches me, all the same."

  "You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There
are some things you'll never understand. There's no particular need
you should."

  "You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Osmond.
"You have more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think
Mrs. Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when- when-"
But he paused a moment.

  "When I myself have mattered so little?"

  "That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and
appreciated such a woman as you."

  "Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle.

  Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of her to say
that!"

  "Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that."

  "With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't."

  "Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.
Touchett's- Palazzo Crescentini- and the girl will be there."

  "Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the
girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at any rate."

  Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question
he could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why?
Because I've spoken of you to her."

  Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then
in a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little
water-colour drawing. "Have you seen what's there- my last?"

  Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps- one
of your last year's sketches?"

  "Yes- but how you guess everything!"

  She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care
for your drawings."

  "I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much
better than most people's."

  "That may very well be. But as the only thing you do- well, it's
so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those
were my ambitions."

  "Yes; you've told me many times- things that were impossible."

  "Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in
quite a different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good."
She looked about the room- at the old cabinets, pictures,
tapestries, surfaces of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are
perfect. I'm struck with that afresh whenever I come back; I know none
better anywhere. You understand this sort of thing as nobody
anywhere does. You've such adorable taste."

  "I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond.

  "You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told
her about it."

  "I don't object to showing my things- when people are not idiots."

  "You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to
particular advantage."

  Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once
colder and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?"

  "She has seventy thousand pounds."

  "En ecus bien comptes?"

  "There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may
say."

  "Satisfactory woman!- I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see
the mother?"

  "The mother? She has none- nor father either."

  "The aunt then- whom did you say?- Mrs. Touchett."

  "I can easily keep her out of the way."

  "I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs.
Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing
away- a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes the son- is he
about the place?"

  "He's there, but he won't trouble you."

  "He's a good deal of a donkey."

  "I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not
fond of being about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me."

  "What could be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?"
Osmond went on.

  "Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in
them. Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you."

  "A beginning of what?"

  Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to marry
her."

  "The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you
told her that?"

  "For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of
machinery- nor am I."

  "Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't understand
your ambitions."

  "I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer.
Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near
the open door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out.
"Pansy has really grown pretty," she presently added.

  "So it seemed to me."

  "But she has had enough of the convent."

  "I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of her.
It's very charming."

  "That's not the convent. It's the child's nature."

  "It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl."

  "Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame Merle
asked. "She's not in a hurry."

  "We'll go and get them."

  "She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her
parasol and they passed into the garden.

  CHAPTER 23

  Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at
the invitation of this lady- Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month
the hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini- the judicious Madame Merle
spoke to Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she
might know him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we
have seen her do in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's
attention. The reason of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no
resistance whatever to Madame Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in
England, the lady had a multitude of friends, both among the natives
of the country and its heterogeneous visitors. She had mentioned to
Isabel most of the people the girl would find it well to "meet"- of
course, she said, Isabel could know whomever in the wide world she
would- and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of the list. He was an
old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen years; he was one
of the cleverest and most agreeable men- well, in Europe simply. He
was altogether above the respectable average; quite another affair. He
wasn't a professional charmer- far from it, and the effect he produced
depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and his spirits.
When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one, saved only
by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralized prince in
exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged- just
exactly rightly it had to be- then one felt his cleverness and his
distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many
people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his
perversities- which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all
the men really worth knowing- and didn't cause his light to shine
equally for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could
undertake that for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily
bored, too easily, and dull people always put him out; but a quick and
cultivated girl like Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too
absent from his life. At any rate he was a person not to miss. One
shouldn't attempt to live in Italy without making a friend of
Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the country than any one except
two or three German professors. And if they had more knowledge than he
it was he who had most perception and taste- being artistic through
and through. Isabel remembered that her friend had spoken of him
during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the deeps of talk, and
wondered a little what was the nature of the tie binding these
superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always somehow had
histories, and such an impression was part of the interest created
by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr. Osmond,
however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm friendship.
Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had enjoyed so
high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a great many
men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as possible, so
as to get used to them."

  "Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which
sometimes seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy.
"Why, I'm not afraid of them- I'm as used to them as the cook to the
butcher-boys."

  "Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one
comes to with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few
whom you don't despise."

  This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow
herself to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never
supposed that as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect
became the most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the
less, by the beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less
than Madame Merle had promised; and if her unassisted perception had
not been able to gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests
to the mystery. She was in no want indeed of aesthetic illumination,
for Ralph found it a joy that renewed his own early passion to act
as cicerone to his eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at
home; she had seen the treasures of Florence again and again and had
always something else to do. But she talked of all things with
remarkable vividness of memory- she recalled the right-hand corner
of the large Perugino and the position of the hands of the Saint
Elizabeth in the picture next to it. She had her opinions as to the
character of many famous works of art, differing often from Ralph with
great sharpness and defending her interpretations with as much
ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions taking
place between the two with a sense that she might derive much
benefit from them and that they were among the advantages she couldn't
have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the clear May mornings
before the formal breakfast- this repast at Mrs. Touchett's was served
at twelve o'clock- she wandered with her cousin through the narrow and
sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in the thicker dusk of some
historic church or the vaulted chambers of some dispeopled convent.
She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at the pictures
and statues that had hitherto been great names to her, and exchanged
for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a presentiment
which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed all those
acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to Italy,
youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat in the
presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising tears
in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But the
return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the
return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which
Mrs. Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into
the high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes
of the sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of
the age of advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building
in a narrow street whose very name recalled the strife of mediaeval
factions; and found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in
the modicity of her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature
itself looked as archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace
and which cleared and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in
such a place was, for Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of
the sea of the past. This vague eternal rumour kept her imagination
awake.

  Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the
young lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on
this occasion little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when
the others turned to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had
been at the play and had paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs.
Touchett was not present, and these two had it, for the effect of
brilliancy, all their own way. They talked of the Florentine, the
Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might have been distinguished
performers figuring for a charity. It all had the rich readiness
that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to her as
if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue
without spoiling the scene- though of course she thus put dreadfully
in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been
involved she could have made no attempt to shine. There was
something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense-
made it more important she should get an impression of him than that
she should produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in
producing an impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could
be happier, in general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a
perverse unwillingness to glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do
him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease
that covered everything, even the first show of his own wit. This
was the more grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was not
handsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in the
long gallery above the bridge of the Uffizi. And his very voice was
fine- the more strangely that, with its clearness, it yet somehow
wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with making her abstain from
interference. His utterance was the vibration of glass, and if she had
put out her finger she might have changed the pitch and spoiled the
concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.

  "Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some
day next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much
pleasure if you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty-
there's what they call a general view. My daughter too would be so
glad- or rather, for she's too young to have strong emotions, I should
be so glad- so very glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air
of embarrassment, leaving his sentence unfinished.

  "I should be so happy if you could know my daughter," he went on a
moment afterwards.

  Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and
that if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should
be very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave;
after which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for
having been so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never
fell into the mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments:
"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished
you. You're never disappointing."

  A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more
probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange to
say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first
feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more
than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I
know of to charm Mr. Osmond."

  Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit
to retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I
spoke for yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking
you; it matters little whether he likes you or not! But I thought
you liked him."

  "I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters
either."

  "Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle
returned with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time
another old friend's concerned."

  Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must
be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph
sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted
by his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make
allowance for that.

  "Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not
well, but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society,
and he apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness.
Who is he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been
living these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him
unexplained? Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his
antecedents, his family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a
prince in disguise; he rather looks like one, by the way- like a
prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in
a state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome; but of late
years he has taken up his abode here; I remember hearing him say
that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity;
that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I know of. He
lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He's
a poor but honest gentleman- that's what he calls himself. He
married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He
also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of
these parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I
should think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be
some stories about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But
why don't you ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them
all much better than I."

  "I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said
Isabel.

  "A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will
you care for that?"

  "Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance.
The more information one has about one's dangers the better."

  "I don't agree to that- it may make them dangers. We know too much
about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our
mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one
tells you about any one else. Judge every one and everything for
yourself."

  "That's what I try to do," said Isabel; "but when you do that people
call you conceited."

  "You're not to mind them- that's precisely my argument; not to
mind what they say about yourself any more than what they say about
your friend or your enemy."

  Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some
things I can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or
when I myself am praised."

  "Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge
people as critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them
all!"

  "I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised
to pay him a visit."

  "To pay him a visit?"

  "To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter- I don't know
exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many
ladies call on him."

  "Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said
Ralph. "She knows none but the best people."

  Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked
to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame
Merle. "It seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know
what you mean, but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you
should either mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."

  Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent
earnestness than he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as
I speak to her: with an even exaggerated respect."

  "Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of."

  "I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."

  "By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service."

  "No, no; by herself."

  "Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a
woman who made small claims-!"

  "You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's
exaggerated. She has no business with small claims- she has a
perfect right to make large ones."

  "Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself."

  "Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably
blameless; a pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who
never gives one a chance."

  "A chance for what?"

  "Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has
but that one little fault."

  Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you;
you're too paradoxical for my plain mind."

  "Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the
vulgar sense- that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account
of herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection
too far- that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too
good, too kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too
everything. She's too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she
acts on my nerves and that I feel about her a good deal as that
intensely human Athenian felt about Aristides the Just."

  Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it
lurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face.
"Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished?"

  "By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame
Merle," said Ralph Touchett simply.

  "You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked
him if he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant
friend.

  "Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the
character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if I
were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be
able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a
leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!"

  "That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head.
"That is why I like her so much."

  "She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the
world you couldn't have a better guide."

  "I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?"

  "Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!"

  It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head
to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he
delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment
wherever he could find it, and he would not have forgotten himself
if he had been left wholly unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social
art. There are deep-lying sympathies and antipathies, and it may
have been that, in spite of the administered justice she enjoyed at
his hands, her absence from his mother's house would not have made
life barren to him. But Ralph Touchett had learned more or less
inscrutably to attend, and there could have been nothing so
"sustained" to attend to as the general performance of Madame Merle.
He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she
herself could not have surpassed. There were moments when he felt
almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the moments when
his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had been
yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was
far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect
training, but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain
Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income
and a large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and
was almost as universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth
twaddle. The contrast between this position and any one of some
half-dozen others that he supposed to have at various moments
engaged her hope had an element of the tragical. His mother thought he
got on beautifully with their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense
two persons who dealt so largely in too-ingenious theories of conduct-
that is of their own- would have much in common. He had given due
consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her eminent friend, having
long since made up his mind that he could not, without opposition,
keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of it, as he had done
of worse things. He believed it would take care of itself; it wouldn't
last forever. Neither of these two superior persons knew the other
as well as she supposed, and when each had made an important discovery
or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a relaxation.
Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conversation of the
elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to
learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than
from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable that
Isabel would be injured.

  CHAPTER 24

  It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise
to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top.
Nothing could have been more charming than this occasion- a soft
afternoon in the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions
drove out of the Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure
which crowns the fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly
impressive, and wound between high-walled lanes into which the
wealth of blossoming orchards overdrooped and flung a fragrance, until
they reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where
the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed
a principal, or at least a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her
friend through a wide, high court, where a clear shadow rested below
and a pair of light-arched galleries, facing each other above,
caught the upper sunshine upon their slim columns and the flowering
plants in which they were dressed. There was something grave and
strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you
would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was
of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr.
Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber- it was cold even in the month
of May- and ushered her, with her conductress, into the apartment to
which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was in front,
and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went forward
familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon.
One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the
other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister,
the Countess Gemini.

  "And that's my little girl," he said, "who has just come out of
her convent."

  Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly
arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion
about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then
came to be kissed. The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting
up: Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and
dark and not at all pretty, having features that suggested some
tropical bird- a long beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a
mouth and chin that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks
to various intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy,
was not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she
understood herself and made the most of her points. Her attire,
voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, had the look of
shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as light and sudden as
those of a creature who perched upon twigs. She had a great deal of
manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner,
immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She
remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance;
but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess
Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the violent
waving of some flag of general truce- white silk with fluttering
streamers.

  "You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only
because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come
and see my brother- I make him come and see me. This hill of his is
impossible- I don't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll
be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to
give me another pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I
did. It's very disagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's
sitting in the carriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they
should be. But I've always had good horses; whatever else I may have
lacked I've always managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I
think he knows a horse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes
in, according to his poor light, for everything English. My horses are
English- so it's all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must
tell you," she went on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond
doesn't often invite me; I don't think he likes to have me. It was
quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm
sure you're very new. But don't sit there; that chair's not what it
looks. There are some very good seats here, but there are also some
horrors."

  These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and
pecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some
fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in adversity.

  "I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure
you're invaluable."

  "I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about
her. "Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."

  "I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing
very bad. But I've not what I should have liked."

  He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his
manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He
seemed to hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any
consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not
the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the convent, who,
in her prim white dress, with her small submissive face and her
hands locked before her, stood there as if she were about to partake
of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a
kind of finish that was not entirely artless.

  "You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti- that's
what you'd have liked," said Madame Merle.

  "Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess
Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his
family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at
Isabel as she made it and looked at her from head to foot.

  Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he
could say to Isabel:

  "Won't you have some tea?- you must be very tired," he at last
bethought himself of remarking.

  "No, indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel
felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing;
there was something in the air, in her general impression of things-
she could hardly have said what it was- that deprived her of all
disposition to put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the
combination of people, signified more than lay on the surface; she
would try to understand- she would not simply utter graceful
platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless not aware that many women
would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the working of their
observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed.
A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and who
was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invited her, a
young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to his house. Now that
she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally on
his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment,
we judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that
Mr. Osmond carried his burden less complacently than might have been
expected. "What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in-!"
she could fancy his exclaiming to himself.

  "You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his
bibelots and gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini.

  "I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have
learned something."

  "Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of
learning anything," said Mr. Osmond.

  "Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more- I know
too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are."

  "You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not
finished her education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile.

  "Pansy will never know any harm," said the child's father.
"Pansy's a little convent-flower."

  "Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a
flutter of her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn
anything there; I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be
good, but the nuns do. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on,
appealing to Isabel.

  Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very
bad at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she
herself detested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste-
he would always discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a
thing or one shouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But
one shouldn't attempt to reason it out- you never know where it may
lead you. There are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons,
don't you know? And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes,
that have good reasons. Don't you see what I mean? I don't care
anything about reasons, but I know what I like."

  "Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting
that her acquaintance with this lightly-flitting personage would not
lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument
Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out
her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture
committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence of views.
Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless view of his
sister's tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He
presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly
brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out
of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against
him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her
eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of
an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of
many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he
chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen
but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a
little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who
knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then
Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion,
plunge into the latter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a
thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she
would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure
of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There
were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous;
strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the
case soothingly for the human, for the social failure- by which he
meant the people who couldn't "realize," as they said, on their
sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty,
without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient
entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages
in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty.
Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to
life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from
time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.
Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even
fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a
better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle
and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the
character, didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the
successful social and other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and
London. "We're sweetly provincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm
perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to
fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you- not that I
venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect
your intellect of being! But you'll be going away before I've seen you
three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That's what
it is to live in a country that people come to. When they're
disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable it's still
worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been
deceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit
myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay- to settle? That would be
really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe
she may be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean
literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of
the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola,
and I'm not sure she didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame.
Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little,
dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression,
but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait
in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope you don't object to my speaking
that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea you don't. Perhaps you think
that's even worse. I assure you there's no want of respect in it, to
either of you. You know I'm a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett."

  While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this
somewhat confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle,
who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion,
there was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to
advantage. Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini
that they should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and
shaking out her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor
Miss Archer!" she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive
compassion. "She has been brought quite into the family."

  "Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to
which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though
it had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.

  "I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm
in me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer,"
the Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that
all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened
on one of his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two
or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off
your bonnet."

  "I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are,"
said Isabel, who had risen to her feet.

  The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense
meditation, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered
together, to her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's
Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio."

  "Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the
Countess Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr.
Osmond's never so historical."

  "Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself
are Machiavelli- you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"

  "We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert
Osmond resignedly sighed.

  Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into
the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to
leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his
daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging
to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to
Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness, to
have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company:
she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the
consciousness of a new relation. Through the open doors of the great
room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine
grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the
things scattered about her. The understanding had been that Mr. Osmond
should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked
like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the
pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to
her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"

  She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that- I've
seen your sister too little."

  "Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that
there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our
family tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know
how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to
say- you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only
a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I
sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among
things and people not our own, without responsibilities or
attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up;
marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with
our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much more for
myself than for my sister. She's a very honest lady- more so than
she seems. She's rather unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn
she doesn't tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically
instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I'm not sure she makes
the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband's an awkward
thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it's a good deal
like giving a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look
out the words, but he can't put them together. My sister needs a
grammar, but unfortunately she's not grammatical. Pardon my
troubling you with these details; my sister was very right in saying
you've been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture;
you want more light."

  He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some
curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he
gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to a
young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his
medallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel
felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as
they seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen;
most of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a
dozen specimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could
think for instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia.
There were other people who were, relatively speaking, original-
original, as one might say, by courtesy- such as Mr. Goodwood, as
her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame
Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these
individuals belonged to types already present to her mind. Her mind
contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Osmond- he was a
specimen apart. It was not that she recognized all these truths at the
hour, but they were falling into order before her. For the moment
she only said to herself that this "new relation" would perhaps
prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle had had that note of
rarity, but what quite other power it immediately gained when
sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did, but
rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those
signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside
of old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he
indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an
original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of
so fine a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it
extended to impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his
overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion, ripe without
being coarse, the very evenness of the growth of his beard, and that
light, smooth slenderness of structure which made the movement of a
single one of his fingers produce the effect of an expressive gesture-
these personal points struck our sensitive young woman as signs of
quality, of intensity, somehow as promises of interest. He was
certainly fastidious and critical; he was probably irritable. His
sensibility had governed him- possibly governed him too much; it had
made him impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him to live by
himself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, thinking about art and
beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in everything- his
taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciously incurable consults at
last only his lawyer: that was what made him so different from every
one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of
thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it
was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr.
Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it.
She was certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning
was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meant for
instance by speaking of his provincial side- which was exactly the
side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox,
intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement of high culture?
She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very interesting
to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what then was the
finish of the capital? And she could put this question in spite of
so feeling her host a sly personage; since such shyness as his- the
shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions- was perfectly
consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of
standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure
the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy
assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a
superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others,
and, exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably
took a rather ironical view of what he himself offered: a proof into
the bargain that he was not grossly conceited. If he had not been
shy he wouldn't have effected that gradual, subtle, successful
conversion of it to which she owed both what pleased her in him and
what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her what she thought of
the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that he was interested
in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister.
That he should be so interested showed an enquiring mind; but it was a
little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to his
curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.

  There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been
received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments
Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree
curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of
ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held
his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young
friend, who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and
she was oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and
knowledge to which she found herself introduced. There was enough
for the present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; she
listened to him with attentive eyes, but was not thinking of what he
told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer in every way, more
prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have pleasantly
exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure
to find out, and then perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn't
reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's fatigue came from the
effort to appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had
described her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of
exposing- not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively
little- but her possible grossness of perception. It would have
annoyed her to express a liking for something he, in his superior
enlightenment, would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by
something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She
had no wish to fall into that grotesqueness- in which she had seen
women (and it was a warning) serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She
was very careful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed
or failed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before.

  They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been
served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and
as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the
paramount distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into
the garden without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had
chairs brought out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess
proposed they should take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore
was sent to bid the servant bring out the preparations. The sun had
got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and
the plain that stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow
glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed. The scene
had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the
large expanse of the landscape, with its gardenlike culture and
nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills,
its peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in
splendid harmony and classic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I
think you can be trusted to come back," Osmond said as he led his
companion to one of the angles of the terrace.

  "I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you
say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about
one's natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission
if I were to settle in Florence."

  "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated."

  "The point's to find out where that is."

  "Very true- she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry.
People ought to make it very plain to her."

  "Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled
Isabel.

  "I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle
had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I
thought she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world."

  "I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day."

  "I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of
pleasures."

  "It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choose
something very deliberately, and be faithful to that."

  "By that rule then, I've not been frivolous."

  "Have you never made plans?"

  "Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day."

  "It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself to
observe.

  "It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible."

  "As quiet?" the girl repeated.

  "Not to worry- not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be
content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short
pauses between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his
visitor's with the conscious air of a man who has brought himself to
confess something.

  "Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony.

  "Yes, because it's negative."

  "Has your life been negative?"

  "Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my
indifference. Mind you, not my natural indifference- I had none. But
my studied, my wilful renunciation."

  She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were
joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great
fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was
his affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't
see why you should have renounced," she said in a moment.

  "Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I
was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure
early in life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman
living. There were two or three people in the world I envied- the
Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There
were even moments when I envied the Pope of Rome- for the
consideration he enjoys. I should have been delighted to be considered
to that extent; but since that couldn't be I didn't care for
anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. The
leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately I
was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy- I couldn't
even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have had to get out of
the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing of
my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was,
to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on that
quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean to
say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have been
definite- limited. The events of my life have been absolutely
unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix
at a bargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or
discovering, as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed
over by some inspired idiot."

  This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's' career if
Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human
element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been
mingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't
expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from
provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her
everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now
desired to be- would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had
certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination,
however, to express a measured sympathy for the success with which
he had preserved his independence. "That's a very pleasant life,"
she said, "to renounce everything but Correggio!"

  "Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm
whining about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy."

  This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you
lived here always?"

  "No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in
Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change,
however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My
daughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the
Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for
Pansy."

  "Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl."

  "Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of
heaven! She is my great happiness!"

  CHAPTER 25

  While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time
after we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her
companion, breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to
exchange remarks. They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed
expectancy; an attitude especially marked on the part of the
Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervous temperament than her
friend, practised with less success the art of disguising
impatience. What these ladies were waiting for would not have been
apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their own minds.
Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend from
her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The
Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her
pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to
place it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden,
to which point her eyes followed them.

  "My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me
if I don't congratulate you!"

  "Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should."

  "Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the
Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.

  Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked
serenely at her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very
well," she smiled.

  "No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that
just now you don't wish."

  "You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle
gravely, yet without bitterness.

  "You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such
things?"

  "What your brother says has a point."

  "Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever
as he you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our
difference. But it will be much better that you should understand me."

  "Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?"

  "If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to
appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."

  Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might
be something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think
me more calculating than I am."

  "It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating
wrong. You've done so in this case."

  "You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover
that."

  "No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said
the Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like
her very much."

  "So do I," Madame Merle mentioned.

  "You've a strange way of showing it."

  "Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."

  "That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that
could happen to her!"

  Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was
odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes
upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to
reflection. "My dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not
to agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three persons
much stronger of purpose than yourself."

  "Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also
very strong of purpose?"

  "Quite as much so as we."

  "Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's
her interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"

  "Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not
exposed to compulsion or deception."

  "I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I
don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But
together you're dangerous- like some chemical combination."

  "You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.

  "I don't mean to touch you- but I shall talk to that girl."

  "My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into
your head."

  "I take an interest in her- that's what has got into my head. I like
her."

  Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."

  The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a
grimace. "Ah, you are dangerous- even by yourself!"

  "If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her,"
said Madame Merle.

  "I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in
two interviews."

  Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the
house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms
folded; and she at present was evidently not lost in the mere
impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle
watched her she lowered her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a
certain embarrassment, while she pressed the point of her parasol into
the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she
pronounced.

  The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy- he might, tarnished as to
livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of
old-time manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya-
had come out with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then
had gone back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again
disappeared, to return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched
these proceedings with the deepest interest, standing with her small
hands folded together upon the front of her scanty frock; but she
had not presumed to offer assistance. When the tea-table had been
arranged, however, she gently approached her aunt.

  "Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"

  The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and
without answering her question.

  "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best frock?"

  "Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common
occasions."

  "Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?- to say
nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."

  Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons
mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile. "I
have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I
expose it beside your beautiful things?"

  "Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear
the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they
don't dress you so well as they might."

  The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a
good little dress to make tea- don't you think? Don't you believe papa
would allow me?"

  "Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me,
your father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them
better. Ask her."

  Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty
question- let me think. It seems to me it would please your father
to see a careful little daughter making his tea. It's the proper
duty of the daughter of the house- when she grows up."

  "So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how
well I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself
at the table.

  "Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,
remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the
Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of
your visitor."

  "Ah, she's not mine- she's papa's," Pansy objected.

  "Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle.

  "I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."

  "Do you like her then?" the Countess asked.

  "She's charming- charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat
conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly."

  "And how do you think she pleases your father?"

  "Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and
call them to tea," she went on to the child.

  "You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed
to summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the
terrace.

  "If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to
know if the child likes her," said the Countess.

  "If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame
Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to
need a husband rather than a stepmother."

  "And will you provide the husband as well?"

  "I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I
imagine you'll do the same."

  "Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all
women, set such a price on a husband?"

  "You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I
say a husband I mean a good one."

  "There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."

  Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I
don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really
object either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying when the
time comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident
that we shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband
for her together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help."

  "Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me.
Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman."

  "It's much better that we should always act together," Madame
Merle went on.

  "Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising.

  Madame Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed,
you've not my coolness!"

  Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and
Isabel had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd
make her happy?" the Countess demanded.

  "If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a
gentleman.

  The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do
you mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful
for! Of course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be
reminded of that. But does he think he can marry any girl he happens
to pick out? Osmond's a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've
never, no, no, never, seen any one of Osmond's pretensions! What
they're all founded on is more than I can say. I'm his own sister; I
might be supposed to know. Who is he, if you please? What has he
ever done? If there had been anything particularly grand in his
origin- if he were made of some superior clay- I presume I should have
got some inkling of it. If there had been any great honours or
splendours in the family I should certainly have made the most of
them: they would have been quite in my line. But there's nothing,
nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of course; but so
were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person now-a-days.
Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally been said.
As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's descended
from the gods."

  "You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened
to this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe,
because her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied
themselves with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You
Osmonds are a fine race- your blood must flow from some very pure
source. Your brother, like an intelligent man, has had the
conviction of it if he has not had the proofs. You're modest about it,
but you yourself are extremely distinguished. What do you say about
your niece? The child's a little princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle
added, "it won't be an easy matter for Osmond to marry Miss Archer.
Yet he can try."

  "I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little."

  "We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."

  "I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what
he has done."

  "What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone.
And he has known how to wait."

  "To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?"

  "That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has
seventy thousand pounds."

  "Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be
sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."

  "If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He
must have the best."

  "Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet
the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for
her happiness!"

  CHAPTER 26

  Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to
Palazzo Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs.
Touchett and Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the
former of these ladies noted the fact that in the course of a
fortnight he called five times, and compared it with another fact that
she found no difficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto
constituted his regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she
had never observed him select for such visits those moments, of almost
periodical recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was
not for Madame Merle that he came; these two were old friends and he
never put himself out for her. He was not fond of Ralph- Ralph had
told her so- and it was not supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly
taken a fancy to her son. Ralph was imperturbable- Ralph had a kind of
loose-fitting urbanity that wrapped him about like an ill-made
overcoat, but of which he never divested himself; he thought Mr.
Osmond very good company and was willing at any time to look at him in
the light of hospitality. But he didn't flatter himself that the
desire to repair a past injustice was the motive of their visitor's
calls; he read the situation more clearly. Isabel was the
attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one. Osmond was a
critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he should be
curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed to him
that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied
that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back
found a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering
dimly by what art and what process- so negative and so wise as they
were- he had everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never
been an importunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive,
and he was recommended to her by his appearance of being as well
able to do without her as she was to do without him- a quality that
always, oddly enough, affected her as providing ground for a
relation with her. It gave her no satisfaction, however, to think that
he had taken it into his head to marry her niece. Such an alliance, on
Isabel's part, would have an air of almost morbid perversity. Mrs.
Touchett easily remembered that the girl had refused an English
peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord Warburton had not
successfully wrestled should content herself with an obscure
American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child and
an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's
conception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the
sentimental, but the political, view of matrimony- a view which has
always had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the folly
to listen to him," she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that
Isabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another.
He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would
have said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much
entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing
her he should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to
see life, and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of
fine gentlemen going down on their knees to her would do as well as
anything else. Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth
besieger; he had no conviction she would stop at a third. She would
keep the gate ajar and open a parley; she would certainly not allow
number three to come in. He expressed this view, somewhat after this
fashion, to his mother, who looked at him as if he had been dancing
a jig. He had such a fanciful, pictorial way of saying things that
he might as well address her in the deaf-mute's alphabet.

  "I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too many
figures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two
words in the language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants
to marry Mr. Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let
her alone to find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I
know very little about the young man in America; I don't think she
spends much of her time in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got
tired of waiting for her. There's nothing in life to prevent her
marrying Mr. Osmond if she only looks at him in a certain way.
That's all very well; no one approves more than I of one's pleasing
one's self. But she takes her pleasure in such odd things; she's
capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for the beauty of his opinions or for
his autograph of Michael Angelo. She wants to be disinterested: as
if she were the only person who's in danger of not being so! Will he
be so disinterested when he has the spending of her money? That was
her idea before your father's death, and it has acquired new charms
for her since. She ought to marry some one of whose
disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no
such proof of that as his having a fortune of his own."

  "My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making
fools of us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by
studying human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty.
She has started on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll
change her course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She
may have slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll
be steaming away again. Excuse another metaphor."

  Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as
to withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You who
know everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that
curious creature's really making love to my niece."

  "Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a
full intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!"

  "Hadn't it occurred to you?"

  "You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder,"
she added, "if it has occurred to Isabel."

  "Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.

  Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would
be to ask Mr. Osmond."

  "I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquire
of me- as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's
situation- what business it is of mine."

  "I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared.

  "But what business- for him- is it of yours?"

  "It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so
much less my business than any one's else that he can put me off
with anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this
that I shall know."

  "Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of
your penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can
speak to Isabel."

  Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too
quick with her. Don't inflame her imagination."

  "I never did anything in my life to any one's imagination. But I'm
always sure of her doing something- well, not of my kind."

  "No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the
point of interrogation.

  "Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least
solid to offer."

  Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her
mouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let
us distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a
man who in favourable conditions might very well make a great
impression. He has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than
once."

  "Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs;
they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's precisely
why I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that
I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less
pert little daughter."

  "The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said
Madame Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and
very harmless person."

  "In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean?
Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so
that Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with
a dowry."

  "Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she
likes the poor child."

  "Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a
week hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her
mission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself-
and that, to prove it, she must first become one."

  "She would make a charming stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but
I quite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission
too hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as
difficult as changing the shape of one's nose: there they are, each,
in the middle of one's face and one's character- one has to begin
too far back. But I'll investigate and report to you."

  All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions
that her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame
Merle had said nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more
pointedly to him than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and
foreign, who now arrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects
to Miss Archer's aunt. Isabel thought him interesting- she came back
to that; she liked so to think of him. She had carried away an image
from her visit to his hill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him
did nothing to efface and which put on for her a particular harmony
with other supposed and divined things, histories within histories:
the image of a quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished man,
strolling on a moss-grown terrace above the sweet Val d'Arno and
holding by the hand a little girl whose bell-like clearness gave a new
grace to childhood. The picture had no flourishes, but she liked its
lowness of tone and the atmosphere of summer twilight that pervaded
it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue that touched her most
nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects, contacts- what
might she call them?- of a thin and those of a rich association; of
a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old sorrow that
sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was perhaps
exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care for
beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the
career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and
with the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal
Italian garden- allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural
dews of a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo
Crescentini Mr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first-
oh self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only
to a sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which
usually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive,
rather aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not
injured by the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no
difficulty in believing that a person was sincere who had so many of
the signs of strong conviction- as for instance an explicit and
graceful appreciation of anything that might be said on his own side
of the question, said perhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What
continued to please this young woman was that while he talked so for
amusement he didn't talk, as she had heard people, for "effect." He
uttered his ideas as if, odd as they often appeared, he were used to
them and had lived with them; old polished knobs and heads and
handles, of precious substance, that could be fitted if necessary to
new walking-sticks- not switches plucked in destitution from the
common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One day he brought his
small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew acquaintance with
the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be kissed by every
member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue in a French
play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern;
American girls were very different- different too were the maidens
of England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the
world, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and
infantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine
mantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given
her- little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet
of blank paper- the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped
that so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text.

  The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was
quite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had
been written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt
by no means honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of
unmistakeable blots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess
gave rise indeed to some discussion between the mistress of the
house and the visitor from Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not
such a fool as to irritate people by always agreeing with them)
availed herself felicitously enough of that large licence of dissent
which her hostess permitted as freely as she practised it. Mrs.
Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity that this highly
compromised character should have presented herself at such a time
of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so little as
she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini.
Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under
that roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so
mismanaged her improprieties that they had ceased to hang together
at all- which was at the least what one asked of such matters- and had
become the mere floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding
social circulation. She had been married by her mother- a more
administrative person, with an appreciation of foreign titles which
the daughter, to do her justice, had probably by this time thrown off-
to Italian nobleman who had perhaps given her some excuse for
attempting to quench the consciousness of outrage. The Countess,
however, had consoled herself outrageously, and the list of her
excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her adventures. Mrs.
Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the Countess had
made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city; but, as
Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere.

  Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal
and wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of
a woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the
wrong way. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about
it one should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark
that would exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had
better shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so
long as she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make
arbitrary differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent,
she had not been so clever as other women. She was a good creature,
not clever at all; but since when had that been a ground of
exclusion from the best society? For ever so long now one had heard
nothing about her, and there could be no better proof of her having
renounced the error of her ways than her desire to become a member
of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel could contribute nothing to this
interesting dispute, not even a patient attention; she contented
herself with having given a friendly welcome to the unfortunate
lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit of being Mr.
Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it proper
to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of
things she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not
received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the
villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident. Had
not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have
proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame
Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel
more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the
history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member
of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been
glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which
had yet not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother
was able to offer- a sum about equivalent to that which had already
formed her brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since
then, however, had inherited money, and now they were well enough off,
as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a
low-lived brute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no
children; she had lost three within a year of their birth. Her mother,
who had bristled with pretensions to elegant learning and published
descriptive poems and corresponded on Italian subjects with the
English weekly journals, her mother had died three years after the
Countess's marriage, the father, lost in the grey American dawn of the
situation, but reputed originally rich and wild, having died much
earlier. One could see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle held-
see that he had been brought up by a woman; though, to do him justice,
one would suppose it had been by a more sensible woman than the
American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be called. She had
brought her children to Italy after her husband's death, and Mrs.
Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her arrival. She
thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity of judgement
on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of
political marriages. The Countess was very good company and not really
the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was to
observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.
Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;
he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be
confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.
Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism, her
violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his
nerves, she was not his sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh,
the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be
habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times
her visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had
given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked
almost exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know
Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base
the people in Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how
much she should like to live somewhere else- in Paris, in London, in
Washington; how impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in
Italy except a little old lace; how dear the world was growing
everywhere; what a life of suffering and privation she had led. Madame
Merle listened with interest to Isabel's account of this passage,
but she had not needed it to feel exempt from anxiety. On the whole
she was not afraid of the Countess, and she could afford to do what
was altogether best- not to appear so.

  Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind
her back, so easy a matter to patronize. Henrietta Stackpole, who
had left Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had
worked her way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy,
reached the banks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle
surveyed her with a single glance, took her in from head to foot,
and after a pang of despair determined to endure her. She determined
indeed to delight in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she
might be grasped as a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her
into insignificance, and Isabel felt that in foreseeing this
liberality she had done justice to her friend's intelligence.
Henrietta's arrival had been announced by Mr. Bantling, who, coming
down from Nice while she was at Venice, and expecting to find her in
Florence, which she had not yet reached, called at Palazzo Crescentini
to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own advent occurred two
days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted for
by the fact that he had not seen her since the termination of the
episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his situation was
generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph Touchett, who, in
the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked a cigar
there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the subject
of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman took the
joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he regarded
the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked Miss
Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her
shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was
not perpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she
did, how what they did- and they had done things!- would look. Miss
Stackpole never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care,
pray why should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted
awfully to see if she ever would care. He was prepared to go as far as
she- he didn't see why he should break down first.

  Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had
brightened on her leaving England, and she was now in the full
enjoyment of her copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to
sacrifice her hopes with regard to the inner life; the social
question, on the Continent, bristled with difficulties even more
numerous than those she had encountered in England. But on the
Continent there was the outer life, which was palpable and visible
at every turn, and more easily convertible to literary uses than the
customs of those opaque islanders. Out of doors in foreign lands, as
she ingeniously remarked, one seemed to see the right side of the
tapestry; out of doors in England one seemed to see the wrong side,
which gave one no notion of the figure. The admission costs her
historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of more occult things, was
now paying much attention to the outer life. She had been studying
it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent to the
Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza, the
Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted
Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was
at least seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome
before the malaria should come on- he apparently supposed that it
began on a fixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present
but few days in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and
she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he
was a military man and as he had had a classical education- he had
been bred at Eton, where they study nothing but Latin and
Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole- he would be a most useful
companion in the city of the Caesars. At this juncture Ralph had the
happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also, under his own escort,
should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected to pass a portion of
the next winter there- that was very well; but meantime there was no
harm in surveying the field. There were ten days left of the beautiful
month of May- the most precious month of all to the true Rome lover.
Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a foregone conclusion.
She was provided with a trusty companion of her own sex, whose
society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's attention,
would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain with
Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't care to
return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace in
Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to
Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's
proposal, and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a
thing to be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the
party of four arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this
occasion, had resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have
seen that she now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand
alone. One of Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert
Osmond before she started and mentioning her intention to him.

  "I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like
to see you on that wonderful ground."

  She scarcely faltered. "You might come then."

  "But you'll have a lot of people with you."

  "Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone."

  For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at
last. They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it."

  "Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear- the Niobe of Nations,
you know- it has been spoiled?" she asked.

  "No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled: "If I
were to go, what should I do with my little girl?"

  "Can't you leave her at the villa?"

  "I don't know that I like that- though there's a very good old woman
who looks after her. I can't afford a governess."

  "Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly.

  Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at her
convent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure."

  "You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired.

  "No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world."

  "I was brought up on a different system."

  "You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you- you were exceptional."

  "I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was
not some truth in the speech.

  Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it would
make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her
there tomorrow."

  "Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself."

  "I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had
almost the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his
domestic matters with Miss Archer.

  "Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards
making her resemble me!"

  After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the
Countess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's
drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general,
but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman
half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair: "She wants me to go
to Rome with her," he remarked in a low voice.

  "To go with her?"

  "To be there while she's there. She proposed it."

  "I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented."

  "Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging- she's very
encouraging."

  "I rejoice to hear it- but don't cry victory too soon. Of course
you'll go to Rome."

  "Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!"

  "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it- you're very ungrateful. You've
not been so well occupied these many years."

  "The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be
grateful for that."

  "Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked with
her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room.
"You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that
you've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to
oblige me."

  "The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded.

  Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her
lips closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to
say about that fine creature?"

  "All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say
more?"

  She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative
grace to the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm
frightened at the abyss into which I shall have cast her."

  He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back- you've gone too far."

  "Very good; but you must do the rest yourself."

  "I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond.

  Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but
when she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was
awaiting her guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend
into it he stood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she
said rather wearily; you shouldn't have moved when I did."

  He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "I
always forget; I'm out of the habit."

  "You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the
windows of the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town.

  He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She's
really very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful."

  "It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the
better for me."

  "I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the
bargain capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault."

  "What's that?"

  "Too many ideas."

  "I warned you she was clever."

  "Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond.

  "Why is that fortunate?"

  "Dame, if they must be sacrificed!"

  Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she
spoke to the coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go
to Rome what shall I do with Pansy?"

  "I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.

  CHAPTER 27

  I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's
response to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyze her feelings as she
trod the pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she
crossed the threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her
impression was such as might have been expected of a person of her
freshness and her eagerness. She had always been fond of history,
and here was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of
the sunshine. She had an imagination that kindled at the mention of
great deeds, and wherever she turned some great deed had been acted.
These things strongly moved her, but moved her all inwardly. It seemed
to her companions that she talked less than usual, and Ralph Touchett,
when he appeared to be looking listlessly and awkwardly over her head,
was really dropping on her an intensity of observation. By her own
measure she was very happy; she would even have been willing to take
these hours for the happiest she was ever to know. The sense of the
terrible human past was heavy to her, but that of something altogether
contemporary would suddenly give it wings that it could wave in the
blue. Her consciousness was so mixed that she scarcely knew where
the different parts of it would lead her, and she went about in a
repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often in the things she
looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet not seeing many of
the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph said, confessed
to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing tourists had
departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity.
The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains in their
mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the
corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of
flowers. Our friends had gone one afternoon- it was the third of their
stay- to look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours
having been for some time previous largely extended. They had
descended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along
which they wandered with a reverence of step which was not the same on
the part of each. Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that
ancient Rome had been paved a good deal like New York, and even
found an analogy between the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the
antique street and the over-jangled iron grooves which express the
intensity of American life. The sun had begun to sink, the air was a
golden haze, and the long shadows of broken column and vague
pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta wandered away with
Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to her to hear speak
of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph addressed such
elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive ear of our
heroine. One of the humble archaeologists who hover about the place
had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his lesson
with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing to
impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the
Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the
signori to go and watch it a little they might see something of
interest. The proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to
Isabel, weary with much wandering; so that she admonished her
companion to satisfy his curiosity while she patiently awaited his
return. The hour and the place were much to her taste- she should
enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly went off with the
cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column near the
foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but she was
not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged relics of
the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the corrosion
of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her
thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a
concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to
regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the
Roman past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her
imagination had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow
circles over the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her
thoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not
dislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she had not
heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadow was thrown
across the line of her vision. She looked up and saw a gentleman- a
gentleman who was not Ralph come back to say that the excavations were
a bore. This personage was startled as she was startled; he stood
there baring his head to her perceptibly pale surprise.

  "Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.

  "I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you."

  She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions
have just left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there."

  "Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the
direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had
recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very
kindly. "Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her
dejected pillar. "I'm afraid you're tired."

  "Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.
"Don't let me interrupt you," she added.

  "Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no
idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only
passing through."

  "You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned
from Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.

  "Yes, I came abroad for six months- soon after I saw you last.
I've been in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens."
He managed not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer
look at the girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you,
or will you let me stay a little?"

  She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord
Warburton; I'm very glad to see you."

  "Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"

  The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded
a resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room
even for a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that
great class seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of
five minutes he had asked her several questions, taken rather at
random and to which, as he put some of them twice over, he
apparently somewhat missed catching the answer; had given her too some
information about himself which was not wasted upon her calmer
feminine sense. He repeated more than once that he had not expected to
meet her, and it was evident that the encounter touched him in a way
that would have made preparation advisable. He began abruptly to
pass from the impunity of things to their solemnity, and from their
being delightful to their being impossible. He was splendidly
sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had been burnished by the
fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting, heterogeneous
garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands is wont to
consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with his
pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its
seasoning, his manly figure, his minimizing manner and his general air
of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative
of the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by
those who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was
glad she had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of
shocks, every one of his merits- these properties partaking of the
essence of great decent houses, as one might put it; resembling
their innermost fixtures and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting
and removable only by some whole break-up. They talked of the
matters naturally in order; her uncle's death, Ralph's state of
health, the way she had passed her winter, her visit to Rome, her
return to Florence, her plans for the summer, the hotel she was
staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own adventures, movements,
intentions, impressions and present domicile. At last there was a
silence, and it said so much more than either had said that it
scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several times."

  "Written to me? I've never had your letters."

  "I never sent them. I burned them up."

  "Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than
I!"

  "I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity
that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to
trouble you with letters."

  "I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I
hoped that- that-" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness
in the utterance of her thought.

  "I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always
remain good friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it,
was certainly flat enough; but then he was interested in making it
appear so.

  She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that";
a speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.

  "It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with
force.

  "I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as
she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on the
answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was
pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man
than he. But her answer remained.

  "It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in
your power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange
elation.

  "I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would
attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that- the
pain's greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small
conscious majesty, looking for her companions.

  "I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I
only just want you to know one or two things- in fairness to myself,
as it were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very
strongly what I expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of
anything else. I tried to forget- energetically, systematically. I
tried to take an interest in somebody else. I tell you this because
I want you to know I did my duty. I didn't succeed. It was for the
same purpose I went abroad- as far away as possible. They say
travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't distract mine. I've
thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you. I'm exactly the
same. I love you just as much, and everything I said to you then is
just as true. This instant at which I speak to you shows me again
exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably charm me.
There- I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist; it's only
for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few minutes since,
without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the
very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had recovered his
self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might have
been addressing a small committee- making all quietly and clearly a
statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a paper of
notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And the
committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.

  "I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You
may be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of
which she tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning:
"There's no harm in that on either side."

  They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his
sisters and request him to let them know she had done so. He made
for the moment no further reference to their great question, but
dipped again into shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know
when she was to leave Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her
stay declared he was glad it was still so distant.

  "Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?"
she enquired with some anxiety.

  "Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one
would treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through
Rome is to stop a week or two."

  "Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"

  His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't
like that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me."

  "It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to
leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of
you."

  "Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."

  They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face.
"Poor Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be
good for both of them.

  "Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful."

  "You may be unhappy, but you shall not make me so. That I can't
allow."

  "If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At
this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a
word to displease you."

  "Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end."

  "Perhaps some day- after a while- you'll give me leave."

  "Give you leave to make me unhappy?"

  He hesitated. "To tell you again-" But he checked himself. "I'll
keep it down. I'll keep it down always."

  Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by
Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from
among the mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and
came into sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his
friend with joy qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high
voice "Gracious, there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour
greeted with the austerity with which, after long separation,
English neighbours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large
intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon
established her relation to the crisis. "I don't suppose you
remember me, sir."

  "Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to
come and see me, and you never came."

  "I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly.

  "Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh.

  "If you do I'll go; so be sure!"

  Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr.
Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now
took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly
"Oh, you here, Bantling?" and a hand-shake.

  "Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!"

  "I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined
facetiously.

  "I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you."

  "Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton
laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small
sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward.

  The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long
letters- one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in
neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected
suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon
all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern
barbarians) follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's;
and it had been agreed among our friends that they would drive
together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage
came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and
paid a visit to the two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having
gone out together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel
a proof of his intention to keep the promise made her the evening
before; he was both discreet and frank- not even dumbly importunate or
remotely intense. He thus left her to judge what a mere good friend he
could be. He talked about his travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and
when Miss Stackpole asked him whether it would "pay" for her to
visit those countries assured her they offered a great field to female
enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his
purpose was and what he expected to gain even by proving the
superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt her by
showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the trouble.
She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and nothing he
could now do was required to light the view. Moreover his being in
Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong sort- she
liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on bringing
his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's and
should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply that
he must follow his convenience.

  In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the
first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior
tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller
than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern
curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she
found herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle
down through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections
of marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of
greatness rose and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to
soar. She gazed and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her
silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her
and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for
instance that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary
conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at Saint Peter's there
is much to observe, and as there is something almost profane in the
vastness of the place, which seems meant as much for physical as for
spiritual exercise, the different figures and groups, the mingled
worshippers and spectators, may follow their various intentions
without conflict or scandal. In that splendid immensity individual
indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel and her
companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta was
obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered by
comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed her
protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more
accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the
circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the
choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers
were borne to them over the heads of the large number of persons
clustered outside the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this
crowd, composed in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive
strangers, and while they stood there the sacred concert went forward.
Ralph, with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where
Isabel, looking behind the dense group in front of her, saw the
afternoon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle
with the splendid chant, slope through the embossed recesses of high
windows. After a while the singing stopped and then Lord Warburton
seemed disposed to move off with her. Isabel could only accompany him;
whereupon she found herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who
appeared to have been standing at a short distance behind her. He
now approached with all the forms- he appeared to have multiplied them
on this occasion to suit the place.

  "So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand.

  "Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel.
They told me you had come here, and I looked about for you."

  "The others are inside," she decided to say.

  "I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.

  She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had
heard this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said
to her the morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr.
Osmond's words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this
reminiscence had not the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any
betrayal by mentioning to each companion the name of the other, and
fortunately at this moment Mr. Bantling emerged from the choir,
cleaving the crowd with British valour and followed by Miss
Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, because this is
perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on perceiving the
gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as
not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however, from
civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, that
she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had
met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to
say to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers-
than Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr.
Rosier in Paris. "I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased
to remark, "but for a nice-girl you do attract the most unnatural
people. Mr. Goodwood's the only one I've any respect for, and he's
just the one you don't appreciate."

  "What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile
enquiring of our young lady.

  "It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with
replying.

  "It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom."

  "Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?"
she asked with rather a liking for her phrase.

  "I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one is
nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else."

  "You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering
something he had referred to in Florence.

  "Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.

  Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two
strolled away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?"
his lordship demanded.

  "His name's Gilbert Osmond- he lives in Florence," Ralph said.

  "What is he besides?"

  "Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that-
he's so little of one."

  "Has he known Miss Archer long?"

  "Three or four weeks."

  "Does she like him?"

  "She's trying to find out."

  "And will she?"

  "Find out-?" Ralph asked.

  "Will she like him?"

  "Do you mean will she accept him?"

  "Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's
what I horribly mean."

  "Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied.

  His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be
perfectly quiet?"

  "As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added.

  "The chance she may?"

  "The chance she may not?"

  Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again.
"Is he awfully clever?"

  "Awfully," said Ralph.

  His companion thought. "And what else?"

  "What more do you want?" Ralph groaned.

  "Do you mean what more does she?"

  Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the
others. "She wants nothing that we can give her."

  "Ah well, if she won't have You-!" said his lordship handsomely as
they went.

  CHAPTER 28

  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 recognized. 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 dislike."

  "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; today 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 good-bye." 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 29

  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 fertilizing 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 an imagination that startles 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 over-muffled 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 we're separating- that
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 patronizing. 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 30

  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 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 practice 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 31

  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 apologize 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
eprouvee 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 civilized 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 32

  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 handshake, 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 33

  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 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 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 criticize
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 criticize 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 34

  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 an 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 noon-tide 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
criticize, 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 be 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 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 35

  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 36

  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 analyze.
Pardon me if I seem patronizing, 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 bellemere."

  "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 37

  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 special 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 recognize. 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 be 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."

  "So is your husband."

  "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 authorized 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 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 around 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 absent-mindedly.

  "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 horse-whipped."

  "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 38

  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 Mad 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 theorizing. 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 recognize 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? 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 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 apologize 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!"-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 39

  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 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 minimize the
contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her think
of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs.
Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been
talked of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in
the person of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs.
Touchett had undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told
her, without circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part;
and Madame Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to
think no one worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living,
more or less, for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no
symptom of irritation-Madame Merle now took a very high tone and
declared that this was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop
to defend herself. She added, however (without stooping), that her
behaviour had been only too simple, that she had believed only what
she saw, that she saw Isabel was not eager to marry and Osmond not
eager to please (his repeated visits had been nothing; he was boring
himself to death on his hill-top and he came merely for amusement).
Isabel had kept her sentiments to herself, and her journey to Greece
and Egypt had effectually thrown dust in her companion's eyes.
Madame Merle accepted the event-she was unprepared to think of it as a
scandal; but that she had played any part in it, double or single, was
an imputation against which she proudly protested. It was doubtless in
consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude, and of the injury it
offered to habits consecrated by many charming seasons, that Madame
Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months in England, where
her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had done her a wrong;
there are some things that can't be forgiven. But Madame Merle
suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite in her
dignity.

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

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

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

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

  "Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?"

  "Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the sofa,
all shamelessly.

  "Do you mean you'll return to England?"

  "Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome."

  "Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough."

  "It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been."

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

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

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

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

  "Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor
say?"

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

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

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

  "I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone."

  "My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,"

  Ralph cried.

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

  "You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man."

  "Then I should have come back here."

  "And then you'd have gone to England."

  "No, no; I should have stayed."

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

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

  "Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you
come with me quite-platonically?"

  "I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad."

  "I suspect we've each been playing our little game."

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

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

  "I've seen him three times. He's very amusing."

  "I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph.

  "Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely.

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

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

  "The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help
it."

  "What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend demanded.

  "I've not told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and
even offer to go with me to Catania. She's capable of that."

  "In your place I should like it."

  "Her husband won't like it."

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

  "I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said Ralph.

  "Is there so much already?"

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

  "Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop
here?"

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

  "My dear Touchett, your defensive powers-!" Lord Warburton began
with a smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that
checked him.

  "Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice
question," he observed instead.

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

  "You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?"

  "I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested
in Mrs. Osmond."

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

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

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

  "Ah, she told you, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling.

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

  "Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it-what she has
done-and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very
careful."

  "She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again."

  "I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of your
duty."

  "Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!"

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

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

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

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

  "She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine."

  "Of course there's the difference in our ages-more than twenty
years."

  "My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?"

  "Perfectly serious-as far as I've got."

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

  His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose
for his daughter to please him."

  "He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same."

  "He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship.

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

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

  "The girl herself? Delighted, surely." "No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond."

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

  "Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy."

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

  "Yes, you do; you know how to say everything."

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

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

  CHAPTER 40

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

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

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

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

  "Don't you like Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She
thinks a great deal of you."

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

  Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late-too
late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But
meantime, if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel's
feelings were also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the
situation was as acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A
dissatisfied mind, whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of
reasons; they bloom as thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame
Merle's having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be
one of her titles to consideration; it might have been written,
after all, that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went
on there was less and less, and Isabel once said to herself that
perhaps without her these things would not have been. That
reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an immediate
horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me not be
unjust," she said; "Let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them
upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that
ingenious apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit
to make and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something
irritating-there was almost an air of mockery-in her neat
discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there
was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had
just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little
what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to
explain. jealous of her-jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just
then suggested no near reality.

  She almost wished jealousy had been possible; it would have made
in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner one of the symptoms
of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so wise that she
might have been pretending to know Isabel better than Isabel knew
herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions-many of them of an elevated character; but at no period
had they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than
to-day. It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might
have been summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy
it should not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had
always had a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been
seriously discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to
justice-not to pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle
with its disappointment would be a petty revenge-especially as the
pleasure to be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It
might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds.
It was impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes
open; if ever a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was
doubtless not a free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had
been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare; she had
looked and considered and chosen. When a woman had made such a
mistake, there was only one way to repair it-just immensely (oh,
with the highest grandeur! to accept it. One folly was enough,
especially when it was to last for ever; a second one would not much
set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness
which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been right, for all
that, in taking her precautions.

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

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

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

  "Didn't he ask you to sit down?" Isabel asked with a smile.

  Madame Merle looked about her. "Ah, it's very true; I was going
away."

  "You must stay now."

  "Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind."

  "I've told you that before," Isabel said-"that it takes something
extraordinary to bring you to this house."

  "And you know what I've told you; that whether I come or whether I
stay away, I've always the same motive-the affection I bear you."

  "Yes, you've told me that."

  "You look just now as if you didn't believe it," said Madame Merle.

  "Ah," Isabel answered, "the profundity of your motives, that's the
last thing I doubt!"

  "You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words."

  Isabel shook her head gravely. "I know you've always been kind to
me."

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

  "I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles."

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

  "Ah," said Isabel reflectively, "it's his trouble then, not yours."

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

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

  Madame Merle hesitated. "I gathered from your husband that perhaps
you didn't."

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

  "It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it."

  "It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at
fault."

  "Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to
think.

  To-day he doesn't."

  "Haven't you been telling him?" Isabel asked.

  Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. "Do you know you're a
little dry?"

  "Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me."

  "In that there's some reason. You're so near the child."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "for all the comfort I've given him! If you think
me dry, I wonder what he thinks."

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

  "I can do nothing."

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

  "He's very much in love," said Isabel.

  "Very much-for him."

  "Very much for Pansy, you might say as well."

  Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you think she's
attractive?"

  "The dearest little person possible-but very limited."

  "She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's
not unlimited."

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

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

  "I don't know; I've not asked her."

  "You've never sounded her a little?"

  "It's not my place; it's her father's."

  "Ah, you're too literal!" said Madame Merle.

  "I must judge for myself."

  Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "That must have pleased him, if you've told him," she answered,
smiling.

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

  "Jealous?

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

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

  "Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord
Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on.

  Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass.

  "It's true-there's nothing impossible," she returned at last,
gravely and more gently.

  "So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks."

  "That I don't know."

  "Ask him and you'll see."

  "I shall not ask him," said Isabel.

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

  "I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my
stepdaughter very much."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Much better, I think."

  "It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's
really very kind of him."

  "Very kind of him?"

  "To drop his eyes on a simple little girl."

  "I don't see that."

  "It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond-"

  "After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has ever
known!" Isabel exclaimed.

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

  "I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's Lord Warburton."

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

  "Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!" Isabel cried abruptly.

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

  "All the same, you know, be kind to him."

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

  "You had better wait till he asks her."

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

  "If I make him?"

  "It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him."

  Isabel frowned a little. "Where did you learn that?"

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

  "I certainly never told you anything of the sort."

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 41

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

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

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

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

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

  "Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked.

  "Yes, he stayed half an hour."

  "Did he see Pansy?"

  "Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her."

  "Did he talk with her much?"

  "He talked almost only to her."

  "It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?"

  "I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to
give it a name."

  "That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered
after a moment.

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

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

  "No, I'm trying to live at peace."

  "Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself."

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

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

  Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry
again."

  "That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good."

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

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

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

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

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

  "That's fortunate," Osmond observed.

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

  "There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you, I've
turned him out."

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

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

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

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

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

  "So I think. But you're not bound to do so."

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

  Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire.

  "Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in a moment
with a certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes above all to please,"
he added.

  "To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps."

  "No, to please me."

  "Me too a little, I think," said Isabel.

  "Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like."

  "If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on.

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

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

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

  "There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the
first chance that has offered."

  "Did you speak to him of Rosier?"

  "Oh yes, a little."

  "That was hardly necessary."

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

  "So that what?"

  "So that he might act accordingly."

  "So that he might back out, do you mean?"

  "No, so that he might advance while there's yet time."

  "That's not the effect it seems to have had."

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

  "This one's not. He was not when he made love to you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 42

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

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

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

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

  She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which
she had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls
she had lived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of
her life. It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the
house of suffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light
nor air; Osmond's beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a
small high window and mock at her. Of course it had not been
physical suffering; for physical suffering there might have been a
remedy. She could come and go; she had her liberty; her husband was
perfectly polite. He took himself so seriously; it was something
appalling. Under all his culture, his cleverness, his amenity, under
his good-nature, his facility, his knowledge of life, his egotism
lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers. She had taken him
seriously, but she had not taken him so seriously as that. How could
she-especially when she had known him better? She was to think of
him as he thought of himself as the first gentleman in Europe. So it
was that she had thought of him at first, and that indeed was the
reason she had married him. But when she began to see what it
implied she drew back; there was more in the bond than she had meant
to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every one
but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied, and for
everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was
very well; she would have gone with him even there a long distance;
for he pointed out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of
life, opened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the
ignorance of mankind, that she had been properly impressed with the
infinite vulgarity of things and of the virtue of keeping one's self
unspotted by it. But this base, ignoble world, it appeared, was
after all what one was to live for; one was to keep it for ever in
one's eye, in order not to enlighten or convert or redeem it, but to
extract from it some recognition of one's own superiority. On the
one hand it was despicable, but on the other it afforded a standard.
Osmond had talked to Isabel about his renunciation, his
indifference, the ease with which he dispensed with the usual aids
to success; and all this had seemed to her admirable. She had
thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite independence. But
indifference was really the last of his qualities; she had never
seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself, avowedly, the
world had always interested her and the study of her fellow
creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing,
however, to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake
of a personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make
her believe it was a gain! This at least was her present conviction;
and the thing certainly would have been easier than to care for
society as Osmond cared for it.

  He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never
really done so; he had looked at it out of his window even when he
appeared to be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she
had tried to have hers; only it was strange that people should seek
for justice in such different quarters. His ideal was a conception
of high prosperity and propriety, of the aristocratic life, which
she now saw that he deemed himself always, in essence at least, to
have led. He had never lapsed from it for an hour; he would never have
recovered from the shame of doing so. That again was very well; here
too she would have agreed; but they attached such different ideas,
such different associations and desires, to the same formulas. Her
notion of the aristocratic life was simply the union of great
knowledge with great liberty; the knowledge would give one a sense
of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But for Osmond it was
altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated attitude. He
was fond of the old, the consecrated, the transmitted; so was she, but
she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an immense esteem
for tradition; he had told her once that the best thing in the world
was to have it, but that if one was so unfortunate as not to have it
one must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he meant by
this that she hadn't it, but that he was better off; though from
what source he had derived his traditions she never learned. He had
a very large collection of them, however; that was very certain, and
after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in
accordance with them; the great thing not only for him but for her.
Isabel had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person
than their proprietor traditions must be of a thoroughly superior
kind; but she nevertheless assented to this intimation that she too
must march to the stately music that floated down from unknown periods
in her husband's past; she who of old had been so free of step, so
desultory, so devious, so much the reverse of processional. There were
certain things they must do, a certain posture they must take, certain
people they must know and not know. When she saw this rigid system
close about her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that
sense of darkness and suffocation of which I have spoken took
possession of her; she seemed shut up with an odour of mould and
decay. She had resisted of course; at first very humorously,
ironically, tenderly; then, as the situation grew more serious,
eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had pleaded the cause of
freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for the aspect and
denomination of their life-the cause of other instincts and
longings, of quite another ideal.

  Then it was that her husband's personality, touched as it never
had been, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she had said
were answered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably
ashamed of her-did he think of her-that she was base, vulgar, ignoble?
He at least knew now that she had no traditions! It had not been in
his prevision of things that she should reveal such flatness; her
sentiments were worthy of a radical newspaper or a Unitarian preacher.
The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind
of her own at all. Her mind was to be his-attached to his own like a
small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and
water the flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional
nosegay. It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor
already far-reaching. He didn't wish her to be stupid. On the
contrary, it was because she was clever that she had pleased him.
But he expected her intelligence to operate altogether in his
favour, and so far from desiring her mind to be a blank he had
flattered himself that it would be richly receptive. He had expected
his wife to feel with him and for him, to enter into his opinions, his
ambitions, his preferences; and Isabel was obliged to confess that
this was no great insolence on the part of a man so accomplished and a
husband originally at least so tender. But there were certain things
she could never take in. To begin with, they were hideously unclean.
She was not a daughter of the Puritans, but for all that she
believed in such a thing as chastity and even as decency. It would
appear that Osmond was far from doing anything of the sort; some of
his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did all women have
lovers? Did they all lie and even the best have their price? Were
there only three or four that didn't deceive their husbands? When
Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them than for
the gossip of a village parlour-a scorn that kept its freshness in a
very tainted air. There was the taint of her sister-in-law: did her
husband judge only by the Countess Gemini? This lady very often
lied, and she had practised deceptions that were not simply verbal. It
was enough to find these facts assumed among Osmond's traditions-it
was enough without giving them such a general extension. It was her
scorn of his assumptions, it was this that made him draw himself up.
He had plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as
well furnished; but that she should turn the hot light of her
disdain upon his own conception of things-this was a danger he had not
allowed for. He believed he should have regulated her emotions
before she came to it; and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears
had scorched on his discovering he had been too confident. When one
had a wife who gave one that sensation there was nothing left but to
hate her.

  She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which at
first had been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the occupation
and comfort of his life. The feeling was deep, because it was sincere;
he had had the revelation that she could after all dispense with
him. If to herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at
first as a kind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite
effect might it not be expected to have had upon him? It was very
simple; he despised her; she had no traditions and the moral horizon
of a Unitarian minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to
understand Unitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living
with now for a time that she had ceased to measure. What was
coming-what was before them? That was her constant question. What
would he do-what ought she to do? When a man hated his wife what did
it lead to? She didn't hate him, that she was sure of, for every
little while she felt a passionate wish to give him a pleasant
surprise. Very often, however, she felt afraid, and it used to come
over her, as I have intimated, that she had deceived him at the very
first. They were strangely married, at all events, and it was a
horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely spoken to her for
a week; his manner was as dry as a burned-out fire. She knew there was
a special reason; he was displeased at Ralph Touchett's staying on
in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her cousin-he had told her a
week before it was indecent she should go to him at his hotel. He
would have said more than this if Ralph's invalid state had not
appeared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had to
contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this as
she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly
aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her
husband's rage as if Osmond had locked her into her room-which she was
sure was what he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the
whole she was not defiant, but she certainly couldn't pretend to be
indifferent to Ralph. She believed he was dying at last and that she
should never see him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him
that she had never known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now;
how could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had
thrown away her life? There was an everlasting weight on her
heart-there was a livid light on everything. But Ralph's little
visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the hour that she sat with him
her ache for herself became somehow her ache for him. She felt
to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never had a brother, but
if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying, he would be dear
to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her there was
perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to sit for
half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him-it was not
that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It was
simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There was
something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his being
in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the' good of the world; he made her feel
what might have been. He was after all as intelligent as
Osmond-quite apart from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an
act of devotion to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it
elaborately; she was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out
curtains and arranging screens. It lived before her again-it had never
had time to die-that morning in the garden at Florence when he had
warned her against Osmond. She had only to close her eyes to see the
place, to hear his voice, to feel the warm, sweet air. How could he
have known? What a mystery, what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as
Gilbert? He was much more intelligent-to arrive at such a judgement as
that. Gilbert had never been so deep, so just. She had told him then
that from her at least he should never know if he was right; and
this was what she was taking care had now. It gave her plenty to do;
there was passion, exaltation, religion in it. Women find their
religion sometimes in strange exercises, and Isabel at present, in
playing a part before her cousin, had an idea that she was doing him a
kindness. It would have been a kindness perhaps if he had been for a
single instant a dupe. As it was, the kindness consisted mainly in
trying to make him believe that he had once wounded her greatly and
that the event had put him to shame, but that, as she was very
generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge and even
considerately forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face. Ralph
smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary form
of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She
didn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that
was the great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would
rather have righted him.

  For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the
fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she
was in a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great
ones, but her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by
visions, was in a state of extraordinary activity, and her visions
might as well come to her there, where she sat up to meet them, as
on her pillow, to make a mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed
she was not defiant, and what could be a better proof of it than
that she should linger there half the night, trying to persuade
herself that there was no reason why Pansy shouldn't be married as you
would put a letter in the post-office? When the clock struck four
she got up; she was going to bed at last, for the lamp had long
since gone out and the candles burned down to their sockets. But
even then she stopped again in the middle of the room and stood
there gazing at a remembered vision-that of her husband and Madame
Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.

  CHAPTER 43

  Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which
Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as
ready for a dance as ever; was not of a generalizing turn and had
not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on
those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent
her father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought
this unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply
determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she
had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less
attentively than usual and kept no less anxious an eye upon her
vaporous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight and counted over
the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feel old; it
seemed so long since she had been in a flutter about a ball. Pansy,
who was greatly admired, was never in want of partners, and very
soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was not dancing, her
bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service for some minutes
when she became aware of the near presence of Edward Rosier. He
stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a look of
almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would have
made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a
hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of
gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to
notify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet.
After he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly:
"It's all pansies; it must be hers!"

  Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold."

  "May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked.

  "No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back."

  "I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it
instantly.

  But may I not at least have a single flower?"

  Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the
bouquet.

  "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you."

  "Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed
with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.

  "Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the
world!

  "I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me,
but I wish to show her that I believe in her still."

  "It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show
it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."

  "And is that all you can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs.
Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine general reference.
"You know our acquaintance goes back very far-quite into the days of
our innocent childhood."

  "Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "You come
back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you
that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me
to marry you I should have refused you on the spot."

  "Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a
mere Parisian trifler!"

  "I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean
by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy."

  "Very good; I see. You pity me-that's all." And Edward Rosier looked
all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a
revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at
least too proud to show that the deficiency struck him as general.

  Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had
not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among
other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own
unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it
came over her, more than before, that here, in recognizable, if not in
romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world-young love
struggling with adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she
finally asked in a low tone.

  He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he
held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity
me; but don't you pity her a little?"

  "I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life."

  "It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively said.
"She won't enjoy being tortured."

  "There'll be nothing of that."

  "I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see."

  "I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's
coming back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you to go away."

  Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of
her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face.
Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he
achieved this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very
much in love.

  Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly
fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back
her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the
flowers; whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were
deeper forces at play than she had recognized. Pansy had seen Rosier
turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only
of her partner, after he had made his bow and retired; of the music,
the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress.
Isabel was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have
abstracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to account
for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her
next partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint was part
of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushed young man,
this time carrying her bouquet; and she had not been absent many
minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He
presently drew near and bade her good-evening; she had not seen him
since the day before. He looked about him, and then "Where's the
little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the
harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.

  "She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere."

  He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. "She
sees me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked. "Are you not
dancing?"

  "As you see, I'm a wall-flower."

  "Won't you dance with me?"

  "Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid."

  "One needn't prevent the other-especially as she's engaged."

  "She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She
dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher."

  "She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her with
his eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a smile." He
stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as
Isabel observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it
was strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little
maid. It struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small
fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need
for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to
account for it. "I should like to dance with you," he went on in a
moment, turning back to Isabel; "but I think I like even better to
talk with you."

  "Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great
statesmen oughtn't to waltz."

  "Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss
Osmond?"

  "Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply
like a piece of kindness-as if you were doing it for her amusement. If
you dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own."

  "And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?"

  "No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands."

  "The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it."

  "Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel.

  "I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've
always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than
usually dangerous to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?"

  "I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here."

  He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," he said
suddenly.

  Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's not
being?"

  "No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have
done a great deal for her."

  "I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "And
I've seen that she has proper clothes."

  "Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked
to her, advised her, helped her to develop."

  "Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it."

  She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a
certain visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with
complete hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can," he
said after a moment's hesitation.

  Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she
welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she
thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted;
there was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource
in case of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at
the bank. She felt happier when he was in the room; there was
something reassuring in his approach; the sound of his voice
reminded her of the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it
didn't suit her that he should be too near her, that he should take
too much of her good-will for granted. She was afraid of that; she
averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that if he
should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to flash out
and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with
another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the
first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There
were too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs,
which were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became
apparent that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted
herself to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and
repaired the injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her
adventures. Her attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and
they were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were
in no way connected-a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton
might be trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words
just then; it was others as well; it was the reference and the
continuity. This was what she thought about while she pinned up
Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was of course
unwitting; he himself had not taken account of his intention. But this
made it none the more auspicious, made the situation none the less
impossible. The sooner he should get back into right relations with
things the better. He immediately began to talk to Pansy-on whom it
was certainly mystifying to see that he dropped a smile of chastened
devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of
conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good deal in
conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his
robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She
always seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the
painful character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked
as if she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a
little and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom
she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which
she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with
a little fluttered flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's
view of his daughter's complete dependence, consigned her, as a
precious and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all
this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were
moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her
sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort of tableau of her
position as his daughter's duenna, which consisted of gracious
alternations of concession and contraction; and there were
directions of his which she liked to think she obeyed to the letter.
Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was because her doing so appeared
to reduce them to the absurd.

  After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near
her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could
sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. "She has
promised to dance with me later," he said.

  "I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion."

  At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her for
that. It's a quadrille."

  "Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told her
to keep the cotillion in case you should ask for it."

  "Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly.

  "Of course I will if you like."

  "If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it-!

  "I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows
on her book."

  Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood
there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt
much inclined to ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however;
she only said to him, after a minute, with her own raised:

  "Please let me understand."

  "Understand what?"

  "You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter.

  You've not forgotten it!"

  "Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard from
you."

  Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I-I didn't send my letter."

  "Perhaps you forgot that."

  "No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to
write, you know. But I shall send it to-night."

  "At three o'clock in the morning?"

  "I mean later, in the course of the day."

  "Very good. You still wish then to marry her?"

  "Very much indeed."

  "Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her companion
stared at this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance with you
for half an hour how will she be able to dance with you for life?"

  "Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance with other
people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you-that you-"

  "That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing."

  "Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner
where we may sit down and talk."

  "Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate of me."

  When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself,
thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no
intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he
assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As,
however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess,
declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at
all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord
Warburton's favour.

  "After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarous
amusement: I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that he had
discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for-a quiet nook
in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them
faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let
him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered
away from the ball-room with him, though she knew her husband
desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his
daughter's pretendant, however; that would make it right for Osmond.
On her way out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was
standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in the
attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and
asked him if he were not dancing.

  "Certainly not, if I can't dance with her!" he answered.

  "You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner of good
counsel.

  "I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass
without giving him a look.

  This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he
asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him
somewhere before.

  "It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy."

  "Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad."

  "He has reason. My husband won't listen to him."

  "What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He seems
very harmless."

  "He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever."

  Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this
account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young
fellow."

  "So he is, but my husband's very particular."

  "Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has
he got?" he then ventured to ask.

  "Some forty thousand francs a year."

  "Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know."

  "So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas."

  "Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he
really an idiot, the young man?"

  "An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years
old I myself was in love with him."

  "He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton
rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't
you think we might sit here?" he asked.

  "Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a
subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it
as our friends came in.

  "It's very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier,"
Isabel said.

  "He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I
wondered what ailed him."

  "You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for
a rival."

  Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Do you call
him my rival?"

  "Surely-if you both wish to marry the same person."

  "Yes-but since he has no chance!"

  "I like you, however that may be, for putting yourself in his place.
It shows imagination."

  "You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an
uncertain eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me for it."

  "Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to
laugh at."

  "Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more.
What do you suppose one could do for him?"

  "Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to
imagine that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like you for
that."

  "Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already."

  "Very much, I think."

  He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well then, I
don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?"

  "Surely I've told you I thought she did."

  A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she would have no
wish apart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would
favour me-!" He paused a little and then suggested "Don't you see?"
through his blush.

  "Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and
that it would probably take her very far."

  "That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton.

  "Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent
for some moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music
reached them with its richness softened by the interposing apartments.
Then at last she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of
feeling to which a man would wish to be indebted for a wife."

  "I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!

  "Yes, of course you must think that."

  "I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course."

  "No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry
you, and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're
not in love."

  "Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!"

  Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here
with me. But that's not how you strike me."

  "I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what
makes it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable
than Miss Osmond?"

  "No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons."

  "I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons."

  "Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a
straw for them."

  "Ah, really in love-really in love!" Lord Warburton exclaimed,
folding his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a
little. "You must remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't
pretend I'm as I once "Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all
right."

  He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking
before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned
quickly to his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?"

  She met his eyes, and for a moment they looked straight at each
other. If she wished to be satisfied she saw something that
satisfied her; she saw in his expression the gleam of an idea that she
was uneasy on her own account-that she was perhaps even in fear. It
showed a suspicion, not a hope, but such as it was it told her what
she wanted to know. Not for an instant should he suspect her of
detecting in his proposal of marrying her stepdaughter an
implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on
such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely personal gaze,
however, deeper meanings passed between them than they were
conscious of at the moment.

  "My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do, as far
as I'm concerned, whatever comes into your head."

  And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room,
where, within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a
pair of gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her
as if they had been looking for her. While she talked with them she
found herself regretting she had moved; it looked a little like
running away-all the more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was
glad of this, however, and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so
well satisfied that when, in passing back into the ball-room, she
found Edward Rosier still planted in the doorway, she stopped and
spoke to him again. "You did right not to go away. I've some comfort
for you."

  "I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you so awfully
thick with him!"

  "Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't
be much, but what I can I'll do."

  He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has suddenly brought
you round?"

  "The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" she answered,
smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with
Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many
other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. just as
it approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them
to reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if
she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a
little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by
a movement of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to send
your letter to her father!"

  CHAPTER 44

  The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored-bored, in her own
phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she
struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry
an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native
town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a
gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not the merit of
being incidental to an obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was
not liked even by those who won from him; and he bore a name, which,
having a measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the
old Italian states, without currency in other parts of the
peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not
remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a
place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explanation than
was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was
the constant grievance of her life that she had not an habitation
there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit
that city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other
members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at all.
She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather not
all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more to
say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated
Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's.
They are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were
usually summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the
Eternal City and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like
any other. The Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of
eternity with her amusements. She was convinced that society was
infinitely more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all
winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none
at least that one had heard of. Since her brother's marriage her
impatience had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had a
more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as
Isabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome-not to
the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and
museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all
the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew
perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen
it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the
hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during
the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she had not been
encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want her-that she
was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the same, for
after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It was her
husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was always a
trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her
sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel's
personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with
clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could
never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones-the really clever
ones-always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,
different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she
had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their
feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they
should both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she
lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise;
she was constantly expecting that Isabel would "look down" on her, and
she as constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when
it would begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not
that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her
sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed
for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality
Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a
moral judgement on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her
husband's sister, however; she was rather a little afraid of her.
She wondered at her; she thought her very extraordinary. The
Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she was like a bright rare
shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably pink lip, in which
something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle was apparently
the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled
about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for
comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no
question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had
not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst species-a
fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at
another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that
she had given it all away-in small pieces, like a frosted
wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course
another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome; but at the
period with which this history has now to deal she was in receipt of
an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The
proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that
she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no she found in this
phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but
she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover;
for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her
brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry
for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts-if any of the
Countess's thoughts were serious-of putting her on her guard. But
she had let that pass, and after a little she was reassured. Osmond
was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The
Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that
if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the
two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself
up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped.

  Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought
her the card of a visitor-a card with the simple superscription
"Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to
her forehead; she didn't remember to have known any such Henrietta
as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him
to say that if the Countess should not recognize her name she would
know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before
her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a
literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's; the only woman of letters she had
ever encountered-that is the only modern one, since she was the
daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognized Miss Stackpole
immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly
unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured,
thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of
distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her
mother-whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was
not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a glance
that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an
impression of the improvements that were taking place-chiefly in
distant countries-in the character (the professional character) of
literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown
over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black
velvet (oh the old clothes! and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a
multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely,
with the accent of her "Creole" ancestors, as she always confessed;
she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But
Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and
compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in
her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was
as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a
letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel
that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the
movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had
called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in
Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see
something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,
but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence
Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs.
Touchett was not one of her admirations.

  "Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciously asked.

  "Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole. "I
seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting.
I don't know whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual
style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made
use of it afterwards in print."

  "Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half alarmed; "I had no
idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the
time."

  "It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stackpole
remarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it."

  "The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you
mean? And you wrote it down and published it?" the Countess went on.
"Ah, do let me see it!"

  "I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henrietta
said. "I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank.
And then I quoted your views."

  The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her
clasped hands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my
name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I
forget what my views were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed of
them. I'm not at all like my brother-I suppose you know my brother? He
thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to
quote him he'd never forgive you.

  "He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said Miss
Stackpole with bland dryness. "That's another reason," she added, "why
I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest
friend."

  "Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think
what I knew about you."

  quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared. "But that
isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break
up my relations with Isabel."

  "Don't permit it," said the Countess.

  "That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome."

  "So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together."

  "With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll mention
you by name as my companion."

  The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa
beside her visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband
won't like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know
how to read."

  Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know how to read?

  May I put that into my letter?

  "Into your letter?"

  "In the Interviewer. That's my paper."

  "Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with
Isabel?"

  Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her
hostess. "She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she
answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no
reason."

  The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's
Osmond," she pregnantly remarked.

  "Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid she
has changed a great deal. I told her she would."

  "I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why
doesn't my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added.

  "I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like
me; I don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself
if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless
he gets a good deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes
on. And it's just the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of
Isabel."

  "Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired.

  "I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for."
"Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed.

  "She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's a
difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went on, "I should
like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take."

  The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. "I
know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn't
like me any better than he appears to like you."

  "Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henrietta pensively.

  "Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me-I'm
to stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her
exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole's
disappointment.

  This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn't have
gone if she had asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm glad
I hadn't to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult
question. I shouldn't have liked to turn away from her, and yet I
shouldn't have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me
very well. But that's not all."

  "Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there are all sorts
of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?"

  "Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very
brilliant?" Henrietta enquired.

  "I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur.
He's making love to Isabel."

  "Making love to her?"

  "So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess
lightly. "But Isabel's pretty safe."

  Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said
nothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquired abruptly.

  "Not for a week, I'm afraid."

  "I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better not
wait."

  "Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabel
receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you
at your pension." Henrietta sat still-she was lost in thought; and
suddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you don't go with me you
can't describe our journey!"

  Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was
thinking of something else and presently expressed it. "I'm not sure
that I understand you about Lord Warburton."

  "Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all."

  "Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?" Henrietta
enquired with unprecedented distinctness.

  The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's
certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" she
added.

  "That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stackpole. "I
should want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's. Do you
mean that Isabel's guilty-guilty-?" And she paused a little,
choosing her expression.

  "Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean
that Osmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a
great deal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalized."

  "No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said.

  "Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more
confidence. I'll tell you," the Countess added quickly: "if it will be
a comfort to you I engage to draw him off."

  Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of
her gaze. "You don't understand me," she said after a while. "I
haven't the idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabel-in
that way. I'm only afraid she's unhappy-that's what I want to get at."

  The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient
and sarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part I should like to
know whether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore
her.

  "If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it,"
Henrietta went on.

  "You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess.

  "Ah, she may not tell me-that's what I'm afraid of!" "Well, if
Osmond isn't amusing himself-in his own old way-I flatter myself I
shall discover it," the Countess rejoined.

  "I don't care for that," said Henrietta.

  "I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but I
can't help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse,
but I can't tell her anything that would console her. What did she
go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she'd have got rid
of him. I'll forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot
for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't
know that I shall even pity her. But I don't think that's very likely.
I count upon finding that if she's miserable she has at least made him
so."

  Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful
expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr.
Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be, for her the subject of a
flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the
Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined,
though with a capacity for coarseness even there. "It will be better
if they love each other," she said for edification.

  "They can't. He can't love any one."

  "I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for
Isabel.

  I shall positively start to-morrow."

  "Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling very
vividly.

  "I declare I don't pity her."

  "It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it
were well not to have illusions.

  "You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I believe
that's what you came from America for," the Countess suddenly added.

  "Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely.

  Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an
eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come.
"Ah, that's very pretty- c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what they call
friendship?"

  "I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come."

  "She's very happy-she's very fortunate," the Countess went on.
"She has others besides." And then she broke out passionately.
"She's more fortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she-I've a very bad
husband; he's a great deal worse than Osmond. And I've no friends. I
thought I had, but they're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me
what you've done for her."

  Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She
gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here, Countess,
I'll do anything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with
you."

  "Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone:
only describe me in the newspaper!"

  Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her
understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her
journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter.
On quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay
beside the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to
tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this
through the streets of Florence (she was very quick in such
matters), and was therefore able to turn with great decision of step
out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the
Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and
stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlook that delightful
structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a
card and a pencil and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words.
It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it
we may read the brief query: "Could I see you this evening for a few
moments on a very important matter?" Henrietta added that she should
start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she
approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in the
doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied,
as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes
before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might
be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course
along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which
she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.
Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to
the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and
decorated with antique busts, which gives admission to these
apartments, presented an empty vista in which the bright winter
light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and
during the midwinter weeks but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may
appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has
hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and
admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the
Tribune-the Virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in
a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him while he
delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this
intimate scene-she thought it the most beautiful picture in the world.
On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she was spending but
three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not
elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of
art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a
good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the
Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little
exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

  "I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you."

  "I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really
meant it.

  "It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and
I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about
something."

  He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall be very
glad to hear what you wish to say."

  "You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don't
care for that; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to
ask you to come and see me; but since I've met you here this will do
as well."

  "I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll stop."
He was civil, but not enthusiastic.

  Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she
was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on
any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all
the pictures.

  "All I want to. I've been here an hour."

  "I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came up
on purpose to have a look at it." She went into the Tribune and he
slowly accompanied her.

  "I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't
remember pictures-especially that sort." She had pointed out her
favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she
wished to talk with him.

  "No," said Henrietta, it's about something less harmonious!" They
the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to
themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean
Venus. "I want you to do me a favour," Miss Stackpole went on.

  Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no
embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that
of a much older man than our earlier friend. "I'm sure it's
something I shan't like," he said rather loudly.

  "No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no
favour."

  "Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite
conscious of his patience.

  "You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a
favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd
gladly do you one." Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no
attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though
he presented rather a hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it.
When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual
signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He
only fixed his attention more directly; he seemed to consider with
added firmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly, without
the sense of an advantage. "I may say now, indeed-it seems a good
time-that if I've ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it's
because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I've
troubled you- doubtless. But I'd take trouble for you."

  Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now."

  "Yes, I am-some. I want you to consider whether it's better on the
whole that you should go to Rome."

  "I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather
artlessly. "You have considered it then?"

  "Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it.
Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I stayed
in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over."

  "I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best
because you were so much attracted."

  "Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded.

  "Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next."

  "Oh, it won't do her any good! I don't flatter myself that."

  "Won't it do her some harm?-that's the question."

  "I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Osmond.

  But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself."

  "Yes, and that's why you go."

  "Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?"

  "How will it help you?-that's what I want to know," said Miss
Stackpole.

  "That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking
about in Paris."

  "It will make you more discontented."

  "Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How do
you know I'm discontented?"

  "Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to have
cared for another."

  "How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush.
"Just now I care to go to Rome."

  Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous
expression. "Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell you
what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my
business. But nothing is any one's business on that principle."

  "It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your
interest," said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt
Mrs. Osmond."

  "You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?-that's the real
issue."

  "Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

  "Most women always are," said Henrietta with conscientious
evasiveness and generalizing less hopefully than usual. "If you go
to Rome," she added, "I hope you'll be a true friend-not a selfish
one!" And she turned off and began to look at the pictures.

  Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered
round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. "You've heard
something about her here," he then resumed. "I should like to know
what you've heard."

  Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this
occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided,
after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. "Yes,
I've heard," she answered; "but as I don't want you to go to Rome I
won't tell you."

  "Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then
inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.

  "Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.

  "I hope not. When do you start?"

  "To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"

  Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome
in Miss Stackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was
not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this
moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss
Stackpole's virtues than a reference to her faults. He thought her
very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection
to the class to which she belonged. Lady correspondents appeared to
him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country,
and though he never read their letters he supposed that they
ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence
of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't take so
much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for
some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in
Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the
assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish
whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was not always thinking of
her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the
least colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly
flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished
she didn't care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather
brutal of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this,
however, he just now made other reflections-which show how widely
different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. He
desired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in
the night-train. He hated the European railway-carriages, in which one
sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a
foreigner to whom one presently found one's self objecting with all
the added vehemence of one's wish to have the window open; and if they
were worse at night even than by day, at least at night one could
sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he couldn't take a
night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck
him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he
wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than he had
patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day. She worried him;
she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a European
railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations.
Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to put himself
out for her. There could be no two questions about that; it was a
perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some
moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in
a tone of extreme distinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow
I'll go too, as I may be of assistance to you."

  "Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returned
imperturbably.

  CHAPTER 45

  I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to
be displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That
knowledge was very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel
the day after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible
proof of his sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a
sufficient perception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished
her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that
Ralph was an apostle of freedom. It was just because he was this,
Isabel said to herself, that it was a refreshment to go and see him.
It will be perceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite
of her husband's aversion to it, that is partook of it, as she
flattered herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in
direct opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and inscribed
master; she gazed at moments with a sort of incredulous blankness at
this fact. It weighed upon her imagination, however; constantly
present to her mind were all the traditionary decencies and sanctities
of marriage. The idea of violating them filled her with shame as
well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had lost sight of
this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband's intentions
were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the less, the
rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back
something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious
and monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond
would do nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that
burden upon her to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to
call upon Ralph; but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very
soon depart this prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph
depart? The weather as yet made it impossible. She could perfectly
understand her husband's wish for the event; she didn't, to be just,
see how he could like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a
word against him, but Osmond's sore, mute protest was none the less
founded. If he should positively interpose, if he should put forth his
authority, she would have to decide, and that wouldn't be easy. The
prospect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in
advance; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an open
rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would start even at a risk.
And it was of no use that, when catching herself in this state of
mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward. It was not that
she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed preferable to
repudiating the most serious act-the single sacred act-of her life.
That appeared to make the whole future hideous. To break with Osmond
once would be to break for ever; any open acknowledgement of
irreconcilable needs would be an admission that their whole attempt
had proved a failure. For them there could be no condonement, no
compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal readjustment. They had
attempted only one thing, but that one thing was to have been
exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there was no
conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel went
to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure of
propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have been a
better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest
appreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been
particularly free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that
she couldn't leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to
ask of him. This indeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own.

  She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to
answer me a question. It's about Lord Warburton."

  "I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his
arm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than
ever.

  "Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it."

  "Oh, I don't say I can do that."

  "You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of
observation of him."

  "Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!"

  "Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature."

  "Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said
Ralph with an air of private amusement.

  "To a certain extent-yes. But is he really in love?"

  "Very much, I think. I can make that out."

  "Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness.

  Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with
mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed."

  Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them
thoughtfully.

  "It's after all no business of mine."

  "You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment:

  "May I enquire what you're talking about?"

  Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he
wants, of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you
that before, without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk
one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really cares
for her?"

  "Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively.

  "But you said just now he did."

  Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond."

  Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know."

  "Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine."

  "That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered
herself, with much subtlety.

  "I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has
denied it."

  "It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told
you that he's in love with Pansy?"

  "He has spoken very well of her-very properly. He has let me know,
of course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh."

  "Does he really think it?"

  "Ah, what Warburton really thinks-!" said Ralph.

  Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose
gloves on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she
looked up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried
abruptly and passionately.

  It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and
the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long
murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at
last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this that made him
exclaim in a moment: "How unhappy you must be!"

  He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession,
and the first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him.
"When I talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said
with a quick smile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic
embarrassments! The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on
by himself. I can't undertake to see him through."

  "He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.

  Isabel debated. "Yes-but he has not always succeeded."

  "Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss
Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?"

  "It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll
let the matter drop."

  "He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.

  "I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for
him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and
it's cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him
up."

  "Cruel to the other person perhaps-the one she cares for. But
Warburton isn't obliged to mind that."

  "No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she
were to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier.
That idea seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him.
He has the merit-for Pansy-of being in love with Pansy. She can see at
a glance that Lord Warburton isn't."

  "He'd be very good to her," said Ralph.

  "He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not
said a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye
to-morrow with perfect propriety."

  "How would your husband like that?"

  "Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must
obtain satisfaction himself."

  "Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to ask.

  "It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's-an older
friend, that is, than Gilbert-I should take an interest in his
intentions."

  "Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?"

  Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are you
pleading his cause?"

  "Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your
stepdaughter's husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!"
said Ralph, smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband
should think you haven't pushed him enough."

  Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me
well enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no
intention of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to
justify myself!" she said lightly.

  Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to
Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her
natural face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost
savage desire to hear her complain of her husband-hear her say that
she should be held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph
was certain that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in
advance, the form that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would
take. It could only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have
liked to warn Isabel of it-to let her see at least how he judged for
her and how he knew. It little mattered that Isabel would know much
better; it was for his own satisfaction more than for hers that he
longed to show her he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to
make her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable
almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only failed.
What had she come for then, and why did she seem almost to offer him a
chance to violate their tacit convention? Why did she ask him his
advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her? How could they talk
of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to
designate them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned? These
contradictions were themselves but an indication of her trouble, and
her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was bound to
consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he said
in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce
understood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," he
continued.

  "That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up
her parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say.
"It's a matter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added;
"for almost all the interest is on his side. That's very natural.
Pansy's after all his daughter-not mine." And she put out her hand
to wish him good-bye.

  Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without
his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an
opportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him
say?" he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather
dryly-not discouragingly-and he went on. "It will make him say that
your want of zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face
made him afraid.

  "To jealousy?"

  "To jealousy of his daughter."

  She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said
in a voice that he had never heard on her lips.

  "Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered.

  But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own,
which he tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room.
She made up her mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on
the same day, going to the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was
already dressed; she was always in advance of the time: it seemed to
illustrate her pretty patience and the graceful stillness with which
she could sit and wait. At present she was seated, in her fresh array,
before the bed-room fire; she had blown out her candles on the
completion of her toilet, in accordance with the economical habits
in which she had been brought up and which she was now more careful
than ever to observe; so that the room was lighted only by a couple of
logs. The rooms in Palazzo Roccanera were as spacious as they were
numerous, and Pansy's virginal bower was an immense chamber with a
dark, heavily-timbered ceiling. Its diminutive mistress, in the
midst of it, appeared but a speck of humanity, and as she got up, with
quick deference, to welcome Isabel, the latter was more than ever
struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel had a difficult task-the only
thing was to perform it as simply as possible. She felt bitter and
angry, but she warned herself against betraying this heat. She was
afraid even of looking too grave, or at least too stern; she was
afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to have guessed she had come
more or less as a confessor; for after she had moved the chair in
which she had been sitting a little nearer to the fire and Isabel
had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a cushion in front of
her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her stepmother's
knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own lips that her
mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she desired the
assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke it. The
girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and
indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of a
disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her
tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to
suggest; Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete
than Isabel had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry
something of the effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the
vague firelight, with her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded
half in appeal and half in submission, her soft eyes, raised and
fixed, full of the seriousness of the situation, she looked to
Isabel like a childish martyr decked out for sacrifice and scarcely
presuming even to hope to avert it. When Isabel said to her that she
had never yet spoken to her of what might have been going on in
relation to her getting married, but that her silence had not been
indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire to leave her at
liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer, and
with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep longing,
answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she
begged her to advise her now.

  "It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't
know how I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get
his advice and, above all, you must act on it."

  At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I
think I should like your advice better than papa's," she presently
remarked.

  "That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love you very
much, but your father loves you better."

  "It isn't because you love me-it's because you're a lady," Pansy
answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady can
advise a young girl better than a man."

  "I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's
wishes."

  "Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that."

  "But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for
your own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from
you what you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act
accordingly."

  Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I
want?" she asked.

  "Before I say yes I must know what such things are."

  Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life
was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she
would do so if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow
it.

  "Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced.

  "Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the
same extreme attention in her clear little face.

  "You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but
Pansy, sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat
without the least success.

  "You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint
smile. "I know Mr. Rosier thinks of me."

  "He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expressly
requested he shouldn't."

  "He can't help it, because he knows I think of him."

  "You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps;
but there's none for you."

  "I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she
were praying to the Madonna.

  "I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with
unusual frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you,
would you think of him?"

  "No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right."

  "Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritically
cried.

  Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel,
taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched
consequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her
with the assurance that she would never disobey him, would never marry
without his consent. And she announced, in the serenest, simplest
tone, that, though she might never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never
cease to think of him. She appeared to have accepted the idea of
eternal singleness; but Isabel of course was free to reflect that
she had no conception of its meaning. She was perfectly sincere; she
was prepared to give up her lover. This might seem an important step
toward taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it failed to lead
in that direction. She felt no bitterness toward her father; there was
no bitterness in her heart; there was only the sweetness of fidelity
to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimation that she could
prove it better by remaining single than even by marrying him.

  "Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel.

  "Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large."

  "How do you mean better-if that would be good enough? And I have
myself so little money; why should I look for a fortune?"

  "Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With which
Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her
face were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond;
it was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on
her own, almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made
so light of the girl's preference.

  "What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded.

  The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in
timorous vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power
to give your father."

  "To marry some one else, you mean-if he should ask me?"

  For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then
she heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention
seemed to make.

  "Yes-to marry some one else."

  The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was
doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force from her
slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with
her small hands unclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no
one will ask me!"

  "There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been
ready to ask you."

  don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.

  "It would appear so-if he had been sure he'd succeed."

  "If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!"

  Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment
looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,"
she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She found
herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of
justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more
crudely than she had intended.

  "He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you
mean that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken."

  "Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."

  Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won't
propose simply to please papa."

  "Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went on
mechanically.

  "How can I encourage him?"

  don't know. Your father must tell you that."

  Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if
she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger-no
danger!" she declared at last.

  There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in
her believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt
accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her
self-respect she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had
let her know that there was a danger. But she didn't; she only said-in
her embarrassment rather wide of the mark-that he surely had been most
kind, most friendly.

  "Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like
him for."

  "Why then is the difficulty so great?"

  "I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want-what did you
say I should do?-to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry, and
he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the
meaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very
much, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I think
that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepening
positiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't
care for me either. Ah no, there's no danger."

  Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of
which this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of
Pansy's wisdom-began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell
your father that," she remarked reservedly.

  "I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered.

  "You oughtn't to let him have false hopes."

  "Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long
as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you
say, papa won't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage
for me," said the child very lucidly.

  There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her
companion draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy
responsibility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and
Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light to spare from her
small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal
to Osmond, that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter.
Under the influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion
before she retired-a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she
should have done her utmost. "Your father takes for granted at least
that you would like to marry a nobleman."

  Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain
for Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she
remarked very gravely.

  CHAPTER 46

  Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for
several days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband
said nothing to her about having received a letter from him. She
couldn't fail to observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of
expectancy and that, though it was not agreeable to him to betray
it, he thought their distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too
long. At the end of four days he alluded to his absence.

  "What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one
like a tradesman with a bill?"

  "I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at
the German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you."

  "He has never written to me."

  "So I supposed, from your not having told me."

  "He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's
making no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship
five days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such
difficulty?"

  "I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a
letter from him."

  "Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in
intimate correspondence."

  She answered that this had not been the case, and let the
conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the
drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again.

  "When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did
you say to him?" he asked.

  She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it."

  "Did you believe there was a danger of that?"

  "As you say, he's an odd fish."

  "Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to
remind "Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded.

  "I've no objection whatever."

  "You expect too much of me."

  "Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."

  "I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.

  "My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment."

  "Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!
If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them
yourself."

  For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That
won't be easy, with you working against me."

  Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a
way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were
thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a
wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognize her as a
disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a
presence. That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you
accuse me of something very base," she returned.

  "I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come
forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's
base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've
no doubt you've the finest ideas about it."

  "I told you I would do what I could," she went on.

  "Yes, that gained you time."

  It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once
thought him beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!"
she exclaimed in a moment.

  She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her
words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made
a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she
had once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself
rich enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession
of her-a horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face
instantly told her that none of the force of her exclamation was lost.
He expressed nothing otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I
want it immensely."

  At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was
followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on
seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the
mistress; a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt
or even a perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his
English address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an
element of good breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in
achieving transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to
say; but Isabel remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the
act of talking about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that
they hadn't known what was become of him-they had been afraid he had
gone away. "No," he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm
only on the point of going." And then he mentioned that he found
himself suddenly recalled to England: he should start on the morrow or
the day after. "I'm awfully sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by
exclaiming.

  For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned
back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could
only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where
they were the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully
avoided them. Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she
would have found it expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett
with you," she heard her husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.

  "He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I
shouldn't advise him to travel just now."

  He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon
see them again-unless indeed they should come to England, a course
he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the
autumn?-that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him
such pleasure to do what he could for them-to have them come and spend
a month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England
but once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure
and intelligence. It was just the country for him-he would be sure
to get on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she
remembered what a good time she had had there and if she didn't want
to try it again. Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more?
Gardencourt was really very good. Touchett didn't take proper care
of it, but it was the sort of place you could hardly spoil by
letting it alone. Why didn't they come and pay Touchett a visit? He
surely must have asked them. Hadn't asked them? What an ill-mannered
wretch!-and Lord Warburton promised to give the master of
Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a mere accident;
he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with Touchett and
a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the people they
must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord Warburton
added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told him that
she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a country
she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England to
be admired-that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense
success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He
asked if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he
liked good-byes-he always funked them. When he left England the
other day he hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had
half a mind to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final
interview. What could be more dreary than final interviews? One
never said the things one wanted-one remembered them all an hour
afterwards. On the other hand one usually said a lot of things one
shouldn't, simply from a sense that one had to say something. Such a
sense was upsetting; it muddled one's wits. He had it at present,
and that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't
think he spoke as he ought she must set it down to agitation; it was
no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. He was really very sorry to
be going. He had thought of writing to her instead of calling-but he
would write to her at any rate, to tell her a lot of things that would
be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left the house. They must
think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.

  If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in
the announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface.
Lord Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no
other manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat
he was capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him;
she liked him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing
off. He would do that on any occasion-not from impudence but simply
from the habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's
power to frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat
there, went on in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor;
said what was proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines
of what he said himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he
had found her alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of
Osmond's emotion. She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to
the sharp pain of loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a
great hope, and now, as he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to
sit and smile and twirl his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to
smile very brightly; he treated their friend on the whole to as vacant
a countenance as so clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a
part of Osmond's cleverness that he could look consummately
uncompromised. His present appearance, however, was not a confession
of disappointment; it was simply a part of Osmond's habitual system,
which was to be inexpressive exactly in proportion as he was really
intent. He had been intent on this prize from the first; but he had
never allowed his eagerness to irradiate his refined face. He had
treated his possible son-in-law as he treated every one-with an air of
being interested in him only for his own advantage, not for any profit
to a person already so generally, so perfectly provided as Gilbert
Osmond. He would give no sign now of an inward rage which was the
result of a vanished prospect of gain-not the faintest nor subtlest.
Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any satisfaction to her.
Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction; she wished Lord
Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same time she
wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.
Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the
advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but
it was something almost as good-that of not attempting. As he leaned
back in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly
offers and suppressed explanations if it were only proper to assume
that they were addressed essentially to his wife-he had at least
(since so little else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well
he personally had kept out of it, and how the air of indifference,
which he was now able to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It
was something to be able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had
no relation to his own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but
Osmond's performance was in its very nature more finished. Lord
Warburton's position was after all an easy one; there was no reason in
the world why he shouldn't leave Rome. He had had beneficent
inclinations, but they had stopped short of fruition; he had never
committed himself, and his honour was safe. Osmond appeared to take
but a moderate interest in the proposal that they should go and stay
with him and in his allusion to the success Pansy might extract from
their visit. He murmured a recognition, but left Isabel to say that it
was a matter requiring grave consideration. Isabel, even while she
made this remark, could see the great vista which had suddenly
opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little figure
marching up the middle of it.

  Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither
Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the
air of giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small
chair, as if it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand.
But he stayed and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She
believed it was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the
whole he would rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself
alone-he had something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear
it, for she was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could
perfectly dispense with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got
up, like a man of good taste to whom it had occurred that so
inveterate a visitor might wish to say just the last word of all to
the ladies. "I've a letter to write before dinner," he said; "you must
excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's disengaged, and if she is she
shall know you're here. Of course when you come to Rome you'll
always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you about the English
expedition: she decides all those things."

  The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little
speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the
whole it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he
left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your
husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to
her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh,
don't be anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!"

  It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend
showed a certain vague awkwardness-sitting down in another chair,
handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll
make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to
see her."

  "I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel.

  "So am I. She doesn't care for me."

  "No, she doesn't care for you."

  "I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with
inconsequence:

  "You'll come to England, won't you?"

  "I think we had better not."

  "Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have
come to Lockleigh once, and you never did?"

  "Everything's changed since then," said Isabel.

  "Not changed for the worse, surely-as far as we're concerned. To see
you under my roof"-and he hung fire but an instant-"would be a great
satisfaction."

  She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that
occurred. They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy
came in, already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in
either cheek. She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up
into his face with a fixed smile-a smile that Isabel knew, though
his lordship probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst
of tears.

  "I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye."

  "Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled.

  "And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy."

  "Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.

  He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be
very happy-you've got a guardian angel."

  "I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person
whose certainties were always cheerful.

  "Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it
should ever fail you, remember-remember-" And her interlocutor
stammered a little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with
a vague laugh. Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and
presently he was gone.

  When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her
stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very
different.

  "I think you are my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly.

  Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the
most your good friend."

  "You're a very good friend then-to have asked papa to be gentle with
me."

  "I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel wondering.

  "He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave
me a very kind kiss."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!

  She recognized the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and
she was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't
put himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and
after their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it
was not till late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy
kissed him before going to bed he returned her embrace with even
more than his usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as
a hint that his daughter had been injured by the machinations of her
stepmother. It was a partial expression, at any rate, of what he
continued to expect of his wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he
remarked that he wished she would remain; he had something to say to
her. Then he walked about the drawing-room a little, while she stood
waiting in her cloak.

  "I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I
should like to know-so that I may know how to act."

  "Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired."

  "Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there-take a
comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that
were scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was
not, however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest
chair. The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few.
She drew her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think
you're trying to humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd
undertaking."

  "I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned.

  "You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully."

  "What is it that I've managed?"

  "You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again."
And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking
down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to
let her know that she was not an object, but only a rather
disagreeable incident, of thought.

  "If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come
back you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever."

  "That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I
don't mean he'll come from a sense of duty."

  "There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted
Rome."

  "Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And
Osmond began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's
no hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go
to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I
think I should try to persuade you."

  "It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel.

  "I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as
possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you
told me so much about at one time: what do you call it?-Gardencourt.
It must be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to
the memory of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I
should like to see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail.
Your friend was right. Pansy ought to see England."

  "I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.

  "But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond
continued; "and meantime there are things that more nearly interest
us. Do you think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.

  "I think you very strange."

  "You don't understand me."

  "No, not even when you insult me."

  "I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of
certain facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's
not mine. It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter
quite in your own hands."

  "Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very
tired of his name."

  "You shall hear it again before we've done with it."

  She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her
that this ceased to be a pain. He was going down-down; the vision of
such a fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was
too strange, too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of
his morbid passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising
curiosity to know in what light he saw himself justified. "I might say
to you that I judge you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing,"
she returned in a moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a
thing that would be worth my hearing-to know in the plainest words
of what it is you accuse me."

  "Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those
words plain enough?"

  "On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so;
and when you told me that you counted on me-that I think was what
you said-I accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did
it."

  "You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make
me more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity
to get him out of the way."

  "I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.

  "Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband
demanded.

  "I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him."

  "You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.

  Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which
covered her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of
disdain, first cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was
so fine-!" she exclaimed in a long murmur.

  "I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted.
You've got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've
placed me in the position in which you wished to see me-that of a
man who has tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely
failed."

  "Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel
said.

  "That has nothing to do with the matter."

  "And he doesn't care for Pansy."

  "That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some
other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous-that I have
taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very
quiet. The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he
liked her before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you."

  "Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must
attend to such things yourself."

  He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you
were very fond of my daughter."

  "I've never been more so than to-day."

  "Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However,
that perhaps is natural."

  "Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.

  "Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?"

  "I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had
another opportunity to try to stupefy me."

  "It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."

  "Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.

  CHAPTER 47

  It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood
had come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord
Warburton's departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an
incident of mg I some importance to Isabel-the temporary absence, once
again, of Madame Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a
friend, the happy possessor of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle
had ceased to minister to Isabel's happiness, who found herself
wondering whether the most discreet of women might not also by
chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strange
visions; she seemed to see her husband and her friend-his friend-in
dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to her that she had
not done with her; this lady had something in reserve. Isabel's
imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but every
now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when the
charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness of
respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar
Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to
her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote
to Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he
might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her
marriage, had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she
remembered rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her.
Since then he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier
time-the only one in fact with which a permanent pain was
associated. He had left her that morning with a sense of the most
superfluous of shocks: it was like a collision between vessels in
broad daylight. There had been no mist, no hidden current to excuse
it, and she herself had only wished to steer wide. He had bumped
against her prow, however, while her hand was on the tiller, and-to
complete the metaphor-had given the lighter vessel a strain which
still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It had been
horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm that
(to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only person
with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she
couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had
cried with rage, after he had left her, at-she hardly knew what: she
tried to think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come
to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he
had done his best to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He
had not been violent, and yet there had been a violence in the
impression. There had been a violence at any rate in something
somewhere; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and in that
after-sense of the same which had lasted three or four days.

  The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all
the first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was
a thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think
of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet
do nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been
able to doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she
doubted of Lord Warburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and
this aggressive, uncompromising look of it was just what made it
unattractive. She could never say to herself that here was a
sufferer who had compensations, as she was able to say in the case
of her English suitor. She had no faith in Mr. Goodwood's
compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton-factory was not a
compensation for anything-least of all for having failed to marry
Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what he
had-save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic
enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids.
If he extended his business-that, to the best of her belief, was the
only form exertion could take with him-it would be because it was an
enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because
he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind
of bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in
memory or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in
the social drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the
sharpness of human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact
that she never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of
him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for
news of him, from time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston-her
imagination was all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time
went on Isabel had thought of him oftener, and with fewer
restrictions; she had had more than once the idea of writing to him.
She had never told her husband about him-never let Osmond know of
his visits to her in Florence; a reserve not dictated in the early
period by a want of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the
consideration that the young man's disappointment was not her secret
but his own. It would be wrong of her, she had believed, to convey
it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs could have, after all,
little interest for Gilbert. When it had come to the point she had
never written to him; it seemed to her that, considering his
grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone. Nevertheless
she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him. It was not
that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him; even
after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her that
particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had the
assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he
had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished
to set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed
to feel that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her
own fault. She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to
make her peace with the world-to put her spiritual affairs in order.
It came back to her from time to time that there was an account
still to be settled with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or
able to settle it to-day on terms easier for him than ever before.
Still, when she learned he was coming to Rome she felt all afraid;
it would be more disagreeable for him than for any one else to make
out-since he would make it out, as over a falsified balance-sheet or
something of that sort-the intimate disarray of her affairs. Deep in
her breast she believed that he had invested his all in her happiness,
while the others had invested only a part. He was one more person from
whom she should have to conceal her stress. She was reassured,
however, after he arrived in Rome, for he spent several days without
coming to see her.

  Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was much more
punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her
friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had made such a
point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she
had not been superficial-the more so as the years, in their flight,
had rather enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been
humorously criticized by persons less interested than Isabel, and
which were still marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism.
Henrietta was as keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and
bright and fair. Her remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed
railway-stations, had put up no shutters; her attire had lost none
of its crispness, her opinions none of their national reference. She
was by no means quite unchanged, however; it struck Isabel she had
grown vague. Of old she had never been vague; though undertaking
many enquiries at once, she had managed to be entire and pointed about
each. She had a reason for everything she did; she fairly bristled
with motives. Formerly, when she came to Europe it was because she
wished to see it, but now, having already seen it, she had no such
excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend that the desire to examine
decaying civilizations had anything to do with her present enterprise;
her journey was rather an expression of her independence of the old
world than of a sense of further obligations to it. "It's nothing to
come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "it doesn't seem to me one
needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home;
this is much more important." It was not therefore with a sense of
doing anything very important that she treated herself to another
pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully
inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her
knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to
be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she
had a perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she
had after all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared
for it so little. Her friend easily recognized it, and with it the
worth of the other's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in
midwinter because she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta
guessed a great deal, but she had never guessed so happily as that.
Isabel's satisfactions just now were few, but even if they had been
more numerous there would still have been something of individual
joy in her sense of being justified in having always thought highly of
Henrietta. She had made large concessions with regard to her, and
had yet insisted that, with all abatements, she was very valuable.
It was not her own triumph, however, that she found good; it was
simply the relief of confessing to this confidant, the first person to
whom she had owned it, that she was not in the least at her ease.
Henrietta had herself approached this point with the smallest possible
delay, and had accused her to her face of being wretched. She was a
woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph, nor Lord Warburton, nor
Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.

  "Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself
say it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.

  "What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were
enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.

  "He does nothing. But he doesn't like me."

  "He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't you
leave him?"

  "I can't change that way," Isabel said.

  "Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've
made a mistake. You're too proud."

  "I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake.
I don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die."

  "You won't think so always," said Henrietta.

  "I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems
to me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I
married him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was
impossible to do anything more deliberate. One can't change that way,"
Isabel repeated.

  "You have changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't
mean to say you like him."

  Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm
weary of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the
housetops."

  Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather too
considerate?"

  "It's not of him that I'm considerate-it's of myself!" Isabel
answered.

  It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort
in Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to
a young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the
conjugal roof.

  When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she
would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had
answered that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to
Henrietta that as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to
dine, but they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel
received Miss Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her
repeatedly to drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little
forward, on the opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated
authoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally
found irritating. She complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a
little look as if she should remember everything one said. "I don't
want to be remembered that way," Miss Stackpole declared; "I
consider that my conversation refers only to the moment, like the
morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits there, looks as if
she kept all the back numbers and would bring them out some day
against me." She could not teach herself to think favourably of Pansy,
whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of personal claims,
seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even uncanny. Isabel
presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a little the
cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her, so that
he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate
acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong-it being in
effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot
enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond
held to his credit, and yet he held to his objections-all of which
were elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have
been that Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once
or twice, so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so
great) she might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him.
From the moment, however, that both the ladies were so
unaccommodating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady
from New York would take herself off. It was surprising how little
satisfaction he got from his wife's friends; he took occasion to
call Isabel's attention to it.

  "You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you
might make a new collection," he said to her one morning in
reference to nothing visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe
reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal abruptness. "It's
as if you had taken the trouble to pick out the people in the world
that I have least in common with. Your cousin I have always thought
a conceited ass-besides his being the most ill-favoured animal I know.
Then it's insufferably tiresome that one can't tell him so; one must
spare him on account of his health. His health seems to me the best
part of him; it gives him privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's
so desperately ill there's only one way to prove it; but he seems to
have no mind for that. I can't say much more for the great
Warburton. When one really thinks of it, the cool insolence of that
performance was something rare! He comes and looks at one's daughter
as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries the door-handles and
looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and almost thinks he'll
take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a lease? Then, on
the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he doesn't think
he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a piano nobile.
And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the poor little
apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most wonderful
invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't a nerve
in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never have
admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of
a new steel pen-the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a
steel pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper?
She thinks and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may
say that she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see
her, but I hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears;
I can't get rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every
inflexion of the tone in which she says it. She says charming things
about me, and they give you great comfort. I don't like at all to
think she talks about me-I feel as I should feel if I knew the footman
were wearing my hat."

  Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him,
rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in
two of which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested.
She let her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for
himself that she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable
to suggest what comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet
not calling on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no
appearance of seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of
looking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one
object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day
before; it must have been with just that face and step that he had
walked out of Mrs. Touchett's door at the close of their last
interview. He was dressed just as he had been dressed on that day,
Isabel remembered the colour of his cravat; and yet in spite of this
familiar look there was a strangeness in his figure too, something
that made her feel it afresh to be rather terrible he should have come
to Rome. He looked bigger and more overtopping than of old, and in
those days he certainly reached high enough. She noticed that the
people whom he passed looked back after him; but he went straight
forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky.

  Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the
latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States
the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show
him considerable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed
it, but she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the
same man when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his
eyes and shown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very
much liked in most places, and thought extremely simple-more simple
than the English were commonly supposed to be. There were people who
had thought him affected; she didn't know whether they meant that
his simplicity was an affectation. Some of his questions were too
discouraging; he thought all the chambermaids were farmers'
daughters-or all the farmers' daughters were chambermaids-she couldn't
exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed able to grasp the great
school system; it had been really too much for him. On the whole he
had behaved as if there were too much of everything-a if he could only
take in a small part. The part he had chosen was the hotel system
and the river navigation. He had seemed really fascinated with the
hotels; he had a photograph of every one he had visited. But the river
steamers were his principal interest; he wanted to do nothing but sail
on the big boats. They had travelled together from New York to
Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting cities on the route; and
whenever they started afresh he had wanted to know if they could go by
the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of geography-had an
impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was perpetually
expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never to have
heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was unprepared
to recognize the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to confess at
last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent some
pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream
from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea-that you
could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans, nor
candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite
overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was the
biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England,
hunting-"hunting round" Henrietta called it. These amusements were
those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the
pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in
England that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was
more in keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have
time to join her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he
expected to come over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he
was very fond of the ancient regime.

  They didn't agree about that, but that was what she liked Versailles
for, that you could see the ancient rigime had been swept away.
There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered on the
contrary one day when there were five American families, walking all
round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the
subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better
with it now; England had changed a good deal within two or three
years. He was determined that if she went there he should go to see
his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come
to her straight. The mystery about that other one had never been
explained.

  Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written
Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she
would be at home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day
wondering what he was coming for-what good he expected to get of it.
He had presented himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty
of compromise, who would take what he had asked for or take nothing.
Isabel's hospitality, however, raised no questions, and she found no
great difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was
her conviction at least that she deceived him, made him say to himself
that he had been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed,
that he was not disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would
have been; he had not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She
never found out what he had come for; he offered her no explanation;
there could be none but the very simple one that he wanted to see her.
In other words he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up
this induction with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted to
have found a formula that would lay the ghost of this gentleman's
ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome for his amusement this was
exactly what she wanted; for if he cared for amusement he had got over
his heartache. If he had got over his heartache everything was as it
should be and her responsibilities were at an end. It was true that he
took his recreation a little stiffly, but he had never been loose
and easy and she had every reason to believe he was satisfied with
what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he was in
hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon his state of
mind. He was open to little conversation on general topics; it came
back to her that she had said of him once, years before, "Mr. Goodwood
speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk." He spoke a good deal now,
but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is, how
much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated
to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't
like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save
as having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her
to say of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre
synthesis exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him
to Gilbert; it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her
Thursday evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her
husband still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of
not inviting them.

  To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather
early; he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity.
Isabel every now and then had a moment of anger; there was something
so literal about him; she thought he might know that she didn't know
what to do with him. But she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that
in the least; he was only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as
that made a man very different from most people; one had to be
almost equally honest with him. She made this latter reflection at the
very time she was flattering herself she had persuaded him that she
was the most light-hearted of women. He never threw any doubt on
this point, never asked her any personal questions. He got on much
better with Osmond than had seemed probable. Osmond had a great
dislike to being counted on; in such a case he had an irresistible
need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of this principle that
he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy to a perpendicular
Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat with coldness. He
asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry her, and
expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would have
been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which
would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper
air. He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't
easy at first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase, up
to the top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and
felt a little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful
qualities, and he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel
could see that Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he
had ever wished to; he had given her the impression that morning in
Florence of being inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him
repeatedly to dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him
afterwards and even desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert
said to Isabel that he was very original; he was as strong and of as
good a style as an English portmanteau-he had plenty of straps and
buckles which would never wear out, and a capital patent lock.
Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the Campagna and devoted much time
to this exercise; it was therefore mainly in the evening that Isabel
saw him. She bethought herself of saying to him one day that if he
were willing he could render her a service. And then she added
smiling:

  "I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you."

  "You're the person in the world who has most right," he answered.

  "I've given you assurances that I've never given any one else."

  The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who
was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as
possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the
poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to
Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though
he was not supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put
himself in the place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn.
He called at the Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the
presence of the master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting
beside his sofa. A singular change had in fact occurred in this lady's
relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to
go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come out had
immediately gone of her own motion. After this she had paid him a
daily visit-always under the conviction that they were great
enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate enemies," Ralph used to say; and he
accused her freely-as freely as the humour of it would allow-of coming
to worry him to death. In reality they became excellent friends,
Henrietta much wondering that she should never have liked him
before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had always done; he
had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent fellow.
They talked about everything and always differed; about everything,
that is, but Isabel-a topic as to which Ralph always had a thin
forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved a
great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with
Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their
inevitable difference of view-Ralph having amused himself with
taking the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular
Machiavelli. Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a
debate; but after he had been left alone with his host he found
there were various other matters they could take up. It must be
admitted that the lady who had just gone out was not one of these;
Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's merits in advance, but had no
further remark to make about her. Neither, after the first
allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond-a theme in which
Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very sorry for
that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant man, so
pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done. There
was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in this
case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris. It
seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully
disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation;
she had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of
making him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first
mild weather should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome
and Mr. Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry
in this, and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She
had a constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of
the occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so
rarely entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear
house, in one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the
dark ivy would cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There
seemed to Isabel in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no
chapter of the past was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought
of the months she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She
flattered herself, as I say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of
all she could muster; for several events occurred which seemed to
confront and defy her. The Countess Gemini arrived from
Florence-arrived with her trunks, her dresses, her chatter, her
falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the unholy legend of the
number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been away somewhere-no
one, not even Pansy, knew where-reappeared in Rome and began to
write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame Merle
returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: "What on
earth did you do with Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of
hers!

  CHAPTER 48

  One day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made up his mind
to return to England. He had his own reasons for this decision,
which he was not bound to communicate; but Henrietta Stackpole, to
whom he mentioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed
them. She forebore to express them, however; she only said, after a
moment, as she sat by his sofa:

  "I suppose you know you can't go alone?"

  "I've no idea of doing that," Ralph answered. "I shall have people
with me."

  "What do you mean by 'people'? Servants whom you pay?"

  "Ah," said Ralph jocosely, "after all, they're human beings."

  "Are there any women among them?" Miss Stackpole desired to know.

  "You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a
soubrette in my employment."

  "Well," said Henrietta calmly, "you can't go to England that way.
You must have a woman's care."

  "I've had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will
last me a good while."

  "You've not had enough of it yet. I guess I'll go with you," said
Henrietta.

  "Go with me?" Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa.

  "Yes, I know you don't like me, but I'll go with you all the same.
It would be better for your health to lie down again."

  Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. "I like you
very much," he said in a moment.

  Miss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. "You needn't think
that by saying that you can buy me off. I'll go with you, and what
is more I'll take care of you."

  "You're a very good woman," said Ralph.

  "Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won't be
easy.

  But you had better go, all the same."

  Before she left him, Ralph said to her: "Do you really mean to
take care of me?"

  "Well, I mean to try."

  "I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!" And it was
perhaps a sign of submission that a few minutes after she had left him
alone he burst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed to him so
inconsequent, such a conclusive proof of his having abdicated all
functions and renounced all exercise, that he should start on a
journey across Europe under the supervision of Miss Stackpole. And the
great oddity was that the prospect pleased him; he was gratefully,
luxuriously passive. He felt even impatient to start; and indeed he
had an immense longing to see his own house again. The end of
everything was at hand; it seemed to him he could stretch out his
arm and touch the goal. But he wanted to die at home; it was the
only wish he had left-to extend himself in the large quiet room
where he had last seen his father lie, and close his eyes upon the
summer dawn.

  That same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he informed his
visitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up and was to conduct him
back to England. "Ah then," said Caspar, "I'm afraid I shall be a
fifth wheel to the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with
you."

  "Good heavens-it's the golden age! You're all too kind."

  "The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you."

  "Granting that, she's kind," smiled Ralph.

  "To get people to go with you? Yes, that's a sort of kindness,"
Goodwood answered without lending himself to the joke. "For myself,
however," he added, "I'll go as far as to say that I would much rather
travel with you and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone."

  "And you'd rather stay here than do either," said Ralph. "There's
really no need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordinarily efficient."

  "I'm sure of that. But I've promised Mrs. Osmond."

  "You can easily get her to let you off."

  "She wouldn't let me off for the world. She wants me to look after
you, but that isn't the principal thing. The principal thing is that
she wants me to leave Rome."

  "Ah, you see too much in it," Ralph suggested.

  "I bore her," Goodwood went on; "she has nothing to say to me, so
she invented that."

  "Oh then, if it's a convenience to her I certainly will take you
with me. Though I don't see why it should be a convenience," Ralph
added in a moment.

  "Well," said Caspar Goodwood simply, "she thinks I'm watching her."

  "Watching her?"

  "Trying to make out if she's happy."

  "That's easy to make out," said Ralph. "She's the most visibly happy
woman I know."

  "Exactly so; I'm satisfied," Goodwood answered dryly. For all his
dryness, however, he had more to say. "I've been watching her; I was
an old friend and it seemed to me I had the right. She pretends to
be happy; that was what she undertook to be; and I thought I should
like to see for myself what it amounts to. I've seen," he continued
with a harsh ring in his voice, "and I don't want to see any more. I'm
now quite ready to go."

  "Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?" Ralph
rejoined. And this was the only conversation these gentlemen had about
Isabel Osmond.

  Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she
found it proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who
returned at Miss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had
paid her in Florence.

  "You were very wrong about Lord Warburton," she remarked to the
Countess. "I think it right you should know that."

  "About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was at her
house three times a day. He has left traces of his passage!" the
Countess cried.

  "He wished to marry your niece; that's why he came to the house."

  The Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh: "Is
that the story that Isabel tells? It isn't bad, as such things go.
If he wishes to marry my niece, pray why doesn't he do it? Perhaps
he has gone to buy the wedding-ring and will come back with it next
month, after I'm gone."

  "No, he'll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marry him."

  "She's very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I
didn't know she carried it so far."

  "I don't understand you," said Henrietta coldly, and reflecting that
the Countess was unpleasantly perverse. "I really must stick to my
point-that Isabel never encouraged the attentions of Lord Warburton."

  "My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is
that my brother's capable of everything."

  "I don't know what your brother's capable of," said Henrietta with
dignity.

  "It's not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it's her
sending him away. I want particularly to see him. Do you suppose she
thought I would make him faithless?" the Countess continued with
audacious insistence. "However, she's only keeping him, one can feel
that. The house is full of him there; he's quite in the air. Oh yes,
he has left traces; I'm sure I shall see him yet."

  "Well," said Henrietta after a little, with one of those
inspirations which had made the fortune of her letters to the
Interviewer, "perhaps he'll be more successful with you than with
Isabel!"

  When she told her friend of the offer she had made Ralph Isabel
replied that she could have done nothing that would have pleased her
more. It had always been her faith that at bottom Ralph and this young
woman were made to understand each other. "I don't care whether he
understands me or not," Henrietta declared. "The great thing is that
he shouldn't die in the cars."

  "He won't do that," Isabel said, shaking her head with an
extension of faith.

  "He won't if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don't
know what you want to do."

  "I want to be alone," said Isabel.

  "You won't be that so long as you've so much company at home."

  "Ah, they're part of the comedy. You others are spectators."

  "Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?" Henrietta rather grimly
asked.

  "The tragedy then if you like. You're all looking at me; it makes me
uncomfortable."

  Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. "You're like the stricken
deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense
of helplessness!" she broke out.

  "I'm not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do."

  "It's not you I'm speaking of; it's myself. It's too much, having
come on purpose, to leave you just as I find you."

  "You don't do that; you leave me much refreshed," Isabel said.

  "Very mild refreshment-sour lemonade! I want you to promise me
something."

  "I can't do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such
a solemn one four years ago, and I've succeeded so ill in keeping it."

  "You've had no encouragement. In this case I should give you the
greatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that's what I
want you to promise."

  "The worst? What do you call the worst?"

  "Before your character gets spoiled."

  "Do you mean my disposition? It won't get spoiled," Isabel answered,
smiling. "I'm taking very good care of it. I'm extremely struck,"
she added, turning away, "with the off-hand way in which you speak
of a woman's leaving her husband. It's easy to see you've never had
one!"

  "Well," said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument,
"nothing is more common in our Western cities, and it's to them, after
all, that we must look in the future." Her argument, however, does not
concern this history, which has too many other threads to unwind.
She announced to Ralph Touchett that she was ready to leave Rome by
any train he might designate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself
together for departure. Isabel went to see him at the last, and he
made the same remark that Henrietta had made. It struck him that
Isabel was uncommonly glad to get rid of them all.

  For all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, and said
in a low tone, with a quick smile: "My dear Ralph-!"

  It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on
in the same way, jocosely, ingenuously: "I've seen less of you than
I might, but it's better than nothing. And then I've heard a great
deal about you."

  "I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done."

  "From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let other
people speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,' and that's
so flat."

  "I might have seen more of you certainly," Isabel said. "But when
one's married one has so much occupation."

  "Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me in England I
shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor." He
continued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and
succeeded in making the assumption appear almost just. He made no
allusion to his term being near, to the probability that he should not
outlast the summer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing
enough; the reality was sufficiently distinct without their erecting
finger-posts in conversation. That had been well enough for the
earlier time, though about this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had
never been egotistic. Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages
into which he should divide it, of the precautions he should take.
"Henrietta's my greatest precaution," he went on. "The conscience of
that woman's sublime."

  "Certainly she'll be very conscientious."

  "Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty
that she goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you."

  "Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes me deeply
ashamed.

  I ought to go with you, you know."

  "Your husband wouldn't like that."

  "No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same."

  "I'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being
a cause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!"

  "That's why I don't go," said Isabel simply-yet not very lucidly.

  Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so, with
all those occupations you speak of."

  "It isn't that. I'm afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she
repeated, as if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: "I'm
afraid."

  Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely
deliberate-apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do public
penance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were her
words simply an attempt at enlightened self-analysis? However this
might be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. "Afraid of
your husband?"

  "Afraid of myself! " she said, getting up. She stood there a
moment and then added: "If I were afraid of my husband that would be
simply my duty. That's what women are expected to be."

  "Ah yes," laughed Ralph; "but to make up for it there's always
some man awfully afraid of some woman!"

  She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a different
turn. "With Henrietta at the head of your little band," she
exclaimed abruptly, "there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!"

  "Ah, my dear Isabel," Ralph answered, "he's used to that. There is
nothing left for Mr. Goodwood."

  She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him.
They stood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his.
"You've been my best friend," she said.

  "It was for you that I wanted-that I wanted to live. But I'm of no
use to you."

  Then it came over her more poignantly that she should not see him
again. She could not accept that; she could not part with him that
way. "If you should send for me I'd come," she said at last.

  "Your husband won't consent to that."

  "Oh yes, I can arrange it."

  "I shall keep that for my last pleasure!" said Ralph.

  In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and
that evening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among
the first to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with
Gilbert Osmond, who almost always was present when his wife
received. They sat down together, and Osmond, talkative,
communicative, expansive, seemed possessed with a kind of intellectual
gaiety. He leaned back with his legs crossed, lounging and chatting,
while Goodwood, more restless, but not at all lively, shifted his
position, played with his hat, made the little sofa creak beneath him.
Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressive smile; he was as a man whose
perceptions have been quickened by good news. He remarked to
Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him; he himself should
particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligent men-they were
surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to come back; there was
something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian like himself, in
talking with a genuine outsider.

  "I'm very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said, "but there's nothing
I like better than to meet people who haven't that superstition. The
modern world's after all very fine. Now you're thoroughly modern and
yet are not at all common. So many of the moderns we see are such very
poor stuff. If they're the children of the future we're willing to die
young. Of course the ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and
I like everything that's really new-not the mere pretence of it.
There's nothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see
plenty of that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of
progress, of fight. A revelation of vulgarity! There's a certain
kind of vulgarity which I believe is really new; I don't think there
ever was anything like it before. Indeed I don't find vulgarity, at
all, before the present century. You see a faint menace of it here and
there in the last, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate
things are literally not recognized. Now, we've liked you-!" With
which he hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood's knee
and smiling with a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. "I'm
going to say something extremely offensive and patronizing, but you
must let me have the satisfaction of it. We've liked you
because-because you've reconciled us a little to the future. If
there are to be a certain number of people like you-a la bonne
heure! I'm talking for my wife as well as for myself, you see. She
speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn't I speak for her? We're as
united, you know, as the candlestick and the snuffers. Am I assuming
too much when I say that I think I've understood from you that your
occupations have been-a-commercial? There's a danger in that, you
know; but it's the way you have escaped that strikes us. Excuse me
if my little compliment seems in execrable taste; fortunately my
wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you might have been-a-what I
was mentioning just now. The whole American world was in a
conspiracy to make you so. But you resisted, you've something about
you that saved you. And yet you're so modern, so modern; the most
modern man we know! We shall always be delighted to see you again."

  I have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these remarks will
give ample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal
than he usually cared to be, and if Caspar Goodwood had attended to
them more closely he might have thought that the defence of delicacy
was in rather odd hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew
very well what he was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of
patronage with a grossness not in his habits he had an excellent
reason for the escapade. Goodwood had only a vague sense that he was
laying it on somehow; he scarcely knew where the mixture was
applied. Indeed he scarcely knew what Osmond was talking about; he
wanted to be alone with Isabel, and that idea spoke louder to him than
her husband's perfectly-pitched voice. He watched her talking with
other people and wondered when she would be at liberty and whether
he might ask her to go into one of the other rooms. His humour was
not, like Osmond's, of the best; there was an element of dull rage
in his consciousness of things. Up to this time he had not disliked
Osmond personally; he had only thought him very well-informed and
obliging and more than he had supposed like the person whom Isabel
Archer would naturally marry. His host had won in the open field a
great advantage over him, and Goodwood had too strong a sense of
fair play to have been moved to underrate him on that account. He
had not tried positively to think well of him; this was a flight of
sentimental benevolence of which, even in the days when he came
nearest to reconciling himself to what had happened, Goodwood was
quite incapable. He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of
the amateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which it
amused him to work off in little refinements of conversation. But he
only half trusted him; he could never make out why the deuce Osmond
should lavish refinements of any sort upon him. It made him suspect
that he found some private entertainment in it, and it ministered to a
general impression that his triumphant rival had in his composition
a streak of perversity. He knew indeed that Osmond could have no
reason to wish him evil; he had nothing to fear from him. He had
carried off a supreme advantage and could afford to be kind to a man
who had lost everything. It was true that Goodwood had at times grimly
wished he were dead and would have liked to kill him; but Osmond had
no means of knowing this, for practice had made the younger man
perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible to-day to any violent
emotion. He cultivated this art in order to deceive himself, but it
was others that he deceived first. He cultivated it, moreover, with
very limited success; of which there could be no better proof than the
deep, dumb irritation that reigned in his soul when he heard Osmond
speak of his wife's feelings as if he were commissioned to answer
for them.

  That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this
evening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even
than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at
Palazzo Roccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if
he and his wife had all things in sweet community and it were as
natural to each of them to say "we" as to say "I." In all this there
was an air of intention that had puzzled and angered our poor
Bostonian, who could only reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's
relations with her husband were none of his business. He had no
proof whatever that her husband misrepresented her, and if he judged
her by the surface of things was bound to believe that she liked her
life. She had never given him the faintest sign of discontent. Miss
Stackpole had told him that she had lost her illusions, but writing
for the papers had made Miss Stackpole sensational. She was too fond
of early news. Moreover, since her arrival in Rome she had been much
on her guard; she had pretty well ceased to flash her lantern at
him. This indeed, it may be said for her, would have been quite
against her conscience. She had now seen the reality of Isabel's
situation, and it had inspired her with a just reserve. Whatever could
be done to improve it the most useful form of assistance would not
be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her wrongs. Miss
Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state of Mr.
Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending
him choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals,
of which she received several by every post and which she always
perused with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut
out she placed in an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she
left with her own hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question
about Isabel: hadn't he come five thousand miles to see for himself?
He was thus not in the least authorized to think Mrs. Osmond
unhappy; but the very absence of authorization operated as an
irritant, ministered to the harshness with which, in spite of his
theory that he had ceased to care, he now recognized that, so far as
she was concerned, the future had nothing more for him. He had not
even the satisfaction of knowing the truth; apparently he could not
even be trusted to respect her if she were unhappy. He was hopeless,
helpless, useless. To this last character she had called his attention
by her ingenious plan for making him leave Rome. He had no objection
whatever to doing what he could for her cousin, but it made him
grind his teeth to think that of all the services she might have asked
of him this was the one she had been eager to select. There had been
no danger of her choosing one that would have kept him in Rome.

  To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to
leave-her to-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the
knowledge that he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had
gained no knowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable.
He felt the old bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow,
rise again in his throat, and he knew there are disappointments that
last as long as life. Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely
aware that he was touching again upon his perfect intimacy with his
wife. It seemed to him for a moment that the man had a kind of demonic
imagination; it was impossible that without malice he should have
selected so unusual a topic. But what did it matter, after all,
whether he were demonic or not, and whether she loved him or hated
him? She might hate him to the death without one's gaining a straw
one's self. "You travel, by the by, with Ralph Touchett," Osmond said.
"I suppose that means you'll move slowly?"

  "I don't know. I shall do just as he likes."

  "You're very accommodating. We're immensely obliged to you; you must
really let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we
feel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more
than once as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have
come; it's worse than an imprudence for people in that state to
travel; it's a kind of indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under
such an obligation to Touchett as he has been to-to my wife and me.
Other people inevitably have to look after him, and every one isn't so
generous as you."

  "I've nothing else to do," Caspar said dryly.

  Osmond looked at him a moment askance. "You ought to marry, and then
you'd have plenty to do! It's true that in that case you wouldn't be
quite so available for deeds of mercy."

  "Do you find that as a married man you're so much occupied?" the
young man mechanically asked.

  "Ah, you see, being married's in itself an occupation. It isn't
always active; it's often passive; but that takes even more attention.
Then my wife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we
make music, we walk, we drive-we talk even, as when we first knew each
other. I delight, to this hour, in my wife's conversation. If you're
ever bored take my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore
you, in that case; but you'll never bore yourself. You'll always
have something to say to yourself-always have a subject of
reflection."

  "I'm not bored," said Goodwood. "I've plenty to think about and to
say to myself."

  "More than to say to others!" Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh.
"Where shall you go next? I mean after you've consigned Touchett to
his natural caretakers-I believe his mother's at last coming back to
look after him. That little lady's superb; she neglects her duties
with a finish-! Perhaps you'll spend the summer in England?"

  "I don't know. I've no plans."

  "Happy man! That's a little bleak, but it's very free."

  "Oh yes, I'm very free."

  "Free to come back to Rome I hope," said Osmond as he saw a group of
new visitors enter the room. "Remember that when you do come we
count on you!"

  Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without
his having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of
several associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in
the inveteracy with which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour
discovered an intention where there was certainly no appearance of
one. There was absolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes
with her clear hospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he
would come and help her to entertain some of her visitors. To such
suggestions, however, he opposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered
about and waited; he talked to the few people he knew, who found him
for the first time rather self-contradictory. This was indeed rare
with Caspar Goodwood, though he often contradicted others. There was
often music at Palazzo Roccanera, and it was usually very good.
Under cover of the music he managed to contain himself; but toward the
end, when he saw the people beginning to go, he drew near to Isabel
and asked her in a low tone if he might not speak to her in one of the
other rooms, which he had just assured himself was empty. She smiled
as if she wished to oblige him but found herself absolutely prevented.
"I'm afraid it's impossible. People are saying good-night, and I
must be where they can see me."

  "I shall wait till they are all gone then."

  She hesitated a moment.

  "Ah, that will be delightful!" she exclaimed.

  And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several
people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess
Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no
consciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a
little circle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and
then broke into a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared- he never bade
good-bye to people; and as the Countess was extending her range,
according to her custom at this period of the evening, Isabel sent
Pansy to bed. Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish
her sister-in-law would sound a lower note and let the last
loiterers depart in peace.

  "May I not say a word to you now?" Goodwood presently asked her.

  She got up immediately, smiling. "Certainly, we'll go somewhere else
if you like." They went together, leaving the Countess with her little
circle, and for a moment after they had crossed the threshold
neither of them spoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the
middle of the room slowly fanning herself; she had for him the same
familiar grace. She seemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was
alone with her all the passion he had never stifled surged into his
senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim round him. The
bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through the heaving
veil he felt her hover before him with gleaming eyes and parted
lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would have perceived her smile
was fixed and a trifle forced-that she was frightened at what she
saw in his own face. "I suppose you wish to bid me good-bye?" she
said.

  "Yes- but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome," he
answered with almost plaintive honesty.

  "I can well imagine. It's wonderfully good of you. I can't tell
you how kind I think you."

  For a moment more he said nothing. "With a few words like that you
make me go."

  "You must come back some day," she brightly returned. "Some day? You
mean as long a time hence as possible." "Oh no; I don't mean all
that."

  "What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I'd go, and I'll
go,"

  Goodwood added.

  "Come back whenever you like," said Isabel with attempted lightness.

  "I don't care a straw for your cousin!" Caspar broke out.

  "Is that what you wished to tell me?"

  "No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything. I wanted to ask you-"
he paused a moment, and then-"what have you really made of your life?"
he said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer;
but she said nothing, and he went on: "I can't understand, I can't
penetrate you! What am I to believe-what do you want me to think?"
Still she said nothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite
without pretending to ease. "I'm told you're unhappy, and if you are I
should like to know it. That would be something for me. But you
yourself say you're happy, and you're somehow so still, so smooth,
so hard. You're completely changed. You conceal everything; I
haven't really come near you."

  "You come very near," Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning.

  "And yet I don't touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you
done well?"

  "You ask a great deal."

  "Yes-I've always asked a great deal. Of course you won't tell me.
I shall never know if you can help it. And then it's none of my
business." He had spoken with a visible effort to control himself,
to give a considerate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But
the sense that it was his last chance, that he loved her and had
lost her, that she would think him a fool whatever he should say,
suddenly gave him a lash and added a deep vibration to his low
voice. "You're perfectly inscrutable, and that's what makes me think
you've something to hide. I tell you I don't care a straw for your
cousin, but I don't mean that I don't like him. I mean that it isn't
because I like him that I go away with him. I'd go if he were an idiot
and you should have asked me. If you should ask me I'd go to Siberia
to-morrow. Why do you want me to leave the place? You must have some
reason for that; if you were as contented as you pretend you are you
wouldn't care. I'd rather know the truth about you, even if it's
damnable, than have come here for nothing. That isn't what I came for.
I thought I shouldn't care. I came because I wanted to assure myself
that I needn't think of you any more. I haven't thought of anything
else, and you're quite right to wish me to go away. But if I must
go, there's no harm in my letting myself out for a single moment, is
there? If you're really hurt-if he hurts you-nothing I say will hurt
you. When I tell you I love you it's simply what I came for. I thought
it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn't say it
if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the last
time-let me pluck a single flower! I've no right to say that, I
know; and you've no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never
listen, you're always thinking of something else. After this I must
go, of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no
reason, not a real one. I can't judge by your husband," he went on
irrelevantly, almost incoherently; "I don't understand him; he tells
me you adore each other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it
of mine? When I say that to you, you look strange. But you always look
strange. Yes, you've something to hide. It's none of my
business-very true. But I love you," said Caspar Goodwood.

  As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by
which they had entered and raised her fan as if in warning. "You've
behaved so well; don't spoil it," she uttered softly.

  "No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off
with. I love you as I've never loved you."

  "I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go."

  "You can't help it-of course not. You would if you could, but you
can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask
nothing-nothing, that is, I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole
satisfaction: that you tell me-that you tell me-!"

  "That I tell you what?"

  "Whether I may pity you."

  "Should you like that?" Isabel asked, trying to smile again.

  "To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing
something.

  I'd give my life to it."

  She raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except her
eyes. They rested a moment on his. "Don't give your life to it; but
give a thought to it every now and then." And with that she went
back to the Countess Gemini.

  CHAPTER 49

  Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the
evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the
incidents, and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not
surprised by it. Things had passed between them which added no
stimulus to sociability, and to appreciate which we must glance a
little backward. It has been mentioned that Madame Merle returned from
Naples shortly after Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her
first meeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came
immediately to see) her first utterance had been an enquiry as to
the whereabouts of this nobleman, for whom she appeared to hold her
dear friend accountable.

  "Please don't talk of him," said Isabel for answer; "we've heard
so much of him of late."

  Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and
smiled at the left corner of her mouth. "You've heard, yes. But you
must remember that I've not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and
to be able to congratulate Pansy."

  "You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord
Warburton."

  "How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?"
Madame Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the
intonation of good humour.

  Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured
too. "You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed
here to watch the affair."

  "I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's too late?"

  "You had better ask Pansy," said Isabel.

  "I shall ask her what you've said to her."

  These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused on
Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a
critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet
hitherto; she had never criticized; she had been markedly afraid of
intermeddling. But apparently she had only reserved herself for this
occasion, since she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an
air of irritation which even her admirable ease was not able to
transmute. She had suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's
surprise-our heroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in
Pansy's marriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs.
Osmond's alarm. More clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold,
mocking voice proceed from she knew not where, in the dim void that
surrounded her, and declare that this bright, strong, definite,
worldly woman, this incarnation of the practical, the personal, the
immediate, was a powerful agent in her destiny. She was nearer to
her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her nearness was not the
charming accident she had so long supposed. The sense of accident
indeed had died within her that day when she happened to be struck
with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own husband sat
together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken its place;
but it was enough to make her view this friend with a different eye,
to have been led to reflect that there was more intention in her
past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes, there had
been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself;
and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was it
that brought home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been
good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which
married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's
challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this
challenge which had at the very outset excited an answering
defiance; a nameless vitality which she could see to have been
absent from her friend's professions of delicacy and caution. Madame
Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long
as there was nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the
reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a
sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved quickly
indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her
soul. Madame Merle's interest was identical with Osmond's: that was
enough. "I think Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more
angry," she said in answer to her companion's last remark.

  I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrieve the
situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?"

  "I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; please let
it rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I've
nothing more to say or to hear. I've no doubt," Isabel added, "that
he'll be very happy to discuss the subject with you."

  "I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening."

  "As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you
needn't apply to me for information."

  "It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set
my heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do-it
satisfied the imagination."

  "Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned."

  "You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Of course not
directly. But when one's such an old friend one can't help having
something at stake. You forget how long I've known Pansy. You mean, of
course," Madame Merle added, "that you are one of the persons
concerned."

  "No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all."

  Madame Merle hesitated a little. "Ah yes, your work's done."

  "Take care what you say," said Isabel very gravely.

  "Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least.
Your husband judges you severely."

  Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with
bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's informing her
that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his
wife that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that
this was meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent,
and only when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at
least it was not right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of
corrosive acid upon an open wound was the knowledge that Osmond
dishonoured her in his words as well as in his thoughts. "Should you
like to know how I judge him?" she asked at last.

  "No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful for me
to know."

  There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her
Isabel thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave
her. "Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair," she said
abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.

  But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction.
She only gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement,
scattered upon the air a faint, agreeable fragrance. "I don't despair;
I feel encouraged. And I didn't come to scold you; I came if
possible to learn the truth. I know you'll tell it if I ask you.
It's an immense blessing with you that one can count upon that. No,
you won't believe what a comfort I take in it."

  "What truth do you speak of?" Isabel asked, wondering.

  "Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own
movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or
to please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in
spite of having lost a little of it," Madame Merle continued with a
smile, "to ask such a question as that!" She sat looking at her
friend, to judge the effect of her words, and then went on: "Now don't
be heroic, don't be unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I
do you an honour in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom
I would do it. I haven't the least idea that any other woman would
tell me the truth. And don't you see how well it is that your
husband should know it? It's true that he doesn't appear to have had
any tact whatever in trying to extract it; he has indulged in
gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't alter the fact that it would
make a difference in his view of his daughter's prospects to know
distinctly what really occurred. If Lord Warburton simply got tired of
the poor child, that's one thing, and it's a pity. If he gave her up
to please you it's another. That's a pity too, but in a different way.
Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign yourself to not being
pleased-to simply seeing your stepdaughter married. Let him off-let us
have him!"

  Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion
and apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on
Isabel grew pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It
was not that her visitor had at last thought it the right time to be
insolent; for this was not what was most apparent. It was a worse
horror than that. "Who are you-what are you?" Isabel murmured. "What
have you to do with my husband?" It was strange that for the moment
she drew as near to him as if she had loved him.

  "Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think,
however, that I shall do so."

  "What have you to do with me?" Isabel went on.

  Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing
her eyes from Isabel's face. "Everything!" she answered.

  Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was
almost a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman's
eyes seemed only a darkness. "Oh misery!" she murmured at last; and
she fell back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over
her like a high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame
Merle had married her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady
had left the room.

  Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away,
under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread
upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her
confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a
less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things
that had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she
dropped her secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where
its very modern quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as
she sat in a sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a
mouldy church to which no one came, she could almost smile at it and
think of its smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record, and
her haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot easily carried
her from the less to the greater. She had become deeply, tenderly
acquainted with Rome; it interfused and moderated her passion. But she
had grown to think of it chiefly as the place where people had
suffered. This was what came to her in the starved churches, where the
marble columns, transferred from pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a
companionship in endurance and the musty incense to be a compound of
long-unanswered prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistent
heretic than Isabel; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at dark
altar-pictures or clustered candles, could not have felt more
intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor have been more
liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy, as we know,
was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess Gemini,
balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage; but
she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her mood and
where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several
resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low
parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold
front of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at
the far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty
plain, between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it.
After the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more
than usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine
to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she
felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of
Rome behind, rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle
had begun to tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet
places where the fields lay near, while she strolled further and
further over the flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once
had a use and gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the
splendid sadness of the scene-at the dense, warm light, the far
gradations and soft confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds
in lonely attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had the
lightness of a blush.

  On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a
resolution not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved
vain, and this lady's image hovered constantly before her. She asked
herself, with an almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether
to this intimate friend of several years the great historical
epithet of wicked were to be applied. She knew the idea only by the
Bible and other literary works; to the best of her belief she had
had no personal acquaintance with wickedness. She had desired a
large acquaintance with human life, and in spite of her having
flattered herself that she cultivated it with some success this
elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it was not wicked-in
the historic sense-to be even deeply false; for that was what Madame
Merle had been deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt Lydia had made
this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her niece; but
Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much richer
view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own career and
the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor
stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she
wanted; she had brought about the union of her two friends; a
reflection which could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she
should so much have desired such an event. There were people who had
the match-making passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame
Merle, great artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought
too ill of marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that
particular marriage but had not desired others. She had therefore
had a conception of gain, and Isabel asked herself where she had found
her profit. It took her naturally a long time to discover, and even
then her discovery was imperfect. It came back to her that Madame
Merle, though she had seemed to like her from their first meeting at
Gardencourt, had been doubly affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death
and after learning that her young friend had been subject to the
good old man's charity. She had found her profit not in the gross
device of borrowing money, but in the more refined idea of introducing
one of her intimates to the young woman's fresh and ingenuous fortune.
She had naturally chosen her closest intimate, and it was already
vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert occupied this position. She
found herself confronted in this manner with the conviction that the
man in the world whom she had supposed to be the least sordid had
married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money. Strange to
say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought a good
deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular injury.
This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying to
herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman
for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least
he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted
her money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money
and let her go? Ah, if Mr. Touchett's great charity would but help her
today it would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that
if Madame Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition
to her of the boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his
feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what
expression must they have found on the part of such a master of irony?
It is a singular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isabel
returned from her silent drive she had broken its silence by the
soft exclamation:

  "Poor, poor Madame Merle!"

  Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same
afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains
of time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon
of the lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to
which we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In
that apartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and
his hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an
occasion commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not
so much to its apparent as to its real importance.

  "I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," said Madame
Merle.

  "Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face grave enough
to suggest that he might have been.

  "No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common
gratitude."

  "Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly. "And don't
aggravate me," he added in a moment.

  Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her
white hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as
it were, to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively
sad. "On your side, don't try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess
some of my thoughts."

  "I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quite enough
of my own."

  "That's because they're so delightful."

  Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at
his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an
expression of fatigue. "You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment.
"I'm very tired."

  "Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle.

  "With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not my own
fault."

  "When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest.
That's a great gift."

  "Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired with detachment.

  "Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time."

  "The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter."

  "You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so
brilliant."

  "Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured. "How little, after
all, you know me!"

  "If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle. "You've
the feeling of complete success."

  "No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me."

  "I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express
yourself more too."

  Osmond just hung fire. "I wish you'd express yourself less!"

  "You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been
a chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like
to say to you first. Your wife doesn't know what to do with
herself," she went on with a change of tone.

  "Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She
means to carry out her ideas."

  "Her ideas to-day must be remarkable."

  "Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever."

  "She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame Merle.
"She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She
was completely bewildered."

  "You had better say at once that she was pathetic."

  "Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much."

  He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of
one foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. "I should
like to know what's the matter with you," he said at last.

  "The matter-the matter-!" And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she
went on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder
in a clear sky: "The matter is that I would give my right hand to be
able to weep, and that I can't!"

  "What good would it do you to weep?"

  "It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you."

  "If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen you
shed them."

  "Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like
a wolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I was vile this
morning; I was horrid," she said.

  "If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she
probably didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.

  "It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn't help
it; I was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I
don't know. You've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my
soul."

  "It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition,"
Osmond said. "It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of
your influence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an immortal
principle? How can it suffer alteration?"

  "I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believe
it can perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened to mine, which
was a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for
it. You're very bad," she added with gravity in her emphasis.

  "Is this the way we're to end?" Osmond asked with the same studied
coldness.

  "I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did! How do bad people
end?-especially as to their common crimes. You have made me as bad
as yourself."

  "I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough," said
Osmond, his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the
words.

  Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish,
and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had
the pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turned sombre; her
smile betrayed a painful effort. "Good enough for anything that I've
done with myself? I suppose that's what you mean."

  "Good enough to be always charming!" Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.

  "Oh God!" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe
freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on
Isabel's part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with
her hands.

  "Are you going to weep after all?" Osmond asked; and on her
remaining motionless he went on:

  "Have I ever complained to you?"

  She dropped her hand quickly. "No, you've taken your revenge
otherwise-you have taken it on her."

  Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling
and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to
the heavenly powers. "Oh, the imagination of women! It's always
vulgar, at bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist."

  "Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your triumph too
much."

  "I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph."

  "You've made your wife afraid of you."

  Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows
on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at
his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation of
anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a
peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse
with. "Isabel's not afraid of me, and it's not what I wish," he said
at last. "To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things
as that?"

  "I've thought over all the harm you can do me," Madame Merle
answered. "Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was
really you she feared."

  "You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'm not
responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going to see her at
all: you're capable of acting without her. I've not made you afraid of
me that I can see," he went on; "how then should I have made her?
You're at least as brave. I can't think where you've picked up such
rubbish; one might suppose you knew me by this time." He got up as
he spoke and walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending
his eye, as if he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate
specimens of rare porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a
small cup and held it in his hand; then, still holding it and
leaning his arm on the mantel, he pursued: "You always see too much in
everything; you overdo it; you lose sight of the real. I'm much
simpler than you think."

  "I think you're very simple." And Madame Merle kept her eye on her
cup. "I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but
it's only since your marriage that I've understood you. I've seen
better what you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were
for me. Please be very careful of that precious object."

  "It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack," said Osmond dryly as
he put it down. "If you didn't understand me before I married it was
cruelly rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy
to my box myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked
very little; I only asked that she should like me."

  "That she should like you so much!"

  "So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she
should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that."

  "I never adored you," said Madame Merle.

  "Ah, but you pretended to!"

  "It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit,"
Madame Merle went on.

  "My wife has declined-declined to do anything of the sort," said
Osmond. "If you're determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy's
hardly for her."

  "The tragedy's for me!" Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long
low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of
her mantel-shelf. "It appears that I'm to be severely taught the
disadvantages of a false position."

  "You express yourself like a sentence in a copy-book. We must look
for our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn't like me, at
least my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy.
Fortunately I haven't a fault to find with her."

  "Ah," she said softly, "if I had a child-!"

  Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, "The children
of others may be a great interest!" he announced.

  "You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after all
that holds us together."

  "Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?" Osmond asked.

  "No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that,"
Madame Merle pursued, "that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to
be my work," she added, with her face, which had grown hard and
bitter, relaxing to its habit of smoothness.

  Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the
former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, "On the whole,
I think," he said, "you had better leave it to me."

  After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the
mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the
existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly.
"Have I been so vile all for nothing?" she vaguely wailed.

  CHAPTER 50

  As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments
Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting
relics and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The
Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of
learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman
brickwork as patiently as if they had been mounds of modern drapery.
She had not the historic sense, though she had in some directions
the anecdotic, and as regards herself the apologetic, but she was so
delighted to be in Rome that she only desired to float with the
current. She would gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp
darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her
remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not a severe
cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they offered
an excuse for talking about other matters than the love-affairs of the
ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary of
offering information. It must be added that during these visits the
Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference
was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most
interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined
the Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who-with all the
respect that she owed her-could not see why she should not descend
from the vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to
ramble that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it
may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her
parents' guest might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There
came a day when the Countess announced her willingness to undertake
this feat-a mild afternoon in March when the windy month expressed
itself in occasional puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the
Coliseum together, but Isabel left her companions to wander over the
place. She had often ascended to those desolate ledges from which
the Roman crowd used to bellow applause and where now the wild flowers
(when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she
felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an
intermission too, for the Countess often asked more from one's
attention than she gave in return; and Isabel believed that when she
was alone with her niece she let the dust gather for a moment on the
ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so remained below therefore, while
Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at
the foot of which the custodian unlocks the tall wooden gate. The
great enclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out the
pale red tone of the great blocks of travertine-the latent colour that
is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there
wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where,
in the clear stillness, a multitude of swallows kept circling and
plunging. Isabel presently became aware that one of the other
visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention
to her own person and was looking at her with a certain little poise
of the head which she had some weeks before perceived to be
characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. Such an
attitude, today, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and this
gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of
speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was
unaccompanied he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer
his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his
spoken eloquence. She replied that her stepdaughter was close at
hand and that she could only give him five minutes; whereupon he
took out his watch and sat down upon a broken block.

  "It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my
bibelots!" Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it
was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold
them by auction at the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place
three days ago, and they've telegraphed me the result. It's
magnificent."

  "I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things."

  "I have the money instead-fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond
think me rich enough now?"

  "Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently.

  "For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I
think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop
for the sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would
have killed me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought
high prices. I should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have
the money in my pocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man
exclaimed defiantly.

  "He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert
Osmond had never said this before.

  Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my
bibelots I'm nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me?
That's what they told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it.
But they hadn't seen her!"

  "My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly.

  "You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I
shouldn't." And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of
his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of
Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in consequence, but
who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of
stature one or two persons still have the perversity to think him
diminutive. "I know what happened here while I was away," he went
on. "What does Mr. Osmond expect after she has refused Lord
Warburton?"

  Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman."

  "What other nobleman?"

  "One that he'll pick out."

  Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket.

  "You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at
me."

  "I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you
had better go away."

  "I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be;
but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in
rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his
toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an
audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of
an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her
two companions had returned from their excursion. "You must really
go away," she said quickly.

  "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice
strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And
then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is
seized by a happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a
great desire to be presented to her."

  Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her
brother."

  "Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the
Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly
due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be
engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man.

  "I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left
him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had
stopped short, with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she
said gently.

  "Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And
she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back.

  Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a
meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr.
Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had
evidently introduced himself, while the Countess's expressive back
displayed to Isabel's eye a gracious inclination. These facts, none
the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took
their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother,
at first kept her eyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and
rested them on Isabel's. There shone out of each of them a little
melancholy ray-a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the
heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she
compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of the child with
her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she affectionately said.

  "Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology.

  And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming.
"Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel
asked at last.

  "Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased."

  "And you're not tired, I hope."

  "Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired."

  The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the
footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He
presently returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa
begged them not to wait-she would come home in a cab!"

  About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted
themselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for
dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have
been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking
the liberty," she said in a small voice. "It will be the last-for some
time."

  Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an
excited, frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed.

  "I'm going to the convent."

  "To the convent?"

  Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round
Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,
perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The
quiver of her little body expressed everything she was unable to
say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the
convent?"

  "Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every
now and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always
the world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a
little seclusion-a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached
sentences, as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added
with a triumph of self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so
much in the world this winter."

  Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to
carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this
decided?" she asked. "I've heard nothing of it."

  "Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be
too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at
a quarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a
few weeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those
ladies who used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little
girls who are being educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said
Pansy with an effect of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond
of Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal."

  Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost
awe-struck.

  "Think of me sometimes."

  "Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very
different from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered
herself.

  Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt
how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was
a long, tender kiss.

  Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine
had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On
going to the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess
Gemini alone, and this lady characterized the incident by
exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere,
une pose!" But if it was an affectation she was at a loss to see
what her husband affected. She could only dimly perceive that he had
more traditions than she supposed. It had become her habit to be so
careful as to what she said to him that, strange as it may appear, she
hesitated, for several minutes after he had come in, to allude to
his daughter's sudden departure: she spoke of it only after they
were seated at table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond
a question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and there
was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss Pansy very much."

  He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of
flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I
had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too
often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I
doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble
yourself about it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe
you would enter into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always
thought it a part of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter
should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With
the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and
crumpled. Pansy's a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has
knocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble that calls
itself society-one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents
are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her
there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil
virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are
noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her
piano. I've made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing
ascetic; there's just to be a certain little sense of sequestration.
She'll have time to think, and there's something I want her to think
about." Osmond spoke deliberately, reasonably, still with his head
on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone,
however, was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as
putting a thing into words-almost into pictures-to see, himself, how
it would look. He considered a while the picture he had evoked and
seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he went on: "The Catholics
are very wise after all. The convent is a great institution; we
can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need in
families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school
of repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world,"
he added; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other.
This one's very well, as she should take it, and she may think of it
as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way."

  Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found it
indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her
husband's desire to be effective was capable of going-to the point
of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his
daughter. She could not understand his purpose, no-not wholly; but she
understood it better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she
was convinced that the whole proceeding was an elaborate
mystification, addressed to herself and destined to act upon her
imagination. He had wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary,
something unexpected and refined; to mark the difference between his
sympathies and her own, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a
precious work of art it was natural he should be more and more careful
about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he had
succeeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel's heart. Pansy
had known the convent in her childhood and had found a happy home
there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were very fond of her,
and there was therefore for the moment no definite hardship in her
lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the impression her
father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough. The old
Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination, and as
her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of her
husband's genius-she sat looking, like him, at the basket of
flowers-poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond
wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife
found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief
presently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law.
The Countess too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had
arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel.

  "It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many
pretty reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at
once that you want to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered
that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me
simpaticissimo. He has made me believe in true love; I never did
before! Of course you've made up your mind that with those convictions
I'm dreadful company for Pansy."

  Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good
humoured. "My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a
piece of gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but
if I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much
simpler to banish you."

  CHAPTER 51

  The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her
tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this incident Isabel
received a telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt and bearing
the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's authorship. "Ralph cannot last many
days," it ran, "and if convenient would like to see you. Wishes me
to say that you must come only if you've not other duties. Say, for
myself, that you used to talk a good deal about your duty and to
wonder what it was; shall be curious to see whether you've found it
out. Ralph is really dying, and there's no other company." Isabel
was prepared for this news, having received from Henrietta Stackpole a
detailed account of her journey to England with her appreciative
patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive, but she had managed
to convey him to Gardencourt, where he had taken to his bed, which, as
Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave again. She
added that she had really had two patients on her hands instead of
one, inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was
quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards she
wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to Mrs.
Touchett, who had just returned from America and had promptly given
her to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing at
Gardencourt. Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came
to Rome, letting her know of his critical condition and suggesting
that she should lose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had
telegraphed an acknowledgement of this admonition, and the only
further news Isabel received from her was the second telegram I have
just quoted.

  Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then, thrusting
it into her pocket, she went straight to the door of her husband's
study. Here she again paused an instant, after which she opened the
door and went in. Osmond was seated at the table near the window
with a folio volume before him, propped against a pile of books.
This volume was open at a page of small coloured plates, and Isabel
presently saw that he had been copying from it the drawing of an
antique coin. A box of water-colours and fine brushes lay before
him, and he had already transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the
delicate, finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward the door, but
he recognized his wife without looking round.

  "Excuse me for disturbing you," she said.

  "When I come to your room I always knock," he answered, going on
with his work.

  "I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's dying."

  "Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his drawing
through a magnifying glass. "He was dying when we married; he'll
outlive us all."

  Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the careful
cynicism of this declaration; she simply went on quickly, full of
her own intention: "My aunt has telegraphed for me; I must go to
Gardencourt."

  "Why must you go to Gardencourt?" Osmond asked in the tone of
impartial curiosity.

  "To see Ralph before he dies."

  To this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to give
his chief attention to his work, which was of a sort that would
brook no negligence.

  "I don't see the need of it," he said at last. "He came to see you
here. didn't like that; I thought his being in Rome a great mistake.
But I tolerated it because it was to be the last time you should see
him. Now you tell me it's not to have been the last. Ah, you're not
grateful!"

  "What am I to be grateful for?"

  Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck of dust
from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time looked at
his wife. "For my not having interfered while he was here."

  "Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let me know
you didn't like it. I was very glad when he went away."

  "Leave him alone then. Don't run after him."

  Isabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his little
drawing. "I must go to England," she said, with a full consciousness
that her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly
obstinate.

  "I shall not like it if you do," Osmond remarked.

  "Why should I mind that? You won't like it if I don't. You like
nothing do or don't do. You pretend to think I lie."

  Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. "That's why you
must go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me."

  "I know nothing about revenge."

  "I do," said Osmond. "Don't give me an occasion."

  "You're only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I
would commit some folly."

  "I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me."

  "If I disobeyed you?" said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect
of mildness.

  "Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the
most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition."

  "How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's telegram but
three minutes ago."

  "You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't see why
we should prolong our discussion; you know my wish." And he stood
there as if he expected to see her withdraw.

  But she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it may seem;
she still wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an
extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. There was
something in her imagination he could always appeal to against her
judgement. "You've no reason for such a wish," said Isabel, "and
I've every reason for going. I can't tell you how unjust you seem to
me. But I think you know. It's your own opposition that's
calculated. It's malignant."

  She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and
the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed
no surprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had
believed his wife would in fact be unable to resist for ever his
ingenious endeavour to draw her out. "It's all the more intense then,"
he answered. And he added almost as if he were giving her a friendly
counsel: "This is a very important matter." She recognized that; she
was fully conscious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that
between them they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her
careful; she said nothing, and he went on. "You say I've no reason?
I have the very best. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, what
you intend to do. It's dishonourable; it's indelicate; it's
indecent. Your cousin is nothing whatever to me, and I'm under no
obligation to make concessions to him. I've already made the very
handsomest. Your relations with him, while he was here, kept me on
pins and needles; but I let that pass, because from week to week I
expected him to go. I've never liked him and he has never liked me.
That's why you like him-because he hates me," said Osmond with a
quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. "I've an ideal of what my
wife should do and should not do. She should not travel across
Europe alone, in defiance of my deepest desire, to sit at the
bedside of other men. Your cousin's nothing to you; he's nothing to
us. You smile most expressively when I talk about us, but I assure you
that we, Mrs. Osmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously;
you appear to have found a way of not doing so. I'm not aware that
we're divorced or separated; for me we're indissolubly united. You are
nearer to me than any human creature, and I'm nearer to you. It may be
a disagreeable proximity; it's one, at any rate, of our own deliberate
making. You don't like to be reminded of that, I know; but I'm
perfectly willing, because-because-" And he paused a moment, looking
as if he had something to say which would be very much to the point.
"Because I think we should accept the consequences of our actions, and
what I value most in life is the honour of a thing!"

  He spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasm had
dropped out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked his wife's
quick emotion; the resolution with which she had entered the room
found itself caught in a mesh of fine threads. His last words were not
command, they constituted a kind of appeal; and, though she felt
that any expression of respect on his part could only be a
refinement of egotism, they represented something transcendent and
absolute, like the sign of the cross or the flag of one's country.
He spoke in the name of something sacred and precious-the observance
of a magnificent form. They were as perfectly apart in feeling as
two disillusioned lovers had ever been; but they had never yet
separated in act. Isabel had not changed; her old passion for
justice still abode within her; and now, in the very thick of her
sense of her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it began to throb to a
tune which for a moment promised him the victory. It came over her
that in his wish to preserve appearances he was after all sincere, and
that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Ten minutes before she
had felt all the joy of irreflective action-a joy to which she had
so long been a stranger; but action had been suddenly changed to
slow renunciation, transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch. If she
must renounce, however, she would let him know she was a victim rather
than a dupe. "I know you're a master of the art of mockery," she said.
"How can you speak of an indissoluble union-how can you speak of
your being contented? Where's our union when you accuse me of falsity?
Where's your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion
in your heart?"

  "It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks."

  "We don't live decently together!" cried Isabel.

  "Indeed we don't if you go to England."

  "That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more."

  He raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he had lived
long enough in Italy to catch this trick. "Ah, if you've come to
threaten me I prefer my drawing." And he walked back to his table,
where he took up the sheet of paper on which he had been working and
stood studying it. "I suppose that if I go you'll not expect me to
come back," said Isabel.

  He turned quickly around, and she could see this movement at least
was not designed. He looked at her a little, and then, "Are you out of
your mind?" he enquired.

  "How can it be anything but a rupture?" she went on; "especially
if all you say is true?" She was unable to see how it could be
anything but a rupture; she sincerely wished to know what else it
might be.

  He sat down before his table. "I really can't argue with you on
the hypothesis of your defying me," he said. And he took up one of his
little brushes again.

  She lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embrace with her
eye his whole deliberately indifferent yet most expressive figure;
after which she quickly left the room. Her faculties, her energy,
her passion, were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark
mist had suddenly encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme
degree the art of eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her
room she found the Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a
little parlour in which a small collection of heterogeneous books
had been arranged. The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she
appeared to have been glancing down a page which failed to strike
her as interesting. At the sound of Isabel's step she raised her head.

  "Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell me some
amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness-! Do you think
this would do me any good?"

  Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but
without reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't advise you.
I've had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying."

  The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm
awfully sorry for you."

  "You would be sorrier still if you knew."

  "What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess added.

  "You must have been with Osmond."

  Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an
intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of
her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present
embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's
fluttering attention. "I've been with Osmond," she said, while the
Countess's bright eyes glittered at her.

  "I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Did he
say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?"

  "He said it's impossible I should go to England."

  The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile;
she already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her
visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into
mourning, and then there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a
prospect produced for a moment in her countenance an expressive
grimace; but this rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only
tribute to disappointment. After all, she reflected, the game was
almost played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And then
she cared enough for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw
that Isabel's trouble was deep. It seemed deeper than the mere death
of a cousin, and the Countess had no hesitation in connecting her
exasperating brother with the expression of her sister-in-law's
eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous expectation, for if she had
wished to see Osmond overtopped the conditions looked favourable
now. Of course if Isabel should go to England she herself would
immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing would induce her to
remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an immense desire to
hear that Isabel would go to England.

  "Nothing's impossible for you, my dear," she said caressingly.
"Why else are you rich and clever and good?"

  "Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak."

  "Why does Osmond say it's impossible?" the Countess asked in a
tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn't imagine.

  From the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew
back; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately
taken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. "Because
we're so happy together that we can't separate even for a fortnight."

  "Ah," cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, "when I want to
make a journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!"

  Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour.
It may appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble,
and it is certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed
herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she
fully measured the great undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that
in such a case as this, when one had to choose, one chose as a
matter of course for one's husband. "I'm afraid-yes, I'm afraid,"
she said to herself more than once, stopping short in her walk. But
what she was afraid of was not her husband-his displeasure, his
hatred, his revenge; it was not even her own later judgement of her
conduct-a consideration which had often held her in check; it was
simply the violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her
to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but
nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a horror
to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he
could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what he
was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married,
for all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man
with whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She
sank down on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of
cushions.

  When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before
her. She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her
thin lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining
intimation. She lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of
her spirit, but now she was leaning far out. "I knocked," she began,
"but you didn't answer me. So I ventured in. I've been looking at
you for the last five minutes. You're very unhappy."

  "Yes; but I don't think you can comfort me."

  "Will you give me leave to try?" And the Countess sat down on the
sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something
communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have a
deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her
sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her
glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination.
"After all," she soon resumed, "I must tell you, to begin with, that I
don't understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many
scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten
years ago, that my husband's dearest wish was to make me miserable
of late he has simply let me alone-ah, it was a wonderful
simplification! My poor Isabel, you're not simple enough."

  "No, I'm not simple enough," said Isabel.

  "There's something I want you to know," the Countess
declared-"because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do;
perhaps you've guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that I
understand still less why you shouldn't do as you like."

  "What do you wish me to know?" Isabel felt a foreboding that made
her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself,
and this alone was portentous.

  But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject.
"In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never
really suspected?"

  "I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don't know
what you mean.

  "That's because you've such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman
with such a pure mind!" cried the Countess.

  Isabel slowly got up. "You're going to tell me something horrible."

  "You can call it by whatever name you will!" And the Countess rose
also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood
a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even
then, of ugliness; after which she said: "My first sister-in-law had
no children."

  Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. "Your
first sister-in-law?"

  "I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has
been married before! I've never spoken to you of his wife; I thought
it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must
have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and
died childless. It wasn't till after her death that Pansy arrived."

  Isabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in
pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much
more to follow than she could see. "Pansy's not my husband's child
then?"

  "Your husband's-in perfection! But no one else's husband's. Some one
else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried the Countess, "with you
one must dot one's i's!"

  "I don't understand. Whose wife's?" Isabel asked.

  "The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died-how long?-a dozen,
more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognized Miss Pansy, nor,
knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and
there was no reason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better;
though he had to fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own
wife's having died in childbirth, and of his having, in grief and
horror, banished the little girl from his sight for as long as
possible before taking her home from nurse. His wife had really
died, you know, of quite another matter and in quite another place: in
the Piedmontese mountains, where they had gone, one August, because
her health appeared to require the air, but where she was suddenly
taken worse-fatally ill. The story passed, sufficiently; it was
covered by the appearances so long as nobody heeded, as nobody cared
to look into it. But of course I knew-without researches," the
Countess lucidly proceeded; "as also, you'll understand, without a
word said between us-I mean between Osmond and me. Don't you see him
looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle it?-that is to settle
me if I should say anything. I said nothing, right or left-never a
word to a creature, if you can believe that of me: on my honour, my
dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all this time, as I've
never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me, from the first,
that the child was my niece-from the moment she was my brother's
daughter. As for her veritable mother-!" But with this Pansy's
wonderful aunt dropped involuntarily, from the impression of her
sister-in-law's face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to look
at her than she had ever had to meet.

  She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips,
an echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head.

  "Why have you told me this?" she asked in a voice the Countess
hardly recognized.

  "Because I've been so bored with your not knowing. I've been
bored, frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly,
all this time I couldn't have managed! Ca me depasse, if you don't
mind my saying so, the things, all round you, that you've appeared
to succeed in not knowing. It's a sort of assistance-aid to innocent
ignorance-that I've always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this
connexion, that of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at
any rate finally found itself exhausted. It's not a black lie,
moreover, you know," the Countess inimitably added. "The facts are
exactly what I tell you."

  "I had no idea," said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a
manner that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this
confession.

  "So I believed-though it was hard to believe. Had it never
occurred to you that he was for six or seven years her lover?"

  "I don't know. Things have occurred to me, and perhaps that was what
they all meant."

  "She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about
Pansy!" the Countess, before all this view of it, cried.

  "Oh, no idea, for me," Isabel went on, "ever definitely took that
form." She appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what
hadn't. "And as it is-I don't understand."

  She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess
seemed to have seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of
effect. She had expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had
barely extracted a spark.

  Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have been,
as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister
passage of public history. "Don't you recognize how the child could
never pass for her husband's?-that is with M. Merle himself," her
companion resumed. "They had been separated too long for that, and
he had gone to some far country-I think to South America. If she had
ever had children-which I'm not sure of-she had lost them. The
conditions happened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so
awkward a pinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl.
His wife was dead-very true; but she had not been dead too long to put
a certain accommodation of dates out of the question-from the
moment, I mean, that suspicion wasn't started; which was what they had
to take care of. What was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond,
at a distance and for a world not troubling about trifles, should have
left behind her, poverina, the pledge of her brief happiness that
had cost her life? With the aid of a change of residence-Osmond had
been living with her at Naples at the time of their stay in the
Alps, and he in due course left it for ever-the whole history was
successfully set going. My poor sister-in-law, in her grave,
couldn't help herself, and the real mother, to save her skin,
renounced all visible property in the child."

  "Ah, poor, poor woman!" cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears.
It was a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high
reaction from weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in
which the Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture.

  "It's very kind of you to pity her!" she discordantly laughed.
"Yes indeed, you have a way of your own-!"

  "He must have been false to his wife-and so very soon!" said
Isabel with a sudden check.

  "That's all that's wanting-that you should take up her cause!" the
Countess went on. "I quite agree with you, however, that it was much
too soon." "But to me, to me-?" And Isabel hesitated as if she had not
heard; as if her question-though it was sufficiently there in her
eyes-were all for herself.

  "To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you
call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of
another woman-such a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their
risks and their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of
affairs had passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events,
for reasons of her own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship
of appearances so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored
with it. You may therefore imagine what it was-when he couldn't
patch it on conveniently to any of those he goes in for! But the whole
past was between them."

  "Yes," Isabel mechanically echoed, "the whole past is between them."

  "Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I
say, they had kept it up."

  She was silent a little. "Why then did she want him to marry me?"

  "Ah my dear, that's her superiority! Because you had money; and
because she believed you would be good to Pansy."

  "Poor woman-and Pansy who doesn't like her!" cried Isabel.

  "That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She
knows it; she knows everything."

  "Will she know that you've told me this?"

  "That will depend upon whether you tell her. She's prepared for
it, and do you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your
believing that I lie. Perhaps you do; don't make yourself
uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens this time, I don't. I've
told plenty of little idiotic fibs, but they've never hurt any one but
myself."

  Isabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale of
fantastic wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet
at her feet. "Why did Osmond never marry her?" she finally asked.

  "Because she had no money." The Countess had an answer for
everything, and if she lied she lied well. "No one knows, no one has
ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got all those
beautiful things. I don't believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she
wouldn't have married him."

  "How can she have loved him then?"

  "She doesn't love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I
suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband
was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined-I won't say his
ancestors, because he never had any-her relations with Osmond had
changed, and she had grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had,
about him," the Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so
tragically afterwards-she had never had, what you might call any
illusions of intelligence. She hoped she might marry a great man; that
has always been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and
prayed; but she has never succeeded. I don't call Madame Merle a
success, you know. I don't know what she may accomplish yet, but at
present she has very little to show. The only tangible result she
has ever achieved-except, of course, getting to know every one and
staying with them free of expense-has been her bringing you and Osmond
together. Oh, she did that, my dear; you needn't look as if you
doubted it. I've watched them for years; I know everything-everything.
I'm thought a great scatterbrain, but I've had enough application of
mind to follow up those two. She hates me, and her way of showing it
is to pretend to be for ever defending me. When people say I've had
fifteen lovers she looks horrified and declares that quite half of
them were never proved. She has been afraid of me for years, and she
has taken great comfort in the vile, false things people have said
about me. She has been afraid I'd expose her, and she threatened me
one day when Osmond began to pay his court to you. It was at his house
in Florence; do you remember that afternoon when she brought you there
and we had tea in the garden? She let me know then that if I should
tell tales two could play at that game. She pretends there's a good
deal more to tell about me than about her. It would be an
interesting comparison! I don't care a fig about what she may say,
simply because I know you don't care a fig. You can't trouble your
head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge as
she chooses; I don't think she'll frighten you very much. Her great
idea has been to be tremendously irreproachable-a kind of full-blown
lily-the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god.
There should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know; and, as I
say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she
wouldn't marry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people
would put things together-would even see a resemblance. She has had
a terror lest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully
careful; the mother has never done so."

  "Yes, yes, the mother has done so," said Isabel, who had listened to
all this with a face more and more wan. "She betrayed herself to me
the other day, though I didn't recognize her. There appeared to have
been a chance of Pansy's making a great marriage, and in her
disappointment at its not coming off she almost dropped the mask."

  "Ah, that's where she'd dish herself!" cried the Countess. "She
has failed so dreadfully that she's determined her daughter shall make
it up."

  Isabel started at the words "her daughter," which her guest threw
off so familiarly. "It seems very wonderful," she murmured; and in
this bewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being
personally touched by the story.

  "Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child!" the
Countess went on. "She's very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin.
I myself have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but
because she had become yours."

  "Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered
at seeing me-!" Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought.

  "I don't believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed.
Osmond's marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before
that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought?
That you might take such a fancy to the child that you'd do
something for her. Osmond of course could never give her a portion.
Osmond was really extremely poor; but of course you know all about
that. Ah, my dear," cried the Countess, "why did you ever inherit
money?" She stopped a moment as if she saw something singular in
Isabel's face. "Don't tell me now that you'll give her a dot. You're
capable of that, but I would refuse to believe it. Don't try to be too
good. Be a little easy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked,
for the comfort of it, once in your life!"

  "It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I'm sorry,"
Isabel said. "I'm much obliged to you."

  "Yes, you seem to be!" cried the Countess with a mocking laugh.
"Perhaps you are-perhaps you're not. You don't take it as I should
have thought."

  "How should I take it?" Isabel asked.

  "Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of" Isabel made
no answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on.
"They've always been bound to each other; they remained so even
after she broke off-or he did. But he has always been more for her
than she has been for him. When their little carnival was over they
made a bargain that each should give the other complete liberty, but
that each should also do everything possible to help the other on. You
may ask me how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the way
they've behaved. Now see how much better women are than men! She has
found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has never lifted a little finger
for her. She has worked for him, plotted for him, suffered for him;
she has even more than once found money for him; and the end of it
is that he's tired of her. She's an old habit; there are moments
when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn't miss her if she were
removed. And, what's more, to-day she knows it. So you needn't be
jealous!" the Countess added humorously.

  Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of
breath; her head was humming with new knowledge. "I'm much obliged
to you," she repeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a
different tone: "How do you know all this?"

  This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel's
expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold
stare, with which, "Let us assume that I've invented it!" she cried.
She too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on
Isabel's arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile:
"Now will you give up your journey?"

  Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a
moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood
a minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with
closed eyes and pale lips.

  "I've done wrong to speak-I've made you ill!" the Countess cried.

  "Ah, I must see Ralph!" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in the
quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of
far-reaching, infinite sadness.

  CHAPTER 52

  There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference
with her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she
thought (except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see
Pansy; from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as
Osmond had given her to understand that it was too soon to begin.
She drove at five o'clock to a high door in a narrow street in the
quarter of the Piazza Navona, and was admitted by the portress of
the convent, a genial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this
institution before; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. She
knew they were good women, and she saw that the large rooms were clean
and cheerful and that the well-used garden had sun for winter and
shade for spring. But she disliked the place, which affronted and
almost frightened her; not for the world would she have spent a
night there. It produced to-day more than before the impression of a
well-appointed prison; for it was not possible to pretend Pansy was
free to leave it. This innocent creature had been presented to her
in a new and violent light, but the secondary effect of the relation
was to make her reach out a hand.

  The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while
she went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear
young lady. The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking
furniture; a large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a
collection of wax flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from
religious pictures on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had
thought it less like Rome than like Philadelphia, but to-day she
made no reflexions; the apartment only seemed to her very empty and
very soundless. The portress returned at the end of some five minutes,
ushering in another person. Isabel got up, expecting to see one of the
ladies of the sisterhood, but to her extreme surprise found herself
confronted with Madame Merle. The effect was strange, for Madame Merle
was already so present to her vision that her appearance in the
flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully, seeing a painted
picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her falsity, her
audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these dark things
seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the room. Her being
there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of handwritings, of
profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It made Isabel feel
faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot she would have
been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to her; it
seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off not
only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual: she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon
her habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional,
and she had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This
gave her a peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and
though Isabel saw that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed
to her that on the whole the wonderful woman had never been so
natural. She looked at her young friend from head to foot, but not
harshly nor defiantly; with a cold gentleness rather, and an absence
of any air of allusion to their last meeting. It was as if she had
wished to mark a distinction. She had been irritated then, she was
reconciled now.

  "You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes
this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who,
after noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and
had let her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would
allow. She wished never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're
surprised to find me here, and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this
lady went on. "You don't see why I should have come; it's as if I
had anticipated you. I confess I've been rather indiscreet-I ought
to have asked your permission." There was none of the oblique movement
of irony in this; it was said simply and mildly; but Isabel, far
afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could not have told herself with
what intention it was uttered. "But I've not been sitting long,"
Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long with Pansy. I came
to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon that she must be
rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable. It may be good
for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I can't tell. At
any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I cam the chance. I knew of
course that you'd come, and her father as well; still, I had not
been told other visitors were forbidden. The good woman-what's her
name? Madame Catherine-made no objection whatever. I stayed twenty
minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not in the least
conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged it
delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have
a maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She
wears a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards
to see Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you
I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has
a most coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked
uncommonly like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of
Pansy; says it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a
little saint of heaven and a model to the oldest of them. just as I
was leaving Madame Catherine the portress came to say to her that
there was a lady for the signorina. Of course I knew it must be you,
and I asked her to let me go and receive you in her place. She
demurred greatly-I must tell you that-and said it was her duty to
notify the Mother Superior; it was of such high importance that you
should be treated with respect. I requested her to let the Mother
Superior alone and asked her how she supposed I would treat you!"

  So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman
who had long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there
were phases and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost
upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's
face. She had not proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break
in her voice, a lapse in her continuity, which was in itself a
complete drama. This subtle modulation marked a momentous
discovery-the perception of an entirely new attitude on the part of
her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in the space of an instant that
everything was at end between them, and in the space of another
instant she had guessed the reason why. The person who stood there was
not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a very different
person-a person who knew her secret. This discovery was tremendous,
and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of women
faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and
flowed on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only
because she had the end in view that she was able to proceed. She
had been touched with a point that made her quiver, and she needed all
the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety
was in her not betraying herself. She resisted this, but the
startled quality of her voice refused to improve she couldn't help
it while she heard herself say she hardly knew what. The tide of her
confidence ebbed, and she was able only just to glide into port,
faintly grazing the bottom.

  Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a
large clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it
might have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her
pluck and saw before her the phantom of exposure-this in itself was
a revenge, this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day.
And for a moment during which she stood apparently looking out of
the window, with her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that
knowledge. On the other side of the window lay the garden of the
convent; but this is not what she saw; she saw nothing of the
budding plants and the glowing afternoon. She saw, in the crude
light of that revelation which had already become a part of experience
and to which the very frailty of the vessel in which it had been
offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry staring fact that
she had been an applied handled hung-up tool, as senseless and
convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the bitterness of this
knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if she felt on her
lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during which, if she
had turned and spoken, she would have said something that would hiss
like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous vision
dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world standing
there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to think
as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still-to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her.
Madame Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She
might see what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would
never accuse her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never
would give her the opportunity to defend herself.

  "I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I
go to England to-night."

  "Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.

  "I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."

  "Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a
chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"

  "Yes; without my husband."

  Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"

  "Yes; she has returned from America."

  "She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too
have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused
a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"

  "I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.

  "Naturally-in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in.
I don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle
added; "but I should like to give my love to the place."

  Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."

  When she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a
discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair
of plump white hands. Isabel recognized Madame Catherine, whose
acquaintance she had already made, and begged that she would
immediately let her see Miss Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly
discreet, but smiled very blandly and said: "It will be good for her
to see you. I'll take you to her myself" Then she directed her pleased
guarded vision to Madame Merle.

  "Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to
be here."

  "You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a
knowing laugh.

  She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up
a long staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and
clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments.
Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and
ushered in the visitor; then stood smiling with folded hands while the
two others met and embraced.

  "She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And
she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no
movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this
dear child look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.

  "She looks pale," Isabel answered.

  "That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire
la maison," said the good sister.

  Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me-they
think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness
to accommodate.

  "We think of you always-you're a precious charge," Madame
Catherine remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was
a habit and whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care.
It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to
represent the surrender of a personality, the authority of the Church.

  When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down
and hid her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some
moments, while Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up,
averting her face and looking about the room. "Don't you think I've
arranged it well? I've everything I have at home."

  "It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew
what she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her
think she had come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull
mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a
moment: "I've come to bid you good-bye. I'm going to England."

  Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come
back?"

  "I don't know when I shall come back."

  "Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if
she had no right to criticize; but her tone expressed a depth of
disappointment.

  "My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to
see him," Isabel said.

  "Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will
papa go?"

  "No; I shall go alone."

  For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what
she thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but
never by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she
deemed them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her
reflexions, Isabel was sure; and she must have had a conviction that
there were husbands and wives who were more intimate than that. But
Pansy was not indiscreet even in thought; she would as little have
ventured to judge her gentle stepmother as to criticize her
magnificent father. Her heart may have stood almost as still as it
would have done had she seen two of the saints in the great picture in
the convent-chapel turn their painted heads and shake them at each
other. But as in this latter case she would (for very solemnity's
sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon, so she put away all
knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her own. "You'll be very
far away," she presently went on.

  "Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel
explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."

  "Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very
often."

  "I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring
nothing with me. I can't amuse you."

  "I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."

  "Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."

  "You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.

  "Not very. But it doesn't matter."

  "That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like
to come out."

  "I wish indeed you might."

  "Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.

  Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you
come away with me now?" she asked.

  Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"

  "No; it's my own proposal."

  "I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"

  "I don't think he knew I was coming."

  "He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies
are very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are
some very little ones-such charming children. Then my room-you can see
for yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa
wished me to think a little-and I've thought a great deal."

  "What have you thought?"

  "Well, that I must never displease papa."

  "You knew that before."

  "Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything-I'll do anything," said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came
into her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl
had been vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his
enamels! Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer
to be treated easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her
know that her look conveyed diminution of esteem; for the collapse
of the girl's momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had
been) seemed only her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't
presume to judge others, but she had judged herself; she had seen
the reality. She had no vocation for struggling with combinations;
in the solemnity of sequestration there was something that overwhelmed
her. She bowed her pretty head to authority and only asked of
authority to be merciful. Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had
reserved a few articles!"

  Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I
leave Rome to-night."

  Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the
child's face. "You look strange; you frighten me."

  "Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.

  "Perhaps you won't come back?"

  "Perhaps not. I can't tell."

  "Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"

  Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what
can I do for you?" she asked.

  "I don't know-but I'm happier when I think of you."

  "You can always think of me."

  "Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "Of papa-a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see
me."

  "You must not say that," Isabel observed.

  "Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it
more easily."

  Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last.
"Good-bye, my child."

  Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her
visitor to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she
remarked as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added
abruptly: "I don't like Madame Merle!"

  Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that-that you
don't like Madame Merle."

  Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never
been a reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said
with exquisite gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to
separate, as it appeared to be part of the mild but very definite
discipline under which Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel
descended, and when she reached the bottom the girl was standing
above. "You'll come back?" she called out in a voice that Isabel
remembered afterwards.

  "Yes-I'll come back."

  Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door
of the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I
won't go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."

  At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of
asking if there were no other egress from the convent. But a
moment's reflexion assured her that she would do well not to betray to
the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion
grasped her arm very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise,
benevolent eyes, said in French and almost familiarly: "Eh, bien,
chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous?"

  "About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."

  "We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And
she pushed open the door of the parlour.

  Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman
so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As
Madame Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she
had been thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance;
she was in full possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait
for you," she said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."

  Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of
Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame
Catherine says it's enough."

  "Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word
about poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to
believe that he's really at his last?"

  "I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only
confirms a probability."

  "I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are
you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as
her utterance.

  "Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."

  She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has
occurred to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you
the benefit of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have
you never guessed it?"

  "He has done me many services."

  "Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."

  "He made me? Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she
went on more triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which
was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him
you've to thank." She stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.

  "I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."

  "Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"

  Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined
by lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't
know what you know."

  "I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."

  Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a
moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said-it was her only
revenge: "I believed it was you I had to thank!"

  Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."

  "Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you
again."

  Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out.

  CHAPTER 53

  It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel
descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the
arms, as it were-or at any rate into the hands-of Henrietta Stackpole.
She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not
definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt
her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey
from Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to
question the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes
and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out
though they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts
followed their course through other countries-strange-looking,
dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of
seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of winter. She
had plenty to think about; but it was neither reflexion nor
conscious purpose that filled her mind. Disconnected visions passed
through it, and sudden gleams of memory, of expectation. The past
and the future came and went at their will, but she saw them only in
fitful images, which rose and fell by a logic of their own. It was
extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that she was in the
secret, now that she knew something that so much concerned her and the
eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play whist
with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual
relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose
before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a
thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a
shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that
they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after
all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing
seemed of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was
suspended; all desire too save the single desire to reach her
much-embracing refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting point, and to
those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution to return.
She had gone forth in her strength; she would come back in her
weakness, and if the place had been a rest to her before, it would
be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dying, for if one were
thinking of rest that was the most perfect of all. To cease utterly,
to give it all up and not know anything more-this idea was as sweet as
the vision of a cool bath in a marble tank, in a darkened chamber,
in a hot land.

  She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as
good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so
passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope
and regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures
couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to
regret now-that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but
the time of her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was
that Madame Merle had been so-well, so unimaginable. just here her
intelligence dropped, from literal inability to say what it was that
Madame Merle had been. Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself
to regret it; and doubtless she would do so in America, where she
had announced she was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had
an impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This
impression carried her into the future, of which from time to time she
had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant years,
still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live, and these
intimations contradicted the spirit of the present hour. It might be
desirable to get quite away, really away, further away than little
grey-green England, but this privilege was evidently to be denied her.
Deep in her soul-deeper than any appetite for renunciation-was the
sense that life would be her business for a long time to come. And
at moments there was something inspiring, almost enlivening, in the
conviction. It was a proof of strength-it was a proof she should
some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live only to
suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer-only to feel the
injury of life repeated and enlarged-it seemed to her she was too
valuable, too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and
stupid to think so well of herself. When had it even been a
guarantee to be valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction
of precious things? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine
one would suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that one had a
certain grossness; but Isabel recognized, as it passed before her
eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She should never
escape; she should last to the end. Then the middle years wrapped
her about again and the grey curtain of her indifference closed her
in.

  Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were
afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in
the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked
nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she
should be helped. She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something
terrible in an arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching
vault of the station, the strange, livid light, the dense, dark,
pushing crowd, filled her with a nervous fear and made her put her arm
into her friend's. She remembered she had once liked these things;
they seemed part of a mighty spectacle in which there was something
that touched her. She remembered how she walked away from Euston, in
the winter dusk, in the crowded streets, five years before. She
could not have done that to-day, and the incident came before her as
the deed of another person.

  "It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta,
looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge
the proposition. "If you hadn't-if you hadn't; well, I don't know,"
remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of
disapproval.

  Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on
another figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in
a moment she recognized the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He
stood a little apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude
that pressed about him to make him yield an inch of the ground he
had taken-that of abstracting himself discreetly while the two
ladies performed their embraces.

  "There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly,
scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid or not.

  "Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!"
Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a
smile-a smile tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion.

  "Isn't it lovely she has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about
it," she added; "we had quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I
said you would."

  "I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she
could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave
eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished
her to remember he was an old friend of her cousin-that he understood,
that it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him,
extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight.

  "Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, you
know."

  "Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta enquired.

  "Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."

  "I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had
never found so interesting.

  "Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the
two for a moment together.

  They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked
Isabel how it had been on the Channel.

  "Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her
companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to
Gardencourt, I know."

  "Now how do you know that?"

  "I can't tell you-except that you look like a person who has been to
Gardencourt."

  "Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know."

  "I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully
kind," said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed
to her she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.

  Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He
blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very
blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask
Miss Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago."

  "Did you see my cousin?"

  "Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had
been there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except
that he was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he
can't speak," Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was awfully jolly and funny
all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched."

  Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid.
"Was that late in the day?"

  "Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know."

  greatly obliged to you. Can I go down to-night?"

  "Ah, I don't think she'll let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She wants
you to stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me
to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and
easy,' that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you
can wait till tomorrow. You must be awfully tired."

  "Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again."

  "Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "we were certain you would like the last
news." On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed
after all to agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid,
whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This
excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply
attended to her mistress's luggage, so that the latter was now at
liberty to leave the station. "You know you're not to think of going
to the country to-night," Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't
matter whether there's a train or not. You're to come straight to me
in Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be had in London, but
I've got you one all the same. It isn't a Roman palace, but it will do
for a night."

  "I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said.

  "You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish."

  "She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr.

  Bantling enquired jocosely.

  Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see
you're in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington
Station to-morrow morning at ten."

  "Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.

  "He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her
friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole
Street-to do her justice there had been dinner enough-she asked
those questions to which she had alluded at the station. "Did your
husband make you a scene about your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's
first enquiry.

  "No; I can't say he made a scene."

  "He didn't object then?"

  "Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a
scene."

  "What was it then?"

  "It was a very quiet conversation."

  Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been
hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been
hellish. But she confined herself to answering Henrietta's
questions, which was easy, as they were tolerably definite. For the
present she offered her no new information. "Well," said Miss
Stackpole at last, "I've only one criticism to make. I don't see why
you promised little Miss Osmond to go back."

  "I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then."

  "If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."

  Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another."

  "You'll certainly never find a good one."

  "In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel
suggested.

  "Yes; that's why I hate it."

  "Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a
complication, but what will going back be?"

  "You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said
Henrietta with much intention.

  "He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene
of a moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."

  For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder,
and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had
requested, announced abruptly:

  "I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!"

  "Ah, the invitation came at last!"

  "Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me."

  "Naturally enough."

  "It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta, who
fixed her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning
suddenly: "Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why?
Because I criticized you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr.
Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!"

  It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so
modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted
with a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She
immediately recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of
intensity, "Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up
your country?"

  "Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the
fact in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right
here in London."

  "It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.

  "Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I
think I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain."

  "One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours
doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."

  "No, he isn't a bad pun-or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a
good prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates
intellect. On the other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I
sometimes think we do in the United States."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time
I've ever heard you say anything against your native land."

  "I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that,
after all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I am changed; a woman has to
change a good deal to marry."

  "I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last-over here-see
something of the inner life."

  Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good
a right as any one!" she added with artless elation.

  Isabel was duly diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in
her view. Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human and
feminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light keen
flame, a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment to find she had
personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to common passions,
and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had not been completely
original. There was a want of originality in her marrying him-there
was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to Isabel's sense, the
dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A little later
indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her
country. She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been
her country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she
had enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.

  "Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make of me."

  "And was that very enjoyable?"

  "Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She
thinks she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of
my modern type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a
little better or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she
thinks it's my duty to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's
immoral that I should marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't
immoral enough. And she'll never understand my mixture-never!"

  "She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He
appears to have understood."

  "Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really
believe that's what he wants to marry me for-just to find out the
mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea-a kind of
fascination."

  "It's very good in you to humour it."

  "Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And
Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an
attack. She was at last about to grapple in earnest with England.

  Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington
Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company
both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his
perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had
found out at least the great point-that Miss Stackpole would not be
wanting in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a
wife he had been on his guard against this deficiency.

  "Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she
gave him her hand.

  "I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting
on his neat umbrella.

  "Yes, I think it awfully odd."

  "You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather
liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.

  CHAPTER 54

  Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even
quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small
household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that
instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown
into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up
to her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no
hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and
scared as scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for
conscious things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The
day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide
brown rooms. The house was perfectly still-with a stillness that
Isabel remembered; it had filled all the place for days before the
death of her uncle. She left the drawing-room and wandered
about-strolled into the library and along the gallery of pictures,
where, in the deep silence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was
changed; she recognized everything she had seen years before; it might
have been only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the
security of valuable "pieces" which change by no hair's breadth,
only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by inch youth,
happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking about
as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany. She
was changed enough since then-that had been the beginning. It suddenly
struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just that
way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She
might have had another life and she might have been a woman more
blest. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture-a
charming and precious Bonington-upon which her eyes rested a long
time. But she was not looking at the picture; she was wondering
whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albany she would have
married Caspar Goodwood.

  Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to
the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but
her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips
seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress
of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had
wondered the first time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more
a queen-regent or the matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed
on Isabel's hot cheek.

  "I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph," Mrs.
Touchett said. "The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her
place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's
good for nothing; he's always looking out of the window if there
were anything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to
be sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited
till the nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house."

  "I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking
everywhere," Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much.

  "He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure
that it's always sleep."

  "Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"

  Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him,"
was the limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct
Isabel to her room. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's
not my house, it's Ralph's; and I don't know what they do. They must
at least have taken your luggage; I don't suppose you've brought much.
Not that I care, however. I believe they've given you the same room
you had before; when Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have
that one."

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!" cried Mrs. Touchett as
she preceded her niece up the staircase.

  It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been
slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not
voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. "Is
there really no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her.

  "None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful
life."

  "No-it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself
already contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.

  "I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without
health.

  That is a very odd dress to travel in."

  Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's notice; I
took the first that came."

  "Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed
to be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them-but they
seemed to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less
than black brocade."

  "They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them
the truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her."

  "She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time
she should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have
been expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my
visit to America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my
pleasure."

  These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece,
whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this
repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in
the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her
aunt not to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor
woman's inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment,
came back to her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing
to-day to be able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two.
She wondered if she were not even missing those enrichments of
consciousness and privately trying-reaching out for some aftertaste of
life, dregs of the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold
recreation of remorse. On the other hand perhaps she was afraid; if
she should begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far.
Isabel could perceive, however, how it had come over her dimly that
she had failed of something, that she saw herself in the future as
an old woman without memories. Her little sharp face looked
tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not moved, but that
he probably would be able to see her before dinner. And then in a
moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day before; an
announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an
intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an
accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be
happy; she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord
Warburton. She none the less presently said to her aunt that he had
been very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome.

  "He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And
she paused with a gaze like a gimlet.

  Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she
meant. But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and
she wished to gain a moment. "Ah yes-the House of Lords and all that."

  "He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At
least he's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engaged to be
married."

  "Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed.

  "Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to
know. Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believe it's to
take place very soon."

  "And who's the young lady?"

  "A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia-something
of that sort."

  "I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision."

  "Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only
just been made public."

  "I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew
her aunt was watching her-looking for the signs of some imputed
soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything
of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction,
the tone almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the
tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their
old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care
therefore was to show that however that might be in general she was
not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster;
and if she sat for some moments thoughtful-she presently forgot Mrs.
Touchett's observation-it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her
imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted, panting, and even
trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself
announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to
the altar, and she was of course not aware how extremely wan she
must have looked while she made this intellectual effort. But at
last she collected herself and said to her aunt: "He was sure to do it
some time or other."

  Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of
the head.

  "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on
with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of
Lord Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now
that was all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might
have lived. A servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett
requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she
sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like
to ask you three questions," she observed when the servant had gone.

  "Three are a great many."

  "I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good
ones."

  "That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst,"
Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her
niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the
deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes.

  "Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?" Mrs.

  Touchett enquired.

  Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dear aunt."

  "Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say."

  "Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared, smiling
still.

  "A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm
misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow
over you."

  "It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel.

  "I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over
you," Mrs. Touchett added. "Do you still like Serena Merle?" she
went on.

  "Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to
America."

  "To America? She must have done something very bad."

  "Yes-very bad."

  "May I ask what it is?"

  "She made a convenience of me."

  "Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of every
one."

  "She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling again
and glad that her aunt's questions were over.

  It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had
been dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The
doctor was there, but after a while went away-the local doctor, who
had attended his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four
times a day; he was deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had
Sir Matthew Hope, but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom
he had asked his mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore
without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply
written to Sir Matthew that her son disliked him. On the day of
Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have related, for many
hours; but toward evening he raised himself and said he knew that
she had come. How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of
exciting him no one had offered the information. Isabel came in and
sat by his bed in the dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a
corner of the room. She told the nurse she might he herself would
sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and
recognized her, and had moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him,
so that she might take it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his
eyes again and remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in
his own. She sat with him a long time-till the nurse came back; but he
gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she looked at
him; he was already the figure and pattern of death. She had thought
him far gone in Rome, and this was worse; there was but one change
possible now. There was a strange tranquillity in his face; it was
as still as the lid of a box. With this he was a mere lattice of
bones; when he opened his eyes to greet her it was as if she were
looking into immeasurable space. It was not till midnight that the
nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long; it was
exactly what she had come for. If she had come simply to wait she
found ample occasion, for he lay three days in a kind of grateful
silence. He recognized her and at moments seemed to wish to speak; but
he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were
waiting for something-for something that certainly would come. He
was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming had
already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were still
together. But they were not always together; there were other hours
that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening for
a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she
thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained
silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the
Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last-on the evening of the
third day.

  "I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless
dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon her
knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him not
to make an effort-not to tire himself. His face was of necessity
serious-it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its
owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What
does it matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no
harm in making an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't
people always feel better just before the end? I've often heard of
that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you've been here I
thought it would come. I tried two or three times; I was afraid
you'd get tired of sitting there." He spoke slowly, with painful
breaks and long pauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When
he ceased he lay with his face turned to Isabel and his large
unwinking eyes open into her own. "It was very good of you to come,"
he went on. "I thought you would; but I wasn't sure."

  "I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel.

  "You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about
the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You've been like
that; as if you were waiting for me."

  "I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for-for this.
This is not death, dear Ralph."

  "Not for you-no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to
see others die. That's the sensation of life-the sense that we remain.
I've had it-even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others.
With me it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head
further, till it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his
own. She couldn't see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her
ear. "Isabel," he went on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She
answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her
buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a
long groan. "Ah, what is it you have done for me?"

  "What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation
half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish
to hide things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it
brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of
pain. "You did something once-you know it. O Ralph, you've been
everything! What have I done for you-what can I do to-day? I would die
if you could live. But I don't wish you to live; I would die myself,
not to lose you." Her voice was as broken as his own and full of tears
and anguish.

  "You won't lose me-you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be
nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in
life there's love. Death is good-but there's no love."

  "I never thanked you-I never spoke-I never was what I should be!"

  Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse
herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the
moment, became single and melted together into this present pain.
"What must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew,
and I only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I."

  "Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leave people."

  She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment
to pray to him.

  "Is it true-is it true?" she asked.

  "True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible
intention of wit.

  "That you made me rich-that all I have is yours?"

  He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at
last: "Ah, don't speak of that-that was not happy." Slowly he moved
his face toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for
that-but for that-!" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he
wailed.

  She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he
seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had it
she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only
knowledge that was not pure anguish-the knowledge that they were
looking at the truth together. "He married me for the money," she
said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before
she had done so.

  He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes
lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then, "He
was greatly in love with you," he answered.

  "Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I
had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want
you to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding;
but that's all over."

  "I always understood," said Ralph.

  "I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it."

  "You don't hurt me-you make me very happy." And as Ralph said this
there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her head
again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I always
understood," he continued, "though it was so strange-so pitiful. You
wanted to look at life for yourself-but you were not allowed; you were
punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the
conventional!"

  "Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.

  He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad
about your coming?"

  "He made it very hard for me. But I don't care."

  "It is all over then between you?"

  "Oh no; I don't think anything's over."

  "Are you going back to him?" Ralph gasped.

  "I don't know-I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I
don't want to think-I needn't think. I don't care for anything but
you, and that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet.
Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have
been for a long time. And I want you to be happy-not to think of
anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why
should there be pain? In such hours as this what have we to do with
pain? That's not the deepest thing; there's something deeper."

  Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in
speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he
appeared to make no response to these last words; he let a long time
elapse. Then he murmured simply: "You must stay here."

  "I should like to stay-as long as seems right."

  "As seems right-as seems right?" He repeated her words. "Yes, you
think a great deal about that."

  "Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel.

  "I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest
thing. No-no. But it's very deep. If I could stay-"

  "For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was
easy to interrupt him.

  But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's
passing now. But love remains. I don't know why we should suffer so
much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many things in life.
You're very young."

  "I feel very old," said Isabel.

  "You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe-I
don't believe-" But he stopped again; his strength failed him.

  She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each
other," she said.

  "I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt
you for more than a little."

  "Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears.

  "And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been hated you've
also been loved. Ah but, Isabel-adored!" he just audibly and
lingeringly breathed.

  "Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper
prostration.

  CHAPTER 55

  He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt,
that if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the
ghost with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had
fulfilled the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the
cold, faint dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed.
She had lain down without undressing, it being her belief that Ralph
would not outlast the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she
was waiting, and such waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes;
she believed that as the night wore on she should hear a knock at
her door. She heard no knock, but at the time the darkness began
vaguely to grow grey she started up from her pillow as abruptly as
if she had received a summons. It seemed to her for an instant that he
was standing there-a vague, hovering figure in the vagueness of the
room. She stared a moment; she saw his white face-his kind eyes;
then she saw there was nothing. She was not afraid; she was only sure.
She quitted the place and in her certainty passed through dark
corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that shone in the vague
light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door she stopped a moment,
listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She
opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil
from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless
and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his hands in
her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's further
wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were at
the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but the
doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand
in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very
hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she
had come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and
there was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which,
six years before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to
her aunt and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a
general thing neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a
moment to this one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff
and dry-eyed; her acute white face was terrible.

  "Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.

  "Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett,
disengaging herself.

  Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at
the height of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a
quiet station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey
church which stood within an easy walk. It was in the green
burial-place of this edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to
earth. She stood herself at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood
beside her; the sexton himself had not a more practical interest in
the scene than Mrs. Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither
a harsh nor a heavy one; there was a certain geniality in the
appearance of things. The weather had changed to fair; the day, one of
the last of the treacherous May-time, was warm and windless, and the
air had the brightness of the hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was
sad to think of poor Touchett, it was not too sad, since death, for
him, had had no violence. He had been dying so long; he was so
ready; everything had been so expected and prepared. There were
tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears that blinded. She
looked through them at the beauty of the day, the splendour of nature,
the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the bowed heads of good
friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group of gentlemen all
unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards learned, were
connected with the bank; and there were others whom she knew. Miss
Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling beside her;
and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the rest-bowing it
rather less.

  During much of the time Isabel was conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze;
he looked at her somewhat harder than he usually looked in public,
while the others had fixed their eyes upon the churchyard turf. But
she never let him see that she saw him; she thought of him only to
wonder that he was still in England. She found she had taken for
granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt he had gone away;
she remembered how little it was a country that pleased him. He was
there, however, very distinctly there; and something in his attitude
seemed to say that he was there with a complex intention. She wouldn't
meet his eyes, though there was doubtless sympathy in them; he made
her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the little group he
disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to her-though
several spoke to Mrs. Touchett-was Henrietta Stackpole. Henrietta
had been crying.

  Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at
Gardencourt, and she made no immediate motion to leave the place.
She said to herself that it was but common charity to stay a little
with her aunt. It was fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise
she might have been greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she
had done what she had left her husband to do. She had a husband in a
foreign city, counting the hours of her absence; in such a case one
needed an excellent motive. He was not one of the best husbands, but
that didn't alter the case. Certain obligations were involved in the
very fact of marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of
enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel thought of her husband as little
as might be; but now that she was at a distance, beyond its spell, she
thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome. There was a
penetrating chill in the image, and she drew back into the deepest
shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day, postponing, closing
her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must decide, but she
decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a decision. On that
occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound and now
evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From Pansy
she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told her
not to write.

  Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no
assistance; she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without
enthusiasm but with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her
own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not an optimist, but even from
painful -occurrences she managed to extract a certain utility. This
consisted in the reflexion that, after all, such things happened to
other people and not to herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this
case it was her son's death, not her own; she had never flattered
herself that her own would be disagreeable to any one but Mrs.
Touchett. She was better off than poor Ralph, who had left all the
commodities of life behind him, and indeed all the security; since the
worst of dying was, to Mrs. Touchett's mind, that it exposed one to be
taken advantage of. For herself she was on the spot; there was nothing
so good as that. She made known to Isabel very punctually-it was the
evening her son was buried several of Ralph's testamentary
arrangements. He had told her everything, had consulted her about
everything. He left her no money; of course she had no need of
money. He left her the furniture of Gardencourt, exclusive of the
pictures and books and the use of the place for a year; after which it
was to be sold. The money produced by the sale was to constitute an
endowment for a hospital for poor persons suffering from the malady of
which he died; and of this portion of the will Lord Warburton was
appointed executor. The rest of his property, which was to be
withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various bequests,
several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his father had
already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small legacies.

  "Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has
left considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list,
and I asked then who some of them were, and he told me they were
people who at various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he
thought you didn't like him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was
his opinion that you had been handsomely treated by his father,
which I'm bound to say I think you were-though I don't mean that I
ever heard him complain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he
has distributed them about, one by one, as little keepsakes. The
most valuable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what do
you think he has done with his library? It sounds like a practical
joke. He has left it to your friend Miss Stackpole-'in recognition
of her services to literature.' Does he mean her following him up from
Rome? Was that a service to literature? It contains a great many
rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry it about the world
in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction. She will sell it
of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'll set up a
newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?"

  This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little
interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her
arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature
than to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the
shelf one of the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett
had spoken. She was quite unable to read; her attention had never been
so little at her command. One afternoon, in the library, about a
week after the ceremony in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it
for an hour; but her eyes often wandered from the book in her hand
to the open window, which looked down the long avenue. It was in
this way that she saw a modest vehicle approach the door and perceived
Lord Warburton sitting, in rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a
corner of it. He had always had a high standard of courtesy, and it
was therefore not remarkable, under the circumstances, that he
should have taken the trouble to come down from London to call on Mrs.
Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett he had come to see, and not
Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the validity of this thesis
Isabel presently stepped out of the house and wandered away into the
park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she had been but little out
of doors, the weather being unfavourable for visiting the grounds.
This evening, however, was fine, and at first it struck her as a happy
thought to have come out. The theory I have just mentioned was
plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and if you had
seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad conscience.
She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an hour,
finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge
from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently
proposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She
was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have
drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been
seen and that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at
Gardencourt was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she
observed that, as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept
his hands rather stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both
persons apparently were silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little
glance, as she directed it toward Isabel, had even at a distance an
expression. It seemed to say with cutting sharpness: "Here's the
eminently amenable nobleman you might have married!" When Lord
Warburton lifted his own eyes, however, that was not what they said.
They only said "This is rather awkward, you know, and I depend upon
you to help me." He was very grave, very proper and, for the first
time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without a smile. Even
in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile. He looked
extremely self-conscious.

  "Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me," said
Mrs. Touchett. "He tells me he didn't know you were still here. I know
he's an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the
house I brought him out to see for himself."

  "Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6:40, that would get me back in
time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly
explained. "I'm so glad to find you've not gone."

  "I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certain
eagerness.

  "I suppose not, but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to
England sooner than-a-than you thought?"

  "Yes, I came very suddenly."

  Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she was looking at the condition
of the grounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord
Warburton hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the
point of asking about her husband-rather confusedly-and then had
checked himself. He continued immitigably grave, either because he
thought it becoming in a place over which death had just passed, or
for more personal reasons. If he was conscious of personal reasons
it was very fortunate that he had the cover of the former motive; he
could make the most of that. Isabel thought of all this. It was not
that his face was sad, for that was another matter; but it was
strangely inexpressive.

  "My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you
were still here-if they had thought you would see them," Lord
Warburton went on. "Do kindly let them see you before you leave
England."

  "It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly
recollection of them."

  "I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or
two? You know there's always that old promise." And his lordship
coloured a little as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a
somewhat more familiar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just
now; of course you're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would
hardly be a visit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide
for five days; and if you could come then you say you're not to be
very long in England-I would see that there should be literally no one
else."

  Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would
be there with her mamma; but she did not express this idea. "Thank you
extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I hardly
know about Whitsuntide."

  "But I have your promise-haven't I?-for some other time."

  There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She
looked at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation
was that-M had happened before she felt sorry for him. "Take care
you don't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish
you every happiness."

  He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch.
"Ah yes, 6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at the door.
Thank you very much." It was not apparent whether the thanks applied
to her having reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental
remark. "Good-bye, Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her,
without meeting her eyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had
wandered back to them. With her his parting was equally brief; and
in a moment the two ladies saw him move with long steps across the
lawn.

  "Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of her aunt.

  "I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him,
and he accepted it."

  "Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"-while her aunt returned to the
house and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.

  She gave it up, but she still thought of it-thought of it while
she strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon
the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself
near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it,
struck her as an object recognized. It was not simply that she had
seen it before, nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this
spot something important had happened to her-that the place had an air
of association. Then she remembered that she had been sitting there,
six years before, when a servant brought her from the house the letter
in which Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to
Europe; and that when she had read the letter she looked up to hear
Lord Warburton announcing that he should like to marry her. It was
indeed an historical, an interesting, bench; she stood and looked at
it as if it might have something to say to her. She wouldn't sit
down on it now-she felt rather afraid of it. She only stood before it,
and while she stood the past came back to her in one of those
rushing waves of emotion by which persons of sensibility are visited
at odd hours. The effect of this agitation was a sudden sense of being
very tired, under the influence of which she overcame her scruples and
sank into the rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and
unable to occupy herself; and whether or no, if you had seen her
there, you would have admired the justice of the former epithet, you
would at least have allowed that at this moment she was the image of a
victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular absence of purpose;
her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in the folds of her
black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her. There was nothing to
recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their seclusion, dined
early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she had sat in
this position she could not have told you; but the twilight had
grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She
quickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had
become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood, who
stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the
unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to
her in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had
surprised her of old.

  She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he
started forward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion
that looked like violence, but felt like-she knew not what, he grasped
her by the wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her
eyes; he had not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had
obeyed. But there was something in his face that she wished not to
see. That was the way he had looked at her the other day in the
churchyard; only at present it was worse. He said nothing at first;
she only felt him close to her-beside her on the bench and
pressingly turned to her. It almost seemed to her that no one had ever
been so close to her as that. All this, however, took but an
instant, at the end of which she had disengaged her wrist, turning her
eyes upon her visitant. "You've frightened me," she said.

  "I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no
matter. I came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn't
come here directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of
me. He took a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to
drive here. I don't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with
him; I wanted to see you alone. So I've been waiting and walking
about. I've walked all over, and I was just coming to the house when I
saw you here. There was a keeper, or some one, who met me; but that
was all right, because I had made his acquaintance when I came here
with your cousin. Is that gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want
to speak to you." Goodwood spoke very fast; he was as excited as
when they had parted in Rome. Isabel had hoped that condition would
subside; and she shrank into herself as she perceived that, on the
contrary, he had only let out sail. She had a new sensation; he had
never produced it before; it was a feeling of danger. There was indeed
something really formidable in his resolution. She gazed straight
before her; he, with a hand on each knee, leaned forward, looking
deeply into her face. The twilight seemed to darken round them. "I
want to speak to you," he repeated; "I've something particular to say.
I don't want to trouble you-as I did the other day in Rome. That was
of no use; it only distressed you. I couldn't help it; I knew I was
wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please don't think I am," he went on
with his hard, deep voice melting a moment into entreaty. "I came here
to-day for a purpose. It's very different. It was vain for me to speak
to you then; but now I can help you."

  She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or
because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but
she listened to him as she had never listened before; his words
dropped deep into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all
her being; and it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered
him. "How can you help me?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were
taking what he had said seriously enough to make the enquiry in
confidence.

  "By inducing you to trust me. Now I know-to-day I know. Do you
remember what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But
to-day I know on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It
was a good thing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a
good man, a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case
stands for you. He explained everything; he guessed my sentiments.
He was a member of your family and he left you-so long as you should
be in England-to my care," said Goodwood as if he were making a
great point. "Do you know what he said to me the last time I saw
him-as he lay there where he died? He said: 'Do everything you can for
her; do everything she'll let you.'"

      Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"

  "Why not-why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded,
following her fast. "And he was dying-when a man's dying it's
different." She checked the movement she had made to leave him; she
was listening more than ever; it was true that he was not the same
as that last time. That had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at
present he had an idea, which she scented in all her being. "But it
doesn't matter!" he exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now
without touching a hem of her garment. "If Touchett had never opened
his mouth I should have known all the same. I had only to look at
you at your cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. You
can't deceive me any more; for God's sake be honest with a man who's
so honest with you. You're the most unhappy of women, and your
husband's the deadliest of fiends."

  She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?" she cried.

  "I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it's
necessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him;
I'll speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can you
pretend you're not heartbroken? You don't know what to do-you don't
know where to turn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all
that behind you in Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it
too-what it would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your
life? Say it will"-and he flared almost into anger: "give me one
word of truth! When I know such a horror as that, how can I keep
myself from wishing to save you? What would you think of me if I
should stand still and see you go back to your reward? 'It's awful,
what she'll have to pay for it!'-that's what Touchett said to me. I
may tell you that, mayn't I? He was such a near relation!" cried
Goodwood, making his queer grim point again. "I'd sooner have been
shot than let another man say those things to me; but he was
different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was after he got
home-when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too. I understand all
about it: you're afraid to go back. You're perfectly alone; you
don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know that
perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of me."

  "To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk.
The idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now
loomed large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if
it had been a comet in the sky.

  "You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to
persuade you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused
with his shining eyes. "Why should you go back-why should you go
through that ghastly form?"

  "To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a
little of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved
before. She had believed it, but this was different; this was the
hot wind of the desert, at the approach of which the others dropped
dead, like mere sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it
lifted her off her feet, while the very taste of it, as of something
potent, acrid and strange, forced open her set teeth.

  At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that
he would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he
was perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had
reasoned it all out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if
you'll only for once listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to
think of sinking back into that misery, of going to open your mouth to
that poisoned air. It's you that are out of your mind. Trust me as
if I had the care of you. Why shouldn't we be happy-when it's here
before us, when it's so easy? I'm yours for ever-for ever and ever.
Here I stand; I'm as firm as a rock. What have you to care about?
You've no children; that perhaps would be an obstacle. As it is you've
nothing to consider. You must save what you can of your life; you
mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a part. It would be
an insult to you to assume that you care for the look of the thing,
for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the world.
We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look at
things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next
is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a
woman deliberately made to suffer is-justified in anything in
life-in going down into the streets if that will help her! I know
how you suffer, and that's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we
please; to whom under the sun do we owe anything? What is it that
holds us, what is it that has the smallest right to interfere in
such a question as this? Such a question is between ourselves-and to
say that is to settle it! Were we born to rot in our misery-were we
born to be afraid? I never knew you afraid! If you'll only trust me,
how little you will be disappointed! The world's all before us-and the
world's very big. I know something about that."

  Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if
he were pressing something that hurt her. "The world's very small,"
she said at random; she had an immense desire to appear to resist. She
said it at random, to hear herself say something; but it was not
what she meant. The world, in truth, had never seemed so large; it
seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form of a mighty sea,
where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and
here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not whether
she believed everything he said; but she believed just then that to
let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her
dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which
she felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat
with her feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest
on.

  "Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. He had
suddenly given up argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and
terrible, through a confusion of vaguer sounds.

  This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the
metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest
of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware
of this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I
beseech you to go away!"

  "Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried.

  She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. "As you
love me, as you pity me, leave me alone!"

  He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she
felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was
like white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and
stayed; and it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she
felt each thing in his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each
aggressive fact of his face, his figure, his presence, justified of
its intense identity and made one with this act of possession. So
had she heard of those wrecked and under water following a train of
images before they sink. But when darkness returned she was free.
She never looked about her; she only darted from the spot. There
were lights in the windows of the house; they shone far across the
lawn. In an extraordinarily short time-for the distance was
considerable-he had moved through the darkness (for she saw nothing)
and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked all about
her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the latch. She
had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a very
straight path.

  Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house
in Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished
lodgings. He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the
door was opened and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had
on her hat and jacket; she was on the point of going out. "Oh,
good-morning," he said, "I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond."

  Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a
good deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent.
"Pray what led you to suppose she was here?"

  "I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me
she had come to London. He believed she was to come to you."

  Again Miss Stackpole held him-with an intention of perfect
kindness-in suspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night.
But this morning she started for Rome."

  Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on
the doorstep. "Oh, she started-?" he stammered. And without
finishing his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But
he couldn't otherwise move.

  Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put
out her hand and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said;
"just you wait!"

  On which he looked up at her-but only to guess, from her face,
with a revulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood
shining at him with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot,
thirty years to his life. She walked him away with her, however, as if
she had given him now the key to patience.

                                    THE END
.