d go to
him at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph's invalid
state had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had
to contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this
as she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly
aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband's
rage as if Osmond had locked her into her room--which she was sure was
what he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she
was not defiant, but she certainly couldn't pretend to be indifferent to
Ralph. She believed he was dying at last and that she should never see
him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that she had never
known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be
a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There
was an everlasting weight on her heart--there was a livid light on
everything. But Ralph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the
hour that she sat with him her ache for herself became somehow her ache
for HIM. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never
had a brother, but if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying,
he would be dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of
her there was perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to
sit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him--it
was not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It
was simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There
was something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his
being in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the good of the world; he made her feel what
might have been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond--quite apart
from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act of devotion
to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it elaborately; she
was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and before her
again--it lived before her again,--it had never had time to die--that
morning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond.
She had only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to
feel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery,
what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more
intelligent--to arrive at such a judgement as th