“It’s difficult for me to advise you,” Isabel returned. “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 on 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 the child 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’s only that I may act accordingly.”
Pansy stared, and then very quickly, “Will you do everything I want?” she asked.
“Before I say yes I must know what such things are.”
Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn’t allow it.
“Very well then, it’s impossible,” Isabel pronounced.
“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 at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the least success.
“You think of those who think of you,” she said with a faint smile. “I know 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 I think of him.”
“You shouldn’t think of him. There’s some excuse for him, perhaps; but there’s 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 someone 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 hypocritically cried.
Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched 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 failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness toward 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 at all large.”
“How do you mean better—if that would be good enough? And I have myself so little money; why should I look for a fortune?”
“Your having so little is a reason for looking for more.” With which Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy’s solemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light of the girl’s preference.
“What should you like me to do?” her companion softly demanded.
The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous vagueness. “To remember all the pleasure it’s in your power to give your father.”
“To marry someone 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 someone else.”
The child’s eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed 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 quavered out: “Well, I hope no one will ask me!”
“There has been a question of that. Someone 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 he’d succeed.”
“If he had been sure? Then he wasn’t 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 resumed; “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’ll propose for me I think you’re mistaken.”
“Perhaps I am. But
