The Portrait of A Lady (75 page)

‘‘You are the person in the world who has most right,'' he answered. ‘‘I have given you assurances that I have never given any one else.''

The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill at the Hôtel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken, Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the Hôtel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular change had, in fact, occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit—always under the conviction that they were great enemies. ‘‘Oh yes, we are 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, and Henrietta wondered 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. On the other hand, Mr. Bantling was 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 Touchett, he found there were various other matters they could talk about. 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 his host. He felt very sorry for Ralph; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant man so helpless. There was help in Goodwood, when once the fountain had been tapped; and he repeated several times his visit to the Hôtel de Paris. It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she had converted him into a care-taker 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 leave Rome. She had a constant fear that he would die there, and a horror of this event occurring at an inn, at 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 about 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 little fibs, her frivolity, the strange memory 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!

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 forbore to express them, however; she only said, after a moment, as she sat by his sofa: ‘‘I suppose you know that you can't go alone?''

‘‘I have 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 are human beings.''

‘‘Are there any women among them?'' Miss Stackpole inquired, calmly.

‘‘You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a
soubrette
in my employment.''

‘‘Well,'' said Henrietta, tranquilly, ‘‘you can't go to England that way. You must have a woman's care.''

‘‘I have had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me a good while.''

‘‘You have not had enough of it yet. I guess I will 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 will 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 resumed his former posture.

‘‘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 will go with you, and what is more I will take care of you.''

‘‘You are 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 that he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wished 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 am 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 are all too kind.''

‘‘The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you.''

‘‘Granting that,
she
is kind,'' said Ralph, smiling.

‘‘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 will go so far as to say that I would much rather travel with you and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone.''

‘‘And you would rather stay here than do either,'' said Ralph. ‘‘There is really no need of your coming. Henrietta is extraordinarily efficient.''

‘‘I am sure of that. But I have 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 am watching her.''

‘‘Watching her?''

‘‘Trying to see whether she's happy.''

‘‘That's easy to see,'' said Ralph. ‘‘She's the most visibly happy woman I know.''

‘‘Exactly so; I am satisfied,'' Goodwood answered, dryly. For all his dryness, however, he had more to say. ‘‘I have 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 have seen,'' he continued, in a strange voice, ‘‘and I don't want to see any more. I am 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 is 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 gave 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 am gone.''

‘‘No, he will not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marry him.''

‘‘She is 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 is capable of everything.''

‘‘I don't know what he is capable of,'' said Henrietta, with dignity.

‘‘It's not her encouraging Lord 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 is only keeping him; one can feel that. The house is full of him there; he is quite in the air. Oh yes, he has left traces; I am 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 will be more successful with you than with Isabel!''

When she told her friend of the offer she had made to 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 Henrietta were made to understand each other.

‘‘I don't care whether he understands me or not,'' said Henrietta. ‘‘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 have got so much company at home.''

‘‘Ah, they are part of the comedy. You others are spectators.''

‘‘Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?'' Henrietta inquired, severely.

‘‘The tragedy, then, if you like. You are all looking at me; it makes me uncomfortable.''

Henrietta contemplated her awhile.

‘‘You are like the stricken deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense of helplessness!'' she broke out.

‘‘I am not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.''

‘‘It's not you I am 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 have succeeded so ill in keeping it.''

‘‘You have 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 am taking very good care of it. I am extremely struck,'' she added, turning away, ‘‘with the offhand way in which you speak of a woman leaving her husband. It's easy to see you have never had one!''