by Henry James
CHAPTER XLVIII
One day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made up his mind toreturn to England. He had his own reasons for this decision, whichhe was not bound to communicate; but Henrietta Stackpole, to whom hementioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed them. Sheforbore to express them, however; she only said, after a moment, as shesat by his sofa: "I suppose you know you can't go alone?"
"I've no idea of doing that," Ralph answered. "I shall have people withme."
"What do you mean by 'people'? Servants whom you pay?"
"Ah," said Ralph jocosely, "after all, they're human beings."
"Are there any women among them?" Miss Stackpole desired to know.
"You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a soubrette inmy employment."
"Well," said Henrietta calmly, "you can't go to England that way. Youmust have a woman's care."
"I've had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me agood while."
"You've not had enough of it yet. I guess I'll go with you," saidHenrietta.
"Go with me?" Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa.
"Yes, I know you don't like me, but I'll go with you all the same. Itwould be better for your health to lie down again."
Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. "I like you verymuch," he said in a moment.
Miss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. "You needn't thinkthat by saying that you can buy me off. I'll go with you, and what ismore I'll take care of you."
"You're 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 careof me?"
"Well, I mean to try."
"I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!" And it was perhaps asign of submission that a few minutes after she had left him alone heburst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed to him so inconsequent,such a conclusive proof of his having abdicated all functions andrenounced all exercise, that he should start on a journey across Europeunder the supervision of Miss Stackpole. And the great oddity was thatthe prospect pleased him; he was gratefully, luxuriously passive. Hefelt even impatient to start; and indeed he had an immense longing tosee his own house again. The end of everything was at hand; it seemedto him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wanted todie at home; it was the only wish he had left--to extend himself in thelarge quiet room where he had last seen his father lie, and close hiseyes upon the summer dawn.
That same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he informed hisvisitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up and was to conduct him backto England. "Ah then," said Caspar, "I'm afraid I shall be a fifth wheelto the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with you."
"Good heavens--it's the golden age! You're all too kind."
"The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you."
"Granting that, SHE'S kind," smiled Ralph.
"To get people to go with you? Yes, that's a sort of kindness," Goodwoodanswered without lending himself to the joke. "For myself, however," headded, "I'll go so far as to say that I would much rather travel withyou and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone."
"And you'd rather stay here than do either," said Ralph. "There's reallyno need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordinarily efficient."
"I'm sure of that. But I've 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 shewants me to leave Rome."
"Ah, you see too much in it," Ralph suggested.
"I bore her," Goodwood went on "she has nothing to say to me, so sheinvented that."
"Oh then, if it's a convenience to her I certainly will take you withme. Though I don't see why it should be a convenience," Ralph added in amoment.
"Well," said Caspar Goodwood simply, "she thinks I'm watching her."
"Watching her?"
"Trying to make out if she's happy."
"That's easy to make out," said Ralph. "She's the most visibly happywoman I know."
"Exactly so; I'm satisfied," Goodwood answered dryly. For all hisdryness, however, he had more to say. "I've been watching her; I wasan old friend and it seemed to me I had the right. She pretends to behappy; that was what she undertook to be; and I thought I should like tosee for myself what it amounts to. I've seen," he continued with a harshring in his voice, "and I don't want to see any more. I'm now quiteready to go."
"Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?" Ralph rejoined.And this was the only conversation these gentlemen had about IsabelOsmond.
Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she foundit proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who returned atMiss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had paid her inFlorence.
"You were very wrong about Lord Warburton," she remarked to theCountess. "I think it right you should know that."
"About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was at her housethree times a day. He has left traces of his passage!" the Countesscried.
"He wished to marry your niece; that's why he came to the house."
The Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh: "Is that thestory that Isabel tells? It isn't bad, as such things go. If he wishesto marry my niece, pray why doesn't he do it? Perhaps he has gone to buythe wedding-ring and will come back with it next month, after I'm gone."
"No, he'll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marry him."
"She's very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I didn'tknow she carried it so far."
"I don't understand you," said Henrietta coldly, and reflecting thatthe Countess was unpleasantly perverse. "I really must stick to mypoint--that Isabel never encouraged the attentions of Lord Warburton."
"My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is that mybrother's capable of everything."
"I don't know what your brother's capable of," said Henrietta withdignity.
"It's not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it's her sendinghim away. I want particularly to see him. Do you suppose she thoughtI would make him faithless?" the Countess continued with audaciousinsistence. "However, she's only keeping him, one can feel that. Thehouse is full of him there; he's quite in the air. Oh yes, he has lefttraces; I'm sure I shall see him yet."
"Well," said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspirationswhich had made the fortune of her letters to the Interviewer, "perhapshe'll be more successful with you than with Isabel!"
When she told her friend of the offer she had made Ralph Isabel repliedthat she could have done nothing that would have pleased her more. Ithad always been her faith that at bottom Ralph and this young woman weremade to understand each other. "I don't care whether he understands meor not," Henrietta declared. "The great thing is that he shouldn't diein the cars."
"He won't do that," Isabel said, shaking her head with an extension offaith.
"He won't if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don't knowwhat you want to do."
"I want to be alone," said Isabel.
"You won't be that so long as you've so much company at home."
"Ah, they're part of the comedy. You others are spectators."
"Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?" Henrietta rather grimly asked.
"The tragedy then if you like. You're all looking at me; it makes meuncomfortable."
Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. "You're like the strickendeer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense ofhelplessness!" she broke out.
"I'm not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do."
"It's not you I'm speaking of; it's myself. It's too much, having comeon 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 mesomething."
"I can't do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such asolemn one four years ago, and I've succeeded so ill in keeping it."
"You've had no encouragement. In this case I should give you thegreatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that's what I wantyou to promise."
"The worst? What do you call the worst?"
"Before your character gets spoiled."
"Do you mean my disposition? It won't get spoiled," Isabel answered,smiling. "I'm taking very good care of it. I'm extremely struck," sheadded, turning away, "with the off-hand way in which you speak of awoman's leaving her husband. It's easy to see you've never had one!"
"Well," said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument, "nothing ismore common in our Western cities, and it's to them, after all, that wemust look in the future." Her argument, however, does not concern thishistory, which has too many other threads to unwind. She announced toRalph Touchett that she was ready to leave Rome by any train he mightdesignate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for departure.Isabel went to see him at the last, and he made the same remark thatHenrietta had made. It struck him that Isabel was uncommonly glad to getrid of them all.
For all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, and said in alow tone, with a quick smile: "My dear Ralph--!"
It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on in thesame way, jocosely, ingenuously: "I've seen less of you than I might,but it's better than nothing. And then I've heard a great deal aboutyou."
"I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done."
"From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let otherpeople speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,' and that's soflat."
"I might have seen more of you certainly," Isabel said. "But when one'smarried one has so much occupation."
"Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me in England Ishall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor." Hecontinued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and succeededin making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion tohis term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast thesummer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the realitywas sufficiently distinct without their erecting finger-posts inconversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, thoughabout this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never been egotistic.Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he shoulddivide it, of the precautions he should take. "Henrietta's my greatestprecaution," he went on. "The conscience of that woman's sublime."
"Certainly she'll be very conscientious."
"Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty thatshe goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you."
"Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes me deeplyashamed. 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'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being acause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!"
"That's why I don't go," said Isabel simply--yet not very lucidly.
Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so, with allthose occupations you speak of."
"It isn't that. I'm afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, asif to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: "I'm afraid."
Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangelydeliberate--apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do publicpenance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were herwords simply an attempt at enlightened self-analysis? However thismight be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. "Afraid of yourhusband?"
"Afraid of myself!" she said, getting up. She stood there a moment andthen added: "If I were afraid of my husband that would be simply myduty. That's what women are expected to be."
"Ah yes," laughed Ralph; "but to make up for it there's always some manawfully afraid of some woman!"
She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a differentturn. "With Henrietta at the head of your little band," she exclaimedabruptly, "there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!"
"Ah, my dear Isabel," Ralph answered, "he's used to that. There isnothing left for Mr. Goodwood."
She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him. Theystood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his. "You'vebeen my best friend," she said.
"It was for you that I wanted--that I wanted to live. But I'm of no useto 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 youshould send for me I'd come," she said at last.
"Your husband won't consent to that."
"Oh yes, I can arrange it."
"I shall keep that for my last pleasure!" said Ralph.
In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and thatevening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among thefirst to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with GilbertOsmond, who almost always was present when his wife received. They satdown together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemedpossessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back with hislegs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, more restless, butnot at all lively, shifted his position, played with his hat, made thelittle sofa creak beneath him. Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressivesmile; he was as a man whose perceptions have been quickened by goodnews. He remarked to Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him;he himself should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligentmen--they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to comeback; there was something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian likehimself, in talking with a genuine outsider.
"I'm very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said; "but there's nothingI like better than to meet people who haven't that superstition. Themodern world's after all very fine. Now you're thoroughly modern and yetare not at all common. So many of the moderns we see are such very poorstuff. If they're the children of the future we're willing to die young.Of course the ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and I likeeverything that's really new--not the mere pretence of it. There'snothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see plentyof that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of progress, oflight. A revelation of vulgarity! There's a certain kind of vulgaritywhich I believe is really new; I don't think there ever was anythinglike it before. Indeed I don't find vulgarity, at all, before thepresent century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in thelast, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate thingsare literally not recognised. Now, we've liked you--!" With whichhe hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood's knee andsmiling with a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. "I'm going to saysomething extremely offensive and patronising, but you must let mehave the satisfaction of it. We've liked you because--because you'vereconciled us a little to the future. If there are to be a certainnumber of people like you--a la bonne heure! I'm talking for my wife aswell as for myself, you see. She speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn'tI speak for her? We're as united, you know, as the candlestick and thesnuffers. Am I assuming too much when I say that I think I've understoodfrom you that your occupations have been--a--commercial? There's adanger in that, you know; but it's the way you have escaped thatstrikes us. Excuse me if my little compliment seems in execrable taste;fortunately my wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you might havebeen--a--what I was mentioning just now. The whole American world wasin a conspiracy to make you so. But you resisted, you've something aboutyou that saved you. And yet you're so modern, so modern; the most modernman we know! We shall always be delighted to see you again."
&nb
sp; I have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these remarks will giveample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal than heusually cared to be, and if Caspar Goodwood had attended to them moreclosely he might have thought that the defence of delicacy was in ratherodd hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very well whathe was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of patronage with agrossness not in his habits he had an excellent reason for the escapade.Goodwood had only a vague sense that he was laying it on somehow; hescarcely knew where the mixture was applied. Indeed he scarcely knewwhat Osmond was talking about; he wanted to be alone with Isabel, andthat idea spoke louder to him than her husband's perfectly-pitchedvoice. He watched her talking with other people and wondered when shewould be at liberty and whether he might ask her to go into one of theother rooms. His humour was not, like Osmond's, of the best; there wasan element of dull rage in his consciousness of things. Up to this timehe had not disliked Osmond personally; he had only thought him verywell-informed and obliging and more than he had supposed like the personwhom Isabel Archer would naturally marry. His host had won in the openfield a great advantage over him, and Goodwood had too strong a senseof fair play to have been moved to underrate him on that account. Hehad not tried positively to think well of him; this was a flight ofsentimental benevolence of which, even in the days when he camenearest to reconciling himself to what had happened, Goodwood wasquite incapable. He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of theamateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which it amusedhim to work off in little refinements of conversation. But he only halftrusted him; he could never make out why the deuce Osmond should lavishrefinements of any sort upon HIM. It made him suspect that he found someprivate entertainment in it, and it ministered to a general impressionthat his triumphant rival had in his composition a streak of perversity.He knew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish him evil; hehad nothing to fear from him. He had carried off a supreme advantage andcould afford to be kind to a man who had lost everything. It was truethat Goodwood had at times grimly wished he were dead and would haveliked to kill him; but Osmond had no means of knowing this, for practicehad made the younger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessibleto-day to any violent emotion. He cultivated this art in order todeceive himself, but it was others that he deceived first. He cultivatedit, moreover, with very limited success; of which there could be nobetter proof than the deep, dumb irritation that reigned in hissoul when he heard Osmond speak of his wife's feelings as if he werecommissioned to answer for them.
That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him thisevening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point eventhan usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at PalazzoRoccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and hiswife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to eachof them to say "we" as to say "I". In all this there was an air ofintention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who couldonly reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's relations with herhusband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that herhusband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface ofthings was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never givenhim the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him thatshe had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made MissStackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, sinceher arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty wellceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said forher, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seenthe reality of Isabel's situation, and it had inspired her with a justreserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form ofassistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of herwrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the stateof Mr. Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at present only by sendinghim choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, ofwhich she received several by every post and which she always perusedwith a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placedin an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her ownhand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn'the come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in theleast authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence ofauthorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh-nesswith which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he nowrecognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothingmore for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth;apparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she WEREunhappy. He was hopeless, helpless, useless. To this last charactershe had called his attention by her ingenious plan for making himleave Rome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he could forher cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that of all theservices she might have asked of him this was the one she had been eagerto select. There had been no danger of her choosing one that would havekept him in Rome.
To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to leave herto-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the knowledgethat he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had gained noknowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt theold bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in histhroat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life.Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that he was touchingagain upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for amoment that the man had a kind of demonic imagination it was impossiblethat without malice he should have selected so unusual a topic. But whatdid it matter, after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whethershe loved him or hated him? She might hate him to the death withoutone's gaining a straw one's self. "You travel, by the by, with RalphTouchett," Osmond said. "I suppose that means you'll move slowly?"
"I don't know. I shall do just as he likes."
"You're very accommodating. We're immensely obliged to you; you mustreally let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what wefeel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more thanonce as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it'sworse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it's a kindof indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under such an obligation toTouchett as he has been to--to my wife and me. Other people inevitablyhave to look after him, and every one isn't so generous as you."
"I've nothing else to do," Caspar said dryly.
Osmond looked at him a moment askance. "You ought to marry, and thenyou'd have plenty to do! It's true that in that case you wouldn't bequite so available for deeds of mercy."
"Do you find that as a married man you're so much occupied?" the youngman mechanically asked.
"Ah, you see, being married's in itself an occupation. It isn't alwaysactive; it's often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then mywife 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. Idelight, to this hour, in my wife's conversation. If you're ever boredtake my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in thatcase; but you'll never bore yourself. You'll always have something tosay to yourself--always have a subject of reflection."
"I'm not bored," said Goodwood. "I've plenty to think about and to sayto myself."
"More than to say to others!" Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh."Where shall you go next? I mean after you've consigned Touchett to hisnatural caretakers--I believe his mother's at last coming back to lookafter him. That little lady's superb; she neglects her duties with afinish--! Perhaps you'll spend the summer in England?"
"I don't know. I've no plans."
"Happy man! That's a little bleak, but it's very free."
"Oh yes, I'm very free."
"Free to come back to Rome I hope," said Osmond as he saw a group ofnew visitors enter the room. "Remember that when you do come we
count onyou!"
Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed withouthis having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of severalassociated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracywith which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour discovered anintention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There wasabsolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clearhospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he would come and helpher to entertain some of her visitors. To such suggestions, however, heopposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talkedto the few people he knew, who found him for the first time ratherself-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though heoften contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Roccanera,and it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed tocontain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning togo, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he mightnot speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assuredhimself was empty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but foundher self absolutely prevented. "I'm afraid it's impossible. People aresaying good-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 severalpeople, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The CountessGemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed noconsciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a littlecircle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then brokeinto a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared--he never bade good-bye topeople; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to hercustom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed.Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish her sister-in-lawwould 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. Shegot up immediately, smiling. "Certainly, we'll go somewhere else if youlike." They went together, leaving the Countess with her little circle,and for a moment after they had crossed the threshold neither of themspoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the middle of the roomslowly fanning herself; she had for him the same familiar grace. Sheseemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her all thepassion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in hiseyes and made things swim round him. The bright, empty room grew dim andblurred, and through the heaving veil he felt her hover before him withgleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he wouldhave perceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced--that she wasfrightened at what she saw in his own face. "I suppose you wish to bidme goodbye?" she said.
"Yes--but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome," he answered withalmost plaintive honesty.
"I can well imagine. It's wonderfully good of you. I can't tell you howkind I think you."
For a moment more he said nothing. "With a few words like that you makeme go."
"You must come back some day," she brightly returned.
"Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible."
"Oh no; I don't mean all that."
"What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I'd go, and I'll 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--" hepaused a moment, and then--"what have you really made of your life?" hesaid, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; butshe said nothing, and he went on: "I can't understand, I can't penetrateyou! What am I to believe--what do you want me to think?" Still she saidnothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending toease. "I'm told you're unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it.That would be something for me. But you yourself say you're happy, andyou're somehow so still, so smooth, so hard. You're 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! I want to know the truth. Have you donewell?"
"You ask a great deal."
"Yes--I've always asked a great deal. Of course you won't tell me. Ishall 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 aconsiderate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But the sense thatit was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that shewould think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him alash and added a deep vibration to his low voice. "You're perfectlyinscrutable, and that's what makes me think you've something to hide. Itell you I don't care a straw for your cousin, but I don't mean that Idon't like him. I mean that it isn't because I like him that I go awaywith him. I'd go if he were an idiot and you should have asked me. Ifyou should ask me I'd go to Siberia tomorrow. Why do you want me toleave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were ascontented as you pretend you are you wouldn't care. I'd rather know thetruth 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 Iwanted to assure myself that I needn't think of you any more. I haven'tthought of anything else, and you're quite right to wish me to go away.But if I must go, there's no harm in my letting myself out for a singlemoment, is there? If you're really hurt--if HE hurts you--nothing I saywill hurt you. When I tell you I love you it's simply what I came for. Ithought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn'tsay it if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the lasttime--let me pluck a single flower! I've no right to say that, I know;and you've no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen,you're always thinking of something else. After this I must go, ofcourse; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason,not a real one. I can't judge by your husband," he went on irrelevantly,almost incoherently; "I don't understand him; he tells me you adore eachother. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I saythat to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you'vesomething 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 whichthey had entered and raised her fan as if in warning.
"You've behaved so well; don't spoil it," she uttered softly.
"No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off with. Ilove you as I've 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, butyou can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I asknothing--nothing, that is, I shouldn't. But I do ask one solesatisfaction:--that you tell me--that you tell me--!"
"That I tell you what?"
"Whether I may pity you."
"Should you like that?" Isabel asked, trying to smile again.
"To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something.I'd 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 athought to it every now and then." And with that she went back to theCountess Gemini.