Page 766 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

till after her death that Pansy arrived.’
Isabel’s brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were
parted in pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow;
there seemed so much more to follow than she could see.
‘Pansy’s not my husband’s child then?’
‘Your husband’s-in perfection! But no one else’s hus-
band’s. Some one else’s wife’s. Ah, my good Isabel,’ cried the
Countess, ‘with you one must dot one’s i’s!’
‘I don’t understand. Whose wife’s?’ Isabel asked.
‘The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died-how long?-a
dozen, more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognized
Miss Pansy, nor, knowing what he was about, would have
anything to say to her; and there was no reason why he
should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to
fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife’s hav-
ing died in childbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror,
banished the little girl from his sight for as long as possi-
ble before taking her home from nurse. His wife had really
died, you know, of quite another matter and in quite another
place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had gone,
one August, because her health appeared to require the air,
but where she was suddenly taken worse-fatally ill. The sto-
ry passed, sufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so
long as nobody heeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But
of course I knew-without researches,’ the Countess lucidly
proceeded; ‘as also, you’ll understand, without a word said
between us-I mean between Osmond and me. Don’t you see
him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle it?-that is
to settle me if I should say anything. I said nothing, right

766 The Portrait of a Lady