For herself, she lingered in the soundless drawing-room long after the fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to her there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why Pansy shouldn’t be married as you would put a letter in the post office? When the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for the lamp had long since gone out and the candles had burned down to their sockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room, and stood there gazing at a remembered vision—that of her husband and Madame Merle, grouped unconsciously and familiarly.
43
THREE nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalizing turn, and she had not extended to other pleasures the interdict that she had seen placed on those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her father, she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought that this was not likely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual, and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight, and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered this service for some minutes when she became aware that Edward Rosier was standing before her. He had lost his affable smile, and wore a look of almost military resolution; the change in his appearance would have made Isabel smile if she had not felt that at bottom his case was a hard one; he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify her that he was dangerous, and then he dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened, and he said quickly, ‘‘It’s all pansies; it must be hers!’’
Isabel smiled kindly.
‘‘Yes, it’s hers; she gave it to me to hold.’’
‘‘May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?’’ the poor young man asked.
‘‘No, I can’t trust you; I am afraid you wouldn’t give it back.’’
‘‘I am not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower?’’
Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the bouquet.
‘‘Choose one yourself. It’s frightful what I am doing for you.’’
‘‘Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!’’ Rosier exclaimed, with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.
‘‘Don’t put it into your button-hole,’’ she said. ‘‘Don’t for the world!’’
‘‘I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I wish to show her that I believe in her still.’’
‘‘It’s very well to show it to her, but it’s out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you.’’
‘‘And is that all you can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond,’’ said the young man, in a tone of fine general reference. ‘‘You know that our acquaintance goes back very far—quite into the days of our innocent childhood.’’
‘‘Don’t make me out too old,’’ Isabel answered, smiling. ‘‘You come back to that very often, and I have never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused you.’’
‘‘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 hands
ome, 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.’’