Page 601 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed
that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun
to gather; it was as if Osmond deliberately, almost malig-
nantly, had put the lights out one by one. The dusk at first
was vague and thin, and she could still see her way in it. But
it steadily deepened, and if now and again it had occasional-
ly lifted there were certain corners of her prospect that were
impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation
from her own mind: she was very sure of that; she had done
her best to be just and temperate, to see only the truth. They
were a part, they were a kind of creation and consequence,
of her husband’s very presence. They were not his misdeeds,
his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing-that is but of one
thing, which was not a crime. She knew of no wrong he had
done; he was not violent, he was not cruel: she simply be-
lieved he hated her. That was all she accused him of, and the
miserable part of it was precisely that it was not a crime, for
against a crime she might have found redress. He had dis-
covered that she was so different, that she was not what he
had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first
he could change her, and she had done her best to be what he
would like. But she was, after all, herself-she couldn’t help
that; and now there was no use pretending, wearing a mask
or a dress, for he knew her and had made up his mind. She
was not afraid of him; she had no apprehension he would
hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort. He
would if possible never give her a pretext, never put him-
self in the wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed
eyes, saw that he would have the better of her there. She

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