Chương Chương 37 · Chapter XXXVII

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

Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place

to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about

the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it

contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.

Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, 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 persons, scattered near him, were

talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an

expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged

with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually

thrust upon them. 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, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so

efficiently looked at. “Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn’t like

it,” he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,

but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or

would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,

having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly

resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of

being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without

help, and then in a moment, “I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte

to-day,” he said.

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’re not losing your interest?”

“In old pots and plates? Yes, I’m losing my interest.”

Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. “You’re not

thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?”

“No, I’m 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’ve nothing I wish to match.”

Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of

assurance. “Ah, well, I have!” was all he could murmur; and he knew

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 high and splendid, as he had

said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! 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 eye for decorative character, his instinct for

authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that

secret of a “lustre” beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,

which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him

to recognise. 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’m very regular,” he said. “But

who should be if I’m not?”

“Yes, I’ve known you longer than any one here. But we mustn’t 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’s within six feet

of her.”

Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. “She’s not very lively, and he doesn’t like

dull people.”

“But she’s good enough for me? Ah now, that’s hard!”

“I only mean that you’ve ideas for two. And then you’re so obliging.”

“No, he’s not--to me.” And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.

“That’s a sign he should be doubly so to other women.

“So I tell him,” she said, 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’ll abandon her to her fate. The simple

truth is I’m 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 damsel 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; he cared little

what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to

abandon the damsel 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 doesn’t 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’s unique--she’s 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 enquiry requisite 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 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 could 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 if 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 so vain a disguise of rose-colour 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 that had been thrown open and

lighted, but that, 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 the very

temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment 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 other

maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on

the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was

frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured

him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed

for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if 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

didn’t 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’ll show you.”

She was not in the least frightened.

“That’s just what I hoped you’d say; you’re 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 very 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 little. “There’s one thing I’m sure he knows!” he

broke out presently. “He knows that when I come here it’s, with all

respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who’s so charming--it’s

really,” said the young man, “to see you!”

“To see me?” And Pansy raised 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.”

“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 for ever;

but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.

Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his

heart she would submit without a murmur, 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’re 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

papa knows?”

“You told me just now he knows everything.”

“I think you must make sure,” said Pansy.

“Ah, my dear, when once I’m sure of _you_!” Rosier murmured in her ear;

whereupon 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’s Pansy?”

“In the other room. There are several people there.”

“He’s 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 each of his tones to the

eighth of a note. “Yes, I should like to say to him that I’ve told you

what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly.”

“Don’t tell him that. He’ll 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’s a great

bore. There’s no hurry.”

“I’ll tell him that you’ll take time and think it over.”

“No, don’t do that. He’ll hang on.”

“If I discourage him he’ll do the same.”

“Yes, but in the one case he’ll try to talk and explain--which would be

exceedingly tiresome. In the other he’ll 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 a nuisance--with his eternal majolica.”

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had 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’ve

dreamed of for Pansy.”

“Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.”

“Do you believe him?” Osmond asked absentmindedly.

“Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don’t

suppose you consider that that matters.”

“I don’t consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has

thought of him.”

“That opinion’s more convenient,” said Madame Merle quietly.

“Has she told you she’s in love with him?”

“For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?” Madame Merle

added in a moment.

Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other

knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine

forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while

before him. “This kind of thing doesn’t find me unprepared. It’s what I

educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come

up she should do what I prefer.”

“I’m not afraid that she’ll not do it.”

“Well then, where’s the hitch?”

“I don’t see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of

Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.”

“I can’t keep him. Keep him yourself.”

“Very good; I’ll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day.”

Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing

about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit

to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the

last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out

of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a

few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her

father.

“He has spoken to her,” Madame Merle went on to Osmond.

Her companion never turned his head. “So much for your belief in his

promises. He ought to be horsewhipped.”

“He intends to confess, poor little man!”

Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. “It

doesn’t matter,” he murmured, turning away.

Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner

of unfamiliar politeness. This lady’s reception of her was not more

intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly

smile.

“You’re very late,” the young creature gently said.

“My dear child, I’m never later than I intend to be.”

Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward

Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it

off his mind, “I’ve spoken to her!” he whispered.

“I know it, Mr. Rosier.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come

and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five.” She was severe, and in

the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of

contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.

He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor

the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking

with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady

was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. “You

said just now you wouldn’t help me,” he began to Mrs. Osmond. “Perhaps

you’ll feel differently when you know--when you know--!”

Isabel met his hesitation. “When I know what?”

“That she’s all right.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, that we’ve come to an understanding.”

“She’s all wrong,” said Isabel. “It won’t do.”

Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush

testified to his sense of injury. “I’ve never been treated so,” he said.

“What is there against me, after all? That’s not the way I’m usually

considered. I could have married twenty times.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t. I don’t mean twenty times, but once,

comfortably,” Isabel added, smiling kindly. “You’re not rich enough for

Pansy.”

“She doesn’t care a straw for one’s money.”

“No, but her father does.”

“Ah yes, he has proved that!” cried the young man.

Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without

ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending

to look at Gilbert Osmond’s collection of miniatures, which were neatly

arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without

seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was

certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used

to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such

a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He

searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire

was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to

Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a

rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of

him.

“I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn’t have done, a while ago,” he

began. “But you must remember my situation.”

“I don’t remember what you said,” she answered coldly.

“Ah, you’re offended, and now you’ll never help me.”

She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: “It’s not

that I won’t; I simply can’t!” Her manner was almost passionate.

“If you _could_, just a little, I’d never again speak of your husband save

as an angel.”

“The inducement’s great,” said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he

afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the

eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow

that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,

and he took himself off.