The Portrait of a Lady, vol 2 | Page 5

be always
envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord
Warburton."
"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to
destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy
only myself."
"You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel.
"I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But
why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?"
"Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after
they've hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said
Ralph, joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism
so transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.
"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows
as if the idea were perfectly fresh.
"It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose
for the ballet.
Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four
hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she encountered
him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the lion of the
collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come in with her
companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert Osmond

had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase, entered the
first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her alertly
enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery. "And I'm
leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel,
inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps
because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was
thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,
but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which
made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me
very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop."
"Oh no; you could easily change your mind."
"That's what I have done."
"Bon voyage then."
"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite
dismally.
"Not in the least. But I hate partings."
"You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping
your promise!"
He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I can't;
and that's why I'm going."
"Good-bye then."
"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?"
Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some
day after you're married."
"That will never be. It will be after you are."

"That will do as well," she smiled.
"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."
They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among
the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of
these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their
beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence. It is
impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of Greek
sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude; which, as
with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on the spirit the
large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially, because the
Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The golden
sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so vivid yet,
though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw a solemn
spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows of the
Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made them
more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm of
their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their
absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would
sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the
polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all
before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater
because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,
her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional
tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator,
and then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth
pavement. At the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared,
apparently in advance of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly,
with his hands behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite
appealing smile. "I'm surprised to find you alone, I