The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

“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.”