Chapter 53 - Page 2

as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so
passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from
hope and regret, that she recalled to herself one of those
Etruscan figures couched upon the receptacle of their ashes.
There was nothing to regret now--that was all over. Not only the
time of her folly, but the time of her repentance was far. The
only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had been so--well, so
unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped, from literal
inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been. Whatever
it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and
doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she
was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an
impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This
impression carried her into the future, of which from time to
time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant
years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live,
and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the present
hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,
further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege
was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any
appetite for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her
business for a long time to come. And at moments there was
something inspiring, almost enlivening, in the conviction. It was
a proof of strength--it was a proof she should some day be happy
again. It couldn't be she was to live only to suffer; she was
still young, after all, and a great many things might happen to
her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury of life
repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable, too
capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid
to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to
be valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of
precious things? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were
fine one would suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that
one had a certain grossness; but Isabel recognised, as it passed
before her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She
should never escape; she should last to the end. Then the middle
years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of her
indifference closed her in.

Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were
afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there
in the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant. She
asked nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sudden perception
that she should be helped. She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there
was something terrible in an arrival in London. The