The Portrait of a Lady

  ‘‘I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you had not, I waited for you,’’ Madame Merle said.

  ‘‘Didn’t he ask you to sit down?’’ asked Isabel, smiling.

  Madame Merle looked about her.

  ‘‘Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.’’

  ‘‘You must stay now.’’

  ‘‘Certainly. I came for a reason; I have something on my mind.’’

  ‘‘I have told you that before,’’ Isabel said, ‘‘—that it takes something extraordinary to bring you to this house.’’

  ‘‘And you know what I have told you; that whether I come or whether I stay away, I have always the same motive—the affection I bear you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, you have told me that.’’

  ‘‘You look just now as if you didn’t believe me,’’ said Madame Merle.

  ‘‘Ah,’’ Isabel answered, ‘‘the profundity of your motives, that is the last thing I doubt!’’

  ‘‘You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words.’’

  Isabel shook her head gravely. ‘‘I know you have always been kind to me.’’

  ‘‘As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I have come to-day; it’s quite another affair. I have come to get rid of a trouble of my own—to make it over to you. I have been talking to your husband about it.’’

  ‘‘I am surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.’’

  ‘‘Especially other people’s; I know that. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s about poor Mr. Rosier.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ said Isabel, reflectively, ‘‘it’s his trouble, then, not yours.’’

  ‘‘He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy.’’

  ‘‘Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.’’

  Madame Merle hesitated a moment. ‘‘I gathered from your husband that perhaps you didn’t.’’

  ‘‘How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter.’’

  ‘‘It is probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.’’

  ‘‘It’s nevertheless a sort of question in which he is rarely at fault.’’

  ‘‘Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think. To-day he doesn’t.’’

  ‘‘Haven’t you been telling him?’’ Isabel asked.

  Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. ‘‘Do you know you’re a little dry?’’

  ‘‘Yes; I can’t help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.’’

  ‘‘In that there is some reason. You are so near the child.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ said Isabel, ‘‘for all the comfort I have given him! If you think me dry, I wonder what he thinks.’’

  ‘‘I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.’’

  ‘‘I can do nothing.’’

  ‘‘You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings.’’

  ‘‘He is very much in love,’’ said Isabel.

  ‘‘Very much—for him.’’

  ‘‘Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.’’

  Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. ‘‘Don’t you think she’s attractive?’’

  ‘‘She is the dearest little person possible; but she is very limited.’’

  ‘‘She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier is not unlimited.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Isabel, ‘‘he has about the extent of one’s pocket-handkerchief—the small ones, with lace.’’ Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy’s suitor. ‘‘He is very kind, very honest,’’ she presently added; ‘‘and he is not such a fool as he seems.’’

  ‘‘He assures me that she delights in him,’’ said Madame Merle.

  ‘‘I don’t know; I have not asked her.’’

  ‘‘You have never sounded her a little?’’

  ‘‘It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.’’

  ‘‘Ah, you are too literal!’’ said Madame Merle.

  ‘‘I must judge for myself.’’

  Madame Merle gave her smile again. ‘‘It isn’t easy to help you.’’

  ‘‘To help me?’’ said Isabel, very seriously. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘It’s easy to displease you. Don’t you see how wise I am to be careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n’y peux rien, moi! I can’t talk to Pansy about him. Especially,’’ added Madame Merle, ‘‘as I don’t think him a paragon of husbands.’’

  Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile— ‘‘You don’t wash your hands, then!’’ she said. Then she added, in another tone—‘‘You can’t—you are too much interested.’’

  Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before. Only, this time Isabel saw nothing. ‘‘Ask him the next time, and you will see.’’

  ‘‘I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him know that he is not welcome.’’

  ‘‘Ah yes,’’ said Madame Merle, ‘‘I forgot that, though it’s the burden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same,’’ she went on, ‘‘Osmond doesn’t dislike him as much as he thinks.’’ She had got up, as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this, and even saw the point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not opening the way.

  ‘‘That must have pleased him, if you have told him,’’ she answered, smiling.

  ‘‘Certainly I have told him; as far as that goes, I have encouraged him. I have preached patience, have said that his case is not desperate, if he will only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head to be jealous.’’

  ‘‘Jealous?’’

  ‘‘Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.’’

  Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose. ‘‘Ah!’’ she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fire-place. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and as she stood a moment before the mantel-glass, pushing into its place a wandering tress of hair.

  ‘‘Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying that there is nothing impossible in Lord Warburton falling in love with Pansy,’’ Madame Merle went on.

  Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. ‘‘It is true—there is nothing impossible,’’ she rejoined at last, gravely and more gently.

  ‘‘So I have had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.’’

  ‘‘That I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘Ask him, and you will see.’’

  ‘‘I shall not ask him,’’ said Isabel.

  ‘‘Excuse me; I forgot that you had pointed that out. Of course,’’ Madame Merle added, ‘‘you have had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton’s behaviour than I.’’

  ‘‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter very much.’’

  Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. ‘‘Likes her, you mean—as Mr. Rosier means?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know that he is charmed with Pansy.’’

  ‘‘And you have never told Osmond?’’ This observation was immediate, precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s lips.

  Isabel smiled a little. ‘‘I suppose he will know in time; Lord Warburton has a t
ongue, and knows how to express himself.’’

  Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time to subside, and then she said, as if she had been thinking it over a little: ‘‘That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Rosier.’’

  ‘‘Much better, I think.’’

  ‘‘It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It is really very kind of him.’’

  ‘‘Very kind of him?’’

  ‘‘To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.’’

  ‘‘I don’t see that.’’

  ‘‘It’s very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond—’’

  ‘‘After all, Pansy Osmond is the most attractive person he has ever known!’’ Isabel exclaimed.

  Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. ‘‘Ah, a moment ago, I thought you seemed rather to disparage her.’’

  ‘‘I said she was limited. And so she is. And so is Lord Warburton.’’

  ‘‘So are we all, if you come to that. If it’s no more than Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier, I won’t admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Rosier’s a nuisance!’’ cried Isabel, abruptly.

  ‘‘I quite agree with you, and I am delighted to know that I am not expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be closed to him.’’ And gathering her mantle together, Madame Merle prepared to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent request from Isabel.

  ‘‘All the same, you know, be kind to him.’’

  She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows, and stood looking at her friend. ‘‘I don’t understand your contradictions! Decidedly, I shall not be kind to him, for it will be a false kindness. I wish to see her married to Lord Warburton.’’

  ‘‘You had better wait till he asks her.’’

  ‘‘If what you say is true, he will ask her. Especially,’’ said Madame Merle in a moment, ‘‘if you make him.’’

  ‘‘If I make him?’’

  ‘‘It’s quite in your power. You have great influence with him.’’

  Isabel frowned a little. ‘‘Where did you learn that?’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you—never!’’ said Madame Merle, smiling.

  ‘‘I certainly never told you that.’’

  ‘‘You might have done so when we were by way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very little; I have often thought so since.’’

  Isabel had thought so too, sometimes with a certain satisfaction. But she did not admit it now—perhaps because she did not wish to appear to exult in it. ‘‘You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,’’ she simply said.

  ‘‘She let me know that you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed, and was full of the subject. Of course I think you have done better in doing as you did. But if you wouldn’t marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of helping him to marry some one else.’’

  Isabel listened to this with a face which persisted in not reflecting the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle’s. But in a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough, ‘‘I should be very glad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be arranged.’’ Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more tenderly than might have been expected, and took her departure.

  41

  OSMOND TOUCHED on this matter that evening for the first time; coming very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged his books and which he called his study. At ten o’clock Lord Warburton had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to be at home; he was going somewhere else, and he sat for half an hour. Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on purpose; she wished him to talk with the young girl. She pretended to read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself whether she might not leave the room. She had come little by little to think well of the idea of Pansy’s becoming the wife of the master of beautiful Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was unhappy, she always looked about her—partly from impulse and partly by theory—for some form of exertion. She could never rid herself of the conviction that unhappiness was a state of disease; it was suffering as opposed to action. To act, to do something—it hardly mattered what—would therefore be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her husband; she was determined not to be haunted by images of a flat want of zeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was such a fine fellow. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such an event, she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe, sincerely, that she had been that. Then, such an undertaking had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the young girl. It was a little odd that he should—being what he was; but there was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any one—at least, but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what Lord Warburton had been looking for. Still, who could say what men looked for? They looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for her it might seem odd that he cared for Pansy, who was so different; but he had not cared for her so much as he supposed. Or if he had, he had completely got over it, and it was natural that as that affair had failed, he should think that something of quite another sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path!

  At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men—as sure as if she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome that she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men; the young American was really so very flimsy. He was much more of the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and she would make a very picturesque little peeress.

  It may seem to the reader that Isabel had suddenly grown strangely cynical; for she ended by saying to herself that this difficulty could probably be arranged. Somehow, an impediment that was embodied in poor Rosier could not present itself as a dangerous one; there were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy’s tenacity, which might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to think the young girl would not be tenacious, for she had the faculty of assent developed in a ver
y much higher degree than that of resistance. She would cling, yes, she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier— especially as she seemed quite to like him. She had-expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reservation; she said she thought his conversation most interesting—he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy had been of the happiest; Isabel noticed that for herself, as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a patronizing way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but quite as if she could understand everything. He was careful only to be kind— he was as kind as he had been to Isabel herself at Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been as simple as Pansy, the impression would have been deeper still. She had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond. Pansy, however, in spite of her simplicity, really did understand, and was glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society. She looked at him as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with sweet, attentive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better than Mr. Rosier’s. But Isabel contented herself at such moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all to the Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her—the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.