Page 781 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of
the window, with her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that
knowledge. On the other side of the window lay the garden
of the convent; but this is not what she saw; she saw nothing
of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon. She saw,
in the crude light of that revelation which had already be-
come a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the
vessel in which it had been offered her only gave an intrin-
sic price, the dry staring fact that she had been an applied
handled hung-up tool, as senseless and convenient as mere
shaped wood and iron. All the bitterness of this knowledge
surged into her soul again; it was as if she felt on her lips the
taste of dishonour. There was a moment during which, if she
had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the
hideous vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest
woman in the world standing there within a few feet of her
and knowing as little what to think as the meanest. Isabel’s
only revenge was to be silent still-to leave Madame Merle in
this unprecedented situation. She left her there for a period
that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last seated
herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down
at her. Madame Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered
Isabel’s face. She might see what she would, but her danger
was over. Isabel would never accuse her, never reproach her;
perhaps because she never would give her the opportunity
to defend herself.

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