CHAPTER XLIX
Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents, and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it. Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability, and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman, for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.
“Please don’t talk of him,” said Isabel for answer; “we’ve heard so much of him of late.”
Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and smiled at the left corner of her mouth. “You’ve heard, yes. But you must remember that I’ve not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be able to congratulate Pansy.”
“You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.”
“How you say that! Don’t you know I had set my heart on it?” Madame Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation of good-humour.
Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too. “You shouldn’t have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to watch the affair.”
“I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it’s too late?”
“You had better ask Pansy,” said Isabel.
“I shall ask her what you’ve said to her.”
These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused on Isabel’s part by her perceiving that her visitor’s attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto; she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling. But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel’s surprise—our heroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy’s marriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond’s alarm. More clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes, there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was it that brought home to her that Madame Merle’s intention had not been good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor’s challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend’s professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle’s interest was identical with Osmond’s: that was enough. “I think Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more angry,” she said in answer to her companion’s last remark.
“I’m not in the least angry. I’ve only a great desire to retrieve the situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?”
“I can’t tell you; I don’t understand you. It’s all over; please let it rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I’ve nothing more to say or to hear. I’ve no doubt,” Isabel added, “that he’ll be very happy to discuss the subject with you.”
“I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening.”
“As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn’t apply to me for information.”
“It isn’t information I want. At bottom it’s sympathy. I had set my heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do—it satisfied the imagination.”
“Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned.”
“You mean by that of course that I’m not concerned. Of course not directly. But when one’s such an old friend one can’t help having something at stake. You forget how long I’ve known Pansy. You mean, of course,” Madame Merle added, “that you are one of the persons concerned.”
“No; that’s the last thing I mean. I’m very weary of it all.”
Madame Merle hesitated a little. “Ah yes, your work’s done.”
“Take care what you say,” said Isabel very gravely.
“Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your husband judges you severely.”
Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle’s informing her that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as well as in his thoughts. “Should you like to know how I judge him?” she asked at last.
“No, because you’d never tell me. And it would be painful for me to know.”
There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her. “Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don’t despair,” she said abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.
But Madame Merle’s expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the air a faint, agreeable fragrance. “I don’t despair; I feel encouraged. And I didn’t come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I know you’ll tell it if I ask you. It’s an immense blessing with you that one can count upon that. No, you won’t believe what a comfort I take in it.”
“What truth do you speak of?” Isabel asked, wondering.
“Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite of having lost a little of it,” Madame Merle continued with a smile, “to ask such a question as that!” She sat looking at her friend, to judge the effect of her words, and then went on: “Now don’t be heroic, don’t be unreasonable, don’t take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour in speaking so. I don’t know another woman to whom I would do it. I haven’t the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And don’t you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It’s true that he doesn’t appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to extract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn’t alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his daughter’s prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that’s one thing, and it’s a pity. If he gave her up to please you it’s another. That’s a pity too, but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you’d perhaps resign yourself to not being pleased—to simply seeing your step-daughter married. Let him off—let us have him!”
Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her visitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this was not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. “Who are you—what are you?” Isabel murmured. “What have you to do with my husband?” It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as if she had loved him.
“Ah then, you take it heroically! I’m very sorry. Don’t think, however, that I shall do so.”
“What have you to do with me?” Isabel went on.
Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes from Isabel’s face. “Everything!” she answered.
Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman’s eyes seemed only a darkness. “Oh misery!” she murmured at last; and she fell back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.
Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away, under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a sun-warmed angle on a winter’s day, or stood in a mouldy church to which no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy, as we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage; but she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her mood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain, between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind, rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness of the scene—at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.
On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this lady’s image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate friend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were to be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary works; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life, and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it was not wicked—in the historic sense—to be even deeply false; for that was what Madame Merle had been—deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel’s Aunt Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted; she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain, and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly affectionate after Mr. Touchett’s death and after learning that her young friend had been subject to the good old man’s charity. She had found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young woman’s fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money. Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let her go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett’s great charity would but help her to-day it would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: “Poor, poor Madame Merle!”
Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that apartment, towards six o’clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to its apparent as to its real importance.
“I don’t believe you’re unhappy; I believe you like it,” said Madame Merle.
“Did I say I was unhappy?” Osmond asked with a face grave enough to suggest that he might have been.
“No, but you don’t say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude.”
“Don’t talk about gratitude,” he returned dryly. “And don’t aggravate me,” he added in a moment.
Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were, to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. “On your side, don’t try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my thoughts.”
“I trouble about them no more than I can help. I’ve quite enough of my own.”
“That’s because they’re so delightful.”
Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an expression of fatigue. “You do aggravate me,” he remarked in a moment. “I’m very tired.”
“Eh moi donc!” cried Madame Merle.
“With you it’s because you fatigue yourself. With me it’s not my own fault.”
“When I fatigue myself it’s for you. I’ve given you an interest. That’s a great gift.”
“Do you call it an interest?” Osmond enquired with detachment.
“Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.”
“The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.”
“You’ve never looked better; you’ve never been so agreeable, so brilliant.”
“Damn my brilliancy!” he thoughtfully murmured. “How little, after all, you know me!”
“If I don’t know you I know nothing,” smiled Madame Merle. “You’ve the feeling of complete success.”
“No, I shall not have that till I’ve made you stop judging me.”
“I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express yourself more too.”
Osmond just hung fire. “I wish you’d express yourself less!”
“You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I’ve never been a chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to say to you first. Your wife doesn’t know what to do with herself,” she went on with a change of tone.
“Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means to carry out her ideas.”
“Her ideas to-day must be remarkable.”
“Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever.”
“She was unable to show me any this morning,” said Madame Merle. “She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was completely bewildered.”
“You had better say at once that she was pathetic.”
“Ah no, I don’t want to encourage you too much.”
He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. “I should like to know what’s the matter with you,” he said at last.
“The matter—the matter—!” And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a clear sky: “The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to weep, and that I can’t!”
“What good would it do you to weep?”
“It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you.”
“If I’ve dried your tears, that’s something. But I’ve seen you shed them.”
“Oh, I believe you’ll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a wolf. I’ve a great hope, I’ve a great need, of that. I was vile this morning; I was horrid,” she said.
“If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably didn’t perceive it,” Osmond answered.
“It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn’t help it; I was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don’t know. You’ve not only dried up my tears; you’ve dried up my soul.”
“It’s not I then that am responsible for my wife’s condition,” Osmond said. “It’s pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your influence upon her. Don’t you know the soul is an immortal principle? How can it suffer alteration?”
“I don’t believe at all that it’s an immortal principle. I believe it can perfectly be destroyed. That’s what has happened to mine, which was a very good one to start with; and it’s you I have to thank for it. You’re very bad,” she added with gravity in her emphasis.
“Is this the way we’re to end?” Osmond asked with the same studied coldness.
“I don’t know how we’re to end. I wish I did—How do bad people end?—especially as to their common crimes. You have made me as bad as yourself.”
“I don’t understand you. You seem to me quite good enough,” said Osmond, his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words.
Madame Merle’s self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile betrayed a painful effort. “Good enough for anything that I’ve done with myself? I suppose that’s what you mean.”
“Good enough to be always charming!” Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.
“Oh God!” his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on Isabel’s part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her hands.
“Are you going to weep after all?” Osmond asked; and on her remaining motionless he went on: “Have I ever complained to you?”
She dropped her hands quickly. “No, you’ve taken your revenge otherwise—you have taken it on her.”
Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the heavenly powers. “Oh, the imagination of women! It’s always vulgar, at bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist.”
“Of course you haven’t complained. You’ve enjoyed your triumph too much.”
“I’m rather curious to know what you call my triumph.”
“You’ve made your wife afraid of you.”
Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one’s valuation of anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse with. “Isabel’s not afraid of me, and it’s not what I wish,” he said at last. “To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as that?”
“I’ve thought over all the harm you can do me,” Madame Merle answered. “Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you she feared.”
“You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I’m not responsible for that. I didn’t see the use of your going to see her at all: you’re capable of acting without her. I’ve not made you afraid of me that I can see,” he went on; “how then should I have made her? You’re at least as brave. I can’t think where you’ve picked up such rubbish; one might suppose you knew me by this time.” He got up as he spoke and walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel, he pursued: “You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you lose sight of the real. I’m much simpler than you think.”
“I think you’re very simple.” And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup. “I’ve come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it’s only since your marriage that I’ve understood you. I’ve seen better what you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please be very careful of that precious object.”
“It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack,” said Osmond dryly as he put it down. “If you didn’t understand me before I married it was cruelly rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I only asked that she should like me.”
“That she should like you so much!”
“So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that.”
“I never adored you,” said Madame Merle.
“Ah, but you pretended to!”
“It’s true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit,” Madame Merle went on.
“My wife has declined—declined to do anything of the sort,” said Osmond. “If you’re determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy’s hardly for her.”
“The tragedy’s for me!” Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her mantel-shelf.
“It appears that I’m to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false position.”
“You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn’t like me, at least my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I haven’t a fault to find with her.”
“Ah,” she said softly, “if I had a child—!”
Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, “The children of others may be a great interest!” he announced.
“You’re more like a copy-book than I. There’s something after all that holds us together.”
“Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?” Osmond asked.
“No; it’s the idea of the good I may do for you. It’s that,” Madame Merle pursued, “that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be my work,” she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter, relaxing to its habit of smoothness.
Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, “On the whole, I think,” he said, “you had better leave it to me.”
After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. “Have I been so vile all for nothing?” she vaguely wailed.
CHAPTER L
As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense, though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who—with all the respect that she owed her—could not see why she should not descend from the vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents’ guest might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat—a mild afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together, but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the Countess often asked more from one’s attention than she gave in return; and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of travertine—the latent colour that is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon a broken block.
“It’s very soon told,” said Edward Rosier. “I’ve sold all my bibelots!” Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. “I’ve sold them by auction at the Hôtel Drouot,” he went on. “The sale took place three days ago, and they’ve telegraphed me the result. It’s magnificent.”
“I’m glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things.”
“I have the money instead—fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think me rich enough now?”
“Is it for that you did it?” Isabel asked gently.
“For what else in the world could it be? That’s the only thing I think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn’t stop for the sale; I couldn’t have seen them going off; I think it would have killed me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my pocket, and he can’t say I’m poor!” the young man exclaimed defiantly.
“He’ll say now that you’re not wise,” said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond had never said this before.
Rosier gave her a sharp look. “Do you mean that without my bibelots I’m nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That’s what they told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn’t seen her!”
“My dear friend, you deserve to succeed,” said Isabel very kindly.
“You say that so sadly that it’s the same as if you said I shouldn’t.” And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons still have the perversity to think him diminutive. “I know what happened here while I was away,” he went on; “What does Mr. Osmond expect after she has refused Lord Warburton?”
Isabel debated. “That she’ll marry another nobleman.”
“What other nobleman?”
“One that he’ll pick out.”
Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket. “You’re laughing at some one, but this time I don’t think it’s at me.”
“I didn’t mean to laugh,” said Isabel. “I laugh very seldom. Now you had better go away.”
“I feel very safe!” Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. “You must really go away,” she said quickly. “Ah, my dear lady, pity me!” Edward Rosier murmured in a voice strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought: “Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I’ve a great desire to be presented to her.”
Isabel looked at him a moment. “She has no influence with her brother.”
“Ah, what a monster you make him out!” And Rosier faced the Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man.
“I’m glad you’ve kept your enamels!” Isabel called as she left him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. “We’ll go back to the carriage,” she said gently.
“Yes, it’s getting late,” Pansy returned more gently still. And she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, while the Countess’s expressive back displayed to Isabel’s eye a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel’s. There shone out of each of them a little melancholy ray—a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of the child with her own dry despair. “Poor little Pansy!” she affectionately said.
“Oh never mind!” Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. “Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?” Isabel asked at last.
“Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.”
“And you’re not tired, I hope.”
“Oh no, thank you, I’m not tired.”
The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not to wait—she would come home in a cab!
About a week after this lady’s quick sympathies had enlisted themselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. “Pardon my taking the liberty,” she said in a small voice. “It will be the last—for some time.”
Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited, frightened look. “You’re not going away!” Isabel exclaimed.
“I’m going to the convent.”
“To the convent?”
Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment, perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. “Why are you going to the convent?”
“Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl’s better, every now and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little seclusion—a little reflexion.” Pansy spoke in short detached sentences, as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph of self-control: “I think papa’s right; I’ve been so much in the world this winter.”
Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. “When was this decided?” she asked. “I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn’t be too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine’s to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I’m only to take two frocks. It’s only for a few weeks; I’m sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being educated. I’m very fond of little girls,” said Pansy with an effect of diminutive grandeur. “And I’m also very fond of Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal.”
Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck. “Think of me sometimes.”
“Ah, come and see me soon!” cried Pansy; and the cry was very different from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.
Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long, tender kiss.
Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head, “En voilà, ma chère, une pose!” But if it was an affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed. It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after he had come in, to allude to his daughter’s sudden departure: she spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. “I shall miss Pansy very much.”
He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of flowers in the middle of the table. “Ah yes,” he said at last, “I had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn’t matter; don’t trouble yourself about it. That’s why I had not spoken of it. I didn’t believe you would enter into it. But I’ve always had the idea; I’ve always thought it a part of the education of one’s daughter. One’s daughter should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy’s a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society—one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her piano. I’ve made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there’s just to be a certain little sense of sequestration. She’ll have time to think, and there’s something I want her to think about.” Osmond spoke deliberately, reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words—almost into pictures—to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he went on: “The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great institution; we can’t do without it; it corresponds to an essential need in families, in society. It’s a school of good manners; it’s a school of repose. Oh, I don’t want to detach my daughter from the world,” he added; “I don’t want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This one’s very well, as she should take it, and she may think of it as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way.”
Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her husband’s desire to be effective was capable of going—to the point of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She could not understand his purpose, no—not wholly; but she understood it better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel’s heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough. The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel’s imagination, and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of her husband’s genius—she sat looking, like him, at the basket of flowers—poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel.
“It’s very absurd, my dear Osmond,” she said, “to invent so many pretty reasons for poor Pansy’s banishment. Why don’t you say at once that you want to get her out of my way? Haven’t you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you’ve made up your mind that with those convictions I’m dreadful company for Pansy.”
Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured. “My dear Amy,” he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece of gallantry, “I don’t know anything about your convictions, but if I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to banish you.”