Youre not conventional? Isabel gravely asked.
I like the way you utter that word! No, Im not conventional: Im convention itself. You dont understand that? And he paused a moment, smiling. I should like to explain it. Then with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness, Do come back again, he pleaded. There are so many things we might talk about.
She stood there with lowered eyes. What service did you speak of just now?
Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. Shes alone at the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasnt at all my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much, said Gilbert Osmond gently.
It will be a great pleasure to me to go, Isabel answered. Ill tell her what you say. Once more good-bye.
On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitationfor it had not diminishedwas very still, very deep. What had happened was something that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but here, when it came, she stoppedthat sublime principle somehow broke down. The working of this young ladys spirit was strange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last vague space it couldnt crossa dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.
CHAPTER XXX
She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousins escort, and Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmonds preferencehours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantlings aid. Isabel was to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs. Touchetts departure, and she determined to devote the last of these to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame Merles. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, forever) seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didnt mention that he had also made her a declaration of love.
Ah, comme cela se trouve! Madame Merle exclaimed. I myself have been thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I go off.
We can go together then, Isabel reasonably said: reasonably because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.
That personage finely meditated. After all, why should we both go; having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?
Very good; I can easily go alone.
I dont know about your going aloneto the house of a handsome bachelor. He has been marriedbut so long ago!
Isabel stared. When Mr. Osmonds away what does it matter?
They dont know hes away, you see.
They? Whom do you mean?
Every one. But perhaps it doesnt signify.
If you were going why shouldnt I? Isabel asked.
Because Im an old frump and youre a beautiful young woman.
Granting all that, youve not promised.
How much you think of your promises! said the elder woman in mild mockery.
I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?
Youre right, Madame Merle audibly reflected. I really think you wish to be kind to the child.
I wish very much to be kind to her.
Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her Id have come if you hadnt. Or rather, Madame Merle added, Dont tell her. She wont care.
As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding way which led to Mr. Osmonds hill-top, she wondered what her friend had meant by no ones being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals, this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly done? Of course not: she must have meant something elsesomething which in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr. Osmonds drawing-room; the little girl was practising, and Isabel was pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her fathers house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wirenot chattering, but conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabels affairs that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her; she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her fathers visitor, or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabel spent in Mr. Osmonds beautiful empty, dusky roomsthe windows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloomher interview with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface, successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talentonly two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified, easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her fathers intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally expect.