The Portrait of A Lady (84 page)

‘‘Don't you think I have arranged it well? I have everything I have at home.''

‘‘It is very pretty; you are very comfortable.'' Isabel scarcely knew what she could say to her. On the one hand she could not let her think she had come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So she simply added, after a moment, ‘‘I have come to bid you good-bye. I am going to England.''

Pansy's white little face turned red.

‘‘To England! Not to come back?''

‘‘I don't know when I shall come back.''

‘‘Ah; I'm sorry,'' said Pansy, faintly. She spoke as if she had no right to criticize; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.

‘‘My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he will probably die. I wish to see him,'' Isabel said.

‘‘Ah, yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa go?''

‘‘No; I shall go alone.''

For a moment, Pansy said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed them deficient in the quality of intimacy. She made her reflections, Isabel was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle stepmother as to criticize her magnificent father. Her heart may almost have stood still, as it would have done if she had seen two of the saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted heads and shake them at each other; but as in this latter case she would (for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon, so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her own.

‘‘You will be very far away,'' she said presently.

‘‘Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter,'' Isabel answered; ‘‘for so long as you are here I am very far away from you.''

‘‘Yes; but you can come and see me; though you have not come very often.''

‘‘I have not come because your father forbade it. Today I bring nothing with me. I can't amuse you.''

‘‘I am not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes.''

‘‘Then it hardly matters whether I am in Rome or in England.''

‘‘You are not happy, Mrs. Osmond,'' said Pansy.

‘‘Not very. But it doesn't matter.''

‘‘That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to come out.''

‘‘I wish indeed you might.''

‘‘Don't leave me here,'' Pansy went on, gently.

Isabel was silent a moment; her heart beat fast.

‘‘Will you come away with me now?'' she asked.

Pansy looked at her pleadingly.

‘‘Did papa tell you to bring me?''

‘‘No, it's my own proposal.''

‘‘I think I had better wait, then. Did papa send me no message?''

‘‘I don't think he knew I was coming.''

‘‘He thinks I have not had enough,'' said Pansy. ‘‘But I have. The ladies are very kind to me, and the little girls come to see me. There are some very little ones— such charming children. Then my room—you can see for yourself. All that is very delightful. But I have had enough. Papa wished me to think a little—and I have thought a great deal.''

‘‘What have you thought?''

‘‘Well, that I must never displease papa.''

‘‘You knew that before.''

‘‘Yes; but I know it better. I will do anything—I will do anything,'' said Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw that the poor girl had been vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels! Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's, as if to let her know that her look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's momentary resistance (mute and modest though it had been) seemed only her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others, but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her pretty head to authority, and only asked of authority to be merciful. Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!

Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening.

‘‘Good-bye, then,'' she said; ‘‘I leave Rome to-night.''

Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the girl's face.

‘‘You look strange; you frighten me.''

‘‘Oh, I am very harmless,'' said Isabel.

‘‘Perhaps you won't come back?''

‘‘Perhaps not. I can't tell.''

‘‘Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!''

Isabel now saw that she had guessed everything.

‘‘My dear child, what can I do for you?'' she asked.

‘‘I don't know—but I am happier when I think of you.''

‘‘You can always think of me.''

‘‘Not when you are so far. I am a little afraid,'' said Pansy.

‘‘What are you afraid of?''

‘‘Of papa—a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me.''

‘‘You must not say that,'' Isabel observed.

‘‘Oh, I will do everything they want. Only if you are here I shall do it more easily.''

Isabel reflected a little.

‘‘I won't desert you,'' she said at last. ‘‘Good-bye, my child.''

Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor to the top of the staircase.

‘‘Madame Merle has been here,'' Pansy remarked as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added, abruptly, ‘‘I don't like Madame Merle!''

Isabel hesitated a moment; then she stopped.

‘‘You must never say that—that you don't like Madame Merle.''

Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a reason for non-compliance.

‘‘I never will again,'' she said, with exquisite gentleness.

At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she reached the bottom the girl was standing above.

‘‘You will come back?'' she called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.

‘‘Yes—I will come back.''

Madame Catherine met Isabel below, and conducted her to the door of the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute.

‘‘I won't go in,'' said the good sister. ‘‘Madame Merle is waiting for you.''

At this announcement Isabel gave a start, and she was on the point of asking if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflection assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's other visitor. Her companion laid her hand very gently on her arm, and fixing her a moment with a wise, benevolent eye, said to her, speaking French, almost familiarly:
‘‘Eh bien, chère madame, qu'en pensez-vous?''

‘‘About my stepdaughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you.''

‘‘We think it's enough,'' said Madame Catherine, significantly. And she pushed open the door of the parlour.

Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame Catherine closed the door behind Isabel, she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full possession of her resources.

‘‘I found that I wished to wait for you,'' she said, urbanely. ‘‘But it's not to talk about Pansy.''

Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: ‘‘Madame Catherine says it's enough.''

‘‘Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about poor Mr. Touchett,'' Madame Merle added. ‘‘Have you reason to believe that he is really at his last?''

‘‘I have no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a probability.''

‘‘I am going to ask you a strange question,'' said Madame Merle. ‘‘Are you very fond of your cousin?'' And she gave a smile as strange as her question.

‘‘Yes, I am very fond of him. But I don't understand you.''

Madame Merle hesitated a moment.

‘‘It is difficult to explain. Something has occurred to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never guessed it?''

‘‘He has done me many services.''

‘‘Yes, but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman.''

‘‘
He
made me—?''

Madame Merle appeared to see herself successful, and she went on, more triumphantly: ‘‘He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom, it is him that you have to thank.'' She stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.

‘‘I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money.''

‘‘Yes; it was your uncle's money; but it was your cousin's idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!''

Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to be living in a world illumined by lurid flashes.

‘‘I don't know why you say such things! I don't know what you know.''

‘‘I know nothing but what I have guessed. But I have guessed that.''

Isabel went to the door, and when she had opened it stood a moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said—it was her only revenge: ‘‘I believed it was you I had to thank!''

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud penance.

‘‘You are very unhappy, I know. But I am more so.''

‘‘Yes, I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again.''

Madame Merle raised her eyes.

‘‘I shall go to America,'' she announced, while Isabel passed out.

53

IT was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross, she stepped into the arms, as it were— or at any rate into the hands—of Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt that her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes, and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their course through other countries— strange-looking, dimly lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but it was not reflection, nor conscious purpose, that filled her mind. Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of memory, of expectation. The past and the future alternated at their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which came and went by a logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much concerned her, and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a shiver. That is, she had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that they were leaden-weighted. Yet even now they were trifles, after all; for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all desire, too, save the single desire to reach her richly constituted refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in her strength; she would come back in her weakness; and if the place had been a rest to her before, it would be a positive sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dying; for if one were thinking of rest, that was the most perfect of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything more—this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land. She had moments, indeed, in her journey from Rome, which were almost as good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and regret, that if her spirit was haunted with sudden pictures, it might have been the spirit disembarrassed of the flesh. There was nothing to regret now—that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of her repentance seemed far away. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had been so—so strange. Just here Isabel's imagination paused, from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been. Whatever it was, it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and doubtless she would do so in America, where she was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the present hour. It might be desirable to die; but this privilege was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul—deeper than any appetite for renunciation—was the sense that life would be her business for a long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost exhilarating, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength—it was a proof that she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be that she was to live only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer—only to feel the injury of life repeated and enlarged—it seemed to her that she was too vulnerable, too capable, for that. Then she wondered whether it were vain and stupid to think so well of herself. When had it ever been a guarantee to be valuable? Was not all history full of the destruction of precious things? Was it not much more probable that if one were delicate one would suffer? It involved then, perhaps, an admission that one had a certain grossness; but Isabel recognized, as it passed before her eyes, the quick, vague shadow of a long future. She should not escape; she should last. Then the middle years wrapped her about again, and the grey curtain of her indifference closed her in.