The Portrait of A Lady (46 page)

‘‘Afraid I will begin again? I promise to be very careful.''

They had gradually stopped, and they stood a moment face to face. ‘‘Poor Lord Warburton!'' said Isabel, with a melancholy smile.

‘‘Poor Lord Warburton, indeed! But I will 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 will never say a word to displease you,'' he promised, very gently.

‘‘Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end.''

‘‘Perhaps some day—after a while—you will give me leave,'' he suggested.

‘‘Give you leave—to make me unhappy?''

He hesitated. ‘‘To tell you again—'' But he checked himself. ‘‘I will be silent,'' he said; ‘‘silent 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. Ralph Touchett gave signs of greeting to Lord Warburton, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice, ‘‘Gracious, there's that lord!'' Ralph and his friend met each other with undemonstrative cordiality, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller.

‘‘I don't suppose you remember me, sir,'' she soon remarked.

‘‘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 am asked,'' Miss Stackpole answered, coldly.

‘‘Ah well, I won't ask you again,'' said the master of Lockleigh, good-humouredly.

‘‘If you do I will go; so be sure!''

Lord Warburton, for all his good humour, 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 handshake.

‘‘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 am afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,'' said Lord Warburton, laughing. Isabel was glad to hear him laugh; she gave a little sigh of relief as they took their way homeward.

The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning writing 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 hear vespers at St. 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 Hôtel 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 an example of his intention to keep the promise he had made her the evening before; he was both discreet and frank; he made not even a tacit appeal, but left it for 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 that 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 behaving heroically. If he expected to melt her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the trouble. She knew already he was a good fellow, and nothing he could do would add to this conviction. Moreover, his being in Rome at all made her vaguely uneasy. Nevertheless, when on bringing his call to a close, he said that he too should be at St. Peter's and should look out for Isabel and her friends, she was obliged to reply that it would be a pleasure to see him again.

In the church, as she strolled over its tessellated acres, he was the first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior tourists who are ‘‘disappointed'' in St. 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 received an extension. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed and wondered, like a child or a peasant, and paid her silent tribute to visible grandeur. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she was afraid that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at St. 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 mutual scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indiscretion carried but a short distance. Isabel and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta was obliged to declare that Michelangelo'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 Lord Warburton, and as they drew near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne towards them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside the doors. They paused awhile 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, above the heads of the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, sloping through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing stopped, and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to turn away again. Isabel for a moment did the same; whereupon she found herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short distance behind her. He now approached, with a formal salutation.

‘‘So you decided to come?'' she said, putting 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,'' said Isabel.

‘‘I didn't come for the others,'' Gilbert Osmond murmured, smiling.

She turned away; Lord Warburton was looking at them; perhaps he had heard this. Suddenly she remembered that it was 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. Isabel sought refuge from her slight agitation in mentioning to each gentleman the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr. Bantling made his way out of the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour, and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; for on perceiving the gentleman from Florence, Ralph Touchett exhibited symptoms of surprise which might not perhaps have seemed flattering to Mr. Osmond. It must be added, however, that these manifestations were momentary, and Ralph was presently able to say to his cousin, with due jocularity, that she would soon have all her friends about her. His greeting to Mr. Osmond was apparently frank; that is, the two men shook hands and looked at each other. Miss Stackpole had met the newcomer 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, Lord Warburton, and little Mr. Rosier in Paris. ‘‘I don't know what it is in you,'' she had been pleased to remark, ‘‘but for a nice girl you do attract the most unpleasant people. Mr. Goodwood is the only one I have any respect for, and he's just the one you don't appreciate.''

‘‘What's your opinion of St. Peter's?'' Mr. Osmond asked of Isabel.

‘‘It's very large and very bright,'' said the girl.

‘‘It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom.''

‘‘Is not that the right way to feel—in a church?'' Isabel asked, with a faint but interested smile.

‘‘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 said to her 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 is the gentleman speaking to Miss Archer?'' his lordship inquired.

‘‘His name is Gilbert Osmond—he lives in Florence,'' Ralph said.

‘‘What is he besides?''

‘‘Nothing at all. Oh yes, he is an American; but one forgets that; he is so little of one.''

‘‘Has he known Miss Archer long?''

‘‘No, about a fortnight.''

‘‘Does she like him?''

‘‘Yes, I think she does.''

‘‘Is he a good fellow?''

Ralph hesitated a moment. ‘‘No, he's not,'' he said, at last.

‘‘Why then does she like him?'' pursued Lord Warburton, with noble
naïveté.

‘‘Because she's a woman.''

Lord Warburton was silent a moment. ‘‘There are other men who
are
good fellows,'' he presently said, ‘‘and them—and them—''

‘‘And them she likes also!'' Ralph interrupted, smiling.

‘‘Oh, if you mean she likes him in that way!'' And Lord Warburton turned round again. As far as he was concerned, however, the party was broken up. Isabel remained in conversation with the gentleman from Florence till they left the church, and her English lover consoled himself by lending such attention as he might to the strains which continued to proceed from the choir.

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, in accordance with the time-honoured Italian custom; and after 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 that their companions had taken advantage of the
entr'acte
to enjoy the relative coolness of the lobby. He stood awhile watching the interesting pair in the box, and asking himself whether he should go up and interrupt their harmonious colloquy. At last it became apparent that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined him. He took his way to the upper regions, and on the staircase he met Ralph Touchett, slowly descending with his hat in the attitude 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,'' Ralph remarked.

‘‘You have some that is very good that you have deserted.''

‘‘Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has got a visitor and doesn't want me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a
café
to eat an ice—Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either. The opera is 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 low-voiced mock-melancholy.

‘‘If she doesn't want you, it's probable she doesn't want me.''

‘‘No, you are different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about.''

Lord Warburton went to the box, where he received a very gracious welcome from the more attractive of its occupants. He exchanged greetings with Mr. Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before, and who, after he came in, sat very quietly, scarcely mingling in the somewhat disjointed talk in which Lord Warburton engaged with Isabel. It seemed to the latter gentleman that Miss Archer looked very pretty; he even thought she looked excited; 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 betrayed little agitation; 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 to have such soft, reassuring tones in her voice? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera began again. The box was large, and there was room for Lord Warburton to remain if he would sit a little behind, in the dark. He did so for half an hour, while Mr. Osmond sat in front, leaning forward, with 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 remained in 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, and then he was puzzled again. Why had she so sweet a voice—such a friendly accent? 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, tragical streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under the stars.