The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XLV

  I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to bedispleased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That knowledgewas very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel the dayafter she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of hissincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficientperception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished her to haveno freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostleof 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 perceived thatshe partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion toit, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She hadnot as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he washer appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sortof incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionarydecencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filledher with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she hadlost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband'sintentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none theless, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take backsomething she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious andmonstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would donothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon herto the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph;but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart thisprohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yetmade it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wishfor the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her to bewith her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond'ssore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positivelyinterpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have todecide, and that wouldn't be easy. The prospect made her heart beat andher cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in herwish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph wouldstart even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herselfin this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward.It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemedpreferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacredact--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous.To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any openacknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission thattheir whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could beno condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formalreadjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing wasto have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; therewas no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabelwent to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measureof propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have beena better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnestappreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularlyfree to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn'tleave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. Thisindeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own.

  She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to answerme a question. It's about Lord Warburton."

  "I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, outof which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.

  "Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it."

  "Oh, I don't say I can do that."

  "You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal ofobservation of him."

  "Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!"

  "Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature."

  "Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said Ralphwith an air of private amusement.

  "To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?"

  "Very much, I think. I can make that out."

  "Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness.

  Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched withmystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed."

  Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully."It's after all no business of mine."

  "You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment: "May Ienquire what you're talking about?"

  Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants,of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before,without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, Ithink. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?"

  "Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively.

  "But you said just now he did."

  Ralph waited 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." She spoke, as she flattered herself, withmuch subtlety.

  "I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has deniedit."

  "It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told youthat he's in love with Pansy?"

  "He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, ofcourse, 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 gloveson which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she lookedup, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried abruptly andpassionately.

  It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and thewords shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur ofrelief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulfbetween them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in amoment: "How unhappy you must be!"

  He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and thefirst use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. "When Italk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said with a quicksmile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments!The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can'tundertake to see him through."

  "He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.

  Isabel debated. "Yes--but he has not always succeeded."

  "Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is MissOsmond capable of giving us a surprise?"

  "It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll letthe matter drop."

  "He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.

  "I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him toleave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruelto attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up."

  "Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburtonisn't obliged to mind that."

  "No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she wereto allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That ideaseems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has themerit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glancethat Lord Warburton isn't."

  "He'd be very good to her," said Ralph.

  "He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not saida word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow withperfect propriety."

  "How would your husband like that?"

  "Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtainsatisfaction 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 olderfriend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in hisintentions."


  "Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?"

  Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are youpleading his cause?"

  "Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter'shusband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!" said Ralph,smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think youhaven't pushed him enough."

  Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me wellenough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intentionof pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justifymyself!" she said lightly.

  Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, toRalph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her naturalface and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savagedesire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she shouldbe held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certainthat this was her situation he knew by instinct, in advance, the formthat in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could onlytake the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel ofit--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. Itlittle mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his ownsatisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was notdeceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he feltcold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcelymattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why didshe seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention?Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her?How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased herhumorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to bementioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of hertrouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he wasbound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," hesaid in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarceunderstood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," hecontinued.

  "That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up herparasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. "It's amatter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added; "for almost allthe interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all hisdaughter--not mine." And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.

  Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him withouthis letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great anopportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him say?"he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--notdiscouragingly--and he went on. "It will make him say that your wantof zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made himafraid.

  "To jealousy?"

  "To jealousy of his daughter."

  She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said ina voice that he had never heard on her lips.

  "Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered.

  But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which hetried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up hermind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, goingto the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she wasalways in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her prettypatience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-roomfire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, inaccordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought upand which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so thatthe room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in PalazzoRoccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginalbower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling.Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck ofhumanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel,the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabelhad a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply aspossible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself againstbetraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or atleast too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed tohave guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after shehad moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to thefire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on acushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on herstepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her ownlips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton but if shedesired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provokeit. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; andindeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ ofa disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold hertongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest;Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabelhad yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of theeffect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, withher pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and halfin submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousnessof the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr deckedout for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. WhenIsabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what mighthave been going on in relation to her getting married, but that hersilence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desireto leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearerand nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deeplonging, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that shebegged her to advise her now.

  "It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't knowhow I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get hisadvice and, above all, you must act on it."

  At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I thinkI 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," Pansyanswered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady canadvise a young girl better than a man."

  "I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes."

  "Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that."

  "But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for yourown sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from youwhat you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly."

  Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I want?"she asked.

  "Before I say yes I must know what such things are."

  Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was tomarry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do soif her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it.

  "Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced.

  "Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the sameextreme attention in her clear little face.

  "You must think of something else then," Isabel went on but Pansy,sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without theleast success.

  "You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint smile. "Iknow Mr. Rosier thinks of me."

  "He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expresslyrequested he shouldn't."

  "He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM."

  "You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; butthere's none for you."

  "I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she werepraying to the Madonna.

  "I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with unusualfrigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would yo
uthink of him?"

  "No 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 hypocritically cried.

  Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, takingadvantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences ofdisobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance thatshe would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. Andshe announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she mightnever marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. Sheappeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel ofcourse was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning.She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. Thismight seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy,evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitternesstoward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was onlythe sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisiteintimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than evenby marrying him.

  "Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel."Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large."

  "How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myselfso little money; why should I look for a fortune?"

  "Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With whichIsabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her facewere hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it waswhat one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own,almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so lightof the girl's preference.

  "What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded.

  The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorousvagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give yourfather."

  "To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?"

  For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then sheheard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed tomake. "Yes--to marry some one else."

  The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubtingher sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly gettingup from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small handsunclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no one will ask me!"

  "There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been readyto ask you."

  "I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.

  "It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed."

  "If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!"

  Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a momentlooking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,"she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She foundherself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position ofjustifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman morecrudely than she had intended.

  "He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you meanthat he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken."

  "Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."

  Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won'tpropose simply to please papa."

  "Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went onmechanically.

  "How can I encourage him?"

  "I don't know. Your father must tell you that."

  Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as ifshe were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger--nodanger!" she declared at last.

  There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in herbelieving it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accusedof dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respectshe was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know thatthere was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassmentrather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, mostfriendly.

  "Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like himfor."

  "Why then is the difficulty so great?"

  "I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did yousay I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry,and he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's themeaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you verymuch, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' Ithink that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepeningpositiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't carefor me either. Ah no, there's no danger."

  Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of whichthis submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy'swisdom--began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell your fatherthat," she remarked reservedly.

  "I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered.

  "You oughtn't to let him have false hopes."

  "Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as hebelieves that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papawon't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me," saidthe child very lucidly.

  There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companiondraw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt thatshe 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 theinfluence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before sheretired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should havedone her utmost.

  "Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry anobleman."

  Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain forIsabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she remarked verygravely.