The Portrait of A Lady (57 page)

‘‘Yes, I have known you longer than any one here. But we must not indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady.''

‘‘Ah, please, what young lady?'' Rosier was immensely obliging; but this was not what he had come for.

‘‘She sits there by the fire in pink, and has no one to speak to.''

Rosier hesitated a moment.

‘‘Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He is within six feet of her.''

Mrs. Osmond also hesitated.

‘‘She is not very lively, and he doesn't like dull people.''

‘‘But she is good enough for me? Ah now, that is hard.''

‘‘I only mean that you have ideas for two. And then you are so obliging.''

‘‘So is your husband.''

‘‘No, he is not—to me.'' And Mrs. Osmond smiled vaguely.

‘‘That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women.''

‘‘So I tell him,'' said Mrs. Osmond, still smiling.

‘‘You see I want some tea,'' Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.

‘‘That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady.''

‘‘Very good; but after that I will abandon her to her fate. The simple truth is that I am dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond.''

‘‘Ah,'' said Isabel, turning away, ‘‘I can't help you there!''

Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the young lady in pink, whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last, however, he became—comparatively speaking—reckless, and cared little what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to abandon the young lady in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion—Pansy was as fond as ever of making tea—presently came and talked to her. Into this mild colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes, we shall at first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at nineteen Pansy has become a young lady, she does not really fill out the part; that if she has grown very pretty, she lacks in a deplorable degree the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style; and that if she is dressed with great freshness, she wears her smart attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it—very much as if it were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted. Only he called her qualities by names of his own—some of which indeed were happy enough. ‘‘No, she is unique—she is absolutely unique,'' he used to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye. It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier, who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked him—a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect
jeune fille
; and one couldn't make of a
jeune fille
the inquiry necessary for throwing light on such a point. A
jeune fille
was what Rosier had always dreamed of—a
jeune fille
who should yet not be French, for he had felt that this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure that Pansy had never looked at a newspaper, and that, in the way of novels, if she had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American
jeune fille
; what would be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men, nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but he was now in imminent danger of asking himself whether hospitality were the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater importance to him—yes; but not probably to the master of the house. There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his guard by Madame Merle, he would not have extended the warning to Pansy; it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he
was
in love with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl in pink had responded to the call of her mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before; he had never been alone with a
jeune fille.
It was a great moment; poor Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room, beyond the one in which they stood—a small room which had been thrown open and lighted, but, the company not being numerous, had remained empty all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow; there were several lamps; through the open door it looked very pretty. Rosier stood a moment, gazing through this aperture; he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the young lady in pink had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on the other side of the room. For a moment it occurred to him that she was frightened—too frightened perhaps to move; but a glance assured him that she was not, and then he reflected that she was too innocent, indeed, for that. After a moment's supreme hesitation he asked her whether he might go and look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he did not really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.

‘‘Certainly, you may go,'' said Pansy; ‘‘and if you like, I will show you.'' She was not in the least frightened.

‘‘That's just what I hoped you would say; you are so very kind,'' Rosier murmured.

They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy.

‘‘It's not for winter evenings; it's more for summer,'' she said. ‘‘It's papa's taste; he has so much.''

He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was bad. He looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation. ‘‘Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?'' he asked.

‘‘Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature,'' said Pansy, ‘‘—and for conversation. But papa cares also for those things: I think he knows everything.''

Rosier was silent a moment. ‘‘There is one thing I am sure he knows!'' he broke out presently. ‘‘He knows that when I come here it is, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who is so charming—it is really,'' said the young man, ‘‘to see you!''

‘‘To see me?'' asked Pansy, raising her vaguely troubled eyes.

‘‘To see you; that's what I come for,'' Rosier repeated, feeling the intoxication of a rupture with authority. Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not needed to make her face more modest.

‘‘I thought it was for that,'' she said.

‘‘And it was not disagreeable to you?''

‘‘I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me,'' said Pansy.

‘‘I was afraid of offending you.''

‘‘You don't offend me,'' the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel had kissed her.

‘‘You like me then, Pansy?'' Rosier asked, very gently, feeling very happy.

‘‘Yes—I like you.''

They had walked to the chimney-piece, where the big cold Empire clock was perched; they were well within the room, and beyond observation from without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted, still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something ineffably passive. She liked him—she had liked him all the while; now anything might happen! She was ready—she had been ready always, waiting for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited forever; but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree. Rosier felt that if he should draw her towards him and hold her to his heart, she would submit without a murmur, she would rest there without a question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow Empire
salottino.
She had known it was for her he came; and yet like what a perfect little lady she had carried it off!

‘‘You are very dear to me,'' he murmured, trying to believe that there was after all such a thing as hospitality.

She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. ‘‘Did you say that papa knows?''

‘‘You told me just now he knows everything.''

‘‘I think you must make sure,'' said Pansy.

‘‘Ah, my dear, when once I am sure of you!'' Rosier murmured in her ear, while she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.

The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered. How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you; for she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these two—they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the commonplace—and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.

‘‘He came nearly an hour ago—but he has disappeared,'' Osmond said.

‘‘And where is Pansy?''

‘‘In the other room. There are several people there.''

‘‘He is probably among them,'' said Madame Merle.

‘‘Do you wish to see him?'' Osmond asked, in a provokingly pointless tone.

Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew his tones to the eighth of a note. ‘‘Yes, I should like to say to him that I have told you what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly.''

‘‘Don't tell him that; he will try to interest me more— which is exactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal.''

‘‘But you don't hate it.''

‘‘It doesn't signify: I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing is a great bore. There is no hurry.''

‘‘I will tell him that you will take time and think it over.''

‘‘No, don't do that. He will hang on.''

‘‘If I discourage him he will do the same.''

‘‘Yes, but in the one case he will try and talk and explain; which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he will probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey.''

‘‘Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?''

‘‘Oh, he's enervating, with his eternal majolica.''

Madame Merle dropped her eyes, with a faint smile. ‘‘He's a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand francs——''

‘‘It's misery—genteel misery,'' Osmond broke in. ‘‘It's not what I have dreamed of for Pansy.''

‘‘Very good, then. He has promised me not to speak to her.''

‘‘Do you believe him?'' Osmond asked, absent- mindedly.

‘‘Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't suppose you think that matters.''

‘‘I don't think it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has thought about him.''

‘‘That opinion is more convenient,'' said Madame Merle, quietly.

‘‘Has she told you that she is in love with him?''

‘‘For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?'' Madame Merle added in a moment.