For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon 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 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 unconsciously and familiarly associated.
CHAPTER XLIII
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 generalising turn and had not extended to other pleasures the interdict 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 this unlikely; 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 her this service for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward Rosier. He stood 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 his case to be at bottom 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 he was dangerous, and then 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’m afraid you wouldn’t give it back.”
“I’m 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’m 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 our acquaintance goes back very far — quite into the days of our innocent childhood.”
“Don’t make me out too old,” Isabel patiently answered. “You come back to that very often, and I’ve 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 on the spot.”
“Ah, you don’t esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere Parisian trifler!”
“I esteem you very much, but I’m not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I’m 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 deficiency 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 recognisable, 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 finally asked in a low tone.
He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. “You pity me; but don’t you pity her a little?”