 CHAPTER 48 One day toward the end of February, Ralph Touchepe made up his mind to return to England. He had his own reasons for this decision which he was not bound to communicate. But Henriette a stack-pole, to whom he mentioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed them. She forbore to express them, however. She only said after a moment as she sat by his sofa, "'I suppose you know you can't go alone.' "'I've no idea of doing that,' Ralph answered. "'I shall have people with me.' "'What do you mean by people, servants whom you pay?' "'Ah,' said Ralph Jacosly, "'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 subret in my employment.' "'Well,' said Henriette a 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 Henriette. "'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 Casper 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 Casper, "'I'm afraid I shall be a fifth wheel to the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with you.' "'Good heavens, it's the Golden Age. You're all too kind.' "'The kindness on my part is to her. It's hardly to you.' "'Granting that? She's kind,' smiled Ralph. "'To get people to go with you?' "'Yes, that's a sort of kindness,' Goodwood answered, without lending himself to the joke. "'For myself, however,' he added, "'I'll go so far as to say that I would much rather travel with you and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone.' "'And you'd rather stay here than do either,' said Ralph. "'There's really no need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordinarily efficient.' "'I'm sure of that, but I've promised, Mrs. Osmond.' "'You can easily get her to let you off.' "'She wouldn't let me off for the world. She wants me to look after you, but that isn't the principal thing. The principal thing is that she wants me to leave Rome.' "'Ah, you see too much in it,' Ralph suggested. "'I bore her,' Goodwood went on. "'She has nothing to say to me, so she invented that.' "'Oh, then if it's a convenience to her, I certainly will take you with me, though I don't see why it should be a convenience,' Ralph amended in a moment. "'Well,' said Casper 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 to Miss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had paid her in Florence. "'You are 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. He 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 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 offhand 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 Touche 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, jacosely, 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 illusion to his term being near, to the predictability 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 colored 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 Casper Goodwood came to Palazzo Rocanera. 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-creek beneath him. Osmond's face was 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 all very fine. Now you're thoroughly modern, and yet 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 pretense of it. There's nothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see plenty of that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of progress, of light, a revelation of vulgarity. There's a certain kind of vulgarity which I believe is really new. I don't think there ever was anything like it before. Indeed, I don't find vulgarity at all before the present century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in the last, but today 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, Allah Bon Hur, 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? Whereas 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 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 inexorable taste. Fortunately, my wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you might have been… 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 humor, and these remarks will give ample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal than he usually cared to be, and if Casper Goodwood had attended to them more closely, he might have thought that the defense 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 Isabelle, 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 humor 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 Isabelle 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 the redundancy of leisure which had 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 administered 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 knowingness, for practice had made the younger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible today 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 Rocanera. 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 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 article 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. Tonight 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 Toucheet, 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. Toucheet 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 Toucheet as he has been to my wife and me. Other people inevitably have to look after him and everyone isn't so generous as you. I have nothing else to do, Casper said dryly. Osmond looked at him a moment to scounce. 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 in itself is 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 have 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 to Shet 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 am 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, then as one of several associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy with which she avoided him. His unquenchable rancor 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 Casper Goodwood, though he often contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Rocconera, 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 going to say good night, and I must be where they can see me. I shall wait till they are all gone then. She hesitated a moment. 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. Osman had disappeared. He never bade good-bye to people, and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her custom at this period of the evening, Isabel had set 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 night, 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 thank 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 that at all. What do you mean? I don't understand, but I said I'd go and I'll go, good would add it. Come back whenever you like, said Isabel with attempted lightness. I don't care a straw for your cousin, Casper broke out. Is that what you wish 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 quick low 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 can still 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 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 you were an idiot and you should have asked me. If you should ask me I'd go to Siberia tomorrow. 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 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. You're asking me as 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 Casper 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 soul satisfaction, that you tell me, that you tell me, that I tell you what. Whether I may pity you. Should you like that? Isabelle 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 Rocanera on the evening of that Thursday, of which I have narrated some of the incidents, and Isabelle, 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 Isabelle, whom to do her justice she came immediately to see, her first utterance had been an inquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable. Please don't talk of him, said Isabelle 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 hope 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 humor. Isabelle was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humored, 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 Isabelle. I shall ask her what you've said to her. These words seem to justify the impulse of self-defense aroused on Isabelle's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hither, too. 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 Isabelle'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, Isabelle 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 Isabelle 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 behavior than she had allowed for at the time. Ah, yes, there had been intention. There had been intention, Isabelle said to herself, and she seemed to wake from a long, pernicious dream. What was it that brought home to her that Madame Rowe'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 Isabelle 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 an 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 forever? 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, Isabelle 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 person's 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, Madam Merle added, that you are one of the person's concerned. No, that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all. Madam Merle hesitated a little. Ah, yes, your work's done. Take care what you say, said Isabelle very gravely. Oh, I take care. Never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your husband judges you severely. Isabelle made for a moment no answer to this. She felt choked with bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madam 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. Madam 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 Isabelle like a drop of corrosive acid upon an open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonored 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, Isabelle thought Madam 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 Madam Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only gathered her mantle about her end with the movement scattered upon the air 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? Isabelle 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. Madam 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 offense. It seems to me I do you an honour in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom I would do it. I haven't the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And don't you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It's true that he doesn't appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to extract it. He has indulged in gratuitous suppositions, but that doesn't alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his daughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's one thing, and it's a pity. If he gave her up to please you, it's another. That's a pity too, but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign yourself to not being pleased, to simply seeing your step-daughter married. Let him off. Let us have him. Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion, and apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on, Isabel grew pale. She clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her visitor had at last thought at 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 do 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. Touchette 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 longed 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 moldy 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 Isabelle. 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 St. John Latteran, whence you look across the Campania at the far-trailing outline of the Albin Mount, and at that mighty plain between, which is still so full of all that is passed from it. After the departure of her cousin and his companions, she roamed more than usual. She carried her somber 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 color, the motionless shepherds and 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 vein in 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. Isabelle's Aunt Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her niece, but Isabelle 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 interpretations, than poor, stiffly reasoning Mrs. Touche. 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 matchmaking passion, like the vodaries 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 Isabelle 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 Garden Court, had been doubly affectionate after Mr. Touche'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 ingenious fortune. She had naturally chosen her closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabelle 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 sorted 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. Tuschette'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 today in regard to his two 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 Isabelle 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 which we once paid a visit in company with the discrete Mr. Rosier. In that apartment, toward six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood before him as Isabelle 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 inquired 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, and 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's a line sharply drawn, she means to carry out her ideas. Her ideas today 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 have a great hope. I have a great need of that. I was vile this morning. I was horrid, she said. If Isabelle was in the stupid state of mind you mentioned, she probably didn't perceive it, Osmond answered. It was precisely my devil tree 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 I'm 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 and 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. Madam Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we've had the pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turned somber, her smile betrayed a painful effort. Good enough for anything that I've done with myself? I suppose that's what you mean. Good enough to be always charming, Osmond exclaimed, smiling too. Oh, God! His companion murmured, and sitting there in her ripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on Isabel's part in the morning. She bent her face and covered it with her hands. Are you going to weep after all? Osmond asked, and on her remaining motionless he went on. Have I ever complained to you? She dropped her hands quickly. No. You've taken your avenge otherwise. You've taken it on her. Osmond threw back his head further. He looked awhile 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 avenge 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 awhile at a beautiful old Persian rug at his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept anyone'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. Isabelle'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, Madam Merrill 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 mantle, 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 Madam Merrill 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 Madam Merrill. Ah, but you pretended to. It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit, Madam Merrill 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 tragedies for me, Madam Merrill exclaimed, rising with a long low sigh, but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her mantle-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 compensation in pansy. Fortunately, I haven't a fault to find with her. She said softly, if I had a child. Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, the children of others may be of 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, Madam Merrill pursued that made me so jealous of Isabelle. 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 mantle-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. End of Chapter 49 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 by Henry James, Chapter 50 As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments, Isabelle 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 was not an antiquarian, 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 the Palazzo Rocconera. Isabelle, however, was not a severe titurone. 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 was not very active. 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 Colosseum 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 aunt 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 Colosseum 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 wildflowers, when they are allowed, bloom in the deep crevices. And today she felt weary and preferred 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 upon the ancient scandals of Florence. She 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 color which is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far skyline wherein 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 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 have sold all my Bibelos. Isabel gave, instinctively, an exclamation of horror. It was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. I have sold them by auction at the hotel duo he went on. The sale took place three days ago, and they have telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent. I am glad to hear it. But I wish you had kept your pretty things. I have the money instead. Forty 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 is 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 got the money in my pocket, and you can't say I'm poor, the young man exclaimed, defiantly. He will say now that you are 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 Biblos I am nothing? Do you mean that 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 eye 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 his 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 hesitated a moment. That she will marry another nobleman. What other nobleman? One that he will pick out. Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat pocket. You are laughing at someone, but this time I don't think it's at me. I didn't mean to laugh, said Isabel. I laughed very seldom. Now you would 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 around 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 expected. She turned, and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. You must really go away, she said quickly. Oh, 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 have a great desire to be presented to her. Isabel looked at him a moment. She has no influence with her brother. How what a monster you make him out, Rosier exclaimed, glancing at 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 am glad you have kept your enamels, Isabel exclaimed, leaving him. She went straight to Pansy who on seeing Edward Rosier had stopped short with lowered eyes. We will go back to the carriage, said Isabel gently. Yes, it is getting late, Pansy answered, more gently still. And she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowed herself this last liberty and 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, however, were presently lost to site, 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. They're shown 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 young girl with her own dry despair. Poor little Pansy, she said affectionately. 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 it last. Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased. And you are not tired, I hope. Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired. The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footmen to go into the Coliseum and tell her that 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, ladies' 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 waiting for her. She got up from her low chair. Excuse 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 are 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 around Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment, perfectly still, but Isabel could feel her trembling. The trimmer of her little body expressed everything that she was unable to say. Nevertheless, Isabel went on in a moment. Why are you going to the Convent? Because Papa thinks it's best. He says a young girl is 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 reflection. Pansy spoke in short, detached sentences, as if she could not trust herself. And then she added, with a triumph of self-control, I think Papa is right. I have been so much in the world this winter. Her announcement had a strange effect upon 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. Madam Catherine is to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I am only to take two dresses. It is only for a few weeks. I am 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 am very fond of little girls, said Pansy, with a sort of diminutive grandeur. And I am 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 awestruck. Think of me sometimes, she said. 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 that she did not know her husband yet. Her answer to Pansy was a long, tender kiss. Half an hour later, she learned from her maid that Madam Catherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the seniorina. 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. 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 Osman to question. All she could do was to make an affirmation, and there was one that came very naturally. I shall miss Pansy very much. Osman 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 whether 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 have always had the idea. I have always thought it a part of the education of a young girl. A young girl 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 is a little dusty, a little dishevelled. She is not 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 gentle women born. Several of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing. She will have her piano. I have made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing aesthetic. There is just to be a certain little feeling. She will have time to think. And there is something I want her to think about. Osman 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 contemplated 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 the other one. This one is very well, after all, and she may think of it as much as she chooses. 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 picturesque tricks upon 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, in as much as she was convinced that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification addressed to herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He wished to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined, to mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and to 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 wanted 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 Isabel found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently in hearing the high, bright voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess, too, apparently had been thinking the thing out, but she had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel. It is 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 a delightful young man. He has made me believe in true love. I never did before. Of course you have made up your mind that with those convictions I am dreadful company for Pansy. Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine. He looked perfectly good humored. My dear Amy, he answered, smiling as if you 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. End of Chapter 50