than of yore and looked older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.
"I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've but just arrived. Literally, I only got here this
evening. You see I've 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 to his wife.
"It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're 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's the same at which I saw you four years since. You know it
was here in Rome that we first met; it's a long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you goodbye?"
his lordship asked of his hostess. "It was in the Capitol, in the first room."
"I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at the time."
"Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry that, somehow or other, it
became almost a dismal memory, and I've never cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you
were living here," her old friend went on to Isabel, "and I assure you I've often thought of you. It
must be a charming place to live in," he added with a look, round him, at her established home, in
which she might have caught the dim ghost of his old ruefulness.
"We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond observed with propriety.
"Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a month ago I really
supposed my travels over."
"I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who had already, with her rare capacity for such
inward feats, taken the measure of what meeting him again meant for her.
"I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete blank."
"Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He appeared to think his duties as a host
now terminated--he had performed them so 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
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on the whole a good deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and Mrs.
Osmond together," he added. "You have reminiscences into which I don't enter."
"I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton called after him, as he moved away, in a tone
which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on
Isabel the deeper, the deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious.
"I'm really very glad to see you."
"It's very pleasant. You're very kind."
"Do you know that you're changed--a little?"
She just hesitated. "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," she bravely returned.
"Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't be something to show for it."
They sat down and she asked him about his sisters, with other enquiries 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 press with less of his whole weight than of yore. Time had
breathed upon his heart and, without chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air.
Isabel felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was certainly that of a
contented man, one who would rather like people, or like her at least, to know him for such.
"There's something I must tell you without more delay," he resumed. "I've brought Ralph Touchett
with me."
"Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great.
"He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed."
"I'll go to see him," she immediately said.
"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea 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 Briton."
"I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to Rome?" The declaration
was very gentle, the question a little sharp.
"Because he's 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 to 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 thoroughly 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 furniture, could
make himself comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted him at least to
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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'm acting as--what do you
call it in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph'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 rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human
help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some sharp young doctor; but he
wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for
Mrs. Touchett to decide on going to America."
Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. "My aunt does that at fixed
periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When the date comes round she starts; I think she'd have
started if Ralph had been dying."
"I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said.
Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now."
He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his words. "I don't mean I
thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day, in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of
our reaching Rome--he's very fond of Rome, you know-- gave him strength. An hour ago, when I
bade him goodnight, he told me 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 decide to till after we had separated. Then I
remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very Thursday. It occurred to
me to come in and tell you he's here, and let you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to
call. I think he said he hadn't 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 gallantly added.
"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've been extremely kind."
"Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton.
"We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one speaks of you as a great
statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name in the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear
to hold it in reverence. You're apparently as wild a radical as ever."
"I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me. Touchett and I have kept
up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way from London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and
he calls me the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal appearance,
every sign of the brute. So you see there's 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--he had a conception 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
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reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new trouble. But she was now
reassured; she could see he only wished to live with her on good terms, that she was to understand
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 of his wishing to punish her by an exhibition of
disillusionment; she did him the justice to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would
now take a good-natured interest in knowing 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 without implications; he even went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome
as a very jolly time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her marriage
and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's acquaintance--since he could hardly
be said to have made it on the other occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage
in her history, but he didn't apologise to her for this. 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 person
amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of guesses-
"Well now, I suppose you're 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'd tell you?"
"Well, I don't know. I don't see why not."
"I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy."
"You've got an awfully good house."
"Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's."
"You mean he has arranged it?"
"Yes, it was nothing when we came."
"He must be very clever."
"He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel.
"There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a taste of your own."
"I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never propose anything."
"Do you mean you accept what others propose?"
"Very willingly, for the most part."
"That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something."
"It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in 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 prefer 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? That's my husband's daughter."
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"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 you had changed?" he presently went on. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same."
"And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabel with mild 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 do want to marry," he added more simply.
"It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising--after which she reflected, with a pang perhaps too
visible, that she was hardly the person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined
the pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having contributed then to the
facility.
Edward Rosier had meanwhile 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 Rosier. "I don't know more."
"I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea."
"Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you."
"Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy.
"They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only thought in life was the wish the
kettle would boil."
"It has just been filled; the servants never know!"--and she sighed with the weight of her
responsibility.
"Do you know what your father said to me just now? 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."
"He told me you had forgotten me."
"Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed smile.
"Then everything's just the very same?"
"Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe."
"What has he done to you?"
"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 love?"
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She 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 me?"
"Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't know that."
"You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier.
She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. "Please don't talk any more."
"Is this to be all my satisfaction?"
"Papa said I was not to talk with you."
"Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!"
"I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct enough to betray a quaver.
"Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away."
"I'll not give you up--oh no!" Pansy went on.
"He'll try and make you marry some one else."
"I'll never do that."
"What then are we to wait for?"
She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us." It was in this manner that she
for the most part designated her stepmother.
"She won't help us much. She's afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of your father, I suppose."
Pansy shook her little head. "She's 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 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, as 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 introduced.
CHAPTER XXXIX
It will probably not surprise 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 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 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
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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 such a burden as to make her hate him. So dismal had been, during the
year that followed his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his meditations
appear morbid we must remember 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. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of June. He learned
from his mother that Isabel at first had thought 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 be
best embodied in their being married by the nearest clergyman 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, had written 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 profession; 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 had taken
place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel in the autumn, in Paris, when she
had indulged--perhaps a trifle too freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the
subject of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to Isabel that she had
taken a step which put a barrier between them. "It isn't in the least that you've married--it is that
you have married HIM," she had 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. Henrietta's second visit to Europe, however, was not apparently to have been 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 had appeared upon the scene and proposed that they should take a run down
to Spain. Henrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she had yet published, and
there had been one in especial, dated from the Alhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,'
which generally passed for her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's
not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even wondered if his sense of fun, or
of the funny--which would be his sense of humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of
course she herself looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing to grudge
to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their alliance a kind of monstrosity; he
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couldn't imagine what they had in common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the
most vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned. Against this latter
clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an ardour that had 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?" Osmond had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid
her washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much.
Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that had followed her marriage;
the winter that formed the beginning of her residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo,
where he had been joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him to
England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she couldn't induce him to
perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied
still another winter; but late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome.
It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face with Isabel; his desire to see
her again was then of the keenest. She had written to him from time to time, but her letters told
