‘‘It’s difficult for me to advise you,’’ Isabel rejoined. ‘‘I don’t know how I can undertake that. That’s for your father; you must get his advice, and, above all, you must act upon it.’’
At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing.
‘‘I think I should like your advice better than papa’s,’’ she presently remarked.
‘‘That’s not as it should be,’’ said Isabel, coldly. ‘‘I love you very much, but your father loves you better.’’
‘‘It isn’t because you love me—it’s because you’re a lady,’’ Pansy answered, with the air of saying something very reasonable. ‘‘A lady can advise a young girl better than a man.’’
‘‘I advise you, then, to pay the greatest respect to your father’s wishes.’’
‘‘Ah, yes,’’ said Pansy, eagerly, ‘‘I must do that.’’
‘‘But if I speak to you now about your getting married, it’s not for your own sake—it’s for mine,’’ Isabel went on. ‘‘If I try to learn from you what you expect, what you desire, it is only that I may act accordingly.’’
Pansy stared, and then, very quickly: ‘‘Will you do everything I desire?’’ she asked.
‘‘Before I say yes, I must know what such things are.’’
Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wished in life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her, and she had told him that she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn’t allow it.
‘‘Very well, then, it’s impossible,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘Yes, it’s impossible,’’ said Pansy, without a sigh, and with the same extreme attention in her clear little face.
‘‘You must think of something else, then,’’ Isabel went on; but Pansy, sighing then, told her that she had attempted this feat without the least success.
‘‘You think of those that think of you,’’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘‘I know that Mr. Rosier thinks of me.’’
‘‘He ought not to,’’ said Isabel, loftily. ‘‘Your father has expressly requested he shouldn’t.’’
‘‘He can’t help it, because he knows that I think of him.’’
‘‘You shouldn’t think of him. There is some excuse for him, perhaps; but there is none for you!’’
‘‘I wish you would try to find one,’’ the girl exclaimed, as if she were praying to the Madonna.
‘‘I should be very sorry to attempt it,’’ said the Madonna, with unusual frigidity. ‘‘If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you think of him?’’
‘‘No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.’’
‘‘Ah, but I don’t admit Mr. Rosier’s right,’’ Isabel cried, hypocritically.
Pansy only gazed at her; she was evidently deeply puzzled; and Isabel, taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the miserable consequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her, with the assurance that she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that though she might never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning. She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it did not lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness towards her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even by marrying him.
‘‘Your father would like you to make a better marriage,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘Mr. Rosier’s fortune is not very large.’’
‘‘How do you mean better—if that would be good enough? And I have very little money; why should I look for a fortune?’’
‘‘Your having so little is a reason for looking for more.’’ Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face were hideously insincere. She was doing this for Osmond; this was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy’s solemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think that she had made so light of the girl’s preference.
‘‘What should you like me to do?’’ said Pansy, softly.
The question was a terrible one, and Isabel pusillanimously took refuge in a generalization.
‘‘To remember all the pleasure it is in your power to give your father.’’
‘‘To marry some one else, you mean—if he should ask me?’’
For a moment Isabel’s answer caused itself to be waited for; then she heard herself utter it, in the stillness that Pansy’s attention seemed to make.
‘‘Yes—to marry some one else.’’
Pansy’s eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed that she was doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a moment, with her small hands unclasped, and then she said, with a timorous sigh: ‘‘Well, I hope no one will ask me!’’
‘‘There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready to ask you.’’
‘‘I don’t think he can have been ready,’’ said Pansy.
‘‘It would appear so—if he had been sure that he would succeed.’’
‘‘If he had been sure? Then he was not ready!’’
Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up, and stood a moment, looking into the fire. ‘‘Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,’’ she said; ‘‘of course you know it’s of him I speak.’’ She found herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more crudely than she had intended.
‘‘He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean that he will ask me to marry him, I think you are mistaken.’’
‘‘Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely.’’
Pansy shook her head, with a little wise smile. ‘‘Lord Warburton won’t ask me simply to please papa.’’
‘‘Your father would like you to encourage him,’’ Isabel went on, mechanically.
‘‘How can I encourage him?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Your father must tell you that.’’
Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if she were in possession of a bright assurance. ‘‘There is no danger—no danger!’’ she declared at last.
There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her believing it, which made Isabel feel very awkward. She felt accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect, she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that there was a danger. But she did not; she only said— in her embarrassment rather wide of the mark—that he surely had been most kind, most friendly.
‘‘Yes, he has been very kind,’’ Pansy answered. ‘‘That’s what I like him for.’’
‘‘Why then is the difficulty so great?’’
‘‘I haven’t always felt sure that he knows that I don’t want—what did you say I should do?—to encourage him. He knows I don’t want to marry, and he wants me to know that he therefore won’t trouble me. That’s the meaning of his kindness. It’s as if he said to me, ‘I like you very much, but if it doesn’t please you I will never say it again.’ I think that is very kind, very noble,’’ Pansy went on, with deepening positiveness. ‘‘That is all we have said to each other. And he doesn’t care for me, either. Ah no, there is no danger!’’
Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy’s wisdom—began almost to retreat before it. ‘‘You must tell your father that,’’ she remarked, reservedly.
‘‘I think I would rather not,’’ Pansy answered.
‘‘You ought not t
o let him have false hopes.’’
‘‘Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa won’t propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me,’’ said Pansy, very lucidly.
There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made Isabel draw a long breath. It relieved her of a heavy responsibility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond, that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she retired—a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have done her utmost. ‘‘Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a nobleman.’’
Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for Isabel to pass. ‘‘I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!’’ she remarked, very gravely.
46
LORD WARBURTON was not seen in Mrs. Osmond’s drawing-room for several days, and Isabel could not fail to observe that her husband said nothing to her about having received a letter from him. She could not fail to observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy, and that though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he alluded to his absence.
‘‘What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a tradesman with a bill?’’
‘‘I know nothing about him,’’ Isabel said. ‘‘I saw him last Friday, at the German ball. He told me that he meant to write to you.’’
‘‘He has never written to me.’’
‘‘So I supposed, from your not having told me.’’
‘‘He’s an odd fish,’’ said Osmond, comprehensively. And on Isabel’s making no rejoinder, he went on to inquire whether it took his lordship five days to indite a letter. ‘‘Does he form his words with such difficulty?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘I have never had a letter from him.’’
‘‘Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate correspondence.’’
Isabel answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again.
‘‘When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing, what did you say to him?’’ he asked.
Isabel hesitated a moment. ‘‘I think I told him not to forget it.’’
‘‘Did you believe there was a danger of that?’’
‘‘As you say, he’s an odd fish.’’
‘‘Apparently he has forgotten it,’’ said Osmond. ‘‘Be so good as to remind him.’’
‘‘Should you like me to write him?’’ Isabel asked.
‘‘I have no objection whatever.’’
‘‘You expect too much of me.’’
‘‘Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.’’
‘‘I am afraid I shall disappoint you,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment.’’
‘‘Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself! If you really wish to capture Lord Warburton, you must do it yourself.’’
For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said—‘‘That won’t be easy, with you working against me.’’
Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognize her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her, for the time, as a presence. That was the expression of his eyes now. ‘‘I think you accuse me of something very base,’’ she said.
‘‘I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn’t come up to the mark it will be because you have kept him off. I don’t know that it’s base; it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I have no doubt you have the finest ideas about it.’’
‘‘I told you I would do what I could,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘Yes, that gained you time.’’
It came over Isabel, after he had said this, that she had once thought him beautiful; ‘‘How much you must wish to capture him!’’ she exclaimed, in a moment.
She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her—a horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. Osmond expressed nothing otherwise, however; he only said, quickly, ‘‘Yes, I wish it very much.’’
At this moment a servant came in, as if to usher a visitor, and he was followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress; a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element of good breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving transitions.
Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn’t known what was become of him—they had been afraid he had gone away.
‘‘No,’’ said Lord Warburton, smiling and looking at Osmond; ‘‘I am only on the point of going.’’ And then he explained that he found himself suddenly recalled to England; he should start on the morrow or next day. ‘‘I am awfully sorry to leave poor Touchett!’’ he ended by exclaiming.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn’t look at him; she could only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were upon Lord Warburton’s face, where they were the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them. Yet Isabel was sure that had she met her visitor’s glance, she should have found it expressive. ‘‘You had better take poor Touchett with you,’’ she heard her husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.
‘‘He had better wait for warmer weather,’’ Lord Warburton answered. ‘‘I shouldn’t advise him to travel just now.’’
He sat there for a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon see them again—unless indeed they should come to England, a course which he strongly recommended. Why shouldn’t they come to England in the autumn? That struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such pleasure to do what he could for them—to have them come and spend a month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but once; which was an absurd state of things. It was just the country for him—he would be sure to get on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what a good time she had there, and if she didn’t want to try it again. Didn’t she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really very good. Touchett didn’t take proper care of it, but it was the sort of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn’t they come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn’t asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch! And Lord Warburton promised to give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the people they must know there, they really wouldn’t find it half bad. Lord Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a country she deserved to see. Of course
she didn’t need to go to England to be admired—that was her fate everywhere; but she would be immensely liked in England, Miss Osmond would, if that was any inducement. He asked if she were not at home: couldn’t he say good-bye? Not that he liked good-byes—he always funked them. When he left England the other day he had not said good-bye to any one. He had had half a mind to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What could be more dreary than a final interview? One never said the things one wanted to—one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other hand, one usually said a lot of things one shouldn’t, simply from a sense that one had to say something. Such a sense was bewildering; it made one nervous. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn’t think he spoke as he ought, she must set it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her, instead of calling—but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.