"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes this lady will ring for you."
And then she turned to Isabel, who, after noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to
notice and had let her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished never
to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here, and I'm afraid you're not
pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you.
I confess I've been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There was none of
the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea
of wonder and pain, could not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not
been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long with Pansy. I came to see
her because it occurred to me this afternoon that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little
miserable. It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I can't tell. At any rate
it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her
father as well; still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good woman--what's her
name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she
has a charming little room, not in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my business, but I feel happier
since I've seen her. She may even have a maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to
dress. She wears a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see Mother
Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic.
Mother Catherine has a most coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says it's a great happiness for
them to have her. She's a little saint of heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was
leaving Madame Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the signorina.
Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me go and receive you in her place. She
demurred greatly--I must tell you that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it
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was of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I requested her to let the
Mother Superior alone and asked her how she supposed I would treat you!"
So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had long been a mistress
of the art of conversation. But there were phases and gradations in her speech, not one of which
was lost upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse in her continuity, which was
in itself a complete drama. This subtle modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception
of an entirely new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in the space of
an instant that everything was at end between them, and in the space of another instant she had
guessed the reason why. The person who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto,
but was a very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was tremendous,
and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of women faltered and lost her courage.
But only for that moment. Then the conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again
and flowed on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had the end in view
that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with a point that made her quiver, and she
needed all the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice refused to improve--she couldn't help
it--while she heard herself say she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she
was able only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.
Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large clear glass. It might have been a
great moment for her, for it might have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost
her pluck and saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge, this in itself
was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a moment during which she stood apparently
looking out of the window, with her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other
side of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she saw; she saw nothing of
the budding plants and the glowing afternoon. She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which
had already become a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in which it had
been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry staring fact that she had been an applied
handled hung-up tool, as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if she felt on her lips the taste of
dishonour. There was a moment during which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said
something that would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous vision
dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world standing there within a few feet of
her and knowing as little what to think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still-to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there for a period that must
have seemed long to this lady, who at last seated herself with a movement which was in itself a
confession of helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame Merle was
very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see what she would, but her danger was
over. Isabel would never accuse her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her
the opportunity to defend herself.
"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to England to-night."
"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and looking up at her.
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"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance to express sympathy.
"Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the general sadness of things.
"Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have changed," said Madame
Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old
Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I know, and I know many, the one
I should have liked best to live in. I don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle
added; "but I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and admitted one of the ladies
of the house, who advanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a
pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had
already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss Osmond. Madame
Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly and said: "It will be good for her to see
you. I'll take you to her myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.
"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be here."
"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing laugh.
She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long staircase. All these
departments were solid and bare, light and clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal
establishments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in
the visitor; then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and embraced.
"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she placed the best chair carefully
for Isabel. But she made no movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this
dear child look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.
"She looks pale," Isabel answered.
"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la maison," said the good sister.
Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was perhaps this that made her look
pale. "They're very good to me--they think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary
eagerness to accommodate.
"We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine remarked in the tone of a
woman with whom benevolence was a habit and whose conception of duty was the acceptance of
every care. It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender of a
personality, the authority of the Church.
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When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid her head in her
stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she
got up, averting her face and looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've
everything I have at home."
"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what she could say to her. On the
one hand she couldn't 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've come to bid you
good-bye. I'm 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," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had no right to criticise; but her
tone expressed a depth of disappointment.
"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll 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 the girl 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 an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, 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 criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have stood almost as still as
it would have done had she 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'll be very far away," she presently went on.
"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel explained; "since so long as you're
here I can't be called near you."
"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."
"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing with me. I can't amuse you."
"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."
"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."
"You're 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 said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come away with me now?" she
asked.
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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've 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's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished me to
think a little--and I've 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'll do anything--I'll 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 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 thought 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. I leave Rome to-night."
Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's face. "You look strange, you
frighten me."
"Oh, I'm 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 she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do for you?" she asked.
"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."
"You can always think of me."
"Not when you're so far. I'm 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'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it more easily."
Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my child."
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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," she remarked as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I don't like
Madame Merle!"
Isabel hesitated, then 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 noncompliance.
"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'll come back?" she called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.
"Yes--I'll come back."
Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond 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's
waiting for you."
At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking if there were no other egress
from the convent. But a moment's reflexion assured her that she would do well not to betray to the
worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm very gently
and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said in French and almost familiarly: "Eh
bien, chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous?"
"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."
"We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. 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 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 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's really at his last?"
"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a probability."
"I'm 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 utterance.
"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."
She just hung fire. "It's rather hard 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."
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"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."
"HE made me--?"
Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more triumphantly: "He imparted
to you that extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've
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 live 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've guessed. But I've 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're very
unhappy, I know. But I'm 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 quietly remarked while Isabel passed
out.
CHAPTER LIII
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 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 neither reflexion 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 came and
went at their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell 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.
She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that they had been weighted with lead. Yet
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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 much-embracing 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 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
