The Portrait of A Lady (56 page)

‘‘She would be much obliged to you for that theory.''

‘‘It's the correct one, I assure you; and I am sure she would enter into it. She understands all that; that's why I love her.''

‘‘She is a very good little girl, and extremely graceful. But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing.''

Rosier hesitated a moment.

‘‘I don't in the least desire that he should. But I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man.''

‘‘The money is his wife's; she brought him a fortune.''

‘‘Mrs. Osmond, then, is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do something.''

‘‘For a lovesick swain you have your eyes about you!'' Madame Merle exclaimed, with a laugh.

‘‘I esteem a
dot
very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it.''

‘‘Mrs. Osmond,'' Madame Merle went on, ‘‘will probably prefer to keep her money for her own children.''

‘‘Her own children? Surely she has none.''

‘‘She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago, six months after his birth. Others, therefore, may come.''

‘‘I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She is a splendid woman.''

Madame Merle was silent a moment.

‘‘Ah, about her there is much to be said. Splendid as you like! We have not exactly made out that you are a
parti
. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.''

‘‘Excuse me, I think it may be,'' said Rosier, with his persuasive smile.

‘‘You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!''

‘‘I think you underrate me.''

‘‘You are not so innocent as that? Seriously,'' said Madame Merle, ‘‘of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at; but there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond will probably incline to believe he can do better.''

‘‘He can do so, perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know,'' Rosier added, eagerly.

‘‘She does—I know it.''

‘‘Ah,'' cried the young man, ‘‘I said you were the person to come to.''

‘‘But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her,'' Madame Merle went on.

‘‘In such a case there is no need of asking and telling; as you say, we are an innocent couple. How did
you
know it?''

‘‘I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I will find out for you.''

Rosier got up, and stood smoothing his hat.

‘‘You say that rather coldly. Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be.''

‘‘I will do my best. I will try to make the most of your advantages.''

‘‘Thank you so very much. Meanwhile, I will say a word to Mrs. Osmond.''

‘‘Gardez-vous en bien!''
And Madame Merle rose, rapidly. ‘‘Don't set her going, or you'll spoil everything.''

Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess had been after all the right person to come to.

‘‘I don't think I understand you. I am an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to succeed.''

‘‘Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you not to multiply points of difference between them.''

Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which he concealed under a surface suggesting sprigged porcelain came to his assistance.

‘‘I don't see that I am bound to consider Mr. Osmond so much!'' he exclaimed.

‘‘No, but you should consider her. You say you are an old friend. Would you make her suffer?''

‘‘Not for the world.''

‘‘Then be very careful, and let the matter alone until I have taken a few soundings.''

‘‘Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I am in love.''

‘‘Oh, you won't burn up. Why did you come to me, if you are not to heed what I say?''

‘‘You are very kind; I will be very good,'' the young man promised. ‘‘But I am afraid Mr. Osmond is rather difficult,'' he added, in his mild voice, as he went to the door.

Madame Merle gave a light laugh.

‘‘It has been said before. But his wife is not easy either.''

‘‘Ah, she's a splendid woman!'' Ned Rosier repeated, passing out.

He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of a young man who was already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected constantly on what Madame Merle had said to him, and turned over in his mind the impression of her somewhat peculiar manner. He had gone to her
de confiance,
as they said in Paris; but it was possible that he had been precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash—he had incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms—gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. Beyond this, Madame Merle had been very gracious to him, and she was a person of consideration among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance (Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt rather like a fool when he thought of his appealing to Madame Merle on the ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely—though she had appeared to say it in joke—she was really only thinking of his
bibelots.
Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss Osmond, he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like her to believe it.

It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's, Mrs. Osmond having an ‘‘evening''—she had taken the Thursday of each week—when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure, overlooking a sunny
piazzetta
in the neighbourhood of the Farnese Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived—a palace in Roman parlance, but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in a kind of domestic fortress, which bore a stern old Roman name, which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which was mentioned in ‘‘Murray'' and visited by tourists who looked disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio in the
piano nobile
and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the wide, nobly arched
loggia
overlooking the damp court where a fountain gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on settling themselves in Rome she and her husband chose this habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough, and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamel, he could see that the proportions of the windows, and even the details of the cornice, had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up there to keep them from their true loves, and, under the threat of being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very strong in
bibelots
. It was a taste of Osmond's own— not at all of hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when, after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had better things than he, he was obliged to admit that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a large collection before their marriage, and that, though he had obtained a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had got his best things at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice. Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own. For ‘‘advice'' read ‘‘money,'' he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert Osmond had landed his great prizes during his impecunious season confirmed his most cherished doctrine—the doctrine that a collector may freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented himself on a Thursday evening, his first glance was bestowed upon the walls of the room; there were three or four objects that his eyes really yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme seriousness of his position; and now when he came in, he looked about for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted to a gentleman who always crossed a threshold with an optimistic smile.

37

PANSY was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here that Mrs. Osmond usually sat—though she was not in her usually customary place to-night— and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was warm, with a sort of subdued brightness; it contained the larger things, and—almost always—an odour of flowers. Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the chamber beyond, the resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before the chimney, leaning back, with his hands behind him; he had one foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen people, scattered near him, were talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes were fixed, abstractedly. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without changing his attitude.

‘‘How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about.''

‘‘Never fear; I shall find her,'' said Rosier, cheerfully. Osmond stood looking at him; he had never before felt the keenness of this gentleman's eyes. ‘‘Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like it,'' Rosier said to himself. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there; but she was not within sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms, or would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond; he had a fancy that he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned he had an inveterate wish to be in the right. He looked round him, smiling, and then, in a moment, he said: ‘‘I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day.''

Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his boot-sole, ‘‘I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!'' he returned.

‘‘I hope you are not losing your interest?''

‘‘In old pots and plates? Yes, I am losing my interest.''

Rosier for a moment forgot the delicacy of his position.

‘‘You are not thinking of parting with a—a piece or two?''

‘‘No, I am not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier,'' said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.

‘‘Ah, you want to keep, but not to add,'' Rosier remarked, brightly.

‘‘Exactly. I have nothing that I wish to match.''

Poor Rosier was aware that he had blushed, and he was distressed at his want of assurance. ‘‘Ah, well, I have!'' was all that he could murmur; and he knew that his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the adjoining room, and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was dressed in black velvet; she looked brilliant and noble. We know what Mr. Rosier thought of her, and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter, it was based partly on his fine sense of the plastic; but also on a relish for a more impalpable sort of merit—that merit of a bright spirit, which Rosier's devotion to brittle wares had not made him cease to regard as a quality. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded; it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken exception—she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the picture of a gracious lady.

‘‘You see I am very regular,'' he said. ‘‘But who should be if I am not?''