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 a special devotion to this intimate scene--she thought
it the most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she
was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse
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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've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you."
"I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant it.
"It was not to honour you I did it; I've 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've met you here this will do
as well."
"I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll stop." He was civil, but 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, none the less, if he had seen
all the pictures.
"All I want to. I've been here an hour."
"I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came up on purpose to have a look at
it." She went into the Tribune and he slowly accompanied her.
"I suppose I've 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 she
wished to talk with him.
"No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!" They had the small, brilliant room, a
splendid cabinet of treasures, 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 embarrassment 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 loudly.
"No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no favour."
"Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience.
"You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favour. Indeed I only know of
one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd 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, couldn't 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 continued therefore
disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. "I may say now, indeed--it seems a good time-
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that if I've ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to
suffer annoyance for you. I've troubled you-- doubtless. But Is'd TAKE trouble for you."
Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now."
"Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on the whole that you should go to
Rome."
"I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather artlessly.
"You HAVE considered it then?"
"Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it. Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far
as this. That's what I stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over."
"I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much
attracted."
"Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded.
"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 some harm?--that's the question."
"I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm 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.
"That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking about in Paris."
"It will make you more discontented."
"Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How do you know I'm
discontented?"
"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'm greatly obliged to you for 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?--that's the real issue."
"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'll be a true friend--snot a selfish
one!" And she turned off and began to look at the pictures.
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Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered round the room; but after
a moment he rejoined her. "You've heard something about her here," he then resumed. "I should
like to know what you've heard."
Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this occasion there might have been a
fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception.
"Yes, I've 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," he said. Then inconsistently, for him, "You've heard
she's unhappy!" he added.
"Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.
"I hope not. When do you start?"
"To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"
Goodwood hung back; 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 things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters he
supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their
position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't 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 enquiring authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his
soul. He 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 desired
to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the
European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, 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 couldn't take a night-train
when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an
unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than
he had patience for. It wouldn't 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 said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme
distinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll go too, as I may be of assistance to you."
"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returned imperturbably.
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CHAPTER XLV
I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be displeased by the continuance
of Ralph's visit to Rome. That 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 opposition. 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 perceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion
to it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in
direct opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and inscribed 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 filled her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself 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, none the less, the rapid approach of the day when she
should have to take back something she had solemnly bestown. 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 to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden
her to call upon 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 understand her husband's wish for the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD
like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond's sore, mute
protest was none the less founded. If he should positively interpose, if he should put forth his
authority, she would have to decide, and that wouldn't 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, she found herself wishing 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 acknowledgement 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. Once they missed it
nothing else would do; there was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel
went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure of propriety was in the canon
of taste, and there couldn't have been a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of
earnest appreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularly free 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. It's
about Lord Warburton."
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"I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of 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 of observation 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 Ralph with 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 with mystification. "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 I enquire 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, I think. 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, with 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's 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 on which she could freely
expend herself. Soon, however, she looked up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she
cried abruptly and passionately.
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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: "How
unhappy you must be!"
He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, 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's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't undertake 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 Miss Osmond capable of giving
us a surprise?"
"It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let the matter drop."
"He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.
"I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to leave the poor child alone.
She cares for another person, and it's 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 unhappy if she were to allow herself to be
persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love
with him. He has the merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance that
Lord Warburton isn't."
