The Portrait of A Lady (37 page)

‘‘I will take the red,'' said Mother Catherine, in the spectacles. ‘‘I am so red myself. They will comfort us on our way back to Rome.''

‘‘Ah, they won't last,'' cried the young girl. ‘‘I wish I could give you something that would last!''

‘‘You have given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will last!''

‘‘I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,'' the child went on.

‘‘And do you go back to Rome to-night?'' her father asked.

‘‘Yes, we take the train again. We have so much to do
là-bas.
''

‘‘Are you not tired?''

‘‘We are never tired.''

‘‘Ah, my sister, sometimes,'' murmured the junior votaress.

‘‘Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here.
Que Dieu vous garde, ma fille.
''

Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel, and paved with red tiles; and into this ante-chamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence, too, the lady advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting, and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the drawing-room. At the threshold she hesitated.

‘‘Is there any one?'' she asked.

‘‘Some one you may see.''

She went in, and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their pupil, who was coming forward between them, with a hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who had stopped too, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little soft cry: ‘‘Ah, Madame Merle!''

The visitor had been slightly startled; but her manner the next instant was none the less gracious.

‘‘Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you home.''

And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person, and then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer world.

‘‘These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return to the convent,'' the gentleman explained.

‘‘Ah, you go back to Rome? I have lately come from there. It is very lovely now,'' said Madame Merle.

The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked Madame Merle how long it was since she had left Rome.

‘‘She came to see me at the convent,'' said the young girl, before her father's visitors had time to reply.

‘‘I have been more than once, Pansy,'' Madame Merle answered. ‘‘Am I not your great friend in Rome?''

‘‘I remember the last time best,'' said Pansy, ‘‘because you told me I should leave the place.''

‘‘Did you tell her that?'' the child's father asked.

‘‘I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I have been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come and see me.''

‘‘I should have done so if I had known you were here. One doesn't know such things by inspiration—though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down.''

These two speeches were made in a peculiar tone of voice—a tone half-lowered, and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need.

Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat.

‘‘You are going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony.
Je vous salue, mesdames,
'' she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.

‘‘This lady is a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent,'' said the host. ‘‘We have much faith in her judgement, and she will help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays.''

‘‘I hope you will decide in our favour, madam,'' the sister in spectacles ventured to remark.

‘‘That is Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing,'' said Madame Merle, smiling still. ‘‘I believe you have a very good school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she is meant for the world.''

‘‘That is what I have told monsieur,'' Sister Catherine answered. ‘‘It is precisely to fit her for the world,'' she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood at a little distance, looking at Madame Merle's elegant apparel.

‘‘Do you hear that, Pansy? You are meant for the world,'' said Pansy's father.

The child gazed at him an instant with her pure young eyes.

‘‘Am I not meant for you, papa?'' she asked.

Papa gave a quick, light laugh.

‘‘That doesn't prevent it! I am of the world, Pansy.''

‘‘Kindly permit us to retire,'' said Sister Catherine. ‘‘Be good, in any case, my daughter.''

‘‘I shall certainly come back and see you,'' Pansy declared, recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.

‘‘Stay with me, my child,'' she said, ‘‘while your father takes the good ladies to the door.''

Pansy stared, disappointed, but not protesting. She was evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of her fate.

‘‘May I not see Mamman Catherine get into the carriage?'' she asked very gently.

‘‘It would please me better if you would remain with me,'' said Madame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.

‘‘Oh yes, I will stay,'' Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears.

‘‘I am glad they have taught you to obey,'' said Madame Merle. ‘‘That is what little girls should do.''

‘‘Oh yes, I obey very well,'' said Pansy, with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.

Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair.

‘‘I hope they always see that you wear gloves,'' she said in a moment. ‘‘Little girls usually dislike them.''

‘‘I used to dislike them, but I like them now,'' the child answered.

‘‘Very good, I will make you a present of a dozen.''

‘‘I thank you very much. What colours will they be?'' Pansy demanded, with interest.

Madame Merle meditated a moment.

‘‘Useful colours.''

‘‘But will they be pretty?''

‘‘Are you fond of pretty things?''

‘‘Yes; but—but not too fond,'' said Pansy, with a trace of asceticism.

‘‘Well, they will not be too pretty,'' Madame Merle answered, with a laugh. She took the child's other hand, and drew her nearer; and then, looking at her a moment—‘‘Shall you miss Mother Catherine?''

‘‘Yes—when I think of her.''

‘‘Try, then, not to think of her. Perhaps some day,'' added Madame Merle, ‘‘you will have another mother.''

‘‘I don't think that is necessary,'' Pansy said, repeating her little soft, conciliatory sigh. ‘‘I had more than thirty mothers at the convent.''

Her father's step sounded again in the ante-chamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into their places.

His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said—‘‘I hoped you would have come to Rome. I thought it possible you would have come to fetch Pansy away.''

‘‘That was a natural supposition; but I am afraid it is not the first time I have acted in defiance of your calculations.''

‘‘Yes,'' said Madame Merle, ‘‘I think you are very perverse.''

Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room—there was plenty of space in it to move about— in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him—unless he took up a book— but to stand with his hands behind him, looking at Pansy. ‘‘Why didn't you come and see the last of Mamman Catherine?'' he asked of her abruptly, in French.

Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. ‘‘I asked her to stay with me,'' said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.

‘‘Ah, that was better,'' said Osmond. Then, at last, he dropped into a chair, and sat looking at Madame Merle; leaning forward a little, with his elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.

‘‘She is going to give me some gloves,'' said Pansy.

‘‘You needn't tell that to every one, my dear,'' Madame Merle observed.

‘‘You are very kind to her,'' said Osmond. ‘‘She is supposed to have everything she needs.''

‘‘I should think she had had enough of the nuns.''

‘‘If we are going to discuss that matter, she had better go out of the room.''

‘‘Let her stay,'' said Madame Merle. ‘‘We will talk of something else.''

‘‘If you like, I won't listen,'' Pansy suggested, with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction.

‘‘You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand,'' her father replied. The child sat down deferentially, near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on, irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. ‘‘You are looking particularly well.''

‘‘I think I always look the same,'' said Madame Merle.

‘‘You always
are
the same. You don't vary. You are a wonderful woman.''

‘‘Yes, I think I am.''

‘‘You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you would not leave Rome again for the present.''

‘‘I am pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I have come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived, and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.''

‘‘That reason is characteristic. You are always doing something for your friends.''

Madame Merle looked straight at her interlocutor, smiling. ‘‘It is less characteristic than your comment upon it—which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that,'' she added, ‘‘because if you don't believe what you say there is no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.''

‘‘Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves— so much of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives.''

‘‘What do you call one's life?'' asked Madame Merle. ‘‘One's appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?''

‘‘I call your life—your ambitions,'' said Osmond.

Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. ‘‘I wonder whether she understands that,'' she murmured.

‘‘You see she can't stay with us!'' And Pansy's father gave a rather joyless smile. ‘‘Go into the garden,
ma bonne,
and pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle,'' he went on, in French.

‘‘That's just what I wanted to do,'' Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.

‘‘My ambitions are principally for you,'' said Madame Merle, looking up at him with a certain nobleness of expression.

‘‘That comes back to what I say. I am part of your life—I and a thousand others. You are not selfish—I can't admit that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?''

‘‘You are indolent. For me that is your worst fault.''

‘‘I am afraid it is really my best.''

‘‘You don't care,'' said Madame Merle, gravely.

‘‘No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them.''

‘‘It is not of importance—to me at least—that you didn't go; though I should have been glad to see you. I am glad that you are not in Rome now—which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There is something I should like you to do at present in Florence.''

‘‘Please remember my indolence,'' said Osmond.