“Ah, that’s where she’d dish herself!” cried the Countess. “She has failed so dreadfully that she’s determined her daughter shall make it up.”
Isabel started at the words “her daughter,” which her guest threw off so familiarly. “It seems very wonderful,” she murmured; and in this bewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being personally touched by the story.
“Now don’t go and turn against the poor innocent child!” the Countess went on. “She’s very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin. I myself have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but because she had become yours.”
“Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at seeing me—!” Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought.
“I don’t believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed. Osmond’s marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought? That you might take such a fancy to the child that you’d do something for her. Osmond of course could never give her a portion. Osmond was really extremely poor; but of course you know all about that. Ah, my dear,” cried the Countess, “why did you ever inherit money?” She stopped a moment as if she saw something singular in Isabel’s face. “Don’t tell me now that you’ll give her a dot. You’re capable of that, but I would refuse to believe it. Don’t try to be too good. Be a little easy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfort of it, once in your life!”
“It’s very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I’m sorry,” Isabel said. “I’m much obliged to you.”
“Yes, you seem to be!” cried the Countess with a mocking laugh. “Perhaps you are—perhaps you’re not. You don’t take it as I should have thought.”
“How should I take it?” Isabel asked.
“Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of.” Isabel made no answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on. “They’ve always been bound to each other; they remained so even after she broke off—or he did. But he has always been more for her than she has been for him. When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that each should give the other complete liberty, but that each should also do everything possible to help the other on. You may ask me how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the way they’ve behaved. Now see how much better women are than men! She has found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has never lifted a little finger for her. She has worked for him, plotted for him, suffered for him; she has even more than once found money for him; and the end of it is that he’s tired of her. She’s an old habit; there are moments when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn’t miss her if she were removed. And, what’s more, today she knows it. So you needn’t be jealous!” the Countess added humorously.
Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of breath; her head was humming with new knowledge. “I’m much obliged to you,” she repeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a different tone: “How do you know all this?”
This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel’s expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold stare, with which, “Let us assume that I’ve invented it!” she cried. She too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel’s arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: “Now will you give up your journey?”
Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed eyes and pale lips.
“I’ve done wrong to speak—I’ve made you ill!” the Countess cried.
“Ah, I must see Ralph!” Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of far-reaching, infinite sadness.
LII
There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought (except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy; from her she couldn’t turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five o’clock to a high door in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women, and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for the world would she have spent a night there. It produced today more than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.
The portress left her to wait in the parlour
