Aurora reflected upon this for some time, staring the while at her portrait. The face looking back from the canvas was very like her, had she but known it, at this exact moment, while the thoughts produced, the memories wakened, by it substituted for her ordinary hardiness the delicate look of a capacity for pain.
As she gazed at the portrait longer she liked it better; from minute to minute she became more reconciled, and found herself finally almost attracted. Something from it penetrated her for which she had no definition. It was 229perhaps the dignity of humanity confronting her in that strong and simple face framed by the kerchief, like a woman of the people’s,–her own face, but not certainly as she saw it in the mirror; a humanity that out of the common materials offered to it day by day had rejected all that was mean and contrived to build up nobleness.
Half perceiving that this portrait in its different way flattered her as much if not more than the portrait down-stairs, she, while modestly refusing to be fooled by the compliment, yet felt a motion of affectionate gratitude toward Gerald for the sympathy which had enabled him to pierce beneath the surface and see that Bouncing Betsy had her feelings, too, her history; yes, her bitter tragedy.
While continuing with her eyes on the picture, she from time to time wiped them, and when the door-bell rang again, aware of being “a sight,” took the precaution of retiring to her bedroom, so that if Vitale should come to announce a visit,–it was not yet nine o’clock,–she could the better make him understand that he must excuse her to the visitor; she was going to bed.
But learning from the servant that Signor Fane was below, she changed her mind, and chose unhesitatingly from her stock of useful infinitives the appropriate two: “Dire venire.”
Gerald found her by the fire, her fur-cloak over her shoulders, her woolly afghan in her hands, and the picture on the chair before her.
“Well?” he asked expectantly, looking at it, too, after they had shaken hands.
“You’ve made me feel sorry for myself. What’s the use?” she answered in a little sigh, keeping her reddened eyes turned away from him. “Hush! Wait a moment! 230I was forgetting,” she added, in comedy anticlimax, like a housewife who in the midst of a scene of sentiment should smell the dinner scorching. She jumped up, and went without the least noise to close the door to Estelle’s room, returning from which she illogically fell to talking in a whisper.
“Estelle’s gone to bed. She’s got a snow-balling old cold. I’ve rubbed her chest with liniment, and tied up her throat in a compress, and given her hot lemonade, and she lies there with a hot water bottle at her feet and grease on her nose, and let’s hope she’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Let’s hope, indeed. I’m very sorry to hear she’s ill. But she’s sure to be better by to-morrow, isn’t she, with all that care and those remedies. I hope you haven’t a cold, too, Mrs. Hawthorne. You almost look,” he said innocently, “as if you had. This weather is dreadful. You haven’t, have you, dear friend?”