The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

“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.

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.”

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 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’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, chère 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.”