Page 763 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

‘Why does Osmond say it’s impossible?’ the Countess
asked in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn’t
imagine.
From the moment she thus began to question her, how-
ever, Isabel drew back; she disengaged her hand, which the
Countess had affectionately taken. But she answered this
enquiry with frank bitterness. ‘Because we’re so happy to-
gether that we can’t separate even for a fortnight.’
‘Ah,’ cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, ‘when
I want to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can
have no money!’
Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down
for an hour. It may appear to some readers that she gave
herself much trouble, and it is certain that for a woman of
a high spirit she had allowed herself easily to be arrested. It
seemed to her that only now she fully measured the great
undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a
case as this, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter
of course for one’s husband. ‘I’m afraid-yes, I’m afraid,’ she
said to herself more than once, stopping short in her walk.
But what she was afraid of was not her husband-his displea-
sure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her own later
judgement of her conduct-a consideration which had often
held her in check; it was simply the violence there would be
in going when Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of dif-
ference had opened between them, but nevertheless it was
his desire that she should stay, it was a horror to him that
she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he
could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew,

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