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 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.”
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. Some one else would have been ready to ask you.”