The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2. Генри Джеймс

cried Isabel with a voluntary laugh.

      Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. “I think he must, after all, to have made you like him so much.”

      “I thought he even pleased you.”

      “He did, at one time; and that’s why I’m angry with him.”

      “Be angry with me, not with him,” said the girl.

      “Oh, I’m always angry with you; that’s no satisfaction! Was it for this that you refused Lord Warburton?”

      “Please don’t go back to that. Why shouldn’t I like Mr. Osmond, since others have done so?”

      “Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There’s nothing of him,” Mrs. Touchett explained.

      “Then he can’t hurt me,” said Isabel.

      “Do you think you’re going to be happy? No one’s happy, in such doings, you should know.”

      “I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?”

      “What you will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as they go into partnership—to set up a house. But in your partnership you’ll bring everything.”

      “Is it that Mr. Osmond isn’t rich? Is that what you’re talking about?” Isabel asked.

      “He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such things and I have the courage to say it; I think they’re very precious. Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some other reason.”

      Isabel hesitated a little. “I think I value everything that’s valuable. I care very much for money, and that’s why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a little.”

      “Give it to him then; but marry some one else.”

      “His name’s good enough for me,” the girl went on. “It’s a very pretty name. Have I such a fine one myself?”

      “All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen American names. Do you marry him out of charity?”

      “It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don’t think it’s my duty to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn’t be able. So please don’t remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can’t talk about it.”

      “I don’t remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle.”

      “You never do, and I’m greatly obliged to you. You’ve been very considerate.”

      “It was not considerate—it was convenient,” said Mrs. Touchett. “But I shall talk to Madame Merle.”

      “I don’t see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good friend to me.”

      “Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me.”

      “What has she done to you?”

      “She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your engagement.”

      “She couldn’t have prevented it.”

      “She can do anything; that’s what I’ve always liked her for. I knew she could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I didn’t understand that she would play two at the same time.”

      “I don’t know what part she may have played to you,” Isabel said; “that’s between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and devoted.”

      “Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me she was watching you only in order to interpose.”

      “She said that to please you,” the girl answered; conscious, however, of the inadequacy of the explanation.

      “To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased to-day?”

      “I don’t think you’re ever much pleased,” Isabel was obliged to reply. “If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by insincerity?”

      “She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you were marching away, and she was really beating the drum.”

      “That’s very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and even if she had given the alarm you wouldn’t have tried to stop me.”

      “No, but some one else would.”

      “Whom do you mean?” Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs. Touchett’s little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained her gaze rather than returned it. “Would you have listened to Ralph?”

      “Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.”

      “Ralph doesn’t abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much for you.”

      “I know he does,” said Isabel; “and I shall feel the value of it now, for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason.”

      “He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it, and he argued the other way.”

      “He did it for the sake of argument,” the girl smiled. “You don’t accuse him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?”

      “He never pretended he’d prevent it.”

      “I’m glad of that!” cried Isabel gaily. “I wish very much,” she presently added, “that when he comes you’d tell him first of my engagement.”

      “Of course I’ll mention it,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I shall say nothing more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others.”

      “That’s as you please. I only meant that it’s rather better the announcement should come from you than from me.”

      “I quite agree with you; it’s much more proper!” And on this the aunt and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence, however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an hour before.

      “From an old friend—an American gentleman,” Isabel said with a colour in her cheek.

      “An American gentleman of course. It’s only an American gentleman who calls at ten o’clock in the morning.”

      “It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this evening.”

      “Couldn’t he have come yesterday, at the usual time?”

      “He only arrived last night.”

      “He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?” Mrs. Touchett cried. “He’s an American gentleman truly.”

      “He is indeed,” said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what Caspar Goodwood had done for her.

      Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs. Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was altogether, lean and