The Portrait of A Lady (77 page)

‘‘You travel, by the by, with Touchett,'' Osmond said. ‘‘I suppose that means that you will move slowly?''

‘‘I don't know; I shall do just as he likes.''

‘‘You are very accommodating. We are immensely obliged to you; you must really let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we feel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more than once as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it's worse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it's a kind of indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under such an obligation to Touchett as he has been to—to my wife and me. Other people inevitably have to look after him, and every one isn't so generous as you.''

‘‘I have nothing else to do,'' said Caspar, dryly.

Osmond looked at him a moment, askance. ‘‘You ought to marry, and then you would have plenty to do! It is 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 are so much occupied?''

‘‘Ah, you see, being married is in itself an occupation. It isn't always active; it's often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then my wife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we make music, we walk, we drive—we talk even, as when we first knew each other. I delight, to this hour, in my wife's conversation. If you are ever bored, get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that case; but you will never bore yourself. You will always have something to say to yourself—always have a subject of reflection.''

‘‘I am 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 have consigned Touchett to his natural caretakers—I believe his mother is at last coming back to look after him. That little lady is superb; she neglects her duties with a finish! Perhaps you will spend the summer in England?''

‘‘I don't know; I have no plans.''

‘‘Happy man! That's a little nude, 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 upon you!''

Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without his having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of several associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy with which she avoided him; Goodwood's unquenchable rancour discovered an intention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There was absolutely no appearance of one. She met his eye with her sweet 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 only opposed a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talked to the few people he knew, who found him for the first time rather self-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though he often contradicted others. There was often music at the Palazzo Roccanera, and it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed to contain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning to go, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he might not speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assured himself was empty.

She smiled as if she wished to oblige him, but found herself absolutely prevented. ‘‘I'm afraid it's impossible. People are saying good night, and I must be where they can see me.''

‘‘I shall wait till they are all gone, then!''

She hesitated a moment. ‘‘Ah, that will be delightful!'' she exclaimed.

And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no consciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a little circle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then broke into a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared—he never bade good-bye to people; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her custom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed. Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish that 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 will 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, with the same familiar grace. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her, all the passion that he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim around him. The bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through the rustling tissue he saw Isabel hover before him with gleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would have perceived that her smile was fixed and a trifle forced—that she was frightened at what she saw in his own face.

‘‘I suppose you wish to bid me good-bye?'' she said.

‘‘Yes—but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome,'' he answered, with almost plaintive honesty.

‘‘I can well imagine. It is wonderfully good of you. I can't tell you how kind I think you.''

For a moment more he said nothing. ‘‘With a few words like that you make me go.''

‘‘You must come back some day,'' Isabel rejoined, brightly.

‘‘Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.''

‘‘Oh no; I don't mean all that.''

‘‘What
do
you mean? I don't understand! But I said I would go, and I will go,'' Goodwood added.

‘‘Come back whenever you like,'' said Isabel, with attempted lightness.

‘‘I don't care a straw for your cousin!'' Caspar broke out.

‘‘Is that what you wished to tell me?''

‘‘No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you—'' he paused a moment, and then, ‘‘—what have you really made of your life?'' he said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but she said nothing, and he went on—‘‘I can't understand, I can't penetrate you! What am I to believe—what do you want me to think?'' Still she said nothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending to smile. ‘‘I am told you are unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it. That would be something for me. But you yourself say you are happy, and you are somehow so still, so smooth. You are completely changed. You conceal everything; I haven't really come near you.''

‘‘You come very near,'' Isabel said, gently, but in a tone of warning.

‘‘And yet I don't touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done well?''

‘‘You ask a great deal.''

‘‘Yes—I have 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 are perfectly inscrutable, and that's what makes me think you have something to hide. I say that I don't care a straw for your cousin, but I don't mean that I don't like him. I mean that it isn't because I like him that I go away with him. I would go if he were an idiot, and you should have asked me. If you should ask me, I would go to Siberia to-morrow. Why do you want me to leave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were as contented as you pretend you are, you wouldn't care. I would 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 are quite right to wish me to go away. But if I must go, there is no harm in my letting myself out for a single moment, is there? If you are really hurt—if
he
hurts you—nothing
I
say will hurt you. When I tell you I love you, it's simply what I came for. I thought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn't say it if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the last time—let me pluck a single flower! I have no right to say that, I know; and you have no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen, you are always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason, not a real one. I can't judge by your husband,'' he went on, irrelevantly, almost incoherently, ‘‘I don't understand him; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say that to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you have something to hide. It's none of my business— very true. But I love you,'' said Caspar Goodwood.

As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which they had entered, and raised her fan as if in warning.

‘‘You have behaved so well; don't spoil it,'' she said, softly.

‘‘No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I love you as I have 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, that I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole satisfaction—that you tell me—that you tell me—''

‘‘That I tell you what?''

‘‘Whether I may pity you.''

‘‘Should you like that?'' Isabel asked, trying to smile again.

‘‘To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something. I would 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 Isabel went back to the Countess Gemini.

49

MADAME MERLE had not made her appearance at the Palazzo Roccanera on the evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents, and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it. Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability, and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first utterance was 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 Isabel, for answer; ‘‘we have heard so much of him of late.''

Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and smiled in the left corner of her mouth.

‘‘You have heard, yes. But you must remember that I have not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here, and to be able to congratulate Pansy.''

‘‘You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.''

‘‘How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?'' Madame Merle asked, with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation of good humour.

Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too.

‘‘You shouldn't have gone to Naples, then. You should have stayed here to watch the affair.''

‘‘I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it is too late?''

‘‘You had better ask Pansy,'' said Isabel.

‘‘I shall ask her what you have said to her.''

These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused on Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto; she had never criticized; she had been excessively afraid of inter-meddling. But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion; for she had a dangerous quickness in her eye, and an air of irritation which even her admirable smile was not able to transmute. She had suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise—our heroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy's marriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond's alarm. More clearly than ever before, Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her nearness was not the charming accident that she had so long thought. The sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened to be struck with the manner in which Madame Merle and her own husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken its place; but it was enough to make her look at this lady with a different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah, yes, there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from a long, pernicious dream. What was it that brought it home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body, and which married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge which at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless vitality which Isabel now saw to have been absent from her friend's professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved quickly, indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was identical with Osmond's; that was enough.