The portrait of a lady

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T.

_ADY

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University of California • Berkeley
Gift of

MR. E.W. NASH

THE

PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

BY

HENRY JAMES, JR.

BOSTON :
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.

NEW YORK: 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET.

c prcs'tf, «Tamfcri&0e.

1882.

Copyright, 1881
BY HENRY JAMES, JR.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

UNDER certain circumstances there are few hours in life more
agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as
afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you
partake of the tea or not — some people of course never do — the
situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have in mind in
beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable
setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of the little
feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English country-
house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid
summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much
of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest
quality. Eeal dusk would not arrive for many hours ; but the
flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grown
mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf.
They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed that
sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source
of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five
o'clock to eight is on certain occasions a little eternity ; but on
such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity
of pleasure. The persons concerned in it were taking their
pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex which is supposed
to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned.
The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular;
they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deep wicker-
chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and
of two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in
front of him. The old man had his cup in his hand ; it was an

B

2 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the
set, and painted in brilliant colours. He disposed of its contents
with much circumspection, holding it for a long time close to
his chin', with his face turned to the house. His companions
had either finished their tea or were indifferent to their privilege ;
they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them,
from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain attention
at tl:3 elder man, who, unconscious of observation, rested his
eyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that
rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay such consideration,
and was the most characteristic object in the peculiarly English
picture I have attempted to sketch.

It stood upon a low hill, above the river — the river being the
Thames, at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front
of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather
had played all sorts of picturesque tricks, only, however, to
improve and refine it, presented itself to the lawn, with its
patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in .
creepers. The house had a name and a history ; the old gentle-
man taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these
things : how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had
offered a night's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august
person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent, and terribly
angular bed which still formed the principal honour of the
sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced
in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Eestoration, repaired
and much enlarged ; and how, finally, after having been remodelled
and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the
careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought
it originally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to
set forth) it was offered at a great bargain ; bought it with much
grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and
who now, at the end of twenty years, had become conscious of a
real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all its points, and
would tell you just where to stand to see them in , combination,
and just the hour when the shadows of its various protuberances
— which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork — were
of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could
have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants,
several of whom were known to general fame : doing so, however,
with an undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its
destiny was not the least honourable. The' front of the house,
overlooking that portion of the lawn with which we are con-
cerned, was not the entrance-front; this was in quite another

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 3

quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of
turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension
of a luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung
down a shade as dense as that of velvet curtains; and the place
was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-
coloured rugs, with the books and papers that lay upon the grass.
The river was at some distance ; where the ground began to
slope, the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the
less a charming walk down to the water.

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

One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-
thirty, with a face as English as that of the old gentleman I
have just sketched was something else ; a noticeably handsome
face, fresh-coloured, fair, and frank, with firm, straight features,
a lively grey eye, and the rich adornment of a chestnut beard.
This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look —
the air of a happj temperament fertilised by a high civilisation
— which would have made almost any observer envy him at a
venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had. dismounted

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4 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

from a long ride ; he wore a \vhite hat, which looked too large
for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of
them — a large, white, well-shaped fist — was crumpled a pair of
soiled dog-skin gloves.

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

The father caught his son's eye at last, and gave him a mild,
responsive smile.

" I am getting on very well," he said.

" Have you drunk your tea 1 " asked the son.

" Yes, and enjoyed it."

" Shall I give you some more 1 "

The old man considered, placidly.

" Well, I guess I will wait and see."

He had, in speaking, the American tone.

" Are you cold 1 " his son inquired.

The father slowly rubbed his legs.

" Well, I don't know. I can't tell till I feel."

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

" Oh, I hope sojne one will always feel for me ! Don't you
feel for me, Lord Warburton 1 "

" Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord
Warburton, promptly. " I am bound to say you look wonder-
fully comfortable."

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 5

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

" It strikes me that we are rather particular," said his
companion.

" Oh yes, there is no doubt we're particular," Lord Warbur-
ton murmured.

And then the three men remained silent a while ; the two
younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently
asked for more tea.

"I should think you would be very unhappy with that
shawl," said Lord Warburton, while his companion filled the
old man's cup again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" I am much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How is
your tea 1 "

" Well, it's rather hot."

" That's intended to be a merit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton 1 " his father asked.

Lord Warburton considered a moment. '

3 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf."

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

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

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

" Is that true, sir1?" asked the old man gravely.

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

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

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

The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and
laughed.

"Is it a glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should
you like me to carry out my theories, daddy ? "

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that another sort of joke1?" asked the old man. "You
have no excuse for being bored anywhere. When I was your
age, I had never heard of such a thing."

"You must 'have developed very late."

" No, I developed very quick ; that was just the reason.
When I was twenty years old, I was very highly developed
indeed. I was working, tooth and nail. You wouldn't be
bored if you had something to do ; but all you young-onen are

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 7

too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You are
too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich."

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

"Do you mean because I am a banker 1 " asked the old man.

" Because of that, if you like ; and because you are so ridicul-
ously wealthy."

" He isn't very rich," said the other young man, indicating his
father. "He has given away an immense deal of money."

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

"Daddy is very fond of pleasure — of other people's."

The old man shook his head.

" I don't pretend to have contributed anything to the amuse-
ment of my contemporaries."

" My dear father, you are too modest ! "

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

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

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

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

"The increasing seriousness of things — that is the great
opportunity of jokes."

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

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

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

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

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

3 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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

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

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

" If I marry an interesting woman, I shall be interested : is
that what you say 1 " Lord Warburton asked. " I am not at all
keen about marrying — your son misrepresented me ; but there
is no knowing what an interesting woman might do with me."

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

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

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

His son broke into a laugh. " He will think you mean that
as a provocation ! My dear father, you have lived with the
English for thirty years, and you have picked up a good many
c\f the things they say. But you have nevei learned the things
they don't say ! " .

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

" I haven't the honour of knowing your niece," Lord War-
burton said. " I think it is the first time I have heard of her."

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

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

" i see — very kind of her/' said Lord Warburton. " Is the
young lady interesting 1 "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 9

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

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

" I am not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the
field. We thought at first that the sister mentioned might be
the sister of the clerk ; but the subsequent mention of a niece
seems to prove that the allusion is to one of iny aunts. Then
there was a question as to whose the two other sisters were ; they
are probably two of my late aunt's daughters. But who is
' quite independent,' and in what sense is the term used ? — that
point is not yet settled. Does the expression apply more
particularly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it
characterise -her sisters equally ] — and is it used in a moral or in
a financial sense 1 Does it mean that they have been left well
off, or that they wish to be under no obligations 1 or does it
simply mean that they are fond of their own way 1 "

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

" You will see for yourself," said Lord Warburton. " When
does Mrs. Touchett arrive 1 "

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

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

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

" It's her independence," her son explained, more favourably.
"Whatever that of those young ladies' may be, her own is a
match for it. She likes to do everything for herself, and has no
belief in any one's power to help her. She thinks me of no

10 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

more use than a postage-stamp without gum, and she would
never forejive me if I should presume to go to Liverpool to meet
her."

" Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives 1 "
Lord Warburton asked.

" Only on the condition I have mentioned — that you don't
fall in love with her ! " Mr. Touchett declared.

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

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

" Very likely she is engaged ; I have known a good many
American girls, and they always were ; but I could never see
that it made any difference, upon my word ! As for my being
a good husband, I am not sure of that either ; one can but
try!"

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

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

II.

WHILE this exchange of pleasantries took place between the
two, Ralph Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual
slouching gait, his hands in his pockets, and his little rowdyish
terrier at his heels. His face was turned towards the house, but
his eyes were bent, musingly, upon the lawn ; so that he had
been an object of observation to a person who had just made
her appearance in the doorway of the dwelling for some
moments before he perceived her. His attention was called to
her by the conduct of his dog, who had suddenly darted
forward, with a little volley of shrill barks, in which the note
of welcome, however, was more sensible than that of defiance.
The person in question was a young lady, who seemed immedi-
ately to interpret the greeting of the little terrier. He advanced
with great rapidity, and stood at her feet, looking up and barking

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 11

hard ; whereupon, without hesitation, she stooped and caught
him in her hands, holding him face to face while he continued his
joyous demonstration. His master now had had time to follow
and to see that Bunchie's new friend was a tall girl in a black
dress, who at first sight looked pretty. She was bare-headed, as
if she were staying in the house — a fact which conveyed per-
plexity to the son of its master, conscious of that immunity from
visitors which had for some time been rendered necessary by the
latter's ill-health. Meantime the two other gentlemen had also
taken note of the new-comer.

" Dear me, who is that strange woman 3 " Mr. Touchett had
asked.

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

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

" But where is my wife, then 1 " murmured the old man.

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

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

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

" Couldn't we share him 1 " asked the girl. " He's such a little
darling."

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

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

" Probably 1 " the young man exclaimed, laughing. " I sup-
posed it was quite settled ! Have you come with my
mother 1 "

" Yes, half-an-hour ago."

" And has she deposited you and departed again 1 "

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

The young man looked at his watch. " Thank you very
much; I shall be punctual." And then he looked at his cousin.

12 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"You are very welcome here," he went on. " I am delighted
to see you."

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

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

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

" Yes, the elder one — the one sitting down," said Ealph.

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

" He is a friend of ours — Lord Warburton."

" Oh, I hoped there would be a lord ; it's just like a novel ! "
And then — " 0 you adorable creature ! " she suddenly cried,
stooping down and picking up the little terrier again.

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

" Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father 1 "
he nevertheless ventured to ask. " He is old and infirm — he
doesn't leave his chair."

" Ah, poor man, I am very sorry ! " the girl exclaimed,
immediately moving forward. " I got the impression from your
mother that he was rather — rather strong."

Ealph Touchett was silent a moment.

" She has not seen him for a year."

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

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

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

" My father's name ? "

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

They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 13

eitting, and he slowly got up from his chair to introduce
himself.

" My mother has arrived," said Ealph, " and this is Miss
Archer/'

The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked
at her a moment with extreme benevolence, and then gallantly
kissed her.

" It is a great pleasure to me to see you here ; but I wish you
had given us a chance to receive you."

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

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

" She went straight to her room."

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

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

" What is to happen at a quarter to seven ? "

" I am to see my mother," said Ralph.

" Ah, happy boy ! " the old man murmured. " You must sit
down — you must have some tea," he went on, addressing his
wife's niece.

" They gave me some tea in my room the moment I arrived,"
this young lady answered. " I am sorry you are out of health,"
she added, resting her eyes upon her venerable host.

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

She had been looking all round her again — at the lawn, the
great trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house ;
and while engaged in this survey, she had also narrowly scruti-
nized her companions ; a comprehensiveness of observation easily
conceivable on the part of a young woman who was evidently
both intelligent and excited. She had seated herself, and had
put away the little dog ; her white hands, in her lap, were folded
upon her black dress ; her head was erect, her eye brilliant., her
flexible figure turned itself lightly this way and that, in sym-
pathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught ini-
piessions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were all

14 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

reflected in a clear, still smile. " I have never seen anything so
beautiful as this," she declared.

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

What degree of alarm this young girl took need not be exactly
measured ; she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was
not a refutation.

" Oh yes, of course, I'm lovely ! " she exclaimed quickly, with
a little laugh. " How old is your house 1 Is it Elizabethan 3 "

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

She turned toward him, watching his face a little. " Early
Tudor 1 How very delightful ! And I suppose there are a great
many others."

" There are many much better ones."

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

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

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

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

In this discussion, Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever ;
he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if
he should like to renew his conversation with his new-found
cousin.

" Are you very fond of dogs 1 " he inquired, by way of begin-
ning ; and it was an awkward beginning for a clever man.

" Very fond of them indeed."

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

" I will keep him while I am here, with pleasure."

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

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

THE POETRAIT OF A LADY. 15

" I will settle it with her — at a quarter to seven." And Ralph
looked at his watch again.

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

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

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

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

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

" There 1 Where do you mean 1 "

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

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

Miss Archer hesitated a moment.

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

" Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels — Heaven
forbid ! " the young man cried. " You have lately lost your
father1? " he went on, more gravely.

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

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

" Adopted me 1 " The girl stared, and her blush came back
to her, together with a momentary look of pain, which gave her
interlocutor some alarm. He had under-estimated the effect of his
words. Lord Warburton, who appeared constantly desirous of
a nearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the two cousins at
the moment, and as he did so, she rested her startled eyes upon
him. " Oh, no ; she has not adopted me," she said. " I am
not a candidate for adoption."

" I b'eg a thousand pardons," Ralph murmured. " I meant —
I meant " He hardly knew what he meant.

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

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

The girl hesitated a moment, smiling.

" She is really very benevolent," she answered j and then she

16 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

went over to ner uncle, whose mirth was excited by hei
words.

Lord Warburton was left standing with Ealph Touchett, to
whom in a moment he said —

" You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting
woman. There it is ! "

III.

MRS. TOUCHETT was certainly a person of many oddities, of
which her behaviour on returning to her husband's house after
many months was a noticeable specimen. She had her own
way of doing all that she did, and this is the simplest descrip-
tion of a character which, although it was by no means without
benevolence, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of softness.
Mrs. Touchett might do a great deal of good, but she never
pleased. This way of her own, of which she was. so fond, was
not intrinsically offensive — it was simply very sharply distin-
guished from the ways of others. The edges of her conduct
were so very clear-cut that for susceptible persons it sometimes
had a wounding effect;. This purity of outline was visible in
her deportment during the first hours of her return from
America, under circumstances in which it might have seemed
that her first act would have been to exchange greetings with
her husband and son. Mrs. Touchett, for reasons which she
deemed excellent, always retired on such occasions into impene-
trable seclusion, postponing the more sentimental ceremony until
she had achieved a toilet which had the less reason to be of high
importance as neither beauty nor vanity were concerned in it.
She was a plain-faced old woman, without coquetry and without
any great elegance, but with an extreme respect for her own
motives. She was usually prepared to explain these — when the
explanation was asked as a favour ; and in such a case they
proved totally different from those that had been attributed to
her. She was virtually separated from her husband, but she
appeared to perceive nothing irregular in the situation. It had
become apparent, at an early stage of their relations, that they
should never desire the same thing at the same moment, and this
fact had prompted her to rescue disagreement from the vulgar
realm of accident. She did what she could to erect it into a
law — a much more edifying aspect of it — by going to live
in Florence, where she bought a house and established herself;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 17

leaving her husband in England to take care of his bank. This
arrangement greatly pleased her ; it was so extremely definite.
It struck her husband in the same light, in a foggy square in
London, where it was at times the most definite fact he discerned ;
but he would have preferred that discomfort should have a
greater vagueness. To agree to disagree had cost him an effort ;
he was ready to agree to almost anything but that, and saw no
reason why either assent or dissent should be so terribly consist-
ent. Mrs. Touchett indulged in no regrets nor speculations,
and usually came once a year to spend a month with her hus-
band, a period during which she apparently took pains to con-
vince him that she had adopted the right system. She was not
fond of England, and had three or four reasons for it to which
she currently alluded ; they bore upon minor points of British
civilisation, but for Mrs. Touchett they amply justified non-
residence. She detested bread-sauce, which, as she said, looked
like a poultice and tasted like soap ; she objected to the con-
sumption of beer by her maid-servants ; and she affirmed that
the British laundress (Mrs. Touchett was very particular about
the appearance of her linen) was not a mistress of her art. At
fixed intervals she paid a visit to her own country; but this last
one had been longer than any of its predecessors.

She had taken up her niece — there was little doubt of that.
One wet afternoon, some four months earlier than the occurrence
lately narrated, this young lady had been seated alone with a
book. To say that she had a book is to say that her solitude did
not press upon her ; for her love of knowledge had a fertilising
quality and her imagination was strong. There was at this time,
however, a want of lightness in her situation, which the arrival
of an unexpected visitor did much to dispel. The visitor had
not been announced; the girl heard her at last walking about
the adjoining room. It was an old house at Albany — a large,
square, double house, with a notice of sale in the windows of the
parlour. There were two entrances, one of which had long been
out of use, but had never been removed. They were exactly
alike— large white doors, with an arched frame and wide side-
lights, perched upon little " stoops " of red stone, which descended
sidewise to the brick pavement of the street. The two houses
together formed a single dwelling, the party-wall having been
removed and the rooms placed in communication. These rooms,
above-stairs, were extremely numerous, and were painted all over
exactly alike, in a yellowish white which had grown sallow with
time. On the third floor there was a sort of arched passage,
connecting the two sides of the house, which Isabel and her

a

18 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

sisters used in their childhood to call the tunnel, and which,
though it was short and well-lighted, always seemed to the girl
to be strange and lonely, especially on winter afternoons. She
had been in the house, at different periods, as a child ; in those
days her grandmother lived there. Then there had been an
absence of ten years, followed by a return to Albany before her
father's death. Her grandmother, old Mrs. Archer, had exer-
cised, chiefly within the limits of the family, a large hospitality
in the early period, and the little girls often spent weeks under
her roof — weeks of which Isabel had the happiest memory. The
manner of life was different from that of her own home — larger,
more plentiful, more sociable; the discipline of the nursery was
delightfully vague, and the opportunity of listening to the con-
versation of one's elders (which with Isabel was a highly-valued
pleasure) almost unbounded. There was a constant coming and
going ; her grandmother's sons and daughters, and their children,
appeared to be in the enjoyment of standing invitations to stay
with her, so that the house offered, to a certain extent, the appear-
ance of a bustling provincial inn, kept by a gentle old landlady
who sighed a great deal and never presented a bill. Isabel, of
course, knew nothing about bills ; but even as a child she thought
her grandmother's dwelling picturesque. There was a covered
piazza behind it, furnished with a swing, which was a source of
tremulous interest ; and beyond this w.as a long garden, sloping
down to the stable, and containing certain capital peach-tre'es.
Isabel had stayed with her grandmother at various seasons ; but,
somehow, all her visits had a flavour of peaches. On the other
side, opposite, across the street, was an old house that was called
the Dutch House— a, peculiar structure, dating from the earliest
colonial time, composed of bricks that had been painted yellow,
crowned with a gable that was pointed out to strangers, defended
by a rickety wooden paling, and standing sidewise to the street.
It was occupied by a primary school for children of both sexes,
kept in an amateurish manner by a demonstrative lady, of whom
Isabel's chief recollection was that her hair was puft'ed out very
much at the temples and that she was the widow of some one of
consequence. The little girl had been offered the opportunity of
laying A foundation of knowledge in this establishment ; but
having spent a single day in it, she had expressed great disgust
with the place, and had been allowed to stay at home, where in
the September days, when the windows of the Dutch Housa
were open, she used to hear the hum of childish voices repeating
the multiplication table — an incident in which the elation of
liberty and the pain of exclusion were indistin^uishably mingled.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 19

The foundation of her knowledge was really laid in the idleness
of her grandmother's house, where, as most of the other inmates
were not reading people, she had uncontrolled use of a library
full of books with frontispieces, which she used to climb upon
a chair to take down. When she had found one to her taste —
she was guided in the selection chiefly by the frontispiece — she
carried it into a mysterious apartment which lay beyond the
library, and which was called, traditionally, no one knew why,
the office. Whose office it had been, and at what period it had
flourished, she never learned ; it was enough for her that it
contained an echo and a pleasant musty smell, and that it was
a chamber of disgrace for old pieces of furniture, whose infirmities
were not always apparent (so that the disgrace seemed unmerited,
and rendered them victims of injustice), and with which, in the
manner of children, she had established relations almost human,
or dramatic. There was an old haircloth sofa, in especial, to
which she had confided a hundred childish sorrows. The place
owed much of its mysterious melancholy to the fact that it was
properly entered from the second door of the house, the door
that had been condemned, and that was fastened by bolts which
a particularly slender little girl found it impossible to slide. She
knew that this silent, motionless portal opened into the street ;
if the sidelights had not been filled with green paper, she might
have looked out upon the little brown stoop and the well-worn
brick pavement. But she had no wish to look out, for this
would have interfered with her theory that there was a strange,
unseen place on the other side — a place which became, to the
c'hild's imagination, according to its different moods, a region of
delight or of terror.

It was in the " office " still that Isabel was sitting on that
melancholy afternoon of early spring which I have just
mentioned. At this time she might have had the whole house
to choose from, and the room she had selected was the most
joyless chamber it contained. She had never opened the bolted
door nor removed the green paper (renewed by other hands)
from its side-lights; she had never assured herself that the
vulgar street lay beyond it. A crude, cold rain was falling
heavily ; the spring-time presented itself as a questionable
improvement. Isabel, however, gave as little attention as
possible to the incongruities of the season ; she kept her eyes
on her book and tried to fix her mind. It had lately occurred
to her that her mind was a good deal of a vagabond, and she
had spent much ingenuity in training it to a military step, and
teaching it to advance, to halt, to retreat, to perform even more

C 2

20 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

complicated manoeuvres, at the word of command. Just now
she had given it marching orders, and it had been trudging
over the sandy plains of a history of German Thought.
Suddenly she became aware of a step very different from her
own intellectual pace ; she listened a little, and perceived that
some one was walking about the library, which communicated
with the office. It struck her first as the step of a person from
whom she had reason to expect a visit ; then almo&t immediately
announced itself as the tread of a woman and a stranger — her
possible visitor being ^ neither. It had an inquisitive, experi-
mental quality, which suggested that it would riot stop short of
the threshold of the office ; and, in fact, the doorway of this
apartment was presently occupied by a lady who paused there
and looked very hard at our heroine. She was a plain, elderly
woman, dressed in a comprehensive waterproof mantle : she had
a sharp, but not an unpleasant, face.

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

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

She directed their course back to the library, and the visitor
continued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of
other rooms ; they are in rather better condition. But every-
thing is immensely worn."

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

" Send her away ; I don't want to buy it. She has probably
gone to look for you, and is wandering about up-stairs; she
didn't seem at all intelligent. You had better tell her it is no
matter." And then, while the girl stood there"; hesitating and
wondering, this unexpected critic said to her abruptly, " I
suppose you are one of the daughters 1 "

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

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

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

" Is that what your father told you to call me 1 _ I am your
Aunt Lydia, but I am not crazy. And which of the daughters
are you ? "

" I am the youngest of the three, and my name is Isabel."

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

" I have not the least idea." said the girl.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. zl

" I think you must be." And in this way the aunt and the
niece made friends. The aunt had quarrelled, years before, with
her brother-in-law, after the d^ath of her sister, taking him to
task for the manner in which he brought up his three girls.
Being a high-tempered man, he had requested her to mind her
own business; and she had taken him at his word. For many
years she held no communication with him, and after his death
she addressed not a word to his daughters, who had been bred
in that disrespectful view of her which we have just seen Isabel
betray. Mrs. Touchett's behaviour was, as usual, perfectly
deliberate. She intended to go to America to look after her
investments (with which her husband, in spite of his great
financial position, had nothing to do), and would take advantage
of this opportunity to inquire into the condition of her nieces.
There was no need of writing, for she should attach no import-
ance to any account of them that she should elicit by letter ;
she believed, always, in seeing for one's self. Isabel found,
however, that she knew a good deal about them, and knew
about the marriage of the two elder girls ; knew that their poor
father had left very little money, but that the house in Albany,
which had passed into his hands, was to be sold for their
benefit; ^new, finally, that Edmund Ludlow, Lilian's husband,
1 1 ad taken upon himself to attend to this matter, in consideration
of which the young couple, who had come to Albany Curing
Mr. Archer's illness, were remaining there for the present, and,
as well as Isabel herself, occupying the mansion.

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

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

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

' I am not stupid : but I don't know anything about money."

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

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

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

22 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you don't do that yourself ; you might let the shops to great
advantage."

Isabel stared ; the idea of letting shops was new to her.

" I hope they won't pull it down," she said ; " I am extremely
fond of it."

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

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

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

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

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

" In an old palace 1 " Isabel repeated.

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

Isabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly
of her grandmother's house. But the emotion wag of a kind
which led her to say —

" I should like very much to go to Florence."

" Well, if you will be very good, and do everything I tell you,
I will take you there," Mrs. Touchett rejoined.

The girl's emotion deepened ; she flushed a little, and smiled
at her aunt in silence.

" Do everything you tell me ] I don't think I can promise
that."

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

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

Edmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchett
had an hour's uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found her
a strange and interesting person. She was as eccentric as Isabel
had always supposed ; and hitherto, whenever the girl had heard
people described as eccentric, she had thought of them as dis-
agreeable. To her imagination the term had always suggested
something grotesque and inharmonious. But her aunt infused a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 23

new vividness into the idea, and gave her so many fresh impres-
sions that it seemed to her shn had over-estimated the charms of
conformity. She had never met any one so entertaining as this
little thin-lipped, bright-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who re-
trieved an insignificant appearance by a distinguished manner,
and, sitting there in a well-worn waterproof, talked with striking
familiarity of European courts. There was nothing nighty about
Mrs. Touchett, but she was fond of social grandeur, and she
enjoyed the consciousness of making an impression on a candid
and susceptible mind. Isabel at first had answered fl, good many
questions, and it was from her answers apparently that Mrs.
Touchett derived a high opinion of her intelligence. But
after this she had asked a good many, and her aunt's answers,
whatever they were, struck her as deeply interesting. Mrs.
Touchett waited for the return of her other niece as long as she
thought reasonable, but as at six o'clock Mrs. Ludlow had not
come in, she prepared to take her departure.

"Your sister must be a great gossip," she said. "Is she
accustomed to staying out for hours 1 "

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

Mrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment, she
appeared to enjoy a bold retort, and to be disposed to be gracious
to her niece.

" Perhaps she has not had so good an excuse as I. Tell her,
at any rate, that she must come and see me this evening at that
horrid hotel. She may bring her husband if she likes, but she
needn't bring you. I shall see plenty of you later."

IV.

MRS, LUDLOW was the eldest of the three sisters, and was
usually thought the most sensible ; the classification being in
general that Lilian was the practical one, Edith the beauty, and
Isabel the "intellectual " one. Mrs. Key es, the second sister,
was the wife of an officer in the United States Engineers, and as
our history is not further concerned with her, it will be enough
to say that she was indeed very pretty, and that she formed the
ornament of those various military stations, chiefly in the un-
fashionable West, to which, to her deep chagrin, her husband
was successively relegated. Lilian had married a New York

24 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

lawyer, a young mail with a loud voice and an enthusiasm for
his profession ; the match was not brilliant, any more than
Edith's had been, but Lilian had occasionally been spoken of as
a young woman who might be thankful to marry at all — she
was so much plainer than her sisters. She was, however, very
happy, and now, as the mother of two peremptory little boys,
ai\d the mistress of a house which presented a narrowness of new
brown stone to Fifty-third Street, she had quite justified her
claim to matrimony. She was short and plump, and, as people
said, had improved since her marriage ; the two things in life
of which she was mo.st distinctly conscious were her husband's
force in argument and her sister Isabel's originality. " I have
never ielt like Isabel's sister, and I am sure I never shall," she had
said to an intimate friend ; a declaration which made it all the
more creditable that she had been prolific in sisterly offices.

" I want to see her safely married — that's what I want to see,"
she frequently remarked to her husband

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

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

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

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

She listened with great interest to the. girl's account of Mrs.
Touchett's visit, and in the evening prepared to comply with her
commands. Of what Isabel said to her no report has remained,
but her sister's words must have prompted a remark that she
made to her husband in the conjugal chamber as the two were
getting ready to go to the hotel.

" I do hope immensely she will do something handsome for
Isabel ; she has evidently taken a great fancy to her."

" What is it you wish her to do 1 " Edmund Ludlow asked ;
" make her a big present 1 "

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 25

"You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh?
Don;t you think she gets enough at home ? "

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

" And you want the old lady to take her, is that it 1 " her
husband asked.

" She has offered to take her — she is dying to have Isabel go !
But what I want her to do when she gets her there is to give her
all the advantages. I am sure that all we have got to do," said
Mrs. Ludlow, " is to give her a chance ! "

" A chance for what ? "

"A chance to develop."

" 0 Jupiter ! " Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. " I hope she isn't
going to develop any more ! "

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

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

" I am sure I don't care whether you do or not ! " exclaimed
the girl, whose voice and smile, however, were sweeter than the
words she uttered.

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

But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of
seriousness.

" You must not say that, Lily. I don't feel grand at all."

" I am sure there is no harm," said the conciliatory Lily.

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

" Oh," exclaimed Ludlow, " she is grander than ever ! "

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

Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt busy ; busy,
I mean, with* her thoughts. Left to herself for the evening, she
sat awhile under the lamp, with empty hands, heedless of her
usual avocations. Then she rose and moved about the room,
and from one room to another, preferring the places where the
vague lamplight expired. She was restless, and even excited ;
at moments she trembled a little. She felt that something had
happened to her of which the importance was out of proportion
to its appearance ; there had really been a change in her life.
What it would bring with it was as yet extremely indefinite \
but Isabel was in a situation which gave a value to any change.
She had a desire to leave the past behind her, and, as she said

26 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

to herself,*to begin afresh. This desire, indeed, was not a birth
of the present occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the
rain upon the window, and it had led to her beginning afresh a
great many times. She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the
dusky corners of the quiet parlour ; but it was not with a desire
to take a nap. On the contrary, it was because she felt too
wide-awake, and wished to check the sense of seeing too many
things at once. Her imagination was by habit ridiculously
active ; if the door were not opened to it, it jumped out of the
window. She was not accustomed, indeed, to keep it behind
bolts ; and, at important moments, when she would have been
thankful to make use of her judgment alone, she paid the penalty
of having given undue encouragement to the faculty of seeing
without judging. At present, with her sense that the note of
change had been struck, came gradually a host of images of the
things she was leaving behind her. The years and hours of her
life came back to her, and for a long time, in a stillness ^broken
only by the ticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in
review. It had been a very happy life and she had been a very
fortunate girl — this was the truth that seemed to emerge most
vividly. She had had the best of everything, and in a world
in which the circumstances of so many people made them unen-
viable, it was an advantage never to have known anything
particularly disagreeable. It appeared to Isabel that the disa-
greeable had been even too absent from her knowledge, for she
had gathered from her acquaintance with literature that it was
often a source of interest;, and even of instruction. Her father
had kept it away from her — her handsome, much-loved father,
who always had such an aversion to it. It was a great good
fortune to have been his daughter ; Isabel was even proud of her
parentage. Since his death she had gathered a vague impression
that he turned his brighter side to his children, and that he had
not eluded discomfort quite so much in practice as in aspiration.
But this only made her tenderness for 'him greater ; it was
scarcely even painful to have to think that he was too generous,
too good-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations. Many
persons thought that he carried this indiiference too far;
especially the large number of those to whom he owed money.
Of their opinions, Isabel was never very definitely informed ;
but it may interest the reader to know that, while they admitted
that the late Mr. Archer had a remarkably handsome head and a
very taking manner (indeed, as one of them had said, he was
always taking something), they declared that he had made a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 27

very poor use of his life. He had squandered a substantial
fortune, he had been deplorably convivial, he was known to
have gambled freely. A few very harsh critics went so far as to
say that he had not even brought up his daughters. They had
had no regular education and no permanent home ; they had
been at once spoiled and neglected ; they had lived with nurse-
maids and governesses (usually very bad ones), or had been sent
to strange schools kept by foreigners, from which, at the end of
a month, they had been removed in tears. This view of the
matter would have excited Isabel's indignation, for to her own
sense her opportunities had been abundant. Even when her
father had left his daughters for three months at Neufchatel
with a French bonne, who eloped with a Russian nobleman,
staying at the same hotel — even in this irregular situation (an
incident of the girl's eleventh year) she had been neither fright-
ened nor ashamed, but had thought it a picturesque episode in a
liberal education. Her father had a large way of looking at life,
of which his restlessness and even his occasional incoherency of
conduct had been only a proof. He wished his daughters, even
as children, to see as much of the world as possible ; and it was
for this purpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, he had trans-
ported them three times across the Atlantic, giving them on each
occasion, however, but a few months' view of foreign lands ; a
course which had whetted our heroine's curiosity without
enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to have been a partisan
of her father, for among his three daughters she was quite his
favourite, and in his last days his general willingness to take
leave of a world in which the difficulty of doing as one liked
appeared to increase as one grew olderv was sensibly modified by
the pain of separation from his clever, his superior, his remark-
able girl. Later, when the journeys to Europe ceased, he still
had shown his children all sorts of indulgence, and if he had
been troubled about money-matters, nothing ever disturbed their
irreflective consciousness of many possessions. Isabel, though
she danced very well, had not the recollection of having been in
New York a successful member of the choregraphic circle ; her
sister Edith was, as every one said, so very much more popular.
Edith was so striking an example of success that Isabel could
have no illusions as to what constituted this advantage, or as to
the moderate character of her own triumphs. Nineteen persons
out of twenty (including the younger sister herself) pronounced
Edith infinitely the prettier of the two ; but the twentieth,
besides reversing this judgment, had the entertainment of thinking

28 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

all the others a parcel of fools. Isabel had in the depths of
her nature an. even more unquenchable desire to please than
Edith ; but the depths of this young lady's nature were a very
out-of-the-way place, between which and* the surface communi-
cation was interrupted by a dozen capricious forces. She saw
the young men who came in large numbers to see her sister ;
but as a general thing they were afraid of her; they had a
belief that some special preparation was required for talking
with her. Her reputation of reading a great deal hung about
her like the cloudy envelope of a goddess in an epic ; it was
supposed to engender difficult questions, and to keep the conver-
sation at a low temperature. The poor girl liked to be thought
clever, but she hated to be thought bookish ; she used to read in
secret, and, though her memory was excellent, to abstain from
quotation. She had a great desire for knowledge, but she really
preferred almost any source of information to the printed page;
she had an immense curiosity about life, and was constantly
staring and wondering. She carried within herself a great fund
of life, and her deepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity
between the movements of her own heart and the agitations of
the world. For this reason she was fond of seeing great crowds
and large stretches of country, of reading about revolutions and
wars, of looking at historical pictures — a class of efforts to which
she had often gone so far as to forgive much bad painting for
the sake of the subject. While the Civil War went on, she was
still a very young girl ; but she passed months of this long
period in a state of almost passionate excitement, in which she
felt herself at times (to her extreme confusion) stirred almost
indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Of course
the circumspection of the local youth had never gone the
length of making her a social proscript; for the proportion of
those whose hearts, as they approached her, beat only just fast
enough to make it a sensible pleasure, was sufficient to redeem
her maidenly career from failure. She had had everything that
a girl could have : kindness, admiration, flattery, bouquets, the
sense of exclusion from none of the privileges of the world she
lived in, abundant opportunity for dancing, the latest publica-
tions, plenty of new dresses, the London Spectator, and a glimpse
of contemporary aesthetics.

These things now, as memory played over them, resolved
themselves into a multitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten
things came back to her; many others, which she had lately
thought of great moment, dropped out of sight. The result was
kaleidoscopic ; but the movement of the instrument was checked

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 29

at last by the servant's coming in with the name of a gentleman.
The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood ; he was a
straight young man from Boston, who had known Miss Archer for
the last twelvemonth, and who, thinking her the most beautiful
young woman of her time, had pronounced the time, according to
the rule I have hinted at, a foolish period of history. He sometimes
wrote to Isabel, and he had lately written to her h"L^ New York.
She had thought it very possible he would come itr — had, indeed,
all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him. Nevertheless, now
that she learned he was there, she felt no eagerness to receive
him. He Avas the finest young man she had ever seen, was,
indeed, quite a magnificent young man; he filled her with a
certain feeling of respect which she had never entertained for
any one else. He was supposed by the world in general to wish
to marry her ; but this of course was between themselves. It
at least may be affirmed that he had travelled from New York
to Albany expressly to see her; having learned in the former
city, where he was spending a few days and where he had hoped
to find her, that she was still at the capital. Isabel delayed for
some minutes to go to him ; she moved about the room with a
certain feeling of embarrassment. But at last she presented
herself, and found him standing near the lamp. He was tall,
strong, and somewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He
was not especially good-looking, but his physiognomy had an air
of requesting your attention, which it rewarded or not, according
to the charm you found in a blue eye of remarkable fixedness
and a jaw of the somewhat angular mould, which is supposed
to bespeak resolution. Isabel said to herself that it bespoke
resolution to-night ; but, nevertheless, an hour later, Caspar
Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as resolute, took his
way back to his lodging with the feeling of a man defeated.
He was not, however, a man to be discouraged by a defeat.

V.

EALPH TOUCHETT was a philosopher, but nevertheless he
knocked at his mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good
deal of eagerness. Even pnilosophers have their preferences,
and it must be admitted that of his progenitors his father
ministered most to his sense of the sweetness of filial depend-
ence. His father, as he had often said to himself, was the more
motherly ; his mother, on the other hand, was paternal, and

30 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial. She
was nevertheless very fond of her only child, and had always
insisted on his spending three months of the year with her.
Ralph rendered perfect justice to her affection, and knew that in
her thoughts his turn always came after the care of her house
and her conservatory (she was extremely fond of flowers). He
found her completely dressed for dinner, but she embraced her
boy with her gloved hands, and made him sit on the sofa beside
her. She inquired scrupulously about her husband's health and
about the young man's own, and receiving no very brilliant
account of either, she remarked that she was more than ever
convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English
climate. In this case she also might have broken down. Ralph
smiled at the idea of his mother breaking down, but made no
point of reminding her that his own enfeebled condition was
not the result of the English climate, from which he absented
himself for a considerable part of each year.

He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy
Touchett, who was a native of Kutland, in the State of Vermont,
came to England as subordinate partner in a banking-house, in
which some ten years later he acquired a preponderant interest.
Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long residence in his
adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a simple,
cheerful, and eminently practical view. But, as he said to him-
self, he had no intention of turning Englishman, nor had he any
desire to convert his only son to the same sturdy faith. It .had
been for himself so very soluble a problem to live in England,
and yet not be of it, that it seemed to him equally simple that
after his death his lawful heir should carry on the bank in a
pure American spirit. He took pains to cultivate this spirit,
however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph
spent several terms in an American school, and took a degree
at an American college, after which, as he struck his father on
his return as even redundantly national, he was placed for
some three years in residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed
up Harvard, and Ralph became at last English enough. His
outward conformity to the manners that surrounded him was
none the less the mask, of a mind that greatly enjoyed its
independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to jocosity arid irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of
promise ; at Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's
ineffable satisfaction, and the people about him said it was a
thousand pities so clever a fellow should be shut out from a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 31

career. He might have had a career by returning to his own
country (though this point is shrouded in uncertainty), and even
if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with him (which was
not the case), it would have gone hard with him to put the ocean
(which he detested) permanently between himself and the old
man whom he regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only
fond of his father, but headmired him — he enjoyed the opportunity
of observing him. Daniel Touchett to his perception was a man
of genius, and -though he himself had no great fancy for the
banking business, he made a point of learning enough of it to
measure the great figure hi^ father had played. It was not this,
however, he mainly relished, it was the old man's effective
simplicity. Daniel Touchett had been neither at Harvard nor
at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had put into his son's
bunds the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was
full of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high
esteem for the latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly,
are commended for the ease with which they adapt themselves
to foreign conditions ; but Mr. Touchett had given evidence of
this talent only up to a certain point. He had made himself
thoroughly comfortable in England, but he had never attempted
to pitch his thoughts in the English key. He had retained
many characteristics of Rutland, Vermont ; his tone, as his son
always noted with pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts
of New England. At the end of his life", especially, he was a
gentle, refined, fastidious old man, who combined consummate
shrewdness with a sort of fraternising good-humour, and whose
feeling about his own position in the world was quite of the
democratic sort. It was perhaps his want of imagination and of
what is called the historic consciousness ; but to many of the
impressions usually made by English life upon the cultivated
stranger his sense was completely closed. There were certain
differences he never perceivedr certain habits he never formed,
certain mysteries he never understood. As regards these latter,
on the day that he had understood them his son would have
thought less well of him.

Ralph, on leaving Oxford, spent a couple of years in travelling ;
after which he found himself mounted on a high stool in has
father's bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions
is not, I believe, measured by the height of the stool, which
depends upon other considerations ; Ralph, indeed, who had
very long legs, was fond of standing, and even of walking about,
at his work. To this exercise, however, he was obliged to devote
but a limited period, for at the end of some eighteen months he

32 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

became conscious that he was seriously out of health. He had
caught a violent cold, which fixed itself upon his lungs and
threw them into extreme embarrassment. He had to give
up work and embrace the sorry occupation known as taking
care of one's self. At first he was greatly disgusted ; it ap-
peared to him that it was not himself in the least that he was
taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person with
whom he had nothing in common. This person, however,
improved on acquaintance, and Ealph grew at last to have a
certain grudging tolerance, and even undemonstrative respect, for
him. Misfortune makes strange bed-fellows, and our young
man, feeling that he had something at stake in the matter — it
usually seemed to him to be his reputation for common sense —
devoted to his unattractive protege an amount of attention of
which note was duly taken, and which had at least the effect of
keeping the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal,
the other promised to follow its example, and he was assured
that he might outweather a dozen winters if he would betake
himself to one of those climates in which consumptives chiefly
congregate. He had grown extremely fond of London, and
cursed this immitigable necessity ; but at the same time that he
cursed, he conformed, and gradually,, when he found that his
sensitive organ was really grateful for such grim favours, he
conferred them with a better grace. He wintered abroad, as
the phrase is ; basked in the sun, stopped at home when the
wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when
it snowed, almost never got up again. A certain fund of indo-
lence that he possessed came to his aid and helped to reconcile
him to doing nothing ; for at the best he was too ill for anything
but a passive life. As he said to himself, there was really nothing
he had wanted very much to do, so that he had given up
nothing. At present, however, the perfume of forbidden fruit
seemed occasionally to float past him, to remind him that the
finest pleasures of life are to be found in the world of action.
Living as he now lived was like reading a good book in a poor
translation — a meagre entertainment for a young man who felt
that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good
winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was
sometimes the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this
vision was dispelled some three years before the occurrence of the
incidents with which this history opens ; he had on this occasion
remained later than usual in England, and had been overtaken
by bad weather before reaching Algiers. He reached it more
dead than alive, and lay there for several weeks between life and

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 3S

death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he
made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but
once. He said to himself that his hour was in sight, and that it
behoved him to keep his eyes' upon it, but that it was also open
to him to spend the interval as agreeably as might be consistent
with such a pre-occupation. With the prospect of losing them,
the simple use of his faculties became an exquisite pleasure ; it
seemed to him that the delights of observation had never been
suspected. He was far from the time when he had found it hard
that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing
himself ; an idea none the less importunate for being vague, and
none the less delightful for having to struggle with a good deal
of native indifference. His friends at present found him much
more cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they
shook their heads knowingly, that he would recover his health.
The truth was that he had simply accepted the situation.

It was very probable this sweet-tasting property of observation
to whirh I allude (for he found himself in these last-years much
more inclined to notice the pleasant things of the world than the
others) that- was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred
interest in the arrival of a young lady who was evidently not
insipid. If he were observantly disposed, something told him,
here was occupation enough for a succession of days. It may be
added, somewhat crudely, that the liberty of falling in love had
a place in Ralph Touchett's programme. This was of course a
liberty to be very temperately used ; for though the safest form
of any sentiment is that which is conditioned upon silence, it is
not always the most comfortable, and Ralph had forbidden him-
self the art of demonstration. But conscious observation of a
lovely woman had struck him as the finest entertainment that
the world now had to offer him, and if the interest should
become poignant, he nattered himself that he could carry it off
quietly, as he had carried other discomforts. He speedily
acquired a conviction, however, that he was not destined to fall
in love with his cousin.

"And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his
mother. " What do you mean to do with her1? "

Mrs. Touchett hesitated a little. " I mean to ask your father
to invite her to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."

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

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

<f Good Lord, dear mother ; what a- sense of property ! That's
all the more reason for his asking her. But after that — I mean

D

34 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

after three months (for it's absurd asking the poor girl to remain
but for three or four paltry weeks) — what do you mean to do
with her 1 "

" I mean to take her to Paris, to get her some clothes."

" Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that1? "

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

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

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

"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as a
girl that suggests compassion. I think I envy her. Before being
sure, however, give me a hint of what your duty will direct you
to do."

" It will direct mo to show her four European countries — I
shall leave her the choice of two of them — and to give her the
opportunity of perfecting herself in French, which she already
knows very well."

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

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

" Do you mean that she is a gifted being 1 "

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

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

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

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

" Do you think her very pretty 1 "

" Very pretty indeed ; but I don't insist upon that. It's hei

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 35

general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who
is this rare creature, and what is she] ^Where did you find
her, and how did you make her acquaintance?"

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

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

" I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but yov
will be wrong."

D 2

36 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"Warburton is wrong, then!" Ralph Touchett exilaimed.
" He flatters himself he has made that discovery."

His mother shook' her head. " Lord Warburton won't under-
stand her ; he needn't try."

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

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

Her son frowned a little. " What does she know about
lords 1 "

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

Ealph greeted these words with a laugh, and looked out of the
window a little. Then — "Are you not going down to see my
father 1 " he asked.

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

Her son looked at his watch. " You have another quarter of
an hour, then ; tell me some more about Isabel."

But Mrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he
must find out for himself.

" Well," said Ralph, " she will certainly do you credit. But
won't she also give you trouble ? "

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

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

" Natural people are not the most trouble."

" No," said Ralph ; " you yourself are a proof of that. You
are extremely natural, and I am sure you have never troubled
any one. But tell me this ; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel
capable of making herself disagreeable 1 "

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

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

"Do with her1? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I
shall do absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do
everything that she chooses. She gave me notice of that."

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

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

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

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

Ralph knew what to think of his father's impatience ; but

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 37

making no rejoinder, he offered his mother his arm. This put
it into his power, as they descended together, to stop her a
moment on the middle landing of the staircase — the broad, low,
wide-armed staircase of time-stained oak which was one of the
most striking ornaments of Gardencourt.

"You have no plan of marrying her? " he said, smiling.

" Marry her 1 I should be sorry to play her such a trick !
But apart from that, she is perfectly able to marry herself ; she
has every facility."

" Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out 1 "

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

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

His mother had told him that he must extract his information
about his cousin from the girl herself, and it soon became evident
to him that he should not want for opportunity. He had, for
instance, a good deal of talk with her that same evening, when
the two had been left alone together in the drawing-room. Lord
Warburton, who had ridden over from his own house, some ten
miles distant, remounted and took his departure before dinner ;
and an hour after this meal was concluded, Mr. and Mrs.
Touchett, who appeared to have exhausted each other's convers-
ation, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their
respective apartments. The young man spent an hour with his
cousin ; though she had been travelling half the day she
appeared to have no sense of weariness. She was really tired;
she knew it, and knew that she should pay for it on the morrow ;
but it was her habit at this pe.riod to carry fatigue to the furthest
point, and confess to it only when dissimulation had become
impossible. For the present it was perfectly possible ; she was
interested and excited. She asked Ralph to show her the
pictures ; there were a great many of them in the house, most of
them of his own choosing. The best of them were arranged in
an oaken gallery of charming proportions, which had a sitting-
room at either end of it, and which in the evening was usually
lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures to
advantage, and the visit might have been deferred till the
morrow. This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make ; but
Isabel looked disappointed — smiling still, however — and said,
" If you please, I should like to see them just a little." She
was eager, she knew that she was eager and that she seemed so ;
but she could not help it. " She doesn't take suggestions," Ralph

38 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

said to himself ; but he said it without irritation ; her eagerness
amused 'and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at
intervals, and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell
upon the vague squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding
of heavy frames ; it made a shining on the polished floor of the
gallery. Ralph /took a candlestick and moved about, pointing
out the things he liked ; Isabel, bending toward one picture after
another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs. She was
evidently a judge ; she had a natural taste ; he was struck with
that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here
and there ; she lifted it high, and as she did so, he found
himself pausing in the middle of the gallery and bending his
eyes much less upon the pictures than on her figure. He lost
nothing, in truth, by these wandering glances ; for she was better
worth looking at than most works of art. She was thin, and
light, and middling tall; when people had wished to distin-
guish her from the other two Miss Archers, they always called
her the thin one. Her hair, which was dark even to blackness,
had been an object of envy to many women ; her light grey eye,
a little too keen perhaps in her graver moments, had an enchant-
ing softness when she smiled. They walked slowly up one side
of the gallery and down the other, and then she said —

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

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

" I think I have ; most girls seem to me so ignorant," said
Isabel.

" You strike me as different from most girls."

" Ah, some girls are so nice," murmured Isabel, who preferred
not to talk about heiself. Then, in a moment, to change the
subject, she went on, " Please tell me — isn't there a ghost 'I "

"A ghost!"

" A spectre, a phantom ; we call them ghosts in America."

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

" You do see them, then 1 You ought to, in this romantic
old house."

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

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

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

Isabel looked at him a moment.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 38

" Is there never any one here but your father and you ? "

" My mother, of course.'"

" Oli, I know your mother ; she is not romantic. Haven't
you other people 1 "

" Very few."

" I am sorry for that ; > like so much to see people."

" Oh, we will invite all the county to amuse you," said
Ealph.

" TsTow you are making fun of me," the girl answered, rather
gravely. " Who was the gentleman that was on the lawn when
I arrived 1 "

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

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

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

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

" You can't do better than that ; he is a dear old man."

" I am so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.

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

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

Ealph, however, gave no heed to this observation.

" You like my father, and you like Lord Warburton. I
infer also that you like my mother."

" I like your mother very much, because — because "

And Isabel found herself attempting to assign a reason for her
affection for Mrs. Touchett.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ealph shook his head sadly. " I might show it to you, but
you would never see it. The privilege isn't given to every one ;

40 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

it's not enviable. It has never been seen by a young, happy,
innocent person like you. You must have suffered first, have
suffered greatly, have gained some miserable knowledge. In
that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago," said
Ralph, smiling.

" I told you just now I was very fond of knowledge," the
girl answered.

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

Isabel had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips,
but with a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found
her, she had struck him as rather presumptuous — indeed it was
a part of her charm ; and he wondered what she would say.

" I am not afraid," she said ; which seemed quite presumptuous
enough.

" You are not afraid of suffering ? "

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

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

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

" You were not, certainly."

" I am not speaking of myself." And she turned away a
little.

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

" Only, if you don't suffer, they call you hard," Isabel re-
marked. They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into
which they had returned from the gallery, and paused in the
hall, at the foot of the staircase. Here Ralph presented his
companion with her bed-room candle, which he had taken from
a niche. " Never mind what they call you," he said. " When
you do suffer, they call you an idiot. The great point is to be
as happy as possible."

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

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

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 41

VI.

ISABEL ARCHER was a young person of many theories ; her
imagination was remarkably active. It had been her fortune to
possess a finer mind than most of the persons among whom her
lot was cast ; to have a larger perception of surrounding facts,
and to care for knowledge that was tinged with the unfamiliar.
It is true that among her contemporaries she passed for a young
woman of extraordinary profundity ; for these excellent people
never withheld their admiration from a reach of intellect of
which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of Isabel
as a prodigy of learning, a young lady reputed to have read the
classic authors — in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian,
once spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book — Mrs.
Varian having a reverence for books — and averred that Isabel
would distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly
of literature, for which she entertained that esteem that is con-
nected with a sense of privation. Her own large house, remark-
able for its assortment of mosaic tables and decorated ceilings,
was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of printed
volumes contained nothing but half-a-dozen novels in paper, on
a shelf in the aparfcrneut of one of the Miss Varians. Practically,
Mrs. Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to the
New York Interviewer ; as she very justly said, after you had read
&.Q Interviewer, you had no time for anything else. Her tendency,
however, was rather to keep the Intefoieicer out of the way of
her daughters ; she was determined to bring them up seriously,
and they read nothing at all. Her impression with regard to
Isabel's labours was quite illusory ; the girl never attempted
to Write a book, and had no desire to be an authoress. She had
no talent for expression, and had none of the consciousness of
genius ; she only had a general idea, that people were right when
they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or no
she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they
thought her so ; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved
more quickly than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that
might easily be confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed
without delay that Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of
self-esteem ; she often surveyed with complacency the field of
her own nature ; she was in the habit of taking for granted, on
scanty evidence, that she was right; impulsively, she often
admired herself. Meanwhile her errors and delusions were fre-
quently such as a biographer .interested in preserving the dignity

42 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

of his heroine must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts
were a tangle of vague outlines, wliich had never been cor-
rected by the judgment of people who seemed to her to speak
with authority. Jn matters of opinion she had had her own
way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous zigzags.
Every now and then she found out she was wrong, and then
she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After
this she held her head higher than ever again ; for it was of no
use, she had an unquenchable desire to think well of herself.
She had a theory that it was only on this condition that life was
worth living ; that one should be one of the best, should be con-
scious of a tine organization (she could not help knowing her
organization was fine), should move in a realm of light, of natural
wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully chronic. It
was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of oneself as to
cultivate doubt of one's best friend; one should try to be one's
own best friend, and to give oneself, in this manner, distinguished
company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which
rendered her a good many services and played her a great many
tricks. She spent half her time in thinking of beauty, and
bravery, and magnanimity ; "she had a fixed determination to
regard the world as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of
irresistible action; she thought it would be detestable to be
afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should
never do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after
discovering them, her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always
made her tremble, as if she had escaped from a trap which might
have caught her and smothered her), that the chance of inflict-
ing a sensible injury upon another person, presented only as a
contingency, caused her at moments to hold her breath. That
always seemed to her the worst thing that could happen to one.
On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about the
things that were wrong. She had no taste for thinking of them,
but~Vhenever she looked at them fixedly she recognized them.
It was wrong to be mean, to^be jealous, to be fal>e, to be cruel;
she had seen very little of the evil of the world, but she had
seen women who lied and who tried to hurt each other. Seeing
such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed right to
scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit is the danger
of inconsistency — the danger of keeping up the flag after the
place has surrendered ; a sort of behaviour so anomalous as to be
almost a dishonour to the -flag. But Isabel, who knew little of
the sorts of artillery to which young ladies are exposed, flattered
herself that such contradictions would never be observed in her

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 43

own conduct. Her life should always be in harmony with the
most pleasing impression she should produce ; she would be what
she appeared, and she would appear what she was. Sometimes
she went so far as to wish that she should find herself some
day in a difficult position, so that she might have the pleasure
of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with
her meagre knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once
innocent and dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulg-
ent, her mixture of curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and
indifference, her desire to look very well and to be if possible
even better ; her determination to see, to try, to know ; her
combination of the delicate, desultory, flame-like spirit and the
eager and personal young girl ; she would be an easy victim of
scientific criticism, if she were not intended to awaken on the
reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortun-
ate in being independent, and that she ought to make some very
enlightened use of her independence. She never called it lone-
liness; she thought that weak ; and besides, her "sister Lily con-
stantly urged her to come and stay with her. She had a friend
whose acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's
death, who offered so laudable an example of useful activity that
Isabel always thought of her as a model. Henrietta Stackpole
had the advantage of a remarkable talent ; she was thoroughly
launched in journalism, and her letters to the Interviewer ', from
Washington, Newport, the "White Mountains, and other places,
were universally admired. Isabel did not accept them unrestrict-
edly, but she esteemed the courage, energy, and good-huinour of
her friend, who, without parents and without property, had
adopted three of the children of an infirm and widowed sister,
and was paying their school-bills out of the proceeds of her
literary labour. Henrietta was a great radical, and had clear-cut
views on most subjects; her cherished desire had long been to
come to Europe and write a series of letters to the Interviewer
from the radical point of view — an enterprise the less difficult as
she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions would be, and
to how many olyjections most European .institutions lay open.
When she heard* hat Isabel was coming, she wished to start at
once ; thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two
should travel together. She had been obliged, however, to post-
pone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and
had spoken of her, covertly, in some of her letters, though she
never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not have
taken pleasure in it and was not a regular reader of the Inter-

*4 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

viewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman
might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were of
the obvious kind ; but even if one had not the journalistic
talent and a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the
public was going to want, one was not therefore to conclude that
one had no vocation, no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and
resign oneself to being trivial and superficial. Isabel was reso-
lutely determined not to be superficial. If one should wait
expectantly and trustfully, one would find some happy work to
one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was
not without a collection of opinions on the question of marriage.
The fkst on the list was a .conviction that it was very vulgar to
think too much about it. From lapsing into a state of eagerness
on this point she earnestly prayed that she might be delivered ;
she held that a woman ought to be able to make up her life in
singleness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy with-
out the society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another
sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered ; some-
thing pure and proud that there was in her — something cold and
stiff, an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have
called it — had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjec-
ture on the suVJject of possible husbands. Few of the men she
saw seemed worth an expenditure of imagination, and it made
her smile to think that one of them should present himself as an
incentive to hope and a reward of patience. Deep in her soul —
it was the deepest thing there — lay a belief that if a certain
light should dawn, she could give herself completely ; but this
image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's
thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long ;
after a little it ended by frightening her. It often seemed to
her that she thought too much about herself ; you could have
made her blush, any day in the year, by telling her that she was
selfish. She was always planning out her own development,
desiring her own perfection, observing her own progress. Her
nature had for her own imagination a certain garden-like quality,
a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers
and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection
was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the
recesses of one's mind was harmless when one returned from it
with a lapful of roses. But she was often reminded that there
were other gardens in the world than those of her virginal soul,
and that there were, moreover, a great many places that were not
gardens at all — only dusky, pestiferous tracts, planted thick with
ugliness and misery. In the current of that easy eagerness on

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 45

which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to
this beautiful old England and might carry her much further
still, she often checked herself with the thought of the thousands
of people who were less happy than herself — a thought which
for the moment made her absorbing happiness appear to her a
kind of immodesty. What should one do with the misery of
the world in a scheme of the agreeable for oneself 1 Tt must be
confessed that this question never held her long. She was too
young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She
always returned to her theory that* a young woman whom after
.all every one thought clever, should begin by getting a general
impression of life. This was necessary to prevent mistakes, and
after it should be secured she might make the unfortunate con-
dition of others an object of special attention.

England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as
entertained as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excur-
sions to Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it
from the nursery window ; Paris, not London, was her father's
Mecca. The impressions of that time, moreover, had become
faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that
she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's
house seemed a picture made real ; no refinement of the agree-
able was lost upon Isabel ; the rich perfection of Gardencourt
at once revealed a world and gratified a need. The large, low
rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep em-
brasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, polished
panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peep-
ing in, the sense of well-ordered privacy, in the centre of a
" property " — a place where sounds were felicitously accidental,
where the tread was muffled by the earth itself, and in the
thick mild air all shrillness dropped out of conversation — these
things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste
played a considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast
friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he
had had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the
open air, sitting placidly with folded hands, like a good old
man who had done his work and received his wages, and was
trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-
days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected — the effect
she produced upon people was often different from what she
supposed — and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of
making her chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her
conversation, which had much of the vivacity observable in that
of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world

46 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

is more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands.
Like the majority of American girls, Isabel had been encouraged
to express herself ; her remarks had been attended to ; she had
been expected to haxve emotions and opinions. Many of her
opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions
passed away in the utterance ; but they had left a trace in
giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and
in imparting, moreover, to her words, when she was really moved,
that artless vividness which so many people had regarded as
a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think that she re-
minded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was
because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to
.speak — so many characteristics of her niece — that he had fallen
in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to
the girl herself, however ; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been
like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old
man was full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said,
since they had had any young life in the house ; and our rustling,
quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense
as the sound of flowing water. He wished to do something for
her, he wished she would ask something of him. But Isabel
asked nothing but questions ; it is true that of these she asked
a great many. Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though
interrogation sometimes came in forms that puzzled him. She
questioned him immensely about ^England, about the British
constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the
manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of
the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neigh-
bours; and in asking to be enlightened on these points she
usually inquired whether they correspond with the descriptions
in the books. The old man always looked at her a little, with
his fine dry smile, while he smoothed down the shawl that was
spread across his legs.

"The books-?" he once said; "well, I don't know much
about the books. You must ask Ralph about that. I have
always ascertained for myself — got my information in the
natural form. I never asked many questions even ; I just kept
quiet and took notice. Of course, I have had very good oppor-
tunities— better than what a young lady would naturally have.
I am of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it
if you were to watch me ; however much you might watch me,
I should be watching you more. I have been watching these
people for upwards of thirty-five years, and I don't hesitate to
say that I have acquired considerable information. It's a very

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 47

fine country on the whole — finer perhaps than what we give it
credit for on the other side. There are several improvements
that I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of them
doesn't seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of
a thing is generally felt, they usually manage to accomplish it ;
but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then.
I certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to
when I first came over; I suppose it's because I have had a
considerable degree of success. When you are successful you
naturally feel more at home."

" Do you suppose that if I am successful I shall feel at home1?"
Isabel asked.

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

1 Oh, I am by no means sure I shall like it/' said Isabel,
somewhat judicially. " I like the place very much, but I am
not sure I shall like the people."

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

" I have no doubt they are good," Isabel rejoined ; " but are
they pleasant in society 1 They won't rob me nor beat me ; but
will they make themselves agreeable to me ? That's what I like
people to do. I don't hesitate to say so, because I always
appreciate it. I don't believe they are very nice to girls ; they
are not nice to them in the novels. "

"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I
believe the novels have a great deal of ability, but I don't
suppose they are very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote
novels staying here ; she was a friend of Ralph's, and he asked
her down. She was very positive, very positive ; but she was
not the sort of person that you could depend on her testimony.
Too much imagination — I suppose, that was it. She afterwards
published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have
given a representation — something in the nature of a caricature,
as you might say — of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but
Kalph just handed me the book, with the principal passages
marked. It was understood to be a description of my convers-
ation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions,
stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate ; she couldn't
have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving
a report of my conversation, if she liked ; but I didn't like the
idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course
I talk like an American — I can't talk like a Hottentot. How-

48 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

ever I talk, I have made them understand me pretty well over
here. But I don't talk like the old gentleman in that lady's
novel. He wasn't an American ; we wouldn't have him over
there ! I just mention that fact to show you that they are not
always accurate. Of course, as I have 110 daughters, and as
Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance
to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if
the young women in the lower class were not very well treated ;
but I guess their position is better in the upper class."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11 1 shall not have success if they are conventional. I am not
in the least conventional. I am just the contrary. That's what
they won't like."

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

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 49

VII.

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

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

" My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, " there are as
many points of view in the world as there are people of sense.

60 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

You may say that doesn't make them very numerous ! Ameri-
can ? Never in the world ; that's shockingly narrow. My
point of view, thank God, is personal ! "

Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it
was a tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but
it would not have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips
of a person less advanced in life, and less enlightened by
experience than Mrs. Touchett, such a declaration would savour
of immodesty, even of arrogance. She risked it nevertheless,
in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a great deal, and
with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a large
licence to violent statements. Her cousin used, as the phrase
is, to chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation
for treating everything as a joke, and he was not a man to
neglect the privileges such a reputation conferred. She accused
him of an odious want of seriousness, of laughing at all things,
beginning with himself. Such slender faculty of reverence as he
possessed centred wholly upon his father ; for the rest, he exer-
cised his wit indiscriminately upon father's son, this gentleman's
weak lungs, his useless life, his anomalous mother, his friends
(Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted and his native country,
his charming new-found cousin. " I keep a band of music in my
ante-room," he said once to her. " It has orders to play without
stopping ; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the
sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and
it makes the world think that dancing is going on within." It
was dance-music indeed that you usually heard when you camo
within ear-shot of Ralph's band ; the liveliest waltzes seemed to
float upon the air. Isabel often found herself irritated by this
perpetual fiddling; she would have liked to pass through the
ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the private apart-
ments. It mattered little that he had assured her that they
were a very dismal place ; she would have been glad to under-
take to sweep them and set them in order. It was but half-
hospitality to let her remain outside ; to punish him for which,
Isabel administered innumerable taps with the ferrule of her
straight young wit. It must be said that her wit was exercised
to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused himself
with calling her " Columbia," and accusing her of a patriotism
so fervid that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her, in
which she was represented as a very pretty young woman,
dressed, in the height of the prevailing fashion, in the folds of
the national banner. Isabel's chief dread in life, at this period
of her development, was that she should appear narrow-minded ;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 51

tvhat she feared next afterwards was that she should be so.
Bat she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding in her
cousin's sense, and pretending to sigh for the charms of her
native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to
regard her, and if he chose to laugh at her, she would give him
plenty of occupation. She defended England against his
mother, but when Ralph song its praises, on purpose, as she
said, to torment her, she found herself able to differ from him
on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this small ripe
country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October pear ;
and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which
enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If
her good-humour nagged at moments, it was not because she
thought herself ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for
Ralph. It seemed to her that he was talking as a blind and
had little heart in what he said.

" I don't know what is the matter with you," she said to him
once ; " but I suspect you are a great humbug."

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

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

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

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

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

Isabel might have believed it, and not have been far from
the truth. He thought a great deal about her; she was
constantly present to his mind. At a time when his thoughts
had been a good deal of a burden to him, her sudden arrival,
which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and
something to fly for. Poor Ralph for many wevjks had been
steeped in melancholy ; his out-look, habitually sombre, lay
under the shadow of a deeper cloud. He had grown anxious
about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to his legs, had
begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had
been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered
to Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with.
Just now he appeared tolerably comfortable, but Ralph could
not rid himself of a suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the
enemy, who was waiting to take him off his guard. If the
manoeuvre should succeed, there would be little hope of any
great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted that his

E 2

52 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

father would survive him^-that his own name would be the
first called. The father and son had been close companions,
and the idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless
life on his hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had
always and tacitly counted upon his elder's help in making the
best of a poor business. At the prospect of losing his great
motive, Ralph was indeed mightily disgusted. If they might
die at the same time, it would be all very well ; but without
the encouragement of his father's society he should barely have
patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive
of feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was
a rule with his mother to have no regrets. He bethought
himself, of course, that it had been a small kindness to his
father to wish that, of the two, the active rather than the
passive party should know the pain of loss; he remembered
that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an
uncompleted career as a clever fallacy, which he should be
delighted to discredit so far as he might by dying first. But
of the two triumphs, that of refuting a sophistical son and that
of holding on a while longer to a state of being which, with all
abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to hope that
the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.

These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to
his puzzling over them. It even suggested that there might be
a compensation fpr the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial
sire. He wondered whether he were falling in love with this
spontaneous young woman from Albany ; but he decided that
on the whole he was not. After he had known her for a week,
he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little
more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her ; she was
a thoroughly interesting woman. Ralph wondered how Lord
Warburton had found it out so soon ; and then he said it was
cnly another proof of his friend's high abilities, which he had
always greatly admired. If his cousin were to be nothing more
than an entertainment, to him, Ralph was conscious that she was
an entertainment of a high order. " A character like that," he
said to himself, " is the finest thing in nature. It is finer than
the fii;est work of aft — than a Greek bas-relief, than a great
Titian, than a Gothic cathedral. It is very pleasant to be so
well-tr°ated where one least looked for it. I had never been
more blue, more bored, than for a week before she came ; I had
never expected less that something agreeable would happen.
Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall —
a Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. Tho key of

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 53

a beautiful edifice is thrust into my hand, and I am told to walk
in and admire. My poor boy, you have been sadly ungrateful,
and now you had better keep very quiet and never grumble
again." The sentiment of these reflections was very just ; but it
was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key put
into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would
take, as he said, a good deal of knowing ; but she needed the
knowing, and his attitude with regard to her, though it was
contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He surveyed the
edifice from the outside, and admired it greatly ; he looked in at
the windows, and received an impression of proportions equally
fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses, and that he
had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and
though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none
of them would fit. She was intelligent and generous ; it was a
fine free nature; but what was she going to do with herself 1
This question was irregular, for with most women one had no
occHsion to ask it. Most women did with themselves nothing at
all ; they waited, in attitudes more or less gracefully passive, for
ft man to come that way and furnish them with a destiny. Isa-
bel's originality was that she gave one an impression of having
intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said
R:ilph, " may I be there to see ! "

It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place.
Mr. Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position
was that of a rather grim visitor ; so that in the line of conduct
that opened itself to Ralph, duty and inclination were harmoni-
ously mingled. He was not a great walker, but he strolled
about the grounds with his cousin — a pastime for which the
weather remained favourable with a persistency not allowed for
in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate; and in
the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of
her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear
little river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed
still a part of the foreground of the landscape ; or drove over the
country in a phaeton — a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton
formerly much used by Mr. Touchett, but which he had now
ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it largely, and, handling the
reins in a manner which approved itself to the groom as
'* knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital
aorses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural
incidents she had confidently expected to find ; past cottages
thatched and timbered, past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past
patches of ancient common and glimpses of empty parks, between

54 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When they reached
home, they usually found that tea had been served upon the
Jawn, and that Mrs. Touchett had not absolved herself from the
obligation of handing her husband his cup. But the two for the
most part sat silent; the old man with his head back and his
eyes closed, his wife occupied with her knitting, and wearing
that appearance of extraordinary meditation with which some
ladies contemplate the movement of their needles.

One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young
people, after spending an hour upon the river, strolled back to
the house and perceived Lord Warburton sitting under the trees
and engaged in conversation of which even at a distance the
desultory character was appreciable, with Mrs. Touchett. He
had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau, and
had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a
dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half-an-hour 011
the day of her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she
liked him ; he had made indeed a tolerably vivid impression on
her mind, and she had thought of him several times. She had
hoped that she should see him again — hoped too that she should
see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull ; the place itself
was so delightful, her uncle was such a perfection of an uncle,
and Ralph was so unlike any cousin she had ever encountered —
her view of cousins being rather monotonous Then her impres-
sions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was
as yet hardly a sense of vacancy in the prospect. But Isabel
had need to remind herself that she was interested in human
nature, and that her foremost hope in coming abroad had been
that she should see a great many people. When Ralph said to
her, as he had done several times — " I wonder you find this
endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some
of our friends — because we have really got a few, though you
would never suppose it " — when he offered to invite what he
called a "lot of people," and make the young girl acquainted
with English society, she encouraged the hospitable impulse and
promised, in advance, to be delighted. Little, however, for the
present, had come of Ralph's offers, and it may be confided to
the reader that, if the young man delayed to carry them out, it
was because he found the labour of entertaining his cousin by
no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel had
spoken to him very often about " specimens"; it was a word
that played a considerable part in her vocabulary ; she had
given him to understand that she wished to see English
society illustrated by iigures.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 55

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

" A specimen of what 1 " asked the girl.

" A specimen of an English gentleman."

" Do you mean they are all like him 1 "

" Oh no ; they are not all like him."

' He's a favourable specimen, then," said Isabel ; " because I
am sure he is good."

" Yes, he is very good. And he is very fortunate."

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

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

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

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

"All, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord
Warburton, still with his deep, agreeable laugh.

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

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

" Be touched in the right sense, and you will never look the
worse for it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said
that her accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to
reflect that such complacency was not the indication of a feeble
mind, inasmuch as there were several things in which she
excelled. Her desire to think well of herself always needed to
be supported by proof; though it is possible that this fact is not
the sign of a milder egotism.

Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but
he was persuaded to remain over the second day ; and when the
second day was ended, he determined to postpone his departure
till the morrow. During this period he addressed much of his
conversation to Isabel, who accepted this evidence of his esteem
with a very good grace. She found herself liking him extremely ;
the first impression he had made upon her was pleasant, but at
the end of an evening spent in his society she thought him quite
one of the most delectable persons she had met. She retired to
rest with a sense of good fortune, with a quickened consciousness
of the pleasantness of life. " It's very nice to know two such

56 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

charming people as those," she said, meaning by " those " her
cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added, moreover,
that an incident had occurred which might have seemed to put
her good humour to the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at
half-past nine o'clock, but his wife remained in the drawing-
room with the other members of the party. She prolonged her
vigil for something less than an hour, and then rising, she said
to Isabel that it was time they should bid the gentlemen good-
night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed ; the occasion
wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not in the
habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she
replied, very simply —

" Need I go, dear aunt 1 I will come up in half-an-hour."

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

" Ah, you needn't wait 1 Ealph will light my candle/' said
Isabel, smiling.

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

Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him for a
moment, and then transferred them to her niece.

" You can't stay alone with the gentlemen. You are not —
you are not at Albany, my dear."

Isabel rose, blushing.

" I wish I were," she said.

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

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

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

" Can't I stay with my own cousin 1 " Isabel inquired.

"I am not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."

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

Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair, and sat down
again.

" Oh, if it's necessary, I will stay up till midnight," she said.

Ealph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had
been watching her; it had seemed to him that her temper was
stirred — an accident that might be interesting. But if he had
expected an exhibition of temper, he was disappointed, for the
girl simply laughed a little, nodded good night, and withdrew
accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his
mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs, the two

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 57

ladies separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing
on her way up.

"Of course you are displeased at my interfering with you,"
said Mrs. Touchett.

Isabel reflected a moment.

" I am not displeased, but I am surprised — and a good deal
puzzled. Was it not proper I should remain in the drawing-
room 1 "

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

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

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

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

" Very likely not. You are too fond of your liberty."

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

" So as to do them 1 " asked her aunt.

'•' So as to choose," said Isabel.

VIII.

As she was much interested in the picturesque, Lord War-
burton ventured to express a hope that she would come some
day and see his house, which was a very curious old place. He
extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she would bring
her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness to
attend upon the ladies if his father should be able to spare him.
Lord Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his
sisters would come and see her. She knew something about his
sisters, having interrogated him, during the hours they spent
together while he was at Gardencourt, on many points connected
with his family. When Isabel was interested, she asked a great
many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker, she
asked him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her
that he had four sisters and two brothers, and had lost both his
parents. The brothers and sisters were very good people — "not
particularly clever, you know," he said, " but simple and respect-
able and trustworthy;" and he was so good as to hope that Miss
Archer should know them well. One of the brothers was in the

58 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Church, settled in the parsonage at Lockleigh, which was rather
a largeish parish, and was an excellent fellow, in spite of his
thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic.
And then Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held
by his brother, which were opinions that Isabel had often heard
expressed and that she supposed to be entertained by a consider-
able portion of the human family. Many of them, indeed, she
supposed she had held herself, till he assured her that she was
quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had
doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might
depend that, if she thought them over a little, she would find
there was nothing in them. When she answered that she had
already thought several of them over very attentively, he declared
that she was only another example of what he had often been
struck with — the fact that, of all the people in the world, the
Americans were the most grossly superstitious. They were rank
Tories and bigots, every one of them ; there were no conserva-
tives like American conservatives. Her uncle and her cousin
were there to prove it ; nothing could be more mediaeval than
many of their views ; they had ideas that people in England
now-a-days were ashamed to confess to ; and they had the impud-
ence, moreover, said his lordship, laughing, to pretend they know
more about the needs and dangers of this poor dear stupid old
England than he who was born in it and owned a considerable
part of it — the more shame to him ! From all of which Isabel
gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest
pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His
other brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild
and pig-headed, and had not been of much use as yet but to
make debts for Warburton to pay — one of the most pr.-cious
privileges of an elder brother. " I don't think I will pay any
more," said Warburton; uhe lives a monstrous deal better than
I do, enjoys nnheard-of luxuries, and thinks himself a much finer
gentleman than I. As I am a consistent radical, I go in only
for equality ; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger
brothers." Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were
married, one of them having done very well, as they said, the
other only so-so. The husband of the elder,* Lord Haycock, was
a very good fellow, but unfortunately a horrid Tory ; and his
wife, like all good English wives, was worse than her husband.
The other had espoused a smallish squire in Norfolk, and, though
she was married only the other day, ha-1 already five children.
This information, and much more, Lord Warburton imparted to
his young American listener, taking pains to make many things

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 59

clear and to lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of
English life. Isabel was often amused at his explicitness and
at the small allowance he seemed to make either for her own
experience or for her imagination. "He thinks I am a bar-
barian,'2 she said, "and that I have never seen forks and spoons;"
and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of
hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into
the trap — "It's a pity you can't ?ee me in my war-paint and
feathers," she remarked ; " if I had known how kind you are
to the poor savages, I would have brought over my national
costume ! " Lord Warburton had travelled through the United
States, and knew much more about them than Isabel ; he was
so good as to say that America was the most charming country
in the world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage
the idea that Americans in England would need to have a great
many things explained to them. " If I had only had you to
explain things to me in America ! " he said. " I was rather
puzzled in your country ; in fact, I was quite bewildered, and
the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me more.
You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on
purpose ; they are rather clever about that over there. But
when I explain, you can trust me ; about what I tell you there
is no mistake." There was no mistake at least about his being
very intelligent and cultivated, and knowing almost everything
in the world. Although he said the most interesting and
entertaining things, Isabel perceived that he never said them to
exhibit himself, and though he had a great good fortune, he was
as far as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed
the best things of life, but they had not spoiled his sense of
proportion. His composition was a mixture of good-humoured
manly force and a modesty that at times was almost boyish ;
the sweet and wholesome savour of which — it was as agreeable
as something tasted — lost nothing from the addition of a tone
of kindness which was not boyish, inasmuch as there was a
good deal of reflection and of conscience in it.

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

"I like him too— I love him well," said Ralph. "But I
pity him more."

Isabel looked at him askance.

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

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

60 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I suppose you don't mean in health 1 "

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

" Does he regard himself as a joke ? "

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

" Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.

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

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

" Possibly not ; though, being a man of imagination, I think
he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a
man of bis opportunities that he is not miserable 1 Besides, I
believe he is."

" I don't," said Isabel.

" Well/' her cousin rejoined, " if he is not, he ought to
be!"

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

" I think he is charming," Isabel answered.

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

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 61

* Oh, indeed 1 I don't know what there may be to say, but
you must remember that Ealph is rather fanciful."

"He thinks Lord Warburton is too radical — or not radical
enough ! I don't quite understand which," said Isabel.

The old man shook his head slowly, smiled, and put down
his cup.

"I don't know which, either. He goes very far, but it is
quite possible he doesn't go far enough. He seems to want to do
away with a good many things, but he seems to want to remain
himself. I suppose that is natural; but it is rather incon-
sistent."

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

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

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

" Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention ;
"I forget whether you are a liberal or a conservative. I have
heard you take such opposite views."

" I am both. I think I am a little of everything. In a
revolution — after it was well begun — I think I should be a
conservative. One sympathises more with them, and they have
a chance to behave so picturesquely."

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

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

" I am afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of seeing

62 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

a revolution here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. " If you
want to see one, you must pay us a long visit. You see, when
you come to the point, it wouldn't suit them to be taken at
their word."

" Of whom are you speaking 1 "

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

" Don't you think they are sincere 1 " Isabel asked.

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

Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with
his mild, reflective, optimistic accent, most attentively, and
though she was unacquainted with the British aristocracy, she
found it in harmony with her general impressions of human
nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord
Warburton's behalf.

" I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug," she said ; " I
don't care what the others are. I should like to see Lord
Warburton put to the test."

*' Heaven deliver me from my friends ! " Mr. Touchett
answered. " Lord Waiburton is a very amiable young man — a
very fine young man. He has a hundred thousand a year. He
owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this little island. He
has half-a-dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament
as I have one at my own dinner-table. He has very cultivated
tastes — cares for literature, for art, for science, for charming

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 63

young ladies. The most cultivated is his taste for the new
views. It affords him a great deal of entertainment — more
perhaps than anythin'g else, except the young ladies. His old
house over there — what does he call it, Lockleigh1? — is very
attractive ; but I don't think it is as pleasant as this. That
doesn't matter, however — lie has got so many others. His views
don't hurt any one as far as I can see ; they certainly don't hurt
himself. And if there were to be a revolution, he would come
off very easily ; they wouldn't touch him, they would leave him
as he is ; he is too much liked."

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

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

Isabel shook her head ; there might have been something
laughable in the fact that she did it with a touch of sadness.

" I shall never make any one a martyr."

" You will never be one, I hope."

" I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton, then, as
Ralph does 1 "

Her uncle looked at her a while, with genial acuteness.

"Yes, I do, after all!"

IX.

THE two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came
presently to call upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young
ladies, who appeared to her to have a very original stamp. It is
true that, when she spoke of them to her cousin as original, he
declared that no epithet could be less applicable than this to the
two Misses Molyneux, for that there were fifty thousand young
women in England who exactly resembled them. Deprived of
this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that of an
extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as
she thought, the kindest eyes in the world.

"They are not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our
heroine said to herself ; and she deemed this a great charm, for
two or three of the friends of her girlhood had been regrettably
open to the charge (they would have been so nice without it), to
say nothing of Isabel's having occasionally suspected that it
might become a fault of her own. The Misses Molyneux were
not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions,

64 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

and something of the smile of childhood. Their eyes, which
Isabel admired so much, were quiet and contented, and their
figures, of a generous roundness, were encased in sealskin
jackets. Their friendliness was great, so great that they were
almost embarrassed to show it ; they seemed somewhat afraid of
the young lady from the other side of the world, and rather
looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear to
her that they hoped she would come to lunch at Lockleigh,
where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her
very, very often. They wondered whether she wouldn't come
over some day and sleep ; they were expecting some people on
the twenty-ninth, and perhaps she would come while the people
were there.

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

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

Her visitors blushed, and her cousin told her, after they were
gone, that if she said such things to those poor girls, they would
think she was quizzing them ; he was sure it was the first time
they had been called enchanting.

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

" Heaven forbid ! " cried Ralph, with ardour.

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

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

"Is it true that your brother is such a great radical 1 " Isabel
asked. She knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest
in human nature was keen, and she had a desire to draw the
Misses Molyneux out.

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 65

" At the same time, Warhurton is very reasonable," Miss
Molyneux observed.

Isabel watched him a moment, at the other side of the room ;
he was evidently trying hard to make himself agreeable to
Mrs. Touchett. Ralph was playing with one of the dogs before
the fire, which the tempeiature of an English August, in the
ancient, spacious room, had not made an impertinence. " Do
you suppose your brother is sincere 1 " Isabel inquired with a
smile.

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

"Do you think he would stand the test ] "

"The test r

" I mean, for instance, having to give up all this ! "

" Having to give up Lockleigh 1 " said Miss Molyneux, finding
her voice.

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

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

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

" Let them for nothing ? " Isabel inquired.

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

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

Her companions, evidently, were rapidly getting bewildered.
" My brother's position T' Miss Molyneux inquired.

" It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister.
" It's the first position in the county."

" I suspect you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occa-
sion to observe. " I suppose you revere your brother, and are
rather afraid of him."

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

"If you do that, he must be very good — because you, evi-
dently, are very good."

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

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

" Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. " But if I were he, I
should wish to be a conservative. I should wish to keep every-
thing." •

88 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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

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

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

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

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 67

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

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

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

"To hope what?"

" That in future I may see you often."

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

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

" You are very much mistaken. I have heard him speak very
highly of you."

" I am glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton.
" But, all the same, I don't think he would like me to keep
coming to Gardencourt."

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

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

" You are easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.

" No, I am not easily charmed ! " And then he stopped a
moment. "But you have charmed me, Miss Archer," he
added.

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

" Never 1 " said Lord Warburton.

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

" May I come and see you then some day next week 1 "

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

" Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I have
a sort of sense that you are always judging people."

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

" It is very kind of you to say so ; but even if I gain, stern
justice is not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take
you abroad 1 "

F 2

63 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

•' I hope so."

*' Is England not good enough for you ? "

" That's a very Machiavellian speech ; it doesn't deserve an
answer. I want very much to see foreign lands as well."

" Then you will go on judging, I suppose."

"Enjoying, I hope, too."

" Yes, that's what you enjoy most ; I can't make out what you
are up to," said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having
mysterious purposes — vast designs 1 "

" You arc so good as to have a theory about me which I don't
at all fill out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose enter-
tained and executed every year, in the most public manner, by
fifty thousand of my fellow-countrymen — the purpose of improving
one's mind by foreign travel 1 "

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

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

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

" That protest is one of the most picturesque things I have
ever heard," Isabel answered with a smile.

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

THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY. 6S

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

She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away
she felt that she could not pretend to herself that it was alto-
gether a painful one. Nevertheless, she made answer to this
declaration, coldly enough, "Just as you please." And her
coldness was not coquetry — a quality that she possessed in a
much smaller degree than would have seemed probable to many
critics ; it came from a certain fear.

X.

THE day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from
her friend, Miss Stackpole — a note of which the envelope,
exhibiting in conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the
neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some
liveliness of emotion. " Here I am, my lovely friend," Miss
Stackpole wrote ; " I managed to get off at last. I decided only
the night before I left New York — the Interviewer having come
round to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran
journalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where
are you, and where can we meet 1 I suppose you are visiting at
some castle or other, and have already acquired the correct
accent. Perhaps, even, you have married a lord ; I almost hope
you have, for I want some introductions to the first people, and
shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some light
on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large)
are not rose-coloured ; but I wish to talk them over with you,
and you know that whatever I am, at least I am not superficial.
I have also something very particular to tell you. Do appoint a
meeting as quickly as you can ; come to London (I should like
so much to visit the sights with you), or else let me come to you,
wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure ; for you know
everything interests me, and I wish to see as much as possible of
the inner life."

Isabel did not show this letter to her uncle ; but she acquainted
him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should

70 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

be delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. " Though she is a
literary lady," he said, " I suppose that, being an American, she
won't reproduce me, as that other one did. She has seen others
like me."

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

"Shall I love her, or shall I hate her?" asked Ealph, while
they stood on the platform, before the advent of the train.

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

"As a man I am bound to dislike her, then. She must be a
kind of monster. Is she very ugly 1 "

" No, she is decidedly pretty."

" A female interviewer, — a reporter in petticoats 1 I am very
curious to see her," Ealph declared.

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

" I should think not ; interviewing requires bravery. ])o you
suppose she will interview me?"

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

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

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

" You think she is capable of it, then."

" Perfectly."

"And yet you have made her your bosom-friend?"

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

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

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

"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer 9
Never ! " cried the young man.

The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 71

descending, proved to be, as Isabel had said, decidedly pretty.
She was a fair, plump person, of medium stature, with a round
face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light
brown ringlets at the back of her head, and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appear-
ance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested
without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise
of a natural right, upon every object it happened to encounter.
It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, who was somewhat
disconcerted by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect,
which seemed to indicate that it would not be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She was very well dressed, in
fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that
she was scrupulously, fastidiously neat. From top to toe she
carried not an ink-stain. She spoke in a clear, high voice — a
voice not rich, but loud, though after she had taken her place,
with her companions, in Mr. Touchett's carriage, she struck him,
rather to his surprise, as not an abundant talker. She answered
the inquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the
young man ventured to join, with a great deal of precision and
distinctness ; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she
had made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having
thought it necessary to appear), did more to give the measure of
her conversational powers.

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

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

She fixed her eyes upon him, and there was something in
their character that reminded him of large, polished buttons ; he
seemed to see the reflection of surrounding objects upon the
pupil. The expression of a button is not usually deemed human,
but there was something in Miss Stackpole's gaze that made him,
as he was a very modest man, feel vaguely embarrassed and
uncomfortable. This sensation, it must be added, after he had
spent a day or two in her company, sensibly diminished, though
it never wholly disappeared. '• I don't suppose that you are
going to undertake to persuade me that you are an American,"
she said.

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

"Well, if you can change about that way, you are very
welcome," Miss Stackpole rejoined.

72 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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

Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. " Do you mean the foreign
languages 1 "

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

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

" He is what is called a cosmopolitan," Isabel suggested.

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

" Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole 1 " Ralph
inquired.

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

" Don't you like it over here 1 " asked Mr. Touchett, with his
mild, wise, aged, innocent voice.

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

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

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

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

Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait, and evidently
was prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She
occupied herself in the mornings with literary labour ; but in
spite of this Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once
her daily task performed, was of an eminently social tendency.
Isabel speedily found occasion to request her to desist from
celebrating the charms of their common sojourn in print, having
discovered, on the second morning of Miss Stackpole's visit, that
she was engaged upon a letter to the Interviewer, of which the
title, in her exquisitely neat and legible hand (exactly that of
the copy-books which our heroine remembered at school), was
"Americans and Tudors — Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 73

Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read
her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Scenery is not my department ; I always need a human
interest. You know I am deeply human, Isabel ; I always was,"
Miss Stackpole rejoined. " 1 was going to bring in your cousin
— the alienated American. There is a great demand just now
for the alienated American, and your cousin is a beautiful speci-
men. I should have handled him severely."

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

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

Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment ; it
appeared to her so strange that a nature in which she found so
much to esteem should exhibit such extraordinary disparities.
" My poor Henrietta," she said, " you have no sense of privacy."

Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes
were suffused ; while Isabel marvelled more than ever at her in-
consistency. " You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpole,
with dignity. " I have never written a word about myself ! "

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

" Ah, that is very good ! " cried Henrietta, seizing her pen
again. " Just let me make a note of it, and I will put it in a

74 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

letter." She was a thoroughly good-natured -woman, and half
an hour later she was in as cheerful a mood as should have been
looked for in a newspaper-correspondent in want of material.
" I have promised to do the social side," she said to Isabel ;
" and how can I do it unless I get ideas 1 If I can't describe
this place, don't you know some place I can describe 1 " Isabel
promised she would bethink herself, and the next day, in con-
versation with her friend, she happened to mention her visit to
Lord Warburton's ancient house. " Ah, you must take me
there — that is just the place for me ! " Miss Stackpole exclaimed.
" I must get a glimpse of the nobility."

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

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

" An Englishman is never so natural as when he is holding
his tongue," Isabel rejoined.

It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that his cousin
had fallen in love with their visitor, though he had spent a good
deal of time in her society. They strolled about the park
together, and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it
was delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole
occupied a place in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had
but a single companion. Her society had a less insoluble quality
than Ralph had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense
of the perfect adequacy of that of his cousin ; for the corre-
spondent of the Interviewer made him laugh a good deal, and he
had long since decided that abundant laughter should be the
embellishment of the remainder of his days. Henrietta, on her
side, did not quite justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her
indifference to masculine opinion ; for poor Ralph appeared to
have presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it
would be superficial on her part not to solve.

" What does he do for a living 1 " she asked of Isabel, the
evening of her arrival. " Does he go round all day with his
hands in his pockets ? "

" He does nothing," said Isabel, smiling ; "he's a gentleman
of leisure."

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

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 75

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

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

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

" My prejudices 1 I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with.
There's intellectual poverty for you."

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

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

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

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

" I seldom spend it so agreeably." said Ealph.

" Well, you know what I mean — without any regular occu-
pation."

" Ah," sai'd Ealph, " I am the idlest man living."

76 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

Miss Stackpole turned her gaze to the Constable again, and
Ralph bespoke her attention for a small Watteau hanging near
it, which represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and
a ruff, leaning against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a
garden, and playing the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass.

" That's my ideal of a regular occupation," he said.

Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and though her eyes had
rested upon the picture, he saw that she had not apprehended
the subject. She was thinking of something much more serious.

" 1 don't see how you can reconcile it to your conscience,"
she said.

" My dear lady, I have no conscience ! "

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

" I shall probably never go again."

" Are you ashamed to show yourself 1 "

Ralph meditated, with a gentle smile.

" I suppose that, if one has no conscience, one has no shame "

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

" Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than on«
gives up one's grandmother. It's antecedent to choice."

" I suppose that means that you would give it up if you
could 1 What do they think of you over here 1 "

" They delight in me."

" That's because you truckle to them."

" Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm ! " Ealph urged.

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

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

" Go right home, to begin with."

" Yes, I see. And then 1 "

" Take right hold of something."

" Well, now, what sort of thing 1 "

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

"Is it very difficult to take hold 1 " Ralph inquired.

" Not if you put your heart into it."

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 77

" Haven't you got any 1 "

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

"You are not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's
what's the matter with you." But for all this, in a day or two
she again permitted him to fix her attention, and on this
occasion assigned a different cause to her mysterious perversity.
" I know what's the matter with you, Mr. Touchett," she said.
" You think you are too good to get married."

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

" Oh, pshaw ! " Henrietta exclaimed impatiently.

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

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

" Ah," cried the young man, " one has so many duties ! Is
that a duty too 1 "

" Of course it is — did you never know that before 1 It's
every one's duty to get married."

Ralph meditated a moment ; he was disappointed. There
was something in Miss Stackpole he had begun to like ; it
seemed to him that if she was not a charming woman she was
at least a very good fellow. She was wanting in distinction,
but, as Isabel had said, she was brave, and there is always
something fine about that. He had not supposed her to be
capable of vulgar arts ; but these last words struck him as a
false note. When a marriageable young woman urges matrimony
upon an unencumbered young man, the most obvious explana-
tion of her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.

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

" There may be, but that is the principal thing. I must say
I think it looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you
thought no woman was good enough for you. Do you think
you are better than any one else in the world 1 In America it's
usual for people to marry."

" If it's my duty," Ralph asked, " is it not, by analogy, yours
as well 1 "

Miss Stackpole's brilliant eyes expanded still further.

" Have you the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reason-
ing 1 Of course I have got as good a right to marry as any one
else."

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

" You are not serious yet. You never will be."

78 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Shall you not believe me to be so on the day that I tell
you I desire to give up the practice of going round alone 1 "

Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner
which seemed to announce a reply that might technically be
called encouraging. But to his great surprise this expression
suddenly resolved itself into an appearance of alarm, and even
of resentment.

" No, not even then," she answered, dryly. After which she
walked away.

" I have not fallen in love with your friend," Ralph said that
evening to Isabel, " though we talked some time this morning
about it."

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

Ralph stared. " Has she complained of me 1 "

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

"Does she call me a European1?"

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

Ralph treated himself to a burst of resounding laughter.

" She is an extraordinary combination. Did she think I
was making love to her 1 "

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

" I thought she was proposing marriage to me, and I accepted
her. Was that unkind 1 "

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

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

" She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. " She
has, indeed, and it's the motive of everything she says. That's
what I like her for. She thinks it's very frivolous for you to
be single; that's what she meant to express to you. If you
thought she was trying to — to attract you, you were very
wrong."

" It is true it was an odd way ; but I did think she was
trying to attract me. Excuse my superficiality."

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

" One must be very modest, then, to talk with such women/

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 79

Ralph said, humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She is
too personal — considering that she expects other people not to
be. She walks in without knocking at the door."

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

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

" Well," said Isabel, smiling, " I am afraid it is because she
is rather vulgar that I like her."

" She would be flattered by your reason ! "

" If I should tell her, I would not express it in that way. I
should say it is because there is something of the ' people ' in
her."

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

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

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

" Ah," said Isabel, with a kind of joyous sigh, " I like so
many tilings ! If a thing strikes me in a certain way, I like it.
I don't want to boast, but I suppose I am rather versatile. I
like people to be totally different from Henrietta — in the style
of Lord Warburton's sisters, for instance. So long as I look at
the Misses Molyneux, they seem to me to answer a kind of ideal.
Then Henrietta presents herself, and I am immensely struck
with her ; not so much for herself as what stands behind her."

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

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

Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the
blush, toge'her with the momentary ardour she had thrown into
it, was so becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a
moment after she had ceased speaking.

80 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I am rot sure the Pacific is blue," he said ; " but you are a
woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, is fragrant — Hen-
rietta is decidedly fragrant ! "

XL

HE took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words,
even when Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note
most strongly. He bethought himself that persons, in her view,
were simple and homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his
own part, was too perverted a representative of human nature to
have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carried
out his resolve with a great deal of tact, and the young lady
found in her relations with him no obstacle to the exercise of
that somewhat aggressive frankness which was the social expres-
sion of her nature. Her situation at Garden court, therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel, and full of
appreciation herself of that fine freedom of composition which,
to her sense, rendered Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of
the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose general tone, as
she said, met with her full approval — her situation at Garden-
court would have been perfectly comfortable, had she not con-
ceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady to whom she had
at first supposed herself obliged to pay a certain deference as
mistress of the house. She presently discovered, however, that
this obligation was of the lightest, and that Mrs. Touchett cared
very little how Miss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. Touchett had
spoken of her to Isabel as a " newspaper- woman, "and expressed
some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend ; but
she had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were
her own affair, and that she never undertook to like them all,
or to restrict the girl to those she liked.

" If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, yon
would have a very small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly
admitted; "and I don't think I like any man or woman well
enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to recom-
mending, it is a serious affair. I don't like Miss Stackpole — I
don't like her tone. She talks too loud, and she looks at me
too hard. I am sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-
house, and I detest the style of manners that such a way ot
living produces. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners,
which you doubtless think very bad, I will tell you that I

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 81

prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows that I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it is the highest in the world. She would
like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house.
For me, I find it almost too much of one ! We shall never get
on together, therefore, and there is no use trying."

Mrs. Touchett was fi^ht in guessing that Henrietta disap-
proved of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason.
A day or two after Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some
invidious reflections on American hotels, which excited a vein
of counter-argument on the part of the correspondent of the
Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had acquired
a large familiarity with the technical hospitality of her country.
Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were the
best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett recorded a conviction that
they were the worst. Ealph, with his experimental geniality,
suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay
between the two extremes, and that the establishments in
question ought to be described as fair middling. This contribu-
tion to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling, indeed ! If they were not the best in the
world, they were the worst, but there was nothing middling
about an American hotel.

" We judge from different points of view, evidently," said
Mrs. Touchett. " I like to be treated as an individual ; you
like to be treated as a ' party.5 "

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

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

" They are the companions of freemen," Henrietta rejoined.

" They are the companions of their servants — the Irish
chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work."

" Do you call the domestics in an American household
' slaves ' 1 " Miss Stackpole inquired. " If that's the way you
desire to treat them, no wonder you don't like America."

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

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

" I like them in that position better than in some others,"
cried Mrs. Touchett, with a laugh.

G

82 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear 1 " her
husband asked.

" I don't think I should ; you would make a very poor
butler."

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

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

And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compli-
ment. Miss Stackpole was baffled ; she evidently thought thero
was something treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a
class which she privately suspected of being a mysterious survival
of feudalism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressed
with this image that she suffered some days to elapse before she
said to Isabel in the morning, while they were alone together,

" My dear friend, I wonder whether you are growing faith-
less r*

" Faithless 1 Faithless to you, Henrietta 1 "

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

" Faithless to ray country, then 1 "

"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you
from Liverpool, I said I had something particular to tell you.
You have never asked me what it is. Is it because you have
suspected 1 "

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

Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.

" You don't ask that right — as if you thought it important.
You are changed — you are thinking of other things."

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

" Will you really think of it 1 That is what I wish to be
sure of."

" I have not much control of my thoughts, but I will do my
best," said Isabel.

Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period of time which
tried Isabel's patience, so that our heroine said at last —

" Do you mean that you are going to be married 1 "

" Not till I have seen Europe ! " said Miss Stackpole. " What
are you laughing at 1 " she went on. " What I mean is, that Mr.
Goodwood came out in the steamer with me."

" Ah ! " Is-abel exclaimed, quickly.

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

" Did he tell you so 1 "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 83

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

Isabel was silent a moment. At the mention of Mr. Good-
wood's name she had coloured a little, and now her blush was
slowly fading.

" I am very sorry you did that," she observed at last.

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

" What did you say about me 1 " Isabel asked.

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

" I am very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already ;
he ought not to be encouraged."

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

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

" There is nothing so simple as a great passion."

" It is not a great passion ; I am very sure it is not that."

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

Isabel gave rather a cold smile.

" I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood himself ! "

" He will soon give you a chance," said Henrietta.

Isabel offered no answer to this assertion, which her com-
panion made with an air of gre.at confidence.

" He will find you changed," the latter pursued. " You have
been affected by your new surroundings."

" Very likely. I am affected by everything."

" By everything but Mr. Goodwood ! " Miss Stackpole ex-
claimed, with a laugh.

Isabel failed even to smile in reply ; and in a moment she
said —

" Did he ask you to speak to me I "

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

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

"Yes, you are changed ; you have got new ideas over here,"
her friend continued.

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

" Yes ; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones."

Isabel turned about again. " If you mean that I had any

G 2

84 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

idea with regard to Mr. Goodwood— ' And then she paused ;
Henrietta's bright eyes seemed to her to grow enormous.

"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him," said Miss
Stackpole.

Isabel appeared for the moment to be on the point of denying
this charge, but instead of this she presently answered — " It
is very true; I did encourage him." And then she inquired
whether her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood what
he intended to do. This inquiry was a concession to curiosity,
for she did not enjoy discussing the gentleman with Henrietta
Stackpole, and she thought that in her treatment of the subject
this faithful friend lacked delicacy.

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

" 1 quite believe that," said Isabel. Henrietta might be
wanting in delicacy ; but it touched the girl, all the same, to
hear this rich assertion made.

"Ah, you do care for him," Henrietta murmured.

" Whatever he does will be right," Isabel repeated. " When
a man is of that supernatural mould, what does it matter to him
whether one cares for him 1 "

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

" Ah, what it matters to me, that is not what we are discuss-
ing," said Isabel, smiling a little.

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

" I hope he will hate me, then," said Isabel.

" I believe that you hope it about as much as I believe that
he is capable of it. "

To this observation our heroine made no rejoinder • she was
absorbed in the feeling of alarm given her by Henrietta's intim-
ation that Caspar Goodwood would present himself at Garden-
court. Alarm is perhaps a violent term to apply to the uneasiness
with which she regarded this contingency ; but her uneasiness
was keen, and there were various good reasons for it. She
pretended to herself that she thought the event impossible, and,
later, she communicated her disbelief to her friend ; but for the
next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she stood prepared to hear
the young man's name announced. The feeling was oppressive ;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 85

it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a change of
weather ; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so agree-
able during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would
be for the worse. Her suspense, however, was dissipated on the
second day. She had walked into the park, in company with
the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling about for some time, in
a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself on a
garden-bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading
beech, where, in a white dress ornamented with black ribbons,
she formed, among the nickering shadows, a very graceful and
harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments
with talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an
ownership divided with her cousin had been applied as impar-
tially as possible — as impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat
fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was
notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character
of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with
its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to
take a book ; formerly, when she felt heavy-hearted, she had
been able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer
the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late,
however, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed a fading
light, and even after she had reminded herself that her uncle's
library was provided with a complete set of those authors which
no gentleman's collection should be without, she sat motionless
and empty-handed, with her eyes fixed upon the cool green turf
of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by
the arrival of a servant, who handed her a letter. The letter
bore the London postmark, and was addressed in a hand that
she knew — that she seemed to know all the better, indeed, as
the writer had been present to her mind when the letter was
delivered. This document proved to be short, and I may give
it entire.

" MY DEAE Miss ARCHER — I don't know whether you will
have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have not,
it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember that
when you gave me my dismissal at Albany three months ago, I
did not accept it. I protested against it. You in fact appeared
to accept my protest, and to admit that I had the right on my
side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would let
me bring you over to my conviction ; my reasons for entertaining
this hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it ; I
found you changed, and you were able to give me no reason for

86 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

the change. You admitted that you were unreasonable, and it
was the only concessi >n you would make ; but it was a very
cheap one, because you are not unreasonable. No, you are not,
and you never will be. Therefore it is that I believe you will
let me see you again. You told me that I am not disagreeable
to you, and I believe it ; for I don't see why that should be. I
shall always think of you ; I shall never think of any one else. I
came to England simply because you are here ; I couldn't stay at
home after you had gone ; I hated the country because you were
not in it. If I like this country at present, it is only because
you are here. I have been to England before, but I have never
enjoyed it much. May I not come and see you for half-an-
hour 1 This at present is the dearest wish of, yours faithfully,

" CASPAR GOODWOOD."

Isabel read Mr. Goodwood's letter with such profound atten-
tion that she had not perceived an approaching tread on the soft
grass. Looking up, however, as she mechanically folded the
paper, she saw Lord Warburton standing before her.

XII.

SHE put the letter into her pocket, and offered her visitor a
smile of welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure, and half
surprised at her self-possession.

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

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

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

" We will walk about a little, then," said Isabel, who could
not divest herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her
visitor, and who wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy
hei curiosity regarding it. It had flashed upon her vision once
before, and it had given her on that occasion, as we know, a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 87

certain alarm. This alarm was composed of several elements, not
all of which were disagreeable ; she had indeed spent some days
in analysing them, and had succeeded in separating the pleasant
part of this idea of Lord's Warburton's making love to her from
the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady
AVRS both precipitate and unduly fastidious ; but the latter of
these facts, if the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from
the discredit of the former. She was not eager to convince her-
self that a territorial magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton
called, was smitten with her charms ; because a declaration from
such a source would point to more questions than it would answer.
She had received a strong impression of Lord Warburton's being
a personage, and she had occupied herself in examining the idea.
At the risk of making the reader smile, it must be said that there
had been moments when the intimation that she was admired by
a " personage " struck her as an aggression which she would
rather have been spared. She had never known a personage
before ; there were no personages in her native land. When she
had thought of such matters as this, she had done so on the basis
of character — of what one likes in a gentleman's mind and in
his talk. She herself was a character — she could not help being
aware of that ; and hitherto her visions of a completed life had
concerned themselves largely with moral images — things as to
which the question would be whether. they pleased her soul.
Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely and brightly, as a
collection of attributes and powers which were not to be measured
by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of
appreciation — an appreciation which the girl, with her habit of
judging quickly and freely, felt that she lacked the patience to
bestow. Of course, there would be a short cut to it, and as Lord
Warburton was evidently a very fine fellow, it would probably
also be a safe cut. Isabel was able to say all this to herself, but
she was unable to feel the force of it. What she felt was that a
territorial, a political, a social magnate had conceived the design
of drawing her into the system in which he lived and moved. A
certain instinct, not imperious, but persuasive, told her to resist
— it murmured to her that virtually she had a system and an
orbit of her own. It told her other things besides — things which
both contradicted and confirmed each other ; that a girl might
lo much worse than trust herself to such a man as Lord War-
burton, and that it would be very interesting to see something of
his system from his own point of view ; that, on the other hand,
however, there was evidently a great deal of it which she should
regard only as an incumbrance, and that even in the whole there

88 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

was something heavy and rigid which would make it unaccept-
able. Furthermore, there was a young man lately come from
America who had no system at all ; but who had a character of
which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the
impression on her mind had been light. The letter that she
carried in her pocket sufficiently reminded her of the contrary.
Smile not, however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young
lady from Albany, who debated whether she should accept
an English peer before he had offered himself, and who
was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do better.
She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great
deal of folly in her wisdom, those who judge her severely may
have the satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consist-
ently wise only at the cost of an amount of folly which will
constitute almost a direct appeal to charity.

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 89

comes for such a course it is not discredited by irritating
associations.

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

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

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

" I care nothing for Gardencourt," said Lord Warburton; "I
care only for you."

" You have known me too short a time to have a right to
say that, and I cannot believe you are serious."

These words of IsabelVwere not perfectly sincere, for she
had no doubt whatever that he was serious. They were simply
a tribute to the fact, of which she was perfectly aware, that
those he himself had just uttered would have excited surprise
on the part of the public at large. And, moreover, if anything
beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton
was not a frivolous person had been needed to convince her, the
tone in which he replied to her would quite Irave served the
purpose.

" One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time,
Miss Archer ; it is measured by the feeling itself. If I were to
wait three months, it would make no difference ; I shall not be
more sure of what I mean than I am to-day. Of course I have
seen you very little; but my impression dates from the very
first hour we met. I lost no time ; I fell in love with you
then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now
that is not a fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels
for evermore. Those two days I spent here settled it ; I don't
know whether you suspected I was doing so, but I paid —
mentally speaking, I mean — the greatest possible attention to
you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon me.
When you came to Gardencourt the other day — or rather, when

90 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you went away — I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless, I made
up my mind to think it over, and to question myself narrowly.
I have done so ; all these days I have thought of nothing else.
I don't make mistakes about such things; I am a very
judicious fellow. I don't go off easily, but when I am touched,
it's for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord
Warburton repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice
Isabel had ever heard, and looking at her with eyes that shone
with the light of a passion that had sifted itself clear of the
baser parts of emotion — the heat, the violence, the unreason —
and which burned as steadily as a lamp in a windless place.

By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and
more slowly, and at last they stopped, and he took her hand.

" Ah, Lord Warburton, how little you know me ! " Isabel said,
very gently ; gently, too, she drew her hand away.

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

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

"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on
acquaintance1? Ah, of course, that is very possible. But
think, to speak to you as I do, how determined I must be
to try and give satisfaction ! You do like me rather, don't
you?"

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

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

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

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

" Completely," Isabel declared ; and it was the truth. ,

The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he
gave a long exhalation of joy.

" If you are mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose all I possess ! "

She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 91

was rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he did not. He
was sinking that, as he would have said himself; and indeed
he might safely leave it to the memory of any interlocutor,
especially of one to whom he was offering his hand. Isabel
had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was
tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what
it was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental
criticism. What she should say, had she asked herself1? Her
foremost wish was to say something as nearly as possible as
kind as what he had said to her. His words had carried
perfect conviction with them ; she felt that he loved her.

" I thank you more than I can say for your offer," she
rejoined at last; " it does me great honour."

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

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

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

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

" Surprised 1 I don't know what you mean by surprise. It
wouldn't be that ; it would be a feeling very much worse."

Isabel walked on again ; she was silent for some minutes.

" I am very sure that, highly as I already think of you, my
opinion of you, if I should know you well, would only rise.
But I am by no means sure that you would not be disappointed.
And I say that not in the least out of conventional modesty ;
it is perfectly sincere."

" I am willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion
answered.

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

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

92 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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

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

" But it is very probaHle that even six months hence I should
not be able to give you one that you would think good."

" Why not, since you really like me ? "

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

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

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

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

" It is not only that," said Isabel ; " but I am not sure I wish
to marry any one."

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

" Ah, that is because they want to be ! "

And Isabel lightly laughed.

Her suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a
while in silence.

" I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you
hesitate," he said, presently. " I know your uncle thinks you
ought to marry in your own country."

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

" Has he told you that 1 " she asked.

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

" He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in
England," said Isabel, in a manner that might have seemed .a
little perverse, but which expressed both her constant perception
of her uncle's pictorial circumstances arid her general dis-
position to elude any obligation to take a restricted view.

It gave her companion hope, and he immediately exclaimed,
warmly —

" Ah, my dear Miss Archer, old England is a very good sort
of country, you know ! And it will be still better when we
have furbished it up a little."

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 93

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

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

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

These words were uttered with a tender eagerness which
went to Isabel's heart, and she would have given her little
linger at that moment, to feel, strongly and simply, the
impulse to answer, " Lord Warburton, it is impossible for
a woman to do better in this world than to commit herself
to your loyalty." But though she could conceive the impulse,
she could not let it operate ; her imagination was charmed,
but it was not led captive. What she finally bethought
herself of saying was something very different — something
which altogether deferred the need of answering. "Don't
think me unkind if I ask you to say no more about this
to-day."

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

" You have given me a great deal to think about, and 1
promise you I will do it justice."

"That's all I ask of you, of course — and that you will
remember that my happiness is in your hands."

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

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

" You will live to marry a better woman than I."

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

" To marry a worse one, then."

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

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

" At your convenience, yes," he answered. " Whatever time

94 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you take, it must seem to me long, and I suppose I must make
the best of that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

" I delight in a moat," said Isabel. " Good-bye."

He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment — a
moment long enough for him to bend his head and kiss it.
Then, shaking his hunting-whip with little quick strokes, he
walked rapidly away. He was evidently very nervous.

Isabel herself was nervous, but she was not affected as she
would have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsi-
bility, a great difficulty of choice ; for it appeared to her that
there was no choice in the question. She could not marry Lord
Warburton ; the idea failed to correspond to any vision of
happiness that she had hitherto entertained, or was now capable
of entertaining. She must write this to him, she must convince
him, and this duty was comparatively simple. But what

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 95

disturbed her, in the sense that it struck her with wonderment,
was this very fact that it cost her so little to refuse a great
opportunity. With whatever qualifications one would, Lord
Warburton had offered her a great opportunity ; the situation
might have discomforts, might contain elements that would
displease her, but she did her sex no injustice in believing that
nineteen women out of twenty would accommodate themselves
to it with extreme zeal. Why then upon her also should it not
impose itself 1 Who was she, what was she, that she should
hold herself superior? What view of life, what design upon
fate, what conception of happiness, had she that pretended to be
larger than this large occasion 1 If she would not do this, then
she must do great things, she must do something greater. Poor
Isabel found occasion to remind herself from time to time that
she must not be too proud, and nothing could be more sincere
than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger; for the
isolation and loneliness of pricfe had for her mind the horror
of a desert place. If it were pride that interfered with her
accepting Lord Warburton, it was singularly misplaced ; and she
was so conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure
herself it was not. She liked him too much to marry him, that
was the point ; something told her that she should not be
satisfied, and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a
wife with a tendency to criticise would be a peculiarly discredit-
able act. She had promised him that she would consider
his proposal, and when, after he had left her, she wandered
back to the bench where he had found her, and lost herself
in meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her
word. But this was not the case ; she was wondering whether
she were not a cold, hard girl; and when at last she got up
and rather quickly went back to the house, it was because,
as she had said to Lord Warburton, she was really frightened
at herself.

XIII.

IT was this feeling, and not the wish to ask advice — she had
no desire whatever for that — that led her to speak to her uncle
of what Lord Warburton had said to her. She wished to speak
to some one ; she should feel more natural, more human, and her
uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a more attractive
light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her cousin,

96 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

of course, was a possible confidant; but it would have been
disagreeable to her to confide this particular matter to Ealph.
So, the next day, after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her
uncle never left his apartment till the afternoon ; but he received
his cronies, as he said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite
taken her place in the class so designated, which, for the rest,
included the old man's son, his physician, his personal servant,
and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett did not figure in the
list, and this was an obstacle the less to Isabel's finding her
uncle alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical chair, at the
open window of his room, looking westward over the park and
the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him,
his toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative
face composed to benevolent expectation.

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

The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked ner for the
confidence she showed him. " Do you mind telling me whether
you accepted him ? " he added.

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

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

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

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

" About Lord Warburton's state of mind ] "

"About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very
pleasant letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to
see it 1 " the old man asked, obligingly.

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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 97

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

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

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

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

Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these
sensations.

"He's a very fine man," he resumed, in a tone which might
have passed for that of encouragement. " His letter was one of
the pleasantest letters I have received for some weeks. I suppose
one of the reasons I liked it was that it was all about you ; that
is, all except the part which was about himself. I suppose he
told you all that."

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

" But you didn't feel curious 1 "

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

"You didn't find it sufficiently attractive1?" Mr. Touchett
inquired.

The girl was silent a moment.

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

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

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

Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile.

" There is room everywhere, my dear, if you will pay for it.
I sometimes think I have paid too much for this. Perhaps you
also might have to pay too much."

H

98 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Perhaps I might," the girl replied.

This suggestion gave her something more definite to rest upon
than she had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of her
uncle's genial shrewdness being associated with her dilemma
seemed to prove to her that she was concerned with the natural
and reasonable emotions of life, and not altogether a victim to
intellectual eagerness and vague ambitions — ambitions reaching
beyond Lord Warburton's handsome offer to something inde-
finable and possibly not commendable. Tn so far as the
indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this
juncture, it was not the conception, however unformulated, of
a union with Caspar Goodwood ; for however little she might
have felt warranted in lending a receptive ear to her English
suitor, she was at least as far removed from the disposition to
. let the young man from Boston take complete possession of her.
The sentiment in which she ultimately took refuge, after reading
his letter, was a critical view of his having come abroad • for
it was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed
to take from her the sense of freedom. There was something
too forcible, something oppressive and restrictive, in the manner
in which he presented himself. She had been haunted at
moments by the image of his disapproval, and she had wondered
— a consideration she Had never paid in one equal degree to any
one else — whether he would like what she did. The difficulty
was that more than any man she had ever known, more than
poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give his lordship
the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood gave her an
impression of energy. She might like it or not, but at any
rate there was something very strong about him ; even in one's
usual contact with him one had to reckon with it. The idea of
a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to Isabel at
present, because it seemed to her that she had just given a sort
of personal accent to her independence by making up her mind
to refuse Lord Warburton. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had
seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the
stubbornest fact she knew ; she said to herself at such moments
that she might evade him for a time, but that she must make
terms with him at last — terms which would be certain to be
favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail herself of
;the things that helped her to resist such an obligation ; and this
impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her
aunt's invitation, which had come to her at a time when she
expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood, anpl when she
was glad to have an answer ready for something she was sure he

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 99

would say to her. When she had told him at Albany, on the
evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that she could not now discuss
difficult questions, because she was preoccupied with the idea of
going to Europe with her aunt, he declared that this was no
answer at all ; and it was to obtain a better one that he followed
her across the seas. To say to herself that lie was a kind of
fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman, who was able
to take much for granted in him ; bat the reader has a right to
demand a description less metaphysical.

He was the son of a proprietor of certain well-known cotton-
mills in Massachusetts — a gentleman who had accumulated a
considerable fortune in the exercise of this industry. Caspar
now managed the establishment, with a judgment and a brilliancy
which, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had kept
its prosperity from dwindling. He had received the better part
of his education at Harvard University, where, however, he had
gained more renown as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a
votary of culture. Later, he had become reconciled to culture,
and though he was still fond of sport, he was capable of showing
an excellent understanding of other matters. He had a remark-
able aptitude for mechanics, and had invented an improvement
in the cotton-spinning process, which was now largely used and
was known by his name. You might have seen his name in
the papers in connection with this fruitful contrivance ; assur-
ance of which he had given to Isabel by showing her in the
columns of the New York Interviewer an exhaustive article on
the Goodwood patent — an article not prepared by Miss Stackpole,
friendly as she had proved herself to his more sentimental
interests. He had great talent for business, for administration,
and for making people execute his purpose and carry out his
views — for managing men, as the phrase was ; and to give its
complete value to this faculty, he had an insatiable, an almost
fierce, ambition. It always struck people who knew him that
he might do greater things than carry on a cotton-factory ; there
was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and his friends
took for granted that he would not always content himself with
that. He had once said to Isabel that, if the United States
were only not such a confoundedly peaceful nation, he would
find his proper place in the army. He keenly regretted that
the Civil War should have terminated just as he had grown old
enough to wear shoulder-straps, and was sure that if something
of the same kind would only occur again, he would make a
display of striking military talent. It pleased Isabel to believe
that he had the qualities of a famous captain, and she answered

H 2

100 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

that, if it would help him on, she shouldn't object to a war —
a speech which ranked -among the three or four most encouraging
ones he had elicited from her, and of which the value was not
diminished by her subsequent regret at having said anything so
heartless, inasmuch as she never communicated this regret to
him. She liked at any rate this idea of his being potentially a
commander of men — liked it much better than some other points
in his character and appearance. She cared nothing about his
cotton-mill, and the Goodwood patent left her imagination
absolutely cold. She wished him not an inch less a man than
he was ; but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if
he looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too
square and grim, and his figure too straight and stiff; these
things suggested a want of easy adaptability to some of the
occasions of life. Then she regarded with disfavour a habit he
had of dressing always in the same manner ; it was not appar-
ently that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the
contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new.
But they all seemed to be made of the same piece ; the pattern,
the cut, was in every case identical. She had reminded herself
more than once that this was a frivolous objection to a man of
Mr. Goodwood's importance ; and then she had amended the
rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection if she
were in love with him. She was not in love with him, and
therefore she might criticise his small defects as well as his great
ones — which latter consisted in the collective reproach of his
being too serious, or, rather, not of his being too serious, .for one
could never be that, but of his seeming so. He showed his
seriousness too simply, too artlessly ; when one was alone with
him he talked too much about the same subject, and when other
people were present he talked too little about anything. And
yet he was the strongest man she had ever known, and she
'believed that at bottom he was the cleverest. It was very
strange ; she was far from understanding the contradictions
among her own impressions. Caspar Goodwood had never
corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed
that this was why he was so unsatisfactory. When, however,
Lord Warburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave
an extension to the term, appealed to her approval, she found
.herself still unsatisfied. It was certainly strange.

Such incongruities were not a help to answering Mr. Good-
wood's letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unanswered.
If he had determined to persecute her, he must take the conse-
quences ; foremost among which was his being left to perceive

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 101

that she did not approve of his coming to Gardencourt. She
was already liable to the incursions of one suitor at this place,
and though it might be pleasant to be appreciated in opposite
quarters, Isabel had a personal shrinking from entertaining
two lovers at once, even in a case where the entertainment
should consist of dismissing them. She sent no answer to
Mr. Goodwood ; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord
Warburton, and the letter belongs to our history. It ran as
follows.

" DEAR LORD WARBURTON — A great deal of careful reflection
has not led me to change my mind about the suggestion you
were so kind as to make me the other day. I do not find myself
able to regard you in the light of a husband, or to regard your
home — your various homes — in the light of my own. These
things cannot be reasoned about, and I ve*ry earnestly entreat
you not to return to the subject we discussed so exhaustively.
We see our lives from our own point of view ; that is the privi-
lege of the weakest and humblest of us ; and I shall never be
able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly let this
suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given
your proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves.
It is with this feeling of respect that I remain very truly
yours,

" ISABEL ARCHER."

While the author of this missive was making up her mind to
despatch it, Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolution which was
accompanied by no hesitation. She invited Ealph Touchett to
take a walk with her in the garden, and when he had assented
with that alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to his high
expectations, she informed him that she had a favour to ask of
him. It may be confided to the reader that at this information
the young man flinched ; for we know that Miss Stackpole had
struck him as indiscreet. The movement was unreasonable,
however ; for he had measured the limits of her discretion as
little as he had explored its extent ; and he made a very civil
profession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid of her, and
he presently told her so.

" When you look at me in a certain way," he said, " my knees
knock together, my faculties desert me ; I am filled with trepid-
ation, and I ask only for strength to execute your commands.
You have a look which I have never encountered in any
woman."

102 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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

" Has she injured you 1 " Ealph asked.

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

" I think that is very possible," said Ealph.

His companion stopped in the garden- walk, fixing on him a
gaze which may perhaps have contained the quality that caused
his knees to knock together. " That, too, would amuse you, I
suppose. The way you do say things ! I never heard any one
so indifferent."

" To Isabel 1 Never in the world."

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

" How can that be, when I am in love with another 1 "

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

" I shall enjoy that immensely ! " Ralph exclaimed. " I will
be Caliban, and you shall be Ariel."

" You are not at all like Caliban, because you are sophisti-
cated, and Caliban was not. But I am not talking about
imaginary characters ; I am talking about Isabel. Isabel is

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 103

intensely real. What I wish, to tell you is that I find her
fearfully changed."

" Since you came, do you mean 1 "

" Since I came, and "before I came. She is not the same as
ehe was."

" As 'she was in America 1 "

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

" Do you want to change her back again 1 "

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

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

" You were Prospero enough to make her what she has
become. You have acted on Isabel Archer since she came here,
Mr. Touchett."

" I, my dear Miss Stackpole 1 Never in the world. Isabel
Archer has acted on me — yes; she acts on every one. But I
have been absolutely passive."

" You are too passive, then. You had better stir yourself and
be careful. Isabel is changing every day ; she is drifting away —
right out to sea. I have watched her and I can see it. She is
not the bright American girl she was. She is taking different
views, and turning away from her old ideals. I want to save
those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that is where you come in."

" Not surely as an ideal 1 "

" Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied, promptly. " I have
got a fear in my heart .that she is going to marry one of these
Europeans, and I want to prevent it."

" Ah, I see," cried Ralph ; " and to prevent it, you want me
to step in and marry her 1 "

" Not quite ; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for-
you are the typical European from whom I wish to rescue her.
No ; I wish you to take an interest in another person — a young
man to whom she once gave great encouragement, and whom she
now doesn't seem to think good enough. He's a noble fellow,
and a very dear friend of mine, and I wish very much you
would invite him to pay a visit here."

Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not
to the credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at
first in the simplest light. It wore, to bis eyes, a tortuous air,
and his fault was that he was not quite sure that anything in the
world could really be as candid as this request of Miss Stack-
pole's appeared. That a young woman should demand that a
gen tie m an whom she described as her very dear friend should
be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable to

104 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

another young woman, whose attention had wandered and whose
charms were greater — this was an anomaly which for the moment
challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between
the lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that
Miss Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on
her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar, as of an
embarrassed, mind. Even from this venial act of vulgarity,
however, Ealph was saved, and saved by a force that I can
scarcely call anything less than inspiration. With no more out-
ward light on the subject than he already possessed, he suddenly
acquired the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to
the correspondent of the Interviewer -to assign a dishonourable
motive to any act of hers. This conviction passed into his mind
with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the pure
radiance of the young lady's imperturbable gaze. He returned
this gaze a moment, consciously, resisting an inclination to frown,
as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. " Who is
the gentleman you speak of? "

"Mr. Caspar Goodwood, from Boston. He has been extremely
attentive to Isabel — just as devoted to her as he can live. He
has followed her out here, and he is at present in London. I
don't know his address, but I guess I can. obtain it."

" I have never heard of him," said Ralph.

"Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't
believe he has ever heard of you ; but that is no reason why
Isabel shouldn't marry him."

Ralph gave a small laugh. "What a rage you have for
marrying people ! Do you remember how you wanted to marry
me the other day ? "

" I have got over that. You don't know how to take such
ideas. Mr. Goodwood does, however ; and that's what I like
about him. He's a splendid man and a perfect gentleman : and
Isabel knows it."

" Is she very fond of him 1 "

" If she isn't she ought to be. He is simply wrapped up in
her."

" And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph, reflectively.

" It would be an act of true hospitality."

" Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued — " it's rather a striking
name."

" I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel
Jenkins, and I should say the same. He is the only man I have
ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel."

" You are a very devoted friend," said Ralph.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 105

"Of course I am. If you say that to laugh at me, I
don't care."

" I don't say it to laugh at you ; I am very much struck
with it."

" You are laughing worse than ever ; but I advise you not to
laugh at Mr. Goodwood."

" I assure you I am very serious ; you ought to understand
that," said Ralph.

In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you
are ; now you are too serious."

" You are difficult to please."

" Oh, you are very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr.
Goodwood."

" I don't know," said Ealph. " I am capable of strange things.
Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What is he like 1 "

"He is just the opposite of you. He is at the head of a
cotton factory ; a very fine one."

" Has he pleasant manners 1 " asked Ralph.

" Splendid manners — in the American style."

" Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle 1 "

" I don't think he would care much about our little circle.
He would concentrate on Isabel."

" And how would my cousin like that 1 "

" Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It
will call back her thoughts."

" Call them back — from where 1 "

" From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three
months ago she gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose
that he was acceptable to her, and it is not worthy of Isabel to
turn her back upon a real friend simply because she has changed
the scene. I have changed the scene too, and the effect of it
has been to make me care more for my old associations than
ever. It's my belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again
the better. I know her well enough to know that she would
never be truly happy over here, and I wish her to form some
strong American tie that will act as a preservative."

" Are you not a little too much in a hurry ? " Ralph inquired.
" Don't you think you ought to give . her more of a chance in
poor old England 1 "

" A chance to ruin her bright young life ? One is never too much
in a hurry to save a precious human creature from drowning."

" As I understand it, then," said Ralph, "you wish me to
push Mr. Goodwood overboard after her. Do you know," he
added, " that I have never heard her mention his name ?"

106 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Henrietta Stackpole gave a brilliant smile. " I am delighted
to hear that ; it proves how much she thinks of him."

Ralph appeared to admit that there was a good deal in this,
and he surrendered himself to meditation, while his companion
watched him askance. " If I should invite Mr. Goodwood," he
said, " it would "be to quarrel with him."

" Don't do that ; he would prove the better man."

" You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him ! I
really don't think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being
rude to him."

" It's just as you please," said Henrietta. " I had no idea
you were in love with her yourself."

"Do you really believe that ] " the young man asked, with
lifted eyebrows.

" That's the most natural speech I have ever heard you make !
Of course I believe it," Miss Stackpole answered, ingeniously.

" Well," said Ralph, " to prove to you that you are wrong, I
will invite him. It must be, of course, as a friend of yours."

" It will not be as a friend of mine that he will come ; and it
will not be to prove to me that I am wrong that you will ask
him — but to prove it to yourself ! "

These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two pre-
sently separated) contained an amount of truth which Ealph
Touchett was obliged to recognize ; but it so far took the edge
from too sharp a recognition that, in spite of his suspecting that
it would be rather more indiscreet to keep his promise than it
would be to break it, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of sir lines,
expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that
he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss
Stackpole was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the
care of a banker whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some
suspense. He had heard of Mr. Caspar Goodwood by name for
the first time ; for when his mother mentioned to him on her
arrival that there was a story about the girl's having an
" admirer ;' at home, the idea seemed deficient in reality, and
Ralph took no pains to ask questions, the answers to which
would suggest only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, how-
ever, the native admiration of which his cousin was the object
had become more concrete ; it took the form of a young man
who had followed her to London; who was interested in a
cotton-mill, and had manners in the American style. Ralph had
two theories about this young man. Either his passion was a
sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there was always a sort
of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity of

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 107

the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers foi each
other), in which case he was not to be feared, and would pro-
bably not accept the invitation ; or else he would accept the
invitation, and in this event would prove himself a creature too
irrational to demand further consideration. The latter clause of
Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent ; but it em-
bodied his conviction, that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in
Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole, he
would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons
from the latter lady. " On this supposition," said Ralph, " he
must regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose j as an inter-
cessor he must find her wanting in tact."

Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very
short note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regret-
ting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impos-
sible, and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole.
Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had read it,
exclaimed —

"Well, I never have heard of anything so stiff! "

" I am afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you
suppose," Ralph observed.

" No, it's not that ; it's some deeper motive. His nature is
very deep. But I am determined to fathom it, and I will write
to him to know what he means."

His refusal of Ralph's overtures made this yowng man vaguely
uncomfortable ; from the moment he declined to come to Garden-
court Ralph began to think him of importance. He asked him-
self what it signified to him whether Isabel's admirers should be
desperadoes or laggards ; they were not rivals of his, and were
perfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless he felt
much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's promised
inquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness — a curiosity
for the present ungratitied, inasmuch as when he asked her
three days later whether she had written to London, she was
obliged to confess that she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood
had not answered her.

"I suppose he is thinking it over," she said; "he thinks
everything over ; he is not at all impulsive. But I am accus-
tomed to having my letters answered the same day."

Whether it was to pursue her investigations, or whether it was
in compliance with still larger interests, is a point which remains
somewhat uncertain ; at all events, she presently proposed to
Isabel that they should make an excursion to London together.

" If I must tell the truth," she said, " I am not seeing much

108 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

at this place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I have not
even seen that aristocrat — what's his name 1 — Lord Washburton.
He seems to let you severely alone."

" Lord Warburton is coming to-morrow, I happen to know,"
replied Isabel, who had received a note from the master of Lock-
leigh in answer to her own letter. "You will have every
opportunity of examining him."

" Well, he may do for one letter, but what is one letter when
you want to write fifty ] I have described all the scenery in this
vicinity, and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You
may say what you please, scenery makes a thin letter. I must
go back to London and get some impressions of real life. I was
there but three days before I came away, and that is hardly time
to get started."

As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had
seen even less of the metropolis than this, it appeared a happy
suggestion of Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a
visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming ; she had
a great desire to see something of London, which had always
been the city of her imagination. They turned over their scheme
together and indulged in visions of aesthetic hours. They would
stay at some picturesque old inn — one of the inns described by
Dickens — and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms.
Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being
a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do
everything. They would dine at a coffee-house, and go after-
wards to the play ; they would frequent the Abbey and the "
British Museum, and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived,
and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager, and presently
mentioned these bright intentions to Ralph, who burst into a
fit of laughter, which did not express the sympathy she had
desired.

" It's a delightful plan," he said. " I advise you to go to the
Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-
fashioned place, and I will have you put down at my club."

"Do you mean it's improper 1" Isabel asked. "Dear ine,
isn't anything proper here 1 With Henrietta, surely I may go
anywhere ; she isn't hampered in that way. She has travelled
over the whole American continent, and she can surely find her
way about this simple little island."

" Ah, then," said Kalph, " let me take advantage of her pro-
tection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to
travel so safely ! "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 108

XIV.

Miss STACKPOLE would have prepared to start for London
immediately ; but Isabel, as we have seen, had been notified that
Lord Warburton would come again to Gardencourt, and she
believed it to be her duty to remain there and see him. For four
or five days he had made no answer to her letter ; then he had
written, very briefly, to say that he would come to lurich two
days later. There was something in these delays and postpone-
ments that touched the girl, and renewed her sense of his desire
to be considerate and patient, nat to appear to urge her too
grossly ; a discretion the more striking that she was so sure he
really liked her. Isabel told her uncle that she had written to
him, and let Mr. Touch ett know of Lord Warburton' s intention
of coming ; and the old man, in consequence, left his room earlier
than usual, and made his appearance at the lunch-table. This
was by no means an act of vigilance on his part, but the fruit of
a benevolent belief that his being of the company might help to
cover the visitor's temporary absence, in case Isabel should find
it needful to give Lord Warburton another hearing. This per-
sonage drove over from Lockleigh, and brought the elder of his
sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated by considerations
of the same order as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were
introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat
adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel, who was nervous, and had
no relish of the prospect of again arguing the question he had so
precipitately opened, could not help admiring his good-humoured
self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of that
admiration it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He
neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his
emotion was that he avoided meeting her eye. . He had plenty
of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his
luncheon with discrimination and appetife. Miss Molyneux,
who had a smooth, nun-like forehead, and wore a large silver
cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with
Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a
manner which seemed to denote a conflict between attention and
alienation. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh, she was the one
that Isabel had liked best ; there was such a world of hereditary
quiet in her. Isabel was sure, moreover, that her mild forehead
and silver cross had a romantic meaning — that she was a mem-
ber of a High Church sisterhood, had taken some picturesque

.110 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

vows. She wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of hoi
if she knew Miss Archer had refused her brother ; and then she
felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know — that Lord
Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of her and
kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least,
was Isabel's theory ; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation, she was usually occupied in forming theories about
her neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should
ever learn what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord
"Warburton, she would probably be shocked at the young lady's
indifference to such an opportunity ; or no, rather (this was
our heroine's last impression) she would impute to the young
American a high sense of general fitness.

Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities,
Henrietta Stackpole wa£ by no means disposed to neglect those
in which she now found herself immersed.

"Do you know you are the first lord I have ever seen?" she
said, very promptly, to her neighbour. " I suppose you think I
am awfully benighted."

" You have escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord
Warburton answered, looking vaguely about the table and
laughing a little.

" Are they very ugly 1 They try to make us believe in
America that they are all handsome and magnificent, and that
they wear wonderful robes and crowns."

" Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said
Lord Warburton, " like your tomahawks and revolvers."

" I am sorry for that ; I think an aristocracy ought to \JQ
splendid," Henrietta declared. " If it is not that, what is
itl"

" Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," Lord Warburton
answered. " Won't you have a potato ] "

" I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't
know you from an ordinary American gentleman."

" Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton.
" I don't see how you manage to get on without potatoes ; you
must find so few things to eat over here."

Henrietta was silent a moment ; there was a chance that he
was not sincere.

" I have had hardly any appetite since I have been here," she
went on at last ; " so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve
of you, you know ; I feel as if I ought to tell you that."

" Don't approve of me 1 "

" Yes, I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. Ill

before, did they 1 I don't approve of lords, as an institution.
I think the world has got beyond that — far beyond.

" Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least.
Sometimes it comes over me — how I should object to myself if
I were not myself, don't you know "? But that's rather good, by
the way — not to be vain-glorious."

" Why don't you give it up, then?" Miss Stackpole inquired.

" Give up — a — 1 " asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh
inflection with a very mellow one.

" Give up being a lord."

" Oh, I am so little of one ! One would really forget all
about it, if you wretched Americans were not constantly remind-
ing one. However, I do think of giving up — the little there is
left of it — one of these days."

" I should like to see you do it," Henrietta exclaimed, rather
grimly.

" I will invite you to the ceremony ; we will have a supper
and a dance."

" Well," said Miss Stackpole, " I like to see all sides. I
don't approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they
have got to say for themselves."

" Mighty little, as you see ! "

" I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta
continued. " But you are always looking away. You are
afraid of meeting my eye. I see you want to escape me."

" No, I am only looking for those despised potatoes."

" Please explain about that young lady — your sister — then
I don't understand about her. Is she a Lady *? "

" She's a capital good girl."

" I don't like the way you say that — as if you wanted to
change the subject. Is her position inferior to yours ? "

" We neither of us have any position to speak of ; but she is
better off than I, because she has none of the bother."

"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I
had as little bother as that. You do produce quiet people
over here, whatever you may do."

" Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord
Warburton. " And then you know we are very dull. Ah, we
can be dull when we try ! "

" I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't
know what to talk to your sister about ; she looks so different.
Is that silver cross a badge 1 "

" A badge^"

" A sign of rank."

112 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Lord Warburton' s glance had wandered a good deal, but at
this it met the gaze of his neighbour.

" Oh, yes," he answered, in a moment ; " the women go in
for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest
daughters of Viscounts."

This was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had
his credulity too easily engaged in America.

After lunch he proposed ~to Isabel to come into the gallery
and look at the pictures ; and though she knew that he had
seen the pictures twenty times, she complied without criticising
this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy ; ever since
she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit.
He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at the
paintings and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke
out —

" I hoped you wouldn't write to me that way."

" It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. " Do
try and believe that."

rt If I could believe it, of course I should let you alone. But
we can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand.
I could understand your disliking me ; that I could understand
well. But that you should admit what you do "

"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, blushing a
little.

" That you think me a good fellow ; isn't that it ? " She
said nothing, and' he went on — " You don't seem to have any
reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice."

" I have a reason, Lord Warburton," said the girl ; and she
said it in a tone that made his heart contract.

"I should like very much to know it." ^

" I will tell you some day when there is more to show for it."

" Excuse my saying that in the meantime I must doubt of
it."

" You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.

" I am not sorry for that ; it may help you to know how I
feel. Will you kindly answer me a question "? " Isabel made
no audible assent, but he apparently saw something in her eyes
which gave him courage to go on. " Do you prefer some one
else?"

"That's a question I would rather not answer."

" Ah, you do then ! " her suitor murmured with bitterness.

The bitterness touched her, and she cried out —

" You are mistaken ! I don't."

He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 113

man in trouble j leaning his elbows on his knees and staring
at the floor.

"I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing
himself back against the wall, " for that would be an excuse."

Isabel raised her eyebrows, with a certain eagerness.

" An excuse ? Must I excuse myself ? "

He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea
had come into his head.

" Is it my political opinions ? Do you think I go too far 1 "

" I can't object to your political opinions, Lord Warburton,"
said the girl, " because I don't understand them."

" You don't care what I think," he cried, getting up. " It's
all the same to you."

Isabel walked away, to the other side of the gallery, and
stood there, showing him her charming back, her light slim
figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and
the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small
picture, as if for the purpose of examining it ; and there was
something young and flexible in her movement, which her
companion noticed. Isabel's eyes, however, saw nothing; they
had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he fol-
lowed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away ;
but when she turned round, her face was pale, and the expression
of her eyes was strange.

" That reason that I wouldn't tell you," she said, " I will tell
it you, after all. It is that I can't escape my fate."

"Your fate1?"

" I should try to escape it if I should marry you."

" I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate, as
well as anything else 1 "

" Because it is not," said Isabel, femininely. " I know it is
not. It's not my fate to give up — I know it can't be."

Poor Lord Warburton stared, with an interrogative point in
either eye.

" Do you call marrying me giving up 1 "

" Not in the usual sense. It is getting — getting — getting a
great deal. But it is giving up other chances."

" Other chances 1" Lord Warburton repeated, more and more
puzzled.

" I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour
rapidly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking
down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt
to make her meaning clear.

" I don't think it is presumptuous in me to say that I think

i

114 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you will gain more than you will lose," Lord Warburton
observed.

"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying
you, I shall be trying to."

" I don't know whether you would try to, but you certainly
would : that I must in candour admit ! " Lord "Warburton
exclaimed, with an anxious laugh.

" I must not — I can't ! " cried the girl.

" Well, if you are bent on being miserable, I don't see why
you should make me so. Whatever charms unhappiness may
have for you, it has none for me."

" I am not bent on being miserable," said Isabel. ". I have
always been intensely determined to be happy, and I have often
believed I should be. I have told people that ; you can ask
them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can
never be happy in any extraordinary way ; not by turning
away, by separating myself."

"By separating yourself from what?"

" From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what
most people know and suffer."

Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope.

" Why, my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain, with the
most considerate eagerness, " I don't offer you any exoneration
from life, or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I
could; depend upon it I would ! For what do you take me, pray ?
Heaven help me, I am not the Emperor of China ! All I offer
you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort
of way. The common lot 1 Why, I am devoted to the common
lot ! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you
shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing what-
ever— not even from your friend Miss Stackpole."

" She would never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile
and take advantage of this side-issue ; despising herself too, not
a little, for doing so.

" Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole 1 " Lord Warburton
asked, impatiently. " I never saw a person judge things on
such theoretic grounds."

" Now I suppose you are speaking of me," said Isabel, with
humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss
Molyneux enter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and
by Ralph.

Lord Warburton' s sister addressed him with a certain timidity,
and reminded him that she ought to return home in time for tea,
as she was expecting some company. He made no answer —

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 115

apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied — with
good reason. Miss Molyneux looked lady-like and patient, and
awaited his pleasure.

" Well, I never, Miss Molyneux ! " said Henrietta Stackpole.
" If I wanted to go, he would have 10 go. If I wanted my
brother to do a thing, he would have to do it."

" Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux
answered, with a quick, shy laugh. " How very many pictures
you have ! " she went on, turning to Ralph.

" They look a good many, because they are all put together,"
said Ralph. " But it's really a bad way."

" Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lock-
leigh. I am so very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on,
persistently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid that Miss Stackpole
would address her again. Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate
and to frighten her.

" Oh yes, pictures are very indispensable," said Ralph, who
appeared to know better what style of reflection was acceptable
to her.

" They are so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady
continued. " It rains so very often."

"I am sorry you are going away, Lord Warburton," said
Henrietta. " I wanted to get a great deal more out of you."

" I am not going away," Lord Warburton answered.

" Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey
the ladies."

" I am afraid we have got some people to tea," said Miss
Molyneux, looking at her brother.

" Very good, my dear. We'll go."

" I hoped you would resist ! " Henrietta exclaimed. " I
wanted to see what Miss Molyneux would do."

" I never do anything," said this young lady.

" I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist ! "
Miss Stackpole rejoined. " I should like very much to see you
at home."

" You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux,
very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend.

Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that
moment seemed to see in their grey depths the reflection of
everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton — the
peace, the kindness, the honour, tlie possessions, a deep security
and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux, and then
she said —

" I <im afraid I can never come again."

I 2

116 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

again ? "

" I am afraid I am going away."

" Oh, I am so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. " I think
that's so very wrong of you."

Lord Warburton watched this little passage ; then he turned
away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail
before the picture, with his hands in his pockets, had for the
moment been watching him.

" I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom
Lord Warburton found beside him. " I should like an hour's
talk with you ; there are a great many questions I wish to ask
you."

" I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh
answered ; " but I am certain not to be able to answer many of
your questions. When will you come?"

" Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We are thinking of
going to London, but we will go and see you first. I am
determined to get some satisfaction out of you."

"If it depends upon Miss Archer, I am afraid you won't get
much. She will not come to Lockleigh ; she doesn't like the
place."

" She told me it was lovely ! " said Henrietta.

Lord Warburton hesitated a moment.

" She won't come, all the same. You had better come alone,"
he added.

Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded.

" Would you make that remark to an English lady ] " she
inquired, with soft asperity.

Lord Warburton stared.

" Yes, if I liked her enough."

" You would be careful not to like her enough. If Miss
Archer won't visit your place again, it's because she doesn't
want to take me. I know what she thinks of me, and I
suppose you think the same — that I oughtn't to bring in
individuals."

Lord Warburton was at a loss ; he had not been made
acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character, and did
not catch her allusion.

" Miss Archer has been warning you ! " she went on.

" Warning me 1 "

" Isn't that why she came off alone with you here — to put
you on your guard 1 "

" Oh, dear no," said Lord Warburton, blushing ; " our talk
had no such solemn character as that."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 117

"Well, you have been on your guard — intensely. I suppose
it's natural to you ; that's just what I wanted to observe. And
so, too, Miss Molyneux — she wouldn't commit herself. You
have been warned, anyway," Henrietta continued, addressing
this young lady, " but for you it wasn't necessary."

" I hope not," said Miss Molyneux, vaguely.

" Miss -Stackpole takes notes," Ealph explained, humorously.
" She is a great 'satirist ; she sees through us all, and she work?
us up."

" Well, I must say T never have had such a collection of bad
material ! " Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord
Wavburton, and from this nobleman to his sister and to Ealph.
" There is something the matter with you all; you are as dismal
as if you had got a bad telegram."

" You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ealph in a
low tone, giving her a little intelligent nod, as he led the
party out of the gallery. " There is something the matter with
us all."

Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly
liked her immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her
over the polished floor. Lord WarburtoH strolled on the other
side, with his hands behind him, and his eyes lowered. For
fome moments he said nothing ; and then —

" Is it true that you are going to London?" he asked.

" I believe it has been arranged."

" And when shall you come back 1 "

" In a few days ; but probably for a very short time. I am
going to Paris with my aunt."

"When, then, shall I see you again1? "

" Not for a good while." said Isabel ; " but some day or
other, I hope."

" Do you really hope it 1 "

"Very much."

He went a few steps in silence j then he stopped, and put
out his hand.

" Good-bye,"

" Good-bye," said Isabel.

Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart ;
after which, without rejoining Henrietta and Ealph, she re-
treated to her own room.

In this apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs.
Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the drawing-room.

" I may as well tell you," said her aunt, " that your uncle has
informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton."

118 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel hesitated an instant.

" Relations 1 They are hardly relations. That is the strange
part of it ; he has seen me but three or four times."

" Why did you tell your uncle rather than me 1 " Mrs.
Touchett inquired, dryly, but dispassionately.

Again Isabel hesitated.

" Because he knows Lord Warburton better."

" Yes, but I know you better."

" I am not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.

" Neither am I, after all ; especially when you smile that
way. One would think you had carried off a prize ! I suppose
that when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's
because you expect to do something better."

"Ah,- my uncle didn't say that I" cried Isabel, smiling still.

XV.

IT had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed
to London under Ralph's escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked
with little favour upon the plan. It was just the sort of plan,
she said, that Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she
inquired if the correspondent of the Interviewer was to take the
party to stay at a boarding-house.

" I don't care where she takes us to stay, so long as there is
local colour," said Isabel. "That is what we are -going to
London for."

" I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord she
may do anything," her aunt rejoined. " After that one needn't
stand on trifles."

"Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton V
Isabel inquired.

" Of course I should." .

" I thought you disliked the English so much."

" So I do; but -it's all the more reason for making use of
them."

" Is that your idea of marriage *? " And Isabel ventured to
add that her aunt appeared to her to have made very little use
of Mr. Touchett.

" Your uncle is not an English nobleman," said Mrs. Touchett,
" though even if he had been, I should still probably have taken
up my residence in Florence."

"Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 119

than I am ? " the girl asked, with some animation. " I
don't mean that I am too good to. improve. I mean — I
mean that I don't love Lord Warburton enough to marry
him."

"You did right to refuse him, then," said Mrs. Touchett, in
her little spare voice. " Only, the next great offer you get, I
hope you will manage to come up to your standard."

"We had better wait till the offer comes, before we talk
about it. I hope very much that I may have no more offers for
the present. They bother me fearfully."

" You probably won't be troubled with them if you adopt
permanently the Bohemian manner of life. However, I have
promised Ealph not to criticise the affair."

"I will do whatever Ealph sass is right," Isabel said. "I
have unbounded confidence in Ealph."

"His mother is much obliged to you ! " cried this lady, with
a laugh.

" It seems to me she ought to be," Isabel rejoined, smiling.

Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of
decency in their paying a visit — the little party of three — to the
sights of the metropolis ; but Mrs. Touchett took a different
view. Like many ladies of her country who have lived a long
time in Europe, she had completely lost her native tact on such
points, and in her reaction, not in itself deplorable, against
the liberty allowed to young persons beyond the seas, had fallen
into gratuitous and exaggerated scruples. Ealph accompanied
the two young ladies to town and established them at a quiet
inn in a street that ran at right angles to Piccadilly. His first
idea had been to take them to his father's house in Winchester
Square, a large, dull mansion, which at this period of the year
was shrouded in silence and brown ho Hand ; but he bethought
himself that, the1 cook being at Gardencourt, there was 110 one
in the house to get them their meals ; and Prait's Hotel accord-
ingly became their resting-place. Ealph, on his side, found
quarters in Winchester Square, having a " den " there of which
he was very fond, and not being dependent on the local cuisine.
He availed himself largely indeed of that of Pratt's Hotel,
beginning his day with an early visit to his fellow-travellers,
who had Mr. Pratt in person, in a large bulging white waistcoat,
to remove their dish-covers. Ealph turned up, as he said, after
breakfast, and the little party made out a scheme of entertain-
ment for the day. As London does not wear in the month
of September its most brilliant face, the young man, who
occasionally took an apologetic tone, was obliged to remind his

120 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

companion, to Miss Stackpole's liigh irritation, that there was
not a creature in town. •

"I suppose you mean that the aristocracy are absent," Hen-
rietta answered ; " but I don't think you could have a better
proof that if they were absent altogether they would not be
missed, t It seems to me the place is about as full as it can be.
There is no one here, of course, except three or four millions of
people. What is it you call them — the lower-middle class 1
They are only the population of London, and that is of no
consequence."

Ralph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void that
Miss Stackpole herself did not till, and that a more contented
man was nowhere at that moment to be found. In this he
spoke the truth, for the stale September days, in the huge half-
empty town, borrowed a charm from his circumstances. When
he went home at night to the empty house in Winchester Square,
after a day spent with his inquisitive countrywomen, he wandered
into the big dusky dining-room, where the candle he took from
the hall-table, after letting himself in, constituted the only
illumination. The square was still, the house was still ; when
he raised one of the windows of the dining-room to let in the
air, he heard the slow creak of the boots of a solitary policeman.
His own step, in the empty room, seemed loud and sonorous ;
some of the carpets had been raised, and whenever he moved he
roused a melancholy echo. He sat down in one of the arm-
chairs ; the big, dark, dining table twinkled here and there in
the small candle-light ; the pictures on the wall, all of them
very brown, looked vague and incoherent. There was a ghostly
presence in the room, as of dinners long since digested, of table-
talk that had lost its actuality. This hint of the supernatural
perhaps had something to do with the fact that Ealph's imagin-
ation took a flight, and that he remained in his chair a long time
beyond the hour at which he should have been in bed ; doing
nothing, not even reading the evening paper. I say he did
nothing, and I maintain the phrase in the face of the fact that
he thought at these moments of Isabel. To think of Isabel
could only be for Ralph an idle pursuit, leading to nothing and
profiting little to any one. His cousin had not yet seemed to
him so charming as during these days spent in sounding, tourist-
fashion, the deeps and shallows of the metropolitan element.
Isabel was constantly interested and often excited ; if she had
come in search of local colour she found it everywhere. She
asked more questions than he could answer, and launched little
theories that he was equally unable to accept or to refute. The

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 121

party went more than once to the British Museum, and to that
brighter palace of art which reclaims for antique variety so large
an area of a monotonous suhurb ; they spent a morning in the
Abbey and went on a penny-steamer to the Tower ; they looked
at pictures both in public and private collections, and sat on
various occasions beneath the great trees in Kensington -Gardens.
Henrietta Stackpole proved to be an indefatigable sight-seer and
a more good-natured critic than Ralph had ventured to hope.
She had indeed many disappointments, and London at large
suffered from her vivid remembrance of many of the cities of
her native land ; but she made the best of its dingy peculiarities
and only heaved an occasional sigh, and uttered a desultory
" Well ! " which led no further and lost itself in retrospect.
The truth was that, as she said herself, she was not in her
element. " I have not a sympathy with inanimate objects," i>he
remarked to Isabel1 at the National Gallery ; and she continued
to suffer from the meagreness of the glimpse that had as yet been
vouchsafed to her of the inner life. Landscapes by Turner and
Assyrian bulls were a poor substitute for the literary dinner-
parties at which she had hoped to meet the genius and renown
of Great Britain.

" Where are your public men, where are your men and women
of intellect1?" she inquired of Ralph, standing in the middle of
Trafalgar Square, as if she had supposed this to be a place where
she would naturally meet a few. " That's one of them on the
top of the column, you say — Lord Nelson 1, Was he a lord too 1
Wasn't he high enough, that they had to stick liim a hundred
feet in the air 1 That's the past — I don't care about the past ;
I want to see some of the leading minds of the present. I won't
say of the future, because I don't believe much in' your future."
Poor Ralph had few leading minds among his acquaintance, and
rarely enjoyed the pleasure of button-holding a celebrity ; a
state of things which appeared to Miss Stackpole to indicate a
deplorable want of enterprise. " If I were on the other side I
should call," she said, "and tell the gentleman, whoever he
might be, that I had heard a great deal about him and had come
to see for myself. But I gather from what you say that this is
not the custom here. You seem to have plenty of meaningless
customs, and none of those that one really wants. We are in
advance, certainly. I suppose I shall have to give up the social
side altogether ; " and Henrietta, though she went about with her
guide-book and pencil, and wrote a letter to the Interviewer about
the Tower. (in which she described the execution of Lady Jane
Grey), had a depressing sense of falling below her own standard.

122 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

The incident which had preceded Isabel's departure from
Gardencourt left a painful trace in the girl's mind ; she took
no pleasure in recalling Lord Warburton's magnanimous dis-
appointment. She could .not have done less than what she
did. ; this was certainly true. But her necessity, all the same,
had been a distasteful one, and she felt no desire to take
credit for her conduct. Nevertheless, mingled with this ab-
sence of an intellectual relish of it, was a feeling of freedom
which in itself was sweet, and which, as she wandered through
the great city with her ill-matched companions, occasionally
throbbed into joyous excitement. When she walked in Ken-
sington Gardens, she stopped the children (mainly of the poorer
sort) whom she saw playing on the grass ; she asked them their
names and gave them sixpence, and when they were pretty she
kissed them. Ralph noticed such incidents ; he noticed every-
thing that Isabel did.

One afternoon, by way of amusing his companions, he invited
them to tea in Winchester Square, and he had the house set in
order as much as possible, to do honour to their visit. There
was another guest, also, to meet the ladies, an amiable bachelor,
an old friend of Ralph's, who happened to be in town, and who
got on uncommonly well with Miss Stackpole. Mr. Bantling, a
stout, fair, smiling man of forty, who was extraordinarily well
dressed, and whose contributions to the conversation were
characterised by vivacity rather than continuity, laughed immo-
derately at everything Henrietta said, gave her. several cups of
tea, examined in her society the bric-a-brac, of which Ralph had
a considerable collection, and afterwards, when th« host proposed
they should go out into the square and pretend it was a ftte-
champetre, walked round the limited inclosure several times with
her and listened with candid interest to her remarks upon the
inner life,

" Oh, I see," said Mr. Bantling ; " I dare say you found it very
quiet at Gardencourt. Naturally there's not much going on
there when there's such a lot of illness about. Touchett's very
bad, you know ; the doctors have forbid his being in England at
all, and he has only come back to take care of his father. The
old man, I believe, has half-a-dozen things the matter with him.
They call it gout, but to my certain knowledge he is dropsical
as well, though he doesn't look it. You may depend upon it he
has got a lot of water somewhere. Of course that sort of thing
makes it awfully slow for people in the house ; 1 wonder they
have them under such circumstances. Then I believe Mr
Touchett is always squabbling with his wife ; she lives away

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 123

from her husband, you know, in that extraordinary American
way of yours. If you want a house where there is always
something going on, I recommend you to go down and stay with
my sister, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire. I'll write to her
to-morrow, and I am sure she'll be delighted to ask you. I
know just what you want — you want a house where they go in
for theatricals and picnics and that sort of thing. My sister is
just that sort of woman; she is always getting up something or
other, and she is always glad to have the sort of people that help
her. I am sure she'll ask you down by return of post ; she is
tremendously fond of distinguished people and writers. She
writes herself, you know ; but I haven't read everything she has
written. It's usually poetry, and I don't go in much for poetry
— unless it's Byron. I suppose you think a great deal of Byron
in America," Mr. Bantling continued, expanding in the stimu-
lating air of Miss Stackpole's attention, bringing up his sequences
promptly, and at last changing his topic, with a natural eagerness
to provide suitable conversation for so remarkable a woman.
He returned, however, ultimately to the idea of Henrietta's
going to stay with Lady Pensil; in Bedfordshire. " I understand
what you want," he repeated; "you want to see some genuine
English sport. The Touchetts are not English at all, you
know ; they live on a kind of foreign system ; they have got
some awfully queer ideas. The old man thinks it's wicked to
hunt, I am told. You must get down to my sister's in time for
the theatricals, and I am sure she will be glad to give you a
part. I am sure you act well ; I know you are very clever.
My sister is forty years old, and she has seven children ; but she
is going to play the principal part. Of course you needn't act if
you don't want to."

In this manner Mr. Bantling delivered himself, while they
strolled over the grass, in Winchester Square, which, although it
had been peppered by the London soot, invited the tread to
linger. Henrietta thought her blooming, easy-voiced bachelor,
with his impressibility to feminine merit and his suggestiveness
of allusion, a very agreeable man, and she valued the opportunity
he offered her.

" I don't know but I would go, if your sister should ask me,"
she said. "I think it would bexmy duty. What do you call
her name ? "

"Pensil. It's an odd name, but it isn't a bad one."
" I think one name is as good as another. But what is herrank1?"
" Oh, she's a baron's wife; a convenient sort of rank. You
are tine enough, and you are not too fine."

124 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I don't know but what she'd be too fine for me. "What do
you call the place she lives in — Bedfordshire 1 "

" She lives away in the northern corner of it. It's a tiresome
country, but I daresay you won't mind it. I'll try and run down
while you are there."

All this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she was
sorry to be obliged to separate from Lady Pensil's obliging
brother. But it happened that she had met the day before, in
Piccadilly, some friends whom she had not seen for a year ; the
Miss Climbers, two ladies from Wilmington. Delaware, who had
been travelling on the continent and were now preparing to
re-embark. Henrietta had a long interview with them on the
Piccadilly pavement, and though the three ladies all talked at
once, they had not exhausted their accumulated topics. t It had
been agreed therefore that Henrietta should come and dine with
them in their lodgings in Jermyn Street at six o'clock on the
morrow, and she now bethought herself of this engagement.
She prepared to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave first of
Ralph Touchett and Isabel, who, seated on garden chairs in
another part of the inclosure, were occupied — if the term may
be used — with an exchange of amenities less pointed than the
practical colloquy of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. When
it had been settled between Isabel and her friend that they
should be re-united at some reputable hour at Pratt's Hotel,
Ralph remarked that the latter must have a cab. She could not
walk all the way to Jermyn Street.

" I suppose you mean it's improper for me to walk alone ! "
Henrietta exclaimed. " Merciful powers, have I come to this 1 "

" There is not the slightest need of your walking alone," said
Mr. Bantling, in an off-hand tone expressive of gallantry. " I
should be greatly pleased to go with you."

" I simply meant that you would be late for dinner," Ralph
answered. " Think of those poor ladies, in their impatience,
waiting for you."

" You had better have a hansom, Henrietta," said Isabel.

"I will get you a hansom, if you will trust to me," Mr.
Bantling went on. " We might walk a little till we met one."

" I don't see why I shouldn't trust to him, do you? " Henrietta
.Inquired of Isabel.

" I don't see what Mr. Bantling could do to you," Isabel
answered, smiling ; " but if you like, we will walk with you till
you find your cab."

"Never mind; we will go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling,
and take care you get me a good one."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 125

Mr. Bantling promised to do his best, and the two took'their
departure, leaving Isabel and her cousin standing in the square,
over which a clear September twilight had now begun to gather.
It was perfectly still ; the wide quadrangle of dusky houses
showed lights in none of the windows, where the shutters and
blinds were closed ; the pavements were a vacant expanse, and
putting aside two small children from a neighbouring slum, who,
attracted by symptoms of abnormal animation in the interior,
were squeezing their necks between the rusty railings of the
inclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big red
pillar-post on the south-east corner.

" Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her
to Jermyn Street," Ealph observed. He always spoke of Miss
Stack polQ as Henrietta.
""Very possibly," said his companion.

" Or rather, no, she won't," he went on. " But Bantling will
ask leave to get in."

"Very likely again. I am very glad they are such good
friends."

" She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman.
It may go far," said Ralph.

Isabel was silent a moment.

" I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman ; but I don't think
it will go far," she rejoined at last. " They would never really
know each other. He has not the least idea what she really is,
and she has no just comprehension of Mr. Bantling."

" There is no more usual basis of matrimony than a mutual
misunderstanding. But it ought not to be so difficult to under-
stand Bob Bantling," Ralph added. " He is a very simple
fellow."

" Yes, but Henrietta is simpler still. And pray, what am I
to do 1 " Isabel asked, looking about her through the fading light,
in which the limited landscape-gardening of the square took on
11 large and effective appearance. " I don't imagine that you
will propose that you and I, for our amusement, should drive
about London in a hansom."

" There is no reason why we, should not stay here — if you
don't dislike it. It is very warm ; there will be half-an-hour
yet before dark ; and if you permit it, I will light a cigarette."

" You may do what you please," said Isabel, " if you will
amuse me till seven o'clock. I propose at that hour to go back
and partake of a simple and solitary repast — two poached eggs
and a muffin— at Pratt's Hotel."

" May I not dine with you ? " Ralph asked.

126 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

%

11 No, you will dine at your club."

They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the
square again, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would
have given him extreme pleasure to be present in person at the
modest little feast she had sketched ; but in default of this he
liked even being forbidden. For the moment, however, he liked
immensely being alone with her, in the thickening dusk, in the
centre of the multitudinous town ; it made her seem to depend
upon him and to be in his power. This power he could exert
but vaguely ; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions
submissively. There was almost an emotion in doing so.

" Why won't you let me dine with you 1 " he asked, after a
pause.

" Because I don't care for it."

" I suppose you are tired of me."

• "I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of
fore-knowledge."

" Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile," said Ralph. But he
said nothing more, and as Isabel made no rejoinder, they sat
some time in silence which seemed to contradict his promise of
entertainment. It seemed to him that she was preoccupied,
and he wondered what she was thinking about ; there were two
or three very possible subjects. At last he spoke again. " Is
your objection to my society this evening caused by your
expectation of another visitor 1 "

She turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes.

" Another visitor 1 What visitor should I have 1 "

He had none to suggest ; which made his question seem to
himself silly as ^vell as brutal.

" You have a great many friends that I don't know," he said,
laughing a little awkwardly. "You have a whole past from
which I was perversely excluded."

" You were reserved for my future. You must remember
that my past is over there across the water. There is none of
it here in London."

" Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you.
Capital thing to have your future so handy." And Ralph
lighted another cigarette and reflected that Isabel probably
meant that she had received news that Mr. Caspar Goodwood
had crossed to Paris. After he had lighted his cigarette he
puffed it a while, and then he went on. " I promised a while
ago to be very amusing ; but you see I don't come up to the
mark, and the fact is there is a good deal of temerity in my
undertaking to amuse a person like you. What do you care foi

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 127

my feeble attempts 1 You have ^rand ideas — you have a high
standard in such matters. T ought at least to bring in a band
of music or a company of mountebanks."

" One mountebank is enough, and you do very well. Pray
go on, and in another ten minutes I shall begin to laugh."

t: I assure you that I am very serious," said Ralph. " You
do really ask a great deal."

" I don't know what you mean. I ask nothing ! "

1 You accept nothing," said Ealph. She coloured, and now
suddenly it seemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But
why should he speak to her of such things 1 He hesitated a
little, and then he continued. "There is something I should
like very much to say to you. It's a question I wish to ask.
It seems to me I have a right to ask it, because I have a kind
of interest in the answer.''

" Ask what you will," Isabel answered gently, " and I will
try and satisfy you."

" Well, then, I hope you won't mind my saying that Lord
Warburton has told me of something that has passed between
you."

Isabel started a little ; she sat looking at her open fan.
" Yery good ; I suppose it was natural he should tell you."

" I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has
some hope still," said Ealph.

"Stair1

" He had it a few days ago."

"I don't believe he has any now," said the girl.

" I am very sorry for him, then ; he is such a fine fellow."

" Pray, did he ask you to talk to me 1 "

" No, not that. But he told me because he couldn't help it.
We are old friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent
me a line asking me to come and see him, and I rode over to
Lockleigh the day before he and his sister lunched with us.
He was very heavy-hearted; he had just got a letter from
you."

" Did he show you thf> letter 1 " asked Isabel, with momentary
loftiness.

"By no means. But' he told me it was a neat refusal. I
was very sorry for him," Ealph repeated.

For some moments Isabel said nothing ; then at last, " Do
you know how often he had seen me ? Five or six times."

" That's to your glory."

" It's not for' that I say it."

"What then do you say it for1? Not to prove that poor

128 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Warburton s state of mind is superficial, because I am pretty
sure you don't think that."

Isabel certainly was unable to say that she thought it ; but
presently she said something else. " If you have not been
requested by Lord Warburton to argue with me, then you are
doing it disinterestedly — or for the love of argument."

" I have no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to
leave you alone. I am simply greatly interested in your OTVH
sentiments."

<: I am greatly obliged to you ! " cried Isabel, with a laugh.
. " Of course you mean that I am meddling in what doesn't
concern me. But why shouldn't I speak to you of this matter
without annoying you or embarrassing myself ? What's the use
of being your cousin, if I can't have a few privileges ? What
is the use of adoring you without tlie hope of a reward, if I
can't have a few compensations'? What is the use of being ill
and disabled, and restricted to mere spectatorship at the game
of life, if I really can't see the show when I have paid so much
for my 'ticket? Tell me this," Ealph went on, while Isabel
listened to him with quickened attention : " What had you in
your mind when you refused Lord Warburton 1 "

" What had I in my mind ? "

"What was the logic — the view of your situation — that
dictated so remarkable an act? "

" I didn't wish to marry him— if that is logic."

" No, that is not logic — and I knew that before. What was
it you said to yourself? You certainly said more than that."

Isabel reflected a moment and then she answered this inquiry
with a question of her own. " Why do you call it a remarkable
act? That is what your mother thinks, too."

" Warburton is such a fine fellow ; as a man I think he has
hardly a fault. And then, he is what they call here a swell.
He has immense possessions, and his wife would be thought
a superior being. He unites the intrinsic and the extrinsic
advantages."

Isabel watched her cousin while he spoke, as if to see how
far he would go. "I refused him because he was too perfect
then. I am not perfect myself, and he is too good for me.
Besides, his perfection would irritate me."

" That is ingenious rather than candid," said Ralph. "As a
fact, you think nothing in the world too perfect for you."

" Do you think I am so good 1 "

" No, but you are exacting, all the same, without the excuse
of thinking yourself pood. Nineteen women out of twenty

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 129

however, even of the most exacting sort, would have contented
themselves with Warburton. Perhaps you don't know he has
been run after."

"I don't wish to know. But it seems to me," said Isabel,
" that you told me of several faults that he has, one day when
I spoke of him to you."

Ralph looked grave. "I hope that what I said then had no
weight with you ; for they were not faults, the things I spoke
of ; they were simply peculiarities of his position. If I had
known he wished to marry you, I would never have alluded
to them. I think I said that as regards that position he was
rather a sceptic. It would have been in your power to make
him a believer."

" I think not. I don't understand the matter, and I am not
conscious of any mission of that sort. — You are evidently dis-
appointed," Isabel added, looking gently but earnestly at her
cousin. " You would have liked me to marry Lord Warburton."

" Not in the least. I am absolutely without a wish on the
subject. I don't pretend to advise you, and I content myself
with watching you — with the deepest interest."

Isabel gave a rather conscious sigh. " I wish I could be
as interesting to myself as I am to you ! "

" There you are not candid again ; you are extremely interest-
ing to yourself. Do you know, however," said Ralph, " that
if you have really given Lord Warburton his final answer, I am
rather glad it has been what it was. I don't mean I am glad for
you, and still less, of course, for him. I am glad for myself."

" Are you thinking of proposing to me ? "

- "By no means. From the point of view I speak of that
would be fatal ; I should kill the goo-e that supplies me with
golden eggs. I use that animal as a symbol of my insane illu-
sions. Whq,t I mean is, I shall have the entertainment of seeing
what a young lady does who won't marry Lord Warburton."

" That is what your mother counts upon too," said Isabel.

" Ah, there will be plenty of spectators ! We shall contem-
plate the rest of your career. I. shall not see all of it, but I
shall probably see the most interesting years. Of course, if you
were to marry our friend, you would still have a career — a very
honourable and brilliant one. But relatively speaking, it would
be a little prosaic. It would be definitely marked out in
advance ; it would be wanting in the unexpected. You know
I am extremely fond of the unexpected, and now that you have
kept the game in your hands I depend on your giving us some
magnificent example of it."

130 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

_ " I don't understand you very well," said Isabel, " but I do so
well enough to be able to say that it* you look for magnificent
examples of anything I shall disappoint you."

" You will do so only by disappointing yourself — and that
will go hard with you ! "

To this Isabel made no direct reply ; there was an amount
of truth in it which would bear consideration. At last she said,
abruptly — " I don't see what harm there is in my wishing not to
tie myself. I don't want to begin life by marrying. There are
other things a woman can do."

" There is nothing she can do so well. But you are many-
sided."

" If one is two-sided, it is enough," said Isabel.

" You are the most charming of polygons ! " Ealph broke out,
with a laugh. At a glance from his companion, however, he
became grave, and to prove it he went on — " You want to see
life, as the young men say."

" I don't think I want to see it as the young men want to see
it ; but I do want to look about me."

" You want to drain the cup of experience."

"No, I don't wish to touch the cup of experience. It's a
poisoned drink ! I only want to see for myself."

" You want to see, but not to feel," said Ralph.

" I don't think that if one is a sentient being, one can make
the distinction," Isabel returned. " I am a good deal like
Henrietta. The other day, when I asked her if she wished to
marry, she said — ' Not till I have seen Europe ! ' I too don't
wish to marry until I have seen Europe."

" You evidently expect that a crowned head will be struck
with you."

" ~No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton.
But it is getting very dark," Isabel continued, " and I must go
home." She rose from her place, but Ralph sat still a moment,
looking at her. As he did not follow her, she stopped, and they
remained a while exchanging a gaze, full on either side, but
especially on Ralph's, of utterances too vague for words.

" You have answered my question," said Ralph at last.
" You have told me what I wanted. I am greatly obliged to
you."

" It seems to me I have told you very little."

" You have told me the great thing : that the world interests
you and that you want to throw yourself into it."

Isabel's silvery eyes shone for a moment in the darkness
' I never said that."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 131

" I think you meant it. Don't repudiate it ; it's so fine ! "

"I don't know what you are trying to fasten upon me, for I
am not in the least an adventurous spirit. "Women are not like
men."

Ralph slowly rose from 'his seat, and they walked together to
the gate of the square. " No," he said ; " women rarely boast
of their courage ; men do so with a certain frequency."

" Men have it to boast of ! "

" Women have it too ; you have a great deal."

" Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt's Hotel ; but not more."

Ealph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he
fastened it.

" We will find your cab," he said; and as they turned
towards a neighbouring street in which it seemed that this
quest would be fruitful, he asked her again if he might not see
her safely to the inn.

"By no means," she answered; "you are very tired; you
must go home and go to bed."

The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a
moment at the door.

" When people forget I am a sick man I am often annoyed,"
he said. " But it's worse when they remember it ! "

XVI.

ISABEL had had no hidden motive in wishing her cousin not to
take her home ; it simply seemed to her that for some days past
she had consumed an inordinate quantity of his time, and the
independent spirit of the American girl who ends by regarding
perpetual assistance as a sort of derogation to her sanity, had
made her decide that for these few hours she must suffice to
herself. She had moreover a great fondness for intervals of
solitude, and since her arrival in England it had been but
scantily gratified. It was a luxury she could always command
at home, and she had missed it. That evening, however, an
incident occurred which — had there been a critic to note it —
would have taken all colour from the theory that the love of
solitude had caused her to dispense with Ralph's attendance.
She was sitting, towards nine o'clock, in the dim illumination of
Pratt's Hotel, trying with the aid of two tall candles to lose
herself in a volume she had brought from Gardencourt, but
succeeding only to the extent of reading other words on the page

K 2

132 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

than those that were printed there — words that Ealph had
spoken to her in the afternoon.

Suddenly the well-muffled knuckle of the waiter was applied
to the door, which presently admitted him, bearing the card of
a visitor. This card, duly considered, offered to Isabel's startled
vision the name of Mr. Caspar Goodwood. She let the servant
stand before her inquiringly for some instants, without signifying
her wishes.

" Shall I show the gentleman up, ma'am 1 " he asked at last,
with a slightly encouraging inflection.

Isabel hesitated still, and while she hesitated she glanced at
the mirror.

" He may come in," she said at last ; and waited for him with
some emotion.

Caspar Goodwood came in and shook hands with her. He
said nothing till the servant had left the room again, then he
said —

" Why didn't you answer my letter1? "

He spoke in a quick, full, slightly peremptory tone — the
tone of a man whose questions were usually pointed, and who
was capable of much insistence.

Isabel answered him by a question.

'* How did you know I was here1?"

" Miss Stackpole let me know," said Caspar Goodwood.
" She told me that you would probably be at home alone this
evening, and would be willing to see me."

" Where did she see you — to tell you that ? "

" She didn't see me ; she wrote to me."

Isabel was silent; neither of them had seated themselves ; they
stood there with a certain air of defiance, or at least of contention.

" Henrietta never told me that she was writing to you,"
Isabel said at last. " This is not kind of her."

"Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?" asked the young
man.

" I didn't expect it. I don't like such surprises."

" But you knew I was in town ; it was natural we should
meet."

" Do you ca 11 this meeting ? I hoped I should not see you.
In so large a place as London it seemed to me very possible."

" Apparently.it was disagreeable to you even to write to me,"
said Mr. Goodwood.

Isabel made no answer to this ; the sense of Henrietta
Stackpole' s treachery, as she momentarily qualified it, waa
strong within her.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY 133

" Henrietta is not delicate ! " she exclaimed with a certain
bit terness. " It was a great liberty to take."

" I suppose I am not delicate either. The fault is mine as
much as hers."

As Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had
never been more square. This might have displeased her ;
nevertheless she rejoined inconsequently —

" No, it is not your fault so much as hers. What you have
done is very natural."

"It is indeed ! " cried Caspar Goodwood, with a voluntary
laugh. " And now that I have come, at any rate, may I not stay ?"

" You may sit down, certainly."

And Isabel went back to her chair again, while her visitor
took the first place that offered, in the manner of a man accus-
tomed to pay little thought to the sort of chair he sat in.

"I have been hoping every day for an answer to my letter,"
he said. " You might have written me a few lines."

"It was not the trouble of writing that prevented me; I
could as easily have written you ' four pages as one. But my
silence was deliberate ; I thought it best."

He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she said this ; then
he lowered them and attached them to a spot in the carpet, as
if he were making a strong effort to say nothing but what he
ought to say. He was a strong man in the wrong, and he was
acute enough to see that an uncompromising exhibition of his
strength would only throw the falsity of his position into relief.
Isabel was not incapable of finding it agreeable to have an
advantage of position over a person of this quality, and though
she was not a girl to flaunt her advantage in his face, she was
woman enough to enjoy being able to say " You know you
ought not to have written to me yourself !" and to say it with a
certain air of triumph.

Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to hers again ; they wore an
expression of ardent remonstrance. He had a strong sense of
justice, and he was ready any day in the. year — over and above
this — to argue the question of his rights.

" You 'said you hoped never to hear from me again ; I know
that. But I never accepted the prohibition. I promised you
that you should hear very soon.;'

" I did not say that I hoped never to hear from you," said
Isabel.

" Not for five years, then ; for ten years. It is the same
thing."

" Do you find it so % It seems to me there is a great difference.

134 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

I can imagine that at the end of ten years we might have a
very pleasant correspondence. I shall have matured my epis-
tolary style."

Isabel looked away while she spoke these words, for she
knew they were of a much less earnest cast than the countenance
of her listener. Her eyes, however, at last came back to him,
just as he said, very irrelevantly —

" Are you enjoying your visit to your uncle 1

" Very much indeed." She hesitated, and then she broke
out with even, greater irrelevance, " What good do you expect
tc get by insisting ? "

" The good of not losing you."

" You have no right to talk about losing what is not yours.
And even from your own point of view," Isabel added, " you
ought to know when to let one alone."

" I displease you very much," said Caspar Goodwood gloomily ;
not as if to provoke her to compassion for a man conscious of
this blighting fact, but as if to set it well before himself, so
that he might endeavour to act with his eyes upon it.

" Yes, you displease me very much, and the worst is that it
is needless."

Isabel knew that his was not a soft nature, from which pin-
pricks would draw blood ; and from the first of her acquaintance
with him and of her having to defend herself against a certain
air that he had of knowing better what was good for her than
she knew herself, she had recognised the fact that perfect frank-
ness was her best weapon. To attempt to spare his sensibility
or to escape from him edgewise, as one might do from a man
who had barred the way less sturdily — this, in dealing with
Caspar Goodwood, who would take everything of every sort
that one might give him, was wasted agility. It was not
that - he had not susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as
well as his active, was large and firm, and he might always be
trusted to dress his wounds himself. In measuring the effect
of his suffering, one might always reflect that he had a sound
constitution.

" I cant reconcile myself to that," he said.

There was a dangerous liberality about this ; for Isabel felt
that it was quite open to him to say that he had not always
displeased her.

" I can't reconcile myself to it either, and it is not the state
of things that ought to exist between us. If you would only
try and banish me from your mind for a few months we should
be on good terms again."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 135

<: I see. If I should cease to think of you for a few months
I should find I could keep it up indefinitely."

" Indefinitely is more than I ask. It is more even than I
should like."

'• You know that what you ask is impossible," said the young
man, taking his adjective for granted in a manner that Isabel
found irritating.

" Are you not capable of making an effort 1 " she demanded.
"You are strong for everything else; why shouldn't you be
strong for that 1 "

' Because I am in love with you," said Caspar Goodwood
simply. " If one is strong, one loves only the more strongly."

" There is a good deal in that ; " and indeed our young
lady felt the force of it. " Think of me or not, as you find most
possible ; only leave me alone."

"Until when?"

" Well, f<»r a year or two."

" " Which do you mean 1 Between ons year and two there is a
great difference."

" Call it two, then," said Isabel, wondering whether a little
cynicism might not be effective.

"And what shall I gain by that1?" Mr. Goodwood asked,
giving no sign of wincing.

" You will have obliged me greatly."

*' But what will be my reward ] "

" Do you need a reward for an act of generosity 1 "

" Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice."

" There is no generosity without sacrifice. Men don't under-
stand such things. If you make this sacrifice I shall admire
you greatly."

"I don't care a straw for your admiration. Will you marry
me1? That is the question."

" Assuredly not, if I feel as I feel at present."

" Then I ask again, what I shall gain ? "

" You will gain quite as much as by worrying me to death ! "

Caspar Goodwood bent his eyes again and gazed for a while
into the crown of his hat. A deep flush overspread his face,
and Isabel could perceive that this dart at last had struck home.
To see a strong man in pain had something terrible for her, and
she immediately felt very sorry for her visitor.

" Why do you make me say such things to y«u 1 ^iie cried
in a trembling voice. " I only want .to be gentle — to be kind.
It is not delightful to me to feel that people care for me, and
yet to have to try and reason them out of it. I think others

136 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

also ought to be considerate; we have each to judge for our-
selves. I know you are considerate, as much as you can be :
you have good reasons for what you do. But I don't want to
marry. I shall probably never marry. I have a perfect right
to feel that way, and it is no kindness to a woman to urge her —
to persuade her against her will. If I give you pain I can only
say I am very sorry. It is not my fault ; I can't marry you
simply to please you. I won't say that I shall always remain
your friend, because when women say that, in these circum-
stances, it is supposed, I believe, to be a sort of mockery. But
try me some day."

Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed
upon the name of his hatter, and it was not until some time
after she had ceased speaking that he raised them. When he
did so, the sight of a certain rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabel's
face throw some confusion into his attempt to analyse what she
had said. " I will go home — I will go to-morrow — 1 will leave
you alone," he murmured at last. " Only," he added in a louder
tone — " I hate to lose sight of you ! "

" Never fear. I will do no harm."

" You will marry some one else," said Caspar Goodwood.

" Do you think that is a generous charge? "

" Why not 1 Plenty of men will ask you."

" I told you just now that 1 don't wish to marry, and that T
shall probably never do so."

" I know you did ; but I don't believe it."

" Thank you very much. You appear to think I am attempt-
ing to deceive you ; you say very delicate things."

"Why should I not say that? You have given me no
promise that you will not marry."

" JS"o, that is all that would be wanting ! " cried Isabel, with a
bitter laugh.

" You think you won't, but you will," her visitor went on, as
if he were preparing himself fur the worst.

"Very well, I will then. Have it as you please."

" I don't know, however," said Caspar Goodwood, " that my
keeping you in sight would prevent it."

" Don't you indeed ? I am, after all, very much afraid of you.
Do you think I am so very easily pleased 1 " she asked suddenly,
changing her tone.

" No, I don't ; I shall try and console myself with that. But
there are a certain number of very clever men in the world ; if
there were only one, it would be enough. You will be sure to
take no one who is not."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 137

" I don't need the aid of a clever man to teacli me how to
live," said Isabel. " I can find it out for myself."

" To live alone, do you mean 1 I wish that when you have
found that out, you would teach ;iie."

Isabel glanced at him a moment ; then, with a quick smile —
" Oh, you ought to marry ! " she said.

Poor Caspar may be pardoned if for an instant this exclama-
tion seemed to him to have the infernal note, and I cannot take
upon myself to say that Isabel uttered it in obedience to an
impulse strictly celestial. It was a fact, however, that it had
always seemed to her that Caspar Goodwood, of all men, ought
to enjoy the whole devotion of some tender woman. " God
forgive you ! " he murmured between his teeth, turning
away.

Her exclamation had put her slightly in the wrong, and after
a moment she felt the need to right herself. The easiest way
to do it was to put her suitor in the wrong. " You do me great
injustice — you say what you don't know ! " she broke out. " I
should not be an easy victim — I have proved it."

" Oh, to me, perfectly."

" I have proved it to others as well." And she paused a
moment." " I refused a proposal of marriage last week — what
they call a brilliant one."

" I am very glad to hear it," said the young man, gravely.

" It was a proposal that many girls would have accepted ; it
had everything to recommend it." Isabel had hesitated to tell
this story, but now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking
it out and doing herself justice took possession of her. "I
was offered a great position and a great fortune — by a person
whom I like extremely."

Caspar gazed at her with great interest. " Is he an
Englishman 1 "

" He is an English nobleman," said Isabel.

Mr. Goodwood received this announcement in silence ; then,
at last, he said — " I am glad he is disappointed."

" Well, then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the
best of it."

" I don't call him a companion," said Caspar, grimly.

" Why not — dnce I declined his offer absolutely *? "

"That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an
Englishman."

" And pray is not an Englishman a human being 1 " Isabel
inquired.

" Oh, no ; he's superhuman."

138 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" You are angry," said the girl. " We have discussed this
matter quite enough."

" Oh, yes, I am angry. I plead guilty to that ! "

Isabel turned away from him, walked to the open window,
and stood a moment looking into the dusky vacancy of the
street, where a turbid gaslight alone represented social anima-
tion. For some time neither of these young persons spoke ;
Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece, with his eyes gloomily
fixed upon our heroine. She had virtually requested him to
withdraw — he knew that ; but at the risk of making himself
odious to her he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him
to be easily forfeited, and he had sailed across the Atlantic to
extract some pledge from her. Presently she left the window
and stood before him again.

"You do me very little justice," she said — "after my telling
you what I told you just now. I am sorry I told you — since it
matters so little to you."

"Ah," cried the young man, "if you were thinking of me
when you did it ! " And then he paused, with the fear that she
might contradict so happy a thought.

" I was thinking of you a little," said Isabel.

"A little1? I don't understand. If the knowledge that I
love you had any weight with you at all, it must have had a
good deal."

Isabel shook her head impatiently, as if to carry off a blush.
" I have refused a noble gentleman. Make the most of that."

" I thank you, then," said Caspar Goodwood, gravely. " I
thank you immensely."

"And now you had better go home."

" May I not see you again]" he asked.

" I think it is better not. You will be sure to talk of this,
and you see it leads to nothing."

" I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you."

Isabel reflected a little, and then she said — "I return in a day
or two to my uncle's, and I can't propose to you to come there ;
it would be very inconsistent."

Caspai Goodwood, on his side, debated within himself. "You
must do me justice too. I received an invitation to your uncle's
more than a week ago, and I declined it."

"From whom was your invitation?" Isabel asked, surprised.

"From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your
cousin. I declined it because I had not your authorisation to
accept it. The suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me
appeared to have come from Miss Stackpole."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 139

" It certainly did not come from me. Henrietta certainly goes
very far," Isabel added.

" Don't be too hard on her — that touches me."

" No ; if you declined, that was very proper of you, and
I thank you for it." And Isabel gave a little shudder of
dismay at the thought that Lord Warburton and Mr. Goodwood
might have met at Gardencourt : it would have been so awkward
for Lord Warburton !

"When you leave your uncle, where are you going?" Caspar
asked.

" I shall go abroad with my aunt — to Florence and other
places."

The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young
man's heart j he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from
which he was inexorably excluded. » Nevertheless he went on
quickly with his questions. "And when shall you come back
to America ? "

" Perhaps not for a long time ; I am very happy here."

" Do you mean to give up your country ? "

" Don't be an infant."

" Well, you will be out of my sight indeed ! " said Caspar
Goodwood.

" I don't know," she answered, rather grandly. " The world
strikes me as small."

" It is too large for me ! " Caspar exclaimed, with a simplicity
which our young lady might have found touching if her face
had not been set against concessions.

This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had
lately embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment —
" Don't think me unkind if I say that it's just that — being out
of your sight — that I like. If you were in the same place as I,
I should feel as if you were watching me, and I don't like that
I like my liberty too much. If there is a thing in the world
that I am fond of," Isabel went on, with a slight recurrence of
the grandeur that had shown itself a moment before — "it is my
personal independence."

But whatever there was of grandeur in this speech moved
Caspar Goodwood's admiration ; there was nothing that displeased
him in the sort of feeling it expressed. This feeling not .only did
no violence to his way of looking at the girl he wished to make
his wife, but seemed a grace the more in so ardent a spirit. To
his mind she had always had wings, and this was but the nutter
of those stainless pinions. He was not afraid of having a wife
with a certain largeness of movement ; he was a man of long

140 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

steps himself. Isabel's words, if they had been meant to shock
him, failed of the mark, and only made him smile with the
sense that here was common ground. " Who would wish less
to curtail your liberty than I?" he asked. "What can give
me greater pleasure than to see you perfectly independent —
doing whatever you like 1 It is to make you independent that
I want to marry you."

" That's a beautiful sophism," said the girl, with a smile more
beautiful still.

" An unmarried woman — a girl of your age — is not inde-
pendent. There are all sorts of things she can't do. She is
hampered at every step."

" That's as she looks at the question," Isabel answered, with
much spirit. " I am not in my first youth — I can do what I
choose — I belong quite to the independent class. I have neither
father nor mother ; I am poor ; 1 am of a serious disposition,
and not pretty. I therefore am not bound to be timid and
conventional ; indeed I can't afford such luxuries. Besides/ 1
try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, 1 think, is more
honourable than not to judge at all. I don't wish to be a mere
sheep in the flock ; I wish to choose my fate and know some-
thing of human affairs beyond what other people think it com-
patible with propriety to tell me." She paused a moment, but
not long enough for her companion to reply. He was apparently
on the point of doing so, when she went on — " Let me say this
to you, Mr. Goodwood. You are so kind as to speak of being
afraid of my marrying. If you should hear a rumour that I
am on the point of doing so — girls are liable to have such things
said about them — remember what I have told you about my
love of liberty, and venturfe to doubt it."

There was something almost passionately positive in the tone
in which Isabel gave him this advice, and he saw a shining
candour in her eyes which helped him to believe her. On the
whole he felt reassured, and you might have perceived it by the
manner in which he said, quite eagerly — " You want simply to
travel for two years ? I am quite willing to wait two years, and
you may do what you like in the interval. If that is all you
want, pray say so. I don't want you to be conventional ; do I
strike you: as conventional myself1? Do you want to improve
your mind 1 Your iuind is quite good enough for me ; .but if
it interests you to wander about a while and see different
countries, I shall be delighted to help you, in any way in my
power."

" You are very generous ; that is nothing new to me. The

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 141

best way to help me will be to put as many hundred miles of
sea between us as possible."

" One would think you were going to commit a crime ! " said
Caspar Goodwood.

" Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that, if the
fancy takes me."

"Well then," he said, slowly, "I will go home." And he
put out his hand, trying to look contented and confident.

Isabel's confidence in him, however, was greater than any he
could feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of commit-
ting a crime } but, turn it over as he would, there was something
ominous in the way she reserved her option. As Isabel took
his hand, she felt a great respect for him ; she knew how much
he cared for her, and she thought him magnanimous. They
stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a hand-
clasp which was not merely passive on her side. "That's
right," she said, very kindly, almost tenderly. " You will lose
nothing by being a reasonable man."

" But I will come back, wherever you are, two years hence,"
he returned, with characteristic grimness.

We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at
this she suddenly changed her note. "Ah, remember, I
promise nothing — absolutely nothing!" Then more softly, as
if tu help him to leave her, she added — " And remember, too,
that I shall not be an easy victim ! "

" You will get very sick of your independence."

" Perhaps I shall ; it is even very probable. When that day
comes I shall be very glad to see you."

She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into
her room, and she waited a moment to see whether her visitor
would not take his departure. But he appeared unable to
move ; there was stiil an immense unwillingness in his attitude
— a deep remonstrance in his eyes.

" I must leave you now," said Isabel ; and she opened the
door, and passed into the other room.

This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by
a vague radiance sent up through the window from the court
of the hotel, and Isabel could make out the masses of the
furniture, the dim shining of the mirror, and the looming of the
big four-posted bed. She stood still a moment, listening, and
at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the sitting-room
and close the door behind him. She stood still a moment
longer, and then, by an irresistible impulse, she dropped on her
knees before her bed, and hid her face in her arms.

142 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

XVII.

SHE was not praying ; she was trembling — trembling all
over. She was an excitable creature, and now she .was much
excited ; but she wished to resist her excitement, and the
attitude of prayer, which she kept for some time, seemed to
help her to be still. She was extremely glad Caspar Goodwood
was gone ; there was something exhilarating in having got rid
of him. As Isabel became conscious of this feeling she bowed
her head a little lower ; the feeling was there, throbbing in her
heart ; it was a part of her emotion ; but it was a thing to be
ashamed of — it was profane and out of place. It was not for
some ten minutes that she rose from her knees, and when she
came back to the sitting-room she was still trembling a little.
Her agitation had two causes ; part of it was to be accounted
for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might be
feared that the rest was simply the enjoyment she found in the
exercise of her power. She sat down in the same chair again,
and took up her book, but Avithout going through the form of
opening the volume. She leaned back, with that low, soft,
aspiring murmur with which she often expressed her gladness
in accidents of which the brighter side was not superficially
obvious, and gave herself up to the satisfaction of having re-
fused two ardent suitors within a fortnight. That love of
liberty of which she had given Caspar Goodwood so bold a
sketch was as yet almost exclusively thnoretic ; she had not
been able to indulge it- on a large scale. But it seemed to her
that she had done somnthing ; she had tasted of the delight, if
not of battle, at least of victory ; she had done what she pre-
ferred. In the midst of this agreeable sensation the image of
Mr. Goodwood taking his sad walk homeward through the
dingy town presented itself with a certain reproachful force ; so
that, as at the same moment the door of the room was opened,
she rose quickly with an apprehension that he had come back.
But it was only Henrietta Stackpole returning from her dinner.

Miss Stackpole immediately saw that something had happened
to Isabel, and indeed the discovery demanded no great penetra-
tion. Henrietta went straight up to her friend, who received
her without a greeting. Isabel's elation in having sent Caspar
Goodwood back to America pre-supposed her being glad that he
had come to see her ; but at the same time she perfectly remem-
bered that Henrietta had had no right to set a trap for her.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 143

" Has he been here, dear ] " Miss Stackpole inquired, softly.

Isabel turned away, and for some moments answered nothing.

" You acted very wrongly," she said at last.

" I acted for the best, dear. I only hope you acted as well."

" You are not the judge. I can't trust you," said Isabel.

This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too
unselfish to heed the charge it conveyed ; she cared only for
what it intimated with regard to her friend.

"Isabel Archer," she declared, with equal abruptness and
solemnity, " if you marry one of these people, I will never speak
to you again ! "

" Before making so terrible a threat, you had better wait till
I am asked," Isabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss
Stackpole about Lord Warburton's overtures, she had now no
impulse whatever to justify herself to Henrietta by telling her
that she had refused that nobleman.

" Oh, you'll be asked quick enough, once you get off on the
continent. Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy — poor
plain little Annie."

" Well, if Annie Climber was not captured, why should
Ibe^"

" I don't believe Annie was pressed ; but you'll be."

" That's a flattering conviction," said Isabel, with a laugh.

'" I don't flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth ! " cried her
friend. " I hope you don't mean to tell me that you didn't give
Mr. Goodwood some hope."

" I don't see why I should tell you anything ; as I said to
you just now, I can't trust you. But since you are so much
interested in Mr. Goodwood, I won't conceal from you that he
returns immediately to America."

"You don't mean to say you have sent him off? " Henrietta
broke out in dismay.

" I asked him to leave me alone ; and I ask you the same,
Henrietta."

Miss Stackpole stood there with expanded eyes, and then she
went to the mirror over the chimney-piece and took off her
bonnet.

" I hope you have enjoyed your dinner," Isabel remarked,
lightly, as she did so.

But Miss Stackpole was not to be diverted by frivolous pro-
positions, nor bribed by the offer of autobiographic opportunities.

" Do you know where you are going, Isabel Archer 1 "

"Just now I am going to bed," said Isabel, with persistent
frivolity.

144 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Do you know where you are drifting ] " Henrietta went on
holding out her bonnet delicately.

"No, I haven't the least idea, and I find it very pleasant
not to know. A swift carnage, of a dark night, rattling with
four horses over roads that one can't see — that's my idea of
happiness."

" Mr. Goodwood certainly didn't teach you to say such things
as that — like the heroine of an immoral novel," said Miss Stack-
pole. " You are drifting to some great mistake."

Isabel was irritated by her friend's interference, but even in
the midst of her irritation she tried to think what truth this
declaration could represent. She could think of nothing that
diverted her from saying — " You must be very fond of me,
Henrietta, to be willing to be so disagreeable to me."

" I love you, Isabel/' said Miss Stackpole, with feeling.

" Well, if you love me, let me alone. I asked that of Mr.
Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you."

" Take care you are not let alone too much."

" That is what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must
take the risks."

" You are a creature of risks — you make me shudder ! " cried
Henrietta. " When does Mr. Goodwood return to America1?"

" I don't know — he didn't tell me."

" Perhaps you didn't inquire," said Henrietta, with the note
of righteous irony.

" I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask
questions of him."

This assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to bid
defiance to comment ; but at last she exclaimed — " Well, Isabel,
if I didn't know you, I might think you were heartless ! "

" Take care," said Isabel; " you are spoiling me."

" I am afraid I have done that already. I hope, at least,"
Miss Stackpole added, " that he may cross with Annie
Climber ! "

Isabel learned from her the next morning that she had deter-
mined not to return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett
had promised her a renewed welcome), but to await in London
the arrival of the invitation that Mr. Bantling had promised her
from his sister, Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole related very freely
her conversation with Ealph Touchett's sociable friend, and
declared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got hold
of something that would lead to something. On the receipt of
Lady Pensil's letter— Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed
the arrival of this document — she would immediately depart for

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 145

Bedfordshire, and if Isabel cared to look out for her impressions
in the Interviewer, she would certainly find them. Henrietta
was evidently going to see something of the inner life this time.

"Do you know where you are drifting, Henrietta Stackpolel "
Isabel asked, imitating the tone in which her friend had spoken
the night before.

" I am drifting to a big position — that of queen of American
journalism. If my next letter isn't copied all over the West,
I'll swallow my pen- wiper ! "

She had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, the
young lady of the continental offers, that they should go together
to make those purchases which were to constitute Miss Climber's
farewell to a hemisphere in which she at least had been appreci-
ated ; and she presently repaired to Jermyn Street to pick up
her companion. Shortly after her departure Ealph Touclfett
was announced, and as soon as he came in Isabel saw that he
had something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin
into his confidence. He had received a telegram from his
mother, telling him that his father had had a sharp attack of
his old malady, that she was much alarmed, and that she begged
Ralph would instantly return to Gardencourt. On this occa-
sion, at least, Mrs. Touchett's devotion to the electric wire had
nothing incongruous.

" I have judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew
Hope, first," Ealph said ; " by great good luck he's in town. He
is to see me at half-past twelve, and I shall make sure of his
coming down to Gardencourt — which he will do the more readily
as he has already seen my father several times, both there and in
London. There is an express at two-forty-five, which I shall
take, and you will come back with me, or remain here a few
days longer, exactly as you prefer."

" I will go with you ! " Isabel exclaimed. " I don't suppose
I can be of any use to my uncle, but if he is ill I should like to
be near him."

"I think you like him," said Ralph, with a certain shy
pleasure in his eye. " You appreciate him, which all the world
hasn't done. The quality is too fine."

" I think I love him," said Isabel, simply.

" That's very well. After his son, he is your greatest admirer."

Isabel welcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a little
sigh of relief at the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those
admirers who could not propose to marry her. This, however,
was not what she said ; she went on to inform Ralph that there
were other reasons why she should not remain in London. She

L

146 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

was tired of it and wished to leave it ; and then Henrietta was
going away — going to stay in Bedfordshire."

" In Bedfordshire ? " Ralph exclaimed, with surprise.

"With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has
answered for an invitation."

Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh.
Suddenly, however, he looked grave again. " Bantling is a man
of courage. But if the invitation should get lost on the way ] "

" I thought the British post-office was impeccable."

" The good Homer sometimes nods," said Ralph. " However,"
he went on, more brightly, " the good Bantling never does, and,
whatever happens, he will take care of Henrietta,"

Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope,
and Isabel made her arrangements for quitting Pratt's Hotel.
He"r uncle's danger touched her nearly, and while she stood
before her open trunk, looking about her vaguely for what she
should put into it, the tears suddenly rushed into her eyes. It
was perhaps for this reason that when Ralph came back at two
o'clock to take her to the station she was not yet ready.

He found Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where
she had just risen from the lunch-table, and this lady immedi-
ately expressed her regret at his father's illness.

" He is a grand old man," she said ; " he is faithful to the
last. If it is really to be the last — excuse my alluding to it,
but you must often have thought of the possibility — I am sorry
that I shall not be at Gardencourt."

"You will amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire." \

" I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time," said
Henrietta, with much propriety. But she immediately added —
" I should like so to commemorate the closing scene."

" My father may live a long time," said Ralph, simply.
Then, adverting to topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss
Stackpole as to her own future.

Now that Ralph was in trouble, she addressed him in a tone
of larger allowance, and told him that she was much indebted
to him for having made her acquainted with Mr. Bantling.
" He has told me just the things I want to know," she said ;
" all the society-items and all about the royal family. I can't
make out that what he tells me about the royal family is much
to their credit ; but he says that's only my peculiar way of
looking at it. Well, all I want is that he should give me the
facts; I can put them together quick enough, once I've got
them." And she added that Mr. Bantling had been so good
as to promise to come and take her out in the afternoon.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 147

" To take you where ? " Ralph ventured to inquire.

" To Buckingham Palace. He is going to show me over it,
so that I may get some idea how they live."

" Ah," said Ralph, " we leave you in good hands. The first
thing we shall hear is that you are invited to Windsor Castle."

" If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I
am not afraid. But for all that," Henrietta added in a moment,
" I am not satisfied; I am not satisfied about Isabel."

" What is her last misdemeanour ? "

" Well, I have told you before, and I suppose there is no
harm in my going on. I always finish a subject that I take up.
Mr. Goodwood was here last night."

Ralph opened his eyes ; he even blushed a little — his blush
being the sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered
that Isabel, in separating from him in Winchester Square, had
repudiated his suggestion that her motive in doing so was the
expectation of a visitor at Pratt 's Hotel, and it was a novel
sensation to him to have to suspect her of duplicity. On the
other hand, he quickly said to himself, what concern was it of
his that she should have made an appointment with a lover 1
Had it not been thought graceful in every age that young ladies
should make a mystery of such appointments? Ralph made
Miss Stackpole a diplomatic answer. " I should have thought
that, with the views you expressed to me the other day, that
would satisfy you perfectly."

" That he should come to see her 1 That was very well, as
far as it went. It was a little plot of mine ; I let him know
that we were in London, and when it had been arranged that I
should spend the evening out, I just sent him a word — a word
to the wise. I hoped he would find her alone ; I won't pretend
I didn't hope that you would be out of the way. He came to
see her ; but he might as well have stayed away."

" Isabel was cruel ? " Ralph inquired, smiling, and relieved at
learning that his cousin had not deceived him.

" I don't exactly know what passed between them. But she
gave him no satisfaction — she sent him back to America."

" Poor Mr. Goodwood ! " Ralph exclaimed.

" Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him," Henrietta
went on.

" Poor Mr. Goodwood ! " repeated Ralph. The exclamation,
it must be confessed, was somewhat mechanical. It failed
exactly to express his thoughts, which were taking another
line.

" You don't say that as if you felt it ; I don't believe you care."

L 2

148 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Ah," said Ralph, " you must remember that I don't know
this interesting young man — that I have never seen him."

" Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up.
If I didn't believe Isabel would come round," said Miss Stack-
pole — " well, I'd give her up myself ! "

XVIII.

IT had occurred to Ralph that under the circumstances Isabel's
parting with Miss Stackpolc might be of a slightly embarrassed
nature, and he went down to the door of the hotel in advance
of his cousin, who after a slight delay followed, with the traces
of an unaccepted remonstrance, as he thought, in her eye. The
two made the journey to Gardencourt in almost unbroken
silence, and the servant who met them at the station had no
better news to give them of Mr. Touchett — a fact which caused
Ralph to congratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope's
having promised to come down in the five o'clock train and spend
the night. Mrs. Touchett, he learned, on reaching home, had
been constantly with the old man, and was with him at that
moment ; and this fact made Ralph say to himself that, after
all, what his mother wanted was simply opportunity. The
finest natures were those that shone on large occasions. Isabel
went to her own room, noting, throughout the house, that per-
ceptible hush which precedes a crisis. At the end of an hour,
however, she came down-stairs in search of her aunt, whom
she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She went into the
library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as the weather,
which had been damp and chill, was now altogether spoiled,
it was not probable that she had gone for her usual walk in
the grounds. Isabel was on the point of ringing to send an
inquiry to her room, when her attention was taken by an un-
expected sound — the sound of low music proceeding appar-
ently from the drawing-room. She knew that her aunt never
touched the piano, and the musician was therefore probably
Ralph, who played for his own amusement. That he should
have resorted to this recreation at the present time, indicated
apparently that his anxiety about his father had been relieved ;
so that Isabel took her way to the drawing-room with much
alertness. The drawing-room at Gardencourt was an apart-
ment of great distances, and as the piano was placed at the end
of it furthest removed from the door at which Isabel entered,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 149

her arrival was not noticed by the person seated before the
instrument. This person was neither Balph nor his mother ; it
was a lady whom Isabel immediately saw to be a stranger to
herself, although her back was presented to the door. This
back — an ample and well-dressed one — Isabel contemplated for
some moments in surprise. The lady was of course a visitor
who had arrived during her absence, and who had not been
mentioned by either of the servants — one of them her aunt's
maid — of whom she had had speech since her return. Isabel
had already learned, however, that the British domestic is not
effusive, and she was particularly conscious of having been
treated with dryness by her aunt's maid, whose offered assistance
the young lady from Albany — versed, as young ladies are in
Albany, in the very metaphysics of the toilet — had perhaps
made too light of. The arrival of a visitor was far from dis-
agreeable to Isabel; she had not yet divested herself of a
youthful impression that each new acquaintance would exert
some momentous influence upon her life. By the time she
had made these reflections she became aware that the lady at
the piano played remarkably well. She was playing something
of Beethoven's — Isabel knew not what, but she recognised
Beethoven — and she touched the piano softly and discreetly,
but with evident skill. Her touch was that of an artist ; Isabel
sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and waited till the
end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strong desire
to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at the
same time the lady at the piano turned quickly round, as if she
had become aware of her presence.

"That is very beautiful, and your playing makes it moro
beautiful still," said Isabel, with all the young radiance with
which she usually uttered a truthful rapture.

"You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett, then?" the
musician answered, as sweetly as this compliment deserved.
" The house is so large, and his room so far away, that I thought
I might venture — especially as I played just — just du bout des

" She is a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself ; " she says
that as if she were French." And this supposition made the
stranger more interesting to our speculative heroine. " I hope
my uncle is doing well," Isabel added. " I should think that
to hear such lovely music as that would really make him feel
better."

The lady gave a discriminating smile.

" I am afraid there are moments in life when even Beethoven

150 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however, that they
are our worst moments."

" I am not in that state now," said Isabel. " On the con-
trary, I should be so glad if you would play something more."

" If it will give you pleasure — most willingly." And this
obliging person took her place again, and struck a few chords,
while Isabel sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the
stranger stopped, with her hands on the keys, half-turning and
looking over her shoulder at the girl. She was forty years old,
and she was not pretty; but she had a delightful expression.
" Excuse me," she said ; " but are you the niece — the young
American 1 "

" I am my aunt's niece," said Isabel, with nawetS.

The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, looking over
her shoulder with her charming smile.

" That's very well," she said, " we are compatriots."

And then she began to play.

" Ah, then she is not French," Isabel murmured ; and as the
opposite supposition had made her interesting, it might have
seemed that this revelation would have diminished her effective-
ness. But such was not the fact ; for Isabel, as she listened to
the music, found much stimulus to conjecture in the fact that
an American should so strongly resemble a foreign woman.

Her companion played in the same manner as before, softly
and solemnly, and while she played the shadows deepened in the
room. The autumn twilight gathered in, and from her place
Isabel could see the rain, which had now begun in earnest,
washing the cold-looking lawn, and the wind shaking the great
trees. At last, when the music had ceased, the lady got up, and,
coming to her auditor, smiling, before Isabel had time to thank
her again, said —

" I am very glad you have come^ back ; I have heard a great
deal about you."

Isabel thought her a very attractive person ; but she never-
theless said, with a certain abruptness, in answer to this
speech —

" From whom have you heard about me 1 "

The stranger hesitated a single moment, and then —

" From your uncle," she answered. " I have been here three
days, and the first day he let me come and pay him a visit in his
room. Then he talked constantly of you."

" As you didn't know me, that must have bored you."

" It made me want to know you. All the more that since
then — your aunt being so much with Mr. Touchett — I have been

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 151

quite alone, and have got rather tired of my own society. I
have not chosen a good moment for my visit."

A servant had come in with lamps, and was presently followed
by another, bearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this
repast Mrs. Touchett had apparently been notified, for she now
arrived and addressed herself to the tea-pot. Her greeting to her
niece did not differ materially from her manner of raising the lid
of this receptacle in order to glance at the contents : in neither
act was it becoming to make a show of avidity. Questioned
about her husband, she was unable to say that he was better ;
but the local doctor was with him, and much light was expected
from this gentleman's consultation with Sir Matthew Hope.

" I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance 1 " she
said. " If you have not, I recommend you to do so ; for so long
as we continue — Ralph and I — to cluster about Mr. Touchett's
bed, you are not likely to have much society but each other."

" I know nothing about you but that you are a great
musician," Isabel said to the visitor.

" There is a good deal more than that to know," Mrs. Touchett
affirmed, in her little dry tone.

" A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer ! "
the lady exclaimed, with a light laugh. " I am an old friend of
your aunt's — I have lived much in Florence — I am Madame
Merle."

She made this last announcement as if she were referring to a
person of tolerably distinct identity.

For Isabel, however, it represented but little ; she could only
continue to feel that Madame Merle had a charming manner.

" She is not a foreigner, in spite of her name," said Mrs.
Touchett. "She was born — I always forget where you were
born."

"It is hardly worth while I should tell you, then."

" On the contrary," said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a
logical point ; " if I remembered, your telling me would be quite
superfluous."

Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a fine, frank smile.

" I was born under the shadow of the national banner."

" She is too fond of mystery," said Mrs. Touchett ; " that is
her great fault."

" Ah," exclaimed Madame Merle, " I have great faults, but I
don't think that is one of them ; it certainly is not the greatest.
I came into the world in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father
was a high officer in the United States navy, and had a post — a
post of responsibility — in that establishment at the time. I

152 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hate it. That's why I
don't return to America. I love the land ; the great thing is to
love something."

Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with
the force of Mrs. Touchett's characterisation of her visitor, who
had an expressive, communicative, responsive face, by no means
of the sort which, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secretive disposi-
tion. It was a face that told of a rich nature and of quick and
liberal impulses, and though it had no regular beauty was in the
highest degree agreeable to contemplate.

Madame Merle was a tall, fair, plump woman ; everything in
her person was round and replete, though without those accumu-
lations which minister to indolence. Her features were thick,
but there was a graceful harmony among them, and her com-
plexion had a healthy clearness. She had a small grey eye, with
a great deal of light in it — an eye incapable of dulness, and,
according to some people, incapable of tears ; and a wide, firm
mouth, which, when she smiled, drew itself upward to the left
side, in a manner that most people thought very odd, some very
affected, and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range
herself in the last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair,
which was arranged with picturesque simplicity, and a large
white hand, of a perfect shape — a shape so perfect that its
owner, preferring to leave it unadorned, wore no rings. Isabel
had taken her at first, as we have seen, for a Frenchwoman ; but
extended observation led her to say to herself that Madame
Merle might be a German — a German of rank, a countess, a
princess. Isabel would never have supposed that she had been
born in Brooklyn — though she could doubtless not have justified
her assumption that the air of distinction, possessed by Madame
Merle in so eminent a degree, was inconsistent with such a birth.
It was true that the national banner had floated immediately
over the spot of the lady's nativity, and the breezy freedom of
the stars and stripes might have shed an influence upon the
attitude which she then and there took towards life. And yet
Madame Merle had evidently nothing of the fluttered, flapping
quality of a morsel of bunting in the wind ; her deportment
expressed the repose and confidence which come from a large
experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth ;
it had simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a
word a woman of ardent impulses, kept in admirable order.
What an ideal combination ! thought Isabel.

She made these reflections while the three ladies sat at their
tea ; but this cerempny was interrupted before long by the arrival

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 153

of the great doctor from London, who had been immediately
ushered into the drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to
the library, to confer with him in private ; and then Madame
Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner. The idea of
seeing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigate
Isabel's perception of the melancholy that now hung over
Gardencourt.

When she came into the drawing-room before dinner she
found the place empty ; but in the course of a moment Ralph
arrived. His anxiety about his father had been lightened ; Sir
Matthew Hope's view of his condition was less sombre than
Ralph's had been. The doctor recommended that the nurse
alone should remain with the old man for the next three or four
hours ; so that Ralph, his mother, and the great physician him-
self, were free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew
came in ; Madame Merle was the last to appear.

Before she came, Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was
standing before the fireplace.

" Pray who is Madame Merle ? "

" The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself," said
Ralph.

" I thought she seemed very pleasant."

" I was sure you would think her pleasant," said Ralph.

" Is that why you invited her 1 "

" I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I
didn't know she was here. No one invited her. She is a friend
of my mother's, and just after you and I went to town, my
mother got a note from her. She had arrived in England (she
usually lives abroad, though she has first and last spent a good
deal of time here), and she asked leave to come down for a few
days. Madame Merle is a woman who can make such proposals
with perfect confidence ; she is so welcome wherever she goes.
And with my mother there could be no question of hesitating ;
she is the one person in the world whom my mother very much
admires. If she were not herself (which she after all much
prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It would, indeed,
be a great change."

" Well, she is very charming," said Isabel. " And she plays
beautifully."

" She does everything beautifully. She is complete."

Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. " You don't like her."

" On the contrary, I was once in love with her."

" And she didn't care for you, and that's why you don't like
her."

154 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"How can we have discussed such things? M. Merle was
then living."

" Is he dead now 1 "

"So she says."

"Don't you believe her? "

" Yes, because the statement agrees wiih the probabilities
The husband of Madame Merle would be likely to pass away."

Isabel gazed at her cousin again. " I don't know what you
mean. You mean something — that you don't mean. What was
M. Merle ? "

" The husband of Madame."

" You are very odious. Has she any children ? "

" Not the least little child — fortunately."

"Fortunately?"

"I mean fortunately for the child; she would be sure to
spoil it."

Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for
the third time that he was odious ; but the discussion was inter-
rupted by the arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She
came rustling in quickly, apologising for being late, fastening a
bracelet, dressed in dark blue satin, which exposed a white
bosom that was ineffectually covered by a curious silver necklace.
Ralph offered her his arm with the exaggerated alertness of a
man who was no longer a lover.

Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ealph had
other things to think about. The great doctor spent the night
at Gardencourt, and returning to London on the morrow, after
another consultation with Mr. Touchett' s own medical adviser,
concurred in Ralph's desire that he should see the patient again
on the day following. On the day following Sir Matthew Hope
reappeared at Gardencourt, and on this occasion took a less
encouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the
twenty-four hours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son,
who constantly sat by his bedside, it often seemed that his end
was at hand. The local doctor, who was a very sagacious man,
and in whom Ealph had secretly more confidence than in his
distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir
Matthew Hope returned several times to Gardencourt. Mr.
Touchett was much of the time unconscious ; he slept a great
deal ; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a great desire to be useful to
him, and was allowed to watch with him several times when
his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least
regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and
ehe always said to herself — " Suppose he should die while I am

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 155

sitting here ; " an idea which excited her and kept her awake.
Once he opened his eyes for a while and fixed them upon her
intelligently, but when she went to him, hoping he would recog-
nise her, he closed them and relapsed into unconsciousness.
The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time ; but
on this occasion Ealph was with him alone. The old man began
to talk, much to his son's satisfaction, who assured him that they
should presently have him sitting up.

" No, my boy/' said Mr. Touchett, " not unless you bury me
in a sitting posture, as some of the ancients — was it the ancients'?
— used to do."

" Ah, daddy, don't talk about that," Ealph murmured. " You
must not deny that you are getting better/'

" There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say so,"
the old man answered. " Why should we prevaricate, just at
the last? We never prevaricated before. I have got to die
some time, and it's better to die when one is sick than when
one is well. I am very sick — as sick as I shall ever be. I hope
you don't want to prove that I shall ever be worse than this ]
That would be too bad. You don't 1 Well then."

Having made this excellent point he became quiet ; but the
next time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself
to conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph
was alone with him, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, who
had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by
the nickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and
Ralph's tall shadow was projected upon the wall and ceiling,
with an outline constantly varying but always grotesque.

" Who is that with me — is it my son1?" the old man asked.

" Yes, it's your son, daddy."

" And is there no one else ? "

" No one else."

Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while ; and then, " I want to
talk a little," he went on.

" Won't it tire you 1 " Ralph inquired.

" It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want
to talk about you."

Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed ; he sat leaning forward,
with his hand on his father's. "You had better select a
brighter topic," he said.

"You were always bright; I used to be proud of your
brightness. I should like so much to think that you would do
something."

"If you leave us," said Ralph, "I shall do nothing but miss you."

156 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" That is just what I don't want ; it's what I want to talk
about. You must get a new interest."

" I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones
than I know what to do with."

The old man lay there looking at his son ; his face was the
face of the dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett.
He seemed to be reckoning over Ealph's interests. " Of course
you have got your mother," he said at last. " You will take care
of her."

"My mother will always take care of herself," Ealph an-
swered.

" Well," said his father, " perhaps as she grows older she will
need a little help."

" I shall not see that. She will outlive me."

"Very likely she will ; but that's no reason — " Mr. Touchett
let his phrase die away in a helpless but not exactly querulous
sigh, and remained silent again.

"Don't trouble yourself about us," said his son. "My
mother and I get on very well together, you know."

" You get on by always being apart ; that's not natural."

" If you leave us, we shall probably see more of each other."

"Well," the old man observed, with wandering irrelevance,
" it cannot be said that my death will make much difference in
your mother's life."

"It will probably make more than you think."

"Well, she'll have more money," said Mr. Touchett. "I
have left her a good wife's portion, just as if she had been a good
wife."

"She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory.
She has never troubled you."

"Ah, some troubles are pleasant," Mr. Touchett murmured.
" Those you have given me, for instance. But your mother has
been less — less — what shall I call it 1 less out of the way since
I have been ill. I presume she knows I have noticed it."

" I shall certainly tell her so ; I am so glad you mention it."

" It won't make any difference to her ; she doesn't do it to
please me. She does it to please — to please — " And he lay
a while, trying to think why she did it. " She does it to
please herself. But that is not what I want to talk about," he
added. " It's about you. You will be very well off."

" Yes/' said Ealph, " I know that. But I hope you have not
forgotten the talk we had a year ago — when I told you exactly
what money I should need and begged you to make some good
use of the rest. "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. . 157

" Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will — in a few days.
I suppose it was the first time such a thing had happened — a
young man trying to get a will made against him."

" It is not against me," said Ralph. " It would be against
me to have a large property to take care of. It is impossible for
a man in my state of health to spend much money, and enough
is as good as a feast."

" Well, you will have enough — and something over. There
will be more than enough for one — there will be enough for
two."

"That's too much," said Ealph.

" Ah, don't say that. The best thing you can do, when I am
gone, will be to marry."

Ealph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this
suggestion was by no means novel. It had long been Mr.
Touchett's most ingenious way of expressing the optimistic view
of his son's health. Ealph had usually treated it humorously ;
but present circumstances made the humorous tone impossible.
He simply fell back in his chair and returned his father's appeal-
ing gaze in silence.

11 If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have
had a very happy life," said the old man, carrying his ingenuity
further still, " what a life might you not have, if you should
marry a person different from Mrs. Touchett. There are more
different from her than there are like her."

Ealph still said nothing ; and after a pause his father asked
softly — " What do you think of your cousin ? "

At this Ealph started, meeting the question with a rather
fixed smile. " Do I understand you to propose that I should
marry Isabel 1 "

" Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you like
her?"

" Yes, very much." And Ealph got up from his chair and
wandered over to the fire. He stood before it an instant and
then he stooped and stirred it, mechanically. " I like Isabel
very much," he repeated.

" Well," said his father, " I know she likes you. She told
me so."

" Did she remark that she would like to marry me 1 "

"JSTo, but she can't have anything against you. And she is
the most charming young lady I have ever seen. And she
would be good to you. I have thought a great deal about it."

" So have I," said Ealph, coming back to the bedside again.
' I don't mind telling you that."

158 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" You are in love with her, then <\ I should think you would
be. It's as if she came over on purpose."

" No, I am not in love with her ; but I should be if — if
certain things were different."

" Ah, things are always different from what they might be,"
said the old man. " If you wait for them to change, you will
never do anything. I don't know whether you know," he went
on; " but I suppose there is no harm in my alluding to it in
such an hour as this : there was some one wanted to marry
Isabel the other day, and she wouldn't have him."

" I know she refused Lord Warburton ; he told me himself."

" Well, that proves that there is a chance for somebody else."

" Somebody else took his chance the other day in London —
and got nothing by it."

"Was it you]" Mr. Touchett asked, eagerly.

" No, it was an older friend ; a poor gentleman who came
over from America to see about it."

" Well, I am sorry for him. But it only proves what I say
— that the way is open to you."

" If it is, dear father, it is all the greater pity that I am
unable to tread it. I haven't many convictions ; but I have
three or four that I hold strongly. One is that people, on the
whole, had better not marry their cousins. Another is, that
people in an advanced stage of pulmonary weakness had better
not marry at all."

The old man raised his feeble hand and moved it to and fro
a little before his face. " What do you mean by that 1 You
look at things in a way that would make everything wrong.
What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you have never seen for
more than twenty years of her life 1 We are all each other's
cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die
out. It is just the same with your weak lungs. You are a
great deal better than you used to be. All you want is to lead
a natural life. It is a great deal more natural to marry a pretty
young lady that you are in love with than it is to remain single
on false principles."

" I am not in love with Isabel," said Ealph.

" You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it
was wrong. . I want to prove to you that it isn't wrong."

" It will only tire you, dear daddy," said Ealph, who mar-
velled, at his father's tenacity and at his finding strength to
insist. " Then where shall we all be 1 "

" Where shall you be if I don't provide for you ? You won't
have anything to do with the bank, and you won't have me to

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 159

take care of. You say you have got so many interests ; but I
can't make them out."

Kalph leaned back in his chair, with folded arms ; his eyes
were fixed for some time in meditation. At last, with the air
of a man fairly mustering courage — " I take a great interest in
my cousin," he said, " but not the sort of interest you desire.
I shall not live many years ; but I hope I shall live long enough
to see what she does with herself. She is entirely independent
of me ; I can exercise very little influence upon her life. But
I should like to do something for her."

" What should you like to do 1 "

" I should like to put a little wind in her sails."

" What do you mean by that 1 "

" I should like to put it into her power to do some of the
things she wants. She wants to see the world, for instance. I
should like to put money in her purse."

" Ah, I am glad you have thought of that," said the old man.
" But I have thought of it too. I have left her a legacy — five
thousand pounds."

" That is capital ; it is very kind of you. But I should like
to do a little more."

Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been,
on Daniel Touchett's part, the habit of a lifetime to listen to a
financial proposition, still lingered in the face in which the
invalid had not obliterated the man of business. " I shall be
happy to consider it," he said, softly.

" Isabel is poor, then. My mother tells me that she has but
a few hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich."

" What do you mean by rich?"

" I call people rich when they are able to gratify their imagin-
ation. Isabel has a great deal of imagination."

" So have you, my son," said Mr. Touchett, listening very
attentively, but a little confusedly.

" You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I
want is that you should kindly relieve me of my superfluity
and give it to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal
halves, and give the second half to her."

" To do what she likes with ]"

" Absolutely what she likes."

"And without an equivalent?"

" What equivalent could there be 1 "

" The one I harve already mentioned."

"Her marrying — some one or other1? It's just to do away
with anything of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she

160 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

has an easy income she will never have to marry for a support.
She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her free."

" Well, you seem to have thought it out," said Mr. Touchett.
" But I don't see why you appeal to me. The money will be
yours, and you can easily give it to her yourself."

Ealph started a little. " Ah, dear father, / can't offer Isabel
money ! "

The old man gave a groan. " Don't tell me you are not in
love with her ! Do you want me to have the credit of it?"

" Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your
will, without the slightest reference to me."

" Do you want me to make a new will, then 1 "

" A few words will do it ; you can attend to it the next time
you feel a little lively."

" You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary, then. I will do nothing
without my solicitor."

" You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow."

" He will think we have quarrelled, you and I," said the old
man.

" Very probably ; I shall like him to think it," said Ralph,
smiling ; " and to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I
shall be very sharp with you."

The humour of this appeared to touch his father ; he lay a
little while taking it in.

" I will do anything you like," he said at last ; " but I'm not
sure it's right. You say you want to put wind in her sails ;
but aren't you afraid of putting too much 1 "

"I should like to see her going before the breeze ! " Ralpk
answered.

" You speak as if it were for your entertainment."

" So it is, a good deal."

" Well, I don't think I understand," said Mr. Touchett, with
a sigh. "Young men are very different from what I was.
When I cared for a girl — when I was young — I wanted to do
more than look at her. You have scruples that I shouldn't have
had. and you have ideas that I shouldn't have had either. You
say that Isabel wants to be free, and that her being rich will
keep her from marrying for money. Do you think that she is
a girl to do that 1 "

" By no means. But she has less money than she has ever
had before ; but her father gave her everything, because he used
to spend his capital. She has nothing but the crumbs of that
feast to live on, and she doesn't really know how meagre they
are — she has yet to learn it. My mother has told me all about

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 161

it, Isabel will learn it when she is really thrown upon the
world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her
coming to the consciousness of a lot of wants that she should be
unable to satisfy."

" I have left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a
good many wants with that."

" She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two
or three years."

" You think she would be extravagant then 1 "

" Most certainly," said Ealph, smiling serenely.

Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to
pure confusion. " It would merely be a question of time, then,
her spending the larger sum 1 "

"No, at first I think she would plunge into that pretty
freely ; she would probably make over a part of it to each of
her sisters. But after that she would come to her senses,
remember that she had still a lifetime before her, and live
within her means."

" Well, you have worked it out," said the old man, with a
sigh. " You do take an interest in her, certainly."

" You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to
go further."

"Well, I don't know," the old man answered. "I don't
think I enter into your spirit. It seems to me immoral."

" Immoral, dear daddy 1 "

" Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so
easy for a person."

" It surely depends upon the person. When the person is
good, your making things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To
facilitate the execution of good impulses, what can be a nobler
acU"

This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett con-
sidered it for a while. At last he said —

" Isabel is a sweet young girl ; but do you think she is as
good as thaU"

" She is as good as her best opportunities," said Ealph.

" Well," Mr. Touchett declared, " she ought to get a great
many opportunities for sixty thousand pounds."

" I have no doubt she will."

" Of course I will do what you want," said the old man. " I
only want to understand it a little."

"Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now1?" his son
asked, caressingly. "If you don't, we won't take any more
trouble about it ; we will leave it alone."

M

162 THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY.

Mr. Touchett lay silent a long time. Kalph supposed that
he had given up the attempt to understand it. But at last he
began again —

" Tell me this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a young
lady with sixty thousand pounds may fall a victim to the
fortune-hunters 1 "

" She will hardly fall a victim to more than one."

" Well, one is too many."

"Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my
calculation. I think it's appreciable, but I think it's small,
and I am prepared to take it."

Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity,
and his perplexity now passed into admiration.

" Well, you have gone into it ! " he exclaimed. " But I don't
see what good you are to get of it."

Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothed
them ; he was aware that their conversation had been prolonged
to a dangerous point. " I shall get just the good that I said
just now I wished to put into Isabel's reach — that of having
gratified my imagination. But it's scandalous, the way I have
taken advantage of you ! "

XIX.

As Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle
were thrown much together during the illness of their host, and
if they had not become intimate it would have been almost a
breach of good manners. Their manners were of the best ; but
in addition to this they happened to please each other. It is
perhaps too much to say that they swore an eternal friendship ;
but tacitly, at least, they called the future to witness. Isabel
did so with a perfectly good conscience, although she would
have hesitated to admit that she was intimate with her new
friend in the sense which she privately attached to this terra.
She often wondered, indeed, whether she ever had been, or ever
could be, intimate with any one. She had an ideal of friend-
ship, as well as of several other sentiments, and it did not seem
to her in this case — it had not seemed to her in other cases —
that the actual completely expressed it. But she often reminded
herself that there were essential reasons why one's ideal could
not become concrete. It was a thing to believe in, not to see
matter of faith, not of experience. Experience, however

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 163

might supply us with very creditable imitations of it, and the
part of wisdom was to make the best of these. Certainly, on
the whole, Isabel had never encountered a more agreeable and
interesting woman than Madame Merle ; she had never met a
woman who had less of that fault which is the principal obstacle
to friendship — the air of reproducing the more tiresome parts of
one's own personality. The gates of the girl's confidence were
opened wider than they had ever been ; she said things to
Madame Merle that she had not yet said to any one. Sometimes
she took alarm at her candour; it was as if she had given to a
comparative stranger the key to her cabinet of jewels. These
spiritual gems were the only ones of any magnitude that Isabel
possessed ; but that was all the greater reason why they should
be carefully guarded. Afterwards, however, the girl always said
to herself that one should never regret a generous error, and that
if Madame Merle had not the merits she attributed to her, so
much the worse for Madame Merle. There was no doubt she
had great merits — she was a charming, sympathetic, intelligent,
cultivated woman. More than this (for it had not been Isabel's
* ill-fortune to go through life without meeting several persons of
her own sex, of whom no less could fairly be said), she was rare,
she was superior, she was pre-eminent. There are a great many
amiable people in the world, and Madame Merle was far from
being vulgarly good-natured and restlessly witty. She knew
how to think — an accomplishment rare in women ; and she had
thought to very good purpose. Of course, too, she knew how
to feel ; Isabel could not have spent a week with her without
being sure of that. This was, indeed, Madame Merle's great
talent, her most perfect gift. Life 'had told upon her ; she had
felt it strongly, and it was part of the satisfaction that Isabel
found in her society that when the girl talked of what she was
pleased to call serious matters, her companion understood her so
easily and quickly. Emotion, it is true, had become with her
rather historic ; she made no secret of the fact that the fountain
of sentiment, thanks to having been rather violently tapped at
one period, did not flow quite so freely as of yore. Her pleasure
was now to judge rather than to feel ; she freely admitted that
of old she had been rather foolish, and now she pretended to
be wise.

" I judge more than I used to," sho said to Isabel ; " but it
seems to me that I have earned the right. One can't judge till
one is forty ; before that we are too eager, too hard, too cruel,
and in addition too ignorant. I am sorry for you ; it will be a
long time before you are forty. But every gain is a loss of

M 2

164 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

some kind ; I often think that after forty one can't really feel.
The freshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You will
keep them longer than most people ; it will be a great satis-
faction to me to see you some years hence. I want to see
what life makes of you. One thing is certain — it can't spoil
you. It may pull you about horribly ; but I defy it to break
you up."

Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting
from a slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour,
might receive a pat on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such
a recognition of merit, it seemed to come with authority. How
could the lightest word do less, of a person who was prepared to
say, of almost everything Isabel told her — " Oh, I have been in
that, my dear ; it passes, like everything else. " Upon many of
her interlocutors, Madame Merle might have produced an irritat-
ing effect ; it was so difficult to surprise her. But Isabel, though
by no means incapable of desiring to be effective, had not at
present this motive. She was too sincere, too interested in her
judicious companion. And then, moreover, Madame Merle
never said such things in the tone of triumph or of boastfulness ;
they dropped from her like grave confessions.

A period of bad weather had settled down upon Gardencourt ;
the days grew shorter, and there was an end to the pretty tea-
parties on the lawn. But Isabel had long in-door conversations
with her fellow-visitor, and in spite of the rain the two ladies
often sallied forth for a walk, equipped with the defensive
apparatus which the English climate and the English genius
have between them brought to such perfection. Madame Merle
was very appreciative; she liked almost everything, including
the English rain. " There is always a little of it, and never too
much at once," she said ; " and it never wets you, and it always
smells good." She declared that in England the pleasures of
smell were great — that in this inimitable island there was a
certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it
might sound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to
the nostril ; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British over-
coat and bury her nose in it, to inhale the clear, fine odour of
the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had
begun to define itself, became almost a prisoner ; in bad weather
he was unable to step out of the house, and he used sometimes
to stand at one of the windows, with his hands in his pockets,
and, with a countenance half rueful, half critical, watch Isabel
and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a
pair of umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so nrin,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 165

even in the worst weather, that the two ladies always came hack
with a healthy glow in their cheeks, looking at the soles of their
neat, stout hoots, and declaring that their walk had done them
inexpressible good. Before lunch Madame Merle was always
engaged; Isahel admired the inveteracy with which she occupied
herself. Our heroine had always passed for a person of resources
and had taken a certain pride in "being one ; hut she envied the
talents, the accomplishments, the aptitudes, of Madame Merle.
She found herself desiring to emulate them, and in this and
other ways Madame Merle presented herself as a model. " I
should like to be like that ! " Isabel secretly exclaimed, more
than once, as one of her friend's numerous facets suddenly caught
the light, and "before long she knew that she had learned a lesson
from this exemplary woman. It took no very long time, indeed,
for Isahel to feel that she was, as the phrase is, under an in-
fluence. " What is the harm," she asked herself, " so long as
it is a good one 1 The more one is under a good influence the
better. The only thing is to see our steps as we take them — to
understand them as we go. That I think I shall always do.
I needn't be afraid of becoming too pliable ; it is my fault that
I am not pliable enough." It is said that imitation is the
sincerest flattery ; and if Isabel was tempted to reproduce in
her deportment some of the most graceful features of that of her
friend, it was not so much because she desired herself to shine
as because she wished to hold up the lamp for Madame Merle.
She liked her extremely ; but she admired feer even more than
she liked her. She sometimes wondered what Henrietta Stack-
pole would say to her thinking so much of this brilliant fugitive
from Brooklyn; and had a conviction that Henrietta would
not approve of it. Henrietta would not like Madame Merle ;
for reasons that she could not have denned, this truth came
home to Isabel. On the other hand she was equally sure that
should the occasion offer, her new friend would accommodate
herself perfectly to her old ; Madame Merle was too humorous,
too observant, not to do justice to Henrietta, and on becoming
acquainted with her would probably give the measure of a tact
which Miss Stackpole could not hope to emulate. She appeared
to have, in her experience, a touchstone for everything, and
somewhere in the capacious pocket of her genial memory she
would find the key to Henrietta's virtues. " That is the great
Ahing," Isabel reflected ; " that is the supreme good fortune : to
be in a better position for appreciating people than they are for
appreciating you." And she added that this, when one con-
sidered it, was simply the essence of the aristocratic situation.

166 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

In this light, if in none other, one should aim at the aristocratic
situation.

I cannot enumerate all the links in the chain which led
Isabel to think of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic — a
view of it never expressed ii. any reference made to it by that
lady herself. She had known great things and great people,
but she had never played a great part. She was one of the
small ones of the earth; she had not been born to honours;
she knew the world too well to be guilty of any fatuous
illusions on the subject of her own place in it. She had known
a good many of the fortunate few, and was perfectly aware of
.those points at which their fortune differed from hers. But if
by her own measure she was nothing of a personage, she had
yet, to Isabel's imagination, a sort of greatness. To be so
graceful, so gracious, so wise, so good, and to make so light of it
all — that was really to be a great lady ; especially when one
looked so much like one. If Madame Merle, however, made
light of her advantages as regards the world, it was not because
she had not, for her own entertainment, taken them, as I have
intimated, as seriously as possible. Her natural talents, for
instance ; these she had zealously cultivated. After breakfast
she wrote a succession of letters ; her correspondence was a
source of surprise to Isabel when they sometimes walked
together to the village post-office, to deposit Madame Merle'?
contribution to the mail. She knew a multitude of people
and, as she told Isabel, something was always turning up to be
written about. Of painting she was devotedly fond, and made
no more of taking a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At
Gardencourt she was perpetually taking advantage of an hour's
sunshine to go out with a camp-stool and a box of water-colours.
That she was a brilliant musician we have already perceived,
and it was evidence of the fact that when she seated herself at
the piano, as she always did in the evening, her listeners
resigned themselves without a murmur to losing the entertain-
ment of her talk. Isabel, since she had known Madame Merle,
felt ashamed of her own playing, which she now looked upon as
meagre and artless ; and indeed, though she had been thought
to play very well, the loss to society when, in taking her place
upon the music-stool, she turned her back to the room, was
usually deemed greater than the gain. When Madame Merle
was neither writing, nor painting, nor touching the piano, she
was usually employed upon wonderful morsels of picturesque
embroidery, cushions, curtains, decorations for the chimney-
piece ; a sort of work in which her bold, free invention was as

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 167

remarkable as the agility of her needle. She was never idle,
for when she was engaged in none of the ways I have mentioned,
she was either reading (she appeared to Isabel to read everything
important), or walking out, or playing patience with the cards,
or talking with her fellow inmates. And with all this, she
always had the social quality ; she never was preoccupied, she
never pressed too hard. She laid down her pastimes as easily
as she took them up ; she worked and talked at the same time,
and she appeared to attach no importance to anything she did.
She gave away her sketches and tapestries ; she rose from the
piano, or remained there, according to the convenience of her
auditors, which she always unerringly divined. She was, in
short, a most _ comfortable, protitable, agreeable person to live
with. If for Isabel she had a fault, it was that she was not
natural ; by which the girl meant, not that she was affected or
pretentious ; for from these vulgar vices no woman could have
been more exempt ; but that her nature had been too much over-
laid by custom and her angles too much smoothed. She had
become too flexible, too supple ; she was too finished, too civilised.
She was, in a word, too perfectly the social animal that man
and woman are supposed to have been intended to be ; and she
had rid herself of every remnant of that tonic wildness which
we may assume to have belonged even to the most amiable
persons in the ages before country-house life was the fashion.
Isabel found it difficult to think of Madame Merle as an isolated
figure ; she existed only in her relations with her fellow-mortals.
Isabel often wondered what her relations might be with her own
soul. She always ended, however, by feeling that having a
charming surface does not necessarily prove that one is super-
ficial ; this was an illusion in which, in her youth, she had only
just sufficiently escaped being nourished. Madame Merle was
not superficial — not she. She was deep ; and her nature spoke
none the less in her behaviour because it spoke a conventional
language. " What is language at all but a convention 1 " said
Isabel. " She has the good taste not to pretend, like some
people I have met, to express herself by original signs."

" I am afraid you have suffered much," Isabel once found
occasion to say to her, in response to some allusion that she had
dropped.

" What makes you think that 1 " Madame Merle asked, with
a picturesque smile. " I hope I have not the pose of a
martyr. "

" No ; but you sometimes say things that I think people who
have always been happy would not have found out."

168 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I have not always been happy," said Madame Merle,
smiling still, but with a mock gravity, as if she were telling a
child a secret. "What a wonderful thing ! "

" A great many people give me the impression of never having
felt anything very much," Isabel answered.

" It's very true ; there are more iron pots, I think, than
porcelain ones. But you may depend upon it that every one has
something; even the hardest iron pots have a little bruise, a
little hole, somewhere. I natter myself that I am rather stout
porcelain ; but if I must tell you the truth I have been chipped
and cracked ! I do very well for service yet, because I have
been cleverly mended ; and I try to remain in the cupboard —
the quiet, du?-ky cupboard, where there is an odour of stale
spices — as much as I can. But when I have to come out, and
into a strong light, then, my dear, I am a horror ! "

I know not whether it was on this occasion or some other,
that when the conversation had taken the turn I have just indi-
cated, she said to Isabel that some day she would relate her
history. Isabel assured her that she should delight to listen to
it, and reminded her more than once of this engagement.
Madame Merle, however, appeared to desire a postponement,
and at last frankly told the young girl that she must wait till
they knew each other better. This would certainly happen ; a
long friendship lay before them. Isabel assented, but at the
same time asked Madame Merle if she could not trust her —
if she feared a betrayal of confidence.

" It is not that I am afraid of your repeating what I say," the
elder lady answered ; "I am afraid, on the contrary, of your
taking it too much to yourself. You would judge me too
harshly; you are of the cruel age." She preferred for the pre-
sent to talk to Isabel about Isabel, and exhibited the greatest
interest in our heroine's history, her sentiments, opinions,
prospects. She made her chatter, and listened to. her chatter
with inexhaustible sympathy and good nature. In all this there
was something flattering to the girl, who knew that Madame
Merle knew a great many distinguished people, and had lived,
as Mrs. Touchett said, in the best company in Europe. Isabel
thought the better of herself for enjoying the favour of a person
who had so large a field of comparison ; and it was perhaps
partly to gratify this sense of profiting by comparison that she
often begged her friend to tell her about the people she knew.
Madame Merle had been a dweller in many lands, and had social
ties in a dozen different countries. " I don't pretend to be
learned," she would say, " but I think I know my Europe ; " and

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 169

ehe spoke one day of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend,
and another of going to Wallachia to follow up a new acquaint-
ance. "With England, where she had often stayed, she was
thoroughly familiar ; and for Isabel's benefit threw a great deal
of light upon the customs of the country and the character of
the people, who " after all," as she was fond of saying, were the
finest people in the world.

" You must not think it strange, her staying in the house at
such a time as this, when Mr. Touchett is passing away," Mrs.
Touchett remarked to Isabel. " She is incapable of doing anything
indiscreet ; she is the best-bred woman I know. It's a favour
to me that she stays ; she is putting off a lot of visits at great
houses," said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when she
herself was in England her social value sank two or three
degrees in the scale. " She has her pick of places ; she is not
in want of a shelter. But I have asked hereto stay because I
wish you to know her. I think it will be a good thing for you.
Serena Merle has no faults/'

" If I didn't already like her very much that description
might alarm me," Isabel said.

" She never does anything wrong. I have brought you out
here, and I wish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told
me that she hoped I would give you plenty of opportunities. I
give you one in securing Madame Merle. She is one of the most
brilliant women in Europe."

" I like her better than I like your description of her," Isabel
persisted in saying.

"Do you flatter yourself that you will find a fault in her ? I
hope you will let me know when you do."

" That will be cruel — to you," said Isabel.

" You needn't mind me. You never will find one."

" Perhaps not ; but I think I shall not miss it "

" She is always up to the mark ! " said Mrs. Touchett.

Isabel after this said to Madame Merle that she hoped she
knew Mrs. Touchett believed she had not a fault.

" I am obliged to you, but I am afraid your aunt has no per-
ception of spiritual things," Madame Merle answered.

" Do you mean by that that you have spiritual faults 1 "

" Ah no ; I mean nothing so flat 1 I mean that having no
faults, for your aunt, means that one is never late for dinner —
that is, for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other
day, when you came back from London ; the clock was just at
eight when I came into the drawing-room; it was the rest of
you that were before the time. It means that one answers a

170 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

letter the day one gets it, and that when one comes to stay with
her one doesn't bring too much luggage, and is careful not to be
taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue ; it's
a blessing to be able to reduce it to its elements."

Madame Merle's conversation, it will be perceived, was enriched
with bold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they had
a restrictive effect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It never
occurred to the girl, for instance, that Mrs. Touchett's accom-
plished guest was abusing her ; and this for very good reasons.
In the first place Isabel agreed with her ; in the second Madame
Merle implied that there was a great deal more to say ; and in
•the third, to speak to one without ceremony of one's near
relations was an agreeable sign of intimacy. These signs of
intimacy multiplied as the days elapsed, and there was none of
which Isabel was more sensible than of her companion's prefer-
ence for making* Miss Archer herself a topic. Though she
alluded frequently to the incidents of her own life, she never
lingered upon them ; she was as little of an egotist as she was of
a gossip.

" I am old, and stale, and faded," she said more than once ;
" I am of no more interest 'than last week's newspaper. You are
young and fresh, and of to-day; you have* the great thing — y<*u
have actuality. I once had it — we all have it for an hour. You,
however, will have it for longer. Let us talk about you, then ,
you can say nothing that I shall not care to hear. It is a sign
that I am growing old — that I like to talk with younger people.
I think it's a very pretty compensation. If we can't have youth
within us we can have it outside of us, and I really think we see
it and feel it better that way. Of course we must be in sympathy
with it — that I shall always be. I don't know that I shall ever
be ill-natured with old people — I hope not ; there are certainly
some old people that I adore. But I shall never be ill-natured with
the young ; they touch me too much. I give you carte blanche,
then ; you can even be impertinent if you like ; I shall let it
pass. I talk as if I were a hundred years old, you say1? Well,
I am, if you please ; I was born before the French Revolution.
Ah, my dear je viens de loin; I belong to the old world. Eut
it is not of that I wish to talk; I wish to talk about the new.
You must tell me more about America; you never tell me
enough. Here I have been since I was brought here as a helpless
child, and it is ridiculous, or rather it's scandalous, how little I
know about the land of my birth. There are a great many of us
like that, over here ; and I must say I think we are a wretched
set of people. You should live in your own country ; whatever

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 171

it may be you have your natural place there. If we are not
good Americans we are certainly poor Europeans \ we have no
natural place here. "We are mere parasites, crawling over the
surface \ we haven't our feet in the soil. At least one can know
it, and not have illusions. A woman, perhaps, can get on ; a
woman, it seems to me, has no natural place anywhere ; where-
ever she finds herself she has to remain on the surface and, more
or less, to crawl. You protest, my dear1? you are horrified1? you
declare you will never crawl (\ It is very true that I don't see
you crawling ; you stand more upright than a good many poor
creatures. Very good; on the whole, I don't think you will
crawl. But the men, the Americans ; je vous demande un peu,
what do they make of it over here ? I don't envy them, trying
to arrange themselves. Look at poor Ralph Touchett; what
sort of a figure do you call that? Fortunately he has got a
consumption ; I say fortunately, because it gives him something
to do. His consumption is his career ; it's a kind of position.
You can say, ' Oh, Mr. Touchett, he takes care of his lungs, he
knows a great deal about climates.' But without that, who
would he be, what would he represent ? ' Mr. Ealph Touchett,
an American who lives in Europe.' That signifies absolutely
nothing — it's impossible that anything should signify less. * He
is very cultivated,' they say ; ' he has got a very pretty collection
of old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that is wanted to make
it pitiful. I am tired of the sound of the word ; I think it's
grotesque. With the poor old father it's different ; he has his
identity, and it is rather a massive one. He represents a great
financial house, and that, in our day, is as good as anything else.
For an American, at any rate, that will do very well. But I
persist in thinking your cousin is very lucky to have a chronic
malady ; so long as he doesn't die of it. It's much better than
the snuff-boxes. If he were not ill, you say, he would do some-
thing 1 — he would take his father's place in the house. My poor
child, I doubt it ; I don't think he is at all fond of the house.
However, you know him better than I, though I used to know
him rather well, and he may have the benefit of the doubt.
The worst case, I think, is a friend of mine, a countryman of
ours, who lives in Italy (where he also was brought before he
knew better), and who is one of the most delightful men I know.
Some day you must know him. I will bring you together, and
then you will see what I mean. He is Gilbert Osmond — he
lives in Italy ; that is all one can say about him. He is exceed-
ingly clever, a man made to be distinguished ; but, as I say, you
exhaust the description when you say that he is Mr. Osmond,

172 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

who lives in Italy. No career, no name, no position, no fortune,
no past, no future, no anything. Oh yes, he paints, -if you please
— paints in water-colours, like me, only better than I. His
painting is pretty bad ; on the whole I am rather glad of that.
Fortunately he is very indolent, so indolent that it amounts to a
sort of position. He can say, c Oh, I do nothing ; I am too
deadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at
five o'clock in the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of
exception ; you feel that he might do something if he wouL I
only rise early. He never speaks of his painting — to people at
large ; he is too clever for that. But he has a little girl — a dear
little girl ; he does speak of her. He is devoted to her, and if
it were a career to be an excellent father he would be very dis-
tinguished. But I am afraid that is no better than the snuff-
boxes ; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do in
America," pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be observed,
parenthetically, did not deliver herself all at once of these reflec-
tions, which are presented in a cluster for the convenience of the
reader. She talked of Florence, where Mr. Osmond lived, and
where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medieval palace ; she talked of
Rome, where she herself had a little pied-a-terre^ with some
rather good old damask. She talked of places, of people, and
even, as the phrase is, of " subjects " ; and from time to time
sho talked of their kind old host and of the prospect of his
recovery. From the first she had thought this prospect small,
and Isabel had been struck with the positive, discriminating,
competent way which she took of the measure of his remainder
of life. One evening she announced definitely that he would
not live.

" Sir Matthew Hope told me so, as plainly as was proper,"
she said; "standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He
makes himself very agreeable, the great doctor. 1 don't mean
that his saying that has anything to do with it. But he says
such things with great tact. I had said to him that I felt ill
at my ease, staying here at such a time ; it seemed to me so
indiscreet — it was not as if I could nurse. ' You must remain,
you must remain/ he answered; 'your office will come later.'
Was not that a very delicate way both of saying that poor Mr.
Touchett would go, and that I might be of some use as a
consoler 1 In fact, however, I shall not be of the slightest use.
Your aunt will console herself ; she, and she alone, knows just
how much consolation she will require. It would be a very
delicate matter for another person to undertake to administer
the dose. With your cousin it will be different ; he will miss

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 173

his father sadly. But I should never presume to condole with
Mr. Ealph ; we are not on those terms."

Madame Merle had alluded more than once to some undefined
incongruity in her relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel
took this occasion of asking her if they were not good friends.

" Perfectly } but he doesn't like me."

" What have you done to him ? "

" Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for
that."

" For not liking you 1 I think one has need of a very good
reason."

" You are very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the
day when you begin."

"Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin."

" I hope not ; because if you do, you will never end. That
is the way with your cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an
antipathy of nature — if I can call it that when it is all on his
side. I have nothing whatever against him, and don't bear him
.the least little grudge for not doing me justice. Justice is all I
want. However, one feels that he is a gentleman, and would
never say anything underhand about One. Cartes sur table"
Madame Merle subjoined in a moment, " I am. not afraid of
him."

" I hope not, indeed," said Isabel, who added something
about his being the kindest fellow living. She remembered,
however, that on her first asking him about Madame Merle he
had answered her in a manner which this lady might have
thought injurious without being explicit. There was something
between them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothing more
than this. If it were something of importance, it should inspire
respect ; if it were not, it was not worth her curiosity. With
all her love of knowledge, Isabel had a natural shrinking from
raising curtains and looking into unlighted corners. The love
of knowledge co-existed in her mind with a still tender love of
ig»orance.

But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her,
made her raise her clear eyebrows at the time, and think of the
words afterwards.

" I would give a great deal to be your age again," she broke
out once, with a bitterness which, though diluted in her cus-
tomary smile, was by no means disguised by it. " If I could
only begin again — if I could have my life before me ! "

" Your life is before you yet," Isabel answered gently, for she
was vaguely awe-struck.

174 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" No ; the best part is gone, and gone for nothing."

" Surely, not for nothing," said Isabel.

" Why not — what have I got ? Neither husband, nor child,
nor fortune, nor positioD, nor the traces of a beauty which I
never had."

" You have friends, dear lady."

" I am not so sure ! " cried Madame Merle.

" Ah, you are wrong. You have memories, talents "

Madame Merle interrupted her.

" What have my, talents brought me? Nothing but the need
of using them still, to get through the hours, the years, to cheat
myself with some pretence of action. As for my memories, the
less said about them the better. You will be my friend till you
find a better use for your friendship."

" It will be for you to see that I don't then," said Isabel.

" Yes ; I would make an effort to keep you," Madame Merle
rejoined, looking at her gravely. " When I say I should like
to be your age," she went on, "I mean with your qualities —
frank, generous, sincere, like you. In that case I should have
made something better of my life."

" What should you have liked to do that you have not don el"

Madame Merle took a sheet of music — she was seated at the
piano, and had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she
first spoke — and mechanically turned the leaves. At last si to
said —

" I am very ambitious ! '

" And your ambitions have not been satisfied 1 They must
have been great."

"They were great. I should make myself ridiculous by
talking of them."

Isabel wondered what they could have been — whether
Madame Merle had aspired to wear a crown. " I don't know
what your idea of success may be, but you seem to me to have
been successful. To me, indeed, you are an image of success."

Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile.

" What is your idea of success ] "

"You evidently think it must be very tame," said Isabel
" It is to see some dream of one's youth come true."

"Ah," Madame Merle exclaimed, "that I have never seen!
But my dreams were so great — so preposterous. Heaven forgive
me, I am dreaming now." And she turned back to the piano
and began to play with energy.

On the morrow she said to Isabel that her definition of
success had been very pretty, but frightfully sad. Measured in

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 175

that way, who had succeeded 1 The dreams of one's youth, why
they were enchanting, they were divine ! Who had ever seen
such things come to pass 1

" I myself — a few of them," Isabel ventured to answer.

"Already 3 They must have been dreams of yesterday."

" I began to dream very young/' said Isabel, smiling.

" Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood — that of
having a pink sash and a doll that could close her eyes."

" No, I don't mean that."

"Or a young man with a moustache going down on his
knees to you."

" No, nor that either," Isabel declared, blushing.

Madame Merle gave a glance at her blush which caused it to
deepen.

" I suspect that is what you do mean. "We have all had the
young man with the moustache. He is the inevitable young
man ; he doesn't count."

Isabel was silent for a moment, and then, with extreme and
characteristic inconsequence —

" Why shouldn't he count ? There are young men and young
men."

"And yours was a paragon — is that what you mean1? " cried
her friend with a laugh. " If you have had the identical young
man you dreamed of, then that was success, and I congratulate
you. Only, in that case, why didn't you fly with him to his
castle in the Apennines 1 "

" He has no castle in the Apennines."

"What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street?
Don't tell me that ; I refuse to recognise that as an ideal."

" I don't care anything about his house," sai4 Isabel.

" That is very crude of you. When you have lived as long
as I, you will see that every human being has his shell, and
that you must take the shell into account. By the shell I mean
the whole envelope of circumstances. There is no such thing
as an isolated man or woman ; we are each of us made up of a
cluster of appurtenances. What do you call one's self ? Where
does it begin ] where does it end 1 It overflows into everything
that belongs to us — and then it flows back again. I know that
a large part of myself is in the dresses I choose to wear. I have
a great respect for things ! One's self — for other people — is
one's expression of one's self ; and one's house, one's clothes,
the book one reads, the company one keeps — these things are
all expressive."

This was very metaphysical ; not more so, however, than

176 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

several observations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel
was fond of metaphysics, but she was unable to accompany her
friend into this bold analysis of the human personality.

"I don't agree with you," she said. "I think just the other
way. I don't know whether I succeed in expressing myself,
but I know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that
belongs to me is any measure of me ; on the contrary, it's a
limit, a barrier, and a perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly, the
clothes which, as you say, I choose to wear, don't express me ;
and heaven forbid they should ! '

" You dress very well," interposed Madame Merle, skilfully.

" Possibly ; but I don't care to be judged by that. My
clothes may express the dressmaker, but they don't express me.
To begin with, it's not my own choice that I wear them ; they
are imposed upon me by society."

" Should you prefer to go without them ? " Madame Merle
inquired, in a tone which virtually terminated the discussion.

I am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit
upon the sketch I have given of the youthful loyalty which our
heroine practised towards this accomplished woman, that Isabel
had said nothing whatever to her about Lord Warburton, and
had been equally reticent on the subject of Caspar Goodwood.
Isabel had not concealed from her, however, that she had had
opportunities of marrying, and had even let her know that they
were of a highly advantageous kind. Lord Warburton had left
Lockleigh, and was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters with
him ; and though he had written to Ralph more than once, to
ask about Mr. Touchett's health, the girl was not liable to the
embarrassment of such inquiries as, had he still been in the
neighbourhood, he would probably have felt bound to make in
person. He had admirable self-control, but she felt sure that
if he had come to Gardencourt he would have seen Madame
Merle, and that if he had seen her he would have liked her,
and betrayed to her that he was in love with her young friend.

It so happened that during Madame Merle's previous visits
to Gardencourt — each of them much shorter than the present
one — he had either not been at Lockleigh or had not called at
Mr. Touchett's. Therefore, though she knew him by name as
the great man of that county, she had no cause to suspect him
of being a suitor of Mrs. Touchett's freshly-imported, niece.

" You have plenty of time," she had said to Isabel, in return
for the mutilated confidences which Isabel made her, and which
did not pretend to be perfect, though we have seen that at
moments the girl had compunctions at having said so much.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 177

" I am glad you have done nothing yet — that you have it still
to do. It is a very good thing for a girl to have refused a few
good offers — so long, of course, as they are not the best she is
likely to have. Excuse me if ray tone seems horribly worldly;
one must take that view sometimes. Only don't keep on refus-
ing for the sake of refusing. It's a pleasant exercise of power ;
but accepting is after all an exercise of power as well. There is
always the danger of refusing once too often. It was not the
one I fell into — I didn't refuse often enough. You are an
exquisite creature, and I should like to see you married to a
prime minister. But speaking strictly, you know you are not
what is technically called a parti. You are extremely good-
looking, and extremely clever ; in yourself you are quite excep-
tional. You appear to have the vaguest ideas about your
earthly possessions ; but from what I can make out, you are not
embarrassed with an income. I wish you had a little money."

" I wish I had ! " said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting
for the moment that her poverty had been a venial fault for two
gallant gentlemen.

In spite of Sir Matthew Hope's benevolent recommendation,
Madame Merle did not remain to the end, as the issue of poor
Mr. Touchett's malady had now come frankly to be designated.
She was under pledges to other people which had at last to be
redeemed, and she left Gardencourt with the understanding that
she should in any event see Mrs. Touchett there again, or in
town, before quitting England. Her parting with Isabel was
even more like the beginning of a friendship than their meeting
had been.

" 1 am going to six places in succession," she said, " but I
shall see no one I like so well as you. They will all be old
friends, however ; one doesn't make new friends at my age. I
have made a great exception for you. You must remember
that, and you must think well of me. You must reward me by
believing in me."

By way of answer, Isabel kissed her, and though some women
kiss with facility, there are kisses and kisses, and this embrace
was satisfactory to Madame Merle.

Isabel, after this, was much alone ; she saw her aunt and
cousin only at meals, and discovered that of the hours that Mrs.
Touchett was invisible, only a minor portion was now devoted
to nursing her husband. She spent the rest in her own apart-
ments, to which access was not allowed even to her niece, in
mysterious and inscrutable exercises. At table she was grave
and silent ; but her solemnity was not an attitude — Isabel could

K

178 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

see that it was a conviction. She wondered whether her aunt
repented of having taken her own way so much ; but there waa
no visible evidence of this — no tears, no sighs, no exaggeration
of a zeal which had always deemed itself sufficient. Mrs.
Touchett seemed simply to feel the need of thinking things over
and summing them up ; she had a little moral account- book — •
with columns unerringly ruled, and a sharp steel clasp — which
she kept with exemplary neatness.

" If I had foreseen this I would not have proposed your
coming abroad now," she said to Isabel after Madame Merle had
left the house. " I would have waited and sent for you next
year."

Her remarks had usually a practical ring.

" So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle 1
It's a great happiness to me to have come now."

" That's very well. But it was not that you might know
your uncle that I brought you to Europe." A perfectly veracious
speech ; but, as Isabel thought, not as perfectly timed.

She had leisure to think of this and other matters. She took
a solitary Walk every day, and spent much time in turning over
the books in the library. Among the subjects that engaged her
attention were the adventures of her friend Miss Stackpole,
with whom she was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked
her friend's private epistolary style better than her public ; that
is, she thought her public letters would have been excellent if
they had not been printed. Henrietta's career, however, was
not so successful as might have been wished even in the interest
of her private felicity ; that view of the inner life of Great
Britain which she was so eager to take appeared to dance before
her like an ignis fatuus. The invitation from Lady Pensil, for
mysterious reasons, had never arrived ; and poor Mr. Bantling
himself, with all his friendly ingenuity, had been unable to
explain so grave a dereliction on the part of a missive that had
obviously been sent. Mr. Bantling, however, had evidently
taken Henrietta's affairs much to heart, and believed that he
owed her a set-off to this illusory visit to Bedfordshire. " He
says he should think I would go to the Continent," Henrietta
wrote; "and as he thinks of going there himself, I suppose his
advice is sincere. He wants to know why I don't take a view
of French life ; and it is a fact that I want very much to see
the new Republic. Mr. Bantling doesn't care much about the
Republic, but he thinks of going over to Paris any way. I must
say he is quite as attentive as I could wish, and at any rate I
shall have seen one polite Englishman. I keep telling Mr.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 179

Bantling that he ought to have been an American ; and you
ought to see how it pleases him. Whenever I say so, he always
breaks out with the same exclamation — ' Ah, but really, come
now ! ' " A few days later she wrote that she had decided to
go to Paris at the end of the week, and that Mr. Bantling had
promised to see het off — perhaps even he would go as far as
Dover with her. She would wait in Paris till Isabel should
arrive, Henrietta added ; speaking quite as if Isabel were to
start on her Continental journey alone, and making no allusion
to Mrs. Touchett. Bearing in mind his interest in their late
companion, our heroine communicated several passages from
Miss Stackpole's letters to Ralph, who followed with an emo-
tion akin to suspense the career of the correspondent of the
Interviewer.

11 It seems to me that she is doing very well," he said, " going
over to Paris with an ex-guardsman ! If she wants something
to write about, she has only to describe that episode."

"It is not conventional, certainly," Isabel answered; "but if
you mean that — as far as Henrietta is concerned — it is not
perfectly innocent, you are very much mistaken. You will
never understand Henrietta."

"Excuse me; I understand her perfectly. I didn't at all at
first ; but now I have got the point of view. I am afraid,
however, that Bantling has not; he may have some surprises.
Oh, I understand Henrietta as well as if I had made her I "

Isabel was by no means sure of this ; but she abstained from
expressing further doubt, for she was disposed in these days to
extend a great charity to her cousin. One afternoon, less than
a week after Madame Merle's departure, she was seated in
the library with a volume to which her attention was not
fastened. She had placed herself in a deep window-bench,
from which she looked out into the dull, damp park ; and as the
library stood at right angles to the entrance-front of the house,
shb could see the doctor's dog-cart, which had been waiting for
the last two hours before the door. She was struck with the
doctor's remaining so long ; but at last she saw him appear in
the portico, stand a moment, slowly drawing on his gloves and
looking at the knees of his horse, and then get into the vehicle
and drive away. Isabel kept her place for half-an-hour ; there
was a great stillness in the house. It was so great that when
she at last heard a soft, slow step on the deep carpet of the
room, she was almost startled by the sound. She turned
quickly away from the window, and saw Kalph Touchett
standing there, with his hands still in his pockets, but with a

N 2

180 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

face absolutely void of its usual latent smile. She got up, and
her movement and glance were a question.

" It's all over," said Ralph.

" Do you mean that my uncle ? " And Isabel stopped.

" My father died an hour ago."

" Ah, my poor Ralph ! " the girl murmured, putting out her
hand to him.

XX.

SOME fortnight after this incident Madame Merle drove up in
a hansom cab to the house in Winchester Square. As she
descended from her vehicle she observed, suspended between
the dining-room windows, a large, neat, wooden tablet, on whose
fresh black ground were inscribed in white paint the words —
" This noble freehold mansion to be sold ; " with the name of
the agent to whom application should be made. " They certainly
lose no time," said the visitor, as, after sounding the big brass
knocker, she waited to be admitted ; " it's a practical country ! "
And within the house, as she ascended to the drawing-room,
she perceived numerous signs of abdication ; pictures removed
from the walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped and
floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her, and
intimated in a few words that condolences might be taken
for granted.

" I know what you are going to say — he was a very good
man. But I know it better than any one, because I gave him
more chance to show it. In that I think I was a good wife."
Mrs. Touchett added that at the end her husband apparently
recognised this fact. " He has treated me liberally," she said ;
" I won't say more liberally than I expected, because I didn't
expect. You know that as a general thing I don't expect. But
he chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I lived
much abroad, and mingled — you may say freely — in foreign life,
I never exhibited the smallest preference for any one else."

" For any one but yourself," Madame Merle mentally observed;
but the reflection was perfectly inaudible.

" I never sacrificed my husband to another," Mrs, Touchett
continued, with her stout curtness.

" Oh no," thought Madame Merle ; " you never did anything
for another ! "

There was a certain cynicism in these mute commenis which
demands an explanation ; the more so as they are not in accord

THE POETEAIT OF A LADY. 181

either with the view — somewhat superficial perhaps — that we
have hitherto enjoyed of Madame Merle's character, or with the
literal facts of Mrs. Touchett's history ; the more so, too, as
Madame Merle had a well-founded conviction that her friend's
last remark was not in the least to be construed .a* a side-thrust
at herself. The truth is, that the moment she had crossed the
threshold she received a subtle impression that Mr. Touchett's
death had had consequences, and that these consequences had
been profitable to a little circle of persons among whom she
was not numbered. Of course it was an event which would
naturally have consequences; her imagination had more than
once rested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt. But
it had been one thing to foresee it mentally, and it was another
to behold it actually. The idea of a distribution of property —
she would almost have said of spoils — just now pressed upon
her senses and irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far
from wishing to say that Madame Merle was one of the hungry
ones of the world ; but we have already perceived that she had
desires which had never been satisfied. If she had been
questioned, she would of course have admitted — with a most
becoming smile — that she had not the faintest claim to a share
in Mr. Touchett's relics. " There was never anything in the
world between us," she would have said. "There was never
that, poor man ! " — with a fillip of her thumb and her third
finger. I hasten to add, moreover, that if her private attitude
at the present moment was somewhat incongruously invidious,
she was very careful not to betray herself. She had, after all,
as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's gains as for her losses.

" He has left me this house," the newly-made widow said ;
" but of course I shall not live in it ; I have a much better
house in Florence. The will was opened only three days since,
but I have already offered the house for sale. I have also a
share in the bank ; but I don't yet understand whether I am
obliged to leave it there. If not, I shall certainly take it out.
Ralph, of course, has Gardencourt ; but I am not sure that he
will have means to keep up the place. He is of course left very
well off, but his father has given away an immense deal of
money ; there are bequests to a string of third cousins in Ver-
mont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt, and would
be quite capable of living there — in summer — with a maid-of-
all-work and a gardener's boy. There is one remarkable clause
in my husband's will," Mrs. Touchett added. "He has left my
niece a fortune."

" A fortune ! " Madame Merle repeated, softly.

182 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"Jsabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds."

Madame Merle's hands were clasped in her lap ; at this she
raised them, still clasped, and held them a moment against her
bosom, -while her eyes, a little dilated, fixed themselves on those
of her friend. " Ah," she cried, " the clever creature ! "

Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. " What do you mean
by that ?"

For an instant Madame Merle's colour rose, and she dropped
her eyes. "It certainly is clever to achieve such results —
without an effort ! "

"There certainly was no effort; don't call it an achievement."

Madame Merle was rarely guilty of the awkwardness of
retracting what she had said ; her wisdom was shown rather in
maintaining it and placing it in a favourable light. " My dear
friend, Isabel would certainly not have had seventy thousand
pounds left her if she had not been the most charming girl in
the world. Her charm includes great cleverness."

" She never dreamed, I am sure, of my husband's doing any-
thing for her ; and I never dreamed of it either, for he never
spoke to me of his intention," Mrs. Touchett said. " She had
no claim upon him whatever ; it was no great recommendation
to him that she was my niece. Whatever she achieved she
achieved unconsciously."

"Ah," rejoined Madame Merle, "those are the greatest
strokes ! "

Mrs. Touchett gave a shrug. " The girl is fortunate ; I don't
deny that. But for the present she is simply stupefied."

" Do you mean that she doesn't know what to do with the
money ^ "

"That,1 I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn't
know what to think about the matter at all. It has been as if
a big gun were suddenly fired off behind her; she is feeling
herself, to see if she be hurt. It js but three days since she
received a visit from the principal executor who came in person,
very gallantly, to notify her. He told me afterwards that when
he had made his little speech she suddenly burst into tears.
The money is to remain in the bank, and she is to draw the
interest."

Madame Merle shook her head, with a wise, and now quite
benignant, smile. " After she had done that two or three times
she will get used to it." Then after a silence — " What does
your son think of it 1 " she abruptly asked.

" He left England just before it came out — used up by his
fatigue and anxiety, and hurrying off to the south. He is on

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 183

his way to the Eiviera, and I have not yet heard from him. But
it is not likely he will ever object to anything done by his
father."

" Didn't you say his own share had been cut down 1 "

" Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do
something for the people in America. He is not in the least
addicted to looking after number one."

" It depends upon whom he regards as number one ! " said
Madame Merle. And she remained thoughtful a moment, with
her eyes bent upon the floor. " Am I not to see your happy
niece ? " she asked at last, looking up.

" You may see her ; but you will not be struck with her
being happy. She has looked as solemn, these three days, as a
Cimabue Madonna ! " And Mrs. Touchett rang for a servant.

Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call
her ; and Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs.
Touchett's comparison had its force. The girl was pale and
grave — an effect not mitigated by her deeper mourning ; but the
smile of her brightest moments came into her face as she saw
Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on our heroine's
shoulder, and after looking at her a moment, kissed her as if she
were returning the kiss that she had received from Isabel at
Gardencourt. This was the only allusion that Madame Merle,
in her great good taste, made for the present to her young friend's
inheritance.

Mrs. Touchett did not remain in London until she had sold
her house. After selecting from among its furniture those
objects which she wished to transport to her Florentine residence,
she left the rest of its contents to be disposed of by the
auctioneer, and took her departure for the Continent. She was,
of course, accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now
had plenty of leisure to contemplate the windfall on which
Madame Merle had covertly congratulated her. Isabel thought
of it very often and looked at it in a dozen different lights ; bufc
we shall not at present attempt to enter into her meditations or
to explain why it was that some of them were of a rather
pessimistic cast. The pessimism of tins young lady was tran-
sient ; she ultimately made up her mind that to be rich was a
virtue, because it was to be able to do, and to do was sweet. It
was the contrary of weakness. To be weak was, for a young
lady, rather graceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself,
there was a larger grace than that. Just now, it is true, there
was not much to do — once she had sent off a cheque to Lily and
another to poor Edith ; but she was thankful for the quiet

18i THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

months which her mourning robes and her aunt's fresh widow-
hood compelled the two ladies to spend. The acquisition of
power made her serious ; she scrutinised her power with a kind
of tender ferocity, but she was not eager to exercise it. She
began to do so indeed during a stay of some weeks which she
presently made with her aunt in Paris, but in ways that will
probably be thought rather vulgar. They were the ways that
most naturally presented themselves in a city in which the shops
are the admiration of the world, especially under the guidance of
Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of the trans-
formation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. " Now
that you are a young woman of fortune you must know how to
play the part — I mean to play it well," she said to Isabel, once
for all ; and she added that the girl's first duty was to have
everything handsome. " You don't know how to take care of
your things, but you must learn," she went on ; this was Isabel's
second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her imagin-
ation was not kindled ; she longed for opportunities, but these
were not the opportunities she meant.

Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and having intended
before her husband's death to spend a part of the winter in Paris
she saw no reason to deprive herself — still less to deprive her
companion — of this advantage. Though they would live in great
retirement, she might still present her niece, informally, to the
little circle of her fellow-countrymen dwelling upon the skirts of
the Champs Elysees. With many of these amiable colonists
Mrs. Touehett was intimate; she shared their expatriation,
their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabel saw them
come with a good deal of assiduity to her aunt's hotel, and
judged them with a trenchancy which is doubtless to be accounted
for by the temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty
She made up her mind that their manner of life was superficial,
and incurred some disfavour by expressing this view on bright
Sunday afternoons, when the American absentees were engaged
in calling upon each other. Though her listeners were the most
good-natured people in the world, two or three of them thought
her cleverness, which was generally admitted, only a dangerous
variation of impertinence.

" You all live here this way, but what does it all lead to 1 "
she was pleased to ask. " It doesn't seem to lead to anything,
and I should think you would get very tired of it."

Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta
Stack pole. The two ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and
Isabel constantly saw her; so that Mrs. Touchett had some

THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY. 185

reason for saying to herself that if her niece were not clever
enough to originate almost anything, she might be suspected of
having borrowed that style of remark from her journalistic friend.
The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that of a visit
paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend of Mrs.
Touchett's, and the only person in Paris she now went to see.
Mrs. Luce had been living in Paris since the days of Louis
Philippe ; she used to say jocosely that she was one of the
generation of 1830 — a joke of which the point was not always
taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used always to explain — " Oh
yes, T am one of the romantics ; " her French had never become
very perfect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons,
and surrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same.
In fact she was at home at all times, and led in her well-cushioned
little corner of the brilliant city as quiet and domestic a life as
she might have led in her native Baltimore. The existence of
Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, was somewhat more inscrutable.
Superficially indeed, there was no mystery about it ; the mystery
lay deeper, and resided in the wonder of his supporting existence
at all. He was the most unoccupied man in Europe, for he not
only had no duties, but he had no pleasures. Habits certainly
he had, but they were few in number, and had been worn
threadbare by forty years of use. Mr. Luce was a tall, lean,
grizzled, well-brushed gentleman, who wore a gold eye-glass and
carried his hat a little too much on the back of his head. He
went every day to the American banker's, where there was a
post-office which was almost as sociable and colloquial an institu-
tion as that of an American country town. He passed an hour
(in fine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined
uncommonly well at his own table, seated above a waxed floor,
which it was Mrs. Luce's happiness to believe had a finer polish
than any other in Paris. Occasionally he dined with a friend
or two at the Cafe Anglais, where his talent for ordering a
dinner was a source of felicity to his companions and an object
uf admiration even to the head-waiter of the establishment.
These were his only known avocations, but they had beguiled
his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtless
justified his frequent declaration that there was no place like
Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter
himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris,
but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of
the French capital than in earlier days. In the list of his occu-
pations his political reveries should not be omitted, for they
were doubtless the animating principle of many hours that

186 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

superficially seemed vacant. Like many of his fellow colonists,
Mr. Luce was a high — or rather a deep — conservative, and gave
no countenance to the government recently established in France.
He had no faith in its duration, and would assure you from year
to year that its end was close at hand. " They want to be kept
down, sir, to be kept down ; nothing but the strong hand — the
iron heel — will do for them," he would frequently say of the
French people ; and .his ideal of a fine government was that of
the lately-abolished Empire. " Paris is much less attractive
than in the days of the Emperor ; he knew how to make a city
pleasant," Mr. Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett, who
was quite of his own way of thinking, and wished to know what
one had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from
republics.

" Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Ely sees, opposite to
the Palace of Industry, I have seen the court -carriages from the
Tuileries pass up and down as many as seven times a day. I
remember one occasion when they went as high as nine times.
What do you see now fl It's- no use talking, the style's all gone.
Napoleon knew what the French people want, and there'll be a
cloud over Paris till they get the Empire back again."

Among Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was a
young man with whom Isabel had had a good deal of convers-
ation, and whom she found full of valuable knowledge. Mr.
Edward Rosier — Ned Hosier, as he was called — was a native of
New York, and had been brought up in Paris, living there
under the eye of his father, who, as it happened, had been an
old and intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier
remembered Isabel as a little girl ; it had been his father who
came to the rescue of the little Archers at the inn at Neufchatel
(he was travelling that way with the boy, and stopped at the
hotel by chance), after their bonne had gone off with the Russian
prince and when Mr. Archer's whereabouts remained for some
days a mystery. Isabel remembered perfectly the neat little
male child, whose hair smelt of a delicious cosmetic, and who
had a bonne of his own, warranted to lose sight of him under no
provocation. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside the lake,
and thought little Edward as pretty as an angel — a comparison
by no means conventional in her mind, for she had a very
definite conception of a type of features which she supposed to
be angelic, and which her new friend perfectly illustrated. A
small pink face, surmounted by a blue velvet bonnet and set off
by a stiff embroidered collar, became the countenance of her
childish dreams ; and she firmly believed for some time after-

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 187

wards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in
a queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest
sentiments, as when Edward told her that he was " defended "
by his bonne to go near the edge of the lake, and that one must
always obey to one's bonne. Ned Eosier's English had im-
proved ; at least it exhibited in a less degree the French
variation. His father was dead and his lonne was dismissed,
but the young man still conformed to the spirit of their teaching
^ — he never went to the edge of the lake. There was still
something agreeable to the nostril about him, and something
not offensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentle and
gracious youth, with what are called cultivated tastes — an
acquaintance with old china, with good wine, with the bindings
of books, with the Almanack de Gotha, with the best shops,
the best hotels, the hours of railway-trains. He could order a
dinner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as
his experience accumulated he would be a worthy successor to
that gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated, in
a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in
Paris, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his
female friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was better
draped than many a duchess. He usually, however, spent a
part of every winter at Pau, and had once passed a couple of
months in the United States.

He took a great interest in Isabel, and remembered perfectly
the walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near
the edge. He seemed to recognise this same tendency in the
subversive inquiry that I quoted a moment ago, and set himself
to answer our heroine's question with greater urbanity than it
perhaps deserved. " What does it lead to, Miss Archer ? Why
Paris leads everywhere. You can't go anywhere unless you
come here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got to
pass through. You don't mean it in that sense so much? You
mean what good it does you? Well, how can you penetrate
futurity ? How can you tell what lies ahead ? If it's a pleasant
road I don't care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer ;
I like the dear old asphalte. You can't get tired of it — you
can't if you try. You think you would, but you wouldn't;
there's always something new and fresh. Take the Hotel
Drouot, now ; they sometimes have three and four sales a week.
Where can you get such things as you can here 1 In spite of
all they say, I maintain they are cheaper too, if you know the
tight places. I know plenty of places, but I keep them to
myself. I'll tell you, if you like, as a particular favour ; only

188 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you must not tell any one else. Don't you go anywhere with-
out asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a
general thing avoid the Boulevards ; there is very little to be
done on the Boulevards. Speaking conscientiously — sans blague
— I don't believe any one knows Paris better than I. You and
Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfast with me some day, and
I'll show you rny things ; je ne vous dis que $a ! There has
been a great deal of talk about London of late ; it's the fashion
to cry up London. But there is nothing in it — you can't dp
anything in London. No Louis Quinze — nothing of the First
Empire ; nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It's good for
one's bed-room, Queen Anne — for one's washing-room ; but it
isn't proper for a salon. Do I spend my life at the auctioneer's ? "
Mr. Hosier pursued, in answer to another question of Isabel's.
" Oh, no ; I haven't the means. I wish I had. You think I'm
a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of your face — you
have got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don't mind
my saying that ; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I
ought to do something, and so do I, so long as you leave it
vague. But when you come to the point, you see you have to
stop. I can't go home and be a shopkeeper. You think I am
very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate me. I can
buy very well, but I can't sell ; you should see when I some-
times try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability
to make other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think
how clever they must be, the people who make me buy ! Ah,
no; I couldn't be a shopkeeper. I can't be a doctor, it's a
repulsive business. I can't be a clergyman, I haven't got con-
victions. And then I can't pronounce the names right in the
Bible. They are very difficult, in the Old Testament particularly.
I can't be a lawyer ; I don't understand — how do you call it 1 —
— the American procedure. Is there anything else 1 There
is nothing for a gentleman to do in America. I should like
to be a diplomatist; but American diplomacy — that is not
for gentlemen either. I am sure if you had seen the last

min "

Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr.
Rosier, coming to pay his compliments, late in the afternoon,
expressed himself after the fashion I have sketched, usually
interrupted the young man at this point and read him a lecture
on the duties of the American citizen. She thought him most
unnatural ; he was worse than Mr. Ralph Touchett. Henrietta,
however, was at this time more than ever addicted to fine
criticism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regards

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 189

Isabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her
accession of fortune, and begged to be excused from doing so.

" If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the
money," she frankly said, " I would have said to him,
'Never!'"

"I see," Isabel had answered. "You think it will prove a
curse in disguise. Perhaps it will."

" Leave it to some one you care less for — that's what I should
have said."

" To yourself, for instance ? " Isabel suggested, jocosely. And
then — " Do you really believe it will ruin me ? " she asked, in
quite another tone.

" I hope it won't ruin you ; but it will certainly confirm your
dangerous tendencies."

•" Do you mean the love of luxury — of extravagance ? "

" No, no," said Henrietta ; " I mean your moral tendencies.
I approve of luxury ; I think we ought to be as elegant as
possible. Look at the luxury of our western cities ; I have
seen nothing over here to compare with it. I hope you will
never become sensual ; but I am not afraid of that. The peril
for you is that you live too much in the world of your own
dreams — you are not enough in contact with reality — with the
toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world that
surrounds you. You are too fastidious ; you have too many
graceful illusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut
you up more and more to the society of a few selfish and heart-
less people, who will be interested in keeping up those illusions."

Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed upon this vivid but dusky
picture of her future. "What are my illusions 1 " she asked.
" I try so hard not to have any."

" Well," said Henrietta, tl you think that you can lead a
romantic life, that you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing
others. You will find you are mistaken. Whatever life you
lead, you must put your soul into it — to make any sort of success
of it ; and from the moment you do that it ceases to be romance,
I assure you ; it becomes reality ! And you can't always please
yourself; you must sometimes please other people. That, I
admit, you are very ready to do; but there is another thing
that is still more important — you must often df/splease others.
You must always be ready for that — you must never shrink
fi-oni it. That doesn't suit you at all — you are too fond of
admiration, you like to be thought well of. You think we can
escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic views — that is
your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You must be

190 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all — not
even yourself."

Isabel shook her head sadly ; she looked troubled and
frightened. " This, for you, Henrietta," she said, " must be
one of those occasions ! "

It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to
Paris, which had been professionally more remunerative than
her English sojourn, had not been living in the world of
dreams. Mr. Bantling, who had now returned to England, was
her companion for the first four weeks of her stay ; and about
Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel learned from
her friend that the two liad-led a life of great intimacy, and
that this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta, owing
to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of Paris. He had
explained everything, shown her everything, been her constant
guide and interpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined
together, gone to the theatre together, supped together, really in
a manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henrietta
more than once assured our heroine ; and she had never
supposed that she could like any Englishman so well. Isabel
could not have told you why, but she found something that
ministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of the
Interviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's brother ; and her
amusement subsisted in the face of the fact that she thought
it a credit to each of them. Isabel could not rid herself .of a
suspicion that they were playing, somehow, at cross-purposes —
that the simplicity of each of them, had been entrapped. But
this simplicity was none the less honourable on either side ; it
was as graceful on Henrietta's part to believe that Mr. Bantling
took an interest in the diffusion of lively journalism, and in
consolidating the position of lady-correspondents, as it was on
the part of her companion to suppose that the cause of the
Interviewer — a periodical of which he never formed a very
definite conception — was, if subtly analysed (a task to which
Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal), but the cause of Miss
Stackpole's coquetry. Each of these harmless confederates
supplied at any rate a want of which the other was somewhat
eagerly conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of a rather slow and
discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, who
charmed him with the spectacle of a brilliant eye and a kind of
bandbox neatness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a
mind to which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta,
on the other hand, enjoyed the society of a fresh-looking,
professionless gentleman, whose leisured state, though generally

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 191

indefensible, was a decided advantage to Miss Stackpole, and
who was furnished with an easy, traditional, though by no
means exhaustive, answer to almost any social or practical
question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling's
answers very convenient, and in the press of catching the
American post would make use of them in her correspondence.
It was to be feared that she was indeed drifting toward those
mysterious shallows as to which Isabel, wishing for a good-
humoured retort, had warned her. There might be danger in
store for Isabel ; but it was scarcely to be hoped that Miss
Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent safety in the
adoption of second-hand views. Isabel continued to warn her,
good-humouredly ; Lady Pensil's obliging brother was some-
times, on our heroine's lips, an object of irreverent and facetious
allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta's amiability
on this point ; she used to abound in the sense of Isabel's irony,
and to enumerate with elation the hours she had spent with
the good Mr. Bantling. Then, a few moments later, she would
forget that they had been talking jocosely, and would mention
with impulsive earnestness some expedition she had made in the
company of the gallant ex-guardsman. She would say — u Oh,
I know all about Versailles ; I went there with Mr. Bantling.
I was bound to see it thoroughly — I warned him when we went
out there that I was thorough ; so we spent three days at the
hotel and wandered all over the place. It was lovely weather —
a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We just lived in
that park. Oh yes ; you can't tell me anything about
Versailles." Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements
to meet Mr. Bantling in the spring, in Italy.

XXI.

MRS. TOUCHETT, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day
for her departure; and by the middle of February she had begun
to travel southward. She did not go directly to Florence, but
interrupted her journey to pay a visit to her son, who at San
Kemo, on the Italian shore of the Mediterranean, had been
spending a dull, bright winter, under a white umbrella. Isabel
went with her aunt, as a matter of course, though Mrs. Touchett,
with her usual homely logic, had laid before her a pair of alter-
natives.

" Now, of course, you are completely your own mistress," she

192 THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY.

said. " Excuse me ; I don't mean that you were not so before.
But you are on a different footing — property erects a kind of
"barrier. You can do a great many things if you are rich, which
would be severely criticised if you were poor. You can go and
come, you can travel alone, you can have your own establishment :
I mean of course if you will take a companion — some decayed
gentlewoman with a darned cashmere and dyed hair, who paints
on velvet. You don't think you would like that 1 Of course
you can do as you please ; I only want you to understand that
you are at liberty. You might take Miss Stackpole as your dame
de compagnie ; she would keep people off very well. I think,
however, that it is a great deal better you should remain with
me, in spite of there being no obligation. It's better for several
reasons, quite apart from your liking it. I shouldn't think you
would like it, but I recommend you to make the sacrifice. Of
course, whatever novelty there may have been at first in my
society has quite passed away, and you see me as I am — a dull,
obstinate, narrow-minded old woman."

" I don't think you are at all dull," Isa-bel had replied to this.

" But you do think I am obstinate and narrow-minded 1 I
told you so ! " said Mrs. Touchett, with much elation at being
justified.

Isabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, in
spite of eccentric impulses, she had a great regard for what was
usually deemed decent, and a young gentlewoman without visi-
ble relations had always struck her as a flower without foliage.
It was true that Mrs. Touchett's conversation had never again
appeared so brilliant as that first afternoon in Albany, when she
sat in her damp waterproof and sketched the opportunities that
Europe would offer to a young person of taste. This, however,
was in a great measure the girl's own fault; she had got a
glimpse of her aunt's experience, and her imagination constantly
anticipated the judgments and emotions of a woman .who had
very little of the same faculty. Apart from this, Mrs. Touchett
had a great merit ; she was as honest as a pair of compasses.
There was a comfort in her stiffness and firmness ; you knew
exactly where to find her, and were never liable to chance
encounters with her. On her own ground she was always to be
found ; but she was never over-inquisitive as regards the terri-
tory of her neighbour. Isabel came at last to have a kind of
undemonstrable pity for her ; there seemed something so dreary
in the condition of a person whose nature had, as it were, so
little surface — offered so limited a face to the accretions of
human contact. Nothing tender, nothing sympathetic, had ever

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 193

had a chance to fasten upon it — no wind-sown blossom, no
familiar moss. Her passive extent, in other words, was about
that of a knife-edge. Isabel had reason to believe, however,
that as she advanced in life she grew more disposed to confer
those sentimental favours which she was still unable to accept —
to sacrifice consistency to considerations of that inferior order
for which the excuse must be found in the particular case. It
was not to the credit of her absolute rectitude that she should
have gone the longest way round to Florence, in order to spend
a few weeks with her invalid son ; for in former years it had
been one of her most definite convictions that when Ralph
wished to see her he was at liberty to remember that the Palazzo
Crescentini contained a spacious apartment which was known as
the room of the signorino.

" I want to ask you something," Isabel said to this young
man, the day after her arrival at San Remo — " something that I
have thought more than once of asking you by letter, but that I
have hesitated on the whole to write about. Face to face, never-
theless, my question seems easy enough. Did you know that
your father intended to leave me so much money ? "

Ralph stretched his legs a little further than usual, and gazed
a little more fixedly at the Mediterranean. " What does it
matter, my dear Isabel, whether I knew 1 My father was very
obstinate."

" So," said the girl, "you did know."

" Yes ; he told me. We even talked it over a little."

" What did he do it for ?" asked Isabel, abruptly.

" Why, as a kind of souvenir."

" He liked me too much," said Isabel.

te That's a way we all have."

" If I believed that, I should be very unhappy. Fortunately
I don't believe it. I want to be treated with justice ; I want
nothing but that."

" Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovely
being is after all a florid sort of sentiment."

" I am not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very
moment when I am asking such odious questions ? I must seem
to you delicate."

" You seem to me troubled," said Ralph.

" I am troubled."

" About what 1 "

For a moment she answered nothing ; then she broke out —

" Do you think it good for me suddenly to be made so rich 1
Henrietta doesn't."

194 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

" Oh, hang Henrietta ! " said Ralph, coarsely. " If yon ask
me, I am delighted at it."

" Is that why your father did it — for your amusement 1 "

"I differ with Miss Stackpole," Ralph said, more gravely.
" I think it's very good for you to have means."

Isabel looked at him a moment with serious eyes. " I wonder
whether you know what is good for me — or whether you care."

" If I know, depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it
is? Not to torment yourself."

" Not to torment you, I suppose you mean."

" You can't do that ; I am proof. Take things more easily.
Don't ask yourself so much whether this or that is good for you.
Don't question your conscience so much — it will get out of tune,
like a strummed piano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try
so much to form your character — it's like trying to pull open a
rosebud. Live as you like best, and your character will form
itself. Most things are good for you ; the exceptions are very
rare, and a comfortable income is not one of them." Ralph
paused, smiling ; Isabel had listened quickly. " You have too
much conscience," Ralph added. "It's out of all reason, the
number of things you think wrong. Spread your wings; rise
above the ground. It's never wrong to do that."

She had listened eagerly, as I say ; and it was her nature to
understand quickly.

" I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you do, you
take a great responsibility."

" You frighten me a little, but I think I am right," said
Ralph, continuing to smile.

" All the same, what you say is very true," Isabel went on.
"You could say nothing more true. I am absorbed in myself —
I look at life too much as a doctor's prescription. Why, indeed,
should we perpetually be thinking whether things are good for
us, as if we were patients lying in a hospital 1 Why should I
be so afraid of not doing right 1 As if it mattered to the world
whether I do right or wrong ! "

" You are a capital person to advise," said Ralph ; " you take
the wind out of my sails ! "

She looked at him as if she had not heard him — though she
was following out the train of reflection which he himself had
kindled. " I try to care more about the world than about my-
self— but I always come back to myself. It's because I am
afraid." She stopped; her voice had trembled a little. "Yes,
I am afraid ; I can't tell you. A large fortune means freedom,
and I am afraid of that. It's such a fine thing, and one should

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 195

make such a good use of it. If one shouldn't, one would be
ashamed. And one must always be thinking — it's a constant
effort. I am not sure that it's not a greater happiness to be
powerless."

" JFor weak people I have no doubt it's a greater happiness.
For weak people the effort not to be contemptible must be
great."

" And how do you know I am not weak 1 " Isabel asked.

" Ah," Ealph answered, with a blush which the girl noticed,
'* if you are, I am awfully sold ! "

The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our
heroine on acquaintance ; for it was the threshold of Italy — the
gate of admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt,
stretched before her as a land of promise, a land in which a love
of the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge.
"Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her cousin — and she
was the companion of his daily walk — she looked a while across
the sea, with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay.
She was glad to pause, however, on the edge of this larger
knowledge ; the stillness of these soft weeks seemed good to her.
They were a peaceful interlude in a career which she had little
warrant as yet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless
she was constantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes,
her fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which
reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently dra-
matic. Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs. Touchett that after
Isabel had put her hand into her pocket half-a-dozen times she
would be reconciled to the idea that it had been filled by a
munificent uncle ; and the event justified, as it had so often
justified before, Madame Merle's perspicacity. Ralph Touchett
had praised his cousin for being morally inflammable ; that is,
for being quick to take a hint that was meant as good advice.
His advice had perhaps helped the matter ; at any rate before
she left San Remo she had grown used to feeling rich. The
consciousness found a place in rather a dense little group of ideas
that she had about her herself, and often it was by ho means the
.feast agreeable. It was a perpetual implication of good inten-
tions. She lost herself in a maze of visions ; the fine things a
rich, independent, generous girl, who took a large, human view
of her opportunities and obligations, might do, were really innu-
merable. Her fortune therefore became to her mind a part of
her better self; it gave her importance, gave her even, to her
own imagination, a certain ideal beauty. What it did for her in
the imagination of others is another affair, and on this point we

O 2

196 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY,

must also touch in time. The visions I have just spoken of
were intermingled with other reveries. Isabel liked better to
think of the future than of the past ; but at times, as she listened
to the murmur of the Mediterranean waves, her glance took a
backward flight. It rested upon two figures which, in spite of
increasing distance, were still sufficiently salient ; they were
recognisa'ble without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and
Lord Warburton. It was strange how quickly these gentlemen
had fallen into the background of our young lady's life. It was
in her disposition at all times to lose faith in the reality of
absent things ; she could summon back her faith, in case of need,
with an effort, but the effort was often painful, even when tho
reality had been pleasant The past was apt to look dead, and
its revival to wear the supernatural aspect of a resurrection.
Isabel moreover was not prone to take for granted that she her-
self lived in the mind of others — she had not the fatuity to
believe that she left indelible traces. She was capable of being
wounded by the discovery that she had been forgotten ; and
yet, of all liberties, the one she herself found sweetest was the
liberty to forget. She had not given her last shilling, sentiment-
ally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or to Lord Warbur-
ton, and yet she did not regard them as appreciably in her debt.
She had, of course, reminded herself that she was to hear from
Mr. Goodwood again ; but this was not to be for another year
and a half, and in that time a great many things might happen.
Isabel did not say to herself that her American suitor might find
some other girl more comfortable to woo ; because, though it was
certain that many other girls would prove so, she had not the
smallest belief that this merit would attract him. But she
reflected that she herself might change her humour — might
weary of those things that were not Caspar (and there were so
many things that were not Caspar !), and might find satisfaction
in the very qualities which struck her to-day as his limitations.
It was conceivable that his limitations should some day prove a
sort of blessing in disguise — a clear and quiet harbour, inclosed
by a fine granite breakwater. But that day could only come in
its order, and she could not wait for it with folded hands. That
Lord Warburton should continue to cherish her image seemed to
her more than modesty should not only expect, but even desire.
She had so definitely undertaken to forget him, as a lover, that
a corresponding effort on his own part would be eminently pro-
per. This was not, as it may seem, merely a theory tinged with
sarcasm. Isabel really believed that his lordship would, in
the usual phrase, get over it. He had been deeply smitten — •

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 197

this she believed, and she was still capable of deriving pleasure
from the belief ; but it was absurd that a man so completely
absolved from fidelity should stiffen himself in an attitude it
would be more graceful to discontinue. Englishmen liked to be
comfortable, said Isabel, and there could be little comfort for
Lord Warburton, in the long run, in thinking of a self-sufficient
American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance. Isabel
flattered herself that should she hear, from one day to another,
that he had married some young lady of his own country who
had done more to deserve him, she should receive the news
without an impulse of jealousy. It would have proved that he
believed she was firm — which was what she wished to seem to
him; and this was grateful to her pride.

XXII.

ON one of the first days of May, some six months after old
Mr. Touchett's death, a .picturesque little group was gathered in
one of the many rooms of an ancient villa which stood on the
summit of an olive-muffled hill, outside of the Roman gate of
Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure,
with the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves, and which, on
the hills that encircle Florence, when looked at from a distance,
makes so harmonious a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite
cypresses that usually rise, in groups of three or four, beside it.
The house had a front upon a little grassy, empty, rural piazza,
which occupied a part of the hill-top ; and this front, pierced
with a few windows in irregular relations and furnished with a
stone bench which ran along the base of the structure and usually
afforded a lounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or
less of that air of under- valued merit which in Italy, for some
reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who confi-
dently assumes a perfectly passive attitude — this ancient, solid,
weather-worn, yet imposing front, had a somewhat incommuni-
cative character. It was the mask of the house ; it was not
its face. It had heavy lids, but no eyes ; the house in reality
looked another way — looked off behind, into splendid openness
and the range of the afternoon light. In that quarter the villa
overhung the slope of its hill and the long valley of the Arno,
hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in the man-
ner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses and
old stone benches, mossy and sun- warmed. The parapet of the

198 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the
ground declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards.
It is not, however, with the outside of the place that we are
concerned ; on this bright morning of ripened spring its tea ants
had reason to prefer the shady side of the wall. The windows
of the ground-floor, as you saw them from the piazza, were, in
their noble proportions, extremely architectural ; but their func-
tion seemed to be less to offer communication with the world
than to defy the world to look in. They were massively cross-
barred and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on tip-
toe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by
a row of three of these obstructive apertures — one of the several
distinct apartments into which the villa was divided, and which
were mainly occupied by foreigners of conflicting nationality
long resident in Florence — a gentleman was seated, in company
with a young girl and two good sisters from a religious house.
The room was, however, much less gloomy than my indications
may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which now
stood open into the tangled garden behind ; and the tall iron
lattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian
sunshine. The place, moreover, was almost laxuriously comfort-
able ; it told of habitation being practised as a fine art. It con-
tained a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry,
those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those
primitive specimens of pictorial art in frames pedantically rusty,
those perverse-looking relics of mediaeval brass and pottery, of
which Italy has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse.
These things were intermingled with articles of modern furni-
ture, in which liberal concession had been made to cultivated
sensibilities ; it was to be noticed that all the chairs were deep
and well padded, and that much space was occupied by a writ-
ing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of
London and the nineteenth century. There were books in pro-
fusion, and magazines and newspapers, and a few small modern
pictures, chiefly in water-colour. One of these productions stood
on a drawing-room easel, before which, at the moment when we
begin to be concerned with her, the young girl I have mentioned
had placed herself. She was looking at the picture in silence.

Silence — absolute silence — had not fallen upon her com-
panions ; but their conversation had an appearance of embar-
rassed continuity. The two good sisters had not settled them-
selves in their respective chairs ; their attitude was noticeably
provisional, and they evidently wished to emphasise the transi-
tory character of their presence. They were plain, comfortable

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 199

mild-faced women, with a kind of business-like modesty, to
which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened linen and inexpress-
ive serge gave an advantage. One of them, a person of a cer-
tain age, in spectacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek,
had a more discriminating manner than her colleague, and had
evidently the responsibility of their errand, which apparently
related to the young girl. This young lady wore her hat— a
coiffure of extreme simplicity, which was not at variance with a
plain muslin gown, too short for the wearer, though it must
already have been " let out." The gentleman who might have
been supposed to -be entertaining the two nuns was perhaps
conscious of the difficulties of his function ; to entertain a
nun is, in fact, a sufficiently delicate operation. At the same
time he was plainly much interested in his youthful companion,
and while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely
upon her slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a
well-shaped head, upon which the hair, still dense, but prema-
turely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a thin, delicate,
sharply-cut face, of which the only fault was that it looked too
pointed ; an appearance to which the shape of his beard contri-
buted not a little. This beard, cut in the manner of the por-
traits of the sixteenth century and surmounted by a fair mous-
tache, of which the ends had a picturesque upward flourish, gave
its wearer a somewhat foreign, traditionary look, and suggested
that he was a gentleman who studied effect. His luminous
intelligent eye, an eye which expressed both softness and keen-
ness— the nature of the observer as well as of the dreamer —
would have assured you, however, that he studied it only within
well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he sought it he found it.
You would have been much at a loss to determine his national-
ity ; he had none of the superficial signs that usually render the
answer to this question an insipidly easy one. If he had Eng-
lish blood in his veins, it had probably received some French or
Italian commixture ; he was one of those persons who, in the
matter of race, may, as the phrase is, pass for anything. He
had a light, lean, lazy-looking figure, and was apparently neither
tall nor short. He was dressed as a man dresses who takes little
trouble about it.

" Well, my dear, what do you think of it ? " he asked of the
young girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with
perfect ease ; but this would not have convinced you that he was
an Italian.

The girl turned her head a little to one side and the other.

" It is very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself ? "

200 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Yes, my child ; I made it. Don't you think I am clever ? "

" Yes, papa, very clever ; I also have learned to make pic-
tures." And she turned round and showed a small, fair face, of
which the natural and usual expression seemed to be a smile of
perfect sweetness.

"You should have brought me a specimen of your powers."

" I have brought a great many ; they are in my trunk," said
the child.

" She draws very — very carefully," the elder of the nuns
remarked, speaking in French.

" I am glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her 1 "

" Happily, no," said the good sister, blushing a little. " Ce
n'est pas ma partie. I teach nothing ; I leave that to those who
are wiser. We have an excellent drawing-master, Mr. — Mr. —
what is his name 1 " she asked of her companion.

Her companion looked about at the carpet.

" It's a German name," she said in Italian, as if it needed to
be translated.

" Yes," the other went on, " he is a German, and we have had
him for many years."

The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had
wandered away to the open door of the large room, and stood
looking into the garden.

" And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman.

" Yes, sir," the woman replied, gently. " I speak to the pupils
in my own language. I know no other. But we have sisters of
other countries — English, German, Irish. They all speak their
own tongue."

The gentleman gave a smile.

" Has my daughter been under the care of one of the Irish
ladies'? " And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke,
but failed to understand it — " You are very complete," he said,
instantly.

" Oh, yes, we are complete. We have everything, and every-
thing is of the best."

" We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark.
" But not dangerous."

" I hope not. Is that your branch ? " A question which
provoked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies ; on
the subsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter,
remarked that she had grown.

" Yes, but I think she has finished. She will remain little,'
said the French sister.

" I am not sorry. I like little women," the gentleman declared,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 201

frankly. "But I know no particular reason why my child
should be short."

The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such
things might be beyond our knowledge.

" She is in very good health ; that is the best thing."

"Yes, she looks well." And the young girl's father watched
her a moment. "What do you see in the garden1?" he asked, in
French.

" I see many flowers," she replied, in a sweet, small voice,
and with a French accent as good as his own.

" Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are,
go out and gather some for ces dames."

The child turned to him, with her smile brightened by pleasure.
" May I, truly 1 " she asked.

" Ah, when I tell you," said her father.

The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns.

" May I, truly, ma mere ? "

"Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister,
blushing again.

The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the
threshold, and was presently lost to sight.

" You don't spoil them," said her father, smiling.

" For everything they must ask leave. That is our system.
Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it."

" Oh, I don't quarrel with your system ; I have no doubt it is
a very good one. I sent you my daughter to see what you would
make of her. I had faith."

" One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing
through her spectacles.

" Well, has my faith been rewarded 1 What have you made
of her ? "

The sister dropped her eyes a moment.

" A good Christian, monsieur."

Her host dropped his eyes as well ; but it was probable that
the movement had in each case a different spring.

" Yes," he said in a moment, " and what else 1 "

He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking
that she would say that a good Christian was everything.

But for all her simplicity, she was not so crude as that. " A
charming young lady — a real little woman — a daughter in whom
you will have nothing but contentment."

" She seems to me very nice," said the father. " She is very
pretty."

" She is perfect. She has no faults."

202 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" She never had any as a child, and I am glad you have given
her none."

" We love her too much," said the spectacled sister, with dig-
nity. " And as for faults, how can we give what we have not 1
Le convent n'est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She is our child,
as you may say. We have had her since she was so small."

" Of all those we shall lose this year she is the one we shall
miss most," the younger woman murmured, deferentially.

" Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We
shall hold her up to the new ones."

And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles
dim ; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently
drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.

" It is not certain that you will lose her ; nothing is settled
yet," the host rejoined, quickly; not as if to anticipate their
tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable
to himself.

" We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very
young to leave us."

" Oh," exclaimed the gentleman, with more vivacity than he
had yet used, " it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish
you could keep her always ! "

" Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up,
" good as she is, she is made for the world. Le monde y gagnera."

"If all the good people were hidden away in convents, how
would the world get on ] " her companion softly inquired, rising
also.

This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman
apparently supposed ; and the lady in spectacles took a harmon-
ising view by saying comfortably —

" Fortunately there are good people everywhere."

" If you are going there will be two less here," her host
remarked, gallantly.

For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer,
and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation ; but
their confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young
girl, with two large bunches of roses — one of them all white, the
other red.

" I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child.
" It is only the colour that is different, mamman Justine \ there
are just as many roses in one bunch as another."

The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with
— " Which will you take?" and " No, it's for you to choose."

"I will take the red," said mother Catherine, in the spec-

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 203

tacles. " I am so red myself. They will comfort us on our
way back to Rome."

" Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. " I wish I
could give you something that would last ! "

" You have given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter.
That will last!"

" I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you
my blue beads," the child went on.

" And do you go back to Home to-night 1 " her father asked.

"Yes, we take the train again. We have so much to do
Id-bas."

"Are you not tired?"

" We are never tired."

" Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress.

" Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here.
Que Dieu vous garde, ma fille"

Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter,
went forward to open the door through which they were to
pass ; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood
looking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber,
as high as a chapel, and paved with red tiles ; and into this
ante-chamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad
in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apart-
ment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the
door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence,
too, the lady advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting,
and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the
drawing-room. At the threshold she hesitated.

" Is there any one 1 " she asked.

" Some one you may see."

She went in, and found herself confronted with the two nuns
and their pupil, who was coming forward between them, with a
hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor they
all paused, and the lady, who had stopped too, stood looking at
them. The young girl gave a little soft cry —

" Ah, Madame Merle ! "

The visitor had been slightly startled ; but her manner the
next instant was none the less gracious.

" Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you home."

And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately
came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame
Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person, and
then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her
smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct

204 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring
in with her something of the radiance of the outer world.

" These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they
return to the convent/' the gentleman explained.

" Ah, you go back to Eome ? I have lately come from there.
It is very lovely now," said Madame Merle.

The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their
sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically ; and the master of
the house asked Madame Merle how long it was since she had
left Rome.

" She came to see me at the convent," said the young girl,
before her father's visitors had time to reply.

" I have been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle
answered. " Am I not your great friend in Rome ? "

"I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you
told me I should leave the place."

"Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked.

" I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would
please her. I have been in Florence a week. I hoped you
would come and see me."

" I should have done so if I had known you were here. One
doesn't know such things by inspiration — though I suppose one
ought. You had better sit down."

These two speeches were made in a peculiar tone of voice — a
tone half-lowered, and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather
than from any definite need.

Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat.

" You are going to the door with these women 1 Let me of
course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames"
she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.

" This lady is a great friend of ours ; you will have seen her
at the convent," said the host. " We have much faith in her
judgment, and she will help me to decide whether my daughter
shall return to you at the end of the holidays."

" I hope you will decide in our favour, madam," the sister in
spectacles ventured to remark.

" That is Mr. Osmond's pleasantry ; I decide nothing," said
Madame Merle, smiling still. " I believe you have a very good
school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she is
meant for the world."

" That is what I have told monsieur," sister Catherine
answered "It is precisely to fit her for the world," she
murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood at a little distance
looking at Madame Merle's elegant apparel.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 205

" Do you hear that, Pansy ? You are meant for the world,"
said Pansy's father.

The child gazed at him an instant with her pure young eyes.

" Am I not meant for you, papa 1 " she asked.

Papa gave a quick, light laugh.

" That doesn't prevent it ! I am of the world, Pansy."

" Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. " Be
good, in any case, my daughter."

" I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy declared,
recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted
by Madame Merle.

" Stay with me, my child," she said, " while your father
takes the good ladies to the door."

Pansy stared, disappointed, but not protesting. She was
evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was
due to any one who took the tone of authority ; and she was a
passive spectator of the operation of her fate.

' " May I not see mamman Catherine get into the carriage ? "
she asked very gently.

" It would please me better if you would remain with me,"
said Madame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions,
who had bowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the
ante-chamber.

" Oh yes, I will stay," Pansy answered ; and she stood near
Madame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took.
She stared out of the window ; her eyes had filled with tears.

" I am glad they have taught you to obey," said Madame
Merle. " That is what little girls should do." '

" Oh yes, I obey very well,' ' said Pansy, with soft eagerness,
almost with boastf illness, as if she had been speaking of her
piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.

Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own
fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found
nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair.

" I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said in
a moment. " Little girls usually dislike them."

"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child
answered.

" Very good, I will make you a present of a dozen."

" I thank you very much. What colours will they be 1 "
Pansy demanded, with interest.

Madame Merle meditated a moment.

" Useful colours."

" But will they be pretty?"

206 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Are you fond of pretty things ? "

"Yes ; but — but not too fond," said Pansy, with a trace of
asceticism.

" Well, they will not be too pretty," Madame Merle answered,
with a laugh. She took the child's other hand, and drew her
nearer ; and then, looking at her a moment — " Shall you miss
mother Catherine 2 "

" Yes— when I think of her."

" Try, then, not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added
Madame Merle, " you will have another mother."

"I don't think that is necessary," Pansy said, repeating her
little soft, conciliatory sigh. " I had more than thirty mothers
at the convent."

Her father's step sounded again in the ante-chamber, and
Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came
in and closed the door ; then, without looking at Madame Merle,
he pushed one or two chairs back into their places.

His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him
as he moved about. Then at last she said — " I hoped you would
have come to Rome. I thought it possible you would have
come to fetch Pansy away."

" That was a natural supposition ; but I am afraid it is not
the first time I have acted in defiance of your calculations."

" Yes," said Madame Merle, " I think you are very perverse."

Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room — there
was plenty of space in it to move about — in the fashion of a
man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention
which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had ex-
hausted his pretexts ; there was nothing left for him — unless
he took up a book — but to stand with his hands behind him,
looking at Pansy. " Why didn't you come and bee the last of
rnamman Catherine 1 " he asked of her abruptly, in French.

Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. " I
asked her to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated
herself again in another place.

"Ah, that was better," said Osmond. Then, at last, he
dropped into a chair, and sat looking at Madame Merle ; leaning
forward a little, with his elbows on the edge of the arms and
his hands interlocked.

" She is going to give me some gloves," said Pansy.

" You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle
observed.

" You are very kind to her," said Osmond. " She is sup-
posed to have everything she needs."

THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY. 207

" I should think she had had enough of the nuns."

" If we are going to discuss that matter, she had better go
out of the room."

" Let her stay," said Madame Merle. " We will talk of
something else."

" If you like, I won't listen," Pansy suggested, with an
appearance of candour which imposed conviction.

" You may listen, charming child, because you won't under-
stand," her father replied. The child sat down deferentially,
near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she
directed her innocent, wistful eyes ; and Mr. Osmond went on,
irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. " You
are looking particularly well."

" I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.

"You always are the same. You don't vary. You are a
wonderful woman."

"Yes, I think I am."

" You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me
on your return from England that you would not leave Rome
again for the present."

" I am pleased that you remember so well what I say. That
was my intention. But I have come to Florence to meet some
friends who have lately arrived, and as to whose movements I
was at that time uncertain."

" That reason is characteristic. You are always doing some-
thing for your friends."

Madame Merle looked straight at her interlocutor, smiling.
" It is less characteristic than your comment upon it — which is
perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that,"
she added, " because if you don't believe what you say there is
no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends ;
I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."

"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves — so
much of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched
so many other lives."

" What do you call one's life? " asked Madame Merle. "One's
appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"

*' I call your life — your ambitions," said Osmond.

Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder
whether she understands that," she murmured.

" You see she can't stay with us ! " And Pansy's father gave
a rather joyless smile. " Go into the garden, ma bonne, and
pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle," he went on, in
French.

208 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising
with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed
her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then
came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and
fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another atti-
tude might be wanting.

" My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle,
looking up at him with a certain nobleness of expression.

" That comes back to what I say. I am part of your life — I
and a thousand others. You are not selfish — I can't admit that.
If you were selfish, what should I be 1 What epithet would
properly describe me 1 "

" You are indolent. For me that is your worst fault."

" I am afraid it is really my best."

" You don't care," said Madame Merle, gravely.

" No ; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do
you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the
reasons I didn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them."

"It is not of importance — to me at least — that you didn't
go ; though I should have been glad to see you. I am glad
that you are not in Rome now — which you might be, would
probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There is
something I should like you to do at present in Florence."

" Please remember my indolence," said Osmond.

" I will remember it ; but I beg you to forget it. In that
way you will have both the virtue and the reward. This is not
a great labour, and it may prove a great pleasure. How long is
it since you made a new acquaintance 1 "

" I don't think I have made any since I made yours."

" It is time you should make another, then. There is a
friend of mine I want you to know."

Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door
again, and was looking at his daughter, as she moved about in
the intense sunshine. " What good will it do me 1 " he asked,
with a sort of genial crudity.

Madame Merle reflected a moment. " It will amuse you."
There was nothing crude in this rejoinder ; it had been thoroughly
well considered.

" If you say that, I believe it," said Osmond, coming toward
her. " There are some points in which my confidence in you is
complete. I am perfectly aware, for instance, that you know
good society from bad."

" Society is all bad."

" Excuse me. That isn't a common sort of wisdom. You have

THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY. 209

gained it in the right way — experimentally ; you have compared
an immense number of people with each other."

" Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge."

" To profit 1 Are you very sure that I shall1? "

" It's what I hope. It will depend upon yourself. If I could
only induce you to make an effort ! "

" Ah, there you are ! I knew something tiresome was coming.
What in the world — that is likely to turn up here — is worth an
effort ?"

Madame Merle flushed a little, and her eye betrayed vexation.
" Don't be foolish, Osmond. There is no one knows better than
you that there are many things worth an effort."

" Many things, I admit. But they are none of them probable
things."

" It is the effort that makes them probable," said Madame
Merle.

" There's something in that. Who is your friend 1 "

" The person I came to Florence to see. She is a niece of
Mrs. Touchett, whom you will not have forgotten."

" A niece 1 The word niece suggests youth. I see what you
are coming to."

" Yes, she is young — twenty-two years old. She is a great
friend of mine. I met her for the first time in England, several
months ago, and we took a great fancy to each other. I like her
immensely, and I do what I don't do every day — I admire her.
You will do the same."

"Not if 'I can help it."

" Precisely. But you won't be able to help it."

" Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelli-
gent and unprecedentedly virtuous ? It is only on those condi-
tions that I care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked
you some time ago never to speak to me of any one who should
not correspond to that description. I know plenty of dingy
people ; I don't want to know any more."

" Miss Archer is not dingy ; she's as bright as the morning.
She corresponds to your description ; it is for that I wish you to
know her. She fills all your requirements."

" More or less, of course."

" No ; quite literally. She is beautiful, accomplished, gener-
ous, and for an American, well-born. She is also very clever
and very amiable, and she has a handsome fortune."

Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it
over in his mind, with his eyes on his informant. " What do
you want to do with her 1 " he asked, at last.

p

210 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" What you see. Put her in your way."

" Isn't she meant for something better than that 1 "

{t I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said
Madame Merle. " I only know what I can do with them."

" I am sorry for Miss Archer ! " Osmond declared.

Madame Merle got up. " If that is a beginning of interest in
her, I take note of it."

The two stood there, face to face ; she settled her mantilla,
looking down at it as she did so.

" You are looking very well," Osmond repeated, still more
irrelevantly than before. " You have got some idea. You are
never as well as when you have got an idea ; they are always
becoming to you."

In the manner of these two persons, on first meeting on any
occasion, and especially when they met in the presence of others,
there was something indirect and circumspect, which showed
itself in glance and tone. They approached each other obliquely,
as it were, and they addressed each other by implication. The
effect of each appeared to be to intensify to an embarrassing
degree the self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of
course carried off such embarrassments better than her friend ;
but even Madame Merle had not on this occasion the manner
she would have liked to have — the perfect self-possession she
would have wished to exhibit to her host. The point I wish
to make is, however, that at a certain moment the obstruction,
whatever it was, always levelled itself, and left them more closely
face to face than either of them ever was with any one else.
This was what had happened now. They stood there, knowing
each other well, and each of them on the whole willing to accept
the satisfaction of knowing, as a compensation for the inconveni-
ence— whatever it might be — of being known.

" I wish very much you were not so heartless," said Madame
Merle, quietly. " It has always been against you, and it will be
against you now."

" I am not so heartless as you think. Every now and then
something touches me — as for instance your saying just now that
your ambitions are for me. I don't understand it ; I don't
see how or why they should be. But it touches me, all the
same."

" You will probably understand it even less as time goes on.
There are some things you will never understand. There is no
particular need that you should."

"You, after all, are the most remarkable woman," said
Osmond. " You have more in you than almost any one. I

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 211

don't see why you think Mrs. Touchett's niece should matter
very much to me, when — when " and he paused a moment.

" When I myself have mattered so little ? "

" That of course is not what I meant to say. When I have
known and appreciated such a woman as you."

" Isabel Archer is better than I," said Madame Merle.

Her companion gave a laugh. " How little you must think
of -her to say that ! "

" Do you suppose I am capable of jealousy 1 Please answer
me that."

" With regard to me 1 No ; on the whole I don't."

" Come and see me, then, two days hence. I am staying at
Mrs. Touchett's — the Palazzo Crescentini — and the girl will be
there."

" Why didn't you ask me that at first, simply, without speak-
ing of the girl 1 " said Osmond. " You could have had her there
at any rate."

Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman
whom no question that he could ask would find unprepared.
" Do you wish to know why 1 Because I have spoken of you
to her."

Osmond frowned and turned away. " I would rather not
know that." Then, in a moment, he pointed out the easel sup-
porting the little water-colour drawing. " Have you seen that
• —my last 1 "

Madame Merle drew near and looked at it a moment. " Is it
die Venetian Alps — one of your last year's sketches V1

" Yes — but how you guess everything ! "

Madame Merle looked for a moment longer ; then she turned
away. " You know I don't care for your drawings."

" I know it, yet I am always surprised at it. They are really
so much better than most people's."

" That may very well be. But as the only thing you do, it's
so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things :
those were my ambitions."

" Yes ; you have told me many times — things that were
impossible."

" Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And
then, in quite a different tone — " In itself your little picture is
very good." She looked about the room — at the old cabinets,
the pictures, the tapestries, the surfaces of faded silk. " Your
rooms, at least, are perfect," she went on. " I am struck with
that afresh, whenever I come back ; I know none better any-
where. You understand this sort of thing as no one else does."

P 2

212 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I am very sick of it," said Osmond.

"You must let Miss Archer come and see all this. I have
told her about it."

" I don't object to showing my things — when people are not
idiots."

" You do it delightfully. As a cicerone in your own museum
you appear to particular advantage."

Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply turned
upon his companion an eye expressive of perfect clairvoyance.

" Did you say she was rich 1 " he asked in a moment.

" She has seventy thousand pounds."

" En ecus bien comptes ? "

tl There is no doubt whatever about her fortune. I have seen
it, as I may say."

" Satisfactory woman ! — I mean you. And if I go to see her,
shall I see the mother 1 "

" The mother 1 She has none — nor father either."

" The aunt then ; whom did you say 1 — Mrs. Touchett."

" I can easily keep her out of the way."

" I don't object to her," said Osmond ; " I rather like Mrs.
Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that is
passing away — a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes, the
son — is he about the place 1 "

" He is there, but he won't trouble you."

" He's an awful ass."

" I think you are mistaken. He is a very clever man. But
he is not fond of being about when I am there, because he doesn't
like me."

" What could be more asinine than that ? Did you say that
she was pretty ? " Osmond went on.

" Yes ; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disap-
pointed. Come and make a beginning; that is all I ask of
you."

" A beginning of what 1 "

Madame Merle was silent a moment. " I want you of course
to marry her."

"The beginning of the end! Well, I will see for myself.
Have you told her that ? "

" For what do you take me ? She is a very delicate piece of
machinery."

"Really," said Osmond, after some meditation, "I don't
understand your ambitions."

" I think you will understand this one after you have seen
Miss Archer. Suspend your judgment till then." Madame

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 213

Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the open door of the
garden, where she stood a moment, looking out. " Pansy has
grown pretty," she presently added.

" So it seemed to me."

" But she has had enough of the convent."

" I don't know," said Osmond. " I like what they have made
of her. It's very charming."

" That's not the convent. It's the child's nature."

" It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl."

" Why doesn't she come back with my flowers, then 1 " Madame
Merle asked. " She is not in a hurry."

" We will go and get them," said her companion.

" She doesn't like me," murmured Madame Merle, as she raised
her parasol, and they passed into the garden.

XXIII.

MADAME MERLE, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's
arrival at the invitation of this lady — Mrs. Touchett offering her
for a month the hospitality of the Palazzo Crescentini — the
judicious Madame Merle spoke to Isabel afresh about Gilbert
Osmond, and expressed the wish that she should know him ; but
made no such point of the matter as we have seen her do in
recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The
reason of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance
whatever to Madame Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England,
the lady had a multitude of friends, both among the natives of
the country and its heterogeneous visitors. She had mentioned
to Isabel most of the people the girl would find it well to know
— of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever she would —
and she had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of the list. He
was an old friend of her own ; she had known him these ten
years ; he was one of tlie cleverest and most agreeable men it
was possible to meet. He was altogether above the respectable
average ; quite another affair. He was not perfect — far from
it ; the effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of
his nerves and his spirits. If he were not in the right mood he
could be very unsatisfactory — like most people, after all; but
when he chose to exert himself no man could do it to better
purpose. He had his peculiarities — which indeed Isabel would
find to be the case with all the men really worth knowing — and
he did not cause his light to shine equally for all persons.

214 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that for
Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored— too easily,
and dull people always put him out ; but a quick and cultivated
girl like Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent
from his life. At any rate, he was a person to know. One
should not attempt to live in Italy without making a friend of
Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the country than any
one except two or three German professors. And if they had
more knowledge than he, he had infinitely more taste ; he had a
taste which was quite by itself. Isabel remembered that her
friend had spoken of him during their multifarious colloquies at
Gardencourt, and wondered a little what was the nature of the
tie that united them. She was inclined to imagine that Madame
Merle's ties were peculiar, and such a possibility was a part of
the interest created by this suggestive woman. As regards her
relations with Mr. Osmond, however, Madame Merle hinted at
nothing but a long-established and tranquil friendship. Isabel
said that she should be happy to know a person who had enjoyed
her friend's confidence for so many years. "You ought to' see a
great many men," Madame Merle remarked ; " you ought to see
as many as possible, so as to get used to them."

" Used to them ? " Isabel repeated, with that exceedingly
serious gaze which sometimes seemed to proclaim that she was
deficient in a sense of humour — an intimation which at other
moments she effectively refuted. " I am not afraid of them 1 "

" Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what
one comes to with most of them. You will pick out, for your
society, the few whom you don't despise."

This remark had a bitterness which Madame Merle did not
often allow herself to betray ; but Isabel was not alarmed by it,
for she had never supposed that, as one saw more of the world,
the sentiment of respect became the most active of one's emotions.
This sentiment was excited, however, by the beautiful city of
Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle had
promised ; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to
gauge its charms, she had clever companions to call attention to
latent merits. She was in no want, indeed, of aesthetic illumin-
ation, for Ralph found it a pleasure which renewed his own
earlier sensations, to act as cicerone to his eager young kinswoman.
Madame Merle remained at home ; she had seen the treasures of
Florence so often, and she had always something to do. But
she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of memory — •
she remembered the right-hand angle in the large Perugino, and
the position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 215

next to it; and had her own opinions as to the character of many
famous works of art, differing often from Ralph with great sharp-
ness, and defending her interpretations with as much ingenuity
as good-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions which took
place between the two, with a sense that she might derive much
benefit from them and that they were among the advantages
which — for instance — she could not have enjoyed in Albany.
In the clear May mornings, before the formal breakfast — this
repast at Mrs. Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock — Isabel
wandered, about with her cousin through the narrow and sombre
Florentine streets, resting a while in the thicker dusk of some
historic church, or the vaulted chambers of some dispeopled con-
vent. She went to the galleries and palaces ; she looked at the
pictures and statues which had hitherto been great names to her,
and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation
a presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She
performed all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a
first visit to Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge ; she
felt her heart beat in the presence of immortal genius, and knew
the sweetness of rising tears in eyes to which faded fresco and
darkened marble grew dim. But the return, every day, was even
pleasanter than the going forth ; the return into the wide, monu-
mental court of the great house in which Mrs. Touchett, many
years before, had established herself, and into the high, cool
rooms where carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the sixteenth
century looked down upon the familiar commodities of the
nineteenth. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a
narrow street whose very name recalled the strife of mediaeval
factions ; and found compensation for the darkness of her front-
age in the modicity of her rent and the brightness of a garden in
which nature itself looked as archaic as the rugged architecture
of the palace and which illumined the rooms that were in regular
use. Isabel found that to live in such a place might be a source
of happiness — almost of excitement. At first it had struck her
as a sort of prison ; but very soon its prison-like quality became
a merit, for she discovered that it contained other prisoners than
the members of her aunt's household. The spirit of the past was
shut up there, like a refugee from the outer world ; it lurked in
lonely corners, and, at night, haunted even the rooms in which
Mrs. Touchett diffused her matter-of-fact influence. Isabel used
to hear vague echoes and strange reverberations; she had a sense
of the hovering of unseen figures, of the flitting of ghosts. Often
she paused, listening, half-startled, half-disappointed, on the great
cold stone staircase.

216 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented
him to the young lady seated almost out of sight at the other
end of the room. Isabel, on this occasion, took little share in
the conversation ; she scarcely even smiled when the others
turned to her appealingly ; but sat there as an impartial auditor
of their brilliant discourse. Mrs. Touchett was not present,
and these two had it their own way. They talked extremely
well j it struck Isabel almost as a dramatic entertainment,
rehearsed in advance. Madame Merle referred everything to
her, but the girl answered nothing, though she knew that this
attitude would make Mr. Osmond think she was one of those
dull people who bored him. It was" the worse, too, thai;
Madame Merle would have told him she was almost as much
above the merely respectable average as he himself, and that
she was putting her friend dreadfully in the wrong. But this
was no matter, for once ; even if more had depended on it,
Isabel could not have made an attempt to shine. There was
something in Mr. Osmond that arrested her and held her in
suspense — made it seem more important that she should get an
impression of him than that she should produce one herself.
Besides, Isabel had little skill in producing an impression which
she knew to be expected ; nothing could be more charming, in
general, than to seem dazzling ; but she had a perverse unwill-
ingness to perform by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him
justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing ; he was a quiet
gentleman, with a colourless manner, who said elaborate things
with a great deal of simplicity. Isabel, however, privately
perceived that if he did not expect he observed ; she was very
sure he was sensitive. His face, his head was sensitive; he was
not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in
the long gallery above the bridge, at the Uffizi. Mr. Osmond
was very delicate ; the tone of his voice alone would have proved
it. It was the visitor's delicacy that made her abstain from
interference. His talk was like the tinkling of glass, and if
she had put out her finger she might have changed the pitch
and spoiled the concert. Before he went he made an appeal
to her.

" Madame Merle says she will come up to my hill- top some
day next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me
much pleasure if you would come with her. It's thought rather
pretty — there's what they call a general view. My daughter,
too, Jwould be so glad — or rather, for she is too young to have
strong emotions, I should be so glad — so very glad." And Mr.
Osmond paused a moment, with a slight air of embarrassment,

THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY. 217

leaving his sentence unfinished. " I should be so happy if you
could know my daughter," he went on, a moment afterwards.

Isabel answered that she should be delighted to see Miss
Osmond, and that if Madame Merle would show her the way to
the hill-top she should be very grateful. Upon this assurance
the visitor took his leave ; after which Isabel fully expected that
her friend would scold her for having been so stupid. But to
her surprise, Madame Merle, who indeed never fell into the
matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments —

" You were charming, my dear ; you were just as one would
have wished you. You are never disappointing."

A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is
much more probable that Isabel would have taken it in good
part ; but, strange to say, the words that Madame Merle actually
used caused her the first feeling of displeasure she had known
this lady to excite. " That is more than I intended," she
answered, coldly. " I am under no obligation that I know of
to charm Mr. Osmond."

Madame Merle coloured a moment ; but we know it was not
her habit to retract. " My dear child, I didn't speak for him,
poor man ; I spoke for yourself. It is not of course a question
as to his liking you ; it matters little whether he likes you or
not ! But I thought you liked him."

" I did," said Isabel, honestly. " But I don't see what that
matters, either."

" Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame
Merle returned, with a sort of noble gentleness, " especially when
at the same time another old friend is concerned."

Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond,
it must be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to
ask Ralph sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's
judgments cynical, but she flattered herself that she had learned
to make allowance for that.

" Do I know him ? " said her cousin. " Oh, yes, I know
him ; not well, but on the whole enough. I have never culti-
vated his society, and he apparently has never found mine
indispensable to his happiness. Who is he — what is he ? He
is a mysterious American, who has been living these twenty
years, or more, in Italy. Why do I call him mysterious? Only
as a cover for my ignorance ; I don't know his antecedents, his
family, his origin. For all I know, he may be a prince in
disguise ; he rather looks like one, by the way — like a prince
who has abdicated in a fit of magnanimity, and has been in a
state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome j but of

218 THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY.

late years he has taken up his abode in Florence ; I remember
hearing him say once that Borne has grown vulgar. He has a great
dread of vulgarity ; that's his special line ; he hasn't any other
that I know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not
being vulgarly large. He's a poor gentleman — that's what he
calls himself. He married young and lost his wife, and I
believe he has a daughter. He also has a sister, who is married
to some little Count or other, of these parts; I remember
meeting her of old. She is nicer than he, I should think, but
rather wicked. I remember there used to be some stories about
her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why
don't you ask Madame Merle about these people 1 She knows
them all much better than I."

" I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers,"
said Isabel.

" A fig for my opinion ! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond,
what will you care for that? "

" Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain
importance. The more information one has about a person the
better."

" I don't agree to that. "We know too much about people in
these days ; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our
mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything
that any one tells you about any one else. Judge every one and
everything for yourself."

" That's what I try to do," said Isabel ; " but when you do
that people call you conceited."

" You are not to mind them — that's precisely my argument ;
not to mind what they say about yourself any more than what
they say about your friend or your enemy."

Isabel was silent a moment. " I think you are right ; but
there are some things I can't help minding : for instance, when
my friend is attacked, or when I myself am praised."

U0f course you are always at liberty to judge the critic.
Judge people as critics, however," Ralph added, "and you will
condemn them all ! "

" I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. " I have
promised to pay him a visit."

" To pay him a visit ? "

" To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter — I don't
know exactly what. Madame Merle is to take me \ she tells
me a great many ladies call upon him."

"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de con-
fiance" said Ealph. " She knows none but the best people."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 219

Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently
remarked to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone
about Madame Merle. " It seems to me that you insinuate
things about her. I don't know what you mean, but if you
have any grounds for disliking her, I think you should either
mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."

Ealph, however, resented this charge with more apparent
earnestness than he commonly used. "I speak of Madame
Merle exactly as I speak to her : with an even exaggerated
respect."

" Exaggerated, precisely. That is what I complain of."

" I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."

" By whom, pray ? By me ? If so, I do her a poor service. "

" No, no ; by herself."

" Ah, I protest ! " Isabel cried with fervour. " If ever there
was a woman who made small claims "

"You put your finger on it," Kalph interrupted. "Her
modesty is exaggerated. She has no business with small claims
— she has a perfect right to make large ones."

" Her merits are large, then. You contradict yourself."

"Her merits are immense," said Ealph. She is perfect; she
is the only woman I know who has but that one little fault."

Isabel turned away with impatience. " I don't understand
you ; you are too paradoxical for my plain mind."

" Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates, I don't mean
it in the vulgar sense — that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine
an account of herself. I mean literally that she pushes the
search for perfection too far — that her merits are in themselves
overstrained. She is too good, too kind, too clever, too learned,
too accomplished, too everything. She is too complete, in a
word. I confess to you that she acts a little on my nerves, and
that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human
Athenian felt about Aristides the Just."

Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if
't lurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his
eye. "Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished 1 " she
inquired.

" By no means. She is much too good company. I delight
in Madame Merle," said Ealph Touchett, simply.

" You are very odious, sir ! " Isabel exclaimed. And then
she asked him if he knew anything that was not to the honour
of her brilliant friend.

" Nothing whatever. Don't you see that is just what I
mean 1 Upon the character of every one else you may find some

220 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

little black speck ; if I were to take half-an-hour to it, some
day, I have no doubt I should be able to find one on yours.
For my own, of course, I am spotted like a leopard. But on
Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing ! "

" That is just what I think ! " said Isabel, with a toss of her
head. " That is why I like her so much."

" She is a capital person for you to know. Since you wish
to see the world you couldn't have a better guide."
" I suppose you mean by that that she is worldly 1 "
" Worldly 1 No," said Ralph, " she is the world itself ! "
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into
her head to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say
that he delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his
entertainment wherever he could find it, and he would not have
forgiven himself if he had not been able to find a great deal in
the society of a woman in whom the social virtues existed in
polished perfection. There are deep-lying sympathies and
antipathies ; and it may have been that in spite of the intel-
lectual justice he rendered her, her absence from his mother's
house would not have made life seem barren. But Ralph
Touchett had learned to appreciate, and there could be no better
field for such a talent than the table-talk of Madame Merle. He
talked with her largely, treated her 'with conspicuous civility,
occupied himself with her and let her alone, with an opportune-
ness which she herself could not have surpassed. There were
moments when he felt almost sorry for her ; and these, oddly
enough, were the moments when his kindness was least demon-
strative. He was sure that she had been richly ambitious, and
that what she had visibly accomplished was far below her
ambition. She had got herself into perfect training, but she had
won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,
the widow of a Swiss negotiant, with a small income and a
large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal, and
was universally liked. The contrast between this position and
any one of some half-dozen others which he vividly imagined
her to have had her eyes upon at various moments, had an
element of the tragical. His mother thought he got on beauti-
fully with their pliable guest ; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two
people who dealt so largely in factitious theories of conduct
would have much in common. He had given a great deal of
consideration to Isabel's intimacy with Madame Merle — having
long since made up his mind that he could not, without opposi-
tion, keep his cousin to himself; and he regarded it on the
whole with philosophic tolerance. He believed it would take

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 221

care of itself ; it would not last for ever. Neither of these two
superior persons knew the other as well as she supposed, and
when each of them had made certain discoveries, there would be,
if 'not a rupture, at least a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite
willing to admit that the conversation of the elder lady was an
advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to learn, and
would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than from
some other instructors of the young. It was not probable that
Isabel would be injured.

XXIY.

IT would certainly have been hard to see what injury could
arise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's
hill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this
occasion — a soft afternoon in May, in the full maturity of the
Italian spring. The two ladies drove out of the Roman Gate,
beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the
fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive,
and wound between high-walled lanes, into which the wealth of
blossoming orchards overdrooped and flung a perfume, until
they reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, of
which the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr.
Osmond, formed the principal, or at least the most imposing,
side. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court,
where a clear shadow rested below, and a pair of light-arched
galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine
upon their slim columns and the flowering plants in which they
were dressed. There was something rather severe about the
place ; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, it would not
be easy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of course
as yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr.
Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber — it was cold even in
the month of May — and ushered her, with her companion, into
the apartment to which we have already been introduced.
Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little,
talking with Mr. Osmond, she went forward, familiarly, and
greeted two persons who were seated in the drawing-room.
One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss ;
the other "was a lady whom Mr. Osmond presented to Isabel as
fris sister, the Counters Gemini. " And that is my little girl,"
he said, " who has just come out of a convent."

222 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Pansy had on a scanty white dress, and her fair hair was
neatly arranged in a net; she wore a pair of slippers, tied,
sandal-fashion, about her ankles. She made Isabel a little
conventual curtsey, and then came to be kissed. The Countess
Gemini simply nodded, without getting up; Isabel could see
that she was a woman of fashion. She was thin and dark, and
not at all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical
bird — a long beak-like nose, a small, quickly-moving eye, and
a mouth and chin that receded extremely. Her face, however,
thanks to a very human and feminine expression, was by no
means disagreeable, and, as regards her appearance, it was
evident that she understood herself and made the most of her
points. The soft brilliancy of her toilet had the look of
shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were light and sudden,
like those of a creature that perched upon twigs. She had a
great deal of manner ; Isabel, who had never known any one
with so much Inanner, immediately classified the Countess
Gemini as the most affected of women. She remembered that
Ealph had not recommended her as an acquaintance ; but she
was ready to acknowledge that on a casual view the Countess
presented no appearance of wickedness. Nothing could have
been kinder or more innocent than her greeting to Isabel

" You will believe that I am glad to see you when I tell you
that it is only because I knew you were to be here that I came
myself. I don't come and see my brother — I make him come
and see me. This hill of his is impossible — I don't see what
possesses him. Eeally, Osmond, you will be the ruin of my
horses some day ; and if they receive an injury you will have to
give me another pair. I heard them panting to-day ; I assure
you I did. It is very disagreeable to hear one's horses panting
when one is sitting in the carriage ; it sounds, too, as if they
were not what they should be. But I have always had good
horses; whatever else I may have lacked, I have always
managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think
he does know a horse. In general the Italians don't, but my
husband goes in, according to his poor light, for every thing English.
My horses are English — so it is all the greater pity they should
be ruined. I must tell you," she went on, directly addressing
Isabel, " that Osmond doesn't often invite me ; I don't think he
likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day.
I like to see new people, and I am sure you are very new.
But don't sit there ; that chair is not what it looks. There
are some very good seats here, but there are also some horrors."

These remarks T7 ere delivered with a variety of little jerks

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 223

and glances, in a tone which, although it expressed a high
degree of good-nature, was rather shrill than sweet.

" I don't like to have you, my dear ? " said her brother. " I
ani sure you are invaluable."

" I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel declared, looking
about her. " Everything here seems to me very beautiful."

" I have got a few good things," Mr. Osmond murmured ;
"indeed I have nothing very bad. But I have not what I
should have liked."

He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing
about ; his manner was an odd mixture of the indiiferent and
the expressive. He seemed to intimate that nothing was of
much consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction : perfect
simplicity was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl
from the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her small
submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as
if she were about to partake of her first communion — even Mr.
Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish which was
not entirely artless.

"You would have liked a few things from the Uffizi and
the Pitti — that's what you would have liked," said Madame
Merle.

" Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes ! " the
Countess Gemini exclaimed ; she appeared to call her brother
only by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular
object ; she smiled at Isabel as she made it, and looked at her
from head to foot.

Her brother had not heard her ; he seemed to be thinking
what he could say to Isabel. " Won't you have some tea 1 —
you must be very tired," he at last bethought himself of
remarking.

" No, indeed, I am not tired ; what have I done to tire me ? "
Isabel felt a certain need of .being very direct, of pretending to
nothing ; there was something in the air, in her general
impression of things — she could hardly have said what it was —
that deprived her of all disposition to put herself forward. The
place, the occasion, the combination of people, signified more
than lay on the surface ; she would try to understand — she
would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was
perhaps not aware that many women would have uttered
graceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation.
It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A
man whom she had heard spoken of in terms that excited
interest, and who was evidently capable of distinguishing

224 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours,
to come to his house. Now that she had done so, the burden
of the entertainment rested naturally upon himself. Isabel was
not rendered less observant, and for the moment, I am afraid,
she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr.
Osmond carried his burden less complacently than might have
been expected. " What a fool I was to have invited these
women here ! " she could fancy his exclaiming to himself.

" You will be tired when you go home, if he shows you all
his bibelots and gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess
Gemini.

" I am not afraid of that ; but if I am tired, I shall at least
have learned something."

" Very little, I suspect. But my sister is dreadfully afraid
of learning anything," said Mr. Osmond.

" Oh, I confess to that ; I don't want to know anything more
— I know too much already. The more you know, the more
unhappy you are."

"You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who
has not finished her education," Madame Merle interposed, with
a smile.

" Pansy will never know any harm," said the child's father.
" Pansy is a little convent-flower."

" Oh, the convents, the convents ! " cried the Countess, with
a sharp laugh. " Speak to me of the convents. You may learn
anything there ; I am a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend
to be good, but the nuns do. Don't you see what I mean 1 "
she went on, appealing to Isabel.

Isabel was not sure that she saw, and she answered that she
was very bad at following arguments. The Countess then
declared that she herself detested arguments, but that this was
her brother's taste — he would always discuss. " For me," she
said, " one should like a thing or one shouldn't ; one can't like
everything, of course. But one shouldn't attempt to reason it
out — you never know where it may lead you. There are some
very good feelings that may have bad reasons ; don't you know ]
And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good
reasons. Don't you see what I mean1? I don't care anything
ibout reasons, but I know what I like."

" Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling, but sus-
pecting that her acquaintance with this lightly-flitting personage
would not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected
to argument, Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and
she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 225

a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a diverg-
ence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless
view of his sister's tone, and he turned the conversation to
another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his
daughter, who had taken Isabel's hand for a moment ; but he
ended by drawing her out of her chair, and making her stand
between his knees, leaning against him while he passed his arm
round her little waist. The child fixed her eyes on Isabel with
a still, disinterested gaze, which seemed void of an intention,
but conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many
things ; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he
chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have
chosen, but to have determined. Madame Merle and the
Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless
manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take
their ease ; every now and then Isabel heard the Countess say
something extravagant. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of
Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country, and of the abate-
ments to such pleasure. There were both satisfactions and
drawbacks • the drawbacks were pretty numerous ; strangers
were too apt to see Italy in rose-colour. On the whole it was
better than other countries, if one was content to lead a quiet
life and take things as they came. It was very dull sometimes,
but there were advantages in living in the country which con-
tained the most beauty. There were certain impressions that
one could get only in Italy. There were others that one never
got there, and one got some that were very bad. But from time
to time one got a delightful one, which made up for everything.
He was inclined to think that Italy had spoiled a great many
people ; he was even fatuous enough to believe at times that he
himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of
his life there. It made people idle and dilettantish, and second-
rate ; there was nothing tonic in an Italian life. One was out
of the current ; one was not dans le mouvement, as the French
said ; one was too far from Paris and London. " We are
gloriously provincial, I assure you," said Mr. Osmond, " and I am
perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no
lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you — not
that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock
I suspect your intellect of being ! But you will be going away
before I have seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never
see you after that. That's what it is to live in a country that
people come to. When they are disagreeable it is bad enough ;
when they are agreeable it is still worse. As soon as you find

Q

226 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you like them they are off again ! I have been deceived too
often ; I have ceased to form attachments ; to permit myself to
feel attractions. You mean to stay — to settle 1 That would be
really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt is a sort of guarantee ; I
believe she may be depended upon. Oh, she's an old Florentine ;
I mean literally an old one ; not a modern outsider. She is
a contemporary of the Medici ; she must have been present at
the burning of Savonarola, and I am not sure she didn't throw
a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like
some faces in the early pictures ; little, dry, definite faces, that
must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the
same one. Indeed, I can show you her portrait in a fresco of
Ghirlandaio's. I hope you don't object to my speaking that
way of your aunt, eh1? I have an idea you don't. Perhaps
you think that's even worse. I assure you there is no want of
respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular
admirer of Mrs. Touchett."

While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this
somewhat confidential fashion, she looked occasionally at
Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in
which, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimation
that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle event-
ually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into
the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her soft
plumage, began to rustle toward the door.

" Poor Miss Archer ! " she exclaimed, surveying the other
group with expressive compassion. " She has been brought
quite into the family."

" Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a
family to which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a
laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, was
not ill-natured.

" I don't know what you mean by that ! I am sure she will
see no harm in me but what you tell her. I am better than he
says, Miss Archer," the Countess went on. "I am only rather
light. Is that all he has said 1 Ah then, you keep him in
good humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects ?
I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a
fond. In that case you had better take off your bonnet."

" I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects
are," said Isabel, who had risen to her feet.

The Countess assumed, for an instant, an attitude of intense
meditation ; pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips
gathered together, to her forehead.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 227

" I'll tell you in a moment," she answered. " One is Machia-
velli, the other is Vittoria Colonna, the next is Metastasio."

" Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the
Countess Gemini's, as if to guide her course to the garden, " Mr.
Osmond is never so historical."

" Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, " you
yourself are Machiavelli — you yourself are Vittoria Colonna ! "

" We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio ! "
Gilbert Osmond murmured, with a little melancholy smile.

Isabel had got up, on the assumption that they too were to go
into the garden ; but Mr. Osmond stood there, with no apparent
inclination to leave the room, with his hands in the pockets of
his jacket, and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into
one of his own, clinging to him and looking up, while her eyes
moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a
certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed ;
she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company; she felt that she
was being entertained. Through the open doors of the great
room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across
the deep grass of the garden ; then she turned, and her eyes
wandered over the things that were scattered about her. The
understanding had been that her host should show her his
treasures ; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures.
Isabel, after a moment, went toward one of the pictures to see
it better ; but just as she had done so Mr. Osborne said to her
abruptly —

"Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister ?"

Isabel turned, with a good deal of surprise.

"Ah, don't ask me that — I have seen your sister too little."

"Yes, you have seen her very little; but you must have
observed that there is not a great deal of her to see. What do
you think of out family tone?" Osmond went on, smiling. "I
should like to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind.
I know what you are going to say — you have had too little
observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just
take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes
think we have got into a rather bad way, living off here among
things and people not our own, without responsibilities or
attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up ;
marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with
our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much
more for myself than for my sister. She's a very good woman
— better than she seems. She is rather unhappy, and as she is
not of a very serious disposition, she doesn't tend to show it

Q 2

228 THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY.

tragically ; she shows it comically instead. She has got a nasty
husband, though I am. not sure she makes the best of him. Of
course, however, a nasty husband is an awkward thing. Madame
Merle gives her excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving
a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out
the words, but he can't put them together. My sister needs a
grammar, but unfortunately she is not grammatical. Excuse
my troubling you with these details ; my sister was very right
in saying that you have been taken into the family. Let me
take down that picture ; you want more light."

He took down the picture, carried it toward the window,
related some curious facts about it. She looked at the other
works of art, and he gave her such further information as might
appear to be most acceptable to a young lady making a call on a
summer afternoon. His pictures, his carvings and tapestries
were interesting ; but after a while Isabel became conscious that
the owner was more interesting still. He resembled no one she
had ever seen ; most of the people she knew might be divided
into groups of half-a-dozen specimens. There were one or two
exceptions to this ; she could think, for instance, of no group
that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people
who were, relatively speaking, original — original, as one might
say, by courtesy — such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph,
as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord "Warburton, as Madame Merle,
But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these
individuals belonged to types which were already present to her
mind. Her mind contained no class which offered a natural
place to Mr. Osmond — he was a specimen apart. Isabel did
not say all these things to herself at the time ; but she felt them,
and afterwards they became distinct. For the moment she only
said to herself that Mr. Osmond had the interest of rareness.
It was not so much what he said and did, but rather what he
withheld, that distinguished him; he indulged in no striking
deflections from common usage; he was an original without
being an eccentric. Isabel had never met a person of so fine
a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it
extended to his immaterial part. His dense, delicate hair, his
overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion, ripe with-
out being coarse, the very evenness of the growth of his beard,
and that light, smooth, slenderness of structure which made the
movement of a single one of his fingers produce the effect of an
expressive gesture — these personal points struck our observant
young lady as the signs of an unusual sensibility. He was
certainly fastidious and critical ; he was probably irritable. His

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 229

sensibility had governed him — possibly governed him too much;
it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him
to live by himself, in a serene, impersonal way, thinking about
art and beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in
everything — his taste alone, perhaps ; that was what made him
so different from every one else. Ralph had something of this
same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter
of connoisseurship ; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind
of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the
key-note, and everything was in harmony with it. Isabel was
certainly far from understanding him completely ; his meaning
was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he
meant, for instance, by saying that he was gloriously provincial
— which was so exactly the opposite of what she had supposed.
Was it a harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her 1 or was it
the last refinement of high culture 3 Isabel trusted that she
should learn in time ; it would be very interesting to learn. If
Mr., Osmond were provincial, pray what were the characteristics
of ttte capital 1 Isabel could ask herself this question, in spite of
having perceived that her host was a shy personage ; for such
shyness as his — the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions
— was perfectly consistent with the best breeding. Indeed, it
was almost a proof of superior qualities. Mr. Osmond was not a
man of easy assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency
of a superficial nature ; he was critical of himself as well as of
others, and exacting a good deal of others (to think them agree-
able), he probably took a rather ironical view of what he himself
offered: a proof, into the bargain, that he was not grossly con-
ceited. If he had not been shy, he would not have made that
gradual, subtle, successful effort to overcome his shyness, to which
Isa.bel felt that she owed both what pleased and what puzzled her
in his conversation to-day. He suddenly asked her what she
thought of the Countess of Gemini — that was doubtless a proof
that he was interested in her feelings ; it could scarcely be as a
help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should be so
interested showed an inquiring mind ; but it was a little singu-
lar that he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to his curiosity.
This was the most eccentric thing he had done.

There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she
had been received, equally full of picturesque objects, and in
these Apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Every
thing was very curious and valuable, and Mr. Osmond continued
to be the kindest of ciceroni, as he led her from one fine piece
to another, still holding his little girl by the hand. His kind

230 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

ness almost surprised our young lady, who wondered why he
should take so much trouble for her ; and she was oppressed at
last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which
she found herself introduced. There was enough for the
present ; she had ceased to attend to what he said ; she listened
to him with attentive eyes, but she was hot thinking of what
he told her. He probably thought she was cleverer than she
was; Madame Merle would have told him so; which was a
pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then
perhaps even her real cleverness would not reconcile him to his
mistake. A part of Isabel's fatigue came fr,om the effort to
appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described
her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of exposing —
not her ignorance ; for that she cared comparatively little — but
her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed
her to express a liking for something which her host, in his
superior enlightenment, would think she ought not to like ; or
to pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would
arrest itself. She was very careful, therefore, as to what she
said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice — more careful
than she had ever been before.

They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had
been served ; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace,
and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view,
which constituted the paramount distinction of the place, Mr.
Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more delay.
Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and
as the afternoon was lovely, the Countess proposed they should
take their tea in the open air. Pansy, therefore, was sent to bid
the servant bring out the tray. The sun had got low, the golden
light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain
that stretched beneath them, the masses of purple shadow seemed
to glow as richly as the places that were still exposed. The
scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly
still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with its gardenlike
culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and deli-
cately-fretted hills, its peculiarly human-looking touches of
habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and classic grace.

" You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted to
come back," Mr. Osmond said, as he led his companion to one of
the angles of the terrace.

" I shall certainly come back," Isabel answered, " in spite of
what you say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was
that you said about one's natural mission ? I wonder if I

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 231

should forsake my natural mission if I were to settle in
Florence."

" A woman's natural mission is to be where she is most
appreciated."

" The point is to find out where that is."

" Very true — a woman often wastes a great deal of time in the
inquiry. People ought to make it very plain to her."

" Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,"
said Isabel, smiling.

" I am glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame
Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving
disposition. I thought she spoke of your having some plan of
going round the world."

" I am rather ashamed of my plans ; I make a new one every
day."

" I don't see why you should be ashamed ; it's the greatest of
pleasures."

" It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. " One ought to
choose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that."

" By that rule, then, I have not been frivolous."

" tlave you never made plans ? "

" Yes, I made one years ago, and I am acting on it to-day."

" It must have been a very pleasant one," said Isabel.

" It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible."

" As quiet ? " the girl repeated.

" Not to worry — not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself.
To be content with a little." He uttered these sentences slowly,
with little pauses between, and his intelligent eyes were fixed
upon Isabel's with the conscious look of a man who has brought
himself to confess something.

" Do you call that simple ] " Isabel asked, with a gentle
laugh.

" Yes, because it's negative."

" Has your life been negative 1 "

" Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my
indifference. Mind you, not my natural indifference — I had
none. But my studied, my wilful renunciation."

Isabel scarcely understood him ; it seemed a question whether
he were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as
having a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so
confidential 1 This was his affair, however, and his confidences
were interesting. " I don't see why you should have renounced,"
she said in a moment.

" Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was*

232 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

poor, and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even ; I
took my measure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious
young gentleman living. There were two or three people in
the world I envied — the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and
the Sultan of Turkey ! There were even moments when I
envied the Pope of Rome — for the consideration he enjoys. T
should have been delighted to be considered to that extent ; but
since that couldn't be, I didn't care for anything less, and I
made up my mind not to go in for honours. A gentleman can
always consider himself, and fortunately, I was a gentleman. I
could do nothing in Italy — I couldn't even be an Italian patriot.
To do that, I should have had to go out of the country; and I
was too fond of it to leave it. So I have passed a great many
years here, on that quiet plan I spoke of. I have not been at all
unhappy. I don't mean to say I have cared for nothing ; but the
things I have cared for have been definite — limited. The events
of my life have been absolutely unperceived by any one save
myself ; getting an old silver crucifix at a bargain (I have never
bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I once did, a
sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired
idiot ! "

This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's
career if Isabel had fully believed it ; but her imagination sup-
plied the human element which she was sure had not been
wanting. His life had been mingled with other lives more than
he admitted ; of course she could not expect him to enter into
this. For the present she abstained from provoking further
revelations ; to intimate that he had not told her everything
would be more familiar and less considerate than she now desired
to be. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her
present inclination, however, to express considerable sympathy
for the success with which he had preserved his independence.
" That's a very pleasant life," she said, " to renounce everything
but Correggio ! "

" Oh, I have been very happy ; don't imagine me to suggest
for a moment that I have not. It's one's own fault if one is not
happy."

" Have you lived here always 1 "

" No, not .always. 1 lived a long time at Naples, and many
years in Rome. But I have been here a good while. Perhaps I
shall have to change, however ; to do something else. I have
no longer myself to think of. My daughter is growing up, and
it is very possible she may not care so much for the Correggios
and crucifixes as L I shall have to do what is best for her."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 233

" Yes, do that," said Isabel " She is such a dear little
girl."

" Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond, with feeling, " she is a little
saint of heaven ! She is my great happiness ! "

XXV.

WHILE this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some
time after we cease to follow it) was going on, Madame Merle
and her companion, breaking a silence of some duration, had
begun to exchange remarks. They were sitting in an attitude
of unexpressed expectancy ; an attitude especially marked on
the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervous
temperament than Madame Merle, practised with less success
the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were
waiting for would not have been apparent, and was perhaps not
very definite to their own minds. Madame Merle waited for
Osmond to release their young friend from her tete-a-tete, and
the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess,
moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for saying something
discordant ; a necessity of which she had been conscious for the
last twenty minutes. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the
end of the garden, and she followed the pair for a while with
her eyes.

" My dear," she then observed to Madame Merle, " you will
excuse me if I don't congratulate you ! "

"Very willingly; for I don't in the least know why you
should."

" Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of 1 "
And the Countess nodded towards the retreating couple.

Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she
looked serenely at her neighbour. " You know I never under-
stand you very well," she answered, smiling.

" No one can understand better than you when you wish. I
see that, just now, you don't wish to."

" You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame
Merle, gravely, but without bitterness.

" You mean things you don't like 1 Doesn't Osmond some-
times say such things 1 "

" What your brother says has a point."

" Yes, a very sharp one sometimes. If you mean that I am
not so clever as he, you must not think I shall suffer from your

234 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

saying it. But it will be much better that you should under-
stand me."

" Why so 1 " asked Madame Merle ; " what difference will it
make?"

" If I don't approve of your plan, you ought to know it in
order to appreciate the danger of my interfering with it.".

Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that
there might be something in this; but in a moment she said
quietly — " You think me more calculating than I am."

"It's not your calculating that I think ill of; it's your
calculating wrong. You have done so in this case."

"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to
discover it."

" No, I have not had time for that. I have seen the girl but
this once," said the Countess, " and the conviction has suddenly
come to me. I like her very much."

" So do I," Madame Merle declared.

" You have a strange way of showing it."

" Surely — I have given her the advantage of making your
acquaintance."

" That, indeed," cried the Countess, with a laugh, " is perhaps
the best thing that could happen to her ! "

Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's
manner was impertinent, but she did not suffer this to dis-
compose her ; and with her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte
Morello she gave herself up to reflection.

"My dear lady," she said at last, "I advise you not to
agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three
persons much stronger of purpose than yourself."

"Three persons'? You and Osmond, of course. But is Miss
Archer also very strong of purpose "?"

" Quite as much so as we."

" Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, " if I convince her
it's her interest to resist you, she will do so successfully ! "

"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely1?
She is not to be subjected to force."

" I am not sure of that. You are capable of anything, you
and Osmond. I don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't
mean you by yourself. But together you are dangerous — like
some chemical combination."

" You had better leave us alone, then," said Madame Merle,
smiling.

"I don't mean to touch you — but I shall talk to that
girl."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 235

" My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, " I don't see
what has got -into your head."

" I take an interest in her — that is what has got into my
head. I like her."

Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she
likes you."

The Countess's bright little eyes expanded, and her face was
set in a grimace. " Ah, you are dangerous," she cried, " even
by yourself ! " .

"If you want her to like you, don't abuse your brother to
her," said Madame Merle.

"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with
him — in two interviews."

Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master
of the house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her,
with his arms folded ; and she, at present, though she had her
face turned to the opposite prospect, was evidently not scruti-
nising it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered her
eyes ; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,
while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path.
Madame Merle rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she
said.

The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy, had come out
with a small table, which he placed upon the grass, and then
had gone back and fetched the tea-tray ; after which he again
disappeared, to return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had
watched these proceedings with the deepest interest, standing
with her small hands folded together upon the front of her
scanty frock ; but she had not presumed to offer assistance to
the servant. When the tea-table had been arranged, however,
she gently approached her aunt.

"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"

The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze,
and without answering her question. " My poor niece," she
said, " is that your best frock f "

"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilet for
common occasions."

" Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you 1
— to say nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."

Pansy reflected a moment, looking gravely from one of the
persons mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its
perfect smile. " I have a pretty dress, but even that one is
very simple. Why should I expose it beside your beautiful
things?" '

236 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

" Because it's the prettiest you have ; for me you must always
wear the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems
to me they don't dress you so well as they might."

The child stroked down her antiquated skirt, sparingly. " It's
a good little dress to make tea — don't you think 1 Do you not
believe papa would allow me ? "

" Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess.
"For me, your father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame
Merle understands them better; ask her."

Madame Merle smiled with her usual geniality. " It's a
weighty question — let me think. It seems to me it would
please your father to see a careful little daughter making his
tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of the house — when
she grows up."

" So it seems to me, Madame Merle ! " Pansy cried. " You
shall see how well I will niake it. A spoonful for each." And
she began to busy herself at the table.

" Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with
Madame Merle, remained for some moments watching her.
"Listen to me, Pansy," the Countess resumed at last. "I
.should like to know what you think of your visitor."

" Ah, she is not mine — she is papa's," said Pansy.

" Miss Archer came to see you as well," Madame Merle
remarked.

" I am very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."

" Do you like her, then 1 " the Countess asked.

" She is charming — charming," said Pansy, in her little neat,
conversational tone. " She pleases me exceedingly."

" And you think she pleases your father1? "

"Ah, really, Countess," murmured Madame Merle, dissua-
sively. " Go and call them to tea," she went on, to the child.

" You will see if they don't like it ! " Pansy declared ; and
went off to summon the others, who were still lingering at the
end of the terrace.

" If Miss Archer is to become her mother it is surely interest-
ing to know whether the child likes her," said the Countess.

" If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake,"
Madame Merle replied. " She will soon be sixteen, and after
that she will begin to need a husband rather than a stepmother."

" And will you provide the husband as well 1 "

" I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying well. I
imagine you will do the same."

" Indeed I shan't ! " cried the Countess. " Why should I
of all women, set such a price on a husband ? "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 237

" You didn't marry well ; that's what I am speaking of.
When I say a husband, I mean a good one."

" There are no good /ones. Osmond won't be a good one."

Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. " You are irritated
just now; I don't know why," she said, presently. "I don't
think you will really object either to your brother, or to your
niece's, marrying, when the time comes for them to do so ; and
as regards Pansy, I am confident that we shall some day have the
pleasure of looking for a husband for her together. Your large
acquaintance will be a great help.''

" Yes, I am irritated," the Countess answered. " You often
irritate me. Your own coolness is fabulous ; you are a
strange woman."

"It is much better that we should always act together,"
Madame Merle went on.

" Do you mean that as a threat] " asked the Countess, rising.

Madame Merle shook her head, with a smile of sadness. " No
indeed, you have not my coolness ! "

Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now coming toward them, and
Isabel had taken Pansy by the hand.

" Do you pretend to believe he would make her happy ? " the
Countess demanded.

" If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he would behave
like a gentleman."

The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes.
" Do you mean . as most gentlemen behave 1 That would be
much to be thankful for ! Of course Osmond's a gentleman ;
his own sister needn't be reminded of that. But does he think
he can marry any girl he happens to pick out 1 Osmond's a
gentleman, of course; but I must say I have never, no never,
seen any one of Osmond's pretensions ! What they are all based
upon is more than I can say. I am his own sister ; I might be
supposed to know. Who is he, if you please 1 What has he
ever done ] If there had been anything particularly grand in
his origin — if he were made of some superior clay — I suppose I
should have got some inkling of it. If there had been any great
honours or splendours in the family, I should certainly have
made the most of them ; they would have been quite in my
line. But there is nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents
were charming people of course ; but so were yours, I have no
doubt. Every one is a charming person, now-a-days. Even
I am a charming person ; don't laugh, it has literally been said.
As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he is
descended from the gods."

238 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" You may say what you piease," said Madame Merle, who
had listened to this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we
may believe, because her eye wandered away from the speaker,
and her hands busied themselves with adjusting the knots of
ribbon on her dress. " You Osmonds are a fine race — your
blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,
like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it, if he has
not had the proofs. You are modest about it, but you yourself
are extremely distinguished. What do you say about your
niece? The child's a little duchess. Nevertheless," Madame
Merle added, " it will not be an easy matter for Osmond to
marry Miss Archer. But he can try."

" I hope she will refuse him. It will take him down a little/'

" We must not forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."

" I have heard you say that before ; but I haven't yet dis-
covered what he has done."

" What he has done 1 He has done nothing that has. had to
be undone. And he has known how to wait."

" To wait for Miss Archer's money 1 How much of it is
there?"

" That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. " Miss
Archer has seventy thousand pounds."

" Well, it is a pity she is so nice," the Countess declared.
" To be sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."

" If she were not superior, your brother would never look at
her. He must have the best."

" Yes," rejoined the Countess, as they went forward a little to
meet the others, " he is very hard to please. That makes me
fear for her happiness ! "

XXVI.

GILBERT OSMOND came to see Isabel again ; that is, he came
to the Palazzo Crescentini. He had other friends there as well ;
and to Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle he was always impar-
tially civil ; but the former of these ladies noted the fact that in
the course of a fortnight he called five times, and compared it
with another fact that she found no difficulty in remembering.
Two visits a year had hitherto constituted his regular tribute to
Mrs. Touchett's charms, and she had never observed that he
selected for such visits those moments, of almost periodical
recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 239

not for Madame Merle that he came ; these two were old friends,
and he never put himself out for her. He was not fond of
Ealph — Ealph had told her so — and it was not supposable that
Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son. Ealph was
imperturbable — Ealph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity that
wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he
never divested himself ; he thought Mr. Osmond very good com-
pany, and would have been willing at any time to take the hos-
pitable view of his idiosyncracies. .But he did not flatter him-
self that the desire to repair a past injustice was the motive of
their visitor's calls ; he read the situation more clearly. Isabel
was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one. Osmond
was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he
should admire an admirable person. So when his mother said
to him that it was very plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of,
Ealph replied that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett
had always liked Mr. Osmond ; she thought him so much of a
gentleman. As he had never been an importunate visitor he
had had no chance to be offensive, and he was recommended to
Mrs. Touchett by his appearance of being as well able to do
without her as she was to do without him — a quality that always
excited her esteem. It gave her no satisfaction, however, to
think that he had taken it into his head to marry her niece.
Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air of almost
morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the
girl had refused an English peer ; and that a young lady for
whom Lord "Warburton had not been up to the mark should
content herself with an obscure American dilettante, a middle-
aged widower with an overgrown daughter and an income of
nothing — this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's conception
of success. She took, it will be observed, not the sentimental,
but the political, view of matrimony — a view which has always
had much to recommend it; " I trust she won't have the folly
to listen to him/' she said to her son ; to which Ealph replied
that Isabel's listening was one thing and her answering quite
another. He knew that she had listened to others, but that she
had made them listen to her in return ; and he found much
entertainment in the idea that, in these few months that he had
known her, he should see a third suitor at her gate. She had
wanted to see life, and fortune was serving her to her taste ; a
succession of gentlemen going down on their knees to her was
by itself a respectable chapter of experience. Ealph looked
forward to a fourth and a fifth, soupirant ; he had no conviction
that she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar

240 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

and open a parley ; she would certainly not allow number threfe
to come in. He expressed this view, somewhat after this
fashion, to his mother, who looked at him as if he had been
dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful, pictorial way of saying
things that he might as well address her in the deaf-mute's
alphabet.

" I don't think I know what you mean," she said ; " you use
too many metaphors ; I could never understand allegories. The
two words in the language I most respect are Yes and No. If
Isabel wants to marry Mr. Osmond, she will do so in spite of all
your similes. Let her alone to find a favourable comparison for
anything she undertakes. I know very little about the young
man in America ; I don't think she spends much of her time in
thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for
her. There is nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr.
Osmond, if she only looks at him in a certain way. That is all
very well; no one approves more than I of one's pleasing one's
self. But she takes her pleasure in such odd things ; she is
capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for his opinions. She wants
to be disinterested : as if she were the only person who is in
danger of not being so ! Will he be so disinterested when he
has the spending of her money ] That was her idea before your
father's death, and it has acquired new charms for her since.
She ought to marry some one of whose disinterestedness she
should be sure, herself; and there would be no such proof of
that as his having a fortune of his own."

" My dear mother, I am not afraid," Ralph answered. " She
is making fools of us all. She will please herself, of course ; but
she will do so by studying human nature and retaining her
liberty. She has started on an exploring expedition, and I don't
-think she will change her course, at the outset, at a signal from
Gilbert Osmond. She may have slackened speed for an hour,
but before we know it she will be steaming away again. Excuse
another metaphor."

Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but she was not so much
reassured as to withhold from Madame Merle the expression
of her fears. "You who know everything," she said, "you
must know this : whether that man is making love to my
niece."

Madame Merle opened her expressive eyes, and with a bril-
liant smile — " Heaven help us," she exclaimed, " that's an
idea ! "

" Has it never occurred to you 1 "

"You make me feel like a fool — but I confess it hasn't. I

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 241

wonder," added Madame Merle, "whether it has occurred to
her."

" I think I will ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.

Madame Merle reflected a moment. " Don't put it into her
head. The thing would he to ask Mr. Osmond."

"I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett ; "it's none of my
onsiness."

" I will ask him myself," Madame Merle declared, hravely.

" It's none of yours, either."

" That's precisely why I can afford to ask him ; it is so much
less my "business than any one's else, that in me the question will
not seem to him embarrassing."

" Pray let me know on the first day, then," said Mrs. Touchett.
€t If I can't speak to him, at least I can speak to her."

" Don't be too quick with her ; don't inflame her imagin-
ation."

" I never did anything to any one's imagination. But I am
always sure she will do something I don't like."

" You wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed, without
the point of interrogation.

" Why should I, pray 2 Mr. Osmond has nothing to offer."

Again Madame Merle was silent, while her thoughtful smile
drew up her mouth more than usual toward the left corner.
" Let us distinguish. Gilbert Osmond is certainly not the first
comer. He is a man who under favourable circumstances might
very well make an impression. He has made an impression, to
my knowledge, more than once."

" Don't tell me about his love-affairs ; they are nothing to
me ! " Mrs. Touchett cried. " What you say is precisely why I
wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world
that I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a grown-
up daughter."

"•The early masters are worth a good deal of money," said
Madame Merle, " and the daughter is a very young and very
harmless person."

" In other words, she is an insipid school-girl. Is that what
you mean 1 Having no fortune, she can't hope to marry, as they
marry here ; so that Isabel will have to furnish her either with a
maintenance or with a dowry."

" Isabel probably would not object to being kind to her. I
think she likes the child."

" Another reason for Mr. Osmond stopping at home ! Other-
wise, a week hence, we shall have Isabel arriving at the convic-
tion that her mission in life is to prove that a stepmother may

R

242 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

sacrifice herself — and that, to prove it, she must first become
one."

" She would make a charming stepmother," said Madame
Merle, smiling ; " but I quite agree with you that she had better
not decide upon her mission too hastily. Changing one's mission
is often awkward ! I will investigate and report to you."

All this went on quite over Isabel's head ; she had no sus-
picion that her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed.
Madame Merle had said nothing to put her on her guard ; she
alluded no more pointedly to Mr. Osmond than to the other
gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who came in consider-
able numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's aunt. Isabel
thought him very pleasant ; she liked to think of him. She had
carried away an image from her visit to his hill-top which her
subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface and which
happened to take her fancy particularly — the image of a quiet,
clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown
terrace above the sweet Val d'Arno, and holding by the hand a
little girl whose sympathetic docility gave a new aspect to child-
hood. The picture was not brilliant, but she liked its lowness
of tone, and the atmosphere of summer twilight that pervaded
it. It seemed to tell a story — a story of the sort that touched
her most easily ; to speak of a serious choice, a choice between
things of a shallow, and things of a deep, interest ; of a lonely,
studious life in a lovely land ; of an old sorrow that sometimes
ached to-day ; a feeling of pride that was perhaps exaggerated,
but that had an element of nobleness ; a care for beauty and
perfection so natural and so cultivated together, that it had been
the main occupation of a lifetime of which the arid places were
watered with the sweet sense of a quaint, half-anxious, half-
helpless fatherhood. At the Palazzo Crescentini Mr. Osmond's
manner remained the same ; shy at first, and full of the effort
(visible only to a sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvan-
tage ; an effort which usually resulted in a great deal of easy,
lively, very positive, rather aggressive, and always effective, talk.
Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by the indication of an eager-
ness to shine ; Isabel found no difficulty in believing that a
person was sincere who had so many of the signs of strong con-
viction— as, for instance, an explicit and graceful appreciation of
anything that might be said on his own side, said perhaps by
Miss Archer in particular. "What continued to please this young
lady was his extraordinary subtlety. There was such a fine
intellectual intention in what he said, and the movement of his
wit was like that of a quick-flashing blade. One day he brought

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 243

his little daughter with him, and Isabel was delighted to renew
acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead
to be kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly
of an ingenue in a French play. Isabel had never seen a young
girl of this pattern ; American girls were very different — different
too were the daughters of England. This young lady was so
neat, so complete in her manner ; and yet in character, as one
could see, so innocent and infantine. She sat on the sofa, by
Isabel; she wore a small grenadine mantle and a pair of the
useful gloves that Madame Merle had given her — little grey
gloves, with a single button. She was like a sheet of blank
paper — the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that
so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying
text.

The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the
Countess was quite another affair. She was by no means a blank
sheet ; she had been written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs.
Touchett, who felt by no means honoured by her visit, declared
that a number of unmistakable blots were to be seen upon her
surface. The Countess Gemini was indeed the occasion of a
slight discussion between the mistress of the house and the
visitor from Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such
a fool as to irritate people by always agreeing with them)
availed herself humorously of that large license of dissent which
her hostess permitted as freely as she practised it. Mrs. Touchett
had pronounced it a piece of audacity that the Countess Gemini
should have presented herself at this time of day at the door of
a house in which she was esteemed so little as she must long
have known herself to be at the Palazzo Crescentini. Isabel
had been made acquainted with the estimate which prevailed
under this roof ; it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a kind
of nighty reprobate. She had been married by her mother — a
heartless featherhead like herself, with an appreciation of foreign
titles which the daughter, to do her justice, had probably by this
time thrown off — to an Italian nobleman who had perhaps given
her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness of
neglect. The Countess, however, had consoled herself too well,
and it was notorious in Florence that she had consoled others
also. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though
the Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an
austere city ; but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the
line somewhere.

Madame Merle defended the unhappy lady with a great deal
of zeal and wit. She could not see why Mrs. Touchett should

R 2

244 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

make a scapegoat of that poor Countess, who had really done no
harm, who had only done good in the wrong way. One must
certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one should
draw it straight ; it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would
exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had
better shut up her house ; this perhaps would be the best course
so long as she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not
make arbitrary differences ; the Countess had doubtless been
imprudent ; she had not been so clever as other women. She
was a good creature, not clever at all ; but since when had that
been a ground of exclusion from the best society ? It was a long
time since one had heard anything about her, and there could be
no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways
than her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle.
Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not
even a patient attention; she contented herself with having
given a friendly welcome to the Countess Gemini, who, whatever
her defects, had at least the merit of being Mr. Osmond's sister.
As she liked the brother, Isabel thought it proper to try and like
the sister ; in spite of the growing perplexity of things she was
still perfectly capable of these rather primitive sequences of feel-
ing. She had not received the happiest impression of the Countess
on meeting her at the villa, but she was thankful for an oppor-
tunity to repair this accident. Had not Mr. Osmond declared
that she was a good woman 1 To have proceeded from Gilbert
Osmond, this was rather a rough statement ; but Madame Merle
bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel
more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and
related the history of her marriage and its consequences. The
Count was a member of an ancient Tuscan family, but so poor
that he had been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of her
being no beauty, with the modest dowry her mother was able to
offer — a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed
her brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini, since then,
however, had inherited money, and now they were well enough
off, as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant.
The Count was a low-lived brute ; he had given his wife every
excuse. She had no children ; she had lost three within a year
of their birth. Her mother, who had pretensions to " culture,"
wrote descriptive poems, and corresponded on Italian subjects
with the English weekly journals — her mother had died three
years after the Countess's marriage, the father having died long
before. One could see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle
thought — see that he had been brought up by a woman ; though,

THE POKTEAIT OF A LADY. 245

to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more
sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond
liked to be called. She had brought her children to Italy after
her husband's death, and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during
the years that followed her arrival. She thought her a horrible
snob ; but this was an irregularity of judgment on Mrs. Touchett's
part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of political marriages.
The Countess was very good company, and not such a fool as
she seemed ; one got on with her perfectly if one observed a
single simple condition — that of not believing a word she said.
Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's
sake; he always appreciated any kindness shown to Amy,
because (if it had to be confessed for him) he was rather ashamed
of her. Naturally, he couldn't like her style, her loudness, her
want of repose. She displeased him ; she acted on his nerves ;
she was not his sort of woman. What was his sort of woman 1
Oh, the opposite of the Countess, a woman who should always
speak the truth. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of
fibs her visitor had told her ; the Countess indeed had given her
an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost
exclusively about herself; how muchfehe should like to know
Miss Archer ; how thankful she should be for a real friend ; how
nasty the people in Florence were ; how tired she was of the
place; how much she should like to live somewhere else — in
Paris, or London, or St. Petersburg ; how impossible it was to
get anything nice to wear in Italy, except a little old lace ; how
dear the world was growing everywhere ; what a life of suffering
and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest
to Isabel's account of her conversation with this plaintive butter-
fly; but she had not needed it to feel exempt from anxiety.
On the whole, she was not afraid of the Countess, and she
could afford to do what was altogether best — not to appear so.

Isabel had another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her
back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who
had left Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo
and had worked her way down, as she said, through the cities
of North Italy, arrived in Florence about the middle of May.
Madame Merle surveyed her with a single glance, comprehended
her, and, after a moment's concentrated reflection, determined
to like her. She determined, indeed, to delight in her. To
like her was impossible ; but the intenser sentiment might be
managed. Madame Merle managed it beautifully, and Isabel
felt that in foreseeing this event she had done justice to her
friend's breadth of mind. Henrietta's arrival had been announced

246 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

by Mr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was
at Venice, and expecting to find her in Florence, which she had
not yet reached, came to the Palazzo Crescentini to express his
disappointment. Henrietta's own advent occurred two days
later, and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted
for by the fact that he had not seen her since the termination
of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his situation
was generally taken, but it was openly expressed only by Ralph
Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when
Bantling smoked a cigar there, indulged in Heaven knows what
genial pleasantries on the subject of the incisive Miss Stackpoln
and her British ally. This gentleman took the joke in perfectly
good part, and artlessly confessed that he regarded the affair as
an intellectual flirtation. He liked Miss Stackpole extremely ;
he thought she had a wonderful head on her shoulders, and
found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not
perpetually thinking about what would be said and how it
would look. Miss Stackpole never cared how it looked, and if
she didn't care, pray why should he 1 But his curiosity had
been roused ; he wanted awfully to see whether she ever would
care. He was prepared to go as far as she — he did not see why
he should stop first.

Henrietta showed no signs of stopping at all. Her prospects,
as we know, had brightened upon her leaving England, and she
was now in the full enjoyment of her copious resources. She
had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes with regard to the
inner life ; the social question, on the continent, bristled with
difficulties even more numerous than those she had encountered
in England. But on the continent there was the outer life,
which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily
convertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque
vislauders. Out of doors, in foreign lands, as Miss Stackpole
ingeniously remarked, one seemed to see the right side of the
tapestry ; out of doors, in England, one seemed to see the wrong
side, which gave one no notion of the figure. It is mortifying
to be obliged to confess it, but Henrietta, despairing of more
occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life.
She had been studying it for two months at Venice, from which
city she sent to the Interviewer a conscientious account of the
gondolas, the Piazza, the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the
young boatman who chanted Tasso. The Interviewer was
perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at least seeing Europe.
Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before the malaria
should come on — she apparently supposed that it b.egan on a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 247

fixed day ; and with this design she was to spend at present hut
few days in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to
Rome, and she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there
before, as he was a military man, and as he had had a classical
education — he was brought up at Eton, where they study nothing
but Latin, said Miss Stackpole — he would be a most useful
companion in the city of the Caesars. At this juncture Ealph
h«*d the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also, under
his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She
expected to pass a portion of the next winter there — that was
very well ; but meantime there was no harm in surveying the
field. There were ten days left of the beautiful month of May
— the most precious month of all to the true Rome-lover. Isabel
would become a Rome-lover ; that was a foregone conclusion.
She was provided with a well-tested companion of her own sex,
whose society, thanks to the fact that she had other calls upon
her sympathy, would probably not be oppressive. Madame
"Merle would remain with Mrs. Touchett ; she had left Rome
for the summer and would not care to return. This lady pro-
fessed herself delighted to be left at peace in Florence ; she had
locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to Palestrina.
She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal, and
assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing
to be despised. Isabel, in truth, needed no urging, and the
party of four arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on
this occasion, had resigned herself to the absence of a duenna ;
we have seen that she now inclined to the belief that her niece
should stand alone.

Isabel saw Gilbert Osmond before she started, and mentioned
her intention to him.

" I should like to be in Rome with you," he said ; " I should
like to see you there."

She hesitated a moment.

" You might come, then."

" But you'll have a lot of people with you."

" Ah," Isabel admitted, " of course I shall not be alone."

For a moment he said nothing more.

" You'll like it," he went on, at last. " They have spoiled
it, but you'll like it."

" Ought I to dislike it, because it's spoiled 1 " she asked.

" No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often. If I were
to go, what should I do with my little girl 1 "

" Can't you leave her at the villa '] "

" I don't know that I like that — though there is a very

248 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

good old woman who looks after her. I can't afford a
governess."

" Bring her with you, then," said Isabel, smiling.

Mr. Osmond looked grave.

" She has been in Eome all winter, at her convent ; and she
is too young to make journeys of pleasure."

" You don't like bringing her forward ? " Isabel suggested.

"No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world."

" I was brought up on a different system."

"You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you — you were
exceptional."

" I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure
there was not some truth in the speech.

Mr. Osmond did not explain ; he simply went on. " If I
thought it would make her resemble you to join a social group
in Eorae, I would take her there to-morrow."

" Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel ; " keep her like
herself."

" I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond suggested. He
had almost the air of asking advice ; he seemed to like to talk
over his domestic matters with Isabel.

" Yes," said the girl ; " I think that would not do much
towards making her resemble me ! "

After she had left Florence, Gilbert Osmond met Madame
Merle at the Countess Gemini's. There were other people
present ; the Countess's drawing-room was usually well filled,
and the talk had been general ; but after a while Osmond left
his place and came and sat on an ottoman half-behind, half-
beside, Madame Merle's chair.

" She wants me to go to Rome with her," he announced, in
a low voice.

"Togo with her1?"

"To be there while she is there. She proposed it."

" I suppose you mean that you proposed it, and that she
assented."

" Of course I gave her a chance. But she is encouraging —
she is very encouraging."

" I am glad to hear it — but don't cry victory too soon. Of
course you will go to Eome."

" Ah," said Osmond, " it makes one work, this idea of yours !"

" Don't pretend you don't enjoy it — you are very ungrateful.
You have not been so well occupied these many years."

" The way you take it is beautiful," said Osmond. " I ought
to be grateful for that."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 249

" Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She
talked with her usual smile, leaning back in her chair, and
looking round the room. " You have made a very good im-
pression, and I have seen for myself that you have received one.
You have not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to oblige
me."

" The girl is not disagreeable," Osmond quietly remarked.

Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during
which her lips closed with a certain firmness.

" Is that all you can find to say about that fine creature 1 "

"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you
heard me say more ? "

She made no answer to this, but still presented her convers-
ational smile to the room.

" You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. " I am
frightened at the abyss into which I shall have dropped her ! "

Osmond gave a laugh.

" You can't draw back — you have gone too far."

" Very good ; but you must do the rest yourself."

" I shall do it," said Osmond.

Madame Merle remained silent, and he changed his place
again; but when she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs.
Touchett's victoria was awaiting her in the court, and after he
had helped Madame Merle into it he stood there detaining
her.

" You are very indiscreet," she said, rather wearily ; " you
should not have moved when I did."

He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his
forehead.

" I always forget ; I am out of the habit."

" You are quite unfathomable," she .repeated, glancing up at
the windows of the house ; a modern structure in the new part
of the town.

He paid no heed to this remark, but said to Madame Merle,
with a considerable appearance of -earnestness —

" She is really verv charming ; I have scarcely known any
one more graceful."

" I like to hear you say that. The better you like her, the
better for me."

" I like her very much. She is all you said, and into the
bargain she is capable of great devotion. She has only one
fault."

" What is that 1 "

" She has too many ideas."

250 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I warned yon she was clever."
" Fortunately they are very bad ones," said Osmond.
" Why is that fortunate T
" Dame, if they must be sacrificed ! "

Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her ; then
she spoke to the coachman. But Osmond again detained her.
" If I go to Eome, what shall I do with Pansy V
" I will go and see her," said Madame Merle.

XXVII.

I SHALL not undertake to give an account of Isabel's impres-
sions of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the ancient
pavement of the Forum, or to number her pulsations as she
crossed the threshold of St. Peter's. It is enough to say that
her perception of the endless interest of the place was such as
might have been expected in a young woman of her intelligence
and culture. She had always been fond of history, and here
was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of the
sunshine. She had an imagination that kindled at the mention
of great deeds, and wherever she turned some great deed had
been acted. These things excited her, but she was quietly
excited. It seemed to her companions that she spoke less than
usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking
listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping an
eye of observation upon her. To her own knowledge she was
very happy ; she would even have been willing to believe that
these were to be on the whole the happiest hours of her life.
The sense of the mighty human past was heavy upon her, but
it was interfused in the strangest, suddenest, most capricious
way, with the fresh, cool breath of the future. Her feelings
were so mingled that she scarcely knew whither any of them
would lead her, and she went about in a kind of repressed
ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often in the things she looked
at a greal deal more than was there, and yet not seeing many of
the items enumerated in " Murray." Rome, as Ralph said, was in
capital condition. The herd of re-echoing tourists had departed,
and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity.
The sky was a blaze 'of blue, and the plash of the fountains,
in their mossy niches, had lost its chill and doubled its music.
On the corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled upon
bundles of flowers.

THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY. 251

Our friends Lad gone one afternoon — it was the third of their
stay — to look at the latest excavations in the Forum ; these
labours having been for some time previous largely extended.
They had gone down from the modern street to the level of the
Sacred Way, along which they wandered with a reverence of
step which was not the same on the part of each. Henrietta
Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been
paved a good deal like JSTew York, and even found an analogy
between the deep chariot-ruts which are traceable in the antique
street, and the iron grooves which mark the course of the
American horse-car. The sun had begun to sink, the air was
filled with a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken
column and formless pedestal were thrown across the field of
ruin. Henrietta wandered away with Mr. Bantling, in whose
Latin reminiscences she was apparently much engrossed, and
Ralph addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer,
to the attentive ear of our heroine. One of the humble
archaeologists who hover about the place had put himself at the
disposal of the two, and repeated his lesson with a fluency which
the decline of the season had done nothing to impair. A process
of digging was going on in a remote corner of the Forum, and he
presently remarked that if it should please the dgnori to go and
watch it a little, they might see something interesting. The
proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, who
was weary with much wandering; so that she charged her
companion to satisfy his curiosity while she patiently awaited
his return. The hour and the place were much to her taste,
and she should enjoy being alone. Ralph accordingly went off
with the cicerone, while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column,
near the foundations of the Capitol. She desired a quarter of
an hour's solitude, but she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as
was her interest in the rugged relics of the Roman past that lay
scattered around her, and in which the corrosion of centuries
had still left so much of individual life, her thoughts, after
resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a concaten-
ation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to regions
and objects more contemporaneous. From the Roman past to
Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination
had taken it in a single flight, and now hovered in slow circles
over the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her
thoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not
dislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she had
not heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadow
was thrown across the line of her vision. She looked up and

252 THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY.

saw a gentleman — a gentleman who was not Kalph come back
to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was
startled as she was startled ; he stood there, smiling a little,
blushing a good deal, and raising his hat.

" Lord Warburton ! " Isabel exclaimed, getting up.

" I had no idea it was you," he said. " I turned that corner
and came upon you."

Isabel looked about her.

" I am alone, but my companions have just left me. My
cousin is gone to look at the digging over there."

" Ah yes ; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered
vaguely in the direction Isabel had indicated. He stood firmly
before her ; he had stopped smiling ; he folded his arms with a
kind of deliberation. " Don't let me disturb you," he went on,
looking at her dejected pillar. " I am afraid you are tired."

" Yes, I am rather tired." She hesitated a moment, and
then she sat down. " But don't let me interrupt you," she
added.

" Oh dear, I am quite alone, I have nothing on earth to do.
I had no idea you were in Rome. I have just come from the
East. I am only passing through."

"" You have been making a long journey," said Isabel, who
had learned from Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from
England.

" Yes, I came abroad for six months — soon after I saw you
last. I have been in Turkey and Asia Minor ; I came the other
day from Athens." He spoke with visible embarrassment ; this
unexpected meeting caused him an emotion he was unable to
conceal. He looked at Isabel a moment, and then he said,
abruptly — " Do you wish me to leave you, or will you let me
stay a little ?".

She looked up at him, gently. " I don't wish you to leave
me, Lord Warburton ; I am very glad to see you."

" Thank you for saying that. May I sit down ? "

The fluted shaft on which Isabel had taken her seat would
have afforded a resting-place to several persons, and there was
plenty of room even for a highly-developed Englishman. This
fine specimen of that great class seated himself near our young
lady, and in the course of five minutes he had asked her several
questions, taken rather at random, and of which, as he asked
some of them twice over, he apparently did not always heed the
answer; had given her, too, some information about himself
which was not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. Lord
Warburton, though he tried hard to seem easy, was agitated ;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 253

he repeated more than once that he had not expected to meet
her, and it was evident that the encounter touched him in a
way that would have made preparation advisable. He had
abrupt alternations of gaiety and gravity ; he appeared at one
moment to seek his neighbour's eye and at 'the next to avoid
it. He was splendidly sunburnt ; even his multitudinous beard
seemed to have been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was
dressed in the loose-fitting, heterogeneous garments in which the
English traveller in foreign lands is wont to consult his comfort
and affirm his nationality; and with his clear grey eye, his
bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its brownness, his manly
figure, his modest manner, and his general air of being a gentle-
man and an explorer, he was such a representative of the
British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by
those who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things,
and was glad she had always liked Lord Warburton. He was
evidently as likeable as before, and the tone of his voice, which
she had formerly thought delightful, was as good as an assurance
that he would never change for the worse. They talked about
the matters that were naturally in order; her uncle's death,
Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her winter, her
visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the summer,
the hotel she was staying at ; and then Lord Warburton's own
adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present
domicile. At last there was a silence, and she knew what he
was thinking of. His eyes were fixed on the ground; but at
last he raised them and said gravely — "I have written to you
several times."

" Written to me? I have never got your letters."

" I never sent them. I burned them up."

" Ah," said Isabel with a laugh, " it was better that you
should do that than I ! "

" I thought you wouldn't care about them," he went on, with
a simplicity that might have touched her. " It seemed to me
that after all I had no right to trouble you with letters."

" I should have been very glad to have news of you. You
know that I hoped that — that — " Isabel stopped ; it seemed to
her there would be a certain flatness in the utterance of her
thought.

" I know what you are going to say. You hoped we should
always remain good friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton
uttered it, was certainly flat enough ; but then he was interested
in making it appear so.

Isabel found herself reduced simply to saying — " Please don't

254 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

i

talk of all that;" a speech, which hardly seemed to her an
improvement on the other.

"It's a small consolation to allow me!" Lord Warburton
exclaimed, with force.

" I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, as she
sat there, found it good to think that she had given him the
answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He
\vas pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant, there was no
better man than he. But her answer remained.

" It's very well you don't try to console me ; it would not be
in your power," she heard him say, through the medium of her
quickened reflections.

" I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you
would attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But when
you do that — the pain is greater than the pleasure." And
Isabel got up, looking for her companions.

" I don't want to make you feel that ; of course I can't say
that. I only just want you to know one or two things, in
fairness to myself as it were. I won't return to the subject
again. I felt very strongly what I expressed to you last year :
I couldn't think of anything else. I tried to forget — energetic-
ally, systematically. I tried to take an interest in some one else.
I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty, I
didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad — as
far away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind ;
but it didn't distract mine. I have thought of you perpetually,
ever since I last saw you. I am exactly the same. I love you
just as much, and everything I said to you then is just as true.
However, I don't mean to trouble you now ; it's only for a
moment. I may add that when I came upon you a moment
since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was in the very
act of wishing I knew where you were."

He had recovered his self-control, as I say, and while he spoke
it became complete. He spoke plainly and simply, in a low
tone of voice, in a matter-of-fact way. There might have been
something impressive, even to a woman of less imagination than
the one he addressed, in hearing this brilliant, brave-looking
gentleman express himself so modestly and reasonably.

" I have often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel
answered. "You may be sure I shall always do that." And
then she added, with a smile — " There is no harm in that, on
either side."

They walked along together, and she asked kindly about his
sisters and requested him to let them know she had done so. He

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 255

said nothing more about his own feelings, but returned to those
more objective topics they had already touched upon. Presently
he asked her when she was to leave Rome, and on her mention-
ing the limit of her stay, declared he was glad it was still so
distant.

" Why do you say that, if you yourself -are only passing
through ? " she inquired, with some anxiety.

" Ah, when I said I was passing through, I didn't mean that
one would treat Rome as if it were Clapliam Junction. To pass
through Rome is to stop a week or two."

" Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do ! "

Lord Warburton looked at her a moment, with an uncomfort-
able smile. " You won't like that. You are afraid you will see
too much of me."

" It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you
to leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I
am afraid of you."

" Afraid I will begin again 1 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 1 "

He hesitated. " To tell you again — ;> But he checked him-
self. " 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 com-
panion. Ralph Touchett gave signs of greeting to Lord War-
burton, 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.

256 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY,

" Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. " T
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 Lock-
leigh, good-humo\*redly. .

" 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 recog-
nition, but he now took occasion to nod to his lordship, who
answered htm with a friendly " Oh, you here, Bantling 1 " and a
hand -shake.

" Well," said Henrietta, " I didn't know you knew him ! "

" I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling
rejoined, facetiously.

" I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always
told you."

" Ah, I 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
thaj; a rejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal.
Of a Sunday afternoon all good Eomans (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 Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the
two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling 'having gone out
together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel an
example of his intention to keep the promise he had made her
the evening before ; he was both discreet and frank ; he made
nc.!} 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,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 257

Moreover, his being in Eome 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 tesselated 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 won-
dered, 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 worship-
pers and spectators, may follow their various intentions without
mutual scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indis-
cretion carries but a short distance. Isabel and her companions,
however, were guilty of none ; for though Henrietta was obliged
to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered by comparison
with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed her pro-
test 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 a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed in
equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and
while they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, .
with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where
Isabel, 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.

s

258 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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 1 " 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 Warfrurton 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 Gar-
dencourt 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 Stack pole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but
this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter ; for on perceiv-
ing the gentleman from Florence, Ralph Touchett exhibited
symptoms of surprise which might not perhaps have seemed
nattering 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 new-comer
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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 259

is nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere
else."

" You ought indeed to be a Pope ! " Isabel exclaimed, remem-
bering 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 lord-
ship inquired.

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

" What is he besides 1 "

" 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 1 "

" No, about a fortnight."

" Does she like him 1 "

" Yes, I think she does."

" Is he a good fellow 1 "

Ralph hesitated a moment. " N"o, he's not," he said, at last.

" Why then does she like him ? " pursued Lord Warburton,
•with noble naivete.

" 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 con-
versation 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.

XXVIII.

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

s 2

260 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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
recognised. 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 entracte to enjoy
the relative coolness of the lobby. He stood a while 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 Ealph 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. 1 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 cafe 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 place1? 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 timed

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 261

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 undis-
turbed 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 1 The others came back ;
the bare, familiar, trivial opera began again. The box was large,
aud 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, denned 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 tiib
tortuous, tragical streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than
his had been carried under the stars.

" What is the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked
of Isabel, after the visitor had gone.

" Irreproachable — don't you see it ? "

" He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta
remarked. " That's what they call a free country ! "

" Ah, he is a great proprietor ? Happy man ! " said Gilbert
Osmond.

" Do you call that happiness — the ownership of human
beings 1 " cried Miss Stackpole. " He owns his tenants, and he
has thousands of them. It is pleasant to own something, but
inanimate objects are enough for me. I don't insist on flesh
and blood, and minds and consciences."

" It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr.
Bantling suggested jocosely. " I wonder if Warburton orders
his tenants about as you do me."

" Lord Warburton is a great radical," Isabel said. " He has
very advanced opinions."

" He has very advanced stone walls. His park is inclosed

262 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

by a gigantic iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta
announced, for the information of Mr. Osmond. " I should like
him to converse with a few of our Boston radicals."

" Don't they approve of iron fences ? " asked Mr. Bantling.

" Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if
I were talking to you over a fence ! "

"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer ? '
Osmond went on, questioning Isabel.

" Well enough."

" Do you like him 1 "

" Very much."

" Is he a man of ability ? "

" Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks."

"As good as he is good-looking do you mean? He is very
good-looking. How detestably fortunate ! to be a great English
magnate, to be clever and handsome into the bargain, and, b
way of finishing off, to enjoy your favour ! That's a man
could envy."

Isabel gave a serious smile.

" You seem to me to be always envying some one. Yesterday
it was the Pope ; to-day it's poor Lord Warburton."

" My envy is not dangerous ; it is very platonic. "Why do
you call him poor ? "

" Women usually pity men after they have hurt them ; that
is their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph, joining in
the conversation for the first time, with a cynicism so trans-
parently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.

"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton 1" Isabel asked, raising
her eyebrows, as if the idea were perfectly novel.

" It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta, while the
curtain rose for the ballet.

Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next
twenty-four hours, but on the second day after the visit to the
opera she encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where
he was standing before the lion of the collection, the statue of
the Dying Gladiator. She had come in with her companions,
among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert Osmond was
numbered, and the party, having ascended the staircase, entered
the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton spoke to her
with all his usual geniality, but said in a moment that he was
leaving the gallery.

"And I am leaving Koine," he added. "I should bid you
good-bye."

I shall not undertake to explain why, but Isabel was sorry to

THE POETRAIT OF A LADY. 263

hear it. It was, perhaps, because she had ceased to be afraid
of his renewing his suit ; she was thinking of something else.
She was on the point of saying she was sorry, but she checked
herself and simply wished him a happy journey.

He looked at her with a somewhat heavy eye.

" I am afraid you think me rather inconsistent," he said. " I
told you the other day that I wanted so much to stay a while."

"Oh no ; you could easily change your mind."

" That's what I have done."

" Bon voyage, then."

" You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship,
rather dismally.

" Not in the least. But I hate partings."

" You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.

Isabel looked at him for a moment.

" Ah," she said, " you are not keeping your promise ! "

He coloured like a boy of fifteen.

" If I am not, then it's because I can't ; and that's why I am
going."

"Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I
see you again 1 "

Isabel hesitated, and then, as if she had had a happy inspira-
tion— " Some day after you are married."

" That will never be. It will be after you are."

" That will do as well," said Isabel, smiliDg.

" Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."

They shook hands, and he left her alone in the beautiful
room, among the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the
middle of the circle of statues, looking at them vaguely, resting
her eyes on their beautiful blank faces ; listening, as it were, to
their eternal silence. It is impossible, in Eome at least, to look
long at a great company of Greek sculptures without feeling the
effect of their noble quietude. It soothes and moderates the
spirit, it purifies the imagination. I say in Eome especially,
because the Koman air is an exquisite medium for such im-
pressions. The golden sunshine mingles with them, the great
stillness of the past, so vivid yet, though it is nothing but a
void full of names, seems to throw a solemn spell upon them.
The blinds were partly closed in the windows of the Capitol,
and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made them
more perfectly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the
charm of their motionless grace, seeing life between their gazing
eyelids and purpose in their marble lips. The dark red walls

264 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

of the room threw thorn into relief ; the polished marble floor
reflected their beauty. She had seen them all before, but her
enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater because she
was glad, for the time, to be alone. At the last her thoughts
wandered away from them, solicited by images of a vitality
more complete. An occasional tourist came into the room,
stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and then
passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pave-
ment. At the end of half-an-hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared,
apparently in advance of his companions. He strolled towards
her slowly, with his hands behind him, and with his usual
bright, inquiring, yet not appealing smile.

" I am surprised to find you alone," he said. " I thought
you had company."

" So I have — the best." And Isabel glanced at the circle of
sculpture.

" Do you call this better company than an English peer ? "

" Ah, my English peer left me some time ago," said Isabel,
getting up. She spoke, with intention, a little dryly.

Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, but it did not prevent him
from giving a laugh.

" I am afraid that what I heard the other evening is true ;
you are rather cruel to that nobleman."

Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator.

" It is not true. I am scrupulously kind."

" That's exactly what I mean ! " Gilbert Osmond exclaimed,
so humorously that his joke needs to be explained.

We knew that he was fond of originals, of rarities, of the
superior, the exquisite ; and now that he had seen Lord War-
burton, whom he thought a very fine example of his race and
order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of taking to
himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his
collection of choice objects by rejecting the splendid offer of a
British aristocrat. Gilbert Osmond had a high appreciation of
the British aristocracy — he had never forgiven Providence for
not making him an English duke — and could measure the unex-
pectedness of this conduct. It would be proper that the woman
he should marry should have done something of that sort.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 265

XXIX.

EALPH TOUCHETT, for reasons best known to himself, had
seen fit to say that Gilbert Osmond was not a good fellow ; but
this assertion was not borne out by the gentleman's conduct
during the rest of the visit to Rome. He spent a portion of
each day with Isabel and her companions, and gave every
indication of being an easy man to live with. It was impossible
not to feel that he had excellent points, and indeed this is per-
haps why Ealph Touchett made his want of good fellowship a
reproach to him. Even Ralph was obliged to admit that just
now he was a delightful companion. His good humour was
imperturbable, his knowledge universal, his manners were the
gentlest in the world. His spirits were not visibly high ; it was
difficult to think of Gilbert Osmond as boisterous ; he had a
mortal dislike to loudness or eagerness. He thought Miss
Archer sometimes too eager, too pronounced. It was a pity she
had that fault ; because if she had not had it she would really
have had none ; she would have been as bright and soft as an
April cloud. If Osmond was not loud, however, he was deep,
and during these closing days of the Roman May he had a gaiety
that matched with slow irregular walks under the pines of the
Villa Borghese, among the small sweet meadow-flowers and the
mossy marbles. He was pleased with everything ; he had
never before been pleased with so many things at once. Old
impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves ; one evening,
going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little
sonnet to which he prefixed the title of " Rome Revisited." A
day or two later he showed this piece of correct and ingenious
verse to Isabel, explaining to her that it was an Italian fashion
to commemorate the pleasant occasion^ of life by a tribute to
the muse. In general Osmond took his pleasures singly; he
was usually disgusted with something that seemed to him ugly
or offensive; his mind was rarely visited with moods of com-
prehensive satisfaction. But at present he was happy — happier
than he had perhaps ever been in his life ; and the feeling had
a large foundation. This was simply the sense of success — the
most agreeable emotion of the human heart. Osmond had never
had too much of it ; in this respect he had never been spoiled ;
as he knew perfectly well and often reminded himself. "Ah
no, I have not been spoiled; certainly I have not been spoiled,"
he used to repeat to himself. "If I do succeed before I die, I

266 THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY.

shall have earned it well." Absolutely void of success his career
had not been ; a very moderate amount of reflection would have
assured him of this. But his triumphs were, some of them,
now, too old ; others had been too easy. The present one had
been less difficult than might have been expected ; but it had
been ' easy — that is, it had been rapid — only because he had
made an altogether exceptional effort, a greater effort than he
had believed it was in him to make. The desire to succeed
greatly — in something or other — had been the dream of his
youth ; but as the years went on, the conditions attached to
success became so various and repulsive that the idea of making
an effort gradually lost its charm. It was not dead, however ;
it only slept ; it revived after he had made the acquaintance of
Isabel Archer. Osmond had felt that any enterprise in which
the chance of failure was at all considerable would never have
an attraction for him ; to fail would have been unspeakably
odious, would have left an ineffaceable stain upon his life.
Success was to seem in advance definitely certain — certain, that
is, on this one condition, that the effort should be an agreeable
one to make. That of exciting an interest on the part of Isabel
Archer corresponded to this description, for the girl had pleased
him from the first of his seeing her. We have seen that she
thought him "fine"; and Gilbert Osmond returned the compli-
ment. We have also seen (or heard) that he had a great dread
of vulgarity, and on this score his mind was at rest with regard
to our young lady. He was not afraid that she would disgust
him or irritate him ; he had no fear that she would even, in the
more special sense of the word, displease him. If she was too
eager, she could be taught to be less so ; that was a fault which
diminished with growing knowledge. She might defy him, she
might anger him ; this was another matter from displeasing
him, and on the whole a less serious one. If a woman were
ungraceful and common, her whole quality was vitiated, and
one could take no precautions against that ; one's own delicacy
would avail little. If, however, she were only wilful and high-
tempered, the defect might be managed with comparative ease ;
for had one not a will of one's own that one had been keeping
for years in the best condition — as pure and keen as a sword
protected by its sheath 1

Though I have tried to speak with extreme discretion, the
reader may have gathered a suspicion that Gilbert Osmond was
not untainted by selfishness. This is rather a coarse imputation
to put upon a man of his refinement ; and it behoves us at all
times to remember the familiar proverb about those who live in

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 267

glass houses. If Mr. Osmond was more selfish than most of his
fellows, the fact will still establish itself. Lest it should fail to
do so, I must decline to- commit myself to an accusation so gross;
the more especially as several of the items of our story would
seem to point the other way. It is well known that there are
few indications of selfishness more conclusive (on the part of a
gentleman at least) than the preference for»a single life. Gilbert
Osmond, after having tasted of matrimony, had spent a succession
of years in the full enjoyment of recovered singleness. He was
familiar with the simplicity of purpose, the lonely liberties, of
bachelorhood. He had reached that period of life when it is
supposed to be doubly difficult to renounce these liberties,
endeared as they are by long association ; and yet he was pre-
pared to make the generous sacrifice. It would seem that this
might fairly be set down to the credit of the noblest of our
qualities — the faculty of self-devotion. Certain it is that
Osmond's desire to marry had been deep and distinct. It had
not been notorious ; he had not gone about asking people whether
they knew a nice girl with a little money. Money was an
object ; but this was not his manner of proceeding, and no one
knew — or even greatly cared — whether he wished to marry or not.
Madame Merle knew — that we have already perceived. It was
not that he had told her ; on the whole he would not have cared
to tell her. But there were things of which she had no need to
be told — things as to which she had a sort of creative intuition.
She had recognised a truth that was none the less pertinent for
being very subtle : the truth that there was something very
imperfect in Osmond's situation as it stood. He was a failure,
of course ; that was an old story ; to Madame Merle's percep-
tion he would always be a failure. But there were degrees of
ineffectiveness, and there was no need of taking one of the
highest. Success, for Gilbert Osmond, would be to make himself
felt ; that was the only success to which he could now pretend.
It is not a kind of distinction that is officially recognised —
unless indeed the operation be performed upon multitudes of
men. Osmond's line would be to impress himself not largely
but deeply ; a distinction of the most private sort. A single
character might offer the whole measure of it ; the clear and
.sensitive nature of a generous girl would make space for the
record. The record of course would be complete if the young
lady should have a fortune, and Madame Merle would have
taken no pains to make Mr. Osmond acquainted with Mrs
Touchett's niece if Isabel had been as scantily dowered as when
first she met her. He had waited all these years because ho

268 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

wanted only the best, and a portionless bride naturally would
not have been the best. He had waited so long in vain that he
finally almost lost his interest in the subject — not having kept
it up by venturesome experiments. It had become improbable
that the best was now to be had, and if he wished to make
himself felt, there was soft and supple little Pansy, who would
evidently respond to the slightest pressure.. When at last the
best did present itself Osmond recognised it like a gentleman.
There was therefore no incongruity in his wishing to marry- —
it was his own idea of success, as well as that which Madame
Merle, with her old-time interest in his affairs, entertained for
him. Let it not, however, be supposed that he was guilty of
the error of believing that Isabel's character was of that passive
sort which offers a free field for domination. He was sure
that she would constantly act — act in the sense of enthusiastic
concession.

Shortly before the time which had been fixed in advance for
her return to Florence, this young Jady received from Mrs.
Touchett a telegram which ran as follows : — " Leave Florence
4th June, Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other views.
But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome
was very pleasant, but Isabel had no other views, and she wrote
to her aunt that she would immediately join her. She told
Gilbert Osmond that she had done so, and he replied that, spend-
ing many of his summers as well as his winters in Italy, he
himself would loiter a little longer among the Seven Hills. He
should not return to Florence for ten days more, and in that time
she would have started for Bellaggio. It might be long, in this
case, before he should see her again. This conversation took
place in the large decorated sitting-room which our friends
occupied at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph
Touchett was to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow.
Osmond had found the girl alone ; Miss Stackpole had con-
tracted a friendship with a delightful American family on the
fourth floor, and had mounted the interminable staircase to pay
them a visit. Miss Stackpole contracted friendships, in travel-
ling, with great freedom, and had formed several in railway-
carriages, which were among her most valued ties. Ralph was
making arrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat
alone in a wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas
were orange ; the walls and windows were draped in purple and
gilt. The mirrors, the pictures, had great flamboyant frames ;
the ceiling was deeply vaulted and painted over with naked
muses and cherubs. To Osmond the place was painfully ugly ;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. . 269

the false colours, the sham splendour, made him suffer. Isabel
had taken in hand a volume of Ampere, presented, on their
arrival in Rome, by Ralph ; but though she held it in her lap
•with her finger vaguely kept in the place, she was not impatient
to go on with her reading. A lamp covered with a drooping
veil of pink tissue-paper burned on the table beside her, and
diffused a strange pale rosiness over the scene.

" You say you will come back ; but who knows 1 " Gilbert
Osmond said. " I think you are much more likely to start on
your voyage round the world. You are under no obligation to
come back ; you can do exactly what you choose ; you can roam,
through space."

" Well, Italy is a part of space," Isabel answered ; " I can
take it on the way."

" On the way round the world 1 No, don't do that. Don't
put us into a parenthesis — give us a chapter to ourselves. I
don't want to see you on your travels. I would rather see you
when they are over. I should like to see you when you are
tired and satiated," Osmond added, in a moment. " I shall
prefer you in that state."

Isabel, with her eyes bent down, fingered the pages of M.
Ampere a little.

"You turn things into ridicule without seeming to do it,
thougli not, I think, without intending it," she said at last.
" You have no respect for my travels — you think them
ridiculous."

"Where do you find that?"

Isabel went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book
with the paper-knife.

"You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander
about as if the world belonged to me, simply because — because
it has been put into my power to do so. You don't think a
woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful."

" I think it beautiful," said Osmond. " You know my
opinions — I have treated you to enough of them. Don't you
remember my telling you that one ought to make one's life a
work of art 1 You looked rather shocked at first ; but then I
told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be trying
to do with your own life."

Isabel looked up from her book.

" What you despise most in the world is bad art."

" Possibly. But yours seem to me very good."

" If I were to go to Japan next winter, you would laugh at
me," Isabel continued.

270 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Osmond gave a smile — a keen one, but not a laugh, for the
tone of their conversation was not jocular. Isabel was almost
tremulously serious; he had-seen her so before.

" You have an imagination that startles one ! "

"That is exactly what I say. You think such an idea
absurd."

" I would give my little finger to go to Japan ; it is one of
the countries I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with
my taste for old lacquer 1 "

" I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel.
. " You have a better excuse — the means of going. You are
quite wrong in your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know
what put it into your head."

"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous
that I should -have the means to travel, when you have not ; for
you know everything, and I know nothing."

" The more reason why you should travel and learn," said
Osmond, smiling. " Besides," he added, more gravely, " I don't
know everything."

Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this
gravely ; she was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her
life — so it pleased her to qualify her little visit to Eome — was
coming to an end. That most of the interest of this episode
had been owing to Mr. Osmond — this reflection she was not just
now at pains to make ; she had already done the point abundant
justice. But she said to herself that if there were a danger that
they should not meet again, perhaps after all it would be as well.
Happy things do npt repeat themselves, and these few days had
been interfused with the element of success. She might come
back to Italy and find him different — this strange man who
pleased her just as he was ; and it would be better not to come
than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come, the
greater was the pity that this happy week was over; for a
moment she felt her heart throb with a kind of delicious pain.
The sensation kept her silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent
too ; he was looking at her.

" Go everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice ;
"do everything; get everything out of life. Be happy — be
triumphant."

" What do you mean by being triumphant 1 "

" Doing what you like."

" To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail ! Doing what
we like is often very tiresome."

" Exactly," said Osmond, with his quick responsiveness.

THE PORTRAIT OF -A LADY. 271

" As 1 intimated just now, you will be tired some day." He
paused a moment, and then he went on : "I don't know
whether I had better not wait till then for something I wish to
say to you."

" Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I
am horrid when I am tired," Isabel added, with due inconse-
quence.

" I don't believe that. ' You are angry, sometimes — that I
can believe, though I have never seen it. But I am sure you
are never disagreeable."

" Not even when I lose my temper 1 "

" You don't lose it — you find it, and that must be beautiful,"
Osmond spoke very simply — almost solemnly. " There must
be something very noble about that."

" If I could only find it now ! " the girl exclaimed, laughing,
yet frowning.

" I am not afraid ; I should fold my arms and admire you.
I am speaking very seriously." He was leaning forward, with a
hand on each knee ; for some moments he bent his eyes on the
floor. " What I wish to say to you," he went on at last, looking
up, " is that I find I am in love with you."

Isabel instantly rose from her chair.

" Ah, keep that till I am tired ! " she murmured.

" Tired of hearing it from others ? " And Osmond sat there,
looking up at her. " No, you may heed it now, or never, as
you please. But, after all, I must say it now."

She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped
herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a
moment in this situation, exchanging a long look — the large,
'•onscious look of the critical hours of life. Then he got up and
came near her, deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had
been too familiar.

" I am thoroughly in love with you."

He repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal
discretion ; like a man who expected very little from it, but
spoke for his own relief.

The tears came into Isabel's eyes — they were caused by an
intenser throb of that pleasant pain I spoke of a moment ago.
There was an immense sweetness in the words he had uttered ;
but, morally speaking, she retreated before them — facing him
still — as she had retreated in two or three cases that we know of
in which the same words had been spoken.

" Oh, don't say that, please," she answered at last, in a tone
of entreaty which had nothing of conventional modesty, but

272 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

which expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose
and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force
which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread — the
consciousness of what was in her own heart. It was terrible to
have to surrender herself to that.

" I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said
Osmond. "I have too little to offer you. What I have — it's
enough for me ; but it's not enough for you. I have neither
fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I
offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it can't offend
you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It gives
me pleasure, I assure you," he went on, standing there before
her, bending forward a little, turning his hat, which he had
taken up, slowly round, with a movement which had all the
decent tremor of awkwardness and none of its oddity, and pre-
senting to her his keen, expressive, emphatic face. " It gives
me no pain, because it is perfectly simple. For me you will
always be the most important woman in the world."

Isabel looked at herself in this character — looked intently, and
thought that she filled it with a certain grace. But what she
said was not an expression of this complacency. " You don't
offend me ; but you ought to remember that, without being
offended, one may be incommoded, troubled." " Incommoded" :
she heard herself saying that, and thought it a ridiculous word.
But it was the word that came to her.

"I remember, perfectly. Of course you are surprised and
startled. But if it is nothing but that, it will pass away. And
it will perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of."

" I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that
I am not overwhelmed," said Isabel, with rather a pale smile.
" I am not too troubled to think. And I think that I am glad
we are separating — that I leave Rome to-morrow."

" Of course I don't agree with you there."
• " I don't know you," said Isabel, abruptly ; and then she
coloured, as she heard herself saying what she had said almost a
year before to Lord Warburton.

" If you were not going away you would know me better."

" I shall do that some other time."

" I hope so. I am very easy to know."

* No, no," said the girl, with a flash of bright eagerness ;
" there you are not sincere. You are not easy to know ; no one
could be less so."

" Well," Osmond answered, with a laugh, " I said that because
I know myself. That may be a boast, but I do."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 273

" Very likely ; but you are very wise."

" So are you, Miss Archer ! " Osmond exclaimed.

" I don't feel so just now. Still, I am wise enough to think
you had better go. Good night."

" God bless you ! " said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand
which she failed to surrender to him. And then in a moment*
he added, " If we meet again, you will find me as you leave me.
If we don't, I shall be so, all the same."

" Thank you very much. Good-bye."

There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor ; he
might go of his own movement, but he would not be dismissed.
" There is one thing more," he said. " I haven't asked anything
of you — not even a thought in the future ; you must do me that
justice. But there is a little service I should like to ask. I
shall not return home for several days ; Rome is delightful, and
it is a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know
you are sorry to leave it ; but you are right to do what your
aunt wishes."

" She doesn't even wish it ! "Isabel broke out, strangely.

Osmond for a moment was apparently on the point of saying
something that would match these words. But he changed his
mind, and rejoined, simply — " Ah well, it's proper you should
go with her, all the same. Do everything that's proper ; I go
in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you
don't know me ; but when you do you will discover what a
worship I have for propriety."

" You are not conventional 1 " said Isabel, very gravely.

" I like the way you utter that word ! No, I am not conven-
tional : I am convention itself. You don't understand that ? "
And Osmond paused a moment, smiling. "I should like to
explain it." Then, with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness —
" Do come back again ! " he cried. " There are so many things
we might talk about."

Isabel stood there with lowered eyes. " What service did
you speak of just now ? "

" Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence.
She is alone at the villa ; I decided not to send her to my sister,
who hasn't my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father
very much," said Gilbert Osmond, gently.

" It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered.
" I will tell her what you say. Once more, good-bye."

On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had
gone, she stood a moment, looking about her, and then she seated
herself, slowly, with an air of deliberation. She sat there till

T

274 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

her companions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the
ugly carpet. Her agitation — for it had not diminished — was
very still, very deep. That which had happened was something
that for a week past her imagination had been going forward
to meet ; but here, when it came, she stopped — her imagina-
tion halted. The working of this young lady's spirit was
strange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to
make it seem altogether natural. Her imagination stopped, as 1
say ; there was a last vague space it could not cross — a dusky,
uncertain tract which looked ambiguous, and even slightly
treacherous, like a moorland seen in the winter twilight. But
she was to cross it yet.

XXX.

UNDER her cousin's escort Isabel returned on the morrow to
Florence, and Ralph Touchett, though usually he was not fond
of railway journeys, thought very well of the successive hours
passed in the train which hurried his companion away from the
city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's preference — hours
that were to form the first stage in a still larger scheme of travel.
Miss Stackpole had remained behind ; she was planning a little
trip to Naples, to be executed with Mr. Bantling's assistance.
Isabel was to have but three days in Florence before the 4th of
June, the date of Mrs. Touchett's departure, and she determined
to devote the last of these to her promise to go and see Pansy
Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to
modify itself, in deference to a plan of Madame Merle's. This
lady was still at Casa Touchett ; but she too was on the point of
leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle in the
mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that
country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said,
" for ever") seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs
of their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend was able
to show her, a precious privilege.

She mentioned to Madame Merle that Mr. Osmond had asked
her to call upon his daughter ; she did not mention to her that
he had also made her a declaration of love.

" Ah, comme cela se trouve ! " the elder lady exclaimed. " I
myself have been thinking it would be a kindness to take a look
at the child before I go into the country."

" We can go together, then," said Isabel, reasonably. I say

THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY. 275

" reasonably," because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit
of enthusiasm. She had prefigured her visit" as made in solitude ;
she should like it better so. Nevertheless, to her great consider-
ation for Madame Merle she was prepared to sacrifice this mystic
sentiment.

Her friend meditated, with her usual suggestive smile. "After
all," she presently said, "why should we both go; having, each
of us, so much to do during these last hours 1 "

"Very good; I can easily go alone."

" I don't know about your going alone — to the house of a
handsome bachelor. He has been married — but so long ago ! "

Isabel stared. " When Mr. Osmond is away, what does it
matter 1 "

"They don't know he is away, you see."

" They ? Whom do you mean ? "

" Every one. But perhaps it doesn't matter."

" If you were going, why shouldn't I ? " Isabel asked.

" Because I am an old frump, and you are a beautiful young
woman."

" Granting all that, you have not promised."

" How much you think of your promises ! " said Madame
Merle, with a smile of genial mockery.

" I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise
you 1 "

" You are right," Madame Merle reflected audibly. " I really
think you wish to be kind to the child."

" I wish very much to be kind to her."

" Go and see her, then ; no one will be the wiser. And tell
her I would have come if you had not. — Or rather," Madame
Merle added — " don't tell her; she won't care."

As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the
charming winding way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she
wondered what Madame Merle had meant by no one being the
wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals, this lady, in whose
discretion, as a general thing, there was something almost brilliant,
dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a note that
sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgar judg-
ments of obscure people 1 and did Madame Merle suppose that
she was capable of doing a deed in secret? Of course not — she
must have meant something else — something which in the press
of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had time
to explain. Isabel would return to this some day ; there were
certain things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard
Pansy strumming at the piano in another apartment, as she

T 2

276 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

herself was ushered into Mr. Osmond's drawing-room ; the little
girl was " practising," and Isabel was pleased to think that she
performed this duty faithfully. Presently Pansy came in,
smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's
house with the wide-eyed conscientiousness of a sensitive child.
Isabel sat there for half-an-hour, and Pansy entertained her like
a little lady — not chattering, but conversing, and showing the
same courteous interest in Isabel's affairs that Isabel was so good
as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her ; as I have said
before, she had never seen a child like that. How well she had
been taught, said our keen young lady, how prettily she had
been directed and fashioned ; and yet how simple, how natural,
how innocent she has been kept ! Isabel was fond of psycho-
logical problems, and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be
in doubt as to whether Miss Pansy were not all-knowing. Was
her infantine serenity but the perfection of self-consciousness ?
Was it put on to please her father's visitor, or was it the direct
expression of a little neat, orderly character1? The hour that
Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms —
the windows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and
here and there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer
day peeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt
in the rich-looking gloom — Isabel's interview with the daughter
of the house, I say, effectually settled this question. Pansy was
really a blank page, a pure white surface ; she was not clever
enough for precocious coquetries. She was not clever • Isabel
could see that ; she only had nice feelings. There was some-
thing touching about her ; Isabel had felt it before ; she would
be an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to
resist, no sense of her own importance ; only an exquisite taste,
and an appreciation, equally exquisite, of such affection as might
be bestowed upon her. She would easily be mystiUed, easily
crushed ; her force would be solely in her power to cling. She
moved about the place with Isabel, who had asked leave to walk
through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgment
on several works of art. She talked about her prospects, her
occupations, her father's intentions ; she was not egotistical, but
she felt the propriety of giving Isabel the information that so
observant a visitor would naturally expect.

" Please tell me," she said, " did papa, in Rome, go to see
Madame Catherine1? He told me he would if he had time.
Perhaps he had not time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He
wished to speak about my education ; it isn't finished yet, you
know. I don't know what they can do with me more ; but it

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 277

appears it is far fronT finished. Papa told me one day he
thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at
the convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very
dear. Papa is not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were
to pay much mone^y for me, because I don't think I am worth
it. I don't learn quickly enough, and I have got no memory.
For what I am told, yes— especially when it is pleasant; but
not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl, who
was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent
when she was fourteen, to make — how do you say it in English 1
— to make a dot. You don't say it in English1? I hope it isn't
wrong ; I only mean they wished to keep the money, to marry
her. I don't know whether it is for that that papa wishes to keep
the money, to marry me. It costs so much to marry ! " Pansy
went on, with a sigh ; " I think papa might make that economy.
At any rate I am too young to think about it yet, and I don't
care for any gentleman ; I mean for any but him. If he were not
my papa I should like to marry him ; I would rather be his
daughter than the wife of — of some strange person. I miss him
very much, but not so much as you might think, for I have been
so much away from him. Papa has always been principally
for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more ; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again 1 I am
very sorry for that. Of every one who comes here I like you
the best. That is not a great compliment, for there are not
many people. It was very kind of you" to come to-day — so far
from your house ; for I am as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I have
only the occupations of a child. When did you give them up,
the occupations of a child ? I should like to know how old you
are, but I don't know whether it is right to ask. At the convent
they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do
anything that is .not expected; it. looks as if one had not been
properly taught. I myself — I should never like to be taken by
surprise. Papa left directions for everything. I go to bed very
early. When the sun goes off that side I go into the garden.
Papa left strict orders that I was not to get scorched. I always
enjoy the view ; the mountains are so graceful. In Eome, from
the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I do not play very well. You play your-
self 1 I wish very much that you would play something for
me ; papa wishes very much that I should hear good music.
Madame Merle has played for me several times ; that is what I
like best about Madame Merle ; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I have no voice — just a little thread."

278 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves, and
sat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched
her white hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped,
she kissed the child good-bye, and held her a moment, looking
at her.

" Be a good child," she said ; " give pleasure to your father."

" I think that is what I live for," Pansy answered. " He
has not much pleasure ; he is rather a sad man."

Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she
felt it to be almost a torment that she was obliged to conceal
from the child. It was her pride that obliged her, and a certain
sense of decency ; there Vere still other things in her head
which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say to
Pansy about her father ; there were things it would have given
her pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she
no sooner became conscious of these things than her imagination
was hushed with horror at the idea of taking advantage of the
little girl — it was of this she would have accused herself — and
of leaving an audible trace of her emotion behind. She had
come — she had come ; but she had stayed only an hour ! She
rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she
lingered a moment, still holding her small companion, drawing
the child's little tender person closer, and looking down at her.
She was obliged to confess it to herself — she would have taken
a passionate pleasure in talking about Gilbert Osmond to this
innocent, diminutive creature who was near to him. But she
said not another word ; she only kissed Pansy once more. They
went together through the vestibule, to the door which opened
into the court ; and there Pansy stopped, looking rather
wistfully beyond.

" I may go no further," she said. " I have promised papa
not to go out of this door."

" You are right to obey him ; he will never ask you anything
unreasonable."

" I shall always obey him. But when will you come again 1 "

" Not for a long time, I am afraid."

" As soon as you can, I hope. I am only a little girl," said
Pansy, " but I shall always expect you."

And the small figure stood in the high, dark doorway, watch-
ing Isabel cross the clear, grey court, and disappear into the
brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider gleam as
it opened.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 279

XXXI.

ISABEL came back to Florence, but only after several months;
an interval sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however,
during this interval that we are closely concerned with her ; our
attention is engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-
time, shortly after her return to the Palazzo Crescentini, and a
year from the date of the incidents I have just narrated. She
was alone on this occasion, in one of the smaller of the numerous
rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses, and there was
that in her expression and attitude which would have suggested
that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open,
and though its green shutters were partly drawn, the bright air
of the garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled
the room with warmth and perfume. Our young lady stood
for some time at the window, with her hands clasped behind
her, gazing into the brilliant aperture in the manner of a person
relapsing into reverie. She was pre-occupied ; she was too rest-
less to sit down, to work, to read. It was evidently not her
design, however, to catch a glimpse of her visitor before* he
should pass into the house ; for the entrance to the palace was
not through the garden, in which stillness and privacy always
reigned. She was endeavouring rather to anticipate his arrival
by a process of conjecture, and to judge by the expression of her
face this attempt gave her plenty to do. She was extremely
grave ; not sad exactly, but deeply serious. The lapse of a year
may doubtless account for a considerable increase of gravity ;
though this will depend a good deal upon the manner in which
the year has been spent. Isabel had spent hers in seeing the
world ; she had moved about ; she had travelled ; she had
exerted herself with an almost passionate activity. She was now,
to her own sense, a very 'different person from tiae frivolous
young woman from Albany who had begun to see Europe upon
the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She flattered
herself that she had gathered a rich experience, that she knew
a great deal more of life than this light-minded creature had
even suspected. If her thoughts just now had inclined them-
selves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously
about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of inter-
esting pictures. These pictures would have been both landscapes
and figure-pieces ; the latter, however, would have been the more
numerous. With several of the figures concerned in these

280 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

combinations we are already acquainted. There would be, for
instance, the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund
Ludlow's wife, who came out from New York to spend five
months with Isabel. She left her husband behind her, but she
brought her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal
munificence and tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr.
Ludlow, towards the last, had been able to snatch a few weeks
from his forensic triumphs, and, crossing the ocean with extreme
rapidity, spent a month with the two ladies in Paris, before
taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet, even
from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age ;
so that while her sister was with her, Isabel confined her move-
ments to a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in
Switzerland in the month of July, and they had spent a summer
of fine weather in an Alpine valley where the flowers were
thick in the meadows, and the shade of great chestnuts made a
resting-place in such upward wanderings as might be undertaken
by ladies and children on warm afternoons. Afterwards they
had come to Paris, a city beloved by Lily, but less appreciated
by Isabel, who in those days was constantly thinking of Rome.
Mrs. Ludlow enjoyed Paris, but she was nevertheless somewhat
disappointed and puzzled ; and after her husband had joined her
she was in addition a good deal depressed at not being able to
induce him to enter into these somewhat subtle and complex
emotions. They all had Isabel for their object ; but Edmund
Ludlow, as he had always done before, declined to be surprised,
or distressed, or mystified, or elated, at' anything his sister-in-law
might have done or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's feelings
were various. At one moment she thought it would be so
natural for Isabel to come home and take a house in New York
— the Rossiters', for instance, which had an elegant conservatory,
and was just round the corner from her own ; at another she
could not conceal her surprise at the girl's not marrying some
gentleman 6f rank in one of the foreign countries. On the
whole, as I have said, she was rather disappointed. She had
taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of fortune than if the
money had been left to herself ; it had seemed to her to offer
just the proper setting for her sister's slender but eminent figure.
Isabel had developed less, however, than Lily had thought
likely — development, to Lily's understanding, being somehow
mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties.
Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides ; but
she appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of
which Mrs. Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 281

conception of such achievements was extremely vague ; but this
was exactly what she had expected of Isabel — to give it form
and body. Isabel could have done as well as she had done in
New York ; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her husband to know
whether there was any privilege that she enjoyed in Europe
which the society of that city might not offer her. We know,
ourselves, that Isabel had made conquests — whether inferior or
not to those she might have effected in her native land, it would
be a delicate matter to decide ; and it is not altogether with a
feeling of complacency that I again mention that she had not
made these honourable victories public. She had not told her
sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor had she given her a
hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind ; and she had no better
reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak. It
entertained her more to say nothing, and she had no idea of
asking poor Lily's advice. But Lily knew nothing of these rich
mysteries, and it is no wonder, therefore, that she pronounced her
sister's career in Europe rather dull — an impression confirmed by
the fact that Isabel's silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance,
was in direct proportion to the frequency with which he occupied
her thoughts. As this happened very often, it sometimes
appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that her sister was really losing her
gaiety. So very strange a result of so exhilarating an incident
as inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful
Lily'; it added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all
like other people.

Isabel's gaiety, however — superficially speaking, at least —
exhibited itself rather more after her sister had gone home. She
could imagine something more poetic than spending the winter
in Paris — Paris was like smart, neat prose — and her frequent
correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such
fancies. She had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the
absolute boldness and wantonness of liberty, than when she
turned away from the platform at the Euston station, on one of
the latter days of November, after the departure of the train
which was to convey poor Lily, her husband, and her children,
to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to have
them with her ; she was very conscious of that ; she was very
observant, as we know, of what was good for her, and her effort
was constantly to find something that was good enough. To
profit by the present advantage till the latest moment, she had
made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers. She
would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund
Ludlow had asked her, as a favour, not to do so ; it made Lily

282 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

so fidgety, and she asked such impossible questions. Isabel
watched the train move away ; she kissed her hand to the elder
of her small nephews, a demonstrative child who leaned danger-
ously far out of the window of the carriage and made separation
an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked back into
the foggy London street. The world lay before her — she could
do whatever she chose. There was something exciting in the
feeling, but for the present her choice was tolerably discreet ;
she chose simply to walk back from Euston Square to her hotel.
The early dusk of a November afternoon had already closed in ;
the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked weak and red ;
our young lady was unattended, and Euston Square was a long
way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a
positive enjoyment of its dangers, and lost her way almost on
purpose, in order to get more sensations, so that she was dis-
appointed when an obliging policeman easily set her right again.
She was so fond of the spectacle of human life that she enjoyed
even the aspect of gathering dusk in the London streets — the mov-
ing crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops, the flaring stalls,
the dark, shining dampness of everything. That evening, at
her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start in a
day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without
touching at Florence — having gone first to Venice and then
proceeded southward by Ancona. She accomplished this journey
without other assistance than that of her servant, for her natural
protectors were not now on the ground. Ralph Touchett was
spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in the
September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram
from the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant corre-
spondent a fresher field for her talents than the mouldering cities
of Europe, and Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise
from Mr. Bantling that he would soon come over and see her.
Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to apologise for not coming just
then to Florence, and her aunt replied characteristically enough.
Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated, were of no more use than
amp-bubbles, and she herself never dealt in such articles. One
either did the thing or one didn't, and what one would have
done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the idea of a
future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank, but
(a rare case' with Mrs. Touchett) it was not so frank as it seemed.
She easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because
she thought it was a sign that there was nothing going on with
Gilbert Osmond. She watched, of course, to see whether Mr.
Osmond would now go to Rome, and took some comfort in

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 283

learning that lie was not guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her
side, had not been a fortnight in Eome before she proposed to
Madame Merle that they should make a little pilgrimage to the
East. Madame Merle remarked that her friend was restless, but
she added that she herself had always been consumed with the
desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two ladies
accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months
in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest
her in these countries, though Madame Merle continued to
remark that even among the most classic sites, the scenes most
calculated to suggest repose and reflection, her restlessness pre-
vailed. Isabel travelled rapidly, eagerly, audaciously ; she was
like a thirsty person draining cup after cup. " Madame Merle,
for the present, was a most efficient duenna. It was on Isabel's
invitation she had come, and she imparted all necessary dignity
to the girl's uncountenanced condition. She played her part
with the sagacity that might have been expected of her ; she
effaced herself, she accepted the position of a companion whose
expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however, had no
hardships, and people who met this graceful pair on their travels
would not have been able to tell you which was the patroness
and which the client. To say that Madame Merle improved on
acquaintance would misrepresent the impression she made upon
Isabel, who had thought her from the first a perfectly enlightened
woman. At the end of an intimacy of three months Isabel felt
that she knew her better ; her character had revealed itself, and
Madame Merle had also at last redeemed her promise of relating
her history from her own point of view — a consummation the
more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related from the
point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so
far as it concerned the late M. Merle, an adventurer of the
lowest class, who had taken advantage, years before, of her
youth, and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who
knew her only now would find it difficult to believe) ; it
abounded so in startling and lamentable incidents, that Isabel
wondered the poor lady had kept so much of her freshness, her
interest in life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she
obtained a considerable insight ; she saw that it was, after all, a
tolerably artificial bloom. Isabel liked her as much as ever, but
there was a certain corner of the curtain that never was lifted ;
it was as if Madame Merle had remained after all a foreigner.
She had once said that she came from a distance, that she
belonged to the old world, and Isabel never lost the impression
that she was the product of a different clime from her own that

284 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

she had grown up under other stars. Isabel believed that at
bottom she had a different morality. Of course the morality
of civilised persons has always much in common ; but Isabel
suspected that her friend had esoteric views. She believed,
with the presumption of youth, that a morality which differed
from her own must be inferior to it ; and this conviction was an
aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an occasional lapse
from candour, in the conversation of a woman who had raised
delicate kindness to an art, and whose nature was too large for
the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives
was different from Isabel's, and there were several in her list of
which our heroine had not even heard. She had not heard of
everything, that was very plain ; and there were evidently
things in the world of which it was not advantageous to
hear. Once or twice Isabel had a sort of fright, but the
reader will be amused at the cause of it. Madame Merle, as we
know, comprehended, responded, sympathised, with wonderful
readiness ; yet it had nevertheless happened that her young
friend mentally exclaimed — " Heaven forgive her, she doesn't
understand me ! " Absurd as it may seem, this discovery operated
as a shock ; it left Isabel with a vague horror, in which there
was even an element of foreboding. The horror of course sub-
sided, in the light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's
remarkable intelligence ; but it left a" sort of high-water-mark
in the development of this delightful intimacy. Madame Merle
had once said that, in her belief, when a friendship ceased to
grow, it immediately began to decline — there was no point of
equilibrium between liking a person more and liking him less.
A stationary affection, in other words, was impossible — it must
move one way or the other. Without estimating the value of
this doctrine, I may say that if Isabel's imagination, which had
hitherto been so actively engaged on her friend's behalf, began
at last to languish, she enjoyed her society not a particle less
than before. If their friendship had declined, it had declined
to a very comfortable level. The truth is that in these days
the girl had other uses for her imagination, which was better
occupied than it had ever been. I do not allude to the impulse
it received as she gazed at the Pyramids in the course of an
excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the broken columns
of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point designated
to her as the Strait of Salamis ; deep and memorable as these
emotions had been. She came back by the last of March from
Egypt and Greece, and made another stay in Rome. A few
days after her arrival Gilbert Osmond came down from Florence

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 285

and remained three weeks, during which the fact of her being
with his old friend, Madame Merle, in whose house she had
gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he should see
her every day. "When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.
Touchett that she should now be very happy to accept an invit-
ation given long before, and went to pay a visit at the Palazzo
Crescentini, Madame Merle on this occasion remaining in Eome.
Isabel found her aunt alone; her cousin was still at Corfu.
Ealph, however, was expected in Florence from day to day, and
Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was prepared
to give him the most affectionate welcome.

XXXII.

IT was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while
she stood at the window, where we found her a while ago, and
it was not of any of the matters that I have just rapidly sketched.
She was not thinking of the past, but of the future ; of the
immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,
and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself
what she should say to her visitor ; this question had already
been answered. What he would say to her — that was the
interesting speculation. It could be nothing agreeable ; Isabel
was convinced of this, and the conviction had something to do
with her being rather paler than usual. For the rest, however,
she wore her natural brightness of aspect ; even deep grief, with
this vivid young lady, would have had a certain soft effulgence.
She had laid aside her mourning, but she was still very simply
dressed, and as she felt a good deal older than she had done a
year before, it is probable that to a certain extent she looked so.
She was not left indefinitely to her apprehensions, for the servant
at last came in and presented her a card.

" Let the gentleman come in," said Isabel, who continued to
gaze out of the window after the footman had retired. It was
only when she had heard the door close behind the person who
presently entered that she looked round.

Caspar Goodwood stood there — stood and received a moment,
from head to foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather
withheld than offered a greeting. Whether on his side Mr.
Goodwood felt himself older than on the first occasion of our
meeting him, is a point which we shall perhaps presently ascer-
tain ; let me say meanwhile that to Isabel's critical glance he

286 THE POKTKAIT OF A LADY

showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strong, and
fresh, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke posi-
tively either of youth or of age ; he looked too deliberate, too
serious to be young, and too eager, too active to be old. Old he
would never be, and this would serve as a compensation for his
never having known the age of chubbiness. Isabel perceived
that his jaw had quite the same voluntary look that it had worn
in earlier days ; but she was prepared to admit that such a
moment as the present was not a time for relaxation. He had
the air of a man who had travelled hard ; he said nothing at
first, as if he had been out of breath. This gave Isabel time to
make a reflection. u Poor fellow," she mentally murmured,
" what great things he is capable of, and what a pity that he
should waste his splendid force ! What a pity, too, that one can't
satisfy everybody ! " It gave her time to do more — to say at
the end of a minute,

" I can't tell you. how I hoped that you wouldn't come."

" I have no doubt of that." And Caspar Goodwood looked
about him for a seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to
stay a little.

" You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, gener-
ously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity.

" No, I am not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be
tired ? "

" Never ; I wish I had. When did you arrive here 3 "

" Last night, very late ; in a kind of snail-train they call the
express. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American
funeral."

"That is in keeping — you must have felt as if you were
coming to a funeral," Isabel said, forcing a smile, in order to
offer such encouragement as she might to an easy treatment of
their situation. She had reasoned out the matter elaborately;
she had made it perfectly clear that she broke no faith, that she
falsified no contract ; but for all this she was afraid of him. She
was ashamed of her fear ; but she was devoutly thankful there
was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked at her with his
stiff persistency — a persistency in which there was almost a want
of tact ; especially as there was a dull dark beam in his eye
which rested on her almost like a physical weight.

" No, I didn't feel that ; because I couldn't think of you as
dead. I 'wish I could !" said Caspar Goodwood, plainly.

" I thank you immensely."

" I would rather think of you as dead than as married to
another man."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 287

" That is very selfish of you ! " Isabel cried, with the ardour
of a real conviction. " If you are not happy yourself, others
have a right to be."

" Very likely it is selfish ; but I don't in the least mind your
saying so. I don't mind anything you can say now — I don't
feel it. The cruellest things you could think of would be mere pin-
pricks. After what you have done I shall never feel anything.
I mean anything but that. That I shall feel all my life."

Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with a sort
of dry deliberateness, in his hard, slow American tone, which
flung no atmospheric colour over propositions intrinsically crude.
The tone made Isabel angry rather than touched her ; but her
anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave her a further
reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure of this
control that she said, after a little, irrelevantly, by way of
answer to Mr. Goodwood's speech — " When did you leave New
York?"

He threw up his head a moment, as if he were calculating.
" Seventeen days ago."

" You must have travelled-fast in spite of your slow trains."

" I came as fast as I could. I would have come five days ago
if I had been able."

"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood,"
said Isabel, smiling.

"Not to you — no. But to me."

" You gain nothing that I see."

" That is for me to judge ! "

" Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself."
And then, to change the subject, Isabel asked him if he had
seen Henrietta Stackpole.

He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to
talk about Henrietta Stackpole ; but he answered distinctly
enough, that this young lady had come to see him just before he
left America.

" She came to see you ? "

" Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was
the day I had got your letter."

" Did you tell her 1 " Isabel asked, with a certain anxiety.

" Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood, simply ; " I didn't want to.
She will hear it soon enough ; she hears everything."

" I shall write to her ; and then she will write to me and
scold me," Isabel declared, trying to smile again.

Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. " I guess she'll
come out," he said.

288 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY

"On purpose to scold me ? "

"I don't know.. She seemed to think she had not seen
Europe thoroughly."

" I am glad you tell me that," Isabel said. " I must prepare
for her."

Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor ; then
at last, raising them — " Does she know Mr. Osmond ] " he
asked.

" A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't
marry to please Henrietta," Isabel added.

It would have been better for poor Caspar if she had tried
a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he did not say
so ; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take
place.

" I don't know yet. I can only say it will be soon. I have
told no one but yourself and one other person — an old friend
of Mr. Osmond's."

" Is it a marriage your friends won't like ?" Caspar Goodwood
asked.

" I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my
friends."

He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking
questions.

"What is Mr. Osmond?"

" What is he 1 Nothing at all but a very good man. He is
not in business," said Isabel. " He is not rich ; he is not known
for anything in particular."

She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to her-
self that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible.

The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was certainly small; he
sat very upright, gazing at her.-

" Where does he come from V' he went on.

" From nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."

" You said in your letter that he was an American. Hasn't
he a native place 1 "

"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."

" Has he never gone back ? "

" Why should he go back ? " Isabel asked, flushing a little,
and defensively. " He has no profession."

•" He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like
the United States ? "

" He doesn't know them. Then he is very simple — he con-
tents himself with Italy."

" With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood, with gloomy

THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY. 289

plainness, and no appearance of trying to make an epigram.
"What has he ever done1?" he added, abruptly.

" That I should marry him 1 Nothing at all," Isabel replied?
with a smile that had gradually become a trifle defiant. " If he
had done great things would you forgive me any better ? Give .
me up, Mr. Goodwood ; I am marrying a nonentity. Don't try
to take an interest in him ; you can't."

" I can't appreciate him ; that's what you mean. And you
don't mean in the least that he is a nonentity. You think he is'
a great man, though no one else thinks so."

Isabel's colour deepened ; she thought this very clever of her
companion, and it was certainly a proof of the clairvoyance of
such a feeling as his.

" Why do you always come back to what others think 1 I
can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."

" Of course not," said Caspar, reasonably.

And he sat there with his air of stiff helplessness, as if not
only this were true, but there were nothing else that they might
discuss.

" You see how little you gain,'k Isabel broke out — " how little
comfort or satisfaction I can give you."

" I didn't expect you to give me much.'*

" I don't understand, then, why you came."

" I came because I wanted to see you once more — as you are."

f ' I appreciate that ; but if you had waited a while, sooner or
later we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would
have been pleasanter for each of us than this."

" Waited till after you are married 1 That is just what I
didn't want to do. You will be different then."

" Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You
will see."

" That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood, grimly.

" Ah, you are unaccommodating ! I can't promise to dislike
you, in order to help you to resign yourself."

" I shouldn't care if you did ! "

Isabel got up, with^a movement of repressed impatience, and
walked to the window, where she remained a moment, looking
out. When she turned round, her visitor was still motionless in
his place. She came towards him again and stopped, resting
her hand on the back of the chair she had just quitted.

" Do you mean you came simply to look at me 1 That's better
for you, perhaps, than for me."

" I wished to hear the sound of your voice," said Caspar.

" You have heard it, and you%see it says nothing very sweet."

u

290 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" It gives me pleasure, all the same."

And with this he got up.

She -had felt pain and displeasure when she received that
morning the note in which he told her that he was in Florence,
and, with her permission, would come within an hour to see her.
She had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word
by his messenger that he might come when he would. She had
not been better pleased when she saw him ; his being there at
all was so full of implication. It implied things she could never
assent to — rights, reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expecta-
tion of making her change her purpose. These things, however,
if implied, had not been expressed ; and now our young lady,
strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's remarkable self-
control. There was a dumb misery about him which irritated
her ; there was a manly staying of his hand which made her
heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to
herself that she was as angry as a woman who had been in the
wrong. She was not in the wrong ; she had fortunately not
that bitterness to swallow ; but, all the same, she wished he
would denounce her a little, iijfie had wished his visit would be
short ; it had no purpose, no propriety ; yet now that he seemed
to be turning away, she felt a sudden horror of his leaving her
without uttering a word that would give her an opportunity to
defend herself more' than she had done in writing to him a
month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her
engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why
should she desire to defend herself ? It was an excess of gener-
osity on Isabel's part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should be
angry.

If he had not held himself hard it might have made him so to
hear the tone in which she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were
accusing him of having accused her,

" I have not deceived you ! I was perfectly free ! "

" Yes, I know that," said Caspar.

"I gave you full warning that I would do as I chose."

" You said you would probably never marry, and you said it
so positively that I pretty well believed if."

Isabel was silent an instant.

" "No one can be more surprised than myself at my present
intention."

" You told me that if I heard you were engaged, I was not to
believe it," Caspar went on. ."I heard it twenty days ago from
yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought there
might be some mistake, and that is partly why I came."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 291

" If yon wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that is soon
done. There is no mistake at all."

" I saw that as soon as I came into the room."

" What good would it do yon that I shouldn't marry 1 " Isabel
asked, with a certain fierceness.

" I should like it better than this."

" You are very selfish, as I said before."

" I know that. I am selfish as iron."

" Even iron sometimes melts. If you will be reasonable I
will see you again."

" Don't you call me reasonable now 1 "

" I don't know what to say to you," she answered, with
sudden humility.

" I sha'n't trouble you for a long time," the young man went
on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. " An-
other reason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you
would say in explanation of your having changed your mind."

Isabel's humbleness as suddenly deserted her.

" In explanation ? Do you think I am bound to explain 1 "

Caspar gave her one of his long dumb looks.

" You were very positive. I did believe it."

" So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would 1 "

" No, I suppose not. Well," he added, " I have done what I
wished. I have seen you."

"How little you make of these terrible journeys," Isabel
murmured.

" If you are afraid I am tired, you may be at your ease about
that." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no hand-
shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them. At
the door he stopped, with his hand on the knob. " I shall
leave Florence to-morrow," he said.

" I am delighted, to hear it ! " she answered, passionately.
And he went out. Five minutes after he had go.ne she burst
into tears.

XXXIII.

HER fit of weeping, however, was of brief duration, and the
signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news
to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure
Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased ; Isabel had only waited
to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd
impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact

U 2

292 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

public before she should have heard what Mr, Goodwood would
say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and
she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But
she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came
into the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and then
she said to her —

" Aunt Lydia, I have something to tell you."

Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at the girl almost
fiercely.

" You needn't tell me ; I know what it is."

" I don't know how you know."

" The same way that I know when the window is open — by
feeling a draught. You are going to marry that man."

" What man do you mean V1 Isabel inquired, with great dignity.

"Madame Merle's friend — Mr. Osmond."

" I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is
that the principal thing he is known by ] "

" If he is not her friend he ought to be — after what she has
done for him ! " cried Mrs. Touchett. " I shouldn't have
expecte^ it of her ; I am disappointed. "

" If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do
with my engagement you are greatly mistaken," Isabel declared,
with a sort of ardent coldness.

" You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without
the gentleman being urged? You are quite right. They are
immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed
to think of you if she had not put him up to it. He has a very
good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to take trouble..,
Madame Merle took the trouble for him."

" He has taken a great deal for himself ! " cried Isabel, with a
voluntary laugh.

Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod.

" I think he must, after all, to have made you like him."

" I thought you liked him yourself."

" I did, and that is why I am angry with him."

" Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl.

"Oh, I am always angry with you; that's no satisfaction!
"Was it for this that you refused Lord Warburton 1 "

" Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr.
Osmond, since you did 1 "

"I never wanted to marry him ; there is nothing of him."

" Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel.

" Do you think you are going to be happy ? No one is
happy."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 293

" I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for? "

" What you will marry for, heaven only knows. People
usually marry as they go into partnership — to set up a house.
But in your partnership you will bring everything."

" Is it that Mr. Osmond is not rich 1 Is that what you are
talking about 1 " Isabel asked.

u He has no money ; he has no name ; he has no importance.
I value such things and I have the courage to say it ; I think
they are very precious. Many other people think the same, and
they show it. But they give some other reason ! "

Isabel hesitated a little.

" I think I value everything that is valuable. I care very much
for money, and that is why I wish Mr. Osmond to have some."

" Give it to him, then ; but marry some one else."

" His name is good enough for me," the girl went on. " It's
a very pretty name. Have I such a fine one myself 1 "

"All the more reason you should improve on it. There are
only a dozen American names. Do you marry him out of
charity]"

" It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think
it is my duty to explain to you. Even if it were, I shouldn't
be able. So please don't. remonstrate ; in talking about it you
have me at a disadvantage. I can't talk about it."

" I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you ; I must give
some sign of intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing.
I never meddle."

" You never do, and I am greatly obliged to you. You have
been very considerate."

" It was not considerate — it was convenient," said Mrs.
Touchett. " But I shall talk to Madame Merle."

" I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a
very good friend to me."

" Possibly ; but she has been a poor one to me."

" What has she done to you 1 "

" She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to
prevent your engagement."

" She couldn't have prevented it."

" She can do anything ; that is what I have always liked her
for. I knew she could play any part; but I understood that
she played them one by one. I didn't understand that she
would play two at the same time."

" I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel
said ; " that is between yourselves. To me she has been honest,
and kind, and devoted."

294 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Devoted, of course ; she wished you to marry her candi-
date. She told me that she was watching you only in order to
interpose."

" She said that to please you," the girl answered ; conscious
however, of the inadequacy of the explanation.

" To please me by deceiving me 1 She knows me better. Am
I pleased to-day 1 "

" I don't think you are ever much pleased," Isabel was
obliged to reply. " If Madame Merle knew you would learn
the truth, what had she to gain by insincerity 1 "

" She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to
interfere you were marching away, and she was really beating
the drum."

" That is very well. But by your own admission you saw I
was marching, and even if she had given the alarm you would
not have tried to stop me."

" No, but some one else would."

" Whom do you mean 1 " Isabel asked, looking very hard at
her aunt.

Mrs. Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were,
sustained her gaze rather than returned it.

" Would you have listened to Ealph 1 "

" JN"ot if he had abused Mr. Osmond."

" Ealph doesn't abuse people ; you know that perfectly.. He
cares very much for you."

" I know he does," said Isabel ; " and I shall feel the value of
it now, for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason."

" He never believed you would do this. I told him you were
capable of it, and he argued the other way."

" He did it for the sake of argument," said Isabel, smiling.
" You don't accuse him of having deceived you \ why should
you accuse Madame Merle ? "

" He never pretended he would prevent it."

"I am glad of that!" cried the girl, gaily. "I wish very
much," she presently added, " that when he comes you would
tell him first of my engagement."

" Of course I will mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. " I will
say nothing more to you about it, but I give you notice I will
talk to others."

" That's as you please. I only meant that it is rather tetter
the announcement should come from you than from me."

" I quite agree with you ; it is much more proper ! "

And on this the two ladies went to breakfast, where Mrs.
Tpuchett was as good as her word, and made no allusion to

THE POETRAIT OF A LADY. 295

Gilbert Osmond, After an interval of silence, however, she
asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an
hour before.

" Prom an old friend — an American gentleman," Isabel said,
with a colour in her cheek.

" An American, of course. It is only an American that calls
at ten o'clock in the morning."

" It was half-past ten ; he was in a great hurry ; he goes
away this evening."

" Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time 1 "

" He only arrived last night."

" He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence ? " Mrs.
Touchett cried. " He's an American truly."

" He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with a perverse admir-
ation of what Caspar Goodwood had done for her.

Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was
sure that Mrs. Touchett had lost no time in telling him the
news, he betrayed at first no knowledge of the great fact. Their
first talk was naturally about his health ; Isabel had many ques-
tions to ask about Corfu. She had been shocked by his appear-
ance when he came into the room ; she had forgotten how ill he
looked. In spite of Corfu, he looked very ill to-day, and Isabel
wondered whether he were really worse or whether she was
simply disaccustomed to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph
grew no handsomer as he advanced in life, and the now ap-
parently complete loss of. his health had done little to mitigate
the natural oddity of his person. His face wore its pleasant
perpetual smile, which perhaps suggested wit rather than achieved
it ; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek ; the exor-
bitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he
was altogether ; lean and long and loose-jointed ; an accidental
cohesion of relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had
become perennial ; his hands had fixed themselves in his
pockets ; he shambled, and stumbled, and shuffled, in a manner
that denoted great physical helplessness. It was perhaps this
whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than
ever as that of the humorous invalid — the invalid for whom
even his own disabilities are part of the general joke. They
might well indeed with Ralph have been the chief cause of
the want of seriousness with which he appeared to regard a
world in which the reason for his own presence was past
finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his
awkwardness had become dear to her. These things were
endeared by association; they struck her as the conditions of

296 THE POETKAIT OF A LADY.

his being so charming. Ealph was so charming that her sense
of his being ill had hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the
state of his health had seemed not a limitation, but a kind of
intellectual advantage ; it absolved him from all professional
and official emotions and left him the luxury of being simply-
personal. This personality of Ealph's was delightful ; it had
none of the staleness of disease ; it was always easy and fresh
and genial. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin ;
and when she had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she
reflected a good deal she had given him a certain amount of
compassion; but Isabel always had a dread of wasting compassion
— a precious article, worth more to the giver than to any one else.
Now, however, it took no great ingenuity to discover that poor
Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should be. He was
a dear, bright, generous fellow ; he had all the illumination of
wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was dying. Isabel
said to herself that life was certainly hard for some people, and
she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now
promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that
Ralph was not pleased with her engagement ; but she was not pre-
pared, in spite of her affection for her cousin, to let this fact spoil
the situation. She was not even prepared — or so she thought —
to resent his want of sympathy ; for it would be his privilege —
it would be indeed his natural line — to find fault with any step
she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always pretended
to hate one's husband ; that was traditional, classical ; it was a
part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was
nothing if not critical ; and though she would certainly, other
things being equal, have been as glad to marry to please Ralph
as to please any one, it would be absurd to think it important
that her choice should square with his views. What were his
views, after alii He had pretended to think she had better
marry Lord Warburton ; but this was only because she had re-
fused that excellent man. If she had accepted him Ralph would
certainly have taken another tone ; he always took the opposite
one. You could criticise any marriage ; it was the essence of
a marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, if she
would only give her mind to it, might criticise this union of
her own ! She had other employment, however, and Ralph was
welcome to relieve her of the care. Isabel was prepared to be
wonderfully good-humoured.

He must have seen that, and this made it the more odd that
he should say nothing. After three days had elapsed without
his speaking, Isabel became impatient ; dislike it as he would

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 297

he might at least go through the form. We who know more
about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily helieve that during
the hours that followed his' arrival at the Palazzo Crescentini,
he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had
literally greeted him with the great news, which was even more
sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph
was shocked and humiliated ; his calculations had been false,
and his cousin was lost. He drifted about the house like a
rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden of the
palace in a great cane chair, with his long legs extended, his
head thrown back, and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt
cold about the heart ; he had never liked anything less. What
could he do, what could he say ] If Isabel were irreclaimable,
could he pretend to like it 1 To attempt to reclaim her was
permissible only if the attempt should succeed. To try to per-
suade her that the man to whom she had pledged her faith was
a humbug would be decently discreet only in the event of her
being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have damned
himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and
to dissemble ; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest
with hope. Meanwhile he knew — or rather he supposed — that
the affianced pair were daily renewing their mutual vows.
Osmond, at this moment, showed himself little at the Palazzo
Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere, as she
was free to do after their engagement had been made public.
She had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted
to her aunt for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs.
Touchett disapproved, and she drove in the morning to the
Cascine. This suburban wilderness, during the early hours, was
void of all intruders, and our young lady, joined by her lover in
its quietest part, strolled with him a while in the grey Italian
shade and listened to the nightingales.

XXXIV.

ONE morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour
before luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the
palace, and instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the
court, passed beneath another archway, and entered the garden.
A sweeter spot, at this moment, could not have been imagined.
The stillness of noontide hung over it ; the warm shade was
motionless, and the hot light made it pleasant. Ralph was

298 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a statue of
Terpsichore — a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated
draperies, in the manner of Bernini ; the extreme relaxation of
his attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her
light footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turn-
ing away she stood for a moment looking at him. During this
instant he opened his eyes ; upon which she sat down on a rustic
chair that matched with his own. Though in 'her irritation she
had accused him of indifference, she was not blind to the fact
that he was visibly preoccupied. But she had attributed his
long reveries partly to the languor of his increased weakness,
partly to his being troubled about certain arrangements he had
made as to the property inherited from his father — arrangements
of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved, and which, as she had told
Isabel, now encountered opposition from the other partners in
the bank. He ought to have gone to England, his mother said,
instead of coming to Florence ; he had not been there for months,
and he took no more interest in the bank than in the state of
Patagonia.

" I am sorry I waked you," Isabel said ; " you look tired."

" I feel tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of
you."

" Are you tired of that 1 "

" Yery much so. It leads to nothing. The road is long and
I never arrive."

"What do you wish to arrive at?" Isabel said, closing her
parasol.

" At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think
of your engagement."

" Don't think too much of it," said Isabel, lightly.

" Do you mean that it's none of my business f "

" Beyond a certain point, yes."

" That's the point I wish to fix. I had an idea that you have
found me wanting in good manners ; I have never congratulated
you."

" Of course I have noticed that ; I wondered why you were
silent."

" There have been a good many reasons ; I will tell you
now," said Ralph.

He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground ; then he sat
looking at her. He leaned back, with his head against the
marble pedestal of Terpsichore, his arms dropped on either side
of him, his hands laid upon the sides of his wide chair. He
looked awkward, uncomfortable ; he hesitated for a long time.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 299

Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she was
usually sorry for them ; but she was determined not to help
Ralph to utter a word that should not be to the honour of her
ingenious purpose.

" I think I have hardly got over my surprise," he said at last.
" You were the last person I expected to see caught."

" I don't know why you call it caught."

" Because you are going to be put into a cage."

" If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," said Isabel.

"That's what I wonder at; that's what I have been thinking of."

" If you have been thinking, you may imagine how I have
thought ! I am satisfied that I am doing well."

" You must have changed immensely. A year ago you
valued your liberty beyond everything. You wanted only to
eee life."

" I have seen it," said Isabel. " It doesn't seem to me so
charming."

" I don't pretend it is ; only I had an idea that you took a
genial view of it and wanted to survey the whole field."

" I have seen that one can't do that. One must choose a
corner and cultivate that."

" That's what I think. And one must choose a good corner.
I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters,
that you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your
silence put me off my guard."

"It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about.
Besides, I knew nothing of the future. It has all come lately.
If you had been on your guard, however," Isabel asked, " what
would you have done 1 "

" I should have said — ' Wait a little longer.' "

" Wait for what 1 "

"Well, for a little more light," said Ealph, with a rather
absurd smile, while his hands found their way into his pockets.

" Where should my light have come from 1 From you *? "

" I might have struck a spark or two ! "

Isabel had drawn off her gloves ; she smoothed them out as
they lay upon her knee. -The gentleness of this movement was
accidental, for/ her expression was not conciliatory.

" You are beating about the bush, Ealph. You wish to say
that you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you are afraid."

" I am afraid of you, not of him. If you marry him it won't
be a nice thing to have said."

" If I marry him ! Have you had any expectation of dissuad-
ing me 1 "

300 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Of course that seems to you too fatuous."

" No" said Isabel, after a little ; " it seems to me touching."

" That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you
pity me."

Isabel stroked out her long gloves again.

" I know you have a great affection for me. I can't get rid of
that."

" For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It
will convince you how intensely I want you to do well."

" And how little you trust me ! "

There was a moment's silence ; the warm noon-tide seemed to
listen.

" I trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ealph.

Isabel raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look.

"You have said it now; you will suffer for it."

" Not if you are just."

" I am very just," said Isabel. " What better proof of it can
there be than that I am not angry with you? I don't know
what is the matter with me, but I am not. I was when you
began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought to be angry,
but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know
everything ; that's what I like him for. You have nothing to
gain, I know that. I have never been so nice to you, as a girl,
that you should have much reason for wishing me to remain one.
You give very good advice ; you have often done so. No, I am
very quiet ; I have always believed in your wisdom," Isabel
went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a kind of
contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be just ;
it touched Ealph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a
creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure,
her ; for a moment he was absurdly inconsistent ; he would have
retracted what he had said. But she gave him no chance ; she
went on, having caught a glimpse, as she thought, of the heroic
line, and desiring to advance in that direction. " I see you have
got some idea ; I should like very much to hear it. I am sure
it's disinterested ; I feel that. It seems a strange thing to argue
about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that if you
expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You will not move
me at all ; it is too late. As you say, I am caught. Certainly
it won't be pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain
will be in your own thoughts. I shall never reproach you."

" I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. " It is not in the
least the sort of marriage I thought you would make."

11 What sort of marriage was that, pray 1 "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 301

*

" Well, T can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view
of it, but I had a negative. I didn't think you would marry a
man like Mr. Osmond."

" What do you know against him 1 You know him scarcely
at all."

"Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I know
nothing against him. But all the same I can't help feeling that
you are running a risk."

" Marriage is always a risk, and his risk is as great as mine."

" That's his affair ! If he is afraid, let him recede ; I wish
he would."

Isabel leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and gazed a
while at her cousin.

" I don't think I understand you," she said at last, coldly.
" I don't know what you are talking about."

" I thought you would marry a man of more importance."

Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a
flame leaped into her face.

" Of more importance to whom1? It seems to me enough that
one's husband should be important to one's self ! "

Ralph blushed as well ; his attitude embarrassed him. Physic-
ally speaking, he proceeded to change it ; he straightened him-
self, then leaned forward, resting a hand on each knee. He
fixed his eyes on the ground ; be had an air of the most respectful
deliberation.

" I will tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently
said. He felt agitated, intensely eager ; now that he had opened
the discussion he wished to discharge his mind. But he wished
also to be superlatively gentle.

Isabel waited a little, and then she went on, with majesty.

" In everything that makes one care for people, Mr. Osmond
is pre-eminent. There may: be nobler natures, but I have never
had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr. Osmond is the best I
know ; he is important enough for me."

" I had a sort of vision of your future," Ralph said, without
answering this ; " I amused myself with planning out a kind of
destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it.
You were not to come down so easily, so soon."

" To come down 3 What strange expressions you use ! Is
that your description of my marriage 1 "

" It expresses my idea of it. You seemed to me to be soaring
far up in the blue — to be sailing in the bright light, over the
neads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud —
a' missile that should never have reached you — and down you

302 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

drop to the ground. It hurts me," said Ralph, audaciously, " as
if I had fallen myself ! "

The lo^k of pain and bewilderment deepened in his com-
panion's face.

" I don't understand you in the least," she repeated. " You
say you amused yourself with planning out my future — I don't
understand that. Don't amuse yourself too much, or I shall
think you are doing it at my expense."

Ralph shook his head.

" I am not afraid of your not believing that I have had great
ideas for you."

" What do you mean by my soaring and sailing1?" the girl
asked. " I have never moved on a higher line than I am moving
on now. There is nothing higher for a girl than to marry a — a
person she likes," said poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.

" It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to
criticise, my dear Isabel ! I should have said that the man for
you would have been a more active, larger, freer sort of nature."
Ralph hesitated a moment, then he added, " I can't get over the
belief that there's something small in Osmond."

He had uttered these last words with a tremor of the voice ;
he was afraid that she would flash out again. But to his surprise
she was quiet ; she had the air of considering.

" Something small 1 " she said reflectively.

" I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously ! "

" He has a great respect for himself ; I don't blame him for
that," said Isabel. " It's the proper way to respect others."

Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable
tone.

" Yes, but everything is relative ; one ought to feel one's
relations. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that."

" I have chiefly to do with the relation in which he stands to
me. In that he is excellent."

" He is the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking
hard how he could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attri-
butes without putting himself in the wrong by seeming to
describe him coarsely. He wished to describe him impersonally,
scientifically. " He judges and measures, approves and condemns,
altogether by that."

" It is a happy thing then that his tastes should be exquisite."

" It is exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as
his wife. But have you ever seen an exquisite taste ruffled ] "

" I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my
husband's."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 303

At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah,
that's wilful, that's unworthy of you ! " he cried. " You were
not meant to be measured in that way — you were meant for
something better than to keep guard over the sensibilities of a
sterile dilettante ! "

Isabel rose quickly and Ralph did the same, so that they stood
for a moment looking at each other as if he had flung down a
defiance or an insult.

" You go too far," she murmured.

" I have said what I had on my mind — and I have said it
because I love you ! "

Isabel turned pale : was he too on that tiresome list 1 She
had a sudden wish to strike him off. " Ah then, you are not
disinterested ! "

" I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph, quickly,
forcing a smile, and feeling that in that last declaration he had
expressed more than he intended.

Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness
of the garden ; but after a little she turned back to him. " I
am afraid your talk, then, is the wildness of despair. I don't
understand it — but it doesn't matter. I am not arguing witn
you ; it is impossible that I should ; I have only tried to listen
to you. I am much obliged to you for attempting to explain,"
she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just sprung
up had already subsided. "It is very good of you to try to
warn me, if you are really alarmed. But I won't promise to
think of what you have said ; I shall forget it as soon as possible.
Try and forget it * yourself ; you have done your duty, and no
man can do more. I can't explain to you what I feel, what I
believe, and I wouldn't if I could." She paused a moment, and
then she went on, with an inconsequence that Ralph observed
even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of
concession. " I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond ; I
can't do it justice, because I see him in quite another way. He
is not important — no, he is not important ; he is a man to whom
importance is supremely indifferent. If that is what you mean
when you call him ' small,' then he is as small as you please. I
call that large — it's the largest thing I know. I won't pretend
to argue with you about a person I am going to marry," Isabel
repeated. " I am not in the least concerned to defend Mr.
Osmond ; he is not so weak as to need my defence. I should
think it would seem strange, even to yourself, that I should 'talk
of him so quietly and coldly, as if he were any one else. I would
not talk of him at all, to any one but you ; and you, after what

304 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

you have said -JL may just answer you once for all. Pray, would
you wish me to make a mercenary marriage — what they call a
marriage of ambition ? I have only one ambition — to be free to
follow out a good feeling. I had others once ; but they have
passed away. Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he is
not rich 1 That is just what I like him for. I have fortunately
money enough ; I have never felt so thankful for it as to-day.
There have been moments when I should like to go and kneel
down by your father's grave ; he did perhaps a better thing than
he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man — a
man who has borne his poverty with such dignity, with such
indifference, Mr. Osmond has never scrambled nor struggled —
he has cared for no worldly prize. If that is to be narrow, if
that is to be selfish, then it's very well. I am not frightened by
such words, I am not even displeased ; I am only sorry that you
should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I am
surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when
you see one — you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes
no mistakes ! He knows everything, he understands everything,
l^e has the kindest, gentlest, highest spirit. You have got hold
of some false idea ; it's a pity, but I can't help it ; it regards you
more than me." Isabel paused a moment, looking at her cousin
with an eye illuminated , by a sentiment which contradicted the
careful calmness of her manner — a mingled sentiment, to which
the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of
having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the
nobleness and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused,
Ralph said nothing ; he saw she had more to say. She was
superb, but she was eai^er ; she was indifferent, but she was
secretly trembling. " What sort of a person should you have
liked me to marry 1 " she asked, suddenly. " You talk about
one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one touches
the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart
in one's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual.
Your mother has never forgiven me for not having come to a
better understanding with Lord Warburton, and she is horrified
at my contenting myself with a person who has none of Lord
Warburton's great advantages — no property, no title, no honours,
no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor brilliant
belongings of any sort. It is the total absence of all these
bhings that pleases me. Mr. Osmond is simply a man — he is
aor. a proprietor ! "

Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she
said merited deep consideration ; but in reality he was only half

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 305

thinking of the things she said, he was for the rest simply-
accommodating himself to the weight of his total impression —
the impression of her ^passionate good faith. She was wrong,
but she believed; she was deluded, but she was consistent. It
was wonderfully characteristic of her that she had invented a
fine theory about Gilbert Osmond, and loved him, not for what
he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as
honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father
about wishing to put it into Isabel's power to gratify her imagin-
ation. He had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage
of the privilege. Poor Ralph felt sick ; he felt ashamed. Isabel
had uttered her last words with a low solemnity of conviction
which virtually terminated the discussion, and she closed it
formally by turning away and walking back to the house.
Ralph walked beside her. and they passed into the court to-
gether and reached the big staircase. Here Ralph stopped, and
Isabel paused, turning on him a face full of a deep elation at
his opposition having made her own conception of her conduct
more clear to her.

" Shall you not come up to breakfast 1 " she asked.

" No ; I want no breakfast, I am not hungry."

" You ought to eat," said the girl ; "you live on air."

" I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and
take another mouthful of it. I came thus far simply to say this.
I said to you last year that if you were to get into trouble I
should feel terribly sold. That's how I feel to-day."

" Do you think I am in trouble ] "

" One is in trouble when one is in error."

"Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my
trouble to you ! " And she moved up the staircase.

Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed
her with his eyes ; then the lurking chill of the high-walled
court struck him and made him shiver, so that he returned to
the garden, to breakfast on the Florentine sunshine.

XXXY.

ISABEL, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt
no impulse to tell him that he was not thought well of at the
Palazzo Crescentini. The discreet opposition offered to her
marriage by her aunt and her cousin made on the whole
little impression upon her ; the moral of it was simply that they

x

306 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming to
Isabel ; she scarcely even regretted it ; for it served mainly to
throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that
she married to please herself. One did other things to please
other people ; one did this for a more personal satisfaction ; and
Isabel's satisfaction was confirmed by her lover's admirable good
conduct. Gilbert Osmond was in love, and he had .never
deserved less than during these still, bright days, each of them
numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his hopes, the harsh
criticism passed upon him by Ealph Touchett. The chief
impression produced upon Isabel's mind by this criticism was
that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from every
one but the loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every
one she had ever known before — from her two sisters, who wrote
to express a dutiful hope that she would be happy, and a sur-
prise, somewhat more vague, at her not having chosen a consort
who was the hero of a richer accumulation of anecdote ; from
Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late, on pur-
pose to remonstrate ; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly
console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would
not ; from her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage,
for which she was not sorry to manifest her contempt ; and from
Ralph, whose talk about having great views for her was surely
but a whimsical cover for a personal disappointment. Ealph
apparently wished her not to marry at all — that was what it
really meant — because he was amused with the spectacle of her
adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made him
say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him :
Isabel nattered herself that she believed Ealph had been angry.
It was the more easy for her to believe this, because, as I say,
she thought on the whole but little about it, and accepted as an
incident of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert Osmond as she
preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She tasted of
the sweets of this preference, and they made her feel that there
was after all something very invidious in being in love ; much
as the sentiment was theoretically approved of. It was the
tragical side of happiness ; one's right was always made of the
wrong of some one else. Gilbert Osmond was not demonstra-
tive ; the consciousness of success, which must now have flamed
high within him, emitted very little smoke for so brilliant a
blaze. Contentment, on. his part, never took a vulgar form ;
excitement, in the most self-conscious of men, was a kind of
ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however, made him an
admirable lover ; it gave him a constant view of the amoious

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 307

character. He never forgot himself, as I say ; and so he never
forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance of
devoted intention. He was immensely pleased with his young
lady ; Madame Merle had made him a present of incalculable
value. What could be a finer thing to live with than a high
spirit attuned to softness 1 For would not the softness be all for
one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired the
air of superiority ? What could be a happier gift in a companion
than a quick, fanciful mind, which saved one repetitions, and
reflected one's thought upon a scintillating surface ? Osmond
disliked to see his thought reproduced literally — that made it
look stale and stupid ; he preferred it to be brightened in the
reproduction. His egotism, if egotism it was, had never taken
the crude form of wishing for a dull wife ; this lady's intelligence
was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one — a plate that he
might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give a decora-
tive value, so that conversation might become a sort of perpetual
dessert. He found the silvery quality in perfection in Isabel ;
he could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring.
He knew perfectly, though he had not been told, that the union
found little favour among the girl's relations ; but he had always
treated her so completely as an independent person that it
hardly seemed necessary to express regret for the attitude of her
family. Nevertheless, one morning, he made an abrupt allusion
to it.

" It's the difference in our fortune they don't like," he said.
" They think I am in love with your money."

" Are you speaking of my aunt — of my cousin?" Isabel asked.
" How do you know what they think 1 "

"You have not told me that they are pleased, and when I
wrote to Mrs. Touchett the other day she never answered my
note. If they had been delighted I should have learnt it, and
the fact of my being poor and you rich is the most obvious
explanation of their want of delight. But, of course, when a
poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don't mind them ; I only care for one thing — your thinking
it's all right. I don't care what others think. I have never
cared much, and why should I begin to-day, when I have taken
to myself a compensation for everything ? I won't pretend that
I am sorry you are rich ; I am delighted. I delight in every-
thing that is yours — whether it be money or virtue. Money is
a great advantage. It seems to me, however, that I have suffi
ciently proved that I can get on without it ; I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and 1 ought to be less subject to suspicion

X 2

SOS THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

than most people. I suppose it is their business to suspect —
that of your own family ; it's proper on the whole they should.
They will like me better some day ; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to bother, but simply to be thank-
ful for life and love. It has made me better, loving you," he
said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser, and easier,
and brighter. I used to want a great many things before, and
to be angry that I didn't have them. Theoretically, I was
satisfied, as I once told you. I nattered myself that I had
limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation ; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I
am really satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It
is just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the
twilight, and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting
out my eyes over the book of life, and finding nothing to reward
me for my pains ; but now that I can read it properly I see that
it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you how life
seems to stretch there before us — what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day — with a golden
haze, and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy
in the light, the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my
life, and which you love to-day. Upon my word, I don't see
why we shouldn't get on. We have got what we like — to say
nothing of having each other. We have the faculty of admir-
ation, and several excellent beliefs. We are not stupid, we are
not heavy, we are not under bonds to any dull limitations. You
are very fresh, and I am well-seasoned. We have got my poor
child to amuse us ; we will try and make up some little life for
her. It is all soft and mellow — it has the Italian colouring."

They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also
a good deal of latitude ; it was a matter of course, however, that
they should live for the present in Italy. It wras in Italy that
they had met, Italy had been a party to their first impressions
of each other, and Italy should be a party to their happiness.
Osmond had the attachment of old acquaintance, and Isabel the
stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her a future of beautiful
hours. The desire for unlimited expansion had been succeeded
in her mind by the sense that life was vacant without some
private duty which gathered one's energies to a point. She told
Ralph that she had "seen life " in a year or two, and that she
was already tired, not of life, but of observation. yWhat had
become of all her ardours, her aspirations, her theories, her high
estimate of her independence, and her incipient conviction that
she should never marry 1 These things had been absorbed in a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 309

more primitive sentiment — a sentiment which answered all
questions, satisfied all needs, solved all difficulties. It sim-
plified the future at. a stroke, it came down from above, like
the light of the stars, and it needed no explanation. There
was explanation enough in the fact that he was her lover, her
own, and that she was able to be of use to him. She could
marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking,
but giving.

He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine
— Pansy who was very little taller than a year before, and not
much older. That she would always be a child was the convic-
tion expressed by her father, who held her by the hand when
she was in her sixteenth year, and told her to go and play while
he sat down a while with the pretty lady. Pansy wore a short
dress and a long coat ; her hat always seemed too big for her.
She amused herself with walking off, with quick, short steps, to
the end of the alley, and then walking back with a smile that
seemed an appeal for approbation. Isabel gave her approbation
in abundance, and it was of that demonstrated personal kind
which the child's affectionate nature craved. She watched her
development with a kind of amused suspense ; Pansy had already
become a little daughter. She was treated so completely as a
child that Osmond had not yet explained to her the new relation
in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. " She doesn't
know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't suspect; she thinks it
perfectly natural that you and I should come and walk here
together, simply as good friends. There seems to me something
enchantingly innocent in that ; it's the way I like her to be.
No, I am not a failure, as I used to think ; I have succeeded in
two things. I am to marry the woman I adore, and I have
brought up my child as I wished, in the old way."

He was very fond, in all things, of the " old way ; " that
had struck Isabel as an element in the refinement of his
character.

" It seems to me you will not know whether you have suc-
ceeded until you have told her," she said. " You must see how
she takes your news. She may be horrified — she may be
jealous."

" I am not afraid of that ; she is too fond of you on her own
account. I should like to leave her in the dark a little longer —
to see if it will come into her head that if we are not engaged
we ought to be."

Isabel was impressed by Osmond's esthetic relish of Pansy's
innocence — her own appreciation of it being more moral. She

310 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

was perhaps not the less pleased when he told her a few days
later that he had broken the news to his daughter, who made
such a pretty little speech. " Oh, then I shall have a sister ! "
She was neither surprised nor alarmed ; she had not cried, as he
expected.

" Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel.

" Don't say that ; 1 should be disgusted if I believed that. I
thought it would be just a little shock ; but the way she took it
proves that her good manners are paramount. That is also what
I wished. You shall see for yourself; to-morrow she shall
make you her congratulations in person."

The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess
Gemini's, whither Pansy had been conducted by her father, who
knew that Isabel was to come in the afternoon to return a visit
made her by the Countess on learning that they were to become
sister-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett, the visitor had not
found Isabel at home ; but after our young lady had been
ushered into the Countess's drawing-room, Pansy came in to say
that her aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the
day with her aunt, who thought she was of an age when she should
begin to learn how to carry herself in company. It was Isabel's
view that the little girl might have given lessons in deportment
to the elder lady, and nothing could have justified this conviction
more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself while
they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision,
the year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent
to receive the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently
carried out her theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great
world.

" Papa has told me that you have kindly consented to marry
him," said the good woman's pupil. "It is very delightful; I
think you will suit very well."

" You think I shall suit you ? "

" You will suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you
and papa will suit each other. You are both so quiet and so
serious. You are not so quiet as he — or even as Madame Merle ;
but you are more quiet than many others. He should not, for
instance, have a wife like my aunt. She is always moving ;
to-day especially; you will see when she comes in. They
told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders, but
*I suppose there is no harm if we judge them favourably. You
•will be a delightful companion for papa."

" For you too, I hope," Isabel said.

" I speak fiwfc of him on purpose. I have told you already

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 311

what I myself think of you ; I liked you from the first. I admire
you so much that I think it will be a great good fortune to have
you always before me. You will be my model ; I shall try
to imitate you — though I am afraid it will be very feeble. I
am very glad for papa — he needed something more than me.
Without you, I don't see how he could have got it. You will
be my stepmother ; but we must not use that word. You don't
look at all like the word; it "is somehow so ugly. They are
always said to be cruel ; but I think you will never be cruel.
I am not afraid."

" My good little Pansy," said Isabel, gently, " I shall be
very kind to you."

" Very well then ; I have nothing to fear," the child declared,
lightly.

Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the
Countess Gemini was less than ever in a state of repose. She
entered the room with a great deal of expression, and kissed
Isabel, first on her lips, and then on each cheek, in the short,
quick manner of a bird drinking. She made Isabel sit down on
the sofa beside her, and looking at our heroine with a variety of
turns of the head, delivered herself of a hundred remarks, from
which I offer the reader but a brief selection.

"If you expect me to congratulate you, I must beg you
to excuse me. I don't suppose you care whether I do or not ; I
believe you are very proud. But I care myself whether I tell
fibs or not ; I never tell them unless there is something to be
gained. I don't see what there is to be gained with you —
especially as you would not believe me. I 'don't make phrases
— I never made a phrase in my life. My fibs are always very
crude. I am very glad, for my own sake, that you are going to
marry Osmond ; but I won't pretend I am glad for yours. You
are very remarkable — you know that's what people call you ; you
are an heiress, and very good-looking and clever, very original ;
so it's a good thing to have you in the family. Our family is
very good, you know ; Osmond will have told you that ; and my
mother was rather distinguished — she was called the American
Corinne. But we are rather fallen, I think, and perhaps you
will pick us up. I have great confidence in you ; there are ever
so many things I want to talk to you about. I never congratu-
late any girl on marrying ; I think it's the worst thing she can
do. I suppose Pansy oughtn't to hear all this ; but that's what
she has come to me for — to acquire the tone of society. There
is no harm in her knowing that it isn't such a blessing to get
married. When first I got an idea that my brother had designs

312 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

upon you, I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in
the strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it
would be disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides,
as I say, I was enchanted, for myself; and after all, I am very
selfish. By the way, you won't respect me, and we shall never
be intimate. I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the
same, we shall be better friends than you will believe at first.
My husband will come and see you, though, as you probably
know, he is on no sort of terms with Osmond. He is very fond
of going to see pretty women, but I am not afraid of you. In
the first place, I don't care what he does. In the second, you
won't care a straw for him; you will take his measure at a
glance. Some day I will tell you all about him. Do you think
my niece ought to go out of the room ? Pansy, go and practise
a little in my boudoir."

" Let her stay, please," said Isabel. " I would rather hear
nothing that Pansy may not ! "

XXXVI.

ONE afternoon, towards dusk, in the autumn of 1876, a young
man of pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment
on the third floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened
he inquired for Madame Merle, whereupon the servant, a neat,
plain woman, with a French face and a lady's maid's manner,
ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room and requested the
favour of his name.

" Mr. Edward Rosier," paid the young man, who sat down to
wait till his hostess should appear.

The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier
was an ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may
also be remembered that he sometimes vanished from its horizon.
He had spent a portion of several winters at Pau, and as he was
a gentleman of tolerably inveterate habits he might have con-
tinued for years to pay his annual visit to this charming resort.
In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him which
changed the current, not only of his thoughts, but of his pro-
ceedings. He passed -a month in the Tipper Engadine, and
encountered at St. Moritz a charming young girl. For this
young lady he conceived a peculiar admiration ; she was exactly
the household angel he had long been looking for. He was
never precipitate ; he was nothing if not discreet ; so he forbore

,THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 313

for the present to declare his passion ; but it seemed to him
when they parted — the young lady to go down into Italy, and
her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under bonds to
join some friends — that he should be very unhappy if he were
not to see her again. The simplest way to ^o so was to go in
the. autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with
her family. Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian
capital and reached it on the first of November. It was a pleasant
thing to do ; but for the young man there was a strain of the
heroic in the enterprise. He was nervous about the fever, and
November, after all, was rather early in the season. Fortune,
however, favours the brave ; and Mr. Rosier, who took three
grains of quinine every day, had at the end of a month no cause
to deplore his temerity. He had made to a certain extent good
use of his time ; that is, he had perceived that Miss Pansy
Osmond had not a flaw in her composition. She was admirably
finished: — she was in excellent style. He thought of her in
amorous meditation a good deal as he might have thought of a
Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the bloom
of her juvenility, had a touch of the rococo, which Rosier, whose
taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to
appreciate. That he esteemed the productions of comparatively
frivolous periods would have been apparent from the attention
he bestowed upon Madame Merle's drawing-room, which, although
furnished with specimens of every style, was especially rich in
articles of the last two centuries. He had immediately put a
glass into one eye and looked round ; and then — " By Jove !
she has some jolly good things ! " he had murmured to himself.
The room was small, and densely filled with furniture ; it gave
an impression of faded silk and little statuettes which might
totter if one moved. Rosier got up and wandered about with
his careful tread> bending over the tables charged with knick-
Knacks and the cushions embossed with princely arms. When
Madame Merle came in she found him standing before the fire-
place, with his nose very close to the great lace flounce attached
to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,
as if he were smelling it.

" It's old Venetian," she said ; " it's rather good."
" It's too good for this ; you ought to wear it."
" They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the .same
situation."

"Ah, but I can't wear mine," said Rosier, smiling.
" I don't see why you shouldn't ! I have better lace than
that to wear."

314 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

Hosier's eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again.

" You have some very good things."

" Yes, but I hate them."

" Do you want to get rid of them ? " the young man asked
quickly. f

" No, it's good to have something to hate ; one works it off."

"I love my things," said Eosier, as he sat there smiling.
" But it's not about them — nor about yours, that I came to talk
to you." He paused a moment, and then, with greater softness
— "I care more for Miss Osmond than for all the frtfefefoin
Europe ! "

Madame Merle started a little.

" Did you come to tell me that ? "

" I came to ask your advice."

She looked at him with a little frown, stroking her chin.

" A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice."

" Why not, if he is in a difficult position? That's often the
case with a man in love. I have been in love before, and I
know. But never so much as this time — really, never so much,
I should like particularly to know what you think of my pros-
pects. I'm afraid Mr. Osmond doesn't think me a phoenix."

" Do you wish me to intercede ] " Madame Merle asked, with
her fine arms folded, and her mouth drawn up to the left.

" If you could say a good word for me, I should be greatly
obliged. There will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond
unless I have good reason to believe her father will consent."

" You are very considerate ; that's in your favour. But you
assume, in rather an off-hand way, that I think you a prize."

"You have been very kind to me," said the young man.
" That's why I came."

"I am always kind to people who have good bibelots there
is no telling what one may get by it."

And the left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave
expression to the joke.

Edward Rosier stared and blushed ; his correct features were
suffused with disappointment.

" Ah, I thought you liked me for myself ! "

" I like you very much ; but, if you please, we won't analyse.
Excuse me if I seem patronising; but I think you a perfect
little gentleman. I must tell you, however, that I have not the
marrying of Pansy Osmond."

" I didn't suppose that. But you have seemed to me intimate
with her family, and I thought you might have influence."

Madame Merle was silent a moment.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 315

" Whom do you call her family 1 "

"Why, her father; and — how do ycu say it in English? —
her belle-mere"

"Mr. Osmond is her father, certainly; but his wife can
scarcely "be termed a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has
nothing to do with marrying her."

" I am sorry for that," said Rosier, with an amiable sigh. " I
think Mrs. Osmond would favour me."

" Very likely — if her husband does not."

Edward Eosier raised his eyebrows.

" Does she take the opposite line from him ? "

"In everything. They thin£ very differently."

"Well," said Rosier, "I am sorry for that; but it's none of
my business. She is very fond of Pansy."

" Yes, she is very fond of Pansy."

"And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me
that she loves her as if she were her own mother."

" You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with
the poor child," said Madame Merle. " Have you declared your
sentiments 1 "

"Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly -gloved hand.
" Never, until I have assured myself of those of the parents."

" You always wait for that 1 You have excellent principles ;
your conduct is most estimable."

" I think you are laughing at me," poor Rosier murmured,
dropping back in his chair, and feeling his small moustache.
" I didn't expect that of you, Madame Merle."

She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things
clearly.

." You don't do me justice. I think your conduct is in
excellent taste and the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what
I think."

" I wouldn't agitate her — only to agitate her ; I love her too
much for that," said Ned Rosier.

" I am glad, after all, that you have told me," Madame Merle
went on. " Leave it to me a little ; I think I can help you."

" I said you were the person to come to ! " cried the young
man, with an ingenuous radiance in his face.

" You were very clever," Madame Merle returned, more drily.
" When I say I can help you, I mean once assuming that your
cause is good. Let us think a little whether it is."

"I'm a dear little fellow," said Rosier, earnestly. "I won't
say I have no faults, but I will say I have no vices."

"All that is negative. What is the positive side1? What

316 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

have you got besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden
tea-cups ] "

" I have got a comfortable little fortune — about forty thousand
francs a year. With the talent that I have for arranging, we
can live beautifully on such an income."

" Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on
where you live."

"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris."

Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left.

" It wouldn't be splendid ; you would have to make use of the
tea-cups, and they would get brojien."

"We don't want to be splendid. If Miss Osmond should
have everything pretty, it would be enough. When one is as
pretty as she, one can afford to be simple. She ought never to
wear anything but muslin," said Rosier, reflectively.

" She would be much obliged to you for that theory."

" It's the correct one, I assure you ; and I am sure she would
enter into it. She understands all that ; that's why I love her."

" She is a very good little girl, and extremely graceful. But
her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing."

Rosier hesitated a moment.

"I don't in the least desire that he should. But I may
remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man."

"The money is his wife's ; she brought him a fortune."

" Mrs. Osmond, then, is very fond of her step-daughter ; she
may do something."

"For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!"
Madame Merle exclaimed, with a laugh.

"I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I
esteem it." »

"Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably
prefer to keep her money for her own children."

" Her own children1? Surely she has none."

" She may have' yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two
years ago, six months after his birth. Others, therefore, may
come."

" I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She is a
splendid woman."

Madame Merle was silent a moment.

" Ah, about her there is much to be said. Splendid as you
iike ! We have not exactly made out that you are a parti. The
absence of vices is hardly a source of income."

"Excuse me, I think it may be," said Rosier, with his per-
suasive smile.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 317

" You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence ! "

" I think you underrate me."

"You are not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame
Merle, " of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice
character are a combination to be considered. I don't say it's
to be jumped at ; but there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond
will probably incline to believe he can do better."

"He can do so, perhaps; but what can his daughter do?
She can't do better than marry the man she loves. For she
does, you know," Rosier added, eagerly.

"She does— I know it."

" Ah," cried the young man, " I said you were the person to
come to."

" But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked
her," Madame Merle went on.

" In such a case there is no need of asking and telling ; as
you say, we are an innocent couple. How did you know
it?"

" I who am not innocent 1 By being very crafty. Leave it
to me ; I will find out for you."

Rosier got up, and stood smoothing his hat.

" You say that rather coldly. Don't simply find out how it
is, but try to make it as it should be."

" I will do my best. I will try to make the most of your
advantages."

" Thank you so very much. Meanwhile, I will say a word to
Mrs. Osmond."

" G-ardez-voiis en bien ! " And Madame Merle rose, rapidly.
"Don't set her going, or you'll spoil everything."

Rosier gazed into his hat ; he wondered whether his hostess
had been after all the right person to come to.

"I don't think I understand you. I am an old friend of
Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to succeed."

"Be an old friend as much as you like ; the more old friends
she has the better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of
her new. But don't for the present try to make her take up the
cudgels for you. Her husband may have other views, and, as a
person who wishes her well, I advise you not to multiply points
»f difference between them."

Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm • a suit for
the hand of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business
than his taste for proper transitions had allowed. But the ex-
treme good sense which he concealed under a surface suggesting
sprigged porcelain, came to his assistance.

318 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"I don't see that I am bound to consider Mr. Osmond so
much ! " he exclaimed.

" No, but you should consider her. You say you are an old
friend. Would you make her suffer 1 "

" Not for the world."

" Then be very careful, and let the matter alone until I have
taken a few soundings."

" Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle ? Remember
that I am in love."

" Oh, you won't burn up. Why did you come to me, if you
are not to heed what I say 1 "

"You are very kind; I will be very good," the young man
promised. " But I am afraid Mr. Osmond is rather difficult,"
lie added, in his mild voice, as he went to the door.

Madame Merle gave a light laugh:

" It has been said before. But his wife is not easy either."

" Ah, she's a splendid woman ! " Ned Rosier repeated, passing
out.

He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of a young
man who was already a model of discretion ; but he saw nothing
in any pledge he had given Madame Merle that made it im-
proper he should keep himself in spirits by an occasional visit to
Miss Osmond's home. He reflected constantly on what Madame
Merle had said to him, and turned over in his mind the impres-
sion of her somewhat peculiar manner. He had gone to her de
confiance, as they said in Paris ; but it was possible that 'he had
been precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as
rash — he had incurred this reproach so rarely ; but it certainly
was true that he had known Madame Merle only for the last
month, and that his thinking her a delightful woman was not,
when one came to look into it, a reason for assuming that she
would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms — gracefully
arranged as these members might be to receive her. Beyond
this, Madame Merle had been very gracious to him, and she was
a person of consideration among the girl's people, where she had
a rather striking appearance (Rosier had more than once won-
dered how she managed it), of being intimate without being
familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these advantages.
There was no particular reason why she should take trouble for
him ; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier
felt rather like a fool when he thought of his appealing to
Madame Merle on the ground that she had distinguished him.
Very likely — though she had appeared to say it in joke — she
was re illy only thinking of his bibelots. Had it come into hei

THE PORTE AIT OF A LADY. 319

head that he might offer her two or three of the gems of his col-
lection 1 If she would only help him to marry Miss Osmond,
he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly
say so to her outright ; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he
should like her to believe it.

It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs.
Osmond's, Mrs. Osmond having an "evening" — she had taken
the Thursday of each week — when his presence could be
accounted for on general principles of civility. The object of
Mr. Hosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in a high house in the
very heart of Rome ; a dark and massive structure, overlooking
a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese Palace.
In a palace, too, little Pansy lived — a palace in Roman parlance,
but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed
to him of evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and
whose fastidious father he doubted of his ability to conciliate,
should be immured -in a kind of domestic fortress, which bore
a stern old Roman name, which smelt of historic deeds, of crime
and craft and violence, which was mentioned in " Murray " and
visited by tourists who looked disappointed and depressed, and
which had frescoes by Caravaggio in the piano nobile and a row
of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the wide, nobly-arched
loggia overlooking the damp court where a fountain gushed
out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he
could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera ; he could have
entered into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told
him that on settling themselves in Rome she and her husband
chose this habitation for the love of local colour. It had local
colour enough, and though he knew less about architecture than
about Limoges enamel, he could see that the proportions of the
windows, and even the details of the cornice, had quite the
grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the conviction that at
picturesque periods young girls had been shut up there to keep
them from their true loves, and, under the threat of being
thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages.
There was one point, however, to which he always did justice
when once he found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-look-
ing reception-rooms, which were on the second floor. He
acknowledged that these people were very stiong in bibelots. It
was a taste of Osmond's own — not at all of hers ; this she had
told him the first time he came to the house, when, after asking
himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had better tilings
than he, he was obliged to admit that they had, very much, and
vanquished his envy, as a gentleman should, to the point of

320 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of her treasures.
He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a
large collection before their marriage, and that, though he had
obtained a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he
had got his best things at a time when he had not the advantage
of her advice. Rosier interpreted this information according to
principles of his own. For " advice " read " money," he said
to himself ; and the fact that Gilbert Osmond had landed his
great prizes during his impecunious season, confirmed his most
cherished doctrine — the doctrine that a collector may freely be
poor if he be only patient. In general, when Eosier presented
himself on a Thursday evening, his first glance was bestowed
upon the walls of the room ; there were three or four objects
that his eyes really yearned for. But after his talk with Madame
Merle he felt the extreme seriousness of his position ; and now,
when he came in, he looked about for the daughter of the house
with such eagerness as might be permitted to a gentleman who
always crossed a threshold with an optimistic smile.

XXXVII.

PANSY was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment
with a concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask ;
it was here that Mrs. Osmond usually sat — though she was not
in her usually customary place to-night — and that a circle of
more especial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was
warm, with a sort of subdued brightness ; it contained the larger
things, and — almost always — an odour of flowers. Pansy on
this occasion was presumably in the chamber beyond, the resort
of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before
the chimney, leaning back, with his hands behind him ; he had
one foot up and was warming the sole. Half-a-dozen people,
scattered near him, were talking together ; but he was not in the
conversation ; his eyes were fixed, abstractedly. Eosier, coming
in unannounced, failed to attract his attention ; but the young
man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exception-
ally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, be had
«ome to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put
out his left hand, without changing his attitude.

" How d'ye do 1 My wife's somewhere about."

" Never fear : I shall find her," said Eosier, cheerfully.

Osmond stood looking at him; he had never before felt the

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 321

keenness of this gentleman's eyes. " Madame Merle has told
him, and he doesn't like it," Rosier said to himself. He had
hoped Madame Merle would be there • but she was not within
sight ; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms, or would come
later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond ;
he had a fancy that he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not
quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned he had
an inveterate wish to be in the right. He looked round him,
smiling, and then, in a moment, he said—

" I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day."
Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he
warmed his boot-sole, " I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte ! "
he returned.

" I hope you are not losing your interest ? "
" In old pots and plates ? Yes, I am losing my interest/'
Rosier for a moment forgot the delicacy of his position.
" You are not thinking of parting with a — a piece or
two 1 "

" No, I am not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr.
Rosier," said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his
visitor.

"Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked,
brightly.

"Exactly. I have nothing that I wish to match."
Poor Rosier was aware that he had blushed, and he was dis-
tressed at his want of assurance. " Ah, well, I have ! " was all
that he could murmur ; and he knew that his murmur was
partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the adjoin-
ing room, and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep door-
way. She was dressed in black velvet ; she looked brilliant
and noble. "We know what Mr. Rosier thought of her, and the
terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his admir-
ation. Like his appreciation of her dear little step-daughter, it
was based partly on his fine sense of the plastic ; but also on a
relish for a more impalpable sort of merit — that merit of a bright
spirit, which Rosier' s devotion to brittle wares had not made
him cease to regard as a quality. Mrs. Osmond, at present,
might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched
her only to enrich her ; the flower of her youth had not faded, it
only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of
that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken
exception — she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at
all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young
man as the picture of a gracious lady.

Y

322 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY,

•

"You see I am very regular," he said. " But who should be
if I am not 1 "

" Yes, I have known you longer than any one here. But we
must not indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduce
you to a young lady."

"Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely
obliging ; but this was not what he had come for.

" She sits there by the fire in pink, and has no one to speak
to."

Eosier hesitated a moment.

" Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her 1 He is within six feet of
her."

Mrs. Osmond also hesitated.

" She is not very lively, and he doesn't like dull people." "

" But she is good enough for me ? Ah now, that is hard."

"I only mean that you have ideas for two. And then you
are so' obliging."

" So is your husband."

" No, he is not — to me." And Mrs. Osmond smiled vaguely.

" That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women."

" So I tell him," said Mrs. Osmond, still smiling.

" You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully
beyond.

"That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady."

"Very good; but after that I will abandon her to her fate.
The simple truth is that I am dying to have a little talk with
Miss Osmond."

" Ah," said Isabel, turning away, " I can't help you there ! "

Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the young
lady in pink, whom he had conducted into _the other room, he
wondered whether, in making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I
have just quoted, he had broken the spirit of his promise to
Madame Merle. Such a question was capable of occupying this
young man's mind for a considerable time. At last, however,
he became — comparatively speaking — reckless, and cared little
what promises he might break. The fate to which he had
threatened to abandon the young lady in pink proved to be none
so terrible ; for Pansy Osmond, who had given him the tea for
his companion — Pansy was as fond as ever of making tea —
presently came and talked to her. Into this mild colloquy
Edward Rosier entered little ; he sat by moodily, watching his
small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes, we
shall at first not see much to remind us of the obedient little
girl who, at Florence, three y^ars before, was sent to walk short

THE- PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 323

distances in the Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked
together of matters sacred to elder people. But after a moment
we shall perceive that if at nineteen Pansy has "become a young
lady, she does not really fill out the part ; that if she has grown
very pretty, she lacks in a deplorable degree the quality known
and esteemed in the appearance of females as style ; and that if
she is dressed with great freshness, she wears her smart attire
with an undisguised appearance of saving it — very much as if it
were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seera,
•would have been just the man to ^note these defects ; and in
point of fact there was not a quality of this young lady, of any
sort, that he had not noted. Only he called her qualities by
names of his own — some of which indeed were happy enough.
" JS"o, she is unique — she is absolutely unique," he used to say
to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would
he have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style 1
Why, she had the style of a little princess ; if you couldn't see
it you had no eye. It was not modern, it was riot conscious, it
would produce no impression in Broadway ; the small, serious
damsel, in her stiff little dress, only looked like an Infanta of
Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier, who thought
her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her charming
lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish prayer.
He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she
liked him — a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his
chair. It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead
with his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable.
She was such a perfect jeune fille ; and one couldn't make of a
jeune fille the inquiry necessary for throwing light on such a
point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed of —
a jeune fille who should yet not "be French, for he had felt that
this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure
that Pansy had never looked at a newspaper, and that, in the
way of novels, if she had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very
most. An American jeune fille ; what would be better than
that 1 She would be frank and gay, and yet would not have
walked alone, nor have received letters from men, nor have been
taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier
could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach
of hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature ;
but he was now in imminent danger of asking himself whether
hospitality were the most sacred thing in the world. Was not
the sentiment that he entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely
greater importance1? Of greater importance to him — yes; but

Y 2

324 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

not probably to the master of the house. There was one com-
fort ; even if this gentleman had been placed on his guard by
Madame Merle, he would not have extended the warning to
Pansy; it would not have been part of his policy to let her
know that a prepossessing young man was in love with her.
But he ivas in love with her, the prepossessing young man ; and
all these restrictions of circumstance had ended by irritating
him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant by giving him two
fingers of his left hand^ If Osmond was rude, surely he himself
might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl in
pink had responded' to the call of her mother, who came in to
say, with a significant simper at Eosier, that she must carry her
off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter departed
together, and now it depended only upon him that he should
be virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with
her before ; he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was
a great moment ; poor Hosier began to pat his forehead again.
There was another room, beyond the one in which they stood — -
a small roonl which had been thrown open and lighted, but,
the company not being numerous, had remained empty all the
evening. It was empty yet ; it was upholstered in pale yellow ;
there were several lamps ; through the open door it looked very
pretty. Rosier stood a moment, gazing through this aperture ;
he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost
capable of stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered
where the young lady in pink had left them, making no motion
to join a knot of visitors on the other side of the room. For a
moment it occurred to him that she was frightened — too frightened
perhaps to move ; but a glance assured him that she was not,
and then he reflected that she was too innocent, indeed, for that.
After a moment's supreme hesitation he asked her whether he
might go and look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive
yet so virginal. He had been there already with Osmond, to
inspect the furniture, which was of the First French Empire,
and especially to admire the clock (which he did not really
admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He there-
fore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.

"Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like, I
will show you." She was not in the least frightened.

" That's just what I hoped you would say ; you are so very
kind," Rosier murmured.

They went in together ; Rosier really thought the room very
ugly, and it seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have
struck Pansy.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 325

" It's not for winter evenings ; it's more for summer," she
said. " It's papa's taste ; he has so much."

He had a good deal, Rosier thought ; but some of it was bad.
He looked about him ; he hardly knew what to say in such a
situation. " Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are
done ] Has she no ta4e ? " he asked.

"Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said
Pansy — " and for conversation. But papa cares also for those
things : I think he knows everything."

Eosier was silent a moment. " There is one thing I am sure
he knows ! " he broke out presently. " He knows that when I
come here it is, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs.
Osmond, who is so charming — it is really," said the young man,
" to see you ! "

"To see me?" asked Pansy, raising her vaguely-troubled

"To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated,
feeling the intoxication of a rupture with authority. Pansy
stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was
not needed to make her face more modest.

" I thought it was for that," she said.

" And it was not disagreeable to you ? "

"I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said
Pansy.

"I was afraid of offending you."

" You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as
if an angel had kissed her.

"You like me then, Pansy V Rosier asked, very gently,
feeling very happy. -

« Yes— I like you."

They had walked to the chimney-piece, where the big cold
Empire clock was perched ; they were well within the room,
and beyond observation from without. The tone in which she
had said these four words seemed to him the very breath of
nature, and his only answer could be to take her hand and hold
it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,
still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was some-
thing ineffably passive. She liked him — she had liked him all
the while ; now anything might happen ! She was ready — she
had been ready always, waiting for him to speak. If he had
not spoken she would have waited for ever ; but when the word
came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree. Rosier
felt that if he should draw her towards him and hold her to his
heart, she would submit without a murmur, she would rest there

326 THE PORTRAIT OF A

without a question. It was true that this would be a rash
experiment in a yellow Empire salottino. She had known it
was for her he came ; and yet like what a perfect little lady she
had carried it off !

" You are very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe
that there was after all such a thing as hospitality.

She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it.
" Did you say that papa knows 1 "

" You told me just now he knows everything."

" I think you must make sure, " said Pansy.

" Ah, my dear, when once I am sure of you ! " Rosier mur-
mured in her ear, while she turned back to the other rooms
with a little air of consistency- which seemed to imply that theii
appeal should be immediate.

The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the
arrival of Madame Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an
impression when she entered. How she did it the most attentive
spectator could not have told you ; for she neither spoke loud,
nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor dressed with
splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the
audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in
her very tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked
round it was because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she
had done the quietest thing she could do ; after embracing Mrs.
Osmond, which was more striking, she had sat down on a small
sofa to commune with the master of the house. There was a
brief exchange of commonplaces between these two — they always
paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the commonplace —
and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked
if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.

" He came nearly an hour ago — but he has disappeared,"
Osmond said.

"And where is Pansy?"

" In the other room. There are several people there."

" He is probably among them," said Madame Merle.

" Do you wish to see him? " Osmond asked, in a provokingly
pointless tone.

Madame Merle looked at him a moment : she knew his tones,
to the eighth of a note. " Yes, I should like to say to him that
I have told you what he wants, and that it interests you but
feebly."

" Don't tell him that, he will try to interest me more — which
is -exactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal.'

"But you don't hate it."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 327

" It doesn't signify : I don't love it. I let him see that,
myself, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That
sort of thing is a great bore. There is no hurry."

" I will tell him that you will take time and think it over."

" No, don't do that. He will hang on."

" If I discourage him he will do the same.'

" Yes, but in the one case he will try and talk and explain ;
which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he will
probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game.
That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey."

" Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier1? "

" Oh, he's enervating, with his eternal majolica."

Madame Merle dropped her eyes, with a faint smile. "He's
a gentleman, he has a charming temper ; and, after all, an income
of forty thousand francs "

"It's misery — genteel misery," Osmond broke in. a It's not
what I have dreamed of for Pansy."

"Very good, then. He has promised me not to speak
to her."

" Do you believe him 1 " Osmond asked, absent-mindedly.

" Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him ; but
I don't suppose you think that matters."

" I don't think it matters at all ; but neither do I believe she
has thought about him."

"That opinion is more convenient," said Madame Merle,
quietly.

" Has she told you that she is in love with him ? "

"For what do you take her] And for what do you take
me 1 " Madame Merle added in a moment. •

Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle
on the other knee ; he clasped his ankle in his hand, familiarly,
and gazed a while before him. "This kind of thing doesn't
find me unprepared. It's what I educated her for. It was all
for this — that when such, a case should come up she should do
what I piafer."

" I am not afraid that she will not do it."

" Well then where is the hitch 1 "

" I don't see any. But all the same, I recommend you not
to get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand, he may be
useful.'"'

"I can't keep him. Do it yourself."

" Very good ; I will put him into a corner and allow him so
much a day." Madame Merle had, for the most part, while
they talked, been glancing about her ; it was her habit, in this

328 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

situation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many
blank-looking pauses. A long pause followed the last words I
have quoted; and before it was broken again, she saw Pansy
come out of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Eosier.
Pansy advanced a few steps and then stopped and stood looking
at Madame Merle and at her father.

"He has spoken to her," Madame Merle said, simply, to
Osmond.

Her companion never turned his head. " So much for your
belief in his promises. He ought to be horsewhipped."

" He intends to confess, poor little man ! "

Osmond got up ; he had now taken a sharp look at his
daughter. " It doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away.

Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her
little manner of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of
her was not more intimate ; she simply, as she rose from the
sofa, gave her a friendly smile.

" You are very late," said the young girl, gently.

" My dear child, I am never later than I intend to be."

Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy ; she
moved towards Edward Rosier. He came to meet her, and,
very quickly, as if to get it off his mind — " I have spoken to
her ! " he whispered.

"I know it, Mr. Hosier."

"Did she tell you?"

"Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the
evening, and come and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five."

She was severe, and in the manner in which she turned her
back to him there was a degree of conte'mpt which caused him
to mutter a decenb imprecation.

He had 110 intention of speaking to Osmond ; it was neither
the time nor the place. But he instinctively wandered towards
Isabel, who sat talking with an old lady. He sat down on the
other side of her ; the old lady was an Italian, and Eosier took
for granted that she understood no English.

" You said just now you wouldn't help me," he began, to
Mrs. Osmond. " Perhaps you will feel differently when you
know — when you know "

He hesitated a little.

"When I know what ?" Isabel asked, gently.

" That she is all right."

" What do you mean by that ? "

"Well, -that we have come to an understanding,"

" She is all wrong," said Isabel. " It won't do."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 329

Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half -angrily ; a
sudden flush testified to his sense of injury.

"I have never been treated so," he said. "What is there
against me, after all 1 That is not the way I am usually con-
sidered. I could have married twenty times."

"It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but
once, comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You are
not rich enough for Pansy."

" She doesn't care a straw for one's money."

" No, but her father does."

" Ah yes, he has proved that ! " cried theyoung man.

Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady,
without saying anything ; and he occupied himself for the next
ten minutes in pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection
of miniatures, which were neatly arranged on a series of small
velvet screens. But he looked without seeing; his cheek
burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was certain
that he had never been treated that way before ; he was not
used to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he
was, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious, he could
have laughed at it. He looked about again for Pansy, but she
had disappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of the
house. Before doing so he spoke to Isabel again ; it was not
agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing to
her — the only point that would now justify a low view of him.

" I spoke of Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while
ago," he said. " But you must remember my situation."

" I don't remember what you said," she answered, coldly.

" Ah, you are offended, and now you will never help me."

She was silent an instant, and then, with a change of tone —

" It's not that I won't ; I simply can't ! " Her manner was
almost passionate.

"If you could — just a little," said Rosier, "I would never
again speak of your husband save as an angel.'

" The inducement is great," said Isabel gravely — inscrutably,
as he afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him,
straight in the eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It
made him remember, somehow, that he had known her as a
child; and yet it was keener than he liked, and he took
himself off.

>30 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

XXXVIII.

HE went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to iris
surprise she let him off rather easily. But she made him
promise that he would stop there until something should have
been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher expectations; it
was very true that as he had no intention of giving his daughter
a portion, such expectations were open to criticism, or even, if
one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to
take that tone ; if hW would possess his soul in patience he might
arrive at his felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his
suit, but it would not be a miracle if he should gradually come
round. Pansy would never defy her father, he might depend
upon that, so nothing was to be gained by precipitation. Mr.
Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a sort that
he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of
itself — it was useless to try to force it. Hosier remarked that
his own situation would be in the mean while the most uncom-
fortable in the world, and Madame Merle assured him that she
felt for him. But, as she justly declared, one couldn't have
everything one wanted ; she had learned that lesson for herself.
There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert Osmond, who
had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter
dropped for a few weeks, and would himself write when he
should have anything to communicate which, it would please
Mr. Eosier to hear.

"He doesn't like your having spoken to _ Pansy. Ah, he
doesn't like it at all," said Madame Merle.

" I am perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so ! "

" If you do that he will tell you more than you care to hear.
Go to the house, for the next month, as little as possible, and
leave the rest to me."

"'As little as possible 1 Who is to measure that 1 "

" Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest
of the world ; but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret
about Pansy. I will see that she understands everything. She's
a calm little nature; she will take it quietly."

Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as
he was advised, and waited for another Thursday evening before
returning to the Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at
dinner, so that although he went early the company was already
tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual, was in the first room,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 331

near the fire, staring straight at the door, so that, not to be
distinctly uncivil, Rosier ftad to go and speak to him.

" I am glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said,
slightly closing his keen, conscious eye.

" I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it
to be."

" You took it 1 Where did you take it 1"

It seemed to poor Rosier that he was being insulted and he
waited a moment, asking himself how much a true lover ought
to submit to.

" Madame Merle gave me, as I understood it, a message from
you — to the effect that you declined to give me the opportunity
I desire — the opportunity to explain my wishes to you."

Rosier flattered himself that he spoke rather sternly.

" I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why
did you apply to Madame Merle 1 "

"I asked her for an opinion — for nothing t more. I did so
because she had seemed to me to know you ver^ well."-

" She doesn't know, me so well as she thinks," said Osmond.

" I am sorry for that, because she has given me some little
ground for hope. "

Osmond stared into the fire for a moment.

" I set a great price on my daughter."

" You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by
wishing to marry her 1 "

" I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on, with a
dry impertinence which, in another mood, poor Rosier would
have admired.

"Of course I pretend that she would marry well in marrying
me. She couldn't marry a man who loves her more ; or whom,
I may venture to add, she loves more."

" I am not bound to accept your theories as to whom my
daughter loves," Osmond said, looking up with a quick, cold
smile.

" I am not theorising. Your daughter has spoken."

"Not to me," Osmond continued, bending forward a little
and dropping his eyes to his boot-toes.

" I have her promise, sir ! " cried Rosier, with the sharpness of
exasperation.

As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note
attracted some attention from the company. Osmond waited
till this little movement had subsided, then he said very
quickly —

" I think she has no recollection of having given it."

832 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after
he had uttered these last words Osmdhd turned round again to
the room. Before Rosier had time to rejoin he perceived that a
gentleman — a stranger — had just come in, unannounced, accord-
ing to the Roman custom, and was about to present himself to
the master of the house. The latter smiled blandly, but some-
what blankly ; the visitor was a handsome man, with a large,
fair beard — evidently an Englishman.

" You apparently don't recognise me," he said, with a smile
that expressed more than Osmond's.

"Ah yes, now I do ; I expected so little to see you."

Rosier departed, and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He
sought her, as usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again
encountered Mrs. Osmond in his path. He gave this gracious
lady no greeting — he was too righteously indignant ; but said to
her crudely —

" Your husband is awfully cold-blooded."

She gave the same mystical smile that he had noticed before.

" You can't expect every one to be as hot as yourself."

" I don't pretend to be cold, but I am cool. What has he
been doing to his daughter ? "

" I have no idea."

"Don't you take any interest1}" Rosier demanded, feeling
that she too was irritating.

For a moment she answered nothing. Then —

" No ! " she said abruptly, and with a quickened light in her
eye which directly contradicted the word.

"Excuse me if I don't believe that. Where is Miss Osmond?"

" In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there."

Rosier instantly discovered the young girl, who had been
hidden by intervening groups. He watched her, but her own
attention was entirely given to her occupation.

" What on earth has he done to her ? " he asked again implor-
ingly. " He declares to me that she has given me up."

"She has not given you up," Isabel said, in a low tone,
without looking at him.

" Ah, thank you for that ! Now I will leave her alone as
long as you think proper ! "

He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and
became aware that Osmond was coming towards her, accompanied
by the gentleman who had just entered. He thought the latter,
in spite of the advantage of good looks and evide.nt social expe-
rience, was a little embarrassed.

" Isabel," said Osmond, " I bring you an old friend."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 333

Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her
old friend's, not perfectly confident. " I am very happy to see
Lord Warburton," she said. Eosier turned away, and now that
his talk with her had been interrupted, felt absolved from tLe
little pledge he had just taken. He had a ^uick impression
that Mrs. Osmond would not notice what he did.

To do him justice, Isabel for some time quite ceased to observe
him. She had been startled ; she hardly knew whether she
were glad or ntt. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was
face to face with her, was plainly very well pleased ; his frank
grey eye expressed a deep, if still somewhat shy, satisfaction.
He was larger, stouter than of yore, and he looked older; he
stood there very solidly and sensibly.

" I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said ; " I have
only just arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You
see 1 have lost no time in coming to pay you my respects ; I
knew you were at home on Thursdays."

" You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,"
Osmond remarked, smiling, to his wife.

" It is very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon ; we are
greatly flattered," Isabel said.

" Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible
inns," Osmond went on.

" The hotel seems very good ; I think it is the same one where
I saw you four years ago. You know it was here in Rome that
we first met ; it is a long time ago. Do you remember where I
bade you good-bye 1 It was in the Capitol, in the first room."

"I remember that myself," said Osmond; " I was there at the
time."

" Yes, I remember that you were there. I was very sorry to
leave Rome — so sorry that, somehow or other, it became a
melancholy sort of memory, and I have never cared to corne
back till to-day. But I knew you were living here, and I assure
you I have often thought of you. It must be a charming place
to live in," said Lord Warburton, brightly, looking about him.

" We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond
remarked with propriety.

" Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England
since then. Till a month ago, I really supposed my travels
were over."

"I have heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who
had now completely recovered her self-possession.

" I hope you have heard no harm. My life has been a
blank."

334= THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He
appeared to think his duties as a host had now terminated, he
had performed them very conscientiously. Nothing could have
been more adequate, more nicely measured, than his courtesy to
his wife's old friend. It was punctilious, it was explicit, it was
everything but natural — a deficiency which Lord Warburton,
who, himself, had on the whole a good deal of nature, may be
supposed to have perceived. " I will leave you and Mrs. Osmond
together," he added. " You have reminiscences into which T
don't enter."

" I am afraid you lose a good deal ! " said Lord Warburton,
in a tone which perhaps betrayed over-much his appreciation of
Osmond's generosity. He stood a moment, looking at Isabel
with an eye that gradually became more serious. " I am really
•very glad to see you."

" It is very pleasant. You are very kind."

" Do you know that you are changed — a little ? "

Isabel hesitated a moment.

" Yes — a good deal."

" I don't mean for the worse, of course ; and yet how can I
say for the better ? "

" I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to you," said
Isabel, smiling.

" Ah well, for me — -it's a long time. It would be a pity that
there shouldn't be something to show for it."

They sat down, and Isabel asked him about his sisters, with
other inquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He answered
her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments
she saw — or believed she saw — that he would prove a more
comfortable companion than of yore. Time had breathed upon
his heart, and without chilling this organ, had freely ventilated
it. Isabel felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Lord
Warburton's manner was certainly that of a contented man who
would rather like one to know it.

" There is something I must tell you without more delay," he
said. " I have brought Ralph Touchett with me."

" Brought him with you 1 " Isabel's surprise was great.

" He is at the hotel ; he was too tired to come out, and has
gone to bed."

" I will go and see him," said Isabel, quickly.

" That is exactly what I hoped you would do. I had an idea
that you hadn't seen much of him since your marriage — that in
fact your relations were a — a little more formal. That's why I
hesitated — like an awkward Englishman."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 335

' ' I am as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. " But why
has lie come to Rome ? "

The declaration was very gentle ; the question a little sharp.

" Because he is very far gone, Mrs. Osmond."

" Rome, then, is no place for him. I heard from him that he
had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad, and
remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial
climate."

" Poor fellow* he doesn't succeed with the artificial ! I went
to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him
extremely ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now
he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes ! He
had got up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as
Calcutta. Nevertheless, he had suddenly taken it into his head
to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it — neither did the
doctors, nor any of his friends, His mother, as I suppose you
know, is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He
stuck to his idea that it would be the saving of him to spend the
winter at Catania. He said he could take servants and furni-
ture, and make himself comfortable ; but in point of fact he
hasn't brought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to
save fatigue ; but he said he hated the sea, and wished to stop
at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made
up my mind to come with him. I am acting as — what do you
call it in America ? — as a kind of moderator. Poor Touchett's
very moderate now. We left England a fortnight ago, and he
has been very bad on the way. He can't keep warm, and the
further south we come the more he feels the cold. He has got
a rather good man, but I'm afraid he's' beyond human help. If
you don't mind my saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary
time for Mrs. Touchett to choose for going to America."

Isabel had listened eagerly ; her face was full of pain and
wonder.

" My aunt does that at fixed periods, and she lets nothing
turn her aside. When the date comes round she starts ; I think
she would have started if Ralph had been dying."

" I sometimes think he is dying," Lord Warburton* said.

Isabel started up.

" I will go to him now ! "

He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quicK
effect of his words.

" I don't mean that I thought so to-night. On the contrary,
to-day, in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea pf our
reaching Rome — he is very fond of Rome, you know — gave him

336 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

strength. An hour ago, when I bade him good-night, he told
me that he was very tired, but very happy. Go to him in the
morning ; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was coming
here ; I didn't think of it till after we separated. Then I
remembered that he had told me that you had an evening, and
that it was this very Thursday. It occurred to me to come in
and tell you that he was here, and let you know that you had
perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he said he had
not written to you." There was no need of Isabel's declaring
that she would act upon Lord Warburton's information ; she
looked, as she sat there, like a winged creature held back.
" Let alone that I wanted to see you for myself," her visitor
added, gallantly.

" I don't understand Ralph's plan ; it seems to me very wild,"
she said. " I was glad to think of him between those thick
walls at Gardencourt."

" He was completely alone there ; the thick walls were his
only company."

" You went to see him ; you have been extremely kind."

" Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton.

" We hear, on the contrary, that you are doing great things.
Every one speaks of you as a great statesman, and I am per-
petually seeing your name in the Times, which, by the way,
doesn't appear to hold it in reverence. You are apparently as
bo!4 a radical as ever."

" I don't feel nearly so bold ; you know the world has come
round to me. Touchett and I have kept up a sort of Parliament-
ary debate, all the way from London. I tell him he is the last
of the Tories, and he calls me the head of the Communists. So
you see there is life in him yet."

Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she
abstained from asking them alL She would see for herself on
the morrow. She perceived that after a little Lord Warburton
would tire of that subject — that he had a consciousness of other
possible topics. She was more and more able to say to herself
that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she was
able to say- it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old,
such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be
resisted and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first
menaced her with a new trouble. But she was ncjw reassured ;
she could see that he only wished to live with heron good terms,
that she was to understand that he had forgiven her and was
incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This
was not a form of revenge, of course ; she had no suspicion that

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. . 337

he wished to punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment ;
she did him the justice to believe that it had simply occurred to
him that she would now take a good-natured interest in knowing
that he was resigned. It was the resignation of a healthy,
manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never fester.
British politics had cured him ; she had known they would.
She gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are
always free to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord
Warburton of course spoke of the past, but he spoke of it with-
out implication ; he even went so far as to allude to their former
meeting in Rome as a very jolly time. And he told her that
he had been immensely interested in hearing of her marriage —
that it was a great pleasure to him to make Mr. Osmond's ac-
quaintance— since he could hardly be said to' have made it on the
Other occasion. He had not written to her when she married,
but he did not apologise to her for that. The only thing he
implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was
very much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly,
after a short pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he
looked about him, like a man to whom everything suggested a
cheerful interpretation —

" Well now, I suppose you are very happy, and all that sort
of thing ] "

Isabel answered with a quick laugh ; the tone of his remark
struck her almost as the accent of comedy.

" Do you suppose if I were not I would tell you 1 "

" Well, I don't know. I don't see why .not."

" I do, then. Fortunately, however, I am very happy."

" You have got a very good house."

" Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit — it's my
husband's."

" You mean that he has arranged it 1 "

" Yes, it was nothing when we came."

'* He must be very clever."

" He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel.

" There is a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you
.nust have a taste of your own."

" I enjoy things when they are done ; but I have no ideas. I
can never propose anything."

" Do you mean that -you accept what others propose 1 "

(l Yery willingly, for the most part."

" That's a good thing to know. I shall propose you some-
thing."

" It will bo very kind. I must say, however, that I have in

z

338 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

a few small ways a certain initiative. I should like, for instance,
to introduce you to some of these people."

" Oh, please don't; I like sitting here. Unless it be to that
young lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face."

" The one talking to the rosy young man 3 That's my hus-
band's daughter."

" Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid ! "

"You must make her acquaintance."

" In a moment, with pleasure. I like looking at her from
here." He ceased to look at her, however, very soon ; his eyes
constantly reverted to Mrs. Osmond. " Do you know I was
wrong just now in saying that you had changed ? " he presently
went on. " You seem to me, after all, very much the same."

" And yet I find it's a great change to be married," said Isabel,
with gaiety.

" It affects most people more than it has affected you. You
see I haven't gone in for that."

" It rather surprises me."

"You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I want to
marry," he added, more simply.

" It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising, and then
blushing a little at the thought that she was hardly the person
to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton noticed
her blush that he generously forbore to call her attention to the
incongruity.

Ed ward Hosier meanwhile had seated himself on an ottoman
beside Pansy's tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her
about trifles, and she asked him who was the new gentleman
conversing with her stepmother.

" He's an English lord," said Kosier. " I don't know more."

" I wonder if he will have some tea. The English are so fond
if tea."

" Never mind that ; I have something particular to say to
you."

" Don't speak so loud, or every one will hear us," said Pansy.

" They won't hear us if you continue to look that way : as if
your only thought in life was the wish that the kettle would
boil."

" It has just been filled ; the servants never know ! " the
young girl exclaimed, with a little sigh.

" Do you know what your father said to me just now1? That
you didn't mean what you said a week ago."

" I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do
that ? But I mean what I say to you."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 339

"He told me that you had forgotten me."

" Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth
in a fixed smile.

" Then everything is just the same ? "

"Ah no, it's not just the same. Papa has been very severe."

" What has he done to you 1 "

" He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him
everything. Then he forbade me to marry you."

" You needn't mind that."

" Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa."

" Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend
to lover'

Pansy raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for
a moment ; then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths.
" I love you just as much."

" What good will that do mel"

" Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, " I don't
know that."

" You disappoint me," groaned poor Eosier.

Pansy was silent a moment ; she handed a tea-cup to a
servant.

" Please don't talk any more."

" Is this to be all my satisfaction 1 "

" Papa said I was not to talk with you."

" Do you sacrifice me like that 1 Ah, it's too much ! "

" I wish you would wait a little," said the young girl, in a
voice just distinct enough to betray a quaver.

"Of course I will wait if you will give me hope. But you
take my life away."

" I will not give you up — oh, no ! " Pansy went on.

" He will try and make you marry some one else."

"I will never do that."

" What then are we to wait for ] "

She hesitated a moment.

" I will speak to Mrs. Osmond, and she will help us." It
was in this manner that she for the most part designated her
stepmother.
' " She won't help us much. She is afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

a Of your father, I suppose."

Pansy shook her little head.

" She is not afraid of any one ! We must have patience."

" Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned ; he was deeply
disconcerted. Oblivious of the customs of good society, he

Z 2

340 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

dropped his head into his hands, and, supporting it with a
melancholy- grace, sat staring at the carpet. Presently he became
aware of a good deal of movement about him, and when he
looked up saw Pansy making a curtsey — it was still her little
curtsey of the convent — to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond
had presented.

XXXIX.

IT probably will not be surprising to the reflective reader that
Ralph Touchett should have seen less of his cousin since her
marriage than he had done before that event — an event of which
he took such a view as could hardly prove a confirmation of
intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we know, and after
this he had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him to
resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations.
That discussion had made a difference — the difference that he
feared, rather than the one he hoped. It had not chilled the
girl's zeal in carrying out her engagement, but it had come
dangerously near to spoiling a friendship. No reference was
ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of Gilbert
Osmond ; and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence,
they managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness.
But there was a difference, as Ralph often said to himself — there
was a difference. ' She had not forgiven him, she never would
forgive him ; that was all he had gained. She thought she had
forgiven him ; she believed she didn't care ; and as she was
both very generous and very proud, these convictions represented
a certain reality. But whether or no the event should justify
him, he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong
was of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife,
she could never again be his friend. If in this character she
should enjoy the felicity she expected, she would have nothing
but contempt for the man who had attempted, in advance, to
undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the other hand his
warning should be justified, the vow she had taken that he
should never know it, would lay upon her spirit a burden that
would make her hate him. Such had been, during the year that
followed his cousin's marriage, Ralph's rather dismal prevision
of the future ; and if his meditations appear morbid, we must
remember that he was not in the bloom of health. He consoled
himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed) beautifully, and
was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united to Mr.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 341

Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of
June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had
thoughts of celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that
as simplicity was what she chiefly desired to secure, she had
finally decided, in spite of Osmond's professed willingness to
make a journey of any length, that this characteristic would
best be preserved by their being married by the nearest clergy-
man in the shortest time. The thing was done, therefore, at
the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence
only of Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the
Countess Gemini. That severity in the proceedings of which I
just spoke, was in part the result of the absence of two persons
who might have been looked for on the occasion, and who would
have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle had been invited,
but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, sent a
gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been
invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by
Mr. Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her pro-
fession ; but she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame
Merle's, intimating that had she been able to cross the Atlantic,
she would have been present not only as a witness but as a
critic. Her return to Europe took place somewhat later, and
she effected a meeting with Isabel in the autumn, in Paris, when
she indulged — perhaps a trifle too freely — her critical genius.
Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject of it, protested so
sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to Isabel that she
had taken a step which erected a barrier between them. " It
isn't in the least that you have married — it is that you have
married him" she deemed it her duty to remark ; agreeing, it-
will be seen, much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected,
though she had few of his hesitations and compunctions. Hen-
rietta's second visit to Europe, however, was not made in vain ;
for just at the moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel
that he really must object to that newspaper- woman, and Isabel
had answered that it seemed to her he took Henrietta too hard,
the good Mr. Bantling appeared upon the scene and proposed
that they should take a run down to Spain. Henrietta's letters
from Spain proved to be the most picturesque she had yet pub-
lished, and there was one in especial, dated from the Alhambra,
and entitled ' Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed
for her masterpiece. Isabel was secretly disappointed at her
husband's not having been able to judge the poor girl more
humorously. She even wondered whether his sense of humour
Were by chance defective. Of course she herself looked at the

342 THE POBTRAIT OF A LADY.

matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing to
grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond thought
their alliance a kind of monstrosity ; he couldn't imagine what
they had in common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow-tourist
was simply the most vulgar of women, and he also pronounced
her the most abandoned. Against" this latter clause of the
verdict Isabel protested with an ardour which made him wonder
afresh at the oddity of some of his wife's tastes. Isabel could
explain it only by saying that she liked to know people who
were as different as possible from herself. " Why then don't
you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman 1 " Osmond
had inquired ; to which Isabel answered that she was afraid her
washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so
much.

Ralph saw nothing of her for the greater part of the two years
that followed her marriage ; the winter that formed the beginning
of her residence in Eome he spent again at San Remo, where he
was joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards went
with him to England, to see what they were doing at the bank
— an operation she could not induce him to perform. Ralph
had taken a lease of his house at San Remo, a small villa, which
he occupied still another winter ; but late in the month of April
of this second year he came down to Rome. It was the first
time since her marriage that he had stood face to face with
Isabel1; his desire to see her again was of the keenest. She had
written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing
that he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she
was making of her life, and his mother had simply answered
that she supposed she was making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett
had not the imagination that communes with the unseen, and
she now pretended to no intimacy with her niece, whom she
rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to be living
in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still remained
of the opinion that her marriage was a shabby affair. It gave
her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she
was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in
Florence, she rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her
best, always, to minimise the contact ; and the Countess reminded
her of Osmond, who made her think of Isabel. The Countess
was less talked about in these days ; but Mrs. Touchett augured
no good of that ; it only proved how she had been talked about
before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the
person of Madame Merle ; but Madame Merle's relations with
Mrs. Touchett had undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY 343

had told her, without circumlocution, that she had played too
ingenious a part ; and Madame Merle, who never quarrelled
with any one, who appeared to think no one worth it, and who
had performed the miracle of living, more or less, for several
years with Mrs. Touchett, without a symptom of irritation —
Madame Merle now took a very high tone, and declared that
this was an accusation from which she could not stoop to defend
herself. She added, however (without stooping), that her
behaviour had been only too simple, that she had believed only
what she saw, that she saw that Isabel was not eager to marry,
and that Osmond was not eager to please (his repeated visits
were nothing ; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top,
and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her
sentiments to herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt
had effectually thrown dust in her companion's eyes. Madame
Merle accepted the event — she was unprepared to think of it as
a scandal ; but that she had played any part in it, double or
single, was an imputation against which she proudly protested.
It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude and
of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming
seasons, that Madame Merle, after this, chose to pass many-
months in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired.
Mrs. Touchett had done her a wrong ; there are some things
that can't be forgiven. But Madame Merle suffered in silence ;
there was always something exquisite in her dignity.

Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while he
was engaged in this pursuit he felt afresh what a fool he had
been to put the girl on her guard. He had played the wrong
card, and now he had lost the game. He should see nothing, he
should learn nothing ; for him she would always wear a mask.
His true line would have been to profess delight in her marriage,
so that later, when, as Ealph phrased it, the bottom should fall
out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he~
had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for
a goose in order to know Isabel's real situation. But now she
neither taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her
own confidence was justified ;. if she wore a mask, it completely
covered her face. There was something fixed and mechanical in
the serenity painted upon it; this was not an expression, Ralph
said — it was a representation. She had lost her child ; that was
a sorrow, but it was a sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was
more to say about it than she could say to Ralph. It belonged
to the past, moreover ; it had occurred six months before, and
she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning. She seemed

344 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

to be leading the life of the world ; Ralph heard her spoken
of as having a "charming position." He observed that she
produced the impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was
supposed, among many people, to be a privilege even to know
her. Her house was not open to every one, and she had an
evening in the week, to which people were not invited as a
matter of course. She lived with a certain magnificence, but
you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive it ; for there
was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even to
admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond.
Ralph, in all this, recognised the hand of the master ; for he
knew that Isabel had no faculty for producing calculated impres-
sions. She struck him as having a great love of movement, of
gaiety, of late hours, of long drives, of fatigue ; an eagerness
to be entertained, to be interested, even to be bored, to make
acquaintances, to see people that were talked about, to explore
the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain
of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was
much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehen-
siveness of development on which he used to exercise his wit.
There was a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity
in some of her experiments, which took him by surprise ; it
seemed to him that she even spoke faster, moved faster, than
before her marriage. Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations
— she who used to care so much for the pure truth; and whereas
of old she had a great delight in good-humoured argument, in
intellectual play (she never looked so charming as when in the
genial heat of discussion she received a crushing blow full in the
face and brushed it away as a feather), she appeared now to
think there was nothing worth people's either differing about or
agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was
indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was
greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she
had gained no great maturity of aspect ; but there was a kind of
amplitude and brilliancy in her personal arrangements which
gave a touch of insolence to her beauty. Poor human-hearted
Isabel, what perversity had bitten her 1 Her light step drew a
mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent head sustained a
majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become quite
another person ; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed
to represent something. " What did Isabel represent 1 " Ralph
asked himself ; and he could only answer by saying that she
represented Gilbert Osmond. " Good heavens, what a function !"
he exclaimed. He was lost in wonder at the mystery of things

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 345

He recognised Osmond, as I say ; he recognised Lim at every
turn. He saw how he kept all things within limits ; how he
adjusted, regulated, animated their manner of life. Osmond
was in his element; at last he had material to work with. He
always had an eye to effect; and his effects were elaborately
studied. They were produced hy no vulgar means, but the
motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his
interior with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society
with a sense of exclusion, to make people believe his house was
different from every other, to impart to the face that he presented
to the world a cold originality — this was the ingenious effort of
the personage to whom Isabel had attributed a superior morality.
" He works with superior material," Ralph said to himself ;
" but it's rich abundance compared with his former resources."
Ealph was a clever man ; but Ralph had never — to his own
sense — been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under
the guise of caring only for intrinsic values, Osmond lived
exclusively for the world. Far from being its master, as he
pretended to be, he was its very humble servant, and the degree
of its attention was his only measure of success. He lived with
his eye on it, from morning till night, and the world was so
stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything he did was pose
— pose so deeply calculated that if one were not on the look-
out one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man
who lived so much in the land of calculation. His tastes,
his studies, his accomplishments, his collections, were all for a
purpose. His life on his hill-top at Florence had been a pose of
years. His solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his
good manners, his bad manners, were so many features of a
mental image constantly present to him as a model of imperti-
nence and mystification. His ambition was not to please the
world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity
and then declining to satisfy it. It made him feel great to play
the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most
directly to please himself was his marrying Isabel Archer ;
though in this case indeed the gullible world was in a manner
embodied in poor Isabel, who had been mystified to the top of
her bent. Ralph of course found a fitness in being consistent ;
he had embraced a creed, and as he had suffered for it he could
not in honour forsake it. I give this little sketch of its articles
for what they are worth. It was certain that he was very
skilful in fitting the facts to his theory — even the fact that
during the month he spent in Rome at this period Gilbert
Osmond appeared to regard him not in the least as an enemy.

346 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

For Mr. Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was
not that he had the importance of a friend ; it was rather that
he had none at all. He was Isabel's cousin, and he was rather
unpleasantly ill — it was on this basis that 'Osmond treated with
him. He made the proper inquiries, asked about his health,
about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter climates,
whether he was comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on
the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not
necessary ; but his manner had always the urbanity proper to
conscious success in the presence of conscious failure. For all
this, Ralph had, towards the end, an inward conviction that
Osmond had made it uncomfortable for his wife that she should
continue to receive her cousin. He was not jealous — he had not
that excuse ; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But he made
Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was still
left ; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, when,
his suspicion had become sharp, he took himself off. In doing
so he deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation : she had
been constantly wondering what fine principle kept him alive.
She decided that it was his love of conversation ; his convers-
ation was better than ever. He had given up walking ; he was
no longer a humorous stroller. He sat all day in a chair —
almost any chair would do, and was so dependent on what you
would do for him that, had not his talk been highly contempla-
tive, you might have thought he was blind. The reader already
knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and the
reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What
kept Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen
enough of his cousin ; he was not yet satisfied. There was more
to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose that. He wished
to see what she would make of her husband — or what he would
make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and he
was determined to sit out the performance. His determination
held good • it kept him going some eighteen months more, till
the time of his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It gave
him indeed such an air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs.
Touchett, though more accessible to confusions of thought in the
matter of this strange, unremunerative — and unremunerated —
son of hers than she had ever been before, had, as we have
learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant land. If Ralph
had been kept alive by suspense, it was with a good deal of the
same emotion — the excitement of wondering in what state she
should find him — that Isabel ascended to hi* apartment the day
after Lord Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY »47

She spent an hour with him ; it was the first of several visits.
Gilbert Osmond called on him punctually, and on Isabel sending
a carriage for him Ealph came more than once to the Palazzo
Eoccanera. A fortnight elapsed, at the end of which Ralph
announced to Lord Warburton that he thought after all he
wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together
after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna.
They had left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney,
was lighting a cigar, which he instantly removed from his lips.

" Won't go to Sicily 3 Where then will you go '] "

" Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the
sofa, in a tone of jocosity.

" Do you mean that you will return to England 1 "

" Oh dear no ; I will stay in Rome."

" Rome won't do for you ; it's not warm enough."

" It will have to do ; I will make it do. See how well I have
been."

Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing his cigar, as
if he were trying to see it.

" You have been better than you were on the journey,
certainly. I wonder how you lived through that. But I
don't understand your condition. I recommend you to try
Sicily."

" I can't try," said poor Ralph ; " I can't move further. I
can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charyb-
dis ! I don't want to die on the Sicilian plains — to be snatched
away, like Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian
shades."

"What the deuce then did you come for]" his lordship
inquired.

" Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really
doesn't matter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies,
I've swallowed all climates. As I'm here I'll stay ; I haven't
got any cousins in Sicily."

"Your cousin is certainly an inducement. But what does
the doctor say 1 "

" I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here
Mrs. Osmond will bury me. But I shall not die here."

"I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflect-
ively. " Well, I must say," he resumed, " for myself I am very
glad you don't go to Sicily. I had a horror of that journey."

"Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of
dragging you in my train."

" I certainly didii't mean to let you go alone."

348 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further
than this," Ralph cried.

" I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said
Lord Warburton.

" You are a very good fellow. You are very kind."

" Then I should have come back here."

" And then you would have gone to England."

" ISTo, no ; I should have stayed."

" "Well," said Ealph, " if that's what we are both up to, I
don't see where Sicily comes in ! "

His companion was silent ; he sat staring at the fire. At
last, looking up —

" I say, tell me this," he broke out ; " did you really mean to
go to Sicily when we started ] "

" Ah, vous m'.en demandez trop ! Let me put a question first.
Did you come with me quite — platonically 1 "

" I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come
abroad."

" I suspect we have each been playing our little game."

" Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my
wanting to be here a while."

"Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of
Foreign Affairs."

"I have seen him three times ; he is very amusing."

" I think you have forgotten what you came for," said Ealph.

"Perhaps I have," his companion answered, rather gravely.

These two gentlemen were children of a race which is not
distinguished by the absence of reserve, and they had travelled
together from London to Rome without an allusion to matters
that were uppermost in the mind of each. There was an old
subject that they had once discussed, but it had lost its recognised
place in their attention, and even after their arrival in Rome,
where many things led back to it, they had kept the same half-
diffident, half-confident silence.

" I recommend you to get the. doctor's consent, all the same,"
Lord Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.

" The doctor's consent will spoil it ; I never have it when I
can help it ! "

" What does Mrs. Osmond think ? "

"I have not told her. She will probably say that Rome is
too cold, and even offer to go with me to Catania. She is
capable of that."

" In your place I should like it."

" Her husband won't like it."

THE POETRAIT OF A LADY. 349

" Ah well, I can fancy that ; though it seems to me you are
not hound to mind it. It's his affair."

" I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said
Ralph.

" Is there so much already? "

"There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me
would make the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's
cousin."

" Then of course he would make a row. But won't he make
a row if you stop here 1 "

" That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I '
was in Rome, and then I thought it my duty to go away. Now
I think it's my duty to stop and defend her."

" My dear Touchett, your defensive powers — " Lord War-
burton began, with a smile. But he saw something in his com-
panion's face that checked him. " Your duty, in these premises,
eeems to me rather a nice question," he said.

Ealph for a short time answered nothing.

" It is true that my defensive powers are small," he remarked
at last ; " but as .my aggressive ones are still smaller, Osmond
may, after all, not think me worth his gunpowder. At any
rate," he added, " there are things I am curious to see."

" You are sacrificing your health to your curiosity then 1 "

" I am not much interested in my health, and I am deeply
interested in Mrs. Osmond."

" So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added
quickly. This was one of the allusions he had not hitherto
found occasion to make.

"Does shfc strike you as very happy1?" Ralph inquired,
emboldened by this confidence.

" Well, I don't know ; I have hardly thought. She told me
the other night that she was happy."

" Ah, she told you, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling.

" I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of
person she might have complained to."

" Complain ? She will never complain. She has done it,
and she knows it. She will ctmplain to you least of all. She
is very careful."

44 She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her
again."

" I am delighted to hear it ; there can be no doubt at least of
your duty."

" Ah no," said Lord Warburton, gravely ; "none ! "

" Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, " whether it is to bring

350 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

out the fact that you don't mean to make love to her that you
are so very civil to the little girl 1 "

Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood
before the fire, blushing a little.

" Does that strike you as very ridiculous ? "

" Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her."

" I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when
a girl of that age has pleased me more."

" She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine."

"Of course there's the difference in our ages — more than
twenty years."

"My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?"

" Perfectly serious — as far as I've got."

" I am very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, " how
tickled Gilbert Osmond will be ! "

His companion frowned.

" I say, don't spoil it. I shan't marry his daughter to please
him."

" He will have the perversity to be pleased all the same."

" He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship.

"As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your
position is that people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to
be connected with you. Now, with me in such a case, I should
have the happy confidence that they loved me."

Lord Warburton seemed scarcely to be in the mood for doing
justice to general axioms ; he was thinking of a special case.

" Do you think she'll be pleased ? "

" The girl herself ? Delighted, surely."

" No, no ; I mean Mrs. Osmond." •

Ralph looked at him a moment.

" My dear fellow, what has she to do with it ? "

" Whatever she chooses. She is very fond of the girl."

" Very true — very true." And Ralph slowly got up. " It's
an interesting question — how far her fondness for the girl will
carry her." He stood there a moment with his hands in his
pockets, with a rather sombre eye. " I hope, you know, that
you are very — very sure — The^leuce ! " he broke off, " I don't
know how to say it."

" Yes, you do ; you know how to say everything."

" Well* it's awkward. I hope you are sure that among Miss
Osmond's merits her being a — so near her stepmother isn't a
leading one 1 "

" Good heavens, Touchett ! " cried Lord Warburton, angrily,
" for what do you take me ? "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 351

XL.

ISABEL had not seen much of Madame Merle since her mar-
riage, this Jady having indulged in frequent absences from Rome.
At one time she had spent six months in England ; at another
she had passed a portion of a winter in Paris. She had made
numerous visits to distant friends, and gave countenance to the
idea that for the future she should be a less inveterate Roman
than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the past only
in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of the
sunniest niches of the Pincian — an apartment which often stood
empty— this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence ;
a danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined
to deplore. Familiarity had modified in some degree her first
impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially altered
it ; there was still a kind of wonder of admiration in it.
Madame Merle was armed at all points ; it was a pleasure to
see a person so completely equipped for the social battle. She
carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel,
and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and
more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome
with disgust ; she never appeared to need rest or consolation.
She had her own ideas ; she had of old exposed a great many
of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of
extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich
sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life ; there was
something brilliant in the way she kept going. It was as if she
had learned the secret of it — as if the art of life were some
clever trick that she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew
older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgust; there
were days when the world looked black, and she asked herself
\iith some peremptoriness what it was that she was pretending
to live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to
fall in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea
of a new attempt. xAs a young girl, she used to ^proceed from
one little exaltation to the other ; there were scarcely any dull
places between. But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusi-
asm ; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing ; she lived
entirely by reason, by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel
would have given anything for lessons in this art ; if Madame
Merle had been near, she would have made an appeal to her.
She had become aware more than before of the advantage of

352 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. ,

being like that — of having made one's self a firm surface, a sort
of corselet of silver. But, as I say, it was not till the winter,
during which we lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine,
that Madame Merle made a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel
now saw more of her than she had done since her marriage ; but
by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations had considerably
changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she would
have applied for instruction ; she had lost the desire to know
this lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them
to herself, and if life wasMifficult it would not make it easier to
confess herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great
use to herself, and an ornament to any circle ; but was she —
would she be — of use to others in periods of refined embarrass-
ment 1 The best way to profit by Madame Merle — this indeed
Isabel had always thought — was to imitate her ; to be as firm
and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and
Isabel, considering this fact, determined, for the fiftieth time, to
brush aside her own. It seemed to her, too, on the renewal of
an intercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that Madame
Merle was changed — that she pushed to the extreme a certain
rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ealph Touchett, we
know, had been of the opinion that she was prone to exaggera-
tion, to forcing the note — was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to over-
do it. Isabel had never admitted this charge — had never, indeed,
quite understood it ; Madame Merle's conduct, to her perception,
always bore the stamp of good taste, was always " quiet." But
in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of
the Osmond family, it at last occurred to our heroine that she
overdid it a little. That, of course, was not the best taste ; that
was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was
married ; that she had now other interests ; that though she,
Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy
very well, better almost than any one, she was after all not one
of them. She was on her guard; she never spoke of their
affairs till she was asked, even pressed — as when her opinion
was wanted ; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame
Merle was as candid as we know, and one day she candidly
expressed this dread to Isabel.

" I must be on my guard," she said ; " I might so easily, with-
out suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended,
even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must
not forget that I knew your husband long before you did ; I
must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you
might be jealous. You are not a silly woman ; 1 know that

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 353

perfectly. But neither am I ; therefore I am determined not to
get into trouble. A little harm is very soon done ; a mistake is
made before one knows it. Of course, if I had wished to make
love to your husband, I had ten years to do it in, and nothing
to prevent ; so it isn't likely I shall begin to-day, when I am so
much less attractive than I was. But if I were to annoy you
by seeming to take a place that doesn't belong to me, you
wouldn't make that reflection ; you would simply say that I was
forgetting certain differences. I am determined not to forget
them. Of course a good friend isn't always thinking of that ;
one doesn't suspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect
you, my dear, in the least ; but I suspect human nature. Don't
think I make myself uncomfortable ; I am not always watching
myself. I think I sufficiently prove it in talking to you as I do
now. All I wish to say is, however, that if you were to be
jealous — that is the form it would take — I should be sure to
think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your
husband's."

Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's
theory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage.
We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle might
have made Gilbert Osmond's marriage, but she certainly had not
made Isabel Archer's. That was the work of — Isabel scarcely
knew what : of nature, of providence, of fortune, of the eternal
mystery of things. It was true that her aunt's complaint had
been not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her dupli-
city ; she had brought about the marriage and then she had
denied her guilt. Such guilt would not have been great, to
Isabel's mind ; she couldn't make a crime of Madame Merle's
having been the cause of the most fertile friendship she had ever
formed. That occurred to her just before her marriage, after her
little discussion with her aunt. If Madame Merle had desired
the event, she could only say it had been a very happy thought.
With her, moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward; she
had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. After
her marriage Isabel discovered that her husband took a less com-
fortable view of the matter ; he^seldom spoke of Madame Merle,
and when his wife alluded to her he usually let the allusion drop.

"Don't you like her?" Isabel had once said to him. "She
thinks a great deal of you."

" I will tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. " I
liked her once better than I do to-day. I am tired of her, and
I am rather ashamed of it. She is so good ! I am glad she is
not in Italy ; it's a sort of rest. Don't talk of her too much ;

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354 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

it seems to bring her back. She will come back in plenty of
time."

Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late
— too late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have
lost. But meantime, if, as I have said, she was somewhat changed,
Isabel's feelings were also altered. Her consciousness of the
situation was as acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying.
A dissatisfied mind, whatever else it lack, is rarely in want of
reasons; they bloom as thick as buttercups in June. The fact
of Madame Merle having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond's
marriage ceased to be one of her titles to consideration; it
seemed, after all, that there was not so much to thank her for.
As time went on there was less and less ; and Isabel once said
to herself that perhaps without; her these things would not have
been. This reflection, however, was instantly stifled ; Isabel
felt a sort of horror at having made it. " Whatever happens to
me, let me not be unjust," she said ; " let me bear my burdens
myself, and not shift them upon others ! " This disposition was
tested, eventually, by that ingenious apology for her present
conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make, and of which I
have given a sketch ; for there was something irritating — there
was almost an air of mockery — in her neat discriminations and
clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there was nothing
clear ; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of fears.
She felt helpless as she turned away from her brilliant friend,
who had just made the statements I have quoted ; Madame
Merle knew so little what she was thinking of ! Moreover, she
herself was so unable to explain. Jealous of her — jealous of
her with Gilbert ? The idea just then suggested no near reality.
She almost wished that jealousy had been possible ; it would be
a kind of refreshment. Jealousy, after all, was in a sense one
of the symptoms of happiness. Madame Merle, however, was
wise; it would seem that she knew Isabel better than Isabel
knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions — many of them of an elevated character ; but at no
period had they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more
richly than to-day. It is true that they all had a family like-
ness ; they might have been summed up in the determination
that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by a fault of her
own. The poor girl had always had a great desire to do her best,
and she had not as yet been seriously discouraged. She wished,
therefore, to hold fast to justice — not to pay herself by petty
revenges. To associate Madame Merle with her disappointment
would be a petty revenge — especially as the pleasure she might

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 355

derive from it would be perfectly insincere. Tt might feed her
sense of- bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. Tt was
impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open ;
if ever a girl was a free agent, she had been. A girl in love was
doubtless not a free agent ; but the sole source of her mistake
had been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare ;
she had looked, and considered, and chosen. When a woman
had made such a mistake, there was only one way to repair it —
to accept it. One folly was enough, especially when it was to
last for ever ; a second one would not much set it off. In this
vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness which kept Isabel
going ; but Madame Merle had been right, for all that, in taking
her precautions.

One day, about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in
Rome, Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not
only a part of her general determination to be just that she was
at present very thankful for Pansy. It was a part of her tender-
ness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear to
her, and there was nothing in her life so much as it should be
as the young girl's attachment and the pleasantness of feeling it.
It was like a soft presence — like a small hand in her own ; on
Pansy's part it was more than an affection — it was a kind of
faith. On her own side her sense of Pansy's dependence was
more than a pleasure ; it operated as a command, as a definite
reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said to
herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that
we must look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was
a kind of admonition ; it seemed to say that here was an oppor-
tunity. An opportunity for what, Isabel could hardly have
said ; in general, to be more for the child than the child was
able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days,
to remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous ;
for she now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her
own grossness of vision. She had been unable to believe that
any one could Sare so much — so extraordinarily much — to please.
But since then she had seen this delicate faculty in operation,
and she knew what to think of it. It was the whole creature —
it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to interfere with
it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests she
took no credit for them. The two were constantly together ;
Mrs. Osmond was rarely seen without her step-daughter. Isabel
liked her company ; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay
composed all of the same flower. And then not to neglect
Pansy — not under any provocation to neglect her ; this she had

AA 2

356 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

made an article of religion. The young girl had every appear-
ance of being happier in Isabel's society than in that of any one
save her father, whom she admired with an intensity justified by
the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite pleasure to Gilbert
Osmond, he had always been elaborately soft. Isabel knew that
Pansy liked immensely to be with her and studied the means of
pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing
her was negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble — a
conviction which certainly could not have had any reference to
trouble already existing. She was therefore ingeniously passive
and almost imaginatively docile ; she was careful even to
moderate the eagerness with which she assented to Isabel's
propositions, and which might have implied that she thought
otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,
and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning
pale when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She
only looked toward it wistfully — an attitude which, as she grew
older, made her eyes the prettiest in the world. When during
the second winter at the Palazzo Eoccanera, she began to go to
parties, to dances, she always, at a reasonable hour, lest Mrs.
Osmond should be tired, was the, first to propose departure.
Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances, for she knew
that Pansy had a passionate pleasure in this exercise, taking her
steps to the music like a conscientious fairy. Society, moreover,
had no drawbacks for her ; she liked even the tiresome parts —
the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness-of dinners, the crush at the
door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in
this vehicle, beside Isabel, she sat in a little fixed appreciative
posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been
taken to drive for the first time.

On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the
gates of the city, and at the end of half-an-hour had left the
carriage to await them by the roadside, while they walked away
over the short grass of the Campagna, which even in the winter
months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was almost a
daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a walk, and stepped
quickly, though not so quickly as when she first came to Europe.
It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved best, but she
liked it, because she liked everything ; and she moved with a
shorter undulation beside her stepmother, who afterwards, on
their return to Rome, paid a tribute to Pansy's preferences by
making the circuit of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. Pansy
had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunny hollow, far fiom
the walls of Rome, and on reaching the Palazzo Roccanera she

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 857

went straight to her room, to put them into water. Isabel passed
into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually occupied, the
second in order from the large ante-chamber which was entered
from the staircase, and in which ev^n Gilbert Osmond's rich
devices had not been able to collect a look of rather grand
nudity. Just beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she
stopped short, the reason for her doing so being that she had
received an impression. The impression had, in strictness,
nothing unprecedented ; but she ielt it as something new, and
the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene
before she interrupted it. Madame Merle sat there in her
bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her ; for a minute
they were unaware that she had come in. Isabel had often seen
that before, certainly ; but what she had not seen, or at least
had not noticed — was that their dialogue had for the moment
converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she
instantly perceived that her entrance would startle them. Madame
Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from the fire; Osmond
was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her. Her head
was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent upon bis. What
struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle
stood ; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then
she perceived that they had arrived at a desultory pause in their
exchange of ideas, and were musing, face to face, with the free-
dom of old friends who sometimes exchange ideas without utter-
ing them. There was nothing shocking iu this ; they were old
friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a
moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative position,
their absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected.
But it was all over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame
Merle had seen her, and had welcomed her without moving ;
Gilbert Osmond, on the other hand, had instantly jumped up. He
presently murmured something about wanting, a walk, and after
having asked Madame Merle to excuse him, he left the room.

" I came to see you, thinking you would have come in ; and
as you had not, I waited for you," Madame Merle said.

" Didn't he ask you to sit down ? " asked Isabel, smiling.

Madame Merle looked about her.

" Ah, it's very true ; I was going away."

" You must stay now."

" Certainly. I came for a reason ; I have something on my
mind."

"I have told you that before," Isabel said — "that it takes
something extraordinary to bring you to this house."

358 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" And you know what I have told you ; that whether I come
or whether I stay away, I have always the same motive — the
affection I bear you."

" Yes, you have told me that."

" You look just now as if you didn't believe me," said Madame
Merle.

" Ah," Isabel answered, " the profundity of your motives, that
is the last thing I doubt ! "

" You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words."

Isabel shook her head gravely. " I. know you have always
been kind to me."

" As often as you would let me. You don't always take it ;
then one has to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness,
however, that I have come to-day ; it's quite another affair. I
have come to get rid of a trouble of my own — to mak^ it over
to you. I have been talking to your husband about it."

" I am surprised at that ; he doesn't like troubles."

" Especially other people's ; I know that. But neither do
you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must
help me. It's about poor Mr. Kosier."

"Ah," said Isabel, reflectively, " it's his trouble, then, not
yours."

" He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see
me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy."

" Yes, .he wants to marry her. I know all about it."

Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I gathered from your
husband that perhaps you didn't."

" How should he know what I know 1 He has never spoken
to me of the matter."

" It is probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it."

" It's nevertheless a sort of question in which he is rarely at
fault."

" Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well
what to think. To-day he doesn't."

" Haven't you been telling him 1 " Isabel asked.

Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. " Do you
know you're a little dry 1 "

" Yes ; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me."

" In that there is some reason. You are so near the child."

" Ah," said Isabel, " for all the comfort I have given him !
If you think me dry, I wonder what he thinks."

" I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done."

" I can do nothing."

"You can do more at least than I. I don't know what

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 359

mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and
Pansy ; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune
in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to
know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings."

" He is very much in love," said Isabel.

" Very much — for him."

*' Very much for Pansy, you might say as well."

Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you
think she's attractive 1 "

u She is the dearest little person possible ; but she is very
limited."

" She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr.
Rosier is not unlimited."

" No," said Isabel, " he has about the extent of one's pocket-
handkerchief — the small ones, with lace." Her humour had
lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was
ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's
suitor, " He is very kind, very honest," she presently added ;
"and he is not such a fool as he seems."

" He assures me that she delights in him," said Madame
Merle.

" I don't know ; I have not asked her."

" You have never sounded her a little 1 "

" It's not my place ; it's her father's."

" Ah, you are too literal ! " said Madame Merle.

" I must judge for myself."

Madame Merle gave her smile again. " It isn't easy to help you."

" To help me 1 " said Isabel, very seriously. " What do you
mean 1 "

" It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to
be careful ] I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that
,1 wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and. Mr.
Edward Rosier. Je riy peux rien, moi I I can't talk to Pansy
about him. Especially," added Madame Merle, " as I don't
think him a paragon of husbands."

Isabel reflected a little ; after which, with a smile — " You
don't wash your hands, then ! " she said. Then she added, in
another tone — " You can't — you are too much interested."

Madame Merle slowly rose ; she had given Isabel a look as
rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine
a few moments before. Only, this time Isabel saw nothing.
" Ask him the next time, and you will see."

" I can't ask him ; he has ceased to come to the house.
Gilbert has let him know that he is not welcome."

360 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Ah yes," said Madame Merle, " I forgot that, though it's
the burden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted
him. All the same," she went on, " Osmond doesn't dislike him
as much as he thinks." She had got up, as if to close the con-
versation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently
more to say. Isabel perceived this, and even saw the point she
had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not
opening the way.

" That must have pleased 'him, if you have told him," she
answered, smiling.

" Certainly I have told him ; as far as that goes, I have en-
couraged him. I have preached patience, have said that his
case is not desperate, if he will only hold his tongue and be
quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head to be
jealous."

" Jealous ? "

"Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here."

Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting ; but at this she
also rose. " Ah ! " she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the
fireplace. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and as she
stood a moment before the mantel-glass, pushing into its place a
wandering tress of hair.

" Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying that there is nothing impossible
in Lord "Warburton falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle
went on.

Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass.
"It is true — there is nothing impossible," she rejoined at last,
gravely and more gently.

" So I have had to admit to Mr. Eosier. So, too, your
husband thinks."

"That I don't know."

"Ask him, and you will see."

" I shall not ask him/' said Isabel.

" Excuse me ; I forgot that you had pointed that out. Of
course," Madame Merle added, " you have had infinitely more
observation of Lord Warburton's behaviour than I."

" I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my
step-daughter very much."

Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. " Likes
her, you mean — as Mr. Rosier means'?"

" I don't know how Mr. Rosier means ; but Lord Warburton
has let me know that he is charmed with Pansy."

" And you have never told Osmond ? " This observation was
immediate, precipitate ; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 361

Isabel smiled a little. " I suppose he will know in time ;
Lord Warburton has a tongue, and knows how to express
himself."

Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken
more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the colour
to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time to subside,
and then she said, as if she had been thinking it over a little :
" That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Eosier. "

" Much better, I think."

" It would be very delightful ; it would be a great marriage.
It is really very kind of him."

« Very kind of him 1 "

" To drop his eyes on a simple little girl."

"I don't see that."

" It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond "

"After all, Pansy Osmond is the most attractive person he
has ever known ! " Isabel exclaimed.

Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered.
" Ah, a moment ago, I thought you seemed rather to disparage
her."

" I said she was limited. And so she is. And so is Lord
Warburton."

" So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than
Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections
on Mr. Rosier, I won't admit that she deserves it. That will be
too perverse."

" Mr. Rosier' s a nuisance ! " cried Isabel, abruptly.

"I quite agree with you. and I am delighted to know that I
am not expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he
calls on me, my door shall be closed to him." And gathering
her mantle together, Madame Merle prepared to depart. She
was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an incon-
sequent request from Isabel.

" All the same, you know, be kind to him."

She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows, and stood looking at
her friend. " I don't understand your contradictions ! De-
cidedly, I shall not be kind to him, for it will be a false kind-
ness. I wish to see her married to Lord Warburton."

" You had better wait till he asks her."

" If what you say is true, he will ask her. Especially," said
Madame Merle in a moment, " if you make him."

" If I make him 1 "

" It's quite in your power. You have great influence with
him."

362 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel frowned a little. " Where did you iearn that "? "

" Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you — never ! " said Madame
Merle, smiling.

" I certainly never told you that."

" You might have done so when we were "by way of being
confidential with each other. But you really told me very little ;
I have often thought so since."

Isabel had thought so too, sometimes with a certain satisfac-
tion. But she did not admit it now — perhaps because she did
not wish to appear to exult in it. " You seem to have had an
excellent informant in my aunt," she simply said.

" She let me know that you had declined an offer of marriage
from Lord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed, and was
full of the subject. Of course I think you have done better in
doing as you did. But if you wouldn't marry Lord Warburton
yourself, make him the reparation of helping him to marry some
one else."

Isabel listened to this with a face which persisted in not
reflecting the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in
a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough, " I should be
very glad indeed if, . as regards Pansy, it could be arranged."
Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a
speech of good omen, embraced her more tenderly than might
have been expected, and took her departure.

XLI.

OSMOND touched on this matter that evening for the first time ;
coming very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting
alone. They had spent the evening at home, and Pansy had
gone to bed; he himself had been sitting since dinner in a
small apartment in which he had arranged his books and which
he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton had come
in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to
be at home ; he was going somewhere else, and he sat for half-an-
hour. Isabel, after asking him for news of Ealph, said very
little to him, on purpose ; she wished him to talk with the
young girl. She pretended to read ; she even went after a little
to the piano ; she asked herself whether she might not leave the
room. She had come little by little to think well of the idea of
Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful Lockleigh,
though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to excite

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 363

her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied
the match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When
Isabel was unhappy, she always looked about her — partly from
impulse and partly by theory — for some form of exertion. She
could never rid herself of the conviction that unhappiness was a
Estate of disease ; it was suffering as opposed to action. To act,
to do something — it hardly mattered what — would therefore be
an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished
to convince herself that she had done everything possible to
content her husband ; she was determined not to be haunted by
images of a flat want of zeal. It would please him greatly to
see Pansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please
him, since this nobleman was such a fine fellow. It seemed to
Isabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such an
event, she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to
be that ; she wanted to be able to believe, sincerely, that she
had been that. Then, such an undertaking had other recom-
mendations. It would occupy her, and she desired occupation.
It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse herself
she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to
Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with
the young girl. It was a little odd that he should — being what
he was; but there was no accounting for such impressions.
Pansy might captivate any one — any one, at least, but Lord
Warburton. Isabel would have thought her too small, too
slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was always a
little of the doll about her, and that was not what Lord War-
burton had been looking for. Still, who could say what men
looked for? They looked for what they found; they knew
what pleased them only when they saw it. .No theory was valid
in such matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or more
natural than anything else. If he had cared for her it might
seem odd that he cared for Pansy, who was so different ; but he
had not cared for her so much as he supposed. Or if he had,
he had completely got over it, and it was natural that as that
affair had failed, he should think that something of quite another
sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at
first to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almost
happy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find
in the idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a
pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path !

At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon
that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortun-
ately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all

364 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

the young men — as sure as if she had held an interview with her
on the subject. It was very tiresome that she should be so sure,
when she had carefully abstained from informing herself ; almost
as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it into his
own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton.
It was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in4
the men ; the young American was really so very flimsy. He
was much more of the type of the useless fine gentleman than
the English nobleman. It was true that there was no particular
reason why Pansy should marry a statesman ; still, if a statesman
admired her, that was his affair, and she would make a very
picturesque little peeress.

It may seem to the reader that Isabel had suddenly grown
strangely cynical ; for she ended by saying to herself that this
difficulty could probably be arranged. Somehow, an impediment
that was embodied in poor Rosier could not present itself as a
dangerous one ; there were always means of levelling secondary
obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she had not taken
the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which might prove to be incon-
veniently great ; but she inclined to think the young girl would
not be tenacious, for she had the faculty of assent developed in
a very much higher degree than that of resistance. She would
cling, yes, she would cling ; but it really mattered to her very
little what she clung to. Lord Warbmton would do as well as
Mr. Rosier — especially as she seemed quite to like him. She had
expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reservation ;
she said she thought his conversation most interesting — he had
told her all about India. His manner to Pansy had been of the
happiest; Isabel noticed that for herself, as she also observed
that he talked to her not in the least in a patronising way,
reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but quite as if she
could understand everything. He was careful only to be kind — •
he was as kind as he had been to Isabel herself at Gardencourt.
A girl might well be touched by that ; she remembered how she
herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had
been as simple as Pansy, the impression would have been deeper
still. She had not been simple when she refused him ; that
operation had been as complicated, as, later, her acceptance of
Osmond; Pansy, however, in spite of her simplicity, really did
understand, and was glad that Lord Warburton should talk to
her, not about her partners and bouquets, but about the state
of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, the famous grist-tax,
the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society. She looked at
him as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with sweet

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 365

attentive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet
oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as
if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might
have reminded her, was better than Mr. Hosier's. But Isabel
contented herself at such moments with wondering where this
gentleman was ; he came no more at all to the Piazza Roccanera.
It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her — the
idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.

It was surprising for a variety of reasons, which I shall pre-
sently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord
Warburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking the
great step of going out of the room and leaving her companions
alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light that
Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was trying
as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded
after a fashion, but she did not succeed in coming to the point I
mention. After all, she couldn't ; something held her and made
it impossible. It was not exactly that it would be base, insidi-
ous ; for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres
with a perfectly good conscience, and Isabel had all the qualities
of her sex. It was a vague doubt that interposed — a sense that
she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room,
and after a while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of
which he promised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow.
After he had gone, Isabel asked herself whether she had pre-
vented something which would have happened if she had
absented herself for a quarter of an hour ; and then she exclaimed
— always mentally — that when Lord Warburton wished her to
go away he would easily find means to let her know it. Pansy
said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel
said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after he
should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming
to this than might seem to accord with the description he had
given Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had
to admit that she could not now guess what her step-daughter
was thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for the
moment rather opaque.

Isabel remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of
half-an-hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in
silence, and then sat down, looking at the fire like herself. But
Isabel now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in
the chimney to Osmond's face, and she watched him while he
sat silent. Covert observation had become a habit with her ; an
instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was

366 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished
as much as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he
would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer.
Preparing .answers had not been her strong point of old ; she
had rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards
of clever things she might have said. But she had learned cau-
tion— learned it in a measure from her husband's very counten-
ance. It was the same face she- had looked into with eyes
equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on the' terrace of a
Florentine villa ; except that Osmond had grown a little stouter
since his marriage. He still, however, looked very distinguished.

" Has Lord Warburton been here1? " he presently asked.

" Yes, he stayed for half-an-hour." • ,

"Did he see Pansy?"

" Yes ; he sat on the sofa beside her.'"'

" Did he talk with her much?"

" He talked almost only to her."

" It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it ? "

" I don't call it anything," saidx Isabel ; " I have waited for
you to give it a name."

"That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond
answered, after a moment.

" I have determined, this time, to try and act as you would
like. I have so often failed in that."

Osmond turned his head, slowly, looking at her.

"Are you trying to quarrel with me 1 "

" No, I am trying to live at peace."

" Nothing is more easy ; you know I don't quarrel myself."

"What do you call it when you try to make me angry?"
Isabel asked.

" I don't try ; if I have done so, it has been the most natural
thing in the world. Moreover, I am not in the least trying
now."

Isabel smiled. " It doesn't matter. I have determined never
to be angry again."

" That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good."

" No — it's not good." She pushed away the book she had
been reading, and took up the band of tapestry that Pansy had
left on the table.

" That's partly why I have not spoken to you about this busi-
ness of my daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the
manner that was most frequent with him. "I was afraid I
should encounter opposition — that you too would have views on
the subject. I have sent little Rosier about his business."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 367

" You were afraid that I would plead for Mr. Eosier ? Haven't
you noticed that I have never spoken to you of him ? "

" I have never given you a chance. We have so little con-
versation in these days. I know he was an old friend of yours."

" Yes ; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more
for him than for the tapestry that she held in her hand ; but it
was true that he was an old friend, and with her husband she
felt a desire not to extenuate such ties. He had a way of
expressing contempt for them which fortified her loyalty to
them, even when, as in the present case, they were in themselves
insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion of tenderness
for memories which had no other merit than that they belonged
to her unmarried life. " But as regards Pansy," she added in a
moment, " I have given him no encouragement."

" That's fortunat^," Osmond observed.

" Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters
little."

" There is no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell
you, I have turned him out."

" Yes ; but a lover outside is always a lover. He is some-
times even more of one. Mr. Eosier still has hope."

" He's welcome to the comfort of it ! My daughter has only
to sit still, to become Lady Warburton."

"Should you like that?'7 Isabel asked, with a simplicity
which was not so affected as it may appear. She was resolved
to assume nothing, for Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turn-
ing her assumptions against her. The intensity with which he
would like his daughter to become Lady Warburton had been
the very basis of her own recent reflections. But that was for
herself ; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should have
put it into words ; she would not take for granted with him that
he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort
that was unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's con-
stant intimation that, for him, nothing was a prize ; that he
treated as from equal to equal with the most distinguished peo-
ple in the world, and that his daughter had only to look about
her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore a lapse from
consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord Warbur-
ton, that if this nobleman should escape, his equivalent might
not be found ; and it was another of his customary implications
that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his wife
to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she was
face to face with him, though an hour before she had almost in-
Vented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating,

368 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on
his mind of her question : it would operate as a humiliation.
Never mind ; he was terribly capable of humiliating her — all the
more so that he was also capable of waiting for great opportuni-
ties and of showing, sometimes, an almost unaccountable indif-
ference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a small opportunity
because she would not have availed herself of a great one.

Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. " I
should like it extremely ; it would be a great marriage. And
then Lord Warburton has another advantage; he is an old
friend of yours. It would be pleasant for him to come into the
family. It is very singular that Pansy's admirers should all be
your old friends."

" It is natural that they should come to see me. In coming
to see me, they see Pansy. Seeing her, it is natural that they
should fall in love with her."

" So I think. But you are not bound to do so."

"If she should marry Lord Warburton, I should be very
glad," Isabel went on, frankly. " He's an excellent man. You
say, however, that she has only to sit still. Perhaps she won't
sit still ; if she loses Mr. Eosier she may jump up ! "

Osmond appeared to give no heed to this ; he sat gazing at
the fire. " Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked
in a moment, with a certain tenderness of tone. " She wishes,
above all, to please," he added.

" To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps."

" No, to please me."

" Me too a little, I think," said Isabel.

"Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she will do what
I like."

" If you are sure of that, it's very well," Isabel said.

" Meantime," said Osmond, " I should like our distinguished
visitor to speak."

" He has spoken — to me. He has told me that it would
be a great pleasure to him to believe she could care for
him."

Osmond turned his head quickly; but at first he said
nothing. Then— " Why didn't you tell me that?" he asked,
quickly.

" There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I
have taken the first chance that has offered."

" Did you speak to him of Eosier ? "

"Oh yes, a little."

"That was hardly necessary."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 369

" I thought it best he should know, so that, so that "

And Isabel paused.

"So that what]"

"So that he should act accordingly."

" So that he should back out, do you mean 1 "

" No, so that he should advance while there is yet time."

"That is not the effect it seems to have had."

" You should have patience," said Isabel. " You know
Englishmen are shy."

" This one is not He was not when he made love to you."

She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that ; it was
disagreeable to her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely
so," she said simply.

He answered nothing for some time ; he took up a book and
turned over the pages, while Isabel sat silent, occupying herself
with Pansy's tapestry. " You must have a great deal of influence
with him," Osmond went on at last. " The moment you really
wish it, you can bring him to the point."

This was more disagreeable still ; but Isabel felt it to be natural
that her husband should say it, and it was after all something
very much of the same sort that she had said to herself. " Why
should I have influence ? " she asked. " What have I ever done
to put him under an obligation to me ? "

" You refused to marry him," said Osmond, with his eyes on
his book.

" I must not presume too much on that," Isabel answered,
gently.

He threw down the book presently, and got up, standing
before the fire with his hands behind him. "Well," he said,
" I hbld that it lies in your hands. I shall leave it there. With
a little good-will you may manage it. Think that over and
remember that I count upon you."

He waited a little, to give her time to answer; but she
answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of the room.

XLIL

SHE answered nothing, because his words had put the situa-
tion before her, and she was absorbed in looking at it. There
was something in them that suddenly opened the door to
agitation, so that she was afraid to trust herself to speak. After
Osmond had gone, she leaned back in her chair and closed her

B B

370 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

eyes ; and for a long time, far into the night, and still further,
she sat in the silent drawing-room, given up to her meditation.
A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring
fresh candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to
think of what he had said ; and she did so indeed, and of many
other things. The suggestion, from another, that she had a
peculiar influence on Lord Warburton, had given her the start
that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it true that there
was something still between them that might be a handle to
make him declare himself to Pansy — a susceptibility, on his
part, to approval, a desire to do what would please her 1 Isabel
had hitherto not asked herself the question, because she had
not been forced ; but now that it was directly presented to her,
she saw the answer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there
was something — something on Lord Warburton's part. When
he first came to Rome she believed that the link which united
them had completely snapped ; but little by little she had been
reminded that it still had a palpable existence. It was as thin
as a hair, but there were moments when she seemed to hear
it vibrate. For herself, nothing was changed; what she once
thought of Lord Warburton she still thought ; it was needless
that feeling should change ; on the contrary, it seemed to her a
better feeling than ever. But he 1 had he still the idea that she
might be more to him than other \vomen 1 Had he the wish to
profit by the memory of the few moments of intimacy through
which they had once passed 1 Isabel knew that she had read
some of the signs of such a disposition. But what were his
hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they
mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor
Pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, and if so,
what comfort did he expect to derive from it 1 If he was in
love with Pansy, he was not in love with her stepmother;
and if he was in love with her stepmother, he was not in love
with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed,
in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing that he
would do so for her sake, and not for the young girl's — was this
the service her husband had asked of her] This at any rate
was the duty with which Isabel found herself confronted from
the moment that she admitted to herself that Lord Warburton
had still an uneradicated predilection for her society. It was
not an agreeable task ; it was, in fact, a repulsive one. She
asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were pre-
tending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another
satisfaction. Of this refinement of duplicity she presently

/ THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 371

acquitted him ; she preferred to believe that he was in good
faith. But if his admiration for Pansy was a delusion, this was
scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered
among these ugly possibilities until she completely lost her way .;
some of them, as she suddenly encountered .them, seemed ugly
enough. Then she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her
eyes, and declared that her imagination surely did her little
honour, and that her husband's did him even less. Lord
Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she was no
more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this
until the contrary should be proved; proved more effectually
than by a cynical intimation of Osmond's,

Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little
peace, for her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to
the foreground of thought as quickly as a place was made for
them. What. had suddenly set them into livelier motion she
hardly knew, unless it were the strange impression she had
received in the afternoon of her husband and Madame Merle
being in more direct communication than she suspected. This
impression came back to her from time to time, and now she
wondered that it had never come before. Besides this, her short
interview with Osmond, half-an-hour before, was a striking
example of his faculty for making everything wither that he
touched, spoiling everything for her that he looked at., It was
very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty ; the real
fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a pre-
sumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye ; as if
his presence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Was
the fault in himself, or oidy in the deep mistrust she had con-
ceived for him ? This mistrust was the clearest result of their
short married. life ; a gulf had opened between them over which
they looked at each other with eyes that were on either side a
declaration of the deception suffered. It was a strange opposi-
tion, of the like of which she had never dreamed — an opposition
in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of contempt
to the other. It was not her fault — she had practised no
deception ; she had only admired and believed. She had taken
all the first steps in the purest confidence, and then she had
suddenly found the infinite vista of a multiplied life to be a dark,
narrow alley, with a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading
to the high places of happiness, from which the world would
seem to lie below one, so that one could look down with a sense
of exaltation and advantage, and judge and choose and pity, it
led rather downward and earthward, into realms of restriction

B B 2

872 THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY.

•»

and depression, where the sound of other lives, easier and freer,
was heard as from above, and served to deepen the feeling of
failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband — this was
what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated,
but not so easily explained, and so composite in its character
that much time and still more suffering had been needed to bring
it to its actual perfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active
condition; it was not a chill, a stupor, a despair; it was a
passion of thought, of speculation, of response to every pressure.
She nattered herself, however, that she had kept her failing faith
to herself — that no one suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew
it, and there were times when she thought that he enjoyed it.
It had come gradually — it was not till the first year of her
marriage had closed that she took the alarm. Then the shadows
began to gather; it was as if Osmond deliberately, almost
malignantly, had put the lights out one by one. The dusk
at first was vague and thin, and she could still see her way
in it. But it steadily increased, and if here and there it had
occasionally lifted, there were certain corners of her life that
were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emana-
tion from her own mind ; she was very sure of that ; she had
done her best to be just and temperate, to see only the truth.
They were a part of her husband's very presence. They were
not his misdeeds, his turpitudes ; she accused him of nothing —
that is, of but one thing, which was not a crime. She knew of
no wrong that he had done ; he was not violent, he was not
cr^el ; she simply believed that he hated her. That was all she
accused him of, and the miserable part of it was precisely that it
was not a crime, for against a crime she might have found redress.
He had discovered that she was so different, that she was not
what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought
at first he could change her, and she had done her best to be
what he would like. But she was, after all, herself — she couldn't
help that ; and now there was no use pretending, playing a part,
for he knew her and he had made up his mind. She was not
afraid of him ; she had no apprehension that he would hurt her ;
for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort. He would, if
possible, never give her a pretext, never put himself in the wrong.
Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that he
would have the better of her there. She would give him many
pretexts, she would often put herself in the wrong. There were
times when she almost pitied him ; for if she had not deceived
him in intention she understood how completely she must have
done so in fact. She had effaced herself, when he first knew

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 373

her ; she had made herself small, pretending there was less of
her than there really was. It was because she had heen under
the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to
put forth. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself,
during the year of his courtship, any more than she. But she
had seen only half his nature then, as one saw the disk of the
moon when it was partly masked by the shadow of the earth.
She saw the full moon now — she saw the whole man. She had
kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free field, and yet
in spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.

Ah, she had him immensely under the charm ! It had not
passed away ; it was there still ; she still knew perfectly what
it was that made Osmond delightful when he chose to be. He
had wished to be when he made love to her, and as she had
wished to be charmed it was not wonderful that he succeeded.
He succeeded because he was sincere ; it never occurred to her
to deny him that. He admired her — he had told her why;
because she was the most imaginative woman he had known.
It might very well have been true ; for during those months she
had imagined a world of things that had no substance. She
had a vision of him — she had not read him right. A certain
combination of features had touched her, and in them she had
seen the most striking of portraits. That he was poor and
lonely, and yet that somehow he was noble — that was what
interested her and seemed to give her her opportunity. There
was an indefinable beauty about him— in his situation, in his
mind, in his face. She had felt at the same time tha^ he was
helpless and ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a
tenderness which was the very flower of respect. He was like
a sceptical voyager, strolling on the beach while he waited for
the tide, looking seaward yet not putting to sea. It was in all
this that she found her occasion. She would launch his boat
for him ; she would be his providence ; it would be a good thing
to love him. And she loved him — a good deal for what she
found in him, but a good deal also for what she brought him.
As she looked back at the passion of those weeks she perceived
in it a kind of maternal strain — the happiness of a woman who
felt that she was a contributor, that she came with full hands.
But for her money, as she saw to-day, she wouldn't have done
it. And then her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett,
sleeping under English turf, the beneficent author of infinite
woe ! For this was a fact. At bottom her money had been a
burden, had been on her mind, which was filled with the desire
to transfer the weight of it to some other conscience. What

374 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

would lighten her own conscience more effectually than to make
it over to the man who had the best taste in the world 1 Unless
she should give it to a hospital, there was nothing better she
could do with it; and there was no charitable institution in
which she was as much interested as in Gilbert Osmond. He
would use her fortune in a way that would make her think
better of it, and rub off a certain grossness which attached to
the good luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been
nothing very delicate in inheriting seventy thousand pounds;
the delicacy had been all in Mr. Touchett's leaving them to her.
But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring him such a portion —
in that there would be delicacy for her as well. There would
be less for him — that was true ; but that was his affair, and if
he loved her he would not object to her being rich. Had he
not had the courage to say he was glad she was rich 1

Isabel's cheek tingled when she asked herself if she had really
married on a factitious theory, in order to do something finely
appreciable with her. money. But she was able to answer quickly
enough that this was only half the story. It was because a
certain feeling took possession of her — a sense of the earnestness
of his affection and a delight in his personal qualities. He was
better than any one else. This supreme conviction had filled
her life for months, and enough of it still remained to prove to
her that she could not have done otherwise The finest indi-
vidual she had ever known was hers ; the simple knowledge was
a sort of act of devotion. She had not been mistaken about
the beauty of his mind; she knew that organ perfectly now.
She had lived with it, she had lived in it almost — it appeared
to have become her habitation. If she had been captured, it had
taken a firm hand to do it ; that reflection perhaps had some
worth. A mind more ingenious, more subtle, more cultivated,
more trained to admirable exercises, she had not encountered ;
and it was this exquisite instrument that she' had now to reckon
with. She lost herself in infinite dismay when she thought of
the magnitude of his deception. It was a wonder, perhaps, in
view of this, that he didn't hate her more. She remembered
perfectly the first sign he had given of it — it had been like the
bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of their
life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas, and
that she must get rid of them. He had told her that already,
before their marriage ; but then she had not noticed it ; it came
back to her only afterwards. This time she might well notice
it, because he had really meant it. The words were nothing,
superficially; but when in the light of deepening experience she

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 375

looked into them, they appeared portentous. He really meant
it — he would have liked her to have nothing of her own but her
pretty appearance. She knew she had too many ideas ; she had
more even than he supposed, many more than she had expressed
to him when he asked her to marry him. Yes, she had been
hypocritical ; she liked him so much. She had too many ideas
for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share
them with some one else. One couldn't pluck them up by the
roots, though of course one might suppress them, be careful not
to utter them. It was not that, however, his objecting to her
opinions ; that was nothing. She had no opinions — none that
she would not have been eager to sacrifice in the satisfaction of
feeling herself loved for it. What he meant was the whole
thing — her character, the way she felt, the way she judged.
This was what she had kept in reserve ; this was what he had
not known until he found himself — with the door closed behind,
as it were — set down face to face with it. She had a certain
way of looking at life which he took as a personal offence.
Heaven knew that, now at leai>t, it was a very humble, accom-
modating way ! The strange thing was that she should not
have suspected from the first that his own was so different.
She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly that of
an honest man and a gentleman. Had not he assured her that
he had no superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that
had lost their freshness? Hadn't he all the appearance of a
man living in the open air of the world, indifferent to small
considerations, caring only for truth and knowledge, and believ-
ing that two intelligent people ought to look for them together,
and whether they found them or not, to find at least some
happiness in the search 1 He had told her that he loved the
conventional ; but there was a sense in which this seemed a
noble declaration. In that sense, the love of harmony, and
order, and decency, and all the stately offices of life, she went
with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous.
But when, as the months elapsed, she followed him further and
hj ed her into the mansion of his own habitation, then, then
she had seen where she really was. She could live it over again,
the incredulous terror with which she had taken the measure of
her dwelling. Between those four walls she had lived ever
since ; they were to surround her for the rest of her life. It
was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of
suffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor
air; Osmond's beautiful mind, indeed, seemed to peep down
from a small high window and mock at her. Of course it was

376 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

not physical suffering ; for physical suffering there might have
been a remedy. She could come and go ; she had her Jiberty ;
her husband was perfectly polite. He took himself so seriously ;
it was something appalling. Under all his culture, his clever-
ness, his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his know-
ledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of
flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken
him so seriously as that. How could she — especially when she
knew him better1? She was to think of him as .he thought of
himself — as the first gentleman in Europe. So it was that she
had thought of him at first, and that indeed was the reason she
had married him. But when she began to see what it implied,
she drew back ; there was more in the bond than she had meant
to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every
one but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied,
and for everything in the world but half-a-dozen ideas of his
own. That was very well ; she would have gone with him even
there, a long distance ; for he pointed out to her so much of the
baseness and shabbiness of life, opened her eyes so wide to the
stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance of mankind, that she
had been properly impressed with the infinite vulgarity of
things, and of the virtue of keeping one's self unspotted by it.
But this base, ignoble world, it appeared, was after all what one
was to live for ; one was to keep it for ever in one's eye, in order,
not to enlighten, or convert, or redeem it, but to extract from it
some recognition of one's own superiority. On the one hand it
was despicable, but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond
had talked to Isabel about his renunciation, his indifference, the
ease with which he dispensed with the usual aids to success ;
and all this had seemed to her admirable. She had thought it
a noble indifference, an exquisite independence. But indifference
was really the last of his Dualities ; she had never seen any one
who thought so much of others. For* herself, the world had
always interested her, and the study of her fellow-creatures was
her constant passion. She would have been willing, however,
to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of a
personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to
make her believe it was a gain ! This, at least, was her present
conviction ; and the thing certainly would have been easier thsfla
to care for society as Osmond cared for it.

He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had
never really done so ; he had looked at it out of his window
even when he appeared to be most detached from it. He had
his ideal, just as she had tried to have hers ; only it was strange

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 377

that people should seek for justice in such different quarters.
His ideal was a conception of high prosperity and propriety, of
the aristocratic life, which she now saw that Osmond deemed
himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never
lapsed from it for an hour ; he would never have recovered from
the shame of doing so. That again was very well; here too she
would have agreed ; hut they attached such different ideas, such
different associations and desires, to the same formulas. Her
notion of the aristocratic life was simply the union of great know-
ledge with great liberty ; the knowledge would give one a sense
of duty, and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But for Osmond it
was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated attitude.
He was fond of the old, the consecrated, and transmitted ; so
was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He
had an immense esteem for tradition; he had told her once that
the best thing in the world was to have it, but that if one was
so unfortunate as not to have it, one must immediately proceed
to make it. She knew that he meant by this that she hadn't it,
but that he was better off; though where he had got his tradi-
tions she never learned. He had a very large collection of them,
however ; that was very certain ; after a little she began to see.
The great thing was to act in accordance with them ; the great
thing not only for him but for her.* Isabel had an undefined
conviction that, to serve for another person than their proprietor,
traditions must be of a thoroughly superior kind ; but she never-
theless assented to this intimation that she too must march to
the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in
her husband's past ; she who of old had been so free of step,
so desultory, so devious, so much the reverse of processional.
There were certain things they must do, a certain posture they
must take, certain people they must know and not know. When
Isabel saw this rigid system closing about her, draped though it
was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness and suffocation
of which I have spoken took possession of her ; she seemed to
be shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted,
of course ; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly ; then as
the situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly.
She had pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of
not caring for the aspect and denomination of their life — the
cause of other instincts and longings, of quite another i'Jeal.
Then it was that her husband's personality, touched as it never
had been, stepped forth and- stood erect. The things that she
had said were answered only by his scorn, and she could see that
he was ineffably ashamed of her. What did he think of her —

378 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

that she was base, vulgar, ignoble 1 He at least knew now that
she had no traditions ! It had not been in his prevision of
things that she should reveal such flatness ; her sentiments were
worthy of a radical newspaper or of a Unitarian preacher. The
real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind
of her own at all. Her mind was to be his — attached to his own
like a small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil
gently and water the flowers ; he would weed the beds and
gather an occasional nosegay. It would be a pretty piece of
property for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn't wish
her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clever
that she had pleased him. But he expected her intelligence to
operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring her
mind to be a blank, he had nattered himself that it would be
richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him
and for him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his pre-
ferences ; and Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no
very unwarrantable demand on the part of a husband. But there
were certain things she could never take in. To begin with,
they were hideously unclean. She was not a daughter of the
Puritans, but for all that she believed in such a thing as purity.
It would appear that Osmond didn't ; some of his traditions
made her push back her skirts. Did all women have lovers 1
Did they all lie, and even the best have their price 1 Were
there only three or four that didn't deceive their husbands'?
When Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them
than for the gossip of a village-parlour — a scorn that kept its
freshness in a very tainted air. There was the taint of her sis-
ter-in-law; did her husband judge only by the Countess Gemini]
This lady very often lied, and she had practised deceptions
which were not simply verbal. It was enough to find these facts
assumed among Osmond's traditions, without giving them such
"a general extension. It was her scorn of his assumptions — it
was that that made him draw himself up. He had plenty of
contempt, and it was proper that his wife should be as well
furnished ; but that she should turn the hot light of her dis-
dain upon his own conception of things — this was a danger he
had not allowed for. .He Delieved he should have regulated
her emotions before she came to that ; and Isabel could easily
imagine how his ears scorched when he discovered that he had
been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one that
sensation there was nothing left but to hate her !

She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which
at first had been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 379

occupation and comfort of Osmond's life. The feeling ^as deep,
because it was sincere ; he had had a revelation that, after all,
she could dispense with him. If to herself the idea was start-
ling, if it presented itself at first as a kind of infidelity, a capa-
city for pollution, what infinite effect might it not be expected
to have had upon him ? It was very simple ; he despised her ;
she had no traditions, and the moral horizon of a Unitarian
minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand
Unitarianism ! This was the conviction that she had been living
with now for a time that she had ceased to measure. What was
coming — what was before them ] That was her constant ques-
tion. What would he do— what ought she to do1? When a
man hated his wife, what did it lead to 1 She didn't hate him,
that she was sure of, for every little while she felt a passionate
wish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she
felt afraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated,
that she had deceived him at the very first. They were strangely
married, at all events, and it was an awful life. Until that
morning he had scarcely spoken to her for a week ; his manner
was as dry as a burned-out fire. She knew there was a special
reason ; he was displeased at Ralph Touchett's staying on in
Borne. He thought she saw too much of her cousin — he had
told her a week before that it was indecent she should go to him
at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph's
invalid state had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce
him; but having to contain himself only deepened Osmond's
disgust. Isabel read all this as she would have read the hour on
the clock-face ; she was as perfectly aware that the sight of her
interest in her cousin stirred her husband's rage, as if Osmond
had locked her into her bedroom — which she was sure he wanted
to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she was not
defiant ; but she certainly could not pretend to be indifferent to
Ralph. She believed he was dying, at last, and that she should
never see him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that
she had never known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her
now ; how could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew
that she had tKrown away her life 1 There was an everlasting
weight upon her heart — there was a livid light upon everything.
But Ralph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness ; for the hour
that she sat with him her spirit rose. She felt to-day as if he
had been her brother. She had never had a brother, but if she
had, and she were in trouble, and he were dying, he would be
dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her
there was perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look

380 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

better to sit for half-an-hour with Ralph.' It was not that they
talked of him — it was not that she complained. His name was
never uttered between them. It was simply that Ealph was
generous and that her husband was not. There was something
in Ealph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his being in
Rome, "that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the good of the world ; he made
her feel what might have been. He was, after all, as intelligent
as Osmond — quite apart from his being better, ^.nd. thus it
seemed to her an act of devotion to conceal her misery from him.
She concealed it elaborately ; in their talk she was perpetually
hanging out curtains and arranging screens. It lived before her
again — -it had never had time to die — that morning in the gar-
den at Florence, when he warned her against Osmond. She had
only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to feel
the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a
mystery ! what a wonder of wisdom ! As intelligent as Gilbert 1
He was much more intelligent, to arrive at such a judgment as
that. Gilbert had never been so deep, so just She had told
him then that from her at least he should never know if he
was right ; and this was what she was taking care of now. It
gave her plenty to do ; there was passion, exaltation, religion in
it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange exercises,
and Isabel, at present, in playing a part before her cousin, had
an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been
a kindness, perhaps, if he had been for a single instant a dupe.
As it was, the. kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him
believe that he had once wounded her greatly and that the event
had put him to shame, but that as she was very generous and he
was so ill, she bore him no grudge and even considerately forbore
to flaunt her happiness in his face. Ralph smiled to himself, as
he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary form of consideration ;
but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She didn't wish
him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy ; that was
the great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would
rather have righted him.

For herself, she lingered in the soundless drawing-room long
after the fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling
the cold ; she was in a fever. She heard the small hours strike,
and then the great ones, but her vigil took no heed of time. Her
mind, assailed by visions, was in a state of extraordinary activity,
and her visions might as well come to her there, where she sat
up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a mockery of rest.
As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and what could

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 381

be a better proof of it than that she should linger there half the
night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why
Pansy shoufdn't be married as you would put a letter in the post-
office ? When the clock struck four she got up ; she was going
to bed at last, for the lamp had long since gone out and the
candles had burned down to their sockets. But even then she
stopped again in the middle of the room, and stood there gazing
at a remembered vision — that of her husband and Madame
Merle, grouped unconsciously and familiarly.

XLIII.

THREE nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to

which Osmond, who -never went to dances, did not accompany

them. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever ; she was not of

a generalising turn, and she had not extended to other pleasures

the interdict that she had seen placed on those of love. If she

was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her father, she must

have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought that this was

not likely ; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply

determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance,

and she had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself

no less attentively than usual, and kept no less anxious an eye

upon her vaporous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight,

and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time. She made

Isabel feel old ; it seemed so long since she had been in a nutter

about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in

want of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave

Isabel, who was not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had

rendered this service for some minutes when she became aware

that Edward Rosier was standing before her. He had lost his

affable smile, and wore a look of almost military resolution;

the change in his appearance would have made Isabel smile if

she had not felt that at bottom his case was a hard one ; he had

always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder.

He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify

her that he was dangerous, and then he dropped his eyes on her

bouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened, and he

said quickly.

" It's all pansies ; it must be hers ! "

Isabel smiled kindly.

" Yes, it's hers ; she gave it to me to hold."

382 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond ? " the poor young man

" No, I can't trust you ; I am afraid you wouldn't give it
back."

" I am not sure that I should ; I should leave the house with
it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower ? "

Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out
the bouquet.

" Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I am doing for
you."

" Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond ! " Rosier
exclaimed, with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his
flower.

" Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. " Don't for
the world ! "

" I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with
me, but I wish to show her that I believe in her still."

" It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show
it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."

"And is that all you can do for me? I expected more from
you, Mrs. Osmond," said the young man, in a tone of fine
general reference. " You know that our acquaintance goes back
very far — quite into the days of our innocent childhood."

" Don't make me out too old," Isabel answered, smiling.
"You come back to that very often, and I have never denied it.
But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done
me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused
you."

"Ah, you don't esteem me, then. Say at once that you think
I'm a trifler ! "

u I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you.
What I mean by that, of course, is that I am not in love with
you for Pansy."
."Very good; I see; you pity me, that's all."

And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with
his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't
be more pleased ; but he was at least too proud to show that the
movement struck him as general.

Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appear-
ance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy ; his little glass,
among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt
touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in
common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that
here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the~ most

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 383

affecting thing in the world — young love struggling with
adversity.

' ' Would you really be very kind to her I " she said, in a low
tone.

He dropped his eyes, devoutly, and raised the little flower
which he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her.
" You pity me ; but don't you: pity her a little 1 "

" I don't know ; I am not sure. She will always enjoy life."

" It will depend on what you call life ! " Rosier exclaimed.
" She won't enjoy being tortured."

" There will be nothing of that."

" I am glad to hear it. She knows what she is about. You
will see."

"I think she does, and she will never disobey her father.
But she is coming back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg
you to go away."

Rosier lingered a moment, till Pansy came in sight, on the arm
of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the
face. Then he walked away, holding up his head ; and the
manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency con-
vinced Isabel that he was very much in love.

Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, and looked
perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and
then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw that
she was counting the flowers ; whereupon she said to herself
that, decidedly, there were deeper forces at play than she had
recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said
nothing to Isabel about him ; she talked only of her partner,
after he had made his bow and retired ; of the music, the floor,
the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel
was sure, however, that she perceived that her lover had ab-
stracted a flower ; though this knowledge was not needed to
account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the
appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under acute
constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth
by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet ; and
she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord
Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew
near and bade her good evening ; she had not seen him since
the day before. He looked about him, and then — " Where is
the little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he
formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.

" She is dancing," said Isabel ; " you will see her some-
where."

384 THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY.

He looked among the dancers, and at last caught Pansy's
eye. " She sees me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked.
" Are you not dancing ? "

" As you see, I'm a wall-flower."

" Won't you dance with me 1 "

" Thank you ; I would rather you should dance with my
little maid."

" One needn't prevent the other ; especially as she is engaged."

" She is not engaged for everything, and you can reserve your-
self. She dances very hard, and you will be the fresher."

" She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her
with his eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a
smile." He stood there with his handsome, ea.sy, important
physiognomy ; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, as
it had done before, that it was strange a man of his importance
should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great
incongruity ; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own
kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,
which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for
it. " I shall like to dance with you," he went on in a moment,
turning back to Isabel ; " but I think I like even better to talk
with you."

" Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of -your dignity. Great
statesmen oughtn't to waltz."

" Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance
with Miss Osmond 1 "

"Ah, that's different. If you dance with her, it would look
simply like a piece of kindness — as if you were doing it for her
amusement. If you dance with me you will look as if you were
doing it for your own."

" And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself ? "

"No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your
hands."

" The British Empire be hanged ! You are always laughing
at it."

" Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel.

" I am not sure that is a recreation. You are too pointed ; I
have always to be defending myself. And you strike me as
more than usually dangerous to-night. Won't you really dance] "

" I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here."

He was silent a moment. " You are wonderfully good to
her," he said, suddenly.

Isabel stared a little, and smiled. " Can you imagine one's
not being 1 "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 385

" No, indeed. I know how one cares for her. But you must
have done a great deal for her."

" I have taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still.
"And I have seen that she has proper clothes."

" Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You
have talked to her, advised her, helped her to develop."

"Ah, yes, if she isn't the rose, she has lived near it."

Isabel laughed, and her companion smiled ; but there was a
certain visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with
complete hilarity. " We all try to live as near it as we can," he
said, tfter a moment's hesitation.

Isabel turned away ; Pansy was about to be restored to her,
and she welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked
Lord Warburton ; she thought him delightful; there was some-
thing in his friendship which appeared a kind of resource in case
of indefinite need ; it was like having a large balance at the bank.
She felt happier when he was in the room ; there was something
reassuring in his approach ; the sound of his voice reminded her
of the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it did not please
her that he should be too near to her, that he should take too
much of her good- will for granted. She was afraid of that ; she
averted herself from it ; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that
if he should come too near, as it Avere, it was in her to flash out
and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with
another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence
of the first, and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes.
There were too many gentlemen in uniform ; they wore those
dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses of young girls.
It hereupon became apparent that the resources of women are
innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's desecrated
drapery ; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the injury ; she
smiled and listened to her account of her 'adventures. Her
attention, her sympathy, were most active ; and they were in
direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no
way connected — a lively conjecture as to whether Lord War-
burton was trying to make love to her. It was n< >t simply his
words just then ; it was others as well ; it was the reference and
the continuity. This was what she thought about while she
pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was of
course unconscious ; he himself had not taken account of his
intention. But this made it none the more auspicious, made the
situation none the less unacceptable. The sooner Lord Wa.r-
burton should come to self -consciousness thn better. He im-
mediately began to talk to Pansy — on whom it was certainly

c o

386 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

mystifying to see that he dropped a smile of chastened devotion.
Pansy replied as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspira-
tion ; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation,
and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust
person, as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always
seemed a little frightened ; yet her fright was not of the painful
character that suggests dislike ; on the contrary, she looked as if
she knew that he knew that she liked him. Isabel left them
together a little, and wandered toward a friend whom she saw
near, and with whom she talked till the music of the following
dance began, for which she knew that Pansy was also engftged.
The young girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered
look, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his
daughter's complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious
and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this
matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there
were moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of
them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a
sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's duenna, which
consisted of gracious alternation of concession and contraction ;
and there were directions of his which she liked to think that
she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it
was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the
absurd.

After Pansy had been led away, Isabel found Lord Warburton
drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him, steadily ;
she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no
appearance of confusion.

" She has promised to dance with me laterf" he said.

" I am glad of that. I suppose you have engaged her for tlu>
cotillion."

At this he looked a little awkward. " No, I didn't ask her
for that. It'sta quadrille."

" Ah, you are not clever ! " said Isabel, almost angrily. " I
told her to keep the cotillion, in case you should ask for iU"

"Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton
l.aughed frankly. " Of course I will if you like."

" If I like 1 Oh, if you dance with her only because I like
it!"

" I am afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young
fellows on her book."

Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly ; Lord Warburton
stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She
felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She did not do

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 587

so, however ; she only said to - him, t after a minute, -looking up—
" Please to let me understand."

" Understand what?"

" You told me ten days ago that you should like to marry my
step-daughter. You have not forgotten it ! "

" Forgotten it ? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning."

"Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had
heard from you."

Lord Warburton stammered a little. " I — I didn't send my
letter."

" Perhaps you forgot that." '

" No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter
to write, you know. But I shall send it to-night."

" At three o'clock in the morning ? "

" I mean later, in the course of the day."

"Very good. You still wish, then, to marry her?"

"Very much indeed."

"Aren't you afraid that you will bore her?" And as her
companion stared at this inquiry, Isabel added — "If she can't
dance with you for half-an-hour, how will she be able to dance
with you for life?"

"Ah," said Lord Warburton, readily, "I will let her dance
with other people ! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought
that you — that you — "

" That I would dance with you'? I told you I would dance
nothing."

" Exactly ; so that while it is going on I might find some
quiet corner where we might sit down and talk."

"Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you are much too considerate
of me."

When the cotillion came, Pansy was found to have engaged
herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had
no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner,
but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself.
As, however, she had, -in spite of the remonstrances of her
hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was
not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an
exception in Lord Warburton's favour.

" After all, I don't care to dance," he said, " it's a barbarous
amusement ; I would much rather talk." And he intimated
that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking
for — a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music
would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation.
Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea ; she wished

c u 2

388 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with
him, though she knew that her husband desired she should not
lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant^
however ; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way
out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Hosier, who was
standing in a doorway, with fo'ded arms, looking at the dance,
in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped
a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.

" Certainly not, if I can't dance with her ! " he answered.

" You had better go away, then," said Isabel, with the manner
of good counsel.

" I shall not go till she does ! " And he let Lord Warburton
pass, without giving him a look.

This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth,
and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that
he had seen him somewhere before.

" It's the young man I have told you about, who is in love
with Pansy," said Isabel.

" Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad."

" He has reason. My husband won't listen to him."

" What's the matter with him 1 " Lord Warburton inquired.
" He seems very harmless."

"He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever."

Lord Warburton listened with interest ; he seemed struck
with this account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a
well-set-up young fellow."

" So he is, but my husband is very particular."

" Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment.
" How much money has he got 1 " he then ventured to ask.

" Some forty thousand francs a year."

"Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you
know."

" So I think. But my husband has larger ideas."

" Yes ; I have noticed that your husband has very large ideas.
Is he really an idiot, the young man?"

"An idiot1? Not in the least; he's charming. When he
was twelve years old I myself was in love with him.

"He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord
Warburton rejoined, vaguely, looking about him. Then, with
more point — " Don't you think we might sit here ? " he asked.

" Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir,
pervaded by a subdued, rose-coloured light ; a lady and gentle-
man moved out of it as our friends came in. " It's very kind
of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier," Isabel said.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 389

"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard
long ; I wondered what ailed him."

" You are a just man," said Isabel. " You have a kind
thought even for a rival."

Lord Warburton turned, suddenly, with a stare. " A rival !
Do you call him my rival ? "

" Surely — If you both wish to marry the same person."

" Yes — but since he has no chance ! "

" All the same, I like you for putting yourself in his place.
It shows imagination."

"You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her
with an uncertain eye. "I think you mean that you are
laughing at me for it."

" Yes, I am laughing at you, a little. But I like you, too."

" Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more.
What do you suppose one could do for him 1 "

" Since I have been praising your imagination, I will leave
you to imagine that yourself," Isabel said. " Pansy, too, would
like you for that."

" Miss Osmond 1 Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already."

"Very much, I think."

He hesitated a little ; he was still questioning her face.
" Well, then, I don't understand you. You don't mean that she
cares for him 1 "

" Surely, I have told you that I thought she did."

A sudden blush sprung to his face. " You told me that
she would have no wish apart from her father's, and as I have
gathered that he would favour me — " He paused a little, and then
he added — " Don't you see 1 " suggestively, through his blush.

" Yes, I told you that she had an immense wish to please her
father, and that it would probably take her very far."

" That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord War-
burton.

" Certainly ; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained
silent for some moments ; the room continued to be empty ; the
sound of the music reached them with its richness softened by
the interposing apartments. Then at last she said — "But it
hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a man would
wish to be indebted for a wife."

" I don't know ; if the wife is a good one, and he thinks she
does well ! "

" Yes, of course you must think that."

"I do ; I can't help it. You call that very British, of

390 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to
marry you, and I don't know who should know it better than
you. But you are not in love."

" ^h, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond ! "

Isabel shook her head. " You like to think you are, while
you sit here with me. Eut that's not how you strike me."

" I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that.
But what makes it so unnatural ? Could anything in the world
be more charming than Miss Osmond 1 "

" Nothing, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good
reasons."

"I don't agree with you. I am delighted to have good
reasons."

" Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't
care a straw for them."

" Ah, really in love — really in love ! " Lord Warburton ex-
claimed, folding his arms, leaning back his head, and stretching
himself a little. " You must remember that I am forty years
old. I won't pretend that I am as I once was."

" Well, if you are sure," said Isabel, " it's all right."

He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back,
looking before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his
position ; he turned quickly to his companion. " Why, are you
so unwilling, so sceptical?"

She met his eye, and for a moment they looked straight at
each other. If she wished to be satisfied, she saw something
that satisfied her; she saw in his eye the gleam of an idea that
she was uneasy on her own account — that she was perhaps even
frightened. It expressed a suspicion, not a hope, but such as it
was it told her what she wished to know. Not for an instant
should he suspect that she detected in his wish to marry her
step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or
that if she did detect it she thought it alarming or compromising.
In that brief, extremely personal gaze, however, deeper meanings
passed between them than they were conscious of at the moment.

" My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, " you may do,
|S far as I am concerned, whatever chines into your head."

And with this she got up, and wandered into the adjoining
room, where she encountered several acquaintances. While she
talked with them she found herself regretting that she had
moved ; it looked a little like running away — all the more as
Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, how-
ever, and, at any rate, she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied
til at when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 391

Rosier still planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him
again.

" You did right not to go away. I have got some comfort for
you."

" I need it," the young man murmured, " when I see you so
awfully thick with him ! "

" Don't speak of him, I will do what I can for you. I am
afraid it won't be much, but what I can I will do."

He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has
suddenly brought you round 1 "

" The sense that you are an inconvenience in the doorways ! "
she answered, smiling, as she passed him. Half-an-hour later she
took leave, with Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two
ladies, with many other departing guests, waited a while for
their carriage. Just as it approached, Lord Warburton came
out of the house, and assisted them to reach their vehicle. He
stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if she had amused
herself ; and she, having answered him, fell back with a little
air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by a
movement of her finger, murmured gently — " Don't forget to
send your letter to her father ! "

XLIY.

THE Countess Gemini was often extremely bored — bored, in
her own phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished,
however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny,
which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who
insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such
consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent for
losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an oblig-
ing disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by
those who won from him ; and he bore a name whieh, having a
measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old
Italian states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula.
In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not
remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits
to a city where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explan
ation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes
upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that
she had not a habitation there. She was ashamed to say how
J she had been allowed to go there ; it scarcely made the

392 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

matter better that there were other members of the Florentine
nobility who never had been there at all. She went whenever
she could ; that was all she could say. Or rather, not all ; but
all she said she could say. In fact, she had much more to say
about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated
Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of St.
Peter's. They are reasons, however, which do not closely concern
us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome,
in short, was the Eternal City, and that Florence was simply a
pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently
needed tor connect the idea of eternity with her amusements.
She was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting
in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties.
At Florence there were no celebrities ; none at least one had
heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had
gieatiy increased; she was so sure that his wife had a more
biiiliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel,
but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome — not to
the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the church-
ceremonies and the scenery ; but certainly to all the rest. She
heard a great deal about her sister-in-law, and knew perfectly
that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen
it for herjeli on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the
hospitality oi? the Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week
there during the ilrst winter of her brother's marriage ; but she
had not been encouraged to ret.ew this satisfaction. Osmond
didn't want her — that she was perfectly aware of; but she
would have gone all the same, for after all she didn't care two
straws about Osmond. But her husband wouldn't let her, and
the money-question was always a trouble. Isabel had been
very nice ; the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from
the first, had not been blinded, by envy to Isabel's personal
merits. She had always observed that she got on better with
clever women than with silly ones, like herself ; the silly oiu-s
could never'understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones —
the really clever ones — always understood her silliness. It
appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance and
general style, Isabel and she had a patch of common ground
somewhere, which they would set their feet upon at last. It
was not very large, but it was firm, and they would both kn-w
it when once they touched it. And then she lived, with Mrs.
Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise ; she was
constantly expecting that Isabel would " look down " upon her,
and she as constantly saw this operation postponed. She a^ked

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 393

herself when it would begin ; not that she cared much ; but she
wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law regarded
her with none but level glances, and expressed for the poor
Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality, Isabel
would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a
moral judgment on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her
husband's sister, however ; she was rather a little afraid of her.
She wondered at her ; she thought her very extraordinary. The
Countess seemed to her to have no soul ; she was like a bright
shell, with a polished surface, in which spmething would rattle
when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess's
spiritual principle ; a little loose nut that tumbled about inside
of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for com-
parisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no
question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,
had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the
worst species — a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius.
He said at another time that she had no heart ; and he added
in a moment tha^ she had given it all away — in small pieces,
like a wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of
course another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome ;
but at the period with which this history has now to deal, she
was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at the
Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond
himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be
very quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the
meaning he had put into it, I am unable to say ; but she accepted
the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; for
one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her
brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been
sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts — if
any of the Countess's thoughts were serious — of putting her on
her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was
reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would
not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at
measurements ; but it seemed to her that if Isabel should draw
herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she
wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself up ;
it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped.

Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant
brought her the card of a visitor — a card with the simple super-
scription, " Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed her
finger-tips to her forehead ; she did not remember to have known
any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that

394 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should
not recognise her name, she would know her well enough on
seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she
had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady
at Mrs. Touchett's ; the only woman of letters she had ever
encountered. That is, the only modern one, since she was the
daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole
immediately ; the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly
unchanged ; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured,
thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of
distinction. She wondered whether Miss Stackpole had come
on account of her mother — whether she had heard of the Ameri-
can Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel's friend ;
the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more
modern ; and she received an impression of the improvements
that were taking place — chiefly in distant countries — in the
character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her
mother used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of bare
shoulders, and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of
glossy ringlets. She spoke softly and vaguely, with a kind of
Southern accent ; she sighed a great deal, and was not at all
enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always
closely buttoned and compactly braided ; there was something
brisk and business-like in her appearance, and her manner was
almost conscientiously familiar The Countess could not but
feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more
efficient than the American Corinne.

Henrietta explained that she Irad come to see the Countess
because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that
when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more
than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs.
Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence
Henrietta would not have gone to see her, for Mrs. Touchett was
not one of her admirations.

"Do you mean by that that I am1?" the Countess asked,
smiling graciously.

" Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole.
"I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very
interesting. I don't know whether it was an accident, or whether
it is your usual style. At any rate, I was a good deal struck
with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print."

" Dear me ! " cried the Countes*, staring and half-alarmed ;
" I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable ! I wish I had
known it."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 395

" It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss
Stackpole remarked. " You threw a good deal of light upon it."

" The position of woman is very uncomfortable. Is that
what you mean 1 And you wrote it down and published it 1 "
the Countess went on. " Ah, do let me see it ! "

" I will write to them to send you the paper if you like,"
Henrietta said. " I didn't mention your name ; I only said a
lady of high rank. And then 1 quoted your views."

The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her
clasped hands.

"Do you know I am rather sorry you didn't mention my
name1? I should have rather liked to see my name in the
papers. I forget what my views were ; I have so many ! But
I am not ashamed of them. I am not at all like my brother — I
suppose you know my brother ? He thinks it a kind of disgrace
to be put into the papers ; if you were to quote him he would
never forgive you."

" He needn't be afraid ; I shall mwer refer to him," said Miss
Stackpole, with soft dryness. " That's another reason," she
added, " why I wanted to come and see you. You know Mr.
Osmond married my dearest friend."

"Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to
think what I knew about you."

" I am quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared.
" But that isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He
has tried to break up my relations with Isabel."

" Don't permit it," said the Countess.

" That's what I want to talk about. I am going to Rome."

" So am I ! " the Countess cried. " We will go together."

" With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey
I will mention you by name, as my companion."

The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the
sofa beside her visitor.

" Ah, you must send me the paper ! My husband won't like
it ; but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to
read."

Henrietta's large eyes became immense.

" Doesn't know how to read ? May I put that into my letter1?"

"Into your letter V

" In the In,ttirmeior.r. That's my paper."

" Oh yes, if you like ; with his name. Are you going to stay
with Isabel]"

Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence a,t he*
hostess.

396 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was commg,
and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a
pension"

The Countess listened with extreme interest.

" That's Osmond," she remarked, pregnantly.

" Isabel ought to resist," said Miss Stackpole. " I am afraid
she has changed a great deal. I told her she would."

"I am sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own
way. "Why doesn't my brother like you 1 " the Countess added,
ingenuously.

" I don't know, and I don't care. He is perfectly welcome
not to like me ; I don't want every one to like me ; I should
think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can't
hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated ; that's
the way he knows how his work goes on. And it's just the
same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabel."

"Do you mean that she hates you1?" the Countess inquired.

" I don't know ; I want to see. That's what I am going to
Rome for."

" Dear me, what a tiresome errand ! " the Countess exclaimed.

" She doesn't write to me in the same way ; it's easy to see
there's a difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole
went on, "I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide
on the line I shall take."

The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual
shrug.

" I know very little ; I see and hear very little of Osmond.
He doesn't like me any better than he appears to like you."

"Yet you are not a lady -correspondent." said Henrietta,
pensively.

" Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they have in-
dited me — I am to stay in the house ! " And the Countess
smiled almost fiercely ; her exultation, for the moment, took
little account of Miss Stackpole's disappointment.

This lady, however, regarded it very placidly.

" I should not have gone if she had asked me. That is, I
think I should not ; and I am glad I hadn't to make up my
mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I should
not have liked to turn away from her, and yet I should not
have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very
well. But that is not all."

"Rome is very good just now," said the Countess; "there
are all sorts of smart people. Did you ever hear of Lord
Warburtonr

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 397

" Hear of him ? I know him very well. Do you consider
him very smart ? " Henrietta inquired.

" I don't know him, but I am told he is extremely grand
seigneur. He is making love to Isabel."

" Making love to her ? "

" So I'm told ; I don't know the details," said the Countess
lightly. "But Isabel is pretty safe."

Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment
she said nothing.

" When do you go to Rome 1 " she inquired, abruptly.

" Not for a week, I am afraid."

"I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had
better not wait."

" Dear me, I am sorry ; I am having some dresses made. I
am told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there ;
I shall call on you at your pension" Henrietta sat still — she
was lost in thought ; and suddenly the Countess cried, " Ah, but
if you don't go with me you can't describe our journey ! "

Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration ; she
was thinking of something else, and she presently expressed it.

" I am not sure that I understand you about Lord War-
burton."

" Understand me 1 I mean he's very nice, that's all."

" Do you consider it nice to make love to married women 1 "
Henrietta inquired, softly.

The Countess stared, and then, with a little violent laugh —

" It's certain that all the nice men do it. Get married and
you'll see ! " she added.

" That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stack-
pole. " I should want my own husband ; I shouldn't want any
one else's. Do you mean that Isabel is guilty — is guilty — " aud
she paused a little, choosing her expression.

"Do I mean she's guilty 1 Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I
only mean that Osmond is very tiresome, and that Lord War-
bUrton is, as I hear, a great deal at the house. I'm afraid you
are scandalised."

" No, I am very anxious," Henrietta said.

" Ah, you are not very complimentary to Isabel ! You should
have more confidence. I tell you," the Countess added quickly,
" if it will be a comfort to you I will engage to draw him off."

Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper
solemnity of her eyes.

" You don't understand me," she said after a while. " I
haven't the idea that you seem to suppose. I am not afraid for

898 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel — in that way. I am only afraid she is unhappy — that's
what I want to get at."

The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked
impatient and sarcastic.

" That may very well be ; for my part I should like to know
whether Osmond is."

Miss Stackpole had begun to bore her a little.

" If she is really changed that must be at the bottom of it,"
Henrietta went on.

" You will see ; she will tell you," said the Countess.

" Ah, she may not tell me — that's what I am afraid of ! "

" Well, if Osmond isn't enjoying himself I natter myself I
shall discover it," the Countess rejoined.

" I don't care for that," said Henrietta.

" I do immensely ! If Isabel is unhappy I am very sorry for
her, but I can't help it. I might tell her something that would
make her worse, but I can't tell her anything that would console
her. What did she go and marry him for1? If she had listened
to me she would have got rid of him. I will forgive her, how-
ever, if I find she has made things hot for him ! If she has
simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't know that I
shall even pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I
count upon finding that if she is miserable she has at least made
him so."

Henrietta got up ; these seemed to her, naturally, very dread
ful expectations. She honestly believed that she had no desire
to see Mr. Osmond unhappy ; and indeed he could not be for
her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the wholo
rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a
narrower circle than she had imagined.

" It will be better if they love each other," she said
gravely.

" They can't. He can't love any one."

' ' I presumed that was the case. But it only increases my
fear for Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow."

" Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling
very vividly. " I declare : don't pity her."

" It may be that I can't assist her," said Miss Stackpole, as if
it were well not to have illusions.

" You can have wanted to, at any rate ; that's something. I
believe that's what you came from America for," the Countess
suddenly added.

" Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said, serenely.

Her hostess stood there smiling at her, with her small bright

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 399

eyes and her eager-looking nose ; a flush, had come into each of
her cheeks.

" Ah, that's very pretty — c'est bien gentil ! " she said. " Isu'fc
that what they call friendship 1 "

" I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better
come,"

" She is very happy — she is very fortunate," the Countess
went on. " She has others besides." And then she broke out,
passionately. " She is more fortunate than I ! I am as unhappy
as she — I have a very bad husband ; he is a great deal worse
than Osmond. And I have no friends. I thought I had, but
they are gone. No one would do for ine what you have done
for her."

Henrietta was touched ; there was nature in this bitter effu-
sion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then —

" Look here, Countess, I will do anything for you that you
like. I will wait over and travel with you."

"Never mind," the Countess answered, with a quick change
of tone ; " only describe me in the newspaper ! "

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make
her understand that she could not give a fictitious representation
of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious
reporter.

On quitting the Countess she took her way to the Lung' Arno,
the sunny quay beside the yellow river, wheie the bright-faced
hotels familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned
her way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very
quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great
decision of step out of the little square which forms the approach
to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left,
towards the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the
hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew
forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil, and,
after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege
to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the
brief query — " Could I see you this evening for a few moments
on a very important matter 1 " Henrietta added that she should
start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document
she approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in
the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The
porter replied, as porters alwa^ s reply, that he had gone out about
twenty minutes before ; whereupon Henrietta presented her card
and begged it might be handed to him on his return. She left
the inn and took her course along the quay to the severe portico of

400 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the entrance
of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in, she
ascended the high staircase which leads to the upper chambers.
The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with antique
busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an
empty vista, in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the
marble floor. The gallery is very cold, and during the midwinter
weeks is but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more
ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto
struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and
admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the
Tribune — the Virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant,
who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him
while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had taken a
great fancy to this intimate scene — she thought it the most
beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from
New York to Eome, she was spending but three days in
Florence, but she had reminded herself that they must not
elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of
art. She had a. great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved
a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn,
into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it ; whereupon
she gave a little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

" I have just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card
for you."

"I am very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered, as
if he really meant it.

" It was riot to honour you I did it ; I have called on you
before, and I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a
little about something."

He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. " I shall
be very glad to hear what you wish to say."

"You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I
don't care for that ; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote
a word to ask you to come and see me ; but since I have met
you here this will do as well."

" I was just going away," Goodwood said ; " but of course I
will stop." He was civil, but he was not enthusiastic.

Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and
she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen
to her on any terms. She asked him first, however, if he had
seen all the pictures.

" All I want to. I have been here an hour."

" I wonder if you have seen my Correggio," said Henrietta.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 401

" I came up on purpose to have a look at it." She went into
the Tribune, and he slowly accompanied her.

" I suppose I have seen it, but I didn't know it was yours.
I don't remember pictures — especially that sort." She had
pointed out her favourite work ; and he asked her if it was
about Correggio that she wished to talk with him.

" ^"o," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious !"
They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of trea-
sures, to themselves ; there was only a custode hovering about,
the Medicean Venus. " I want you to do me a favour," Miss
Stackpole went on.

Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no em-
barrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was
that of a much older man than our earlier friend. " I'm sure
it's something I shan't like," he said, rather loud.

" No, I don't think you will like it. If you did, it would be
no favour."

"Well, let us hear it," he said, in the tone of a man quite
conscious of his own reasonableness.

"You may say there is no particular reason why you should
do me a favour. Indeed, I only know of one : the fact that if
you would let me I would gladly do you one." Her soft, exact
tone, in which there was no attempt at effect, had an extreme
sincerity ; and her companion, though he presented rather a
hard surface, could not help being touched by it. When he
was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs ;
he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He
only fixed his attention more directly ; he seemed to consider
with added firmness. Henrietta went on therefore disinterest-
edly, without the sense of an advantage. " I may say now,
indeed — it seems a good time — that if I have ever annoyed you
(and I think sometimes that I have), it is because I knew that
I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I have troubled you
— doubtless. But I would take trouble for you."

Goodwood hesitated. " You are taking trouble now."

" Yes, I am, some. I want you to consider whether it is
better on the whole that you should go to Rome."

" I thought you were going to say that ! " Goodwood ex-
claimed, rather artlessly.

" You have considered it, then 1 "

" Of course I have, very carefully. I have looked all round
it. Otherwise I shouldn't have come as far as this. That's
what I stayed in Pa'ris two months for; I was thinking it
over."

D D

402 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I am afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was
"best, because you were so much attracted."

" Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood inquired.

" Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next."

" Oh, it won't do her any good ! I don't flatter myself that."

" Won't it do her harm ? — that's the question."

" I don't see what it will matter to her. I am nothing to
Mrs. Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her
myself."

" Yes, and that's why you go."

" Of course it is. Could there be a better reason ? "

"How will it help you? that's what I want to know," said
Miss Stackpole. x

"That's just what I can't tell you; it's just what I was
thinking about in Paris. v

" It will make you more discontented."

''"Why do you say more so 1 " Goodwood asked, rather sternly.
" How do you know I am discontented 1 "

" Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little — " you seem never
to have cared for another."

" How do you know what I care for ? " he cried, with a big
blush. " Just now I care to go to Rome."

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous
expression. " Well," she observed, at last, " I only wanted to
tell you what I think ; I had it on my mind. Of course you
think it's none of my business. But nothing is any one's
business, on that principle."

"It's very kind of you ; I am greatly obliged to you fpr your
interest," said Caspar Goodwood. " I shall go to Rome, and I
shan't hurt Mrs. Osmond."

" You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her 1 — that
is the question."

" Is she in need of help ? " he asked, slowly, with a penetrating
look.

''Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious
evasiveness, and generalising less hopefully than usual. " If
you go to Rome," she added, " I hope you will be a true friend
— not a selfish one ! " And she turned away and began to look
at the pictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go, and stood watching her while
she wandered round the room ; then, after a moment, he rejoined
her. " You have heard something about her here," he snid in a
moment. " I should like to know what you have heard."

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and though on

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 403

this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she
decided, after a moment's hesitation, to make no superficial
exception. "Yes, I have heard," she answered; "but as I
don't want you to go to Rome I won't tell you."

" Just as you please. I shall see for myself," said Goodwood.
Then, inconsistently — for him, "You have heard she is un-
happy ! " he added.

" Oh, you. won't see that ! " Henrietta exclaimed.
" I hope not. When do you start 1 "
" To-morrow, by the evening train. And you 1 "
Goodwood hesitated ; he had no desire to make his journey to
Rome in Miss Stackpole's company. His indifference to this
advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but
it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a
tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a reference to her faults.
He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in
theory, no objection to the class to which- she belonged. Lady
correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of
tilings in a progressive country, and though he never read their
letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social
progress. But it was this very eminence of their position that
made him wish that Miss Stackpole did not take so much for
granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some
allusion to Mrs. Osmond ; she had done so when they met in Paris,
six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the
assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish
whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond ; he was not always thinking
of her ; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved,
the least colloquial of men, and this inquiring authoress was
constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul.
H£ wished she didn't care so "much ; he even wished, though it
might seem rather brutal of him, that she would leave him alone.
In spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections
— which show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour
was from Gilbert Osmond's. He wished to go immediately
to Eome ; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train.
He hated the European railway-carriages, in which x>ne sat for
hours in a vice, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner
to whom one presently found one's self objecting with all the
added vehemence of one's wish to have the window open ; and
if they were worse at night even than by day, at least at night
one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he
could not take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting
in the morning ; it seemed to him that this would be an insult

D D 2

404 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she
had gone, unless he should wait longer than he had patience for.
It would not do to start the next day. She worried him ; she
oppressed him ; the idea of spending the day in a European
railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations.
'Still, she was a lady travelling alone ; it was his duty to put
himself out for her. There could be no two questions about
that ; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely
grave for some moments, and then he said, without any of the
richness of gallantry, but in a tone of extreme distinctness — " Of
course, if you are going to-morrow, I will go too, as I may be of
assistance to you."

"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta
remarked, serenely.

XLY.

I HAVE already had reason to say that Isabel knew that her
husband was displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to
Rome. This knowledge was very present to her as she went to
her cousin's hotel the day after she had invited Lord Warburton
to give a tangible proof of his sincerity ; and at this moment,
as at others, she had a sufficient perception of the sources of
Osmond's displeasure. He wished her to have no freedom of
mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of
freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,
that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be per-
ceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of her
husband's disapproval ; that is, she partook of it, as she nattered
herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in
direct opposition to Osmond's wishes ; he was her master ; she
gazed at moments with a sort of incredulous blankness at this
fact. It weighed upon her imagination, however ; constantly
present to her mind were all the traditionary decencies and
sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them tilled her
with shame as well as with dread, for when she gave hers< If
away she had lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief
that her husband's intentions were as generous as her own. She
seemed to see, however, the rapid approach of the day when she
should have to take back something that she had solemnly given.
Such a ceremony would be odious and monstrous ; she tried to
shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do nothing to
help it by beginning first ; he would put that burden upon her.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 405

He had not yet formally forbidden her to go and see Ralph; "but
she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this
prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The
weather as yet made it impossible. She could perfectly under-
stand her husband's wish for the event; to be just, she didn't
see how he could like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never
said a word against him ; but Osmond's objections were none
the less founded. If Osmond should positively interpose, then
she should have to decide, and that would not be easy. The
prospect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in
advance ; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an
open rupture with her husband, she found herself wishing that
Ralph would start even at a risk. And it was of no use that
when catching herself in this state of mind, she called herself a
feeble spirit, a coward. It was not that she loved Ralph less, but
that almost anything seemed preferable to repudiating the most
serious act — the single sacred act — of her life. That appeared
to make the whole future hideous. To break with Osmond
once would be to break for ever ; any open acknowledgment
of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that their whole
attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be no
condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal
readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one
thing was to have been exquisite. Qnce they missed it, nothing
else would do ; there is no substitute for th&t success. For the
moment, Isabel went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she
thought well ; the measure of expediency resided in her moral
consciousness. It had been very liberal to-day, for in addition
to the general truth that she couldn't leave Ralph to die alone,
she had something important to ask of him. This indeed was
Gilbert's business as well as her own.

She came very soon to what she wished to speak of.

" I want you to answer me a question," she said. " It's about
Lord Warburton."

" I think I know it," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out
of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.

" It's very possible," said Isabel. u Please then answer it."

" Oh, I don't say I can do that."

" You are intimate with him," said Isabel ; " you have a great
deal of observation of him."

" Very true. But think how he must dissimulate ! "

" Why should he dissimulate 1 That's not his nature."

" Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are pecu-
liar," said Ralph, with an air of private amusement.

406 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"To a certain extent — yes. But is he really in loveV'

"Very much, I think. I can make that out."

" Ah ! " said Isabel, with a certain dry ness.

Ralph looked at her a moment ; a shade of perplexity mingled
with his mild hilarity.

" You said that as if you were disappointed."

Isabel got up, slowly, smoothing her gloves, and eyeing them
thoughtfully.

11 It's after all no business of mine."

" You are very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a
moment — " May I inquire what you are talking about ? "

Isabel stared a little. " I thought you knew. Lord War-
burton tells me he desires to marry Pansy. I have told you
that before, without eliciting a comment from you. You might
risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really
cares for her 1 "

" Ah, for Pansy, no ! " cried Ralph, very positively.

" But you said just now that he did."

Ralph hesitated a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs.
Osmond."

Isabel shook her head, gravely. "That's nonsense, you
know."

" Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine."

" That would be very tiresome," Isabel said, speaking, as she
nattered herself, witn much subtlety.

" I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, " that to me he
has denied it."

" It's very good of you to talk about it together ! Has he
also told you that he is in love with Pansy ? "

" He has spoken very well of her — very properly. He has
let me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well
at Lockleigh."

" Does he really think it ?"

"Ah, what Warburton really thinks !" said Ralph.

Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again ; they were long,
loose gloves upon which she could freely expend herself. Soon,
however, she looked up, and then —

" Ah, Ralph, you give me no help ! " she cried, abruptly,
passionately.

It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and
the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long
murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness ; it seemed to him that
at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this
that made him exclaim in a moment —

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 407

" How unhappy you must "be ! "

He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-posses-
sion, and the first use she made of it was to pretend she had not
heard him.

" When I talk of your helping me, I talk great nonsense,"
she said, with a quick smile. "The idea of my troubling you
with my domestic embarrassments ! The matter is very simple ;
Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't undertake to
help him."

" He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.

Isabel hesitated a moment. " Yes — but he has not always
succeeded."

" Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised
me. Is Miss Osmond capable of giving us a surprise 1 "

" It will come from him, rather. I suspect that after all he
will let the matter drop."

" He will do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.

" I am very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable
than for him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for some
one else, and it is cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent
offers to give him up."

" Cruel to the other person perhaps — the one she cares for.
But Warburton isn't obliged to mind that."

" No, cruel to her," said Isabel. " She would be very un-
happy if she were to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor
Mr. Rosier. That idea seems to amuse you ; of course you are
not in love with him. He has the merit of being in love with
her. She can see at a glance that Lord Warburton is not."

"He would be very good to her," said Ralph.

" He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he
has not said a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her
good-bye to-morrow with perfect propriety."

" How would your husband like that V'

" Not at all ; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he
in usi. obtain satisfaction himself."

" Has he commissioned you to obtain it? " Ralph ventured to
ask.

" It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's —
an older friend, that is, than Osmond — I should take an interest
in his intentions."

" Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean."

Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. " Let me understand. Are
you pleading his cause 1 "

" Not in the least. I am very glad he should not become

408 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

your step-daughter's husband. It makes such a very queer
relation to you ! " said Ealph, smiling. " But I'm rather nervous
Jest your husband should think you haven't pushed him enough."

Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he.

" He knows me well enough not to have expected me to push.
He himself has no intention of pushing, I presume. I am not
afraid I shall not be able to justify myself! " she said, lightly.

Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on
again, to Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caughr, a
glimpse of her natural face, and he wished immensely to look
into it. He had an almost savage de-ire to hear her complain
of her husband — hear her say that she should be held accountable
for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain that this
was her situation ; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form
that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It
could only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked
to warn Isabel of it — to let her see at least that he knew it. It
little mattered that Isabel would know it much better ; it was
for his own satisfaction more than for hers than he longed to
show her that he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to
make her betray Osmond ; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonour-
able almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only
failed. What had she come for then, and why did she seem
almost to olfer him a chance to violate their tacit convention 1
Why did she ask him his advice, if she gave him no liberty to
answer her? How could they talk of her domestic embarrass-
ments, as it pleased her humorously to designate them, if the
principal factor was not to be mentioned ? These contradictions
were themselves but an indication of her trouble, and her cry
for help, just before, was the only thing he was bound to
consider.

" You will be decidedly at variance, all the same," he s;tid, in
a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she
scarcely understood — " You will find yourselves thinking very
differently," he continued.

" That may easily happen, among the most united couples ! "
She took up her parasol ; he saw that she was nervous, afraid of
what he might say. " It's a matter we can hardly quarrel about,
however," she added ; " for almost all the interest is on his side.
That is very natural. Pansy is after all his daughter — not mine."
And she put out her hand to wish him good-bye.

Ralph took an inward resolution that she should not leave
him without his letting her know that he knew everything; it
seemed too great an opportunity to lose. " Do you know what

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 409

his interest will make him say 1 " he asked, as he took her hand.
She shook her head, rather dryly — not discouragingly — and he
went on, " It will make him say that your want of zeal is owing
to jealousy." He stopped a moment ; her face made him afraid.

" To jealousy ? "

" To jealousy of his daughter."

She blushed red and threw baclc^her head.

"You are not kind," she said, in a voice that he had never
heard on her lips.

" Be frank with me, and you'll see," said Ealph.

But she made no answer ; she only shook her hand out of his
own, which he tried sstill to hold, and rapidly went out of the
room. She made up her mind to speak to Pansy, and she took
an occasion on the same day, going to the young girl's room
before dinner. Pansy was already dressed ; she was always in
advance of the time ; it seemed to illustrate her pretty patience
and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.
At present she was seated in her fresh array, before the bed-room
fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet,
in accordance with the economical habits in which she had been
brought up and which she was now more careful than ever to
observe ; so that the room was lighted only by a couple of logs.
The rooms in the Palazzo Koccanera were as spacious as they
were numerous, and Pansy's virginal bower was an immense
chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling. Its diminutive
mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of humanity,
and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel, the
latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel
had a difficult task — the only thing was to perform ir, as simply
as possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself
against betraying it to Pansy. She was afraid even of look-
ing too grave, or at least too stern ; she was afraid of frighten-
ing her. But Pansy seemed to have guessed that she had come
a little as a confessor; for after she had moved the chair in
which she had been sitting a little nearer to the fire, and Isabel
had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a cushion in
front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her
stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear
from her own lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord
Warburton ; but if she desired the assurance, she felc herself
by no means at liberty to provoke it. The girl's father would
have qualified this as rank treachery ; and indeed Isabel knew
that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of a disposition
to encourage Lord Warburton, her own duty was to hold her

410 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to
suggest ; Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more
complete than Isabel had yet judged it, gave to the most tenta-
tive inquiry something of the effect of an admonition. As she
knelt there in the vague firelight, with her pretty dress vaguely
shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half in submission,
her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness of the
situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked
out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it.
When Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her
of what might have been going on in relation to her getting
married, but that her silence had not been indifference or ignor-
ance, had only been the desire to leave her at liberty, Pansy
bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer to Isabel's, and
with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep longing,
answered that she had greatly wished her to speak, and that she
begged her to advise her now.

" It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel rejoined. " I
don't know how I can undertake that. That's for your father ;
you must get his advice, and, above all, you must act upon it."

At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said
nothing.

" I think I should like your advice better than papa's/' she
presently remarked.

"That's not as it should be," said Isabel, coldly. "I love
you very much, but your father loves you better."

" It isn't because you love me — it's because you're a lady,"
Pansy answered, with the air of saying something very reason-
able. " A lady can advise a young girl better than a man."

" I advise you, then, to pay the greatest respect to your
father's wishes."

" Ah, yes," said Pansy, eagerly, " I must do that."

" But if I speak to you now about your getting married, it's
not for your own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. " If I
try to learn from you what you expect, what you desire, it is
only that I may act accordingly."

Pansy stared, and then, very quickly —

"Will you do everything I desire1?" she asked.

" Before I say yes, I must know what such things are."

Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wished in
life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her, and she had
told him that she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now
her papa wouldn't allow it.

" Very well, then, it's impossible," said Isabel.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 411

"Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy, without a sigh, and with
the same extreme attention in her clear little face.

" You must think of something else, then," Isabel went on j
but Pansy, sighing then, told her that she had attempted this
feat without the least success.

",You think of those that think of you," she said, with a
faint smile. " I know that Mr. Rosier thinks of me."

" He ought not to," said Isabel, loftily. " Your father has
expressly requested he shouldn't."

" He can't help it, because he knows that I think of him."

"You shouldn't think of him. There is some excuse for him,
perhaps ; but there is none for you ! "

" I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed, as if
she were praying to the Madonna.

" I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna,
with unusual frigidity. "If you knew some one else was
thinking of you, would you think of him ? "

" ISTo one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does ; no one has the
right."

" Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right," Isabel cried,
hypocritically.

Pansy only gazed at her ; she was evidently deeply puzzled ;
and Isabel, taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the
miserable consequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy
stopped her, with the assurance that she would never disobey
him, would never marry without his consent. And she announced,
in the serenest, simplest tone, that though she might never
marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She
appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness ; but
Isabel of course was free to reflect that she had no conception of
its meaning. She was perfectly sincere ; she was prepared to
give up her lover. This might seem ah important step toward
taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it did not lead in that
direction. She felt no bitterness towards her father ; there was
no. bitterness in her heart ; there was only the sweetness of
fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimation
that she could prove it better by remaining single than even by
marrying him,

" Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said
Isabel. "Mr. Rosier's fortune is not very large."

" How do you mean better — if that would be good enough ]
And I have very little money ; why should I look for a
fortune 1 "

" Your having so little is a reason for looking for more."

412 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room ; she felt as
if her face were hideously insincere. She was doing this for
Osmond ; this was what one had to do for Osmond ! Pansy's
solemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her ; she was*
ashamed to think that she had made so light of the girl's
preference.

" What should you like me to do 1 " said Pansy, softly.

The question was a terrible one, and Isabel pusillanimously
took refuge in a generalisation.

"To remember all the pleasure it is in your power to give
your father."

"To marry some one else, you mean — if he should ask me1?"

For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for ;
then she heard herself utter it, in the stillness that Pansy's
attention seemed to make.

" Yes — to marry some one else."

Pansy's eyes grew more penetrating ; Isabel believed that she
was doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force from
her slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a
moment, with her small hands unclasped, and then she said,
with a timorous sigh —

" Well, I hope no one will ask me ! "

" There has been a question of that. Some one else would
have been ready to ask you."

" I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.

" It would appear so — if he had been sure that he would
succeed."

" If he had been sure ? Then he was not ready ! "

Isabel thought this rather sharp ; she also got up. and stood a
moment, looking into the fire. " Lord Warburton has shown
you great attention," she said ; "of course you know it's of him
I speak." She found herself, against her expectation, almost
placed in the position of justifying herself ; which led her to
introduce this nobleman more crudely than she had intended.

" He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much.
But if you mean that he will ask me to marry him, I think you
are mistaken."

" Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."

Pansy shook her head, with a little wise smile. " Lord
Warburton won't ask me simply to please papa."

" Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went
on, mechanically.

" How can I encourage him ? "

" I don't know. Your father must tell you that."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 413

Pansy said nothing for a moment ; she only continued to
smile as if she were in possession of a bright assurance. " There
is no danger — no danger ! " she declared at last.

There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity
in her believing it, which made Isabel feel very awkward" She
felt accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To
repair her self-respect, she was on the point of saying that
Lord Warburton had let her know that there was a danger.
Eut she did not ; she only said — in her embarrassment rather
wide of the mark — that he surely had been most kind, most
friendly.

" Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. " That's
what I like him for."

" Why then is the difficulty so great 1 "

" I have always felt sure that he knows that I don't want —
what did you say I should do? — to encourage him. He knows
I don't want to marry, and he wants me to know that he there-
fore won't trouble me. That's the meaning of his kindness.
It's as if he said to me, ' I like you very much, but if it doesn't
please you I will never say it again.' I think that is very kind,
very noble," Pansy went on, with deepening positiveness. " That
is all we have said to each other. And he doesn't care for me,
either. Ah no, there is no danger ! "

Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception
of which this submissive little person was capable ; she felt
afraid of Pansy's wisdom — began almost to retreat before it.
" You must tell your father that," she remarked, reservedly.

" I think I would rather not," Pansy answered.

" You ought not to let him have false hopes."

" Perhaps not ; but it will be good for me that he should.
So long as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of
the kind you say, papa won't propose any one else. And that
will be an advantage for me," said Pansy, very lucidly.

There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made
Isabel draw a long breath. It relieved her of a heavy responsi-
bility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and
Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light to spare from
her small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must
be loyal to Osmond, that she was on her honour in dealing with
his daughter. Under the influence of this sentiment she threw
out another suggestion before she retired — a suggestion with
which it seemed to her that she should have done her utmost.
" Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to
marry a nobleman."

414 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Pansy stood in the open doorway ; she had drawn back the
curtain for Isabel to pass. " I think Mr. Eosier looks like one ! >;
she remarked, very gravely.

XLVL

LORD WARBURTON was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-
room for several days, and Isabel could not fail to observe that
her husband said nothing to her about having received a letter
from him. She could not fail to observe, either, that Osmond
was in a state of expectancy, and that though it was not agree-
able to him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend
kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he
alluded to his absence.

" What has become of Warburton 1 What does he mean by
treating one like a tradesman with a bill 1 "

" I know nothing about him," Isabel said. " I saw him last
Friday, at the German ball. He told me then that he meant to
write to you."

" He has never written to me."

" So I supposed, from your not having told me."

" He's an odd fish," said Osmond, comprehensively. And on
Isabel's making no rejoinder, he went on to inquire whether it
took his lordship five days to indite a letter. " Does he form his
words with such difficulty 1 "

" I don't know," said Isabel. " I have never had a letter from
him."

" Never had a letter 1 I had an idea that you were at one
time in intimate correspondence."

Isabel answered that this had not been the case, and let the
conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the
drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up
again.

" When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing,
what did you say to him ? " he asked.

Isabel hesitated a moment. " I think I told him not to
forget it."

" Did you believe there was a danger of that 1 "

" As you say, he's an odd fish."

"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so
good as to remind him."

" Should you like me to write to him1?" Isabel asked.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 415

" I have no objection whatever."

" You expect too much of me."

" Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."

" I am afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.

" My expectations have survived a good deal of disappoint-
ment,"

" Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed
myself ! If you really wish to capture Lord Warburton, you
must do it yourself."

For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing ; then he
gaid — "That won't be easy, with you working against me."

Isabel started ; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had
a way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he
were thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her
to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognise
her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her, for
the time, as a presence. That was the expression of his eyes
now. " I think you accuse me of something very base," she
said.

" I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't come
up to the mark 'it will be because you have kept him off. I
don't know that it's base ; it is the kind of thing a woman
always thinks she may do. I have no doubt you have the
finest ideas about it."

" I told you I would do what I could," said Isabel.

"Yes, that gained you time."

It came over Isabel, after he had said this, that she had once
thought him beautiful. " How much you must wish to capture
him ! " she exclaimed, in a moment.

She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach
of her words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering
them. They made a comparison between Osmond and herself,
recalled the fact that she had once held this coveted treasure in
her hand and felt herself rich enough to let it fall. A moment-
ary exultation took possession of her — a horrible delight in
having wounded him ; for his face instantly told her that none
of the force of her exclamation was lost. Osmond expressed
nothing otherwise, however; he only said, quickly, "Yes, I
wish it very much."

At this moment a servant .came in, a,s if to usher a visitor,
and he was followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received
a visible check on seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the
master of the house to the mistress ; a movement that seemed to
denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a perception of ominous

416 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

conditions. Then he advanced, with his English address, in
which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element of
good-breeding ; in which the only defect was a difficulty in
achieving transitions

Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but
Isabel remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the
act of talking about their visitor. Upon this her husband
added that they hadn't known what was become of him — they
had been afraid he had gone away.

" No" said Lord Warburton, smiling and looking at Osmond ;
" I am only on the point of going. " And then he explained
that he found himself suddenly recalled to England ; he should
start on the morrow or next day. " I am awfully sorry to leave
poor Touchett ! " he ended by exclaiming.

For a moment neither of his companions spoke ; Osmond
only leaned back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at
him ; she could only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were upon
Lord Warburton's face, where they were the more free to rest
that those of his lordship carefully avoided them. Yet Isabel
was sure that had she met her visitor's glance, she should have
found it expressive. " You had better take poor Touchett with
you," she heard her husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.

" He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton
answered. " I shouldn't advise him to travel just now."

He sat there for a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might
not soon see them again — unless indeed they should come to
England, a course which he strongly recommended. Why
shouldn't they come to England in the autumn 1 that struck
him as a very happy thought. It would give him such pleasure
to do what he could for them — to have them come and spend a
month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to
England but once ; which was an absurd state of ihings. It
was just the country for him — he would be sure to get on well
there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered
what a good time she had there, and if she didn't want to try
it again. Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more?
Gardencourt was really very good. Touchett didn't take proper
care of it, but it was the sort of place you could hardly spoil by
letting it alone. Why didn't they come and pay Touchett a
visit 1 He surely must have asked them. Hadn't asked them 1
What an ill-mannered wretch ! and Lord Warburton promised
to give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of
course it was a mere accident ; he would be delighted to have
them. Spending a mouth with Touchett and a month with

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 417

himself, and seeing all the rest of the people they must know
there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord Warburton
added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told
him that she had never been to England and whom he had
assured it was a country she deserved to see. Of course she
didn't need to go to England to be admired — that was her fate
everywhere ; but she would be immensely liked in England,
Miss Osmond would, if that was any inducement. He asked if
she were not at home : couldn't he say good-bye 1 Not that
he liked good-byes—he always funked them. When he left
England the other day he had not said good-bye to any one.
He had had half a mind to leave Rome without troubling Mrs.
Osmond for a final interview. What could be more dreary than
a final interview 1 One never said the things one wanted to —
one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other
hand, one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply
from a sense that one had to say something. Such a sense was
bewildering ; it made one nervous. He had it at present, and
that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't
think he spoke as he ought, she must set it down to agitation ;
it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. He was really
very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her,
instead of calling — but he would write to her at any rate, to
tell her a lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as
soon as he had left the house. They must think seriously about
coming to Lockleigh.

If there was anything awkward in the circumstances of his
visit or in the announcement of his departure, it failed to come
to the surface. Lord Warburton talked about his agitation ;
but he showed it in no other manner, and Isabel saw that since
he had determined on a retreat he was capable of executing it
gallantly. S4ie wan very glad for him; she liked him quite
well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He
would do that on any occasion ; not from imprudence, but
simply from the habit of success ; and Isabel perceived that it
was not in her husband's power to frustrate this faculty. A
double operation, as she sat there, went on in her mind. On
one side she listened to Lord Warburton ; said what was proper
to him ; read, more or less, between the Hues of what he said
himself ; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had
found her alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness
of Osmond's emotion. She felt almost sorry for him ; he was
condemned to the sharp pain of loss without the relief of cursing.
He had had a great hope, and now, as he saw it vanish into

E E

418 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl his thumbs.
Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly ; he treated
Lord Warburton, on the whole, to as vacant a countenance as
so clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of
Osmond's cleverness that he could look consummately uncom-
promised. His present appearance, however, was not a confes-
sion of disappointment ; it was simply a part of Osmond's
habitual system, which was to be inexpressive exactly in pro-
portion as he was really intent. He had been intent upon Lord
Warburton from the first ; but he had never allowed his eager-
ness to irradiate his refined face. He had treated bis possible son-
in-law as he treated every one — with an air of being interested
in him only for his own advantage, not for Gilbert Osmond's.
He would give no sign now of an inward rage which was the
result of a vanished prospect of gain — not the faintest nor
subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any satisfaction to
her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction ; she wished
Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the
same time she wished her husband to be very superior before
Lord Warburton. Osmond, in his way, was admirable ; he had,
like their visitor, the advantage of an acquired habit. It was
not that of succeeding, but it was something almost as good —
that of not attempting. As lie leaned back in his place, listen-
ing but vaguely to Lord Wurburton's friendly offers and sup-
pressed explanations — as it' it were only proper to assume that
they were, addressed essentially to his wife — he had at least
(since so little else was left him) the comfort of thinking how
well he personally had kept nut of it, and how the air of
indifference, which he was now able to wear, had the added
beauty of consistency. It was something to be able to look as
if their visitor's movements had no reLition to his own mind.
Their visitor did well, certainly ; but Osmond's performance was
in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position
was after all an easy one ; there was no reason in the world why
he should not leave Koine. He had beneficent inclinations ;
but they had stopped short of fruition ; he had never committed
himself, and his honour was safe. Osmond appeared to take
but a moderate interest in the proposal that they should go and
stay with him, and in his allusion to the success Pansy might
extract from ' their visit. He murmured a recognition, but left
Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.
Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the givat
vista which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind,
with Pansy's little figure marching up the middle of it.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 419

Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy,
but neither Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for
her. He had the air of giving out that his visit must be short ;
he sat on a small chair, as if it were only for a moment, keeping
his hat in his hand. But he stayed and stayed ; Isabel wondered
what he was waiting for. She believed it was not to see Pansy ;
she had an impression that on the whole he would rather not
see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone — he had some-
thing to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she
was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly
dispense with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got
up, like a man of good taste to whom it had occurred that so
inveterate a visitor might wish to say just the last word of all to
the ladies.

" I have a letter to write before dinner," he said ; "you
must excuse me. I will see if my daughter is disengaged, and
if she is she shall know you are here. Of course when you
come to Koine you will always look us up. Isabel will talk
to you about the English expedition; she decides all those
things."

The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he terminated
this little speech, was perhaps a4rather meagre form of salutation ;
but on the whole it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel
reflected that after he left the room Lord Warburton would have
no pretext for saying — " Your husband is very angry ; " which
would have been extremely disagreeable to her. Nevertheless,
if he had done so, she would have said — " Oh, don't be anxious.
He doesn't hate you : it's me that he hates ! "

It was only when they had been left alone together that Lord
Warburton showed a certain vague awkwardness — sitting down
in another chair, handling two or three of the objects that were
near him. " I hope he will make Miss Osmond come," he
presently remarked. " I want very much to see her."

" I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel.

" So am I. She doesn't care for me."

" No, she doesn't care for you."

" I don't wonder at it," said Lord Warburton. Then he
added, with inconsequence — "You will come to England, won't
you 1 "

" I think we had better not."

" Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you
were to have come to Lockleigh once, and you never did 1 "

" Everything is changed since then," said Isabel.

" Not changed for the worse, surely — as far as we are con-

E E 2

420 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

cerned. To see you under my roof " — and he hesitated a moment
— " would be a great satisfaction."

She had feared an explanation ; but that was the only one .
that occurred. They talked a* little of Ralph, and in another
moment Pansy came in, already dressed for dinner and with a
little red spot in either cheek. She shook hands with Lord
Warburton and stood looking up into his face with a fixed
smile — a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship probably
never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.

" I am going away," he said. " I want to bid you good-bye."

" Good-bye, Lord Warburton." The young girl's voice trembled
a little.

" And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very
happy."

" Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.

He lingered a moment, and gave a glance at Isabel. " Yon
ought to be very happy — you have got a guardian angel."

" I am sure I shall be happy," said Pansy, in the tone of a
person whose certainties were always cheerful.

" Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But
if it should ever fail you, remember — remember — " and Lord
Warburton stammered a little. " Think of me sometimes, yon
know," he said with a vague laugh. Then he shook hands with
Isabel, in silence, and presently he was gone.

When he had left the room Isabel expected an effusion of
tears from her step-daughter ; but Pansy in fact treated her to
something very different.

" I think you are my guardian angel ! " she exclaimed, very
sweetly.

Isabel shook her head. " I am not an angel of any kind. I
am at the most your good friend."

" You are a very good friend then — to have asked papa to be
gentle w^fch me."

" I have asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering.

" He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then
he gave me a very kind kiss."

" Ah," said Isabel, " that was quite his own idea ! "

She recognised the idea perfectly ; it was very characteristic,
and she was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy,
Osmond could not put himself the least in the wrong. They
were dining out that day, and after their dinner they went to
another entertainment ; so that it was not till late in the evening
that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him, before
going to bed, he returned her embrace with even more than his

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 421

usual munificence, and Isabel wondered whether he meant it as
a hint that his daughter had been injured by the machinations
of her stepmother. It was a partial expression, at any rate, of
what he continued to expect of his wife. Isabel was about to
follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she would
remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked
about the drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting, in her
cloak.

" I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a
moment. " I should like to know — so that I may know how
to act."

"Just now I wish to go to bed. I am very tired."

" Sit down and rest ; 1 shall not keep you long. Not there
— take a comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of
cushions that were scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast
divan. This was not, however, where she seated herself; she
dropped into the nearest chair. The fire had gone out; the
lights in the great room were few. She drew her cloak about
her ; she felt mortally cold. " I think you are trying to humili-
ate me," Osmond went on. " It's a most absurd undertaking."

" I haven't the least idea what you mean," said Isabel.

" You have played a very deep game ; you have managed it
beautifully."

" What is it that I have managed 1 "

" You have not quite settled it, however ; we shall see him
again." And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in his
pockets, looking down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way,
which seemed meant to let her know that she was not an object,
but only a rather disagreeable incident, of thought.

" If you mean that Lord Warburton is under an obligation to
come back, you are wrong," Isabel said. " He is under none
whatever."

" That's just what I complain of. But when I say he will
come back, I don't mean that he will come from a sense of
duty."

" There is nothing else to make him. I think he has quite
exhausted Rome."

" Ah no, that's a shallow judgment. Rome is inexhaustible."
And Osmond began to walk about again. " However, about
that, perhaps, there is no hurry," he added. "It's rather a
good idea of his that we should go to England. If it were not
for the fear of finding your cousin there, I think I should try to
persuade you."

" It may be that you will not find my cousin," said Isabel.

422 THE PORTRAIT OF. A LADY.

" I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall l>e as sure
as possible. At the same time I should like to see his house,
that you told me so much about at one time : what do you call
it? — Gardencourt. It must be a charming tiling. And then,
you know, I have a devotion to the memory of your uncle ; you
made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to see where
he lived and died. That, however, is a detail. Your friend
was right ; Pansy ought to see England."

" I have no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.

"But that's a long time hence; next autumn is far off,"
Osmond continued ; " and meantime there are tilings that more
nearly interest us. Do you think me so very proud 1 " he
asked, suddenly.

" I think you very strange."

"You don't understand me."

" No, not even when you insult me."

" I don't insult you ; I am incapable of it. I merely speak
of certain facts, and if the allusion is an injury to you the fault
is not mine. It is surely a fact that you have kept all this
matter quite in your own hands."

"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked.
" I am very tired of his name."

" You shall hear it again before we have done with it."

She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed
to her that this ceased to be a pain. He was going down —
down; the vision of such a fall made her almost giddy; that
was the only pain. He was too strange, too different ; he didn't
touch her. Still, the working of his morbid passion was extra-
ordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in what light
he saw himself justified. " I might say to you that I judge you
have nothing to say to me that is worth hearing," she rejoined
in a moment. " But I should perhaps be wrong. There is a
thing that would be worth my hearing — to know in the plainest
words of what it is you accuse me."

" Of preventing Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those
words plain enough 1 "

" On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you
so ; and when you told me that you counted on me — that I
think was what you said — I accepted the obligation. I was a
fool to do so, but I did it."

" You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance,
to make me more willing to trust you. Then you began to use
your ingenuity to get him out of the way."

'•' I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 423

" Where is the letter that you told me he had written me 1 "
her husband asked.

" I haven't the least idea ; I haven't asked him."

" You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.

Isabel slowly got up; standing there, in her white cloak,
which covered her to her feet, she might have represented the
angel of disdain, first cousin to that of pity. " Oh, Osmond,
for a man who was so fine ! " she exclaimed, in a long murmur.

" I was never so fine as you ! You have done everything you
wanted. You have got him out of the way without appearing
to do so, and you have placed me in the position in which you
wished to see me — that of a man who tried to marry his
daughter to a lord, but didn't succeed."

" Pansy doesn't care for him ; she is very glad he is gone,"
said Isabel.

«' That has nothing to do with the matter."

" And he doesn't care for Pansy."

" That won't do ; you told me he did. I don't know why
you wanted this particular satisfaction," Osmond continued ;
"you might have .taken some other. It doesn't seem to me
that I have been presumptuous — that I have taken too much
for granted. I have been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he
liked her before I ever thought o£it. I left it all to you."

" Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you
must attend to such things yourself."

He looked at her a moment, and then he turned away. "I
thought you were very fond of my daughter."

" I have never been more so than to-day."

" Your affection is attended with immense limitations. How-
ever, that perhaps is natural."

"Is this all you wished to say to me1?" Isabel asked, taking a
candle that stood on one of the tables.

" Are you satisfied 1 Am I sufficiently disappointed 1 "

" I don't think that on the whole you are disappointed. You
have had another opportunity to try to bewilder me."

45 It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."

" Poor little Pansy ! " said Isabel, turning away with her
candle.

424 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

XLVII.

IT was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned that Caspar
Goodwood had come to Rome ; an event that took place three
days after Lord Warburton's departure. This latter event had
been preceded by an incident of some importance to Isabel — the
temporary absence, once again, of Madame Merle, who had gone
to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor of a villa
at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's
happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most
discreet of women might not also by chance be the most
dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strange visions ; she
seemed to see her husband and Madame Merle in dim, indis-
tinguishable combination. It seemed to her that she had not
done with her; this lady had something in reserve. Isabel's
imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but
every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that
when her brilliant friend was away from Rome she had almost a
consciousness of respite. She had already learned from Miss
Stackpole that Caspar Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta
having written to inform her of this fact immediately after
meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to Isabel, and
though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he might
not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage,
had had quite the Character of a complete rupture ; if she
remembered rightly he had s dd he wished to take his last look
at her. Since then he had been the most inharmonious survival
of her earlier time — the only one, in fact, with which a perma-
nent pain was associated. He left her, that morning, with the
sense of an unnecessary shock ; it was like a collision between
vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist, no hidden
current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer
skilfully. He had bumped against her prow, however, while
her hand was on the tiller, and — to complete the metaphor —
had given the lighter vessel a strain which still occasionally
betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It had been painful to see
him, because he represented the only serious harm that (to her
belief) she had ever done in the world ; he was the only person
with an unsatisfied claim upon her. She had made him unhappy,
she couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a great reality.
She cried with rage, after he had left her, at — she hardly knew
what : she tried to think it was at his want of consideration. He

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 425

had come to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss was
so perfect ; he had done his best to darken the brightness of
these pure rays. He had not been violent, and yet there was a
violence in that. There was a violence at any rate in something,
somewhere ; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and
that after-sense of it which lasted for three or four days. The
effect of Caspar Goodwood's visit faded away, and during the
first year of Isabel's marriage he dropped out of her books. He
was a thankless subject of reference ; it was disagreeable to have
to think of a person who was unhappy on your account and
whom you could do nothing to relieve. It would have been
different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of his
•unhappiness, as she doubted of Lord Warburton's ; unfortunately
it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncompromising
look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could never
say to herself that Caspar Goodwood had great compensations,
as she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She
had no faith in his compensations, and no esteem for them. A
cotton-factory was not a compensation for anything — least of all
for having failed to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond
that, she hardly knew what he had — save of course his intrinsic
qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic enough ; she never thought of
his even looking for artificial aids. If he extended his business
— that, to the best of her belief, was the only form exertion
could take with him— it would be because it was an enterprising
thing, or good for the business ; not in the least because he
might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a
kind of bareness and bleakness which made the accident of
meeting it in one's meditations always a sort of shock ; it was
deficient in the social drapery which muffles the sharpness of
human contact. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she
never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of
him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily
for news of him, from time to time ; but Lily knew nothing
about Boston ; her imagination was confined within the limits
of Manhattan. As time went on Isabel thought of him oftener,
and with fewer restrictions ; she had more than once the idea
of writing to him. She had never told her husband about him
— never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence ; a
reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence
in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that Caspar Good-
wood's disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would
.be wrong of her, she believed, to convey it to another, and Mr.
Goodwood's affairs could have, -after all, but little interest fot

426 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Gilbert. When it came to the point she never wrote to him ;
it seemed to her that, considering his grievance, the least she
could do was to let him alone. Nevertheless she would have
been glad to be in some way nearer to him. It was not that it
ever occurred to her that she might have married him ; even
after the consequences of her marriage became vivid to her, that
particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not
the assurance to present itself. But when she found herself in
trouble he became a member of that circle of things with which
she wished to set herself right. I have related how passionately
she desired to feel that her unhappiness should not have come
to her through her own fault. She had no near prospect of
dying, and yet she wished to make her peace with the world —
to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to her from
time to time that there was an account still to be settled with
Caspar Goodwood ; it seemed to her that she would settle it
to-day on terms easy for him. Still, when she learned that he
was coming to Rome she felt afraid ; it would be more disagree-
able f<>r him than for any one else to learn that she was unhappy.
Deep in her breast she believed that he had invested all his in
her happiness, while the others had invested only a part. He
was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her
misery. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome,
for he spent several days without coming to see her.

Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was much more
punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society of
her friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had
made such a point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one
way of proving that she had riot been superficial — the more so
that the years, in their flight, had rather enriched than blighted
those peculiarities which had been humorously criticised by
persons less interested than Isabel and were striking enough to
give friendship a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as keen and
quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her
eye had lost none of its serenity, her toilet none of its crispness,
her opinions none of their national flavour. She was by no
means quite unchanged, however ; it seemed to Isabel that she
had grown restless. Of old she had never been restless; though
she was perpetually in motion it was impossible to be more
deliberate. She had a reason for everything she did ; she fairly
bristled with motives. Formerly, when she came to Europe it
was because she wished to see it, but now, having already seen
it, she had no such excuse. She did not for a moment pretend (
that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 427

t-» do with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an
expression of her independence of the old world than of a sense
of further obligations to it. " It's nothing to come to Europe,"
she said to Isabel ; " it doesn't seem to me one needs so many
reasons for that. It is something to stay at home ; this is much
more important." It was not therefore with a sense of doing
anything very important that she treated herself to another
pilgrimage to Rome ; she had seen the place before and carefully
inspected it ; the actual episode was simply a sign of familiarity,
of one's knowing all about it, of one's having as good a right as
any one else to be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta
was restless ; she had a perfect right to be restless, too, if one
came to that. But she had after all a better reason for coming
to Rome than that she cared for it so little. Isabel easily
recognised it, and with it the worth of her friend's fidelity.
She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because she
guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal,
but she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satis-
factions just now were few, but even if they had been more
numerous, there would still have been something of individual
joy in her sense of being justified in having always thought
highly of Henrietta. She had made large concessions with
regard to her, but she had insisted that, with all abatements,
she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however,
that Isabel found good ; it was simply the relief of confessing
to Henrietta, the first person to whom she had owned it, that
she was not contented. Henrietta had herself approached this
point with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to
her face of being miserable. She was a woman, she was a
sister; she was not Ralph, nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar
Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.

" Yes, I am miserable," she said, very gently. She hated to
hear herself say it ; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.

" What does he do to you 1 " Henrietta asked, frowning as if
she were inquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.

" He does nothing. But he doesn't like me."

" He's very difficult ! " cried Miss Stackpole. " Why don't
you leave him 1 "

" I can't change, that way," Isabel said.

" Why not, I should like to know 1 You won't confess that
you have made a mistake. You are too proud."

" I don't know whether I am too proud. But I can't publish
my mistake. I don't think that's decent. I would much
rather die."

428 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" You won't think so always," said Henrietta.

" I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to ;
but it seems to me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept
one's deeds. I married him before all the world ; I was per-
fectly free ; it was impossible to do anything more deliberate.
One can't change, that way," Isabel repeated.

" You have changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope
you don't mean to say that you like him."

Isabel hesitated a moment. " No, I don't like him. I can
tell you, because I am weary of my secret. But that's enough ;
I can't tell all the world."

Henrietta gave a rich laugh. " Don't you think you are
rather too considerate1?"

" It's not of him that I am considerate — it's of myself ! "
Isabel answered.

It was not surprising that Gilbert Osmond should not have
taken comfort in Miss Stackpole ; his instinct had naturally set
him in opposition to a young lady capable of advising his wife
to withdraw from the conjugal mansion. When she arrived in
Rome he said to Isabel that he hoped she would leave her
friend the interviewer, alone; and Isabel answered that he at
least had nothing to fear from her. ,She said to Henrietta that
as Osmond didn't like her she could not invite her to dine ; but
they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received
Miss Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her
repeatedly to drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a
little forward, on the opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the
celebrated authoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta
occasionally found irritating. She complained to Isabel that
Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should remember every-
thing one said. " I don't want to be remembered that way,"
Miss Stackpole declared ; " I consider that my conversation
refers only to the moment, like the morning papers. Your step-
daughter, as she sits there, looks as if she kept all the back
numbers and would bring them out some day against me." She
could not bring herself to think favourably of Pansy, whose
absence of initiative, of conversation, of personal claims, seemed
to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even sinister. Isabel
presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a
little the cause of her friend, insist a little" upon his receiving
her, so that he might appear to sutfer for good manners' sake.
Her immediate acceptance of his objections put him too much
in the wrong — it being in effect one of the disadvantages of
expressing contempt, that you cannot enjoy at the same time

THE PORTKAIT OF A LADY. *29

the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held to his credit,
and yet he held to his objections — all of which were elements
difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that
Miss Stackpole should come to dine at the Palazzo Koccanera
•once or twice, so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always
so great) she might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave
him. From the moment, however, that both the ladies were so
unaccommodating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish
that Henrietta would take herself off. It was surprising how
little satisfaction he got from his wife's friends ; he took occasion
to call Isabel's attention to it.

" You are certainly not, fortunate in your intimates ; I wish
you might make a new collection," he said to her one morning,
in reference to nothing visible at the moment, hut in a tone of
ripe reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal abrupt-
ness. " It's as if you had taken 'the trouble to pick out the
people in the world that I have least in common with. Your
cousin I have always thought a conceited ass — besides his being
the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably
tiresome that one can't tell him so ; one must spare him on
account of his health. His health seems to me the best part of
him ; it gives him privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he is
so desperately ill there is only one way to prove it ; but he
seems to have no mind for that. • I can't say much more for
the great War.burton. When one really thinks of it, the cool
insolence of that performance was something rare ! He comes
and looks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments ;
he tries the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on
the walls and almost thinks he will take the place. Will you
be so good as to draw up a lease 1 Then, on the whole, he
decides that the rooms are too small ; he doesn't think he could
live on a third floor ; he must look out for a piano nobile. And
he goes away, after having got a month's lodging in the poor
little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your
most wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster.
One hasn't a nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering.
You know I never have admitted that she is a woman. Do you
know what she reminds me oil Of a new steel pen — the most
odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel pen writes ; aren't
her letters, by the way, on ruled paper1? She thinks and moves,
and walks and looks, exactly as she talks. You may say that
she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see
her, but I hear her ; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in
my ears ; I can't get rid of it. I know exactly what she says,

430 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

and every inflection of the tone in which she says it. She says
charming things about me, and they give yon great comfort. I
don't like at all to think she talks about me — I feel as I should
feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat ! "

Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured
him, rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other
subjects, in two of which the reader may be supposed to be
especially interested. She let Isabel know that Caspar Good-
wood had discovered for himself that she was unhappy, though
indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what comfort he
hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling on
her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appear-
ance of seeing them ; they were driving, and he had a habit of
looking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to contemplate
but one object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had
seen him the day before; it must have been with just that face
and step that he walked out of Mrs. Touchett's door at the close
of their last interview. He was dressed just as he had been
dressed on that day ; Isabel remembered the colour of his cravat ;
and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a strangeness
in his figure too ; something that made her feel afresh that
it was rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked
bigger and more over-topping than of old, and in those days
he certainly was lofty enough. She noticed that the people
whom he passed looked back after him ; but he went straight
forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky.

Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different ; she gave
Isabel the latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in
the United States the year before, and she was happy to say she
had been able to show him considerable attention. She didn't
know how much he had enjoyed it, but she would undertake to
say it had done him good; he wasn't the same nran when he left
that he was when he came. It had opened his eyes and shown
him that England was not everything. He was very much liked
over there, and thought extremely simple — more simple than
the English were commonly supposed to be. There were some
people thought him affected ; she didn't know whether they
meant that his simplicity was an affectation. Some of his
questions were too discouraging ; he thought all the chamber-
maids were farmers' daughters — or all the farmers' daughters
were chamber-maids — she couldn't exactly remember which. He
hadn't seemed able to grasp the school-system ; it seemed really
too much for him. On the whole he had appeared as if there

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 431

were too much — as if he could only take a small part. The part
he had chosen was the _ hotel-system, and the river-navigation.
He seemed really fascinated with the hotels ; he had a photograph
of every one he had visited. But the river-steamers were his
principal interest ; he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big
boats. They had travelled together from New York to Milwaukee,
stopping at the most interesting cities on the route ; and when-
ever they started afresh he had wanted to know if they could
go by the steamer, He seemed to have no idea of geography —
had an impression that Baltimore was a western city, and was
perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared
never to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi,
and was unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson,
though he was obliged to confess at last that it was fully equal
to the Rhine. They had spent some pleasant hours in the
palace-cars ; he was always ordering ice-cream from the coloured
man. He could never get used to that idea — that you could get
ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans, nor
candy, nor anything in' the English cars ! He found the heat
quite overwhelming, and she had told him that she expected it
was the greatest he had ever experienced. He was now in
England, hunting — " hunting round," Henrietta called it. These
amusements were those -of the American red men ; we had left
that behind long ago, the pleasures of the chase. It seemed to
be generally believed in England that we wore tomahawks and
feathers ; but such a costume was more in keeping with English
habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join her in Italy,
but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come over.
He wanted very much to see Versailles again ; he was very fond
of the ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that
was what she liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient
regime had been swept away. There were no dukes and mar-
quises there now ; on the contrary, she remembered one day.
when there were five America'n families, all walking round. Mr.
Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the subject
of England again, and he thought she might get on better with
it now ; England had changed a good deal within two or three
years. He was determined that if she went there he should go
to see his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this time the invitation
should come to her straight. The mystery of that other one had
never been explained.

Caspar Goodwood came at last to the Palazzo Roccanera; he
had written Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was

432 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

promptly granted ; she would be at home at six o'clock that
afternoon. She spent the day wondering what he was coming
for — what good he expected to get of it. He had presented him-
self hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise,
who would take what he had asked for or nothing. Isabel's
hospitality, however, asked -no questions, and she found no great
difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was
her conviction, at least, that she deceived him, and made
him say to himself that he had been misinformed. But she
also saw, so she believed, that he was not disappointed, as some
other men, she was sure, would have been ; he had not come to
Home to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he
had come for ; he offered her no explanation ; there could be
none but the very simple one that he wanted to see her. In
other words, he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up
this induction with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted
to have found a formula that would lay the ghost of this gentle- ,
man's ancient grievance. If he had come to Eome for his
amusement this was exactly what she wanted ; for if he cared
for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got
over his heartache everything was as it should be, and her
responsibilities were at an end. It was true that he took his
recreation a little stiffly, but he had never been demonstrative,
and Isabel had every reason to believe that he was satisfied with
what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he
was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon
his state of mind. He had little conversation upon general
topics ; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years
before — " Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't
talk." He spoke a good deal in Eome, but he talked, perhaps,
as little as ever f considering, that is, how much there was to
talk about. His arrival was not calculated to simplify her
relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't like her
friends, Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save
having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her
to say of him but that he was an old friend ; this rather meagre
synthesis exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce
him to Osmond ; it was impossible she should not ask him to
dinner, to her Thursday evenings, of which she had grown very
weary, but to which her husband still held for the sake not
so much of inviting people as of not inviting them. To the
Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early ;
he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 433

every now and then had a moment of anger ; there was something
so literal about him ; she thought he might know that she didn't
know what to do with him. But she couldn't call him stupid ;
he was not that in the least; he was only extraordinarily honest:
To be as honest as that made a man very different from most
people ; one had to be almost equally honest with him. Isabel
made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering
herself that she had persuaded- him that she was the most light-
hearted of women. He never threw any doubt on this point,
never asked her any personal questions. He got on much better
with Osmond than had seemed probable. Osmond had a great
dislike to being counted upon ; in such a case he had an irre-
sistible need of disappointing you. It was . in virtue of this
principle that he gave himself the entertainment of .taking a
fancy to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended
upon to treat with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood
also had wanted to marry her, and expressed surprise at her not
having accepted him. It would have been an excellent thing,
like living under a tall belfry which would strike all the hours
and make a queer vibration in the upper air. He declared he
liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at first,
you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the
top of the tower ; but when you got there you had a big view
and felt a little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delight-
ful qualities, and he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them
all. Isabel could see that Mr. Goodwood thought better of her
husband than he had ever wished to ; he had given her the
impression that morning in Florence of being inaccessible to a
good impression. Osmond asked him repeatedly to dinner, and
Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards, and even desired
to be shown his collections. Osmond said to Isibel that he was
very original ; he was as strong as an English portmanteau.
Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the Campagna, and devoted
much time to this exercise ; it was therefore mainly in the
evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying
to him one day that if he were willing he could render her a
service. And then she added smiling —

" I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service
of you."

" You are tne 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 Ealph,

F F

434 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

who was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him
as possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would
know who the poor fellow was ; if she was not mistaken, Ealph
had once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the
invitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be a
man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of
a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at
the Hotel de Paris, and on being shown into the presence of the
master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his
sofa. A singular change had, in fact, occurred in this lady's
relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by
Isabel to go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to
come out had immediately gone of her own motion. After this
she had paid him a daily visit — always under the conviction
that they were great enemies. " Oh yes, we 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 diifered ; 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 Stack-
pole'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 Hotel 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.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 435

She had a plan of making him travel northward with her cousin
as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. Lord War-
burton 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 she 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!

XLVIII.

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 1 "
" Ah," said Ralph, jocosely, " after all, they are human beings."
" Are there any women among them 1 " Miss Stackpole
inquired, calmly.

F F 2

436 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" 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 vou, and what is more I will take eare 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 1 "

11 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
nand ; 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 Mi^s Stackpole had taken him up and
was to conduct him back to England.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 437

" Ah then," said Caspar, " I am afraid I shall be a fifth wheel
tio the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with

you."

"Good heavens — r 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 kind-
ness," 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 extra-
ordinarily 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 Borne."

" 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 con-
venience," 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 1 "
Ralph rejoined. And this was the only conversation these
gentlemen had about Isabel Osmond.

438 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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 1 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.

11 Is that the story that Isabel tells 1 It isn't bad, as such
things go. If he wishes to marry my niece, pray why doesn't
he do it 1 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 kuovv she carried it so far."

" I don't understand you," said Henrietta, coldly, and reflect-
ing that the Counte-s 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 1 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 s'ee him yet."

"Well/3 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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 439

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 spec-
tators."

" Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer 1 " Henrietta inquired,
severely.

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

Henrietta contemplated her a while.

" 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 yon 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 1 What do you call the worst 1 "

" Before your character gets spoiled."

" Do you mean my disposition 1 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 off-hand
way in which you speak of a woman leaving her husband. It's
easy to see you have never had one ! "

" Well," said Henrietta, as if she were beginning an argument,
"nothing is more common in our western cities, and it is tc
them, after all, that we must look in the future." Her argument,
however, does not concern this history, which has too many

440 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

other threads to unwind. She announced to Ralph Touchett
that she was ready to leave Rome by any train that he might
designate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for
departure. Isabel went to see him at the last, and he made the
same remark that Henrietta had made. It struck him that
Isabel was uncommonly glad to get rid of them all.

For all answer to this 'she gently laid her hand on his, and
said in a low tone, with a quick smile —

" My dear Ralph ! "

It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he
went on, in the same way, jocosely, ingenuously — "I've seen
less of you than I might, but it's better than nothing. And
then I have heard a great deal about you."

" I don't know from whom, leading the life you have done."

" From the voices of the air ! Oh, from no one else ; I never
let other people speak of you. They always say you are 'charm-
ing,' and that's so flat."

" I might have seen more of you, certainly," Isabel said.
" But when one is married one has so much occupation."

" Fortunately I am not married. When you come to see me
in England, I shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom
of a bachelor." He continued to talk as if they should certainly
meet again, and succeeded in making the assumption appear
almost just. He made no allusion to his term being near, to the
probability that he should not outlast the summer. . If he
preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality was
sufficiently distinct, without their erecting finger-posts in con-
versation. . 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 is my greatest precaution," Ralph said. a The
conscience of that woman is sublime."

" Certainly, she will be very conscientious."

"Will be1? 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 am siartled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy
my being a cause of disagreement between a lady and her
husband ! "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 441

" That's why I don't go," said Isabel, simply, but not very
lucidly.

Ralph understood well enough, however. " I should think
so, with all those occupations you speak of."

" It isn't that. I am afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she
repeated, as if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words
— " I am 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 1 or were her words simply an attempt at enlightened
self-analysis 1 However this might be, Ralph could not resist so
easy an opportunity. " Afraid of your husband 1 " he said,
jocosely.

" Afraid of myself ! " said Isabel, getting up. She stood there
a moment, and then she added — " If I were afraid of my hus-
band, that would be simply my duty. That is what women are
expected to be."

" Ah, yes," said Ralph, laughing ; " but to make up for it
there is 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 ! "

Isabel coloured, and then she declared, quickly, that she must
leave him. They stood together a moment ; both her hands
were in both of his. " You have been my best friend," she said.

" It was for you that I wanted — that I wanted to live. But
I am 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 would come,"
she said at last.

" Your husband won't consent to that."

" Oh yes, I can arrange it."

u I shall keep that for my last pleasure ! " said Ralph.

In answer to which she simply kissed him.

It was a Thursday, and that evening Caspar Goodwood came
to the Palazzo Roccanera. He was among the first to arrive,
and he spent some time in conversation with Gilbert Osmond,
who almost always was present when his wife received. They
sat down together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative,

442 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

expansive, seemed possessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety.
He leaned back with his legs crossed, lounging and chatting,
while Goodwood, more restless, but not at all lively, shifted his
position, played with his hat, made the little sofa creak beneath
him. Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressive smile ; he was
like a man whose perceptions had been quickened by good news.
He remarked to Goodwood that he was very 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 am very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said ; " but
there is nothing I like better than to meet people who haven't
that superstition. The modern world is after all very fine.
Now you are thoroughly modern, and yet you are not at all
flimsy. So many of the moderns we see are such very poor
stuff. If they are the children of the future we are willing to
die young. Of course the ancients too are often very tiresome.
My wife and I like everything that is really new — not the mere
pretence of it. There is nothing new, unfortunately, in ignor-
ance and stupidity. We see plenty of that in forms that offer
themselves as a revelation of progress, of light. A revelation of
vulgarity ! There is a certain kind of vulgarity which I believe
is really new ; I don't think there ever was anything like it
before. Indeed I don't find vulgarity, at all, before the' present
century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in the
last, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate things

are literally not recognised. Now, we have liked you "

And Osmond hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on
Goodwood's knee and smiling with a mixture of assurance and
embarrassment. " I am going to say something extremely offen-
sive and patronising, but you must let me have the satisfaction
of it. We have liked you because — because you have reconciled
us a little to the future. If there are to be a certain number of
people like you — a la bonne lieure! I am talking for my wife
as well as for myself, you see. She speaks for me; why shouldn't
I speak for her1? We are as united, you know, as the candle-
stick and the snuffers. Am I assuming too much when I say
that I think I have understood from you that your occupations
have been — a — commercial 1 There is a danger in that, you
know ; but it's the Avay you have escaped that strikes us.
Excuse me if my little compliment seems in execrable taste ;
fortunately my wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 443

might have been — a — what I was mentioning just now. The
whole American world was in a conspiracy to make you so.
But you resisted, you have something that saved you. And yet
you are so modern, so modern ; the most modern man we know !
We shall always be delighted to see you again."

I have said that Osmond was in good-humour, and these
remarks will give ample evidence of the fact. They were
infinitely more personal than he usually cared to be, and if
Caspar Goodwood had attended to them more closely he might
have thought that the defence of delicacy was in rather odd
hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very
well what he was about, and that if he chose for once to be a
little vulgar, he had an excellent reason for the escapade. Good-
wood had only a vague sense that he was laying it on, somehow ;
he scarcely knew where the mixture was applied. Indeed lie
scarcely knew what Osmond was talking about ; he wanted to
be alone with Isabel, and that idea spoke louder to him than her
husband's perfectly modulated voice. He watched her talking
with other people, and wondered when she would be at liberty,
and whether he might ask her to go into one of the other rooms.
His humour was not, like Osmond's, of the best ; there was an.
element of dull rage in his consciousness of things. Up to this
time he had not disliked Osmond -personally; he had only
thought him very well-informed and obliging, and more than he
had supposed like the person whom Isabel Archer would naturally
marry. Osmond 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 like 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 a rather brilliant personage of
the amateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which
it amused him to work olf 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 ent*T-
tainmerit in it, and it ministered to a general impression that his
successful rival had a fantastic streak in his composition. He
knew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish him
evil; he had nothing to fear from him. He had carried oil' a
supreme advantage, and he could aiford to be kind to a man
who had lost everything. It was true that Goodwood at times
had wished Osmond were dead, and would have liked to kill

444 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

him ; but Osmond had no means of knowing this, for practice
had made Goodwood quite perfect in the art of appearing inac-
cessible to-day to any violent emotion. He cultivated this art
in order to deceive himself, but it was others that he deceived
first. He cultivated it, moreover, with very limited success ; of
which there could be no better proof than the deep, dumb
irritation that reigned in his soul when he heard Osmond speak
of his wife's feelings as if he were commissioned to answer for
them. That was all he had an ear for in what his host said to
him this evening ; he was conscious that Osmond made more of
a point even than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony
which prevailed at the Palazzo Roccanera. He was 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 which
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 ceased to flash her lantern at
him. This, indeed, it may be said for her, would have been
quite against her conscience. She had now seen the reality of
Isabel's situation, and it had inspired her with a just reserve.
Whatever could be done to improve it, the most useful form of
assistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense
of her wrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest
in the state of Mr. Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at
present only by sending him choice extracts, humorous and
other, from the American journals, of which she received several
by every post and which she always perused with a pair of
scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed in an
envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her
own hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about
Isabel; hadn't he come five thousand miles to see for himself?
He was thus not in the least authorised to think Mrs. Osmond
unhappy ; but the very absence of authorisation operated as an
irritant, ministered to the angry pain with which, in spite of hia
theory that he had ceased to care, he now recognised that, as* far
is she was concerned, the future had nothing more for him.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 445

Ho had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth ; appar-
ently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she were
unhappy. He was hopeless, he was helpless, he was superfluous.
To this last fact she had called his attention by her ingenious
plan for making him leave Eome. He had no objection what-
ever 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 Eome !

To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to
leave her to-morrow, and that he had gained nothing by coming
but the knowledge that he was as superfluous as ever. About
herself he had gained no knowledge ; she was imperturbable,
impenetrable. He felt the old bitterness, which he had tried so
hard to swallow, rise again in his throat, and he knew that there
are disappointments which 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 Osmond had a kind of demoniac imagin-
ation; it was impossible that without malice he should have
selected so unusual a topic. But what did it matter, after all,
whether he were demoniac or not, and whether she loved him or
hated him 1 She might hate him .to the death without Good-
wood's gaining by it.

" You travel, by the by, with Touchett," Osmond said. " I
suppose that means that you will move slowly 1 "

" 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 Eome. 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?"

446 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" 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 next1? I mean after you
have consigned Touchett to his natural care-takers — 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 1 "

" 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 Eome, 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 some-
thing 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 hospit-
able 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 Eoccanera, 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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 447

absolutely prevented. " I'm afraid it's impossible. People are
saying <j;ood-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 g,part ; 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 1 " 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 1 You mean as long a time hence as possible."

448 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Oh no ; I don't mean all that."

" What do you mean 1 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 1 " 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 ! 1 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 incon-
siderate state of mind. But the sense that it was hi's 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 1 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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 449

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 1 If you are really hurt — if lie hurts
yOU — nothing / 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 yonr husband,"
he went on, irrelevantly, almost incoherently, " I don't under-
stand him ; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he
tell me that? What business is it of mine 1 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 1 "

" Whether I may pity you."

" Should you like that]" Isabel asked, trying to smile again.

" To pity you 1 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.

o a

450 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

XLIX.

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 if?" 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 1 "

" 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 011 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 criticised ; she had
been excessively afraid of intermeddling. But apparently she
had only reserved herself for this occasion ; for she had a danger-
ous quickness in her eye, and an air of irritation which even her
admirable smile was not able to transmute. She had suffered

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 451

a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise — our heroine
naving 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 n«>t 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 has been
unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was
nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the reader
that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a
sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved
quickly, indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering
into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was identical with
Osmond's ; that was enough.

" I think Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more
angry," she said, in answer to her companion's last remark.

"I am not in the least angry. I have only a great desire to
retrieve the situation. Do you think his lordship has left us for
ever ? "

"I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over;
please let it rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about
it, and I have nothing more to say or to hear. I have no doubt,"
Isabel added, " that he will be very happy to discuss the subject
with you."

452 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" I know what he thinks ; he came to see me last evening."

" As soon as you had arrived 1 Then you know all about it,
and you needn't apply to me for information."

" It isn't information I want. At bottom, it's sympathy. I
had set my heart on that marriage ; the idea did what so few
things do — it satisfied the imagination."

" Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons
concerned."

" You mean by that of course that I am not concerned. Of
course not directly. But when one is such an old friend, one
can't help having something at stake. You forget how long I
have known Pansy. You mean, of course," Madame Merle added,
" that you are one of the persons concerned."

" No ; that's the last thing I mean. I am very weary of it
all."

Madame Merle hesitated a little. " Ah yes, your work's
done.'3

" Take care what you say," said Isabel, very gravely.

" Oh, I take care ; neve? perhaps more than when it appears
least. Your husband judges you severely."

Isabel made for a moment no answer to this ; she felt choked
with bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's
informing her that Osmond had been taking her into his con-
fidence as against his wife that struck her most : for she was not
quick to believe that this was meant for insolence. Madame
Merle was very rarely insolent, and only when it was exactly
right. It was not right now, or at least it was not right yet.
What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an open
wound, was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his
words as well as in his thoughts.

" Should you like to know how I judge him 1" she asked at
last,

" No, because you would never tell me. And it would be
]>; iiiful for me to know."

There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known
her, Isabel thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished
she would leave her.

" Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair," she
said abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.

But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contra-
diction. She only gathered her mantle about her, and, with the
movement, scattered upon the air a faint, agreeable fragrance.

" I don't despair," she answered ; " I feel encouraged. And I
didn't come to scold you ; I came if possible to learn the truth.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 453

I know you will 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 of1?" Isabel asked, wondering.

" Just this : whether Lord "Wai-burton 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 con-
fidence I must still have in you, in spite of having lost a little
of it," Madame Merle continued with a smile, " to ask such a
question as that ! " She sat looking at Isabel a moment, to judge
of the effect of her words, and then she went on — " Now don't
be heroic, don't be unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to
me I do you an honour in speaking so. I don't know another
woman to whom I would do it. I haven't the least idea that any
other woman would tell me the truth. And don't you see how
well it is that your husband should know it 1 It is 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 ; 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 would perhaps resign yourself to not being pleased — to
simp]y 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 Madame Merle had at last
thought it the right time to be insolent ; for this was not what
was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. " Who
are you — what are you 1 " Isabel murmured. " What have you
to do with my husband 1 " It was strange that, for the moment,
she drew as near to him as if she had loved him.

" Ah, then you take it heroically ! I am 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.

k< 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 her
visitor's eyes seemed only a darkness.

454 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" 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. Touch ett was right. Madame Merle
had married her ! Before she uncovered her face again, this
lady had left the room.

Isabel took a drive, alone, that afternoon ; she wished to be
far away, under the sky, where she could descend from her
carriage and tread upon the daisies. She had long before this
taken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins the
ruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe. She
rested her weariness upon things that had crumbled for centuries
and yet still were upright ; she dropped her secret sadness into
the silence of lonely places, where its very modern quality
detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a sun-
warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to
which no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its
smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her
haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot easily carried
her from the less to the greater. She had become deeply,
tenderly acquainted with Rome ; it interfused and moderated her
passion. But she had grown to think of it chiefly as the place
where people had suffered. This was what came to her in the
starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from
pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance,
and the musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered
prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistent heretic than
Isabel ; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures
or clustered candles, could not have felt more intimately the
suggestiveness of these objects nor have been more liable at
such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy, as we know,
was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess
Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their
equipage ; but she still occasionajly found herself alone when it
suited her mood, and where it suited the place. On such occa-
sions she had several resorts ; the most accessible of which
perhaps was a seat on the low parapet which edges the wide
grassy space lying before the high, cold front of St. John
Lateran ; where you look across the Campagna at the far-trailing
outline of the Alban Mount, and at that mighty plain between,
which is still so full of all that has vanished from it. After the
departure of her cousin and his companions she wandered about
more than usual ; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar
shrine to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were
with her, she felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 455

passing out of the walls of Rome, rolled through narrow lanes,
where the wild honeysuckle had begun to tangle itself in the
hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where the fields lay near,
while she strolled further and further over the flower-freckled
turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use, and gazed through
the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness of the
scene — at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft
confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely
attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness
of a blush.

)n the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a
resolution not to think of. Madame Merle ; but the resolution
proved vain, and this lady's image hovered constantly before her.
She asked herself, with an almost childlike horror of the supposi-
tion, 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 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 false ;
for that was what Madame Merle had been. Isabel's Aunt
Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned
it to her niece ; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that
she had a much richer view of things, especially of the spon-
taneity of her own career and the nobleness of her own interpret-
ations, than poor stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle
had done what she wanted ; she had brought about the union of
her two friends ; a reflection which could not fail to make it a
matter of wonder that she should have desired such an event.
There were people who had the match-making passion, like the
votaries of art for art ; but Madame Merle, great artist as she
was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of marriage,
too ill even of life ; she had desired that marriage, but she had
not desired others. She therefore had had an idea of gain, and
Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took
her, naturally, a long time to discover, and even then her
discovery was very incomplete. It came back to her that Madame
Merle, though she had seemed to like her from their first meeting
at Gardencourt, had been doubly affectionate after Mr. Touchett's
death, and after learning that her young friend was a victim of
the good old man's benevolence. She had found her profit not in
the gross device of borrowing money from Isabel, but in the more

456 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young
girl's fortune. She had naturally chosen her closest intimate,
and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert Osmond
occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this
manner with the conviction that the man in the world whom she
had supposed to he the least sordid, had married her 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, very
well ; the thing was often done. But at least he should let her
know ! She wondered whether, if he wanted her money, her
money to-day would satisfy him. Would he take her money and
let her go 1 Ah, if Mr. Touch ett's great charity would help her
to-day, it would be blessed indeed ! It was not slow to occur to
her that if Madame Merle had wished to do Osmond a service,
his recognition of the fact must have lost its warmth. "What
must be his feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous bene-
factress, and what expression must they have found on the part
of such a master of irony 1 It is a singular, but a characteristic,
fact that before Isabel returned from - her silent drive she had
broken its silence by the soft exclamation —

" Poor Madame Merle ! "

Her exclamation would perhaps have been justified if on this
same afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable
curtains of time-softened damask which dressed the interesting
little salon of the lady to whom it referred ; the carefully-
arranged apartment to which we once paid a visit in company
with the discreet Mr. Eosier. In that apartment, towards six
o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood before
him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion commemorated
in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to its
apparent as to its real importance.

" I don't believe you are 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 so.

" No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common
gratitude."

"Don't talk about gratitude," Osmond 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

THE PORTEAIT OF A LADY. 457

ornament, as it were, to the other. She looked exquisitely calm,
but impressively sad.

"On your side, don't try to frighten me," she said. "I
wonder whether you know some of my thoughts."

" !N"o more than I can help. I have quite enough of my own."

" That's because they are so delightful."

Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and
looked at his companion for a long time, with a kind of cynical
directness which seemed also partly an expression of fatigue.
" You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment. " I am
very tired."

" Eh moi, done ! " 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 f < r you. I have given you an
interest ; that's a great gift."

" Do you call it an interest ? " Osmond inquired, languidly.

" Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time."

".The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter."

" You fyave never looked better ; you have never been so
agreeable, so brilliant."

" Damn my brilliancy ! " Osmond murmured, thoughtfully.
" How little, after all, you know me ! "

" If I don't know you, I know nothing," said Madame Merle,
smiling. " You have the feeling of complete success."

" No, I shall not have that till I have made you stop judging
me."

" I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But
you express yourself more, too."

Osmond hesitated a moment. "I wish you would express
yourself less ! "

" You wish to condemn me to silence 1 Eemember that I
have never been a chatterbox. At any rate, there are three or
four things that 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.

"Excuse me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply
marked out. She means to carry out her ideas."

" Her ideas, to-day, must be remarkable."

" Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever."

" She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame
Merle. " She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state
of mind. She was completely bewildered."

" You had better say at once that she was pathetic."

458 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too muck"

Osmond 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 is 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 1 "

" It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you."

"If I have dried your tears, that's something. But I have
seen you shed them."

" Oh, I believe .you will make me cry still. I have a great
hope of that. I was vile this morning; I was horrid," said
Madame Merle.

" If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention, she
probably didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.

" It was precisely my devilry that stupefied her. I couldn't
help it ; I was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something
good ; I don't know. You have not only dried up my tears;
you have dried up my soul."

" It is not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition,"
Osmond said. " It is 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 1 "

"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 are very bad," Madame Merle
added, gravely.

" Is this the way we are to end 1 " Osmond asked, with the
same studied coldness.

" I don't know how we are to end. I wish I did ! How do
bad people end 1 You have made me bad."

" I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good
enough," said Osmond, his conscious indifference giving an
extreme effect to the words.

Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to
diminish, and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on
which we have had the pleasure of meeting her. Her eye
brightened, even flashed ; her smile betrayed a painful effort.
" Good enough for anything that I have done with myself? I
suppose that's what you mean."

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 459

" Good enough to be always charming ! " Osmond exclaimed,
Bmiling too.

" Oh God ! " his companion murmured ; and, sitting there in
her ripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture that she
had provoked on Isabel's part in the morning ; she ben*t her face
and covered it with her hands.

" Are you going to weep, after all 1 " Osmond asked ; and on
her remaining motionless he went on — '• Have I ever complained
to you 1 "

She dropped her hands quickly. " No, you have taken your
revenge otherwise — you have taken it on her"

Osmond threw back his head further ; he looked a while at
the ceiling, and might have been supposed to be appealing, in
an informal way, to the heavenly powers. " Oh, the imagination
of women ! It's always vulgar, at bottom. You talk of revenge
like a third-rate novelist."

" Of course you haven't complained. You have enjoyed your
triumph too much."

" I am rather curious to know what you call my triumph."

"You have made your wife afraid of you."

Osmond changed his position ; he leaned forward, resting his
elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old
Persian rug, at bis feet. He had an air of refusing to accept
any one's valuation of anything, even of time, and of preferring
to abide by his own ; a peculiarity which made him at moments
an irritating person to converse with. " Isabel is not afraid of
me, and it's not what I wish," he said at last. " To what do
you wish to provoke me when you say such things as that ] "

" I have thought over all the harm you can do me," Madame
Merle answered. " Your wife was afraid of me this morning,
but in me it was really you she feared."

" You may have said things that were in very bad taste ; I
am not responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going
to see her at all ; you are capable of acting without her. I have
not made you afraid of me, that I can see," Osmond went on ;
"how then should I have made her 1 You are at least as brave.
I can't think where you have picked up such rubbish; one
might suppose you knew me by this time." He got up, as he
spoke, and walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment
bending his eye, as if he had seen them for the first time, on
the delicate specimens of rare porcelain with which it was
covered. He took up a small cup and held it in his hand;
then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel, he
continued : " You always see too much in everything ; you

460 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

overdo it ; you lose sight of the real. I am much simpler than
you think."

" I think you are very simple." And Madame Merle kept
her eye upon her cup. " I have come to that with time. I
judged you, as I say, of old ; but it is only since your marriage
that I have understood you. I have 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 small crack," said Osmond, dryly, as he put
it down. "If you didn't understand me before I married, it
was cruelly rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I
took a fancy to my box myself ; I thought it would be a
comfortable fit. I asked very little ; I only asked that she
should like me."

" That she should like you so much ! "

" So much, of course ; in such a case one asks the maximum.
That she should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that."

" I never adored you," said Madame Merle.

" Ah, but you pretended to ! "

" It is true that you never accused me of being a comfortable
fit," Madame Merle went on.

" My wife has declined — declined to do anything of the sort,"
said Osmond. " If you are determined to make a tragedy of
that, the tragedy is hardly for her."

" The tragedy is for me ! " Madame Merle exclaimed, rising,
with a long low sigh, but giving a glance at the same time at
the contents of her mantel-shelf. "It appears that I am 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 com-
pensations in Pansy. Fortunately I haven't a fault to find
with her."

" Ah," said Madame Merle, softly, " if I had a child-
Osmond hesitated a moment • and then, with a little formal
air — " The children of others may be a great interest ! " he
announced.

" You are more like a copy-book than I. There is 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 is that,"
said Madame Merle, " that made me so jealous of Isabel. I
want it to be my work," she added, with her face, which had
grown hard and bitter, relaxing into its usual social expression.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 461

Osmond 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, Madame Merle went and lifted from
the mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he -had
mentioned the existence of a crack ; but she looked at it rather
abstractedly. " Have I been so vile all for nothing 1 " she
murmured to herself.

L.

As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient
monuments, Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these
interesting relics and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian
aim. The Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a
prodigy of learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses
of Eoman 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 con-
dition of her remaining at the Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel,
however, was not a severe cicerone ; she used to visit the ruins
chiefly because they offered an excuse for talking about other
matters than the love-affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which
her companion was never weary of offering information. It
must be added that during these visits the Countess 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 Coliseum, to the infinite
regret of her niece, who — with all the respect that she owed her
— could not see why she should not descend from the vehicle
ind enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble
ihat 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 under-
take this feat — a mild afternoon in March, when the windy
month expressed itself in occasional puffs of spring. The three
ladies went into the Coliseum together, but Isabel left her com-
panions to wander over the place. She had often ascended to
those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to

462 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

bellow applause, and where now the wild flowers (when they are
allowed), bloom in the deep crevices ; and to-day she felt weary,
and preferred to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an inter-
mission, 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 inclosure was half in shadow ;
the western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks
of travertine — the latent colour which is the only living element
in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant
or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where in the clear
stillness a multitude of swallows kept circling and plunging.
Isabel presently became aware that one of the other visitors,
planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention to
her own person, and was looking at her with a certain little
poise of the head, which she had some weeks before perceived to
be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. . Such an
attitude, to-day, 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
step-daughter 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 Eosier. " I have sold all
my bibelots ! "

Isabel gave, instinctively, an exclamation of horror ; it was as
if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn.

" I have sold them by auction at the Hotel Drouot," he went
•>n. " The sale took place three days ago, and they have tele-
graphed 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 1 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

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 463

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 he 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 bibelots I am nothing 1 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 trepid-
ation of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has
been the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in
consequence ; but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite •
of this increase of stature one or two persons still have the per-
versity 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 1 "

Isabel hesitated a moment.

" That she will marry another nobleman."

" What other nobleman 1 "

" One that he will pick out."

Eosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-
pocket.

" You are laughing at some one ; but this time I don't think
it's at me."

" I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. " I laugh very
seldom. Now you had better go away."

" I feel very safe ! " Rosier declared, without moving. This
might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the
announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little
CDmplacently, 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
suspected. She turned, and perceived that her two companions
had returned from their excursion.

" You must really go away," she said, quickly.

'• Ah, my dear lady, pity me ! " Edward Rosier murmured, in

voice strangely at variance with the announcement I have just

464 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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 1 I have a great desire to be presented to
her."

Isabel looked at him a moment.

" She has no influence with her brother."

" Ah, what a monster you make him out ! " 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 sight,
for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.
Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on
her lap ; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's.
There shone out of each of them a little melancholy ray — a
spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At
the same time a wave of- envy passed over her soul, as she com-
pared 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 1 "
Isabel asked at last.

" Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much

And you are not tired, I hope."
" Oh no, thank you, I am not tired."
The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested

THE PORTRAIT OF 'A LADY. 465

the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her that they were
waiting. He presently returned with the announcement that
the Sigiiora Contessa begged them not to wait — she would come
home in a cab !

About a week after this lady's quick sympathies. had enlisted
themselves with Mr. Eosier, 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 am going to the convent."

"To the convent?"

Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms
round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood
this way a moment, perfectly still; but Isabel could feel her
trembling. The tremor 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 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 her-
self. 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 1 " she asked. " I have heard
nothing of it."

" Papa told me half-an-hour ago ; he thought it better it
shouldn't be too much talked about in advance. Madame
Catherine 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 cf diminutive grandeur. • " And I am also very fond of
Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet, and think a great
deal."

H H

466 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel listened to her, holding her breath ; she was almost
awe-struck.

" 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 Madame
Catherine had arrived in a cab, and had departed again with the
Signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner she
found the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterised
the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head —
" En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an affectation,
she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She could
only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she sup-
posed. It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she
said to him that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for
several minutes after he had come in, to allude to his daughter's
sudden departure ; she spoke of it only after they were seated at
table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond a
question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and
there was one that came very naturally.

" I shall miss Pansy very much."

Osmond 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 1 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 pre-
sent time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled ! Pansy
is a little dusty, a little dishevelled ; she has knocked about too
much. This bustling, pushing rabble, that calls itself society —
one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents are very
quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her
there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil,
virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born ; several
of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing ;

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 467

she will have her piano. I have made the most liberal arrange-
ments. There is to he nothing ascetic ; there is just to he a
certain little feeling. She will have time to think, and there
is something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke
deliberately, reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if
he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone, however,
was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as
putting a thing into words — almost into pictures — to see, him-
self, how it would look. He contemplated a while the picture
lis had evoked, and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then
ho went on — " The Catholics are very wise, after all. The
convent is a great institution ; we can't do without it ; it cor-
responds 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 sn 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 pur-
pose, no — not wholly; but she understood it better than he
supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the
whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to
herself and destined to act ^pon her imagination. He wished
to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected
and refined ; to mark the difference betweee 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
i had succeeded ; the incident struck a chill into Isabel's heart.
Pa. 'TJT 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 IsaM found

H H 2

468 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

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 1
Haven't you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Eosier 1
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-humoured.

" My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering
a piece of gallantry, " I don't know anything about your convic-
tions, but if I suspected that they interfere with mine it would
be much simpler to banish you."

LI.

THE Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity
of her tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this
incident Isabel received a telegram from England, dated from
Gardencourt, and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's author-
ship. " Ralph cannot last many days," it ran, " and if conveni-
ent would like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must
come only if you have not other duties. Say, for myself, that
you used to talk a good deal about your duty and to wonder
what it was ; shall be curious to see whether you have found it
out. Ralph is dying, and there is no other company." Isabel
was prepared for this news, having received from Henrietta
Stackpole a detailed account of her journey to England with her
appreciative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive,
but she had managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he
had taken to his bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he
evidently would never leave again. " I like him much better
sick than when he used to be well," 'said Henrietta, who, it will
be remembered, had taken a few years before a sceptical view of
Ralph's disabilities. She added that she had really had two
patients on her hands instead of one, for that Mr. Goodwood,
wht \ad been of no earthly use, was quite as sick, in a different

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 469

way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards she wrote that she had been
obliged to surrender the field to Mrs. Touchett, who had just
returned from America, and had promptly given her to under-
stand that she didn't wish any interviewing at Gardencourt.
Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came to
Rome, letting her know of his critical condition, and suggesting
that she should lose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs.
Touchett had telegraphed an acknowledgment of this admonition,
and the only further news Isabel received from her was the
second telegram which I have just quoted.

Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive, then,
thrusting it into her pocket, she went straight to the door of her
husband's study. Here she again paused an instant, after which
she opened the door and went in. Osmond was seated at the
table near the window with a folio volume before him, propped
against a pile of books. This volume was open at a page of
small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he had
been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box
of water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had
already transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate,
finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward the door, but
without looking round he recognised his wife.

" Excuse me for disturbing you," she said.

" When I come to your room I always knock," he answered,
going on with his work.

" I forgot ; I had something else to think of. My cousin is
dying."

. " Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his
drawing through a magnifying glass. " He was dying when we
married ; he will outlive us all."

Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the
careful cynicism of this declaration ; she simply went on quickly,
full of her own intention —

" My aunt has telegraphed for me ; I must go to Garden-
court."

" Why must you go to Gardencourt?" Osmond asked, in the
tone of impartial curiosity.

" To see Ralph before he dies."

To this, for some time, Osmond made no rejoinder ; he con-
tinued to give his chief attention to his work, which was of a
sort that would brook no negligence.

" I don't see the need of it," he said at last. " He came to
see you here. I didn't like that ; I thought his being in Rome
a great mistake. But I tolerated it, because it was to be the last

470 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

time you should see him. Now you tell me it is not to have
been the last. Ah, you are not grateful ! "

" What am I to be grateful for 1 "

Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck
of dust from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time
looked at his wife.

" For my not having interfered while he was here."

" Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let
me know you didn't like* it. I was very glad when he went
away."

" Leave him alone then. Don't run after him."

Isabel turned her eyes away from him ; they rested upon his
little drawing.

" I must go to England," she said, with a full consciousness
that her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly
obstinate.

" I shall not like it if you do," Osmond remarked.

" Why should I mind that ? You won't like it if I don't.
You like nothing I do or don't do. You pretend to think
I lie."

Osmond turned slightly pale ; he gave a cold smile.

" That's why you must go then 1 Not to see your cousin, but
to take a revenge on me."

" I know nothing about revenge."

" I do," said Osmond. " Don't give me an occasion."

" You are only too eager to take one. You wish immensely
that I would commit some folly."

" I shall be gratified then if you disobey me."

" If I disobey you 1 " said Isabel, in a low tone, which had
the effect of gentleness.

" Let it be clear. If you leave Borne to-day it will be a piece
of the most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition."

" How • can you call it calculated 1 I received my aunt's
telegram but three minutes ago."

" You calculate rapidly ; it's a great accomplishment. I
don't see why we should prolong our discussion ; you know
my wish." And he stood there as if he expected to see her
withdraw.

But she never moved ; she couldn't, move, strange as it may
seem ; she still wished to justify herself ; he had the power, in
an extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. There
was something in her imagination that he could always appeal
to against her judgment.

" You have no reason for such a wish," said Isabel, " and I

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 471

have every reason for going. I can't tell you how unjust you
seem to me. But I think you know. It is your own opposition
that is calculated. It is malignant."

She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband
before, and the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to
Osmond. But he showed no surprise, and his coolness was
apparently a proof that he had believed his wife would in fact
be unable to resist for ever his ingenious endeavour to draw
her out.

"It is all the more intense, then," he answered. And he
added, almost as if he were giving her a friendly counsel —
" This is a very important matter." She recognised this ; she
was fully conscious of the weight of the occasion ; she knew
that between them they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity
made her careful; she said nothing, and he went on. " You
say I have no reason ? I have the very best. I dislike, from
the bottom of my soul, what you intend to do. It's dishonour-
able ; it's indelicate ; it's indecent. Your cousin is nothing
whatever to me. and I am under no obligation to make conces-
sions to him. I have already made the very handsomest. Your
relations with him, while he was here, kept me on pins and
needles ; but I let that pass, because from week to week I
expected him to go. I have never liked him and he has never
liked me. That's why you like him — because he hates me," said
Osmond, with a quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. " I
have an ideal of what my wife should do and should not do.
She should not travel across Europe alone, in defiance of my
deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other men. Your cousin
is nothing to you ; he is nothing to us. You smile most express-
ively when I talk about us ; but I assure you that we, we, is all
that I know. I take our marriage seriously ; you appear to have
found a way of not doing so. I am not aware that we are
divorced or separated ; for me we are indissolubly united. You
are nearer to me than any human creature, and I am nearer to
you. It may be a disagreeable proximity ; it's one, at any rate,
of our own deliberate making. You don't like to be reminded
of that, I know; but I am perfectly willing, because — because — "
And Osmond paused a moment, looking as if he had something
to say which would be very much to the point. " Because I
think we , should accept the consequences of our actions, and
what I value most in life is the honour of a thing ! "

He spoke gravely and almost gently ; the accent of sarcasm
had dropped out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked
nis wife's quick emotion ; the resolution with which she had

472 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

entered the room found itself caught in a mesh of fine threads.
His last words were not a command, they constituted a kind of
appeal ; and though she felt that any expression of respect on
Osmond's part could only be a refinement of egotism, they
represented something transcendent and absolute, like the sign
of the cross or the flag of one's country. He spoke in the
name of something sacred and precious— the observance of a
magnificent form. They were as perfectly apart in feeling as
two disillusioned lovers had ever been ; but they had never
yet separated in act. Isabel had not changed ; her old passion
for justice still abode within her ; and now, in the very thick
oi her sense of -her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it began
to throb to a tune which for a moment promised him the
victory. It came over her that in his wish to preserve appear-
ances he was after all sincere, and that this, as far as it went,
was a merit. Ten minutes before, she had felt all the joy
of irreflective action — a joy to which she had so long been a
stranger ; but action had been suddenly changed to slow renun-
ciation, transformed by the blight of her husband's touch. If
she must renounce, however, she would let him know that she
was a victim rather than a dupe. " I know you are a master of
the art of mockery," she said. " How can you speak of an
indissoluble union — how can you speak of your being contented 1
"Where is our union when you accuse me of falsity 1 Where is
your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion
in your heart1? "

" It is in our living decently together, in spite of such
drawbacks."

" We don't live decently together ! " Isabel cried.

" Indeed we don't, if you go to England."

" That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more."

Osmond raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little ;
he had lived long enough in Italy to catch this trick. " Ah, if
you have come to threaten me, I prefer my drawing," he said,
walking back to his table, where he took up the sheet of paper
on which he had been working and stood a moment examining
his work.

" I suppose that if I go you will not expect me to come back,"
said Isabel.

He turned quickly round, and she could see that this move-
ment at least was not studied. He looked at her a little, and
then — " Are you out of your mind 1 " he inquired.

" How can it be anything but a rupture ? " she went on ;
" especially if all you say is true ] " She was unable to see how

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 473

it could be anything but a rupture ; she sincerely wished .to
know what else it might be.

Osmond sat down before his table. " I really can't argue with
you on the hypothesis of your defying me," he said. And he
took up one of his little brushes again.

Isabel lingered but a moment longer ; long enough to embrace
with her eye his whole deliberately indifferent, yet most express-
ive, figure ; after which she quickly left the room. Her faculties,
her energy, her passion, were all dispersed again ; she felt as
if a cold, dark mist had suddenly encompassed her. Osmond
possessed in a supreme degree the art of eliciting one's weakness.

On her way back to her room she found the Countess Gemini
standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in which a
small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged. The
Countess had an open volume in her hand ; she appeared to have
been glancing down a page which failed to strike her as interest-
ing. At the sound of Isabel's step she raised her head.

" Ah my dear," she said, " you, who are so literary, do tell
me some amusing book to read ! Everything here is so fearfully
edifying. Do you think this would do me any good 1 "

Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but
without reading or understanding it. "I am afraid I can't
advise you. I have had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett,
is dying."

The Countess threw down her book. " Ah, he was so nice !
I am sorry for you," she said.

" You would be sorrier still if you knew."

" What is there to know 1 You look very badly," the Countess
added. " You must have been with Osmond."

Half-an-hour before, Isabel would have listened very coldly
to an intimation that she. should ever feel a desire for the
sympathy of her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof
of her present embarrassment than the fact that she almost
clutched at this lady's fluttering attention. " I have been with
Osmond," she said, while the Countess's bright eyes glittered
at her.

" I am sure he has been odious ! " the Countess cried. " Did
he say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett is dying?"

" He said it is impossible I should go to England."

The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was
agile ; she already foresaw the extinction of any further bright-
ness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel
would go into mourning, and then there would be no more
dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a moment in her

474 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

countenance an expressive grimace ; but this rapid, picturesque
play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment. After
all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had
already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough
for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel's
trouble was deep. It seemed deeper than the mere death of a
cousin, and the Countess had no hesitation in connecting her
exasperating brother with the expression of her sister-in-law's
eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous expectation ; for
if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped, the conditions
looked favourable now. Of course, if Isabel should go to
England, she herself would immediately leave the Palazzo
Roccanera; nothing would induce her to remain there with
Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an immense desire to hear that
Isabel would go to England. " Nothing is impossible for you,
my dear," she said, caressingly. " Why else are you rich and
clever and good ? "

" Why indeed ] I feel stupidly weak."

"Why does Osmond say it's impossible 1 " the Countess
asked, in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn't
imagine.

From the moment that she began to question her, however,
Isabel drew back ; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess
had affectionately taken. But she answered this inquiry with
frank bitterness. " Because we are so happy together that we
cannot separate even for a fortnight."

" Ah," cried the Countess, while Isabel turned "B way ; " when
I want to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can
have no money ! "

Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for
an hour. It may seem to some readers that she took things very
hard, and it is certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had
allowed herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to her, that
only now she fully measured the great undertaking of matrimony.
Marriage meant that in such a case as this, when one had to
choose, one chose as a matter of course for one's husband. " I
am afraid — yes, I am afraid," she said to herself more than once,
stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was
not her husband — his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge ; it
was not even her own later judgment of her conduct — a con-
sideration which had often held her in check ; it was simply the
violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her to
remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but
nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 475

horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous
fineness with which he could feel an objection. What he
thought of her she knew ; what he was capable of saying to her_
she had felt ; yet they were married, for all that, and marriage
meant that a woman should abide with her husband. She sank
down on her sofa at last, and buried her head in a pile of
cushions.

When she raised her head again, the Countess Gemini stood
before her. She had come in noiselessly, unperceived ; she had
a strange smile on her thin lips, and a still stranger glitter in
her small dark eye.

" I knocked," she said, " but you didn't answer me. So I
ventured in. I have been looking at you for the last five
minutes. You are very unhappy."

" Yes ; but I don't think you can comfort me."

"Will you give me leave to tryV' And the Countess sat
down on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there
was something communicative and exultant in her expression.
She appeared to have something to say, and it occurred to Isabel
for the first time that her sister-in-law might say something
important. She fixed her brilliant eyes upon Isabel, who found
at last a disagreeable fascination in her gaze. " After all," the
Countess went on, "I must tell you, to begin with, that I don't
understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many
scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered,
ten years ago, that my husband's dearest wish was to make me
miserable — of late he has simply let me alone — ah, it was a
wonderful simplification ! My poor Isabel, you are not simple
enough."

" No, I am not simple enough," said Isabel.

"There is something I want you to know," the Countess
declared — " because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps
you do ; perhaps you have guessed it. But if you have, all I
can say is that I understand still less why you shouldn't do as
you like."

" What do you wish me to know 1 " Isabel felt a foreboding
which made her heart beat. The Countess was about to justify
herself, and this alone was portentous.

But the Countess seemed disposed to play a little with her
subject. " In your place I should have guessed it ages ago.
Have you never really suspected 1 "

" I have guessed nothing. What should I have suspected ]
I don't know what you mean."

" That's because you have got such a pure mind. I

476 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

never saw a woman with such a pure mind ! " cried the
Countess.

Isabel slowly got up. " You are going to tell me something
horrible."

" You can call it by whatever name you will ! " And the
Countess rose also, while the sharp animation of her bright,
capricious face emitted a kind of flash. She stood a moment
looking at Isabel, and then she said — " My first sister-in-law had
no children ! "

Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anti-
climax. " Your first sister-in-law1?" she murmured.

" I suppose you know that Osmond has been married before 1
I have never spoken to you of his wife ; I didn't suppose it was
proper. But others, less particular, must have done so. The
poor little woman lived but two years and died childless. It
was after her death that Pansy made her appearance."

Isabel's brow had gathered itself into a frown ; her lips were
parted in pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow ; there
seemed to be more to follow than she could see. " Pansy is not
my husband's child, then1?"

" Your husband's — in perfection ! But no one else's hus-
band's. Some one else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried
the Countess, " with you one must dot one's fa I "

" I don't understand ; whose wife's 1 " said Isabel.

" The wife of a horrid little Swiss, who died twelve years
ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, and there was no reason
he should. Osmond did, and that was better."

Isabel stayed the name which rose in a sudden question to
her lips ; she sank down on her seat again, hanging her head.
" Why have you told me this 1 " she asked, in a voice which the
Countess hardly recognised.

" Because I was so tired of your not knowing ! I was tired
of not having told you. It seemed to me so dull. It's not a
lie, you know ; it's exactly as I say."

" I never knew," said Isabel, looking up at her, simply.

" So I believed — though it was hard to believe. Has it never
' occurred to you that he has been her lover1?"

" I don't know. Something has occurred to me, Perhaps it
was that."

" She has been wonderfully clever about Pansy ! " cried the
Countess.

" That thing has never occurred to me," said Isabel. " And
as it is — I don't understand."

She spoke in a low, thoughtful tone, and the poor Countess

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 477

was equally surprised and disappointed at the effect of her revel-
ation. She had expected to kindle a conflagration, and as yet
she had barely extracted a sj>ark. Isabel seemed more awe-
stricken than anything else.

" Don't you perceive that the child could never pass for her
husband's?" the Countess askecl. " They had been separated
too long for that, and M. Merle had gone to some far country ;
I think to South America. If she had ever had children —
which I am not sure of — she had lost them. On the- other hand,
circumstances made it convenient1 enough for Osmond to acknow-
ledge the little girl. His wife was dead — very true ; but she
had only been dead a year, and what was more natural than
that she should have left behind a pledge of their affection 1
With the aid of a change of residence — he had been living at
Naples, and he left it for ever — the little fable was easily set
going. My poor sister-in-law, who was in her grave, couldn't
help herself, and the real mother, to save her reputation,
renounced all visible property in the child."

" Ah, poor creature ! " cried Isabel, bursting into tears. It was
a long time since she had shed any ; she had suffered a reaction
from weeping. But .now they gushed with an abundance in
which the Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture.

" It's very kind of you to pity her ! " she cried, with a dis
cordant laugh. " Yes, indeed, you have a pure mind ! "

" He must have been false to his wife," said Isabel, suddenly
controlling herself.

" That's all that's wanting — that you should take up her
cause ! " the Countess went on.

" But to me — to me — " And Isabel hesitated, though there
was a question in her eyes.

' ' To you he has been faithful ? It depends upon what you
call faithful. When he married you, he was no longer the lover
of another woman. That state of things had passed away ; the
lady had repented ; and she had a worship of appearances so
intense that even Osmond himself got tired of it. You may
therefore imagine what it was ! But the whole past was between
them."

" Yes," said Isabel, " the whole past is between them."

" Ah, this later past is nothing. But for five years they were
very intimate."

" Why then did she want him to marry me 1 "

*' Ah, my dear, that's her superiority ! Because you had
money ; and because she thought you would be good to
Pansy."

478 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

"Poor woman — and Pansy wh</ doesn't like her!" cried
Isabel.

" That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would
like. She knows it ; she knows everything."

" Will she know that, you have told me this? "

"That will depend upon whether you tell her. She is pre-
pared for it, and do you know what she counts upon for her
defence 1 On your thinking that I lie. Perhaps you do ; don't
make yourself uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens
this time, I don't. I have told little fibs ; but they have never
hurt any one but myself."

Isabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale of
fantastic wares that some strolling gipsy might have unpacked
on the carpet at her feet. " Why did Osmond never marry
her? " she asked, at last.

" Because she had no money." The Countess had an answer
for everything, and if she lied she lied well. " No one knows,
no one has ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got
all those beautiful things. I don't believe Osmond himself
knows. Besides, she wouldn't have married him."

" How can she have loved him then 1 "

" She doesn't love him, in that way. She did at first, and
then, I suppose, she would have married him ; but at that time
her husband was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined —
I won't say his ancestors, because he never had any — her rela-
tions with Osmond had changed, and she had grown more
ambitious. She hoped she might marry a great man ; that has
always been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted
and prayed ; but she has never succeeded. I don't call Madame
Merle a success, you know. I don't know what she may accom-
plish yet, but at present she has very little to show. The only
tangible result she has ever achieved — except, of course, getting
to know every one and staying with them free of expense — has,
been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did that,
my dear ; you needn't look as if you doubted it. I have watched
them for years ; I know everything — everything. I am thought
a great scatterbrain^but I have had enough application of mind
to follow up those two. She hates me, and her way of showing
it is to pretend to be for ever defending me. When people say I
have had fifteen lovers, she looks horrified, and declares that quite
half of them were never proved. She has been afraid of me for
years, and she has taken great comfort in the vile, false things
that people have said about me. She has been afraid I would
expose her, and she threatened me one day, when Osmond began.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 479

to pay his court to you. It was at his house in Florence ; do
you remember that afternoon when she brought you there and
we had tea in the garden ? She let me know then that if I
should tell tales, two could play at that game. She pretends
there is a good deal more to tell about me than about her. It
would be an interesting comparison ! I don't care a fig what
she may say, simply because I know you don't care a fig. You
can't trouble your head about me less than you do already. So
she may take her revenge as she chooses ; I don't think she will
frighten you very much. Her great idea has been to be tremen-
dously irreproachable — a kind of full-blown lily — the incarna-
tion of propriety. She has always worshipped that god. There
should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know ; and, as I
say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason
she wouldn't marry Osmond ; the fear that on seeing her with
Pansy people would put things together — would even see a
resemblance. She has had a terror lest the mother should
betray herself. She has been awfully careful ; the mother has
never done so."

" Yes, yes, the mother has done so," said Isabel, who had
listened to all this with a face of deepening dreariness. " She
betrayed herself to me the other day, though I didn't recognise
her. There appeared to have been a chance of Pansy's making
a great marriage, and in her disappointment at its not coming off
she almost dropped the mask."

" Ah, that's where she would stumble ! " cried the Countess.
" She has failed so dreadfully herself that she is determined her
daughter shall make it up."

Isabel started at the words " her daughter," which the Countess
threw off so familiarly. "It seems very wonderful," she
murmured ; and in this bewildering impression she had almost
lost her sense of being personally touched by the story.

" Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child ! "
the Countess went on. " She is very nice, in spite of her
lamentable parentage. I have liked Pansy, not because she was
hers — but because she had become yours."

" Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must

have suffered at seeing me ! " Isabel exclaimed, flushing

quickly at the thought.

" I don't believe she has suffered ; on the contrary, she has
enjoyed. Osmond's marriage has given Pansy a great lift.
Before that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the
mother thought? That you might take such a fancy to the
child that you would do something for her. Osmond, of course

480 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

could never give her a portion. Osmond was really extremely
poor; but of course you know all about that. — Ah, my dear,"
cried the Countess, " why did you ever inherit money?" She
stopped a moment, as if she saw something singular in Isabel's
face. " Don't tell me now that you will give her a dowry.
You are capable of that, but I shouldn't believe it. Don't try
to be too good. Be a little wicked, feel a little wicked, for once
in your life ! "

"It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I am
sorry," Isabel said. " I am much obliged to you."

" Yes, you seem to be ! " cried the Countess, with a mocking
laugh. " Perhaps you are — perhaps you are not. You don't
take it as I should have thought."

" How should I take iU " Isabel asked.

" Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of."
Isabel made no answer to this ; she only listened, and the
Countess went on. " They have always been bound to each
other ; they remained so even after she became proper. But
he has always been more for her than she has been for him.
When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that
each should give the other complete liberty, but that each should
also do everything possible to help the other on. You may ask
me how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the way
they have behaved. Now see how much better women are than
men ! She has found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has never
lifted a little finger for her. She has worked for him, plotted
for him, suffered for him ; she has even more than once found
money for him ; and the end of it is that he is tired of her.
She is an old habit ; there are moments when he needs her ; but
on the whole he wouldn't miss her if she were removed. And,
what's more, to-day she knows it. " So you needn't be jealous ! "
the Countess added, humorously.

Isabel rose from her sofa again ; she felt bruised and short of
breath ; her head was humming with new knowledge. " I am
much obliged to you," she repeated. And then she added,
abruptly, in quite a different tone — " How do you know

aii this r

This inquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel's
expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a
bold stare, with which — " Let us assume that I have invented
it! " she cried. She too, however, suddenly changed her tone,
md, laying her hand on Isabel's arm, said softly, with her sharp,
bright smile — " Now will you give up your journey?"

Isabel started a little ; she turned away. But she felt weak

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 481

and in a moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for
support. She stood a minute so, and then upon her arm she
dropped her dizzy head, with closed eyes and pale lips.

" I have done wrong to speak — I have made you ill ! " the
Countess cried.

" Ah, I must see Ralph ! " Isabel murmured ; not in resent-
ment, not in the quick passion her companion had looked for ;
but in a tone of exquisite far-reaching sadness.

LIL

THERE was a train for Turin and Paris that evening ; and
After the Countess had left her, Isabel had a rapid and decisive
conference with her maid, who was discreet, devoted, and active.
After this, she thought (except of her journey) of only one thing.
She must go and see Pansy ; from her she could not turn away.
She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had given her to under-
stand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five o'clock
to a high door in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a
genial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution
before ; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew
they were good women, and she saw that the large rooms were
clean and cheerful, and that the well-used garden had sun for
winter and shade for spring. But she disliked the place, and it
made her horribly sad ; not for the world would she have spent
a night there. It produced to-day more than before the impres-
sion of a well-appointed prison ; for it was not possible to pretend
that Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature had
been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the
secondary effect of the revelation was to make Isabel reach out
her hand to her.

The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent,
while she went to make it known that there was a visitor for
the dear young lady. The parlour was a vast, cold apartment,
with new-looking furniture ; a large clean stove of white porce-
lain, unlighted ; a collection of wax-flowers, under glass ; and a
series of engravings from religious pictures on the walls. On
the other occasion* Isabel had thought it less like Eome than
like Philadelphia; but to-day she made no reflections; the
apartment only seemed to her very empty and very soundless.
The portress returned at the end of some five minutes, ushering

I i

482 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

in another person. Isabel got up, expecting to see one of the
ladies of the sisterhood ; but to her extreme surprise she found
herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect was strange,
for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision that her
appearance in the flesh was a sort of reduplication. Isabel had
been thinking all day of her falsity, her audacity, her ability,
her probable suffering ; and these dark things seemed to flash
with a sudden light as she entered the room. Her being there
at all was a kind of vivid proof. It made Isabel feel faint ; if
it had been necessary to speak on the spot, she would have been
quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to her; it
seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however,
there were never any absolute necessities ; she had a manner
which carried off not only her own deficiencies, but those of
other people. But- she was different from usual ; she came in
slowly, behind the portress, and Isabel instantly perceived that
she was not likely to depend upon her habitual resources. For
her, 4;oo, the occasion was exceptional, and she had undertaken
to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a peculiar
gravity; she -did not even pretend to smile, and though Isabel
saw that she was more than ever playing a part, it seemed to
her that on the whole the wonderful woman had never been so
natural. She looked at Isabel from head to foot, but not
harshly nor defiantly; with a cold gentleness rather, and an
absence of any air of allusion to their last meeting. It was as
if -she had wished to mark a difference ; she had been irritated
then — she was reconciled now.

" You can leave us alone," she said to the portress ; " in five
minutes this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to
Isabel, who, after noting what has just been mentioned, had
ceased to look at her, and had let her eyes wander as far as the
limits of the room would allow. She wished never to look at
Madame Merle again. " You are surprised to find me here, and
I am afraid you are not pleased," this lady went on. " You
don't see why I should have come ; it's as if I had anticipated
you. I confess I have been rather indiscreet — I ought to have
isked your permission." There was none of the oblique move-
ment of irony in this ; it was said simply and softly ; but Jsabel,
far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could not have told her-
self with what intention it was uttered. " But I have not been
sitting long," Madame Merle continued ; " that is, I have not
been long with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to
oie this afternoon that she must be rather lonely, and perhaps

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 483

even a little miserable. It may be good for a young girl ; I
know so little about young girls, I can't tell. At any rate it's a
little dismal. Therefore I came — on the chance. I knew of
course that you would come, and her father as well ; still, I had
not been told that other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman — what's her name 1 Madame Catherine — made no objec-
tion whatever. I stayed twenty minutes with Pansy ; she has a
charming little room, not in the least conventual, with a- piano
and flowers. She has arranged it delightfully ; she has so much
taste. Of course it's all none of my business, but I feel happier
since I have seen her. She may even have a maid if she likes ;
but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears a little
black dress ; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too ; I assure you
I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine
has a most coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked
uncommonly like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks
delightfully of Pansy ; says it's a great happiness for them to
have her. She is a little saint of heaven, and a model to 'the
oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame Catherine, the
portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the Signorina.
Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me go
and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly — I must
tell you that—and said it was her duty to notify the Superior ;
it was of such high importance that you should be treated with
respect. I requested her to let the poor Superior alone, and
asked her how she supposed I would treat you ! "

So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a
woman who had long been a mistress of the art of conversation.
But there were phases and gradations in her speech, not one of
which was lost upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes were absent
from her companion's face. She had not proceeded far before
Isabel noted a sudden rupture in her voice, which was in itself a
complete drama. This subtle modulation marked a momentous
discovery — the perception of an entirely new attitude on the part
of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in the space of an
instant that everything was at end between them, and in the
space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The
person who stood there was not the same one she had seen
hitherto ; it was a very different person — a person who knew her
secret. This discovery was tremendous, and for the moment she
made it the most accomplished of women faltered and lost her
courage. But only f or that moment. Then the conscious stream
of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed on as

112

484 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she
had thft end in view that she was able to go on. She had been
touched with a point that made her quiver, and she needed all
the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety
was in not betraying herself. She did not betray herself ; but
the startled quality of her voice refused to improve — she couldn't
help it — while she heard herself say she hardly knew what. The
tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able only just to glide
into port, faintly grazing the bottom.

Isabel saw all this as distinctly as if it had been a picture on
the wall. It might have been a great moment for her, for it
might have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle
had lost her pluck and saw before her the phantom of exposure —
this in itself was a revenge, this in itself was almost a symptom
of a brighter day. And for a moment while she stood apparently
looking out of the window, with her back half turned, Isabel
enjoyed her knowledge. On the other side of the window lay
the garden of the convent ; but this is not what Isabel saw ; she
saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already
become a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the
vessel in which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic
price, the dry, staring fact that she had been a dull un-reverenced
tool. All the bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul
again ; it was as if she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour.
There was a moment during which, if she had turned and spoken,
she would have said something that would hiss like a lash. But
she closed her eyes, and then the hideous vision died away
What remained was the cleverest woman in the world, standing
there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent
..still — to leave Madame Merle in 'this unprecedented situation.
She left her there for a period which must have seemed long to
this lady, who at last seated herself with a movement which was
in itself a confession of helplessness. Then Isabel turned her
eyes and looked down at her. Madame Merle was very pale ;
her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see what she
would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse her,
never reproach her ; perhaps because she never would give her
the opportunity to defend herself.

" I am come to bid Pansy good-bye," Isabel said at last. " I
am going to England to-night."

" Going to England to-night ! " Madamo Merle repeated
sitting there and looking up at her

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 485

" I am going to Gardencourt. Kalph Touchett is dying."

" Ah, you will feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself ;
she had a chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone 1"
sh.e asked.

" Yes ; without my. husband."

Madame Merle gave a low, vague murmur ; a sort of recogni-
tion of the general sadness of things.

" Mr. Touchett never liked me ; but I am sorry he is dying.
Shall you see his mother 1 "

" Yes ; she has returned from America."

" She used to be very kind to me ; but she has changed.
Others, too, have changed," said Madame Merle, with a quiet,
noble pathos. She paused a moment, and then she said, " And
you will see dear old Gardencourt again ! "

" I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.

" Naturally — in your grief. But it is on the whole, of all
the houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have
liked best to live in. I don't venture to send a message to the
people," Madame Merle added ; " but I should like to give my
love to the place."

Isabel turned away.

" I had Better go to Pansy," she said. " I have not much
time."

And while she looked about her for the proper egress, the
door opened and admitted one of the ladies of the house, who
advanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long
loose sleeves, a pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognised
her as Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had already
made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled
very blandly and said^—

" It will be good for her to see you. I will take you to her
myself." Then she directed her pleasant, cautious little eye
towards Madame Merle.

" Will you let me remain a little 1 " this lady asked. "It is
so good to be here."

"You may remain always, if you "like!" And the good
sister gave a knowing laugh.

She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and
up a long staircase. All these departments were solid and bare,
light and clean ; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establish-
ments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of
Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor ; then stood smiling
with folded hands, while the two others met and embraced.

486 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" She is glad to see you," she repeated ; " it will do her good."
And she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she
made no movement to seat herself ; she seemed ready to retire.
" How does this dear child look ? " she asked of Isabel, lingering
a moment.

" She looks pale," Isabel answered.

" That is the pleasure of seeing you. She is very happy.
Elle eclair e la maison" said the good sister.

Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress ;
it was perhaps this that made her look pale.

" They are very good to me — they think of everything ! " she
exclaimed, with all her customary eagerness to say something
agreeable.

" We think of you always — you are a precious charge,"
Madame Catherine remarked, in the tone of a woman with whom
benevolence was a habit, and whose conception of duty was the
acceptance of every care. It fell with a leaden weight upon
Isabel's ears ; it seemed to represent the surrender of a person-
ality, the authority of the Church.

When Madame Catherine had left them together, Pansy
kneeled down before Isabel and hid her head in her stepmother's
lap. So she remained some moments, while Isabel gently stroked
her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and looking about
the room.

" Don't you think I have arranged it well 1 I have everything
I have at home."

" It is very pretty ; you are very comfortable." Isabel scarcely
knew what she could say to her. On the one hand she could
not let her think she had come to pity her, and on the other
it would be a dull mockery to pretend to rejoic,e with her. So
she simply added, after a moment, " I have come to bid you
good-bye. I am going to England."

Pansy's white little face turned red.

" To England ! Not to come back 1 "

" I don't know when I shall come back."

" Ah ; I'm sorry," said Pansy, faintly. She spoke as if she
had no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of
disappointment.

" My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill ; he will probably die.
I wish to see him," Isabel said.

" Ah, yes ; you told me he vvoidd die. Of course you must
go. And will papa go ? "

"No; I shall go alone."

For a moment, Pansy said nothing. Isabel had often wondered

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 487

wliat she thought of the apparent lelations of her father with
his wife j but never by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it
be seen that she deemed them deficient in the quality of intimacy.
She made her reflections, Isabel was sure ; and she must have
had a conviction that there were husbands and wives who were
more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet even in
thought ; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may
almost have stood still, as it would have done if she had seen
two of the saints in the great picture in the convent-chapel
turn their painted heads and shake them at each other ; but
as in this latter case she would (for very solemnity's sake),
never have mentioned the awful phenomenon, so she put
away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own.

" You will be very far away," she said presently.

" Yes ; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter,"
Isabel answered ; " for so long as you are here I am very far
away from you."

" Yes ; but you can come and see me ; though you have not
come very .often."

" I have not come because your father forbade it. To-day I
bring nothing with me. I can't amuse you."

"I am not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."

" Then it hardly matters whether I am in Kome or in
England."

" You are not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.

" Not very. But it doesn't matter."

" That's what I say to myself. What does it matter 1 But I
should like to come out."

" I wish indeed you might."

" Don't leave me here," Pansy went on, gently.

Isabel was silent a moment ; her heart beat fast.

" Will you come away with me now 1 " she asked.

Pansy looked at her pleadingly.

" Did papa tell you to bring me 1 "

" No ; it's my own proposal."

" I think I had better wait, then. Did papa sjend me no
message ? "

" I don't think he knew I was coming."

_" He thinks I have not had enough," said Pansy. " But I
have. The ladies are very kind to me, and the little girls come
to see me. There are some very little ones — such charming
children. Then my room — you can. see for yourself. All that

488 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

is very delightful. But I liave had enough. Papa wished me
to think a little — and I have thought a great deal."

" What have you thought 1 "

" Well, that I must never displease papa."

" You knew that before."

" Yes ; but I know it better. I will do anything — I will do
anything," said Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a
deep, pure blush came into her face. Isabel read the meaning
of it ; she saw that the poor girl had been vanquished. It was
well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels ! Isabel
looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's, as if to let her know that
her look conveyed no diminution of esteem ; for the collapse of
the girl's momentary resistance (mute and modest though it
had been), seemed only her tribute to the truth of things. She
didn't presume to judge others, but she had judged herself ; she
had seen the reality. She had no vocation for struggling with
combinations ; in the solemnity of sequestration there was some-
thing that overwhelmed her. She bowed her pretty head to
authority, and only asked of authority to be merciful. Yes ; it
was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles !

Isabel got up ; her time was rapidly shortening.

" Good-bye, then," she said ; " I leave Rome to-night."

Pansy took hold of her dress ; there was a sudden change in
the girl's face.

" You look strange ; you frighten me."

" Oh, I am very harmless," said Isabel.

" Perhaps you won't come back 1 "

" Perhaps not. I can't tell"

" Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me ! "

Isabel now saw that she had guessed everything.

"My dear child, what can I do for you 1 " she asked.

" I don't know — but I am happier when I think of you."

" You can always think of me."

" Not when you are so far. I am a little afraid," said Pansy.

" What are you afraid of?"

" Of papa — a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just
been to see me."

" You must not say that," Isabel observed.

" Oh, I will do everything they want. Only if you arc here
I shall do it more easily."

Isabel reflected a little.

" I won't desert you," she said at last. " Good-bye, my
Child,",

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 489

Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like
two sisters ; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor
with. her visitor to the top of the staircase.

" Madame Merle has been here," Pansy remarked as they
went ; and as Isabel answered nothing she added, abruptly, " I
don't like Madame Merle ! "

Isabel hesitated a moment ; then she stopped.

" You must never say that — that you don't like Madame
Merle."

Pansy looked at her in wonder ; but wonder with Pansy had
never been a reason for non-compliance.

" I never will again," she said, with exquisite gentleness.

At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it appeared
to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended,
and when she reached the bottom the girl was standing above. /

" You will come back?" she called out in a- voice that Isabel
remembered afterwards.

" Yes — I will come back."

Madame Catherine met Isabel below, and conducted her to
the door of the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a
minute.

" I won't go in," said the good sister. " Madame Merle is
waiting for you."

At this announcement Isabel gave a start, and she was on the
point of asking if there were no other egress from the convent.
But a moment's reflection assured her that she would do well
not to betray to the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's
other visitor. Her companion laid her hand very gently on her
arm, and fixing her a moment with a wise, benevolent eye, said
to her, speaking French, almost familiarly —

" Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous ? "

" About my step-daughter 1 Oh, it would take long to tell
you."

" We think it's enough," said Madame Catherine, signifi-
cantly. And she pushed open the door of the parlour.

Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a
woman so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little-
finger. As Madame Catherine closed the door behind Isabel,
she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been thinking to some
purpose. She had recovered her balance ; she was in full pos-
session of her resources.

" I found that I wished to wait for you," she said, urbanely.
" But it's not to talk about Pansy."

490 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite
of Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment-—

" Madame Catherine says it's enough."

" Yes ; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you
another word about poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added.
" Have you reason to believe that he is really at his last ? "

" I have no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it
only confirms a probability."

" I am going to ask you a strange question," said Madame
Merle. " Are you very fond of your cousin 1 " And she gave
a smile as strange as her question.

" Yes, I am very fond of him. But I don't understand, you."

Madame Merle hesitated a moment.

" It is difficult to explain. Something has occurred to me
which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have
you never guessed it 1 "

" He has done me many services."

" Yes ; but one was much above the rest. He made you a
rich woman."

" He made me ? "

Madame Merle appeared to see herself successful, and she
went on, more triumphantly —

" He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required to
make you a brilliant match. At bottom, it is him that you have
to thank." She stopped; there was something in Isabel's
eyes.

" I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."

" Yes ; it was your uncle's money ; but it was your cousin's
idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum
was large ! "

Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to be living in a
world illumined by lurid flashes.

" I don't know why you say such things ! I don't know
what you know."

" I know nothing but what I IK ve guessed. But I have
guessed that."

Isabel went to the door, and when she had opened it stood a
moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said — it was her
only revenge —

" I believed it was you I had to thank ! "

Madame Merle dropped her eyes ; she stood there in a kind
of proud penance.

" You are very unhappy, I know. But I am more so."

THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY. 491

" Yes ; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see
you again."

Madame Merle raised her eyes.

" I shall go to America," she announced, while Isabel passed
out.

MIL

IT was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other
circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as
Isabel descended from the Paris mail at Charing Cross, she
stepped into the arms, as it were — or at any rate into the hands —
of Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to her friend from
Turin, and though she had not definitely said to herself that
Henrietta would meet her, she had felt that her telegram would
produce some helpful result. On her long journey from Eome
her mind had been given up to vagueness ; she was unable to
question the future. She performed this journey with sightless
eyes, and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed,
decked out though they were -in the richest freshness of spring.
Her thoughts followed their course through other countries —
strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there
was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual
dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about ; but it
was not reflection, nor conscious purpose, that filled her mind.
Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams
of memory,. of expectation. The past and the future alternated
at their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which
came and went by a logic of their own. It was extraordinary
the things she remembered. Now that she was in the secret,
now that she knew something that so much concerned her, and
the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play
whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their
mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their
norror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness.
She remembered a thousand trifles ; they started to life with the
spontaneity of a shiver. That is, she had thought them trifles
at the time ; now she saw that they were leaden-weighted. Yet
even now they were trifles, after all ; for of what use was it to
her to understand them 1 Nothing seemed of use to her to-day.
All purpose, all intention, was suspended ; all desire, too, save
the single desire to reach her richly-constituted refuge. Garden-
court had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers

492 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone
forth in her strength ; she would come back -in her weakness ;
and if the place had been a rest to her before, it would bft a
positive sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dying; for if
one were thinking of rest, that was the most perfect of all. To
cease utterly, to give it all tip and not know anything more —
this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble
tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land. She had moments,
indeed, in her journey from Rome, which were almost as good
as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,
simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope
and regret, that if her spirit was haunted with sudden pictures,
it might have been the spirit disembarrassed of the flesh. There
was nothing to regret now — that was all over. !N"ot only the
time of her folly, but the time of her repentance seemed far
away. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had
been so — so strange. Just here Isabel's imagination paused,
from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had
been. Whatever it was, it was for Madame Merle herself to
regret it ; and doubtless she would do so in America, where she
was going. It concerned Isabel no more ; she only had an im-
pression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This
impression carried her into the future, of which from time to
time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the
distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her- life
to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the
present hour. It might be desirable to die;. but this privilege
was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul — deeper than
any appetite for renunciation — was the sense that life would be
her business for a long time to come. And at moments there
was something inspiring, almost exhilarating, in the conviction.
It was a proof of strength — it was a proof that she should some
day be happy again. It couldn't be that she was to live only to
suffer ; she was still young, after all, and a great many things
might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer — only to feel
the injury of life repeated and enlarged — it seemed to her that
she was too valuable, too capable, for that. Then she wondered
whether it were vain and stupid to think so well of herself.
"When had it ever been a guarantee to be valuable 1 Was not
all history full of the destruction of precious things 1 Was it
not much more probable that if one were delicate one would
suffer ? It involved then, perhaps, an admission that one had a
certain grossness ; but Isabel recognised, as it passed before her
eyes, the quick, vague shadow of a long future. She should not

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 493

escape; she should last. Then the middle years wrapped her
about again, and the grey curtain of her indifference closed
her in.

Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she
were afraid she should be caught doing it ; and then Isabel stood
there in the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant.
She asked nothing ; she wished to wait. She had a sudden
perception that she should be helped. She was so glad Henri-
etta was there ; there was something terrible in an arrival in
London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,
the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled
her with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her
friend's. She remembered that she had once liked these things ;
they seemed part of a mighty spectacle, in which there was
something that touched her. She remembered how she walked
away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets,
five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the
incident came before her as the deed of another person.

" It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henri-
etta, looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared
to challenge the proposition. " If you hadn't — if you hadn't ;
well, I don't know," remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously
at her powers of disapproval.

Isabel looked about, without seeing her maid. Her eyes
rested on another figure, however, which she felt that she had
seen before ; and in a moment she recognised the genial counten-
ance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little apart, and it was not
in the power of the multitude that pressed about him to make
him yield an inch of the ground he had taken — that of abstract-
ing himself, discreetly, while the two ladies performed their
embraces.

"There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly,
scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid
or not.

" Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr,
Bantling ! " Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant
bachelor advanced with a smile — a smile tempered, however, by
the gravity of the occasion. " Isn't it lovely that she has
come 1 " Henrietta asked. " He knows all about it," she added ;
" we had quite a discussion ; he said you wouldn't ; I said you
would."

"I thought you always agreed," Isabel answered, smiling.
She found she could smile now ; she had seen in an instant, in
Mr. Bantling's excellent eye, that he had good news for her. It

494 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

seemed to say that lie wished her to remember that he was an
old friend of her cousin — that he understood — that it ^as
all right. Isabel gave him her hand ; she thought him so kind.

" Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't,
you know."

" Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance ? " Henrietta
inquired. " Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."

" I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom
she had never thought so interesting.

" Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded,
leaving the two for a moment together.

They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling
asked Isabel how it had been on the Channel.

" Very fine. No, I think it was rather rough," said Isabel,
to her companion's obvious surprise. After which she added,
" You have been to Gardencourt, I know."

" Now how do you know that 1 "

11 1 can't tell you — except that you look like a person who has
been there."

" Do you think I look sad ] It's very sad there, you
know."

" I don't believe you ever look sad. You look kind," said
Isabel, with a frankness that cost her no effort. It seemed to
her that she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.

Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage.
He blushed a good deal, and laughed, and assured her that he
was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully
fierce.

" You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know," he said. " I was
at Gardencourt two days ago."

" Did you see my cousin ] "

" Only for a little. But he had been seeing people ; Warbur-
ton was there the day before. Touchett was just the s'ame as
usual, except that he was in bed, and that he looks tremendously
ill, and that he can't speak," Mr. Bantling pursued. " He was
immensely friendly all the same. He was just as clever as ever.
It's awfully sad."

Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was
vivid. " Was that late in the day ? "

" Yes ; I went on purpose ; we thought you would like to
know."

" I am very much obliged to you. Can I go down to-
night V

" Ah, I don't think she'll let you go," said Mr. Bantling

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 495

" She wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett's man
promise to telegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an
hour ago at my club. ' Quiet and easy/ that's what it says, and
it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow.
You must be very tired."

" Yes, I am very tired. And I thank you again."

" Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "we were certain you would like
the last news." While Isabel vaguely noted that after all he and
Henrietta seemed to agree.

Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had
caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person,
instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to
her mistress's luggage, so that now Isabel was at liberty to leave
the r cation.

" You know you are not to think of going to the country
to-night," Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter
whether there is a train or not. You are to come straight to me,
in. Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be had in London,
but I have got you one all the same. It isn't a Roman palace,
but it will do for a night."

" I will do whatever you wish," Isabel said.

" You will come and answer a few questions ; that's what I
wish."

" She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs.
Osmond 1 " Mr. Bantling inquired jocosely.

Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. " I
see you are in a great hurry to get to your own. You will be at
the Paddington station to-morrow morning at ten."

" Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.

" He will come for mine," Henrietta declared, as she ushered
Isabel into a cab.

Later, in a large, dusky parlour in Wimpole Street — to do her
justice, there had been dinner enough — she asked Isabel those
questions to which she had alluded at the station.

" Did your husband make a scene about your coming *\ "
That was Miss Stackpole's first inquiry.

" JSTo ; I can't say he made a scene."

" He didn't object then ! "

" Yes ; he objected very much. But it was not what you
would call a scene."

"What was it then ?"

" It was a very quiet conversation."

Henrietta for a moment contemplated her friend.

" It must have been awful," she then remarked. And Isabel

496 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

did not deny that it had been awful. But she confined herself
to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy, as they were
tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no new
information, " Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, " I have only
one criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little
Miss Osmond to go back."

"I am not sure that I see myself, now," Isabel replied,
" But I did then."

" If you have forgotten your reason perhaps you won't
return."

Isabel for a moment said nothing, then —

" Perhaps I shall find another," she rejoined.

" You will certainly never find a good one."
' In default of a better, my having promised will do," Isabel
suggested.

" Yes; that's why I hate it."

" Don't speak of it now. I have a little time. Coming away
was hard ; but going back will be harder still."

" You must remember, after all, that he won't make a scene ! "
said Henrietta, with much intention.

" He will, though," Isabel answered gravely, " It will not be
the scene of a moment ; it will be a scene that will last always."

For some minutes the two women sat gazing at this prospect ;
and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had
requested, announced abruptly —

" I have been to stay with Lady Pensil ! "

" Ah, the letter came at last ! "

" Yes ; it took five years. But this time she wanted to
see me."

" Naturally enough."

" It was more natural than I think you know"," said Henri-
etta, fixing her eyes on a distant point. And then she added,
turning suddenly : " Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You
don't know why 1 Because I criticised you, and yet I have gone
further than you. Mr. Osmond, at least, was born on the 'other
side ! "

It was a moment before Isabel perceived her meaning ; it was
so modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind
was not possessed at present with the comicality of things ; but
she greeted with a quick laugh the image that her companion
had raised. She immediately recovered herself, however, and
with a gravity too pathetic to be real —

" Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, " are you going to give up
your country 1 "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 497

" Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it ; I
look the fact in the face. I am going to marry Mr. Bantling,
and I. am going to reside in London."

" It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.

" Well yes, I suppose it does. I have come to it little by
little. I think I -know what I am doing ; but I don't know that
1 can explain "

" One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. " And
yours doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling is very
good."

Henrietta said nothing ; she seemed lost in reflection.

" He has a beautiful nature," she remarked at last. " I have
studied him for many years, and I see right through him. He's
as clear as glass — there's no mystery about him. He is not
intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the other hand, he
doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in the
United States."

" Ah," said Isabel, " you are changed indeed ! It's the first
time I have ever heard you say anything against your native
land."

" I only say that we are too intellectual ; that, after all, is a
glorious fault. But I am changed ; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry."

" I hope you will be very happy. You will at last — over here
— see something of the inner life."

Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. " That's the key to
the mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now
I have as good a right as any one ! " she added, with artless
elation.

Isabel was deeply diverted, but there was a certain melancholy
in her view. Henrietta, after all, was human and feminine,
Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame,
a disembodied* voice. It was rather a disappointment to find
that she had personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to
common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality
in her marrying him — there was even a kind Of stupidity ; and
for a moment, to Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took
on a deeper tinge. A little later, indeed, she reflected that Mr.
Bantling, after all, was original. But she didn't see how Henri-
etta could give up her country. She herself had relaxed her
hold of it, but it had never been her country as it had been
Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had enjoyed her
visit to Lady Pensil.

K K

498 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Oh, yes/' said Henrietta, " she didn't know what to make
of me."

" And was that very enjoyable 1 "

" Very much so, because she is supposed to be very talented.
She thinks she knows everything ; but she doesn't understand a
lady-correspondent ! It would be so much easier for her if I
were only a little better or a little worse. She's so puzzled ; I
believe she thinks it's my duty to go and do something immoral.
She thinks it's immoral that I should marry her brother ; but,
, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she will never under-
stand— never ! "

" She is not so intelligent as her brother, then," said Isabel.
" He appears to have understood."

" Oh no, he hasn't ! " cried Miss Stackpole, with decision.
" I really believe that's what he wants to marry me for — just to
find out. It's a fixed idea — a kind of fascination."

" It's very good in you to humour it."

" Oh well," said Henrietta, " I have something to find out
too ! " And Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegi-
ance, but planned an attack. She was at last about to grapple
in earnest with England.

Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Padding-
ton station, where she found herself, at two o'clock, in the com-
pany both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentle-
man bore his perplexities lightly. If he had not found out
everything, he had found out at least the great point — that Miss
Stackpole would not be wanting in initiative. It was evident
that in the selection of a wife he had been on his guard against
this deficiency.

" Henrietta has told me, and I am very glad," Isabel said, as
she gave him her hand.

" I dare say you think it's very odd," Mr. Bantling replied,
resting on his neat umbrella.

" Yes, I think it's very odd."

" You can't think it's so odd as I do. But I have always
rather liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling, serenely.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 499

LIY.

ISABEL'S arrival at Gardenconrt on this second occasion was
even quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept
but a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond
was a stranger ; so that Isabel, instead of being conducted to her
own apartment, was coldly shown into the drawing-room, and
left to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. She
waited a long time ; Mrs. Touchett appeared to be in no hurry to
come to her. She grew impatient at last ; she grew nervous and
even frightened. The day was dark and cold ; the dusk was
thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was
perfectly still — a stillness that Isabel remembered ; it had filled
all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She left the
drawing-room and wandered about — strolled into the library and
along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her
footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed ; she recognised
everything that she had seen years before ; it might have been
only yesterday that she stood there. She reflected that things
change but little, while people change so much, and she became
aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the
day that she came to see her in Albany. She was changed
enough since then — that had been the beginning. It suddenly
struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just
that way and found her alone, everything might have been
different. She might have had another life, and to-day she
might have been a happier woman. She stopped in the gallery
in front of a small picture — a beautiful and valuable Bonington
— upon which her eyes rested for a long time. But she was not
looking at the picture ; she was wondering whether if her aunt
had not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar
Goodwood.

Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned
to the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal
older, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect ;
her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore
a little grey dress, of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel
wondered, as she had wondered the first time, whether her
remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the
matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed as Isabel
kissed her.

" I have kept you waiting because I have been sitting with

E K 2

500 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

•

Ralph," Mrs. Touchett said. " The nurse had gone to hex lunch
and I had taken her place. He has a man who is supposed to
look after him, but the man is good for nothing ; he is always
looking out of the window — as if there were anything to see ! I
didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping, and I
was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse
came back ; I remembered that you knew the house."

" I find I know it better even than I thought ; I have been
walking," Isabel answered. And then she asked whether Ralph
slept much.

" He lies with his eyes closed ; he doesn't move. But I am
not sure that it's always sleep."

" Will he see me 1 Can he speak to me 1 "

Mrs. Touchett hesitated a moment. " You can try him," she
said. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her room. " I
thought they had taken you there ; but it's not my house, it's
Ralph's ; and I don't know what they do. They must at least
have taken your luggage ; I don't suppose you have brought
much. Not that I care, however. I believe they have given
you the same room you had before ; when Ralph heard you were
coming he said you must have that one."

" Did he say anything else 1 "

" Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used ! " cried Mrs.
Touchett, as she preceded her niece up the staircase.

It was the same room, and something told Isabel that it had
not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there,
and it was not voluminous ; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment,
with her eyes upon it.

" Is there really no hope 1 " Isabel asked, standing before her
aunt.

" None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a
successful life."

" No — it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found
herself already contradicting her aunt ; she was irritated by her
dryness.

" I don't know what you mean by that ; there is no beauty
without health. That is a very odd dress to travel in."

Isabel glanced at her garment. " I left Rome at an hour's
notice ; I took the first that came."

" Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress.
That seemed to be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell
them — but they seemed to have the right idea : that you never
wear anything less than black brocade."

"They think I am more brilliant than I am ; I am afraid to

THE PORTE AIT OF A LADY. 501

tell them the truth," said Isabel. " Lily wrote me that you had
dined with her."

" She invited me four times, and I went once. After the
second time she should have let me alone. The dinner was very
good ; it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very
bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to America 1 Why should
I have enjoyed itl I didn't go for my pleasure."

These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her
niece, whom she was to meet in half-an-hour at the midday
meal. At this repast the two ladies faced each other at an
abbreviated table in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a
little, Isabel saw that her aunt was not so dry as she appeared,
and her old pity for the poor woman's inexpressiveness, her
want of regret, of disappointment, came back to her. It seemed
to her she would find it a blessing to-day to be able to indulge
a regret. She wondered whether Mrs. Touchett were not trying,
whether she had not a desire for the recreation of grief. On the
other hand, perhaps, she was afraid ; if she began to regret, it
might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, that it
had come over her that she had missed something, that she saw
herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her
little sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph
as yet had not moved, but that he probably would be able to see
her before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he
had seen Lord "Wai-burton the day before; an announcement
which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that
this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an accident
might bring them together. Such an accident would not be
happy; she had not come to England to converse with Lord
Warburton. She presently said to her aunt that he had been
very kind to Ralph ; she had seen something of that in Rome.

" He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett
rejoined. And she paused, with a gaze like a gimlet.

Isabel saw that she meant something, and instantly guessed
what sue meant. But her reply concealed her guess ; her heart
beat faster, and she wished to gain a moment. " Ah yes — the
House of Lords, and all that."

" He is not thinking of the Lords ; he is thinking of the
ladies. At least he is thinking of one of them ; he told Ralph
he was engaged to be married."

" Ah, to be married ! " Isabel gently exclaimed.

" Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would
like to know. Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I
believe it is to take place very soon."

502 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" And who is the young lady?"

" A member of the aristocracy ; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia —
something of that sort."

" I am very glad," Isabel said. " It must be a sudden
decision."

" Sudden enough, I believe ; a courtship of three weeks. It
has only just been made public."

"I am very glad," Isabel repeated, with' a larger emphasis.
She knew her aunt was watching her— looking for the signs of
some curious emotion, and the desire to prevent her companion
from seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the
tone of quick satisfaction — the tone, almost, of relief. Mrs.
Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even
married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offence
to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show that
however that might be in general, she was not offended now.
But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat
for some moments thoughtful — she presently forgot Mrs.
Touchett's observation — it was not because she had lost an
admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe ; it halted,
panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She
figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton
was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course not aware
how extremely sad she looked while she made this intellectual
effort. But at last she collected herself, and said to her aunt —
" He was sure to do it some time or other."

Mrs. Touchett was silent ; then she gave a sharp little shake
of the head. " Ah, my dear, you're beyond me ! " she cried,
suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence ; Isabel
felt as if she had heard of Lord Warburton's death. She had
known him only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He
was dead for poor Pansy ; by Pansy he might have lived. A
servant had been hovering about ; at last Mrs. Touchett requested
him to leave them alone. She had finished her lunch ; she sat
with her hands folded on the edge of the table. " I should iik«
to ask you three questions," she said to Isabel, when the servant
had gone.

" Three are a great many."

" I can't do with less ; I have been thinking. They are all
very good ones."

"That's what. I am afraid of. The best questions are the
worst," Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her
chair, and Isabel left the table and walked, rather consciously,

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 503

to one of the deep windows, while her aunt followed her with
her eyes.

" Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord War-
burton 1 " Mrs. Touchett inquired.

Isabel shook her head slowly, smiling. " No, dear aunt."

" Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what
you say."

" Your believing me is an immense temptation," Isabel
replied, smiling still.

" A temptation to lie ? I don't recommend you to do that,
for when I'm misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat.
I don't mean to crow over yon.''

" It is my husband that doesn't get on with me," said Isabel.

" I could have told him that. I don't call that crowing over
you," Mrs. Touchett added. " Do you still like Serena Merle 1 "
she went on.

" Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she is going
to America."

" To America ? She must have done something very bad."

" Yes — very bad."

"May I ask what it is ]"

" She made a convenience of me."

" Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, " so she did of me ! She does of
every one."

4* She will make a convenience of America," said Isabel,
smiling again, and glad that her aunt's questions were over.

It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph.
He had been dozing all day ; at least he had been lying uncon-
scious. The doctor was there, but after a while he went away ;
the local doctor, who had attended his father, and whom Ealph
liked. He came three or four times a day; he was deeply
interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope,
but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had
asked his mother to send word that he was now dead, and was
therefore without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett
had simply written to Sir Matthew that her son disliked him.
On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have
related, for many hours ; but towards evening he raised himself
and said he knew that she had come. How he knew it was not
apparent; inasmuch as, for fear of exciting him, no one had
offered the iniormation. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in
the dim light ; there was only a shaded candle in a corner
of the room. She told the nurse that she might go — that she

504 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had
opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved his hand,
which lay very helpless beside him, so that she might take it.
But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and
remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own.
She sat with him a long time — till the nurse came back ; but he
gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she
looked at him ; he was already the figure and pattern of death.
She had thought him far gone in Rome, but this was worse ;
there was only one change possible now. There was a strange
tranquillity in his face ; it was as still as the lid of a box. With
this, he was a mere lattice of bones ; when he opened his eyes
to greet her, it was as if she were looking into immeasurable
space. It was not till midnight that the nurse came back ; but
the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long ; it was exactly what
she had come for. If she had come simply to wait, she found
ample occasion, for he lay for three days in a kind of grateful
silence. He recognised her, and at moments he seemed to wish
to speak ; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes
again, as if he too were waiting for something — for something
that certainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it
seemed to her what was coming had already arrived ; and yet
she never lost the sense that they were still together. But they
were not always together ; there were other hours that she passed
in wandering through the empty house and listening for a voice
that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear ; she thought
it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained
silent, and she only got a letter from Florence from the Countess
Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last, on the evening of the
third day.

" I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the
soundless dimness of her vigil ; " I think I can say something."

She sank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin
hand in her own ; begged him not to make an effort — not to
tire himself.

His face was of necessity serious — it was incapable of the
muscular play of a smile ; but its owner apparently had not lost
a perception of incongruities. " What does it matter if I am
tired, when I have all eternity to rest ? " he asked. " There is
no harm in making an effort when it is the very last. Don't
people always feel better just before the end1? I have often
heard of that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you
have been here ; I thought it would come. I tried two or three
times ; I was afraid you would get tired of sitting there." He

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 505

spoke slowly, with, painful breaks and long pauses; his voice
seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased, he lay with
his face turned to Isabel, and his large unwinking eyes open
into her own. " It was very good of you to come," he went on.
" I thought you would ; but I wasn't sure."

" I was not sure either, till I came," said Isabel.

" You have been like an angel -beside my bed. You know
they talk about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all.
You have been like that ; as if you were waiting for me."

" I was not waiting for your death ; I was waiting for — for
this. This is not death, dear Ralph."

" Noi for you — no. There is nothing makes us feel so much
alive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life — the
sense that we remain. I have had it — even I. But now I am
of no use but to give it to others. With me it's all over." And
then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on
the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She could not
see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear.
" Isabel," he went on, suddenly, " I wish it were over for you."
She answered nothing ; she had burst into sobs ; she remained
so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs ;
at last he gave a long groan. " Ah, what is it you have done
forme?"

" What is it you did for me 1 " she cried, her now extreme
agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her
shame, all wish to hide things. Now he might know; she
wished him to know, for it brought them supremely together,
and he was beyond the reach of pain. " You did something
once — you know it. Oh Ralph, you have been everything !
What have I done for you — what can I do to-day ? I would
die if you could live. But I don't wish you to live ; I would
die myself, not to lose you." Her voice was as broken as his
own, and full of tears and anguish.

" You won't lose me — you will keep me. Keep me in your
heart ; I shall be nearer to you than I have ever been. Dear
Isabel, life is better ; for in life there is love. Death is good —
but there is no love."

" I never thanked you — I never spoke — I never was what I
should be ! " Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry
out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her
troubles, for the moment, became single and melted together
into this present pain. " What must you have thought of me ?
Yet how could I know 1 I never knew, and I only know to-day
because there are people less stupid than I."

506 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" Don't mind people," said Ralph. " I think I am glad to
leave people."

She raised her head and her clasped hands ; she seemed for a
moment to pray to him.

" Is it true — is it true ? " she asked.

" True that you have heen stupid1? Oh no," said Ealph, with
a sensible intention of wit.

" That you made me rich — that all I have is yours 1 "

He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing.
Then at last —

" Ah, don't speak of that — that was not happy." Slowly he
moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each
other. " But for that— but for that — " And he paused. " I
believe I ruined you," he added softly.

She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of
pain ; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if
she had not had it she would still "have spoken, for nothing
mattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure anguish
—the knowledge that they were looking at the truth together.

" He married me for my money," she said.

She wished to say everything ; she was afraid he might die
before she had done so.

He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes
lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and
then —

" He was greatly in love with you," he answered.

" Yes, he was in love with me. But he would not have
married me if I had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that.
How can 1 1 I only want you to understand. I always tried
to keep you from understanding ; but that's all over."

" I always understood," said Ealph.

" I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it."

" You don't hurt me — you make me very happy." And as
Ralph said this there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice.
She bent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his
hand. " I always understood," he continued, " though it was
so strange — so pitiful. You wanted to look at life for yourself
— but you were not allowed ; you were punished for your wish.
You were ground in the very mill of the conventional ! "

" Oh yes, I have been punished," Isabel sobbed.

He listened to her a little \ and then continued —

" Was he very bad about your coming ? "

" He made it very hard for me. But I don't care."

" It is all over, then, between you ? "

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 507

" Oh no ; I don't think anything is over."

" Are you going back to him 1 " Ralph stammered.

" I don't know — I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I
may. I don't want to think — I needn't think. I don't care for
anything but you, and that is enough for the present. It will
last a little yet. Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms,
I am happier than I have been for a long time. And I want
you to be happy — not to think of anything sad ; only to feel
that I am near you and I love you. Why should there be
pain ? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain 1
That is not the deepest thing ; there is something deeper."

Ealph evidently found, from moment to moment, greater
difficulty in speaking ; he had to wait longer to collect himself.
At first he appeared to make no response to these last words ; he
let a long time elapse. Then he murmured simply —

" You must stay here."

" I should like to stay, as long as seems right."

" As seems right — as seems right 1 " He repeated her words.
" Yes, you think a great deal about that."

" Of course one must. You are very tired," said Isabel.

" I am very tired. You said just now that pain is not the
deepest thing. No — no. But it is very deep. If I could
stay »

" For me you will always be here," she softly interrupted. It
was easy to interrupt him.

But he went on, after a moment — •

" It passes, after all ; it's passing now. But love remains. I
don't know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I shall find
out. There are many things in life ; you are very young."

" I feel very old," said Isabel.

" You will grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't

believe — I don't believe " And he stopped again; his

strength failed him.

She begged him to be quiet now. " We needn't speak to
understand each other," she said.

" I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours — can
hurt you for more than a little."

" Oh, Ralph, I am very happy now," she cried, through her
tears.

" And remember this," he continued, " that if you have been
hated, you have also been loved."

" Ah, my brother ! " she cried, with a movement of still
deeper prostration.

508 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

LV.

HE had told her, the first evening she ever spent at' Garden-
court, that if she should live to suffer enough she might some
day see the ghost with which the old house was duly provided.
She apparently had fulfilled the necessary condition ; for the
next morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she knew that a spirit
was standing by her bed. She had lain down without undress-
ing, for it was her belief that Ralph would not outlast the night.
She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting,' and such
waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes ; she believed
that as the night wore on she should hear a knock at her door.
She heard no knock, but at the time the darkness began vaguely
to grow grey, she started up from her pillow as abruptly as if she
had received a summons. It seemed to her for an instant that
Ralph was standing there — a dim, hovering figure in the dimness
of the room. She stared a moment ; she saw his white face —
his kind eyes ; then she saw there was nothing. She was not
afraid ; she was only sure. She went out of her room, and in
her certainty passed through dark corridors and down a flight of
oaken steps that shone in the vague light of a hall-window.
Outside of Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening ; but
she seemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She opened the
door with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil from the
face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless and
upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his hands in
her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's
further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The nurse was
at the foot, between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of
Isabel, but the doctor looked at her very hard ; then he gently
placed Ralph's hand in a proper position, close beside him. The
nurse looked at her very hard too, and no one said a word ; but
Isabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was fairer
than Ralph had ever been in life, and there was a strange resem-
blance to the face of his father, which, six years before, she had
seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt and put
her arm round her ; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing
neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to
this one, rising, as it were, to take it. But she was stiff and
dry-eyed ; her acute white face was terrible.

" Poor Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 609

" Go and thank God you have no child," said Mrs. Touchett,
disengaging herself.

Three days after this a considerable number of people found
time, in the height of the London " season," to take a morning
train down to a quiet station in Berkshire and spend half-an-
hour in a small grey church, which stood within an easy walk.
It was in the green burial-place of this edifice that Mrs. Touchett
consigned her son to earth. She stood herself at the edge of the
grave, and Isabel stood beside her ; the sexton himself had not
a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs. Touchett. It
was a solemn occasion, but it was not a disagreeable one ; there
was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weather
had changed to fair ; the day, one of the last of the treacherous
May- time, was warm and windless, and the air had the bright-
ness of the hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of
poor Touchett, it was not too sad, since death, for him, had had
no violence. He had been dying so long ; he was so ready ;
everything had been so expected and prepared. There were
tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears that blinded. She
looked through them at the beauty of the day, the splendour of
nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the bowed
heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group
of gentlemen unknown to Isabel, several of whom, as she after-
wards learned, were connected with the bank; and there were
others whom she knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first,
with honest Mr. Bantling beside her; and Caspar Goodwood,
lifting his head higher than the rest — bowing it rather less.
During much of the time Isabel was conscious of Mr. Goodwood's
gaze ; he looked at her somewhat harder than he usually looked
in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon the church-
yard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him ; she
thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England.
She found that she had taken for granted that after accompanying
Ealph to Gardencourt he had gone away ; she remembered that
it was not a country that pleased him. He was there, however,
very distinctly there ; and something in his attitude seemed to
say that he was there with a complex intention. She would not
meet his eyes, though there was doubtless sympathy in them ;
he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the little
group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak
to her — though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett — was Henrietta
Stackpole. Henrietta had been crying.

Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain %t
Gardencourt, and she made no immediate motion to leave the

510 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

place. She said to herself that it was but common charity tc
stay a little with her aunt. It was fortunate she had so good a
formula ; otherwise she might have been greatly in want of one.
Her errand was over ; she had done what she left her husband
for. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting the hours of
her absence ; in such a case one needed an excellent motive.
He was not one of the best husbands ; but that didn't alter the
case. Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of
marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of enjoy-
ment extracted| from it. Isabel thought of her husband as little
as might be ; t>ut now that she was at a distance, beyond its
spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome*.
There was a deadly sadness in the thought, and she drew back
into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to
day, postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She
knew she must decide, but she decided nothing ; her coming
itself had not been a decision. On that occasion she had simply
started. Osmond gave no sound, and now evidently he would
give none ; he would leave it all to her. From Pansy she heard
nothing, but that was very simple ; her father had told her not
to write.

Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's' company, but offered her no
assistance ; she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without
enthusiasm, but with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of
her own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not an optimist, but
even from painful occurrences she managed to extract a certain
satisfaction. This consisted in the reflection that, after all, such
things happened to other people and not to herself. Death was
disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's death, not her
own ; she had never nattered herself that her own would be
disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off
than poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind
him, and indeed all the security ; for the worst of dying was, to
Mrs, Touchett's mind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage
of. For herself, she was on the spot ; there was nothing so good
as that. She made known to Isabel very punctually — it was
the evening her son was buried — several of Ralph's testamentary
arrangements. He had told her everything, had consulted her
about everything. He left her no money ; of course she had no
need of money. He left her the furniture of Gardencourt,
exclusive of the pictures and books, and the use of the place for
a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced
by the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for

THE POKTRAIT OF A LADY. 511

poor persons suffering from the malady of which he died ; and
of tins portion of the will Lord Warburton was appointed
executor. The rest of his property, which was to be withdrawn
from the bank, was disposed of in various bequests, several of
them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his father had
already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small
legacies.

" Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touch ett ;
" he has left considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He
gave me a list, and I asked then who some of them were, and he
told me they were people who at various times had seemed to
like him. Apparently he thought you didn't like him, for he
has not left you a penny. It was his opinion that you were
handsomely treated by his father, which I am bound to say I
think you were — though I don't mean that I ever heard him
complain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed ; he has dis-
tributed them about, one by one, as little keepsakes. The most
valuable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what
do you think he has done with his library 1 It sounds like a
practical joke. He has left it to your friend Miss Stackpole —
( in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean her
following him up from Rome 1 Was that a service to literature 1
It contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she
can't carry it about the world in her trunk, he recommends her
to sell it at auction. She will sell it of course at Christie's, and
with the proceeds she will set up a newspaper. Will that be a
service to literature 1 "

This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the
little interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to
submit on her arrival. Besides, she had never been less inter-
ested in literature than to-day, as she found when she occasion-
ally took down from the shelf one of the rare and valuable
volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She was quite
unable to read ; her attention had never been so little at her
command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the
ceremony in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it a little ; but
her eyes often wandered from the book in her hand to the open
window, which looked down the long avenue. It was in this
way that she saw a modest vehicle approach the door, and per-
ceived Lord Warburton sitting, in rather an uncomfortable
attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had a high standard
of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under the
circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come

512 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

down from London to call upon Mrs. Touchett. It was of
course Mrs. Touchett that he had come to see, and not Mrs.
Osmond ; and to prove to herself the validity of this theory,
Isabel presently stepped out of the house and wandered away
into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she had been
but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for visit-
ing the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first
it struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory
I have just mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her
little rest, and if you had seen her pacing about, you would have
said she had a bad conscience. She was not pacified when at
the end of a quarter of an hour, finding herself in view of the
house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge from the portico, accom-
panied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently proposed to Lord
Warburton that they should come in search of her. She was
in no humour for visitors, and if she had had time she would
have drawn back, behind one of the great trees. But she saw
that she had been seen and that nothing was left her but to
advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt was a vast expanse, this
took some time ; during which she observed that, as he walked
beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather stiffly
behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons appar-
ently were silent ; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she
directed it toward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression.
It seemed to say, with cutting sharpness, " Here is the eminently
amenable nobleman whom you might have married !" When
Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however, that was not
what they said They only said, " This is rather awkward, you
know, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave,
very proper, and for the first time since Isabel had known him,
he greeted her without a smile. Even in his days of distress he
had always begun with a smile. He looked extremely self-
conscious.

" Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me,"
said Mrs. Touchett. " He tells me he didn't know you were
still here. I know he's an old friend of yours, and as I was
told you were not in the house, I brought him out to see for
himself."

" Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me
back in time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion explained,
rather irrelevantly. " I am so glad to find you have not gone."

" I am not here for long, you know," Isabel said, with a
certain eagerness.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 513

" I suppose not ; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came
to England sooner than — a — than you thought ] "

" Yes, I came very suddenly."

Mrs. Touchett turned away, as if she were looking at the
condition of the grounds, which indeed was not what it should
be ; while Lord Warburton hesitated a little.- Isabel fancied he
had been on the point of asking about her husband — rather con-
fusedly— and then had checked himself. He continued immiti-
gably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a place
over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons.
If he Was conscious of personal reasons, it was very fortunate
that he had the cover of the former motive ; he could make the
most of that. Isabel thought of all this. It was not that his
face was sad, for that was another matter ; but it was strangely
inexpressive.

" My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had
known you were still here — if they had thought you would see
them," Lord Warburton went on. " Do kindly let them see you
before you leave England."

" It would give me great pleasure ; I have such a friendly
recollection of them."

" I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a
day or two 1 You know there is always that old promise." And
his lordship blushed a little as he made this suggestion, which
gave his face a somewhat more familiar air. " Perhaps I'm not
right in saying that just now ; of course you are not thinking of
visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a visit. My sisters
are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for three days ; and if
you could come then — as you say you are not to be very long in
England — I would see that there should be literally no one
else."

Isabel wondered whether not even the young lady he was
to marry would be there with her mamma ; but she did not
express this idea. " Thank you extremely," she contented
herself with saying ; " I'm afraid I hardly know about Whit-
suntide."

" But I have your promise — haven't 1 1 — for some other
time."

Tk»i-e was an interrogation in this ; but Isabel let it pass.
She looked at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her
observation was that — as had happened before— she felt sorry
for him. "Take care you don't miss your train," she said.
And then she added, " I wish you every happiness."

L L,

514 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his
watch.

" Ah yes, 6.40 ; I haven't much time, but I have a fly at the
door. Thank you very much." It was not apparent whether
the thanks applied to her having reminded him of his train, or
to the more sentimental remark. " Good-bye, Mrs. Osmond ;
good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her eye,
and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back
to them. With her his parting was equally brief ; and in a
moment the two ladies saw him move with long steps across
the lawn.

" Are you very sure he is to be married 3 " Isabel asked of
her aunt.

" I can't be surer than he ; but he seems sure. I congratulated
him, and he accepted it."

" Ah," said Isabel, " I give it up ! " — while her aunt returned
to the house and to those avocations which the visitor had
interrupted.

She gave it up, but she still thought of it — thought of it
while she strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were
long upon the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she
found herself near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she had
looked at it, struck her as an object recognised. It was not
simply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had sat
upon it; it was that in this spot something important had hap-
pened to her- -that the place had an air of association. Then
she remembered that she had been sitting there six years before,
when a servant brought her from the house the letter in which
Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to
Europe ; and that when she had read that letter she looked up to
hear Lord Warburton announcing that he should like to marry
her. It was indeed an historical, an interesting, bench; she
stood and looked at it as if it might have something to say to her.
She would not sit down on it now — she felt rather afraid of it.
She only stood before it, and while she stood, -the past came
back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which
people of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this
agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influ-
ence of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the
rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and unable to
occupy herself ; and whether or no, if you had seen her there,
you would have admired the justice of the former epithet, you
would at least have allowed that at this moment she was the

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 515

image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular
absence of purpose ; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost 'them-
selves in the folds of her black dress ; her eyes gazed vaguely
before her. There was nothing to recall her to the house, the
two ladies, in -their seclusion, dined early and had tea at an
indefinite hour. How long she had sat in this position she could
not have told you ; but the twilight had grown thick when she
became aware that she was not alone. She quickly straightened
herself, glancing about, and then saw what had become of her
solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood, who stood
looking at her, a few feet off, and whose footfall, on the unreson-
ant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her,
in the midst of this, that it was just so Lord Warburton had
surprised her of old.

She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw that he was
seen he started forward. She had had time only to rise, when
with a motion that looked like violence, but felt like — she knew
not what — he grasped her by the wrist and made her sink again
into the seat. She closed her eyes ; he had not hurt her,- it was
only a touch that she had obeyed. But there was something in
his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he had
looked at her the other day in the churchyard ; only to-day it
was worse. He said nothing at first ; she only felt him close to
her. It almost seemed to her that nq one had ever been so close
to her as that. All this, however, took but a moment, at the
end of which she had disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes
upon her visitant.

" You have frightened me," she said.

" I didn't mean to," he answered, " but if I did a little, no
matter. I came from London a wbile ago by the train, but I
couldn't come here directly. There was a man at the station who
got ahead of me. He took a fly that was there, and I heard him
give the order to drive here. I don't know who he was, but I
didn't want to come with him ; I wanted to see you alone. So
I have been waiting and walking about. I have walked all
over, and I wgs just coming to the house when I saw you here.
There was a keeper, or some one, who met me ; but that was all
right, because I had made his acquaintance when I came here
with your cousin. Is that gentleman gone] are you really
alone1? I want to speak to you." Goodwood spoke very fast;
he was as excited as when they parted in Home. Isabel had
hoped that condition would subside ; and she shrank into herself
as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out sail.

L L 2

616 THE POETRAIT OF A LADY.

She had a new sensation ; he had never produced it before ; it
was a feeling of danger. There was indeed something awful in
his persistency. Isabel gazed straight before her ; he with a hand
on each knee, leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The
twilight seemed to darken around them. " I want to speak to
you," he repeated ; " I have something particular to say. I don't
want to trouble you — as I did the other day, in Rome. That
was no use ; it only distressed you. I couldn't help it ; I knew
I was wrong. But I am not wrong now ; please don't think I
am," he went on, with his hard, deep voice melting a moment
into entreaty. " I came here to-day for a purpose ! it's very
different. It was no use for me to speak to you then ; but now
I can help you."

She could not have told you whether it was because she was
afraid, or because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity
a boon ; but she listened to him as she had never listened before ;
his words dropped deep into her soul. They produced a sort of
stillness in all her being ; and it was with an effort, in a moment,
that she answered him.

" How can you help me ? " she asked, in a low tone ; as if she
were taking what he had said seriously enough to make the
inquiry in confidence.

" By inducing you to trust me. Now I know — to-day I know.
— Do you remember what I asked you in Rome? Then I was
quite in the dark. But to-day I know on good authority ; every-
thing is clear to me to-day. It was a good thing, when you
made me come away with your cousin. He was a good fellow —
he was a noble fellow — he told me how the case stands. He
explained everything ; he guessed what I thought of you. He was
a member of your family, and he left you — so long as you should
be in England — to my care," said Goodwood, as if he were
making a great point. " Do you know what he said to me the
last time I saw him — as he lay there where he died 1 He said—
' Do everything you can for her ; do everything she will let
you.' "

Isabel suddenly got up. " You had no business to talk about
me!"

" Why iiot — wny not, when we talked in that way 1 " he
demanded, following her fast. " And he was dying — when a
man's dying it's different. She checked the movement she had
made to leave him ; she was listening more than ever ; it was
true that he was not the same as that last time. That had been
aimless, fruitless passion ; but at present he had an idea. Isabel

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 517

scented his idea in all her being. " But it doesn't matter ! " he
exclaimed, pressing her close, though now without touching a
hem of her garment. If Touchett had never opened his mouth,
I should have known all the same. I had only to look at you at
your cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. You
can't deceive me any more ; for God's sake be honest with a man
who is so honest with you. You are the most unhappy of women,
and your husband's a devil ! "

She turned on him as if he had struck her. " Are you mad 1 "
she cried.

" I have never been so sane ; I see the whole thing. Don't
think it's necessary to defend him. But I won't say another word
against him ; I will speak only of you," Goodwood added,
quickly. " How can you pretend you are not heart-broken. 1
You don't know what to do — you don't know where to turn.
It's too late to play a part ; didn't you leave all that behind you
in Rome1? Touchett knew all about it — and I knew it too — •
what it would cost you to come here. It will cost you your life 1
When I know that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save
you ? What would you think of me if I should stand still and
see yon go back to your reward 1 l It's awful, what she'll have
to pay for it ! ' — that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell
you that, mayn't 1 1 He was such a near relation ! " cried Good-
wood, making his point again. " I would sooner have been shot
than let another man say those things to me ; but he was differ-
ent ; he seemed to me to have the right. It was after he got
home — when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too. I
understand all about it : you are afraid to go back. You are
perfectly alone ; you don't know where to turn. Now it is that
I want you to think of me."

" To think of you 1 " Isabel said, standing before him in the
dusk. The idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few
moments before now loomed large. She threw back her head a
little ; she stared at it as if it had been a comet in the sky.

" You don't know where to turn ; turn to me ! I want to
persuade you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then
he paused a moment, with his shining eyes. " Why should
you go back — why should you go ' through that ghastly
form?"

" To get away from you ! " she answered. But this expressed
only a little of what she felt. The rest was that she had never
been loved before. It wrapped her about ; it lifted her ot£ jier
feet.

518 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her
that he would break out into greater violence. But after an
instant he was perfectly quiet ; he wished to prove that he was
sane, that he had reasoned it all out. " I wish to prevent that,
and I think I may, if you will only listen to me. It's too mon-
strous to think of sinking back into that misery. It's you that
are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you.
Why shouldn't we be happy — when it's here before us, when
it's so easy ? I am yours for ever — for ever and ever. Here I
stand ; I'm as firm as a rock. What have you to care about 1
You have no children ; that perhaps would be an obstacle. As
it is, you have nothing to consider. You must save what you
can of your life ; you mustn't lose it all simply because you have
Ipst a part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you
care for the look of the thing — for what people will say — for
the bottomless idiocy of the world ! We have nothing to do
with all that ; we are quite out of it ; we look at things as they
are. You took the great step in coming away ; the next is
nothing ; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a
woman deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life
— in going down into the streets, if that will help her ! I know
how you suffer, and that's why I am here. We can do abso-
lutely as we please ; to whom under the sun do we owe any-
thing] What is it that holds us — what is it that has the
smallest right to interfere in such a question as this 1 Such a
question is between ourselves — and to say that is to settle it !
Were we born to rot in our misery — were we born to be afraid 1
I never knew you afraid ! If you only trust me, how little you
will be disappointed ! The world is all before us — and the world
is very large. I know something about that."

Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain ; it was as
if he were pressing something that hurt her. " The world is
very small," she said, at random ; she had an immense desire to
appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say
something ; but it was not what she meant. The world, in
truth, had never seemed so large ; it seemed to open out, all
round her, to take the form of a mighty sea, where she floated
in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and here was help ;
it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not whether she
believed everything that he said ; but she believed that to let
him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to dying.
This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she
felt herself sinking and sinking. In the movement she seemed

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 519

to "beat with, her feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something
to rest on.

" Ah, be mine as I am yours ! " she heard her companion cry
He had suddenly given up argument, and his voice seemed to
come through a confusion of sound.

This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the
metaphysicians say ; the confusion, the noise of waters, and all
the rest of it, were in her own head. In an instant she became
aware of this. " Do me the greatest kindness of all," she said.
" I beseech you to go away ! "

"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me ! '•' he cried.

She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with
tears.

" As you love me, as you pity me, leave me alone ! "

He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next
instant she felt his arms about her, and his lips on her own
lips. His kiss was like a flash of lightning ; when it was dark
again she was free. She never looked about her; she only
darted away from the spot. There were lights in the windows
of the house ; they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordi-
narily short time — for the distance was considerable — she had
moved through the darkness (for she saw nothing) and reached
the door. Here only she paused. She looked all about her ;
she listened a little ; then she put her hand on the latch. She
had not known where to turn ; but she knew now. There was
a very straight path. •

Two days afterwards, Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door
of the house in Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stack-
pole occupied furnished lodgings. He had hardly removed his
hand from the knocker when the door was opened, and Miss
Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her bonnet and
jacket ; she was on the point of going out.

" Oh, good morning/' he said " I was in hope I should find
Mrs. Osmond."

Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply ; but there
was a good deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when
she was silent.

" Pray what led you to suppose she was here 1 "

" I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant
told me she had come to London. He believed she was to come
to you."

Again Miss Stackpole held him — with an intention of perfect
kindness — in suspense.

520 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

" She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this
morning she started for Rome."

Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were
fastened on the doorstep.

" Oh, she started — " he stammered. And without finishing
his phrase, or looking up, he turned away.

Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now
she put out her hand and grasped his arm.

" Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said ; " just you wait 1 "

On which he looked up at her.

THE END.