<h2> CHAPTER XLV </h2>
<p>
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 <i>could</i> 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 Hôtel 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.
</p>
<p>
She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. “I want you to answer
me a question. It’s about Lord Warburton.”
</p>
<p>
“I think I guess your question,” Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of
which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.
</p>
<p>
“Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I don’t say I can do that.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re intimate with him,” she said; “you’ve a great deal of observation
of him.”
</p>
<p>
“Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!”
</p>
<p>
“Why should he dissimulate? That’s not his nature.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar,” said Ralph
with an air of private amusement.
</p>
<p>
“To a certain extent—yes. But is he really in love?”
</p>
<p>
“Very much, I think. I can make that out.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” said Isabel with a certain dryness.
</p>
<p>
Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with
mystification. “You say that as if you were disappointed.”
</p>
<p>
Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully.
“It’s after all no business of mine.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re very philosophic,” said her cousin. And then in a moment: “May I
enquire what you’re talking about?”
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, for Pansy, no!” cried Ralph very positively.
</p>
<p>
“But you said just now he did.”
</p>
<p>
Ralph waited a moment. “That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond.”
</p>
<p>
Isabel shook her head gravely. “That’s nonsense, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton’s, not mine.”
</p>
<p>
“That would be very tiresome.” She spoke, as she flattered herself, with
much subtlety.
</p>
<p>
“I ought to tell you indeed,” Ralph went on, “that to me he has denied
it.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you
that he’s in love with Pansy?”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“Does he really think it?”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, what Warburton really thinks—!” said Ralph.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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!”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
“He ought to succeed easily,” said Ralph.
</p>
<p>
Isabel debated. “Yes—but he has not always succeeded.”
</p>
<p>
“Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss
Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?”
</p>
<p>
“It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he’ll let the
matter drop.”
</p>
<p>
“He’ll do nothing dishonourable,” said Ralph.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“Cruel to the other person perhaps—the one she cares for. But
Warburton isn’t obliged to mind that.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“He’d be very good to her,” said Ralph.
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
“How would your husband like that?”
</p>
<p>
“Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain
satisfaction himself.”
</p>
<p>
“Has he commissioned you to obtain it?” Ralph ventured to ask.
</p>
<p>
“It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton’s—an older
friend, that is, than Gilbert—I should take an interest in his
intentions.”
</p>
<p>
“Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?”
</p>
<p>
Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. “Let me understand. Are you pleading
his cause?”
</p>
<p>
“Not in the least. I’m very glad he shouldn’t become your stepdaughter’s
husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!” said Ralph, smiling.
“But I’m rather nervous lest your husband should think you haven’t pushed
him enough.”
</p>
<p>
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’m not afraid I shall not be able to justify myself!” she said
lightly.
</p>
<p>
Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to
Ralph’s infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural
face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage
desire 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 how he judged for her and how he knew. It little
mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own
satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not
deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt
cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable 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 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 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’ll be decidedly at variance, all the same,” he
said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce
understood, “You’ll find yourselves thinking very differently,” he
continued.
</p>
<p>
“That may easily happen, among the most united couples!” She took up her
parasol; he saw 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’s very natural. Pansy’s after all his
daughter—not mine.” And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.
</p>
<p>
Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn’t leave him without his
letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an
opportunity 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—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.
</p>
<p>
“To jealousy?”
</p>
<p>
“To jealousy of his daughter.”
</p>
<p>
She blushed red and threw back her head. “You’re not kind,” she said in a
voice that he had never heard on her lips.
</p>
<p>
“Be frank with me and you’ll see,” he answered.
</p>
<p>
But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he
tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her
mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going to
the 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 Palazzo Roccanera 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 it as simply as possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she
warned herself against betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking
too grave, or at least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But
Pansy seemed to have guessed she had come more or less 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 felt 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
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 tentative enquiry something of the
effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with
her pretty dress dimly 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 ignorance, had only been the desire to leave her at
liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer, 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.
</p>
<p>
“It’s difficult for me to advise you,” Isabel returned. “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 on it.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“That’s not as it should be,” said Isabel coldly. “I love you very much,
but your father loves you better.”
</p>
<p>
“It isn’t because you love me—it’s because you’re a lady,” Pansy
answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. “A lady can
advise a young girl better than a man.”
</p>
<p>
“I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father’s wishes.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah yes,” said the child eagerly, “I must do that.”
</p>
<p>
“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’s only that I may act accordingly.”
</p>
<p>
Pansy stared, and then very quickly, “Will you do everything I want?” she
asked.
</p>
<p>
“Before I say yes I must know what such things are.”
</p>
<p>
Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to
marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so if
her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn’t allow it.
</p>
<p>
“Very well then, it’s impossible,” Isabel pronounced.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it’s impossible,” said Pansy without a sigh and with the same
extreme attention in her clear little face.
</p>
<p>
“You must think of something else then,” Isabel went on; but Pansy,
sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the
least success.
</p>
<p>
“You think of those who think of you,” she said with a faint smile. “I
know Mr. Rosier thinks of me.”
</p>
<p>
“He ought not to,” said Isabel loftily. “Your father has expressly
requested he shouldn’t.”
</p>
<p>
“He can’t help it, because he knows I think of <i>him</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“You shouldn’t think of him. There’s some excuse for him, perhaps; but
there’s none for you.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish you would try to find one,” the girl exclaimed as if she were
praying to the Madonna.
</p>
<p>
“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?”
</p>
<p>
“No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, but I don’t admit Mr. Rosier’s right!” Isabel hypocritically cried.
</p>
<p>
Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking
advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched 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 an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it
failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness toward 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.
</p>
<p>
“Your father would like you to make a better marriage,” said Isabel. “Mr.
Rosier’s fortune is not at all large.”
</p>
<p>
“How do you mean better—if that would be good enough? And I have
myself so little money; why should I look for a fortune?”
</p>
<p>
“Your having so little is a reason for looking for more.” With which
Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face
were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was
what 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 light of
the girl’s preference.
</p>
<p>
“What should you like me to do?” her companion softly demanded.
</p>
<p>
The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous
vagueness. “To remember all the pleasure it’s in your power to give your
father.”
</p>
<p>
“To marry some one else, you mean—if he should ask me?”
</p>
<p>
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.”
</p>
<p>
The child’s eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed 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 quavered out: “Well, I hope no one will ask me!”
</p>
<p>
“There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready to
ask you.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t think he can have been ready,” said Pansy.
</p>
<p>
“It would appear so if he had been sure he’d succeed.”
</p>
<p>
“If he had been sure? Then he wasn’t ready!”
</p>
<p>
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
resumed; “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.
</p>
<p>
“He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean
that he’ll propose for me I think you’re mistaken.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely.”
</p>
<p>
Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. “Lord Warburton won’t
propose simply to please papa.”
</p>
<p>
“Your father would like you to encourage him,” Isabel went on
mechanically.
</p>
<p>
“How can I encourage him?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. Your father must tell you that.”
</p>
<p>
Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if she
were in possession of a bright assurance. “There’s no danger—no
danger!” she declared at last.
</p>
<p>
There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her
believing it, which conduced to Isabel’s awkwardness. 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. But she didn’t; she only said—in her embarrassment
rather wide of the mark—that he surely had been most kind, most
friendly.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, he has been very kind,” Pansy answered. “That’s what I like him
for.”
</p>
<p>
“Why then is the difficulty so great?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve always felt sure of his knowing 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 therefore 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’ll never say it again.’ I think that’s very
kind, very noble,” Pansy went on with deepening positiveness. “That is all
we’ve said to each other. And he doesn’t care for me either. Ah no,
there’s no danger.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
“I think I’d rather not,” Pansy unreservedly answered.
</p>
<p>
“You oughtn’t to let him have false hopes.”
</p>
<p>
“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
the child very lucidly.
</p>
<p>
There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion
draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.
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.
</p>
<p>
“Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a
nobleman.”
</p>
<p>
Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for Isabel
to pass. “I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!” she remarked very gravely.
</p>
<p>
<SPAN name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </SPAN>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />