The Portrait of A Lady (67 page)

‘‘Ah, you don't esteem me, then. Say at once that you think I'm a trifler!''

‘‘I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I am not in love with you for Pansy.''

‘‘Very good; I see; you pity me, that's all.''

And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud to show that the movement struck him as general.

Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognizable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world—young love struggling with adversity.

‘‘Would you really be very kind to her?'' she said, in a low tone.

He dropped his eyes, devoutly, and raised the little flower which he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. ‘‘You pity me; but don't you pity her a little?''

‘‘I don't know; I am not sure. She will always enjoy life.''

‘‘It will depend on what you call life!'' Rosier exclaimed. ‘‘She won't enjoy being tortured.''

‘‘There will be nothing of that.''

‘‘I am glad to hear it. She knows what she is about. You will see.''

‘‘I think she does, and she will never disobey her father. But she is coming back to me,'' Isabel added, ‘‘and I must beg you to go away.''

Rosier lingered a moment, till Pansy came in sight, on the arm of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel that he was very much in love.

Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, and looked perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw that she was counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself that, decidedly, there were deeper forces at play than she had recognized. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however, that she perceived that her lover had abstracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good evening; she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then—‘‘Where is the little maid?'' he asked. It was in this manner that he formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.

‘‘She is dancing,'' said Isabel; ‘‘you will see her somewhere.''

He looked among the dancers, and at last caught Pansy's eye. ‘‘She sees me, but she won't notice me,'' he then remarked. ‘‘Are you not dancing?''

‘‘As you see, I'm a wallflower.''

‘‘Won't you dance with me?''

‘‘Thank you; I would rather you should dance with my little maid.''

‘‘One needn't prevent the other; especially as she is engaged.''

‘‘She is not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She dances very hard, and you will be the fresher.''

‘‘She dances beautifully,'' said Lord Warburton, following her with his eyes. ‘‘Ah, at last,'' he added, ‘‘she has given me a smile.'' He stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was strange a man of his importance should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good nature, not even his need for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. ‘‘I shall like to dance with you,'' he went on in a moment, turning back to Isabel; ‘‘but I think I like even better to talk with you.''

‘‘Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen oughtn't to waltz.''

‘‘Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss Osmond?''

‘‘Ah, that's different. If you dance with her, it would look simply like a piece of kindness—as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you dance with me you will look as if you were doing it for your own.''

‘‘And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?''

‘‘No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands.''

‘‘The British Empire be hanged! You are always laughing at it.''

‘‘Amuse yourself with talking to me,'' said Isabel.

‘‘I am not sure that it is a recreation. You are too pointed; I have always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous to-night. Won't you really dance?''

‘‘I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here.''

He was silent a moment. ‘‘You are wonderfully good to her,'' he said, suddenly.

Isabel stared a little, and smiled. ‘‘Can you imagine one's not being?''

‘‘No, indeed. I know how one cares for her. But you must have done a great deal for her.''

‘‘I have taken her out with me,'' said Isabel, smiling still. ‘‘And I have seen that she has proper clothes.''

‘‘Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You have talked to her, advised her, helped her to develop.''

‘‘Ah, yes, if she isn't the rose, she has lived near it.''

Isabel laughed, and her companion smiled; but there was a certain visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete hilarity. ‘‘We all try to live as near it as we can,'' he said, after a moment's hesitation.

Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she thought him delightful; there was something in his friendship which appeared a kind of resource in case of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it did not please her that he should be too near to her, that he should take too much of her goodwill for granted. She was afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it was in her to flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the first, and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses of the young girls. It hereupon became apparent that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her attention, her sympathy, were most active; and they were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way connected—a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton was trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was of course unconscious; he himself had not taken account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious, made the situation none the less unacceptable. The sooner Lord Warburton should come to self-consciousness the better. He immediately began to talk to Pansy—on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust person, as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she knew that he knew that she liked him. Isabel left them together a little, and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near, and with whom she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which she knew that Pansy was also engaged. The young girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered look, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's duenna, which consisted of gracious alternation of concession and contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think that she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.

After Pansy had been led away, Isabel found Lord Warburton drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him, steadily; she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion.

‘‘She has promised to dance with me later,'' he said.

‘‘I am glad of that. I suppose you have engaged her for the cotillion.''

At this he looked a little awkward. ‘‘No, I didn't ask her for that. It's a quadrille.''

‘‘Ah, you are not clever!'' said Isabel, almost angrily. ‘‘I told her to keep the cotillion, in case you should ask for it.''

‘‘Poor little maid, fancy that!'' And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. ‘‘Of course I will if you like.''

‘‘If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it!''

‘‘I am afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her book.''

Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She did not do so, however; she only said to him, after a minute, looking up—‘‘Please to let me understand.''

‘‘Understand what?''

‘‘You told me ten days ago that you should like to marry my stepdaughter. You have not forgotten it!''

‘‘Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.''

‘‘Ah,'' said Isabel, ‘‘he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you.''

Lord Warburton stammered a little. ‘‘I—I didn't send my letter.''

‘‘Perhaps you forgot that.''

‘‘No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to write, you know. But I shall send it to-night.''

‘‘At three o'clock in the morning?''

‘‘I mean later, in the course of the day.''

‘‘Very good. You still wish, then, to marry her?''

‘‘Very much indeed.''

‘‘Aren't you afraid that you will bore her?'' And as her companion stared at this inquiry, Isabel added—‘‘If she can't dance with you for half an hour, how will she be able to dance with you for life?''

‘‘Ah,'' said Warburton, readily, ‘‘I will let her dance with other people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you—that you—''

‘‘That I would dance with you? I told you I would dance nothing.''

‘‘Exactly; so that while it is going on I might find some quiet corner where we might sit down and talk.''

‘‘Oh,'' said Isabel gravely, ‘‘you are much too considerate of me.''

When the cotillion came, Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton's favour.

‘‘After all, I don't care to dance,'' he said; ‘‘it's a barbarous amusement; I would much rather talk.'' And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for—a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him, though she knew that her husband desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter's
prétendant,
however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance, in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.

‘‘Certainly not, if I can't dance with her!'' he answered.

‘‘You had better go away, then,'' said Isabel, with the manner of good counsel.

‘‘I shall not go till she does!'' And he let Lord Warburton pass, without giving him a look.