t me bear my burdens myself and not shift them
upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious
apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make
and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something
irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat
discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there
was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had
just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little
what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to
explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then
suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;
it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner
one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so
wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than
Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had
they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.
It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been
summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should
not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had
a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously
discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to
pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its
disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to
be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed
her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was
impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever
a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a
free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.
There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and
chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to
repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.
One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second
one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a
certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been
rig