A narrow grave-yard in the heart of a bustling, indifferent
city, seen from the windows of a gloomy-looking inn, is at no time an object of
enlivening suggestion; and the spectacle is not at its best when the mouldy tombstones and funereal umbrage have received the
ineffectual refreshment of a dull, moist snow-fall. If, while the air is
thickened by this frosty drizzle, the calendar should happen to indicate that
the blessed vernal season is already six weeks old, it will be admitted that no
depressing influence is absent from the scene. This fact was keenly felt on a
certain 12th of May, upwards of thirty years since, by a lady who stood looking
out of one of the windows of the best hotel in the ancient city of
She was not pretty; but even when it expressed perplexed irritation her face was most interesting and agreeable. Neither was she in her first youth; yet, though slender, with a great deal of extremely well-fashioned roundness of contour--a suggestion both of maturity and flexibility--she carried her three and thirty years as a light-wristed Hebe might have carried a brimming wine-cup. Her complexion was fatigued, as the French say; her mouth was large, her lips too full, her teeth uneven, her chin rather commonly modeled; she had a thick nose, and when she smiled--she was constantly smiling--the lines beside it rose too high, toward her eyes. But these eyes were charming: gray in color, brilliant, quickly glancing, gently resting, full of intelligence. Her forehead was very low--it was her only handsome feature; and she had a great abundance of crisp dark hair, finely frizzled, which was always braided in a manner that suggested some Southern or Eastern, some remotely foreign, woman. She had a large collection of ear-rings, and wore them in alternation; and they seemed to give a point to her Oriental or exotic aspect. A compliment had once been paid her, which, being repeated to her, gave her greater pleasure than anything she had ever heard. "A pretty woman?" some one had said. "Why, her features are very bad." "I don't know about her features," a very discerning observer had answered; "but she carries her head like a pretty woman." You may imagine whether, after this, she carried her head less becomingly.
She turned away from the window at last, pressing her hands to her eyes. "It 's too horrible!" she exclaimed. "I shall go back--I shall go back!" And she flung herself into a chair before the fire.
"Wait a little, dear child," said the young man softly, sketching away at his little scraps of paper.
The lady put out her foot; it was very small, and there was an immense rosette on her slipper. She fixed her eyes for a while on this ornament, and then she looked at the glowing bed of anthracite coal in the grate. "Did you ever see anything so hideous as that fire?" she demanded. "Did you ever see anything so--so affreux as--as everything?" She spoke English with perfect purity; but she brought out this French epithet in a manner that indicated that she was accustomed to using French epithets.
"I think the fire is very pretty," said the young man, glancing at it a moment. "Those little blue tongues, dancing on top of the crimson embers, are extremely picturesque. They are like a fire in an alchemist's laboratory."
"You are too good-natured, my dear," his companion declared.
The young man held out one of his drawings, with his head on one side. His tongue was gently moving along his under-lip. "Good-natured--yes. Too good-natured--no."
"You are irritating," said the lady, looking at her slipper.
He began to retouch his sketch. "I think you mean simply that you are irritated."
"Ah, for that, yes!" said his companion, with a little bitter laugh. "It 's the darkest day of my life--and you know what that means."
"Wait till to-morrow," rejoined the young man.
"Yes, we have made a great mistake. If there is any doubt about it to-day, there certainly will be none to-morrow. Ce sera clair, au moins!"
The young man was silent a few moments, driving his pencil. Then at last, "There are no such things as mistakes," he affirmed.
"Very true--for those who are not clever enough to perceive them. Not to recognize one's mistakes--that would be happiness in life," the lady went on, still looking at her pretty foot.
"My dearest sister," said the young man, always intent upon his drawing, "it 's the first time you have told me I am not clever."
"Well, by your own theory I can't call it a mistake," answered his sister, pertinently enough.
The young man gave a clear, fresh laugh. "You, at least, are clever enough, dearest sister," he said.
"I was not so when I proposed this."
"Was it you who proposed it?" asked her brother.
She turned her head and gave him a little stare. "Do you desire the credit of it?"
"If you like, I will take the blame," he said, looking up with a smile.
"Yes," she rejoined in a moment, "you make no difference in these things. You have no sense of property."
The young man gave his joyous laugh again. "If that means I have no property, you are right!"
"Don't joke about your poverty," said his sister. "That is quite as vulgar as to boast about it."
"My poverty! I have just finished a drawing that will bring me fifty francs!"
"Voyons," said the lady, putting out her hand.
He added a touch or two, and then gave her his sketch. She looked at it, but she went on with her idea of a moment before. "If a woman were to ask you to marry her you would say, 'Certainly, my dear, with pleasure!' And you would marry her and be ridiculously happy. Then at the end of three months you would say to her, 'You know that blissful day when I begged you to be mine!' "
The young man had risen from the table, stretching his arms a little; he walked to the window. "That is a description of a charming nature," he said.
"Oh, yes, you have a charming nature; I regard that as our capital. If I had not been convinced of that I should never have taken the risk of bringing you to this dreadful country."
"This comical country, this delightful country!" exclaimed the young man, and he broke into the most animated laughter.
"Is it those women scrambling into the omnibus?" asked his companion. "What do you suppose is the attraction?"
"I suppose there is a very good-looking man inside," said the young man.
"In each of them? They come along in hundreds, and the men in this country don't seem at all handsome. As for the women--I have never seen so many at once since I left the convent."
"The women are very pretty," her brother declared, "and the whole affair is very amusing. I must make a sketch of it." And he came back to the table quickly, and picked up his utensils--a small sketching-board, a sheet of paper, and three or four crayons. He took his place at the window with these things, and stood there glancing out, plying his pencil with an air of easy skill. While he worked he wore a brilliant smile. Brilliant is indeed the word at this moment for his strongly-lighted face. He was eight and twenty years old; he had a short, slight, well-made figure. Though he bore a noticeable resemblance to his sister, he was a better favored person: fair-haired, clear-faced, witty-looking, with a delicate finish of feature and an expression at once urbane and not at all serious, a warm blue eye, an eyebrow finely drawn and excessively arched--an eyebrow which, if ladies wrote sonnets to those of their lovers, might have been made the subject of such a piece of verse--and a light moustache that flourished upwards as if blown that way by the breath of a constant smile. There was something in his physiognomy at once benevolent and picturesque. But, as I have hinted, it was not at all serious. The young man's face was, in this respect, singular; it was not at all serious, and yet it inspired the liveliest confidence.
"Be sure you put in plenty of snow," said his sister. "Bonte divine, what a climate!"
"I shall leave the sketch all white, and I shall put in the little figures in black," the young man answered, laughing. "And I shall call it--what is that line in Keats?--Mid-May's Eldest Child!"
"I don't remember," said the lady, "that mamma ever told me it was like this."
"Mamma never told you anything disagreeable. And it 's not like this--every day. You will see that to-morrow we shall have a splendid day."
"Qu'en savez-vous? To-morrow I shall go away."
"Where shall you go?"
"Anywhere away from here. Back to Silberstadt. I shall write to the Reigning Prince."
The young man turned a little and looked at her, with his crayon poised. "My dear Eugenia," he murmured, "were you so happy at sea?"
Eugenia got up; she still held in her hand the drawing her brother had given her. It was a bold, expressive sketch of a group of miserable people on the deck of a steamer, clinging together and clutching at each other, while the vessel lurched downward, at a terrific angle, into the hollow of a wave. It was extremely clever, and full of a sort of tragi-comical power. Eugenia dropped her eyes upon it and made a sad grimace. "How can you draw such odious scenes?" she asked. "I should like to throw it into the fire!" And she tossed the paper away. Her brother watched, quietly, to see where it went. It fluttered down to the floor, where he let it lie. She came toward the window, pinching in her waist. "Why don't you reproach me--abuse me?" she asked. "I think I should feel better then. Why don't you tell me that you hate me for bringing you here?"
"Because you would not believe it. I adore you, dear sister! I am delighted to be here, and I am charmed with the prospect."
"I don't know what had taken possession of me. I had lost my head," Eugenia went on.
The young man, on his side, went on plying his pencil. "It is evidently a most curious and interesting country. Here we are, and I mean to enjoy it."
His companion turned away with an impatient step, but presently came back. "High spirits are doubtless an excellent thing," she said; "but you give one too much of them, and I can't see that they have done you any good."
The young man stared, with lifted eyebrows, smiling; he tapped his handsome nose with his pencil. "They have made me happy!"
"That was the least they could do; they have made you nothing else. You have gone through life thanking fortune for such very small favors that she has never put herself to any trouble for you."
"She must have put herself to a little, I think, to present me with so admirable a sister."
"Be serious, Felix. You forget that I am your elder."
"With a sister, then, so elderly!" rejoined Felix,
laughing. "I hoped we had left seriousness in
"I fancy you will find it here. Remember that you are nearly thirty years old, and that you are nothing but an obscure Bohemian--a penniless correspondent of an illustrated newspaper."
"Obscure as much as you please, but not so much of a Bohemian as you think. And not at all penniless! I have a hundred pounds in my pocket. I have an engagement to make fifty sketches, and I mean to paint the portraits of all our cousins, and of all their cousins, at a hundred dollars a head."
"You are not ambitious," said Eugenia.
"You are, dear Baroness," the young man replied.
The Baroness was silent a moment, looking out at the sleet-darkened grave-yard and the bumping horse-cars. "Yes, I am ambitious," she said at last. "And my ambition has brought me to this dreadful place!" She glanced about her--the room had a certain vulgur nudity; the bed and the window were curtainless--and she gave a little passionate sigh. "Poor old ambition!" she exclaimed. Then she flung herself down upon a sofa which stood near against the wall, and covered her face with her hands.
Her brother went on with his drawing, rapidly and skillfully; after some moments he sat down beside her and showed her his sketch. "Now, don't you think that 's pretty good for an obscure Bohemian?" he asked. "I have knocked off another fifty francs."
Eugenia glanced at the little picture as he laid it on her lap. "Yes, it is very clever," she said. And in a moment she added, "Do you suppose our cousins do that?"
"Get into those things, and look like that."
Felix meditated awhile. "I really can't say. It will be interesting to discover."
"Oh, the rich people can't!" said the Baroness.
"Are you very sure they are rich?" asked Felix, lightly.
His sister slowly turned in her place, looking at him. "Heavenly powers!" she murmured. "You have a way of bringing out things!"
"It will certainly be much pleasanter if they are rich," Felix declared.
"Do you suppose if I had not known they were rich I would ever have come?"
The young man met his sister's somewhat peremptory eye with his bright, contented glance. "Yes, it certainly will be pleasanter," he repeated.
"That is all I expect of them," said the Baroness. "I don't count upon their being clever or friendly--at first--or elegant or interesting. But I assure you I insist upon their being rich."
Felix leaned his head upon the back of the sofa and looked awhile at the oblong patch of sky to which the window served as frame. The snow was ceasing; it seemed to him that the sky had begun to brighten. "I count upon their being rich," he said at last, "and powerful, and clever, and friendly, and elegant, and interesting, and generally delightful! Tu vas voir." And he bent forward and kissed his sister. "Look there!" he went on. "As a portent, even while I speak, the sky is turning the color of gold; the day is going to be splendid."
And indeed, within five minutes the weather had changed. The sun broke out through the snow-clouds and jumped into the Baroness's room. "Bonte divine," exclaimed this lady, "what a climate!"
"We will go out and see the world," said Felix.
And after a while they went out. The air had grown warm as well as brilliant; the sunshine had dried the pavements. They walked about the streets at hazard, looking at the people and the houses, the shops and the vehicles, the blazing blue sky and the muddy crossings, the hurrying men and the slow-strolling maidens, the fresh red bricks and the bright green trees, the extraordinary mixture of smartness and shabbiness. From one hour to another the day had grown vernal; even in the bustling streets there was an odor of earth and blossom. Felix was immensely entertained. He had called it a comical country, and he went about laughing at everything he saw. You would have said that American civilization expressed itself to his sense in a tissue of capital jokes. The jokes were certainly excellent, and the young man's merriment was joyous and genial. He possessed what is called the pictorial sense; and this first glimpse of democratic manners stirred the same sort of attention that he would have given to the movements of a lively young person with a bright complexion. Such attention would have been demonstrative and complimentary; and in the present case Felix might have passed for an undispirited young exile revisiting the haunts of his childhood. He kept looking at the violent blue of the sky, at the scintillating air, at the scattered and multiplied patches of color.
"Comme c'est bariole, eh?" he said to his sister in that foreign tongue which they both appeared to feel a mysterious prompting occasionally to use.
"Yes, it is bariole indeed," the Baroness answered. "I don't like the coloring; it hurts my eyes."
"It shows how extremes meet," the young man
rejoined. "Instead of coming to the West we seem to have gone to the East.
The way the sky touches the house-tops is just like
"The young women are not Mahometan," said his companion. "They can't be said to hide their faces. I never saw anything so bold."
"Thank Heaven they don't hide their faces!" cried Felix. "Their faces are uncommonly pretty."
"Yes, their faces are often very pretty," said the Baroness, who was a very clever woman. She was too clever a woman not to be capable of a great deal of just and fine observation. She clung more closely than usual to her brother's arm; she was not exhilarated, as he was; she said very little, but she noted a great many things and made her reflections. She was a little excited; she felt that she had indeed come to a strange country, to make her fortune. Superficially, she was conscious of a good deal of irritation and displeasure; the Baroness was a very delicate and fastidious person. Of old, more than once, she had gone, for entertainment's sake and in brilliant company, to a fair in a provincial town. It seemed to her now that she was at an enormous fair--that the entertainment and the desagrements were very much the same. She found herself alternately smiling and shrinking; the show was very curious, but it was probable, from moment to moment, that one would be jostled. The Baroness had never seen so many people walking about before; she had never been so mixed up with people she did not know. But little by little she felt that this fair was a more serious undertaking. She went with her brother into a large public garden, which seemed very pretty, but where she was surprised at seeing no carriages. The afternoon was drawing to a close; the coarse, vivid grass and the slender tree-boles were gilded by the level sunbeams--gilded as with gold that was fresh from the mine. It was the hour at which ladies should come out for an airing and roll past a hedge of pedestrians, holding their parasols askance. Here, however, Eugenia observed no indications of this custom, the absence of which was more anomalous as there was a charming avenue of remarkably graceful, arching elms in the most convenient contiguity to a large, cheerful street, in which, evidently, among the more prosperous members of the bourgeoisie, a great deal of pedestrianism went forward. Our friends passed out into this well lighted promenade, and Felix noticed a great many more pretty girls and called his sister's attention to them. This latter measure, however, was superfluous; for the Baroness had inspected, narrowly, these charming young ladies.
"I feel an intimate conviction that our cousins are like that," said Felix.
The Baroness hoped so, but this is not what she said. "They are very pretty," she said, "but they are mere little girls. Where are the women--the women of thirty?"
"Of thirty-three, do you mean?" her brother was going to ask; for he understood often both what she said and what she did not say. But he only exclaimed upon the beauty of the sunset, while the Baroness, who had come to seek her fortune, reflected that it would certainly be well for her if the persons against whom she might need to measure herself should all be mere little girls. The sunset was superb; they stopped to look at it; Felix declared that he had never seen such a gorgeous mixture of colors. The Baroness also thought it splendid; and she was perhaps the more easily pleased from the fact that while she stood there she was conscious of much admiring observation on the part of various nice-looking people who passed that way, and to whom a distinguished, strikingly-dressed woman with a foreign air, exclaiming upon the beauties of nature on a Boston street corner in the French tongue, could not be an object of indifference. Eugenia's spirits rose. She surrendered herself to a certain tranquil gayety. If she had come to seek her fortune, it seemed to her that her fortune would be easy to find. There was a promise of it in the gorgeous purity of the western sky; there was an intimation in the mild, unimpertinent gaze of the passers of a certain natural facility in things.
"You will not go back to Silberstadt, eh?" asked Felix.
"Not to-morrow," said the Baroness.
"Nor write to the Reigning Prince?"
"I shall write to him that they evidently know nothing about him over here."
"He will not believe you," said the young man. "I advise you to let him alone."
Felix himself continued to be in high good humor. Brought up among ancient customs and in picturesque cities, he yet found plenty of local color in the little Puritan metropolis. That evening, after dinner, he told his sister that he should go forth early on the morrow to look up their cousins.
"You are very impatient," said Eugenia.
"What can be more natural," he asked, "after seeing all those pretty girls to-day? If one's cousins are of that pattern, the sooner one knows them the better."
"Perhaps they are not," said Eugenia. "We ought to have brought some letters--to some other people."
"The other people would not be our kinsfolk."
"Possibly they would be none the worse for that," the Baroness replied.
Her brother looked at her with his eyebrows lifted. "That was not what you said when you first proposed to me that we should come out here and fraternize with our relatives. You said that it was the prompting of natural affection; and when I suggested some reasons against it you declared that the voix du sang should go before everything."
"You remember all that?" asked the Baroness.
"Vividly! I was greatly moved by it."
She was walking up and down the room, as she had done in the morning; she stopped in her walk and looked at her brother. She apparently was going to say something, but she checked herself and resumed her walk. Then, in a few moments, she said something different, which had the effect of an explanation of the suppression of her earlier thought. "You will never be anything but a child, dear brother."
"One would suppose that you, madam," answered Felix, laughing, "were a thousand years old."
"I am--sometimes," said the Baroness.
"I will go, then, and announce to our cousins the arrival of a personage so extraordinary. They will immediately come and pay you their respects."
Eugenia paced the length of the room again, and then she stopped before her brother, laying her hand upon his arm. "They are not to come and see me," she said. "You are not to allow that. That is not the way I shall meet them first." And in answer to his interrogative glance she went on. "You will go and examine, and report. You will come back and tell me who they are and what they are; their number, gender, their respective ages--all about them. Be sure you observe everything; be ready to describe to me the locality, the accessories--how shall I say it?--the mise en scene. Then, at my own time, at my own hour, under circumstances of my own choosing, I will go to them. I will present myself--I will appear before them!" said the Baroness, this time phrasing her idea with a certain frankness.
"And what message am I to take to them?" asked Felix, who had a lively faith in the justness of his sister's arrangements.
She looked at him a moment--at his expression of agreeable veracity; and, with that justness that he admired, she replied, "Say what you please. Tell my story in the way that seems to you most--natural." And she bent her forehead for him to kiss.
The next day was splendid, as Felix had prophesied; if the winter had suddenly leaped into spring, the spring had for the moment as quickly leaped into summer. This was an observation made by a young girl who came out of a large square house in the country, and strolled about in the spacious garden which separated it from a muddy road. The flowering shrubs and the neatly-disposed plants were basking in the abundant light and warmth; the transparent shade of the great elms--they were magnificent trees--seemed to thicken by the hour; and the intensely habitual stillness offered a submissive medium to the sound of a distant church-bell. The young girl listened to the church-bell; but she was not dressed for church. She was bare-headed; she wore a white muslin waist, with an embroidered border, and the skirt of her dress was of colored muslin. She was a young lady of some two or three and twenty years of age, and though a young person of her sex walking bare-headed in a garden, of a Sunday morning in spring-time, can, in the nature of things, never be a displeasing object, you would not have pronounced this innocent Sabbath-breaker especially pretty. She was tall and pale, thin and a little awkward; her hair was fair and perfectly straight; her eyes were dark, and they had the singularity of seeming at once dull and restless--differing herein, as you see, fatally from the ideal "fine eyes," which we always imagine to be both brilliant and tranquil. The doors and windows of the large square house were all wide open, to admit the purifying sunshine, which lay in generous patches upon the floor of a wide, high, covered piazza adjusted to two sides of the mansion--a piazza on which several straw-bottomed rocking-chairs and half a dozen of those small cylindrical stools in green and blue porcelain, which suggest an affiliation between the residents and the Eastern trade, were symmetrically disposed. It was an ancient house--ancient in the sense of being eighty years old; it was built of wood, painted a clean, clear, faded gray, and adorned along the front, at intervals, with flat wooden pilasters, painted white. These pilasters appeared to support a kind of classic pediment, which was decorated in the middle by a large triple window in a boldly carved frame, and in each of its smaller angles by a glazed circular aperture. A large white door, furnished with a highly-polished brass knocker, presented itself to the rural-looking road, with which it was connected by a spacious pathway, paved with worn and cracked, but very clean, bricks. Behind it there were meadows and orchards, a barn and a pond; and facing it, a short distance along the road, on the opposite side, stood a smaller house, painted white, with external shutters painted green, a little garden on one hand and an orchard on the other. All this was shining in the morning air, through which the simple details of the picture addressed themselves to the eye as distinctly as the items of a "sum" in addition.
A second young lady presently came out of the house, across
the piazza, descended into the garden and approached the young girl of whom I
have spoken. This second young lady was
also thin and pale; but she was older than the other; she was shorter; she had
dark, smooth hair. Her eyes, unlike the other's, were
quick and bright; but they were not at all restless. She wore a straw bonnet with white ribbons,
and a long, red,
"Gertrude," she said, "are you very sure you had better not go to church?"
Gertrude looked at her a moment, plucked a small sprig from a lilac-bush, smelled it and threw it away. "I am not very sure of anything!" she answered.
The other young lady looked straight past her, at the distant pond, which lay shining between the long banks of fir-trees. Then she said in a very soft voice, "This is the key of the dining-room closet. I think you had better have it, if any one should want anything."
"Who is there to want anything?" Gertrude demanded. "I shall be all alone in the house."
"Some one may come," said her companion.
"Do you mean Mr. Brand?"
"Yes, Gertrude. He may like a piece of cake."
"I don't like men that are always eating cake!" Gertrude declared, giving a pull at the lilac-bush.
Her companion glanced at her, and then looked down on the ground. "I think father expected you would come to church," she said. "What shall I say to him?"
"Say I have a bad headache."
"Would that be true?" asked the elder lady, looking straight at the pond again.
"No, Charlotte," said the younger one simply.
"I am feeling as I always feel," Gertrude replied, in the same tone.
Gertrude walked half round her, looking at the scarf. "I don't think you wear it right," she said.
"How should I wear it, dear?"
"I don't know; differently from that. You should draw it differently over your shoulders, round your elbows; you should look differently behind."
"How should I look?"
"I don't think I can tell you," said Gertrude, plucking out the scarf a little behind. "I could do it myself, but I don't think I can explain it."
"I should say it mattered more," said Gertrude. "Then you don't know who may be observing you. You are not on your guard. You can't try to look pretty."
Her companion was silent. Then she said, "Well, perhaps it 's not of much use."
"My dear sister, I am very well!" said Gertrude.
"I came to see whether your sister was not going to church," said the young man.
"She says she is not going; but I am very glad you have
come. I think if you were to talk to her a little".... And
Mr. Brand smiled down on the young lady from his great height. "I shall be very glad to talk to her. For that I should be willing to absent myself from almost any occasion of worship, however attractive."
"Well, I suppose you know," said
"I hope you will have a pleasant sermon," said the young man.
"Oh, Mr. Gilman is always pleasant,"
Mr. Brand went into the garden, where Gertrude, hearing the gate close behind him, turned and looked at him. For a moment she watched him coming; then she turned away. But almost immediately she corrected this movement, and stood still, facing him. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead as he approached. Then he put on his hat again and held out his hand. His hat being removed, you would have perceived that his forehead was very large and smooth, and his hair abundant but rather colorless. His nose was too large, and his mouth and eyes were too small; but for all this he was, as I have said, a young man of striking appearance. The expression of his little clean-colored blue eyes was irresistibly gentle and serious; he looked, as the phrase is, as good as gold. The young girl, standing in the garden path, glanced, as he came up, at his thread gloves.
"I hoped you were going to church," he said. "I wanted to walk with you."
"I am very much obliged to you," Gertrude answered. "I am not going to church."
She had shaken hands with him; he held her hand a moment. "Have you any special reason for not going?"
"Yes, Mr. Brand," said the young girl.
"May I ask what it is?"
She looked at him smiling; and in her smile, as I have intimated, there was a certain dullness. But mingled with this dullness was something sweet and suggestive. "Because the sky is so blue!" she said.
He looked at the sky, which was magnificent, and then said, smiling too, "I have heard of young ladies staying at home for bad weather, but never for good. Your sister,whom I met at the gate, tells me you are depressed," he added.
"Depressed? I am never depressed."
"Oh, surely, sometimes," replied Mr. Brand, as if he thought this a regrettable account of one's self.
"I am never depressed," Gertrude repeated. "But I am sometimes wicked. When I am wicked I am in high spirits. I was wicked just now to my sister."
"What did you do to her?"
"I said things that puzzled her--on purpose."
"Why did you do that, Miss Gertrude?" asked the young man.
She began to smile again. "Because the sky is so blue!"
"You say things that puzzle me," Mr. Brand declared.
"I always know when I do it," proceeded Gertrude. "But people puzzle me more, I think. And they don't seem to know!"
"This is very interesting," Mr. Brand observed, smiling.
"You told me to tell you about my--my struggles," the young girl went on.
"Let us talk about them. I have so many things to say."
Gertrude turned away a moment; and then, turning back, "You had better go to church," she said.
"You know," the young man urged, "that I have always one thing to say."
Gertrude looked at him a moment. "Please don't say it now!"
"We are all alone," he continued, taking off his hat; "all alone in this beautiful Sunday stillness."
Gertrude looked around her, at the breaking buds, the shining distance, the blue sky to which she had referred as a pretext for her irregularities. "That 's the reason," she said, "why I don't want you to speak. Do me a favor; go to church."
"May I speak when I come back?" asked Mr. Brand.
"If you are still disposed," she answered.
"I don't know whether you are wicked," he said, "but you are certainly puzzling."
She had turned away; she raised her hands to her ears. He looked at her a moment, and then he slowly walked to church.
She wandered for a while about the garden, vaguely and without purpose. The church-bell had stopped ringing; the stillness was complete. This young lady relished highly, on occasions, the sense of being alone--the absence of the whole family and the emptiness of the house. To-day, apparently, the servants had also gone to church; there was never a figure at the open windows; behind the house there was no stout negress in a red turban, lowering the bucket into the great shingle-hooded well. And the front door of the big, unguarded home stood open, with the trustfulness of the golden age; or what is more to the purpose, with that of New England's silvery prime. Gertrude slowly passed through it, and went from one of the empty rooms to the other--large, clear-colored rooms, with white wainscots, ornamented with thin-legged mahogany furniture, and, on the walls, with old-fashioned engravings, chiefly of scriptural subjects, hung very high. This agreeable sense of solitude, of having the house to herself, of which I have spoken, always excited Gertrude's imagination; she could not have told you why, and neither can her humble historian. It always seemed to her that she must do something particular--that she must honor the occasion; and while she roamed about, wondering what she could do, the occasion usually came to an end. To-day she wondered more than ever. At last she took down a book; there was no library in the house, but there were books in all the rooms. None of them were forbidden books, and Gertrude had not stopped at home for the sake of a chance to climb to the inaccessible shelves. She possessed herself of a very obvious volume--one of the series of the Arabian Nights--and she brought it out into the portico and sat down with it in her lap. There, for a quarter of an hour, she read the history of the loves of the Prince Camaralzaman and the Princess Badoura. At last, looking up, she beheld, as it seemed to her, the Prince Camaralzaman standing before her. A beautiful young man was making her a very low bow--a magnificent bow, such as she had never seen before. He appeared to have dropped from the clouds; he was wonderfully handsome; he smiled--smiled as if he were smiling on purpose. Extreme surprise, for a moment, kept Gertrude sitting still; then she rose, without even keeping her finger in her book. The young man, with his hat in his hand, still looked at her, smiling and smiling. It was very strange.
"Will you kindly tell me," said the mysterious visitor, at last, "whether I have the honor of speaking to Miss Went-worth?"
"My name is Gertrude Wentworth," murmured the young woman.
"Then--then--I have the honor--the pleasure--of being your cousin."
The young man had so much the character of an apparition that this announcement seemed to complete his unreality. "What cousin? Who are you?" said Gertrude.
He stepped back a few paces and looked up at the house; then glanced round him at the garden and the distant view. After this he burst out laughing. "I see it must seem to you very strange," he said. There was, after all, something substantial in his laughter. Gertrude looked at him from head to foot. Yes, he was remarkably handsome; but his smile was almost a grimace. "It is very still," he went on, coming nearer again. And as she only looked at him, for reply, he added, "Are you all alone?"
"Every one has gone to church," said Gertrude.
"I was afraid of that!" the young man exclaimed. "But I hope you are not afraid of me."
"You ought to tell me who you are," Gertrude answered.
"I am afraid of you!" said the young man. "I had a different plan. I expected the servant would take in my card, and that you would put your heads together, before admitting me, and make out my identity."
Gertrude had been wondering with a quick intensity which
brought its result; and the result seemed an answer--a wondrous, delightful
answer--to her vague wish that something would befall her. "I know--I know," she said.
"You come from
"We came two days ago. You have heard of us, then--you believe in us?"
"We have known, vaguely," said Gertrude, "that we had relations in
"And have you ever wanted to see us?" asked the young man.
Gertrude was silent a moment. "I have wanted to see you."
"I am glad, then, it is you I have found. We wanted to see you, so we came."
"On purpose?" asked Gertrude.
The young man looked round him, smiling still. "Well, yes; on purpose. Does that sound as if we should bore you?" he added. "I don't think we shall--I really don't think we shall. We are rather fond of wandering, too; and we were glad of a pretext."
"And you have just arrived?"
"It is seven miles and a half," said Gertrude, softly. Now that this handsome young man was proving himself a reality she found herself vaguely trembling; she was deeply excited. She had never in her life spoken to a foreigner, and she had often thought it would be delightful to do so. Here was one who had suddenly been engendered by the Sabbath stillness for her private use; and such a brilliant, polite, smiling one! She found time and means to compose herself, however: to remind herself that she must exercise a sort of official hospitality. "We are very--very glad to see you," she said. "Won't you come into the house?" And she moved toward the open door.
"You are not afraid of me, then?" asked the young man again, with his light laugh.
She wondered a moment, and then, "We are not afraid--here," she said.
"Ah, comme vous devez avoir raison!" cried the young man, looking all round him, appreciatively. It was the first time that Gertrude had heard so many words of French spoken. They gave her something of a sensation. Her companion followed her, watching, with a certain excitement of his own, this tall, interesting-looking girl, dressed in her clear, crisp muslin. He paused in the hall, where there was a broad white staircase with a white balustrade. "What a pleasant house!" he said. "It 's lighter inside than it is out."
"It 's pleasanter here," said Gertrude, and she led the way into the parlor,--a high, clean, rather empty-looking room. Here they stood looking at each other,--the young man smiling more than ever; Gertrude, very serious, trying to smile.
"I don't believe you know my name," he said. "I am called Felix Young. Your father is my uncle. My mother was his half sister, and older than he."
"Yes," said Gertrude, "and she turned Roman
Catholic and married in
"I see you know," said the young man. "She married and she died. Your father's
family did n't like her husband. They called him a foreigner; but he was
not. My poor father was born in
"It is true," said Felix Young, "that they
had spent their lives in
"And you are Sicilian," said Gertrude.
"Sicilian, no! Let 's see. I was born at a little place--a dear little
"So you are French," said Gertrude.
"Heaven forbid!" cried the young man. Gertrude's eyes were fixed upon him almost insistently. He began to laugh again. "I can easily be French, if that will please you."
"You are a foreigner of some sort," said Gertrude.
"Of some sort--yes; I suppose so. But who can say of what sort? I don't think we have ever had occasion to settle the question. You know there are people like that. About their country, their religion, their profession, they can't tell."
Gertrude stood there gazing; she had not asked him to sit down. She had never heard of people like that; she wanted to hear. "Where do you live?" she asked.
"They can't tell that, either!" said Felix. "I am afraid you will think they are
little better than vagabonds. I have lived anywhere--everywhere. I really think I have lived in every city in
Gertrude gave a smile and a little nod, and went quickly out
of the room. Presently she came back with a very large decanter in one hand and
a plate in the other, on which was placed a big, round cake with a frosted
top. Gertrude, in taking the cake from
the closet, had had a moment of acute consciousness that it composed the
refection of which her sister had thought that Mr. Brand would like to partake.
Her kinsman from across the seas was looking at the pale, high-hung
engravings. When she came in he turned
and smiled at her, as if they had been old friends meeting after a separation.
"You wait upon me yourself?" he asked. "I am served like the gods!" She
had waited upon a great many people, but none of them had ever told her that. The observation added a
certain lightness to the step with which she went to a little table
where there were some curious red glasses--glasses covered with little gold
"You must stay to dinner," said Gertrude. "At two o'clock. They will all have come back from church; you will see the others."
"Who are the others?" asked the young man. "Describe them all."
"You will see for yourself. It is you that must tell me; now, about your sister."
"My sister is the Baroness Munster," said Felix.
On hearing that his sister was a Baroness, Gertrude got up and walked about slowly, in front of him. She was silent a moment. She was thinking of it. "Why did n't she come, too?" she asked.
"She did come; she is in
"We will go and see her," said Gertrude, looking at him.
"She begs you will not!" the young man replied. "She sends you her love; she sent me to announce her. She will come and pay her respects to your father."
Gertrude felt herself trembling again. A Baroness Munster, who sent a brilliant young man to "announce" her; who was coming, as the Queen of Sheba came to Solomon, to pay her "respects" to quiet Mr. Wentworth--such a personage presented herself to Gertrude's vision with a most effective unexpectedness. For a moment she hardly knew what to say. "When will she come?" she asked at last.
"As soon as you will allow her--to-morrow. She is very impatient," answered Felix, who wished to be agreeable.
"To-morrow, yes," said Gertrude. She wished to ask more about her; but she hardly knew what could be predicated of a Baroness Munster. "Is she--is she--married?"
Felix had finished his cake and wine; he got up, fixing upon the young girl his bright, expressive eyes. "She is married to a German prince--Prince Adolf, of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein. He is not the reigning prince; he is a younger brother."
Gertrude gazed at her informant; her lips were slightly parted. "Is she a--a Princess?" she asked at last.
"Oh, no," said the young man; "her position is rather a singular one. It 's a morganatic marriage."
"Morganatic?" These were new names and new words to poor Gertrude.
"That 's what they call a marriage, you know, contracted between a scion of a ruling house and--and a common mortal. They made Eugenia a Baroness, poor woman; but that was all they could do. Now they want to dissolve the marriage. Prince Adolf, between ourselves, is a ninny; but his brother, who is a clever man, has plans for him. Eugenia, naturally enough, makes difficulties; not, however, that I think she cares much--she 's a very clever woman; I 'm sure you 'll like her--but she wants to bother them. Just now everything is en l'air."
The cheerful, off-hand tone in which her visitor related this darkly romantic tale seemed to Gertrude very strange; but it seemed also to convey a certain flattery to herself, a recognition of her wisdom and dignity. She felt a dozen impressions stirring within her, and presently the one that was uppermost found words. "They want to dissolve her marriage?" she asked.
"So it appears."
"And against her will?"
"Against her right."
"She must be very unhappy!" said Gertrude.
Her visitor looked at her, smiling; he raised his hand to the back of his head and held it there a moment. "So she says," he answered. "That 's her story. She told me to tell it you."
"Tell me more," said Gertrude.
"No, I will leave that to her; she does it better."
Gertrude gave her little excited sigh again. "Well, if she is unhappy," she said, "I am glad she has come to us."
She had been so interested that she failed to notice the sound of a footstep in the portico; and yet it was a footstep that she always recognized. She heard it in the hall, and then she looked out of the window. They were all coming back from church--her father, her sister and brother, and their cousins, who always came to dinner on Sunday. Mr. Brand had come in first; he was in advance of the others, because, apparently, he was still disposed to say what she had not wished him to say an hour before. He came into the parlor, looking for Gertrude. He had two little books in his hand. On seeing Gertrude's companion he slowly stopped, looking at him.
"Is this a cousin?" asked Felix.
Then Gertrude saw that she must introduce him; but her ears, and, by sympathy, her lips, were full of all that he had been telling her. "This is the Prince," she said, "the Prince of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein!"
Felix burst out laughing, and Mr. Brand stood staring, while the others, who had passed into the house, appeared behind him in the open door-way.
That evening at dinner Felix Young gave his sister, the Baroness Munster, an account of his impressions. She saw that he had come back in the highest possible spirits; but this fact, to her own mind, was not a reason for rejoicing. She had but a limited confidence in her brother's judgment; his capacity for taking rose-colored views was such as to vulgarize one of the prettiest of tints. Still, she supposed he could be trusted to give her the mere facts; and she invited him with some eagerness to communicate them. "I suppose, at least, they did n't turn you out from the door;" she said. "You have been away some ten hours."
"Turn me from the door!" Felix exclaimed. "They took me to their hearts; they killed the fatted calf."
"I know what you want to say: they are a collection of angels."
"Exactly," said Felix. "They are a collection of angels--simply."
"C'est bien vague," remarked the Baroness. "What are they like?"
"Like nothing you ever saw."
"I am sure I am much obliged; but that is hardly more definite. Seriously, they were glad to see you?"
"Enchanted. It has been the proudest day of my life. Never, never have I been so lionized! I assure you, I was cock of the walk. My dear sister," said the young man, "nous n'avons qu'a nous tenir; we shall be great swells!"
Felix drained his own glass. "Well, it 's in the country, among the meadows and woods; a wild sort of place, and yet not far from here. Only, such a road, my dear! Imagine one of the Alpine glaciers reproduced in mud. But you will not spend much time on it, for they want you to come and stay, once for all."
"Ah," said the Baroness, "they want me to come and stay, once for all? Bon."
"It 's intensely rural, tremendously natural; and all overhung with this strange white light, this far-away blue sky. There 's a big wooden house--a kind of three-story bungalow; it looks like a magnified N; auuremberg toy. There was a gentleman there that made a speech to me about it and called it a 'venerable mansion;' but it looks as if it had been built last night."
"Is it handsome--is it elegant?" asked the Baroness.
Felix looked at her a moment, smiling. "It 's very clean! No splendors, no gilding, no troops of servants; rather straight-backed chairs. But you might eat off the floors, and you can sit down on the stairs."
"That must be a privilege. And the inhabitants are straight-backed too, of course."
"My dear sister," said Felix, "the inhabitants are charming."
"In what style?"
"In a style of their own. How shall I describe it? It 's primitive; it 's patriarchal; it 's the ton of the golden age."
"And have they nothing golden but their ton? Are there no symptoms of wealth?"
"I should say there was wealth without symptoms. A plain, homely way of life: nothing for show, and very little for--what shall I call it?--for the senses: but a great aisance, and a lot of money, out of sight, that comes forward very quietly for subscriptions to institutions, for repairing tenements, for paying doctor's bills; perhaps even for portioning daughters."
"And the daughters?" Madame
"There are two, Charlotte and Gertrude."
"Are they pretty?"
"One of them," said Felix.
"Which is that?"
The young man was silent, looking at his sister. "
She looked at him in return. "I see. You are in love with Gertrude. They must be Puritans to their finger-tips; anything but gay!"
"No, they are not gay," Felix admitted. "They are sober; they are even severe. They are of a pensive cast; they take things hard. I think there is something the matter with them; they have some melancholy memory or some depressing expectation. It 's not the epicurean temperament. My uncle, Mr. Wentworth, is a tremendously high-toned old fellow; he looks as if he were undergoing martyrdom, not by fire, but by freezing. But we shall cheer them up; we shall do them good. They will take a good deal of stirring up; but they are wonderfully kind and gentle. And they are appreciative. They think one clever; they think one remarkable!"
"That is very fine, so far as it goes," said the Baroness. "But are we to be shut up to these three people, Mr. Wentworth and the two young women--what did you say their names were--Deborah and Hephzibah?"
"Oh, no; there is another little girl, a cousin of theirs, a very pretty creature; a thorough little American. And then there is the son of the house."
"Good!" said the Baroness. "We are coming to the gentlemen. What of the son of the house?"
"I am afraid he gets tipsy."
"He, then, has the epicurean temperament! How old is he?"
"He is a boy of twenty; a pretty young fellow, but I am afraid he has vulgar tastes. And then there is Mr. Brand--a very tall young man, a sort of lay-priest. They seem to think a good deal of him, but I don't exactly make him out."
"And is there nothing," asked the Baroness, "between these extremes--this mysterious ecclesiastic and that intemperate youth?"
"Oh, yes, there is Mr. Acton. I think," said the young man, with a nod at his sister, "that you will like Mr. Acton."
"Remember that I am very fastidious," said the Baroness. "Has he very good manners?"
"He will have them with you. He is a man of the world; he has been to
"I have an idea that he brought home a fortune," said Felix.
"That is always interesting. Is he young, good-looking, clever?"
"He is less than forty; he has a baldish head; he says witty things. I rather think," added the young man, "that he will admire the Baroness Munster."
"It is very possible," said this lady. Her brother never knew how she would take things; but shortly afterwards she declared that he had made a very pretty description and that on the morrow she would go and see for herself.
They mounted, accordingly, into a great barouche--a vehicle as to which the Baroness found nothing to criticise but the price that was asked for it and the fact that the coachman wore a straw hat. (At Silberstadt Madame Munster had had liveries of yellow and crimson.) They drove into the country, and the Baroness, leaning far back and swaying her lace-fringed parasol, looked to right and to left and surveyed the way-side objects. After a while she pronounced them "affreux." Her brother remarked that it was apparently a country in which the foreground was inferior to the plans recules: and the Baroness rejoined that the landscape seemed to be all foreground. Felix had fixed with his new friends the hour at which he should bring his sister; it was four o'clock in the afternoon. The large, clean-faced house wore, to his eyes, as the barouche drove up to it, a very friendly aspect; the high, slender elms made lengthening shadows in front of it. The Baroness descended; her American kinsfolk were stationed in the portico. Felix waved his hat to them, and a tall, lean gentleman, with a high forehead and a clean shaven face, came forward toward the garden gate. Charlotte Wentworth walked at his side. Gertrude came behind, more slowly. Both of these young ladies wore rustling silk dresses. Felix ushered his sister into the gate. "Be very gracious," he said to her. But he saw the admonition was superfluous. Eugenia was prepared to be gracious as only Eugenia could be. Felix knew no keener pleasure than to be able to admire his sister unrestrictedly; for if the opportunity was frequent, it was not inveterate. When she desired to please she was to him, as to every one else, the most charming woman in the world. Then he forgot that she was ever anything else; that she was sometimes hard and perverse; that he was occasionally afraid of her. Now, as she took his arm to pass into the garden, he felt that she desired, that she proposed, to please, and this situation made him very happy. Eugenia would please.
The tall gentleman came to meet her, looking very rigid and grave. But it was a rigidity that had no illiberal meaning. Mr. Wentworth's manner was pregnant, on the contrary, with a sense of grand responsibility, of the solemnity of the occasion, of its being difficult to show sufficient deference to a lady at once so distinguished and so unhappy. Felix had observed on the day before his characteristic pallor; and now he perceived that there was something almost cadaverous in his uncle's high-featured white face. But so clever were this young man's quick sympathies and perceptions that he already learned that in these semi-mortuary manifestations there was no cause for alarm. His light imagination had gained a glimpse of Mr. Wentworth's spiritual mechanism, and taught him that, the old man being infinitely conscientious, the special operation of conscience within him announced itself by several of the indications of physical faintness.
The Baroness took her uncle's hand, and stood looking at him with her ugly face and her beautiful smile. "Have I done right to come?" she asked.
"Very right, very right," said Mr. Wentworth, solemnly. He had arranged in his mind a little speech; but now it quite faded away. He felt almost frightened. He had never been looked at in just that way--with just that fixed, intense smile--by any woman; and it perplexed and weighed upon him, now, that the woman who was smiling so and who had instantly given him a vivid sense of her possessing other unprecedented attributes, was his own niece, the child of his own father's daughter. The idea that his niece should be a German Baroness, married "morganatically" to a Prince, had already given him much to think about. Was it right, was it just, was it acceptable? He always slept badly, and the night before he had lain awake much more even than usual, asking himself these questions. The strange word "morganatic" was constantly in his ears; it reminded him of a certain Mrs. Morgan whom he had once known and who had been a bold, unpleasant woman. He had a feeling that it was his duty, so long as the Baroness looked at him, smiling in that way, to meet her glance with his own scrupulously adjusted, consciously frigid organs of vision; but on this occasion he failed to perform his duty to the last. He looked away toward his daughters. "We are very glad to see you," he had said. "Allow me to introduce my daughters--Miss Charlotte Wentworth, Miss Gertrude Wentworth."
The Baroness thought she had never seen people less
"These are not all; you have some other children," said the Baroness.
"I have a son," Mr. Wentworth answered.
"And why does n't he come to meet me?" Eugenia cried. "I am afraid he is not so charming as his sisters."
"I don't know; I will see about it," the old man declared.
"He is rather afraid of ladies,"
"He is very handsome," said Gertrude, as loud as she could.
"We will go in and find him. We will draw him out of his cachette." And the Baroness took Mr. Wentworth's arm, who was not aware that he had offered it to her, and who, as they walked toward the house, wondered whether he ought to have offered it and whether it was proper for her to take it if it had not been offered. "I want to know you well," said the Baroness, interrupting these meditations, "and I want you to know me."
"It seems natural that we should know each other," Mr. Wentworth rejoined. "We are near relatives."
"Ah, there comes a moment in life when one reverts, irresistibly, to one's natural ties--to one's natural affections. You must have found that!" said Eugenia.
Mr. Wentworth had been told the day before by Felix that Eugenia was very clever, very brilliant, and the information had held him in some suspense. This was the cleverness, he supposed; the brilliancy was beginning. "Yes, the natural affections are very strong," he murmured.
"In some people," the Baroness declared. "Not in all."
"I think you will find," said Mr. Wentworth,
"that this country is superior in many respects to those you mention. I
have been to
"Ah, you have been to
"The house is very old," remarked Mr. Wentworth. "General Washington once spent a week here."
"Oh, I have heard of
Mr. Wentworth was silent a moment, and then, "I found
he was very well known in
Felix had lingered in the garden with Gertrude; he was standing before her and smiling, as he had done the day before. What had happened the day before seemed to her a kind of dream. He had been there and he had changed everything; the others had seen him, they had talked with him; but that he should come again, that he should be part of the future, part of her small, familiar, much-meditating life--this needed, afresh, the evidence of her senses. The evidence had come to her senses now; and her senses seemed to rejoice in it. "What do you think of Eugenia?" Felix asked. "Is n't she charming?"
"She is very brilliant," said Gertrude. "But I can't tell yet. She seems to me like a singer singing an air. You can't tell till the song is done."
"Ah, the song will never be done!" exclaimed the young man, laughing. "Don't you think her handsome?"
Gertrude had been disappointed in the beauty of the Baroness Munster; she had expected her, for mysterious reasons, to resemble a very pretty portrait of the Empress Josephine, of which there hung an engraving in one of the parlors, and which the younger Miss Wentworth had always greatly admired. But the Baroness was not at all like that--not at all. Though different, however, she was very wonderful, and Gertrude felt herself most suggestively corrected. It was strange, nevertheless, that Felix should speak in that positive way about his sister's beauty. "I think I shall think her handsome," Gertrude said. "It must be very interesting to know her. I don't feel as if I ever could."
"Ah, you will know her well; you will become great friends," Felix declared, as if this were the easiest thing in the world.
"She is very graceful," said Gertrude, looking after the Baroness, suspended to her father's arm. It was a pleasure to her to say that any one was graceful.
Felix had been looking about him. "And your little cousin, of yesterday," he said, "who was so wonderfully pretty--what has become of her?"
"She is in the parlor," Gertrude answered. "Yes, she is very pretty." She felt as if it were her duty to take him straight into the house, to where he might be near her cousin. But after hesitating a moment she lingered still. "I did n't believe you would come back," she said.
"Not come back!" cried Felix, laughing. "You did n't know, then, the impression made upon this susceptible heart of mine."
She wondered whether he meant the impression her cousin Lizzie had made. "Well," she said, "I did n't think we should ever see you again. "
"And pray what did you think would become of me?"
"I don't know. I thought you would melt away."
"That 's a compliment to my solidity! I melt very often," said Felix, "but there is always something left of me."
"I came and waited for you by the door, because the others did," Gertrude went on. "But if you had never appeared I should not have been surprised."
"I hope," declared Felix, looking at her, "that you would have been disappointed."
She looked at him a little, and shook her head. "No--no!"
"Ah, par exemple!" cried the young man. "You deserve that I should never leave you."
Going into the parlor they found Mr. Wentworth performing introductions. A young man was standing before the Baroness, blushing a good deal, laughing a little, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other--a slim, mild-faced young man, with neatly-arranged features, like those of Mr. Wentworth. Two other gentlemen, behind him, had risen from their seats, and a little apart, near one of the windows, stood a remarkably pretty young girl. The young girl was knitting a stocking; but, while her fingers quickly moved, she looked with wide, brilliant eyes at the Baroness.
"And what is your son's name?" said Eugenia, smiling at the young man.
"My name is Clifford Wentworth, ma'am," he said in a tremulous voice.
"Why did n't you come out to meet me, Mr. Clifford Wentworth?" the Baroness demanded, with her beautiful smile.
"I did n't think you would want me," said the young man, slowly sidling about.
"One always wants a beau cousin,--if one has one! But if you are very nice to me in future I won't remember it against you." And Madame M; auunster transferred her smile to the other persons present. It rested first upon the candid countenance and long-skirted figure of Mr. Brand, whose eyes were intently fixed upon Mr. Wentworth, as if to beg him not to prolong an anomalous situation. Mr. Wentworth pronounced his name. Eugenia gave him a very charming glance, and then looked at the other gentleman.
This latter personage was a man of rather less than the
usual stature and the usual weight, with a quick, observant, agreeable dark
eye, a small quantity of thin dark hair, and a small mustache. He had been
standing with his hands in his pockets; and when Eugenia looked at him he took
them out. But he did not, like Mr.
Brand, look evasively and urgently at their host. He met Eugenia's eyes; he appeared to
appreciate the privilege of meeting them. Madame
"Your cousin--not mine?" said the Baroness.
"It only depends upon you," Mr. Acton declared, laughing.
The Baroness looked at him a moment, and noticed that he had very white teeth. "Let it depend upon your behavior," she said. "I think I had better wait. I have cousins enough. Unless I can also claim relationship," she added, "with that charming young lady," and she pointed to the young girl at the window.
"That 's my sister," said Mr. Acton. And Gertrude Wentworth put her arm round the young girl and led her forward. It was not, apparently, that she needed much leading. She came toward the Baroness with a light, quick step, and with perfect self-possession, rolling her stocking round its needles. She had dark blue eyes and dark brown hair; she was wonderfully pretty.
Eugenia kissed her, as she had kissed the other young women, and then held her off a little, looking at her. "Now this is quite another type," she said; she pronounced the word in the French manner. "This is a different outline, my uncle, a different character, from that of your own daughters. This, Felix," she went on, "is very much more what we have always thought of as the American type."
The young girl, during this exposition, was smiling askance at every one in turn, and at Felix out of turn. "I find only one type here!" cried Felix, laughing. "The type adorable!"
This sally was received in perfect silence, but Felix, who
learned all things quickly, had already learned that the silences frequently
observed among his new acquaintances were not necessarily restrictive or
resentful. It was, as one might say, the silence of expectation, of modesty.
They were all standing round his sister, as if they were expecting her to
acquit herself of the exhibition of some peculiar faculty, some brilliant
talent. Their attitude seemed to imply
that she was a kind of conversational mountebank, attired, intellectually, in
gauze and spangles. This attitude gave a certain ironical force to Madame
"Oh," said Mr. Wentworth, "they are always dropping in and out. You must do the same."
"Father," interposed Charlotte Wentworth, "they must do something more." And she turned her sweet, serious face, that seemed at once timid and placid, upon their interesting visitor. "What is your name?" she asked.
"Eugenia-Camilla-Dolores," said the Baroness, smiling. "But you need n't say all that."
"I will say Eugenia, if you will let me. You must come and stay with us."
The Baroness laid her hand upon
"He is a minister," answered Mr. Wentworth.
"A Protestant?" asked Eugenia.
"I am a Unitarian, madam," replied Mr. Brand, impressively.
"Ah, I see," said Eugenia. "Something new." She had never heard of this form of worship.
Mr. Acton began to laugh, and Gertrude looked anxiously at Mr. Brand.
"You have come very far," said Mr. Wentworth.
"Very far--very far," the Baroness replied, with a graceful shake of her head--a shake that might have meant many different things.
"That 's a reason why you ought to settle down with us," said Mr. Wentworth, with that dryness of utterance which, as Eugenia was too intelligent not to feel, took nothing from the delicacy of his meaning.
She looked at him, and for an instant, in his cold, still face, she seemed to see a far-away likeness to the vaguely remembered image of her mother. Eugenia was a woman of sudden emotions, and now, unexpectedly, she felt one rising in her heart. She kept looking round the circle; she knew that there was admiration in all the eyes that were fixed upon her. She smiled at them all.
"I came to look--to try--to ask," she said. "It seems to me I have done well. I am very tired; I want to rest." There were tears in her eyes. The luminous interior, the gentle, tranquil people, the simple, serious life--the sense of these things pressed upon her with an overmastering force, and she felt herself yielding to one of the most genuine emotions she had ever known. "I should like to stay here," she said. "Pray take me in."
Though she was smiling, there were tears in her voice as
well as in her eyes. "My dear niece," said Mr. Wentworth,
A few days after the Baroness Munster had presented herself to her American kinsfolk she came, with her brother, and took up her abode in that small white house adjacent to Mr. Wentworth's own dwelling of which mention has already been made. It was on going with his daughters to return her visit that Mr. Wentworth placed this comfortable cottage at her service; the offer being the result of a domestic colloquy, diffused through the ensuing twenty-four hours, in the course of which the two foreign visitors were discussed and analyzed with a great deal of earnestness and subtlety. The discussion went forward, as I say, in the family circle; but that circle on the evening following Madame M; auunster's return to town, as on many other occasions, included Robert Acton and his pretty sister. If you had been present, it would probably not have seemed to you that the advent of these brilliant strangers was treated as an exhilarating occurrence, a pleasure the more in this tranquil household, a prospective source of entertainment. This was not Mr. Wentworth's way of treating any human occurrence. The sudden irruption into the well-ordered consciousness of the Wentworths of an element not allowed for in its scheme of usual obligations required a readjustment of that sense of responsibility which constituted its principal furniture. To consider an event, crudely and baldly, in the light of the pleasure it might bring them was an intellectual exercise with which Felix Young's American cousins were almost wholly unacquainted, and which they scarcely supposed to be largely pursued in any section of human society. The arrival of Felix and his sister was a satisfaction, but it was a singularly joyless and inelastic satisfaction. It was an extension of duty, of the exercise of the more recondite virtues; but neither Mr. Wentworth, nor Charlotte, nor Mr. Brand, who, among these excellent people, was a great promoter of reflection and aspiration, frankly adverted to it as an extension of enjoyment. This function was ultimately assumed by Gertrude Wentworth, who was a peculiar girl, but the full compass of whose peculiarities had not been exhibited before they very ingeniously found their pretext in the presence of these possibly too agreeable foreigners. Gertrude, however, had to struggle with a great accumulation of obstructions, both of the subjective, as the metaphysicians say, and of the objective, order; and indeed it is no small part of the purpose of this little history to set forth her struggle. What seemed paramount in this abrupt enlargement of Mr. Wentworth's sympathies and those of his daughters was an extension of the field of possible mistakes; and the doctrine, as it may almost be called, of the oppressive gravity of mistakes was one of the most cherished traditions of the Wentworth family.
"I don't believe she wants to come and stay in this
house," said Gertrude; Madame
"Does n't she think it good enough for her?" cried little Lizzie Acton, who was always asking unpractical questions that required, in strictness, no answer, and to which indeed she expected no other answer than such as she herself invariably furnished in a small, innocently-satirical laugh.
"She certainly expressed a willingness to come," said Mr. Wentworth.
"That was only politeness," Gertrude rejoined.
"Yes, she is very polite--very polite," said Mr. Wentworth.
"She is too polite," his son declared, in a softly growling tone which was habitual to him, but which was an indication of nothing worse than a vaguely humorous intention. "It is very embarrassing."
"That is more than can be said of you, sir," said Lizzie Acton, with her little laugh.
"Well, I don't mean to encourage her," Clifford went on.
"I 'm sure I don't care if you do!" cried Lizzie.
"She will not think of you, Clifford," said Gertrude, gravely.
"I hope not!" Clifford exclaimed.
"She will think of Robert," Gertrude continued, in the same tone.
Robert Acton began to blush; but there was no occasion for it, for every one was looking at Gertrude--every one, at least, save Lizzie, who, with her pretty head on one side, contemplated her brother.
"Why do you attribute motives, Gertrude?" asked Mr. Wentworth.
"I don't attribute motives, father," said Gertrude. "I only say she will think of Robert; and she will!"
"Gertrude judges by herself!"
"She will be very comfortable here," said
"She will not like it," said Gertrude; "not even if you pin little tidies all over the chairs."
"Why not, dear?" asked
Gertrude had left her chair; she was walking about the room; her stiff silk dress, which she had put on in honor of the Baroness, made a sound upon the carpet. "I don't know," she replied. "She will want something more--more private."
"If she wants to be private she can stay in her room," Lizzie Acton remarked.
Gertrude paused in her walk, looking at her. "That would not be pleasant," she answered. "She wants privacy and pleasure together."
Robert Acton began to laugh again. "My dear cousin, what a picture!"
"I don't know what her manner of life may have been," he said; "but she certainly never can have enjoyed a more refined and salubrious home."
Gertrude stood there looking at them all. "She is the wife of a Prince," she said.
"We are all princes here," said Mr. Wentworth; "and I don't know of any palace in this neighborhood that is to let."
"Cousin William," Robert Acton interposed, "do you want to do something handsome? Make them a present, for three months, of the little house over the way."
"You are very generous with other people's things!" cried his sister.
"Robert is very generous with his own things," Mr. Wentworth observed dispassionately, and looking, in cold meditation, at his kinsman.
"Gertrude," Lizzie went on, "I had an idea you were so fond of your new cousin."
"Which new cousin?" asked Gertrude.
"I don't mean the Baroness!" the young girl rejoined, with her laugh. "I thought you expected to see so much of him."
"Of Felix? I hope to see a great deal of him," said Gertrude, simply.
"Then why do you want to keep him out of the house?"
Gertrude looked at Lizzie Acton, and then looked away.
"Should you want me to live in the house with you, Lizzie?" asked Clifford.
"I hope you never will. I hate you!" Such was this young lady's reply.
"Father," said Gertrude, stopping before Mr. Wentworth and smiling, with a smile the sweeter, as her smile always was, for its rarity; "do let them live in the little house over the way. It will be lovely!"
Robert Acton had been watching her. "Gertrude is right," he said. "Gertrude is the cleverest girl in the world. If I might take the liberty, I should strongly recommend their living there."
"There is nothing there so
pretty as the northeast room,"
"She will make it pretty. Leave her alone!"
Gertrude, at his compliment, had blushed and looked at him: it was as if some one less familiar had complimented her. "I am sure she will make it pretty. It will be very interesting. It will be a place to go to. It will be a foreign house."
"Are we very sure that we need a foreign house?" Mr. Wentworth inquired. "Do you think it desirable to establish a foreign house--in this quiet place?"
"You speak," said
"It would be too lovely!" Gertrude declared again, laying her hand on the back of her father's chair.
"That she should open a
Gertrude looked at her a moment, and then, "Yes,
"Gertrude is growing pert," Clifford Wentworth observed, with his humorous young growl. "That comes of associating with foreigners."
Mr. Wentworth looked up at his daughter, who was standing beside him; he drew her gently forward. "You must be careful," he said. "You must keep watch. Indeed, we must all be careful. This is a great change; we are to be exposed to peculiar influences. I don't say they are bad. I don't judge them in advance. But they may perhaps make it necessary that we should exercise a great deal of wisdom and self-control. It will be a different tone."
Gertrude was silent a moment, in deference to her father's
speech; then she spoke in a manner that was not in the least an answer to it.
"I want to see how they will live.
I am sure they will have different hours. She will do all kinds of little things
differently. When we go over there it will be like going to
"She has a maid," said Gertrude; "a French maid. She mentioned her."
"I wonder if the maid has a little fluted cap and red slippers," said Lizzie Acton. "There was a French maid in that play that Robert took me to see. She had pink stockings; she was very wicked."
"She was a soubrette," Gertrude announced, who had
never seen a play in her life.
"They call that a soubrette. It will be a great chance to learn
Mr. Wentworth had kept her standing near him, and he gave her his earnest, thin, unresponsive glance again. "I want you to make me a promise, Gertrude," he said.
"What is it?" she asked, smiling.
"Not to get excited. Not to allow these--these occurrences to be an occasion for excitement."
She looked down at him a moment, and then she shook her head. "I don't think I can promise that, father. I am excited already."
Mr. Wentworth was silent a while; they all were silent, as if in recognition of something audacious and portentous.
"I think they had better go to the other house,"
"I shall keep them in the other house," Mr. Wentworth subjoined, more pregnantly.
Gertrude turned away; then she looked across at Robert
Acton. Her cousin Robert was a great friend of hers; she often looked at him
this way instead of saying things. Her
glance on this occasion, however, struck him as a substitute for a larger
volume of diffident utterance than usual, inviting him to observe, among other
things, the inefficiency of her father's design--if design it was--for
diminishing, in the interest of quiet nerves, their occasions of contact with
their foreign relatives. But
"A three days' visit at most, over there, is all I
should have found possible," Madame
Felix was not a young man who troubled himself greatly about
anything--least of all about the conditions of enjoyment. His faculty of enjoyment was so large, so
unconsciously eager, that it may be said of it that it had a permanent advance
upon embarrassment and sorrow. His sentient faculty was intrinsically joyous,
and novelty and change were in themselves a delight to him. As they had come to him with a great deal of
frequency, his life had been more agreeable than appeared. Never was a nature more perfectly fortunate.
It was not a restless, apprehensive, ambitious spirit, running a race with the
tyranny of fate, but a temper so unsuspicious as to put Adversity off her
guard, dodging and evading her with the easy, natural motion of a wind-shifted
flower. Felix extracted entertainment
from all things, and all his faculties--his imagination, his intelligence, his
affections, his senses--had a hand in the game. It seemed to him that Eugenia
and he had been very well treated; there was something absolutely touching in
that combination of paternal liberality and social considerateness which marked
Mr. Wentworth's deportment. It was most uncommonly kind of him, for instance,
to have given them a house. Felix was positively
amused at having a house of his own; for the little white cottage among the
apple-trees--the chalet, as Madame Munster always called it--was much more
sensibly his own than any domiciliary quatrieme,
looking upon a court, with the rent overdue. Felix had spent a good deal of his
life in looking into courts, with a perhaps slightly tattered pair of elbows
resting upon the ledge of a high-perched window, and the thin smoke of a
cigarette rising into an atmosphere in which street-cries died away and the
vibration of chimes from ancient belfries became sensible. He had never known anything so infinitely rural as these
It might perhaps have been feared that after the completion of those graceful domiciliary embellishments which have been mentioned Madame M; auunster would have found herself confronted with alarming possibilities of ennui. But as yet she had not taken the alarm. The Baroness was a restless soul, and she projected her restlessness, as it may be said, into any situation that lay before her. Up to a certain point her restlessness might be counted upon to entertain her. She was always expecting something to happen, and, until it was disappointed, expectancy itself was a delicate pleasure. What the Baroness expected just now it would take some ingenuity to set forth; it is enough that while she looked about her she found something to occupy her imagination. She assured herself that she was enchanted with her new relatives; she professed to herself that, like her brother, she felt it a sacred satisfaction to have found a family. It is certain that she enjoyed to the utmost the gentleness of her kinsfolk's deference. She had, first and last, received a great deal of admiration, and her experience of well-turned compliments was very considerable; but she knew that she had never been so real a power, never counted for so much, as now when, for the first time, the standard of comparison of her little circle was a prey to vagueness. The sense, indeed, that the good people about her had, as regards her remarkable self, no standard of comparison at all gave her a feeling of almost illimitable power. It was true, as she said to herself, that if for this reason they would be able to discover nothing against her, so they would perhaps neglect to perceive some of her superior points; but she always wound up her reflections by declaring that she would take care of that.
Charlotte and Gertrude were in some perplexity between their
desire to show all proper attention to Madame
They had of course desired, from the first, to do everything
in the way of helping her to arrange herself.
It had seemed to
"Write her a note, asking her leave to come and see her. I think that is what she will like," said Gertrude.
"Why should I give her the trouble of answering
"I don't think she will take any trouble," said Gertrude, profoundly.
"What then will she do?"
"That is what I am curious to see," said Gertrude, leaving her sister with an impression that her curiosity was morbid.
They went to see the Baroness without preliminary correspondence; and in the little salon which she had already created, with its becoming light and its festoons, they found Robert Acton.
Eugenia was intensely gracious, but she accused them of neglecting her cruelly. "You see Mr. Acton has had to take pity upon me," she said. "My brother goes off sketching, for
hours; I can never depend upon him. So I was to send Mr. Acton to beg you to come and give me the benefit of your wisdom."
Gertrude looked at her sister. She wanted to say, "That is what she
would have done."
"Ah, but I must have a cook!" cried the Baroness. "An old negress in a yellow turban. I have set my heart upon that. I want to look out of my window and see her sitting there on the grass, against the background of those crooked, dusky little apple-trees, pulling the husks off a lapful of Indian corn. That will be local color, you know. There is n't much of it here--you don't mind my saying that, do you?--so one must make the most of what one can get. I shall be most happy to dine with you whenever you will let me; but I want to be able to ask you sometimes. And I want to be able to ask Mr. Acton," added the Baroness.
"You must come and ask me at home," said
"It 's what I call a very
clever woman," said
"It is most interesting," Mr. Brand continued. "I only wish she would speak French; it would seem more in keeping. It must be quite the style that we have heard about, that we have read about--the style of conversation of Madame de Stael, of Madame Recamier."
Mr. Wentworth, with his cane and his gloves in his hand, went every afternoon to call upon his niece. A couple of hours later she came over to the great house to tea. She had let the proposal that she should regularly dine there fall to the ground; she was in the enjoyment of whatever satisfaction was to be derived from the spectacle of an old negress in a crimson turban shelling peas under the apple-trees. Charlotte, who had provided the ancient negress, thought it must be a strange household, Eugenia having told her that Augustine managed everything, the ancient negress included--Augustine who was naturally devoid of all acquaintance with the expurgatory English tongue. By far the most immoral sentiment which I shall have occasion to attribute to Charlotte Wentworth was a certain emotion of disappointment at finding that, in spite of these irregular conditions, the domestic arrangements at the small house were apparently not--from Eugenia's peculiar point of view--strikingly offensive. The Baroness found it amusing to go to tea; she dressed as if for dinner. The tea-table offered an anomalous and picturesque repast; and on leaving it they all sat and talked in the large piazza, or wandered about the garden in the starlight, with their ears full of those sounds of strange insects which, though they are supposed to be, all over the world, a part of the magic of summer nights, seemed to the Baroness to have beneath these western skies an incomparable resonance.
Mr. Wentworth, though, as I say, he went punctiliously to call upon her, was not able to feel that he was getting used to his niece. It taxed his imagination to believe that she was really his half-sister's child. His sister was a figure of his early years; she had been only twenty when she went abroad, never to return, making in foreign parts a willful and undesirable marriage. His aunt, Mrs. Whiteside, who had taken her to Europe for the benefit of the tour, gave, on her return, so lamentable an account of Mr. Adolphus Young, to whom the headstrong girl had united her destiny, that it operated as a chill upon family feeling--especially in the case of the half-brothers. Catherine had done nothing subsequently to propitiate her family; she had not even written to them in a way that indicated a lucid appreciation of their suspended sympathy; so that it had become a tradition in Boston circles that the highest charity, as regards this young lady, was to think it well to forget her, and to abstain from conjecture as to the extent to which her aberrations were reproduced in her descendants. Over these young people--a vague report of their existence had come to his ears--Mr. Wentworth had not, in the course of years, allowed his imagination to hover. It had plenty of occupation nearer home, and though he had many cares upon his conscience the idea that he had been an unnatural uncle was, very properly, never among the number. Now that his nephew and niece had come before him, he perceived that they were the fruit of influences and circumstances very different from those under which his own familiar progeny had reached a vaguely-qualified maturity. He felt no provocation to say that these influences had been exerted for evil; but he was sometimes afraid that he should not be able to like his distinguished, delicate, lady-like niece. He was paralyzed and bewildered by her foreignness. She spoke, somehow, a different language. There was something strange in her words. He had a feeling that another man, in his place, would accommodate himself to her tone; would ask her questions and joke with her, reply to those pleasantries of her own which sometimes seemed startling as addressed to an uncle. But Mr. Wentworth could not do these things. He could not even bring himself to attempt to measure her position in the world. She was the wife of a foreign nobleman who desired to repudiate her. This had a singular sound, but the old man felt himself destitute of the materials for a judgment. It seemed to him that he ought to find them in his own experience, as a man of the world and an almost public character; but they were not there, and he was ashamed to confess to himself--much more to reveal to Eugenia by interrogations possibly too innocent--the unfurnished condition of this repository.
It appeared to him that he could get much nearer, as he would have said, to his nephew; though he was not sure that Felix was altogether safe. He was so bright and handsome and talkative that it was impossible not to think well of him; and yet it seemed as if there were something almost impudent, almost vicious--or as if there ought to be--in a young man being at once so joyous and so positive. It was to be observed that while Felix was not at all a serious young man there was somehow more of him--he had more weight and volume and resonance--than a number of young men who were distinctly serious. While Mr. Wentworth meditated upon this anomaly his nephew was admiring him unrestrictedly. He thought him a most delicate, generous, high-toned old gentleman, with a very handsome head, of the ascetic type, which he promised himself the profit of sketching. Felix was far from having made a secret of the fact that he wielded the paint-brush, and it was not his own fault if it failed to be generally understood that he was prepared to execute the most striking likenesses on the most reasonable terms. "He is an artist--my cousin is an artist," said Gertrude; and she offered this information to every one who would receive it. She offered it to herself, as it were, by way of admonition and reminder; she repeated to herself at odd moments, in lonely places, that Felix was invested with this sacred character. Gertrude had never seen an artist before; she had only read about such people. They seemed to her a romantic and mysterious class, whose life was made up of those agreeable accidents that never happened to other persons. And it merely quickened her meditations on this point that Felix should declare, as he repeatedly did, that he was really not an artist. "I have never gone into the thing seriously," he said. "I have never studied; I have had no training. I do a little of everything, and nothing well. I am only an amateur."
It pleased Gertrude even more to think that he was an amateur than to think that he was an artist; the former word, to her fancy, had an even subtler connotation. She knew, however, that it was a word to use more soberly. Mr. Wentworth used it freely; for though he had not been exactly familiar with it, he found it convenient as a help toward classifying Felix, who, as a young man extremely clever and active and apparently respectable and yet not engaged in any recognized business, was an importunate anomaly. Of course the Baroness and her brother--she was always spoken of first--were a welcome topic of conversation between Mr. Wentworth and his daughters and their occasional visitors.
"And the young man, your nephew, what is his profession?" asked an old gentleman--Mr. Broderip, of Salem--who had been Mr. Wentworth's classmate at Harvard College in the year 1809, and who came into his office in Devonshire Street. (Mr. Wentworth, in his later years, used to go but three times a week to his office, where he had a large amount of highly confidential trust-business to transact.)
"Well, he 's an amateur,"
said Felix's uncle, with folded hands, and with a certain satisfaction in being
able to say it. And Mr. Broderip had gone back to
"I should like to do your head, sir," said Felix to his uncle one evening, before them all--Mr. Brand and Robert Acton being also present. "I think I should make a very fine thing of it. It 's an interesting head; it 's very mediaeval."
Mr. Wentworth looked grave; he felt awkwardly, as if all the company had come in and found him standing before the looking-glass. "The Lord made it," he said. "I don't think it is for man to make it over again."
"Certainly the Lord made it," replied Felix, laughing, "and he made it very well. But life has been touching up the work. It is a very interesting type of head. It 's delightfully wasted and emaciated. The complexion is wonderfully bleached." And Felix looked round at the circle, as if to call their attention to these interesting points. Mr. Wentworth grew visibly paler. "I should like to do you as an old prelate, an old cardinal, or the prior of an order."
"A prelate, a cardinal?" murmured Mr. Wentworth. "Do you refer to the Roman Catholic priesthood?"
"I mean an old ecclesiastic who should have led a very pure, abstinent life. Now I take it that has been the case with you, sir; one sees it in your face," Felix proceeded. "You have been very--a very moderate. Don't you think one always sees that in a man's face?"
"You see more in a man's face than I should think of looking for," said Mr. Wentworth coldly.
The Baroness rattled her fan, and gave her brilliant laugh. "It is a risk to look so close!" she exclaimed. "My uncle has some peccadilloes on his conscience." Mr. Wentworth looked at her, painfully at a loss; and in so far as the signs of a pure and abstinent life were visible in his face they were then probably peculiarly manifest. "You are a beau vieillard, dear uncle," said Madame M; auunster, smiling with her foreign eyes.
"I think you are paying me a compliment," said the old man.
"Surely, I am not the first woman that ever did so!" cried the Baroness.
"I think you are," said Mr. Wentworth gravely. And turning to Felix he added, in the same tone, "Please don't take my likeness. My children have my daguerreotype. That is quite satisfactory."
"I won't promise," said Felix, "not to work your head into something!"
Mr. Wentworth looked at him and then at all the others; then he got up and slowly walked away.
"Felix," said Gertrude, in the silence that followed, "I wish you would paint my portrait."
"We should be glad to have your portrait, Miss Gertrude," said Mr. Brand.
"I should be delighted to paint so charming a model," Felix declared.
"Do you think you are so lovely, my dear?" asked Lizzie Acton, with her little inoffensive pertness, biting off a knot in her knitting.
"It is not because I think I am beautiful," said
Gertrude, looking all round. "I
don't think I am beautiful, at all." She spoke with a sort of conscious
deliberateness; and it seemed very strange to
"I am sorry you have not had better things to think about, my daughter," said Mr. Wentworth.
"You are very beautiful, cousin Gertrude," Felix declared.
"That 's a compliment," said Gertrude. "I put all the compliments I receive into a little money-jug that has a slit in the side. I shake them up and down, and they rattle. There are not many yet--only two or three."
"No, it 's not a compliment," Felix rejoined. "See; I am careful not to give it the form of a compliment. I did n't think you were beautiful at first. But you have come to seem so little by little."
"Take care, now, your jug does n't burst!" exclaimed Lizzie.
"I think sitting for one's portrait is only one of the various forms of idleness," said Mr. Wentworth. "Their name is legion."
"My dear sir," cried Felix, "you can't be said to be idle when you are making a man work so!"
"One might be painted while one is asleep," suggested Mr. Brand, as a contribution to the discussion.
"Ah, do paint me while I am asleep," said Gertrude
to Felix, smiling. And she closed her eyes a little. It had by this time become a matter of almost
exciting anxiety to
She began to sit for her portrait on the following day--in the open air, on the north side of the piazza. "I wish you would tell me what you think of us--how we seem to you," she said to Felix, as he sat before his easel.
"You seem to me the best people in the world," said Felix.
"You say that," Gertrude resumed, "because it saves you the trouble of saying anything else."
The young man glanced at her over the top of his canvas. "What else should I say? It would certainly be a great deal of trouble to say anything different."
"Well," said Gertrude, "you have seen people before that you have liked, have you not?"
"Indeed I have, thank Heaven!"
"And they have been very different from us," Gertrude went on.
"That only proves," said Felix, "that there are a thousand different ways of being good company."
"Do you think us good company?" asked Gertrude.
"Company for a king!"
Gertrude was silent a moment; and then, "There must be a thousand different ways of being dreary," she said; "and sometimes I think we make use of them all."
Felix stood up quickly, holding up his hand. "If you could only keep that look on your face for half an hour--while I catch it!" he said. "It is uncommonly handsome."
"To look handsome for half an hour--that is a great deal to ask of me," she answered.
"It would be the portrait of a young woman who has taken some vow, some pledge, that she repents of," said Felix, "and who is thinking it over at leisure."
"I have taken no vow, no pledge," said Gertrude, very gravely; "I have nothing to repent of."
"My dear cousin, that was only a figure of speech. I am very sure that no one in your excellent family has anything to repent of."
"And yet we are always repenting!" Gertrude exclaimed. "That is what I mean by our being dreary. You know it perfectly well; you only pretend that you don't."
Felix gave a quick laugh. "The half hour is going on, and yet you are handsomer than ever. One must be careful what one says, you see."
"To me," said Gertrude, "you can say anything."
Felix looked at her, as an artist might, and painted for some time in silence.
"Yes, you seem to me different from your father and sister--from most of the people you have lived with," he observed.
"To say that one's self," Gertrude went on, "is like saying--by implication, at least--that one is better. I am not better; I am much worse. But they say themselves that I am different. It makes them unhappy."
"Since you accuse me of concealing my real impressions, I may admit that I think the tendency--among you generally--is to be made unhappy too easily."
"I wish you would tell that to my father," said Gertrude.
"It might make him more unhappy!" Felix exclaimed, laughing.
"It certainly would. I don't believe you have seen people like that."
"Ah, my dear cousin, how do you know what I have seen?" Felix demanded. "How can I tell you?"
"You might tell me a great many things, if you only would. You have seen people like yourself--people who are bright and gay and fond of amusement. We are not fond of amusement."
"Yes," said Felix, "I confess that rather strikes me. You don't seem to me to get all the pleasure out of life that you might. You don't seem to me to enjoy..... Do you mind my saying this?" he asked, pausing.
"Please go on," said the girl, earnestly.
"You seem to me very well placed for enjoying. You have money and liberty and what is called
"One ought to think it bright and charming and delightful, eh?" asked Gertrude.
"I should say so--if one can. It is true it all depends upon that," Felix added.
"You know there is a great deal of misery in the world," said his model.
"I have seen a little of it," the young man rejoined. "But it was all over there--beyond the sea. I don't see any here. This is a paradise."
Gertrude said nothing; she sat looking at the dahlias and the currant-bushes in the garden, while Felix went on with his work. "To 'enjoy,' " she began at last, "to take life--not painfully, must one do something wrong?"
Felix gave his long, light laugh again. "Seriously, I think not. And for this reason, among others: you strike me as very capable of enjoying, if the chance were given you, and yet at the same time as incapable of wrong-doing."
"I am sure," said Gertrude, "that you are very wrong in telling a person that she is incapable of that. We are never nearer to evil than when we believe that."
"You are handsomer than ever," observed Felix, irrelevantly.
Gertrude had got used to hearing him say this. There was not so much excitement in it as at first. "What ought one to do?" she continued. "To give parties, to go to the theatre, to read novels, to keep late hours?"
"I don't think it 's what one does or one does n't do that promotes enjoyment," her companion answered. "It is the general way of looking at life."
"They look at it as a discipline--that 's what they do here. I have often been told that."
"Well, that 's very good. But there is another way," added Felix, smiling: "to look at it as an opportunity."
"An opportunity--yes," said Gertrude. "One would get more pleasure that way."
"I don't attempt to say anything better for it than that it has been my own way--and that is not saying much!" Felix had laid down his palette and brushes; he was leaning back, with his arms folded, to judge the effect of his work. "And you know," he said, "I am a very petty personage."
"You have a great deal of talent," said Gertrude.
"No--no," the young man rejoined, in a tone of cheerful impartiality, "I have not a great deal of talent. It is nothing at all remarkable. I assure you I should know if it were. I shall always be obscure. The world will never hear of me." Gertrude looked at him with a strange feeling. She was thinking of the great world which he knew and which she did not, and how full of brilliant talents it must be, since it could afford to make light of his abilities. "You need n't in general attach much importance to anything I tell you," he pursued; "but you may believe me when I say this,--that I am little better than a good-natured feather-head."
"A feather-head?" she repeated.
"I am a species of Bohemian."
"A Bohemian?" Gertrude had never heard this term before, save as a geographical denomination; and she quite failed to understand the figurative meaning which her companion appeared to attach to it. But it gave her pleasure.
Felix had pushed back his chair and risen to his feet; he slowly came toward her, smiling. "I am a sort of adventurer," he said, looking down at her.
She got up, meeting his smile. "An adventurer?" she repeated. "I should like to hear your adventures."
For an instant she believed that he was going to take her hand; but he dropped his own hands suddenly into the pockets of his painting-jacket. "There is no reason why you should n't," he said. "I have been an adventurer, but my adventures have been very innocent. They have all been happy ones; I don't think there are any I should n't tell. They were very pleasant and very pretty; I should like to go over them in memory. Sit down again, and I will begin," he added in a moment, with his naturally persuasive smile.
Gertrude sat down again on that day, and she sat down on several
other days. Felix, while he plied his
brush, told her a great many stories, and she listened with charmed avidity.
Her eyes rested upon his lips; she was very serious; sometimes, from her air of
wondering gravity, he thought she was displeased. But Felix never believed for
more than a single moment in any displeasure of his own producing. This would have been fatuity if the optimism
it expressed had not been much more a hope than a prejudice. It is beside the
matter to say that he had a good conscience; for the best conscience is a sort
of self-reproach, and this young man's brilliantly healthy nature spent itself
in objective good intentions which were ignorant of any test save exactness in
hitting their mark. He told Gertrude how he had walked over
While this periodical recital was going on, Gertrude lived
in a fantastic world; she seemed to herself to be reading a romance that came
out in daily numbers. She had known
nothing so delightful since the perusal of "Nicholas Nickleby."
One afternoon she went to see her cousin, Mrs. Acton, Robert's mother, who was
a great invalid, never leaving the house. She came back alone, on foot, across
the fields--this being a short way which they often used. Felix had gone to Boston with her father, who
desired to take the young man to call upon some of his friends, old gentlemen
who remembered his mother--remembered her, but said nothing about her--and
several of whom, with the gentle ladies their wives, had driven out from town
to pay their respects at the little house among the apple-trees, in vehicles
which reminded the Baroness, who received her visitors with discriminating
civility, of the large, light, rattling barouche in which she herself had made
her journey to this neighborhood. The
afternoon was waning; in the western sky the great picture of a
"May I walk back with you?" he asked. And when she had said that he might if he wanted, he observed that he had seen her and recognized her half a mile away.
"You must have very good eyes," said Gertrude.
"Yes, I have very good eyes, Miss Gertrude," said Mr. Brand. She perceived that he meant something; but for a long time past Mr. Brand had constantly meant something, and she had almost got used to it. She felt, however, that what he meant had now a renewed power to disturb her, to perplex and agitate her. He walked beside her in silence for a moment, and then he added, "I have had no trouble in seeing that you are beginning to avoid me. But perhaps," he went on, "one need n't have had very good eyes to see that."
"I have not avoided you," said Gertrude, without looking at him.
"I think you have been unconscious that you were avoiding me," Mr. Brand replied. "You have not even known that I was there."
"Well, you are here now, Mr. Brand!" said Gertrude, with a little laugh. "I know that very well."
He made no rejoinder. He simply walked beside her slowly, as they were obliged to walk over the soft grass. Presently they came to another gate, which was closed. Mr. Brand laid his hand upon it, but he made no movement to open it; he stood and looked at his companion. "You are very much interested--very much absorbed," he said.
Gertrude glanced at him; she saw that he was pale and that he looked excited. She had never seen Mr. Brand excited before, and she felt that the spectacle, if fully carried out, would be impressive, almost painful. "Absorbed in what?" she asked. Then she looked away at the illuminated sky. She felt guilty and uncomfortable, and yet she was vexed with herself for feeling so. But Mr. Brand, as he stood there looking at her with his small, kind, persistent eyes, represented an immense body of half-obliterated obligations, that were rising again into a certain distinctness.
"You have new interests, new occupations," he went on. "I don't know that I can say that you have new duties. We have always old ones, Gertrude," he added.
"Please open the gate, Mr. Brand," she said; and she felt as if, in saying so, she were cowardly and petulant. But he opened the gate, and allowed her to pass; then he closed it behind himself. Before she had time to turn away he put out his hand and held her an instant by the wrist.
"I want to say something to you," he said.
"I know what you want to say," she answered. And she was on the point of adding, "And I know just how you will say it;" but these words she kept back.
"I love you, Gertrude," he said. "I love you very much; I love you more than ever."
He said the words just as she had known he would; she had heard them before. They had no charm for her; she had said to herself before that it was very strange. It was supposed to be delightful for a woman to listen to such words; but these seemed to her flat and mechanical. "I wish you would forget that," she declared.
"How can I--why should I?" he asked.
"I have made you no promise--given you no pledge," she said, looking at him, with her voice trembling a little.
"You have let me feel that I have an influence over you. You have opened your mind to me."
"I never opened my mind to you, Mr. Brand!" Gertrude cried, with some vehemence.
"Then you were not so frank as I thought--as we all thought."
"I don't see what any one else had to do with it!" cried the girl.
"I mean your father and your sister. You know it makes them happy to think you will listen to me."
She gave a little laugh. "It does n't make them happy," she said. "Nothing makes them happy. No one is happy here."
"I think your cousin is very happy--Mr. Young," rejoined Mr. Brand, in a soft, almost timid tone.
"So much the better for him!" And Gertrude gave her little laugh again.
The young man looked at her a moment. "You are very much changed," he said.
"I am glad to hear it," Gertrude declared.
"I am not. I have known you a long time, and I have loved you as you were."
"I am much obliged to you," said Gertrude. "I must be going home. "
He on his side, gave a little laugh.
"You certainly do avoid me--you see!"
"Avoid me, then," said the girl.
He looked at her again; and then, very gently, "No I will not avoid you," he replied; "but I will leave you, for the present, to yourself. I think you will remember--after a while--some of the things you have forgotten. I think you will come back to me; I have great faith in that."
This time his voice was very touching; there was a strong, reproachful force in what he said, and Gertrude could answer nothing. He turned away and stood there, leaning his elbows on the gate and looking at the beautiful sunset. Gertrude left him and took her way home again; but when she reached the middle of the next field she suddenly burst into tears. Her tears seemed to her to have been a long time gathering, and for some moments it was a kind of glee to shed them. But they presently passed away. There was something a little hard about Gertrude; and she never wept again.
Going of an afternoon to call upon his niece, Mr. Wentworth
more than once found Robert Acton sitting in her little drawing-room. This was
in no degree, to Mr. Wentworth, a perturbing fact, for he had no sense of
competing with his young kinsman for Eugenia's good graces. Madame
She was very frank with him; or at least she intended to be.
"I am sure you find it very strange that I should have settled down in
this out-of-the-way part of the world!" she said to him three or four
weeks after she had installed herself. "I am certain you are wondering
about my motives. They are very
pure." The Baroness by this time
was an old inhabitant; the best society in
Robert Acton was seated near her, playing with a fan; there
were always several fans lying about her drawing-room, with long ribbons of
different colors attached to them, and
"If you wish to make me contradict you," said the
Baroness, "vous vous y
prenez mal. In
certain moods there is nothing I am not capable of agreeing to.
"Just now I am not at all in the suburbs; I am in the
place itself," rejoined Acton, who was lounging a little in his chair. He
was, however, not always lounging; and when he was he was not quite so relaxed as he pretended.
To a certain extent, he sought refuge from shyness in this appearance of
relaxation; and like many persons in the same circumstances he somewhat
exaggerated the appearance. Beyond this,
the air of being much at his ease was a cover for vigilant observation. He was
more than interested in this clever woman, who, whatever he might say, was
clever not at all after the Boston fashion; she plunged him into a kind of
excitement, held him in vague suspense.
He was obliged to admit to himself that he had never yet seen a woman
just like this--not even in
One day (he was sitting there again and playing with a fan)
she asked him to apologize, should the occasion present itself, to certain
people in Boston for her not having returned their calls. "There are half
a dozen places," she said; "a formidable list. Charlotte Wentworth
has written it out for me, in a terrifically distinct hand. There is no ambiguity on the subject; I know
perfectly where I must go. Mr. Wentworth
informs me that the carriage is always at my disposal, and
"You ask me to apologize," said
"That is more," the Baroness declared, "than
I am held to. It would be like my asking
you to buy me a bouquet and giving you the money. I have no reason except
that--somehow--it 's too violent an effort. It is not
inspiring. Would n't
that serve as an excuse, in
"I should think it would amuse you to go and see a few
"Ah, the quiet,--the quiet!" the Baroness exclaimed. "That 's what I like. It 's rest. That 's what I came here for. Amusement? I have had amusement. And as for seeing people--I have already seen a great many in my life. If it did n't sound ungracious I should say that I wish very humbly your people here would leave me alone!"
"So I may say. I came for many of those reasons that are no reasons--don't you know?--and yet that are really the best: to come away, to change, to break with everything. When once one comes away one must arrive somewhere, and I asked myself why I should n't arrive here."
"You certainly had time on the way!" said
"When you go away you will see the difficulties I shall put in your path."
"You mean to put difficulties in my path?" she asked, rearranging the rosebud in her corsage.
"The greatest of all--that of having been so agreeable"--
"That I shall be unable to depart? Don't be too sure. I have left some very agreeable people over there."
"I did n't know of your existence. Excuse me for saying anything so rude; but, honestly speaking, I did not. No," the Baroness pursued, "it was precisely not to see you--such people as you--that I came."
"Such people as me?" cried
"I had a sort of longing to come into those natural relations which I knew I should find here. Over there I had only, as I may say, artificial relations. Don't you see the difference?"
"The difference tells against me," said
"Conventional," declared the Baroness; "very conventional."
"Well, there is one way in which the relation of a lady
and a gentleman may always become natural," said
"You mean by their becoming lovers? That may be natural or not. And at any rate," rejoined Eugenia, "nous n'en sommes pas la!"
They were not, as yet; but a little later, when she began to
go with him to drive, it might almost have seemed that they were. He came for
her several times, alone, in his high "wagon," drawn by a pair of
charming light-limbed horses. It was
different, her having gone with Clifford Wentworth, who was her cousin, and so
much younger. It was not to be imagined
that she should have a flirtation with Clifford, who was a mere shame-faced
boy, and whom a large section of
One day--it was late in the afternoon--
"I imagine it does n't remind
you of Silberstadt," said
"It does not remind me of the town, of course," she said, "of the sculptured gables and the Gothic churches, of the wonderful Schloss, with its moat and its clustering towers. But it has a little look of some other parts of the principality. One might fancy one's self among those grand old German forests, those legendary mountains; the sort of country one sees from the windows at Shreckenstein."
"What is Shreckenstein?"
"It is a great castle,--the summer residence of the Reigning Prince."
"Have you ever lived there?"
"I have stayed there," said the Baroness.
"You Americans have such odd ways!" the Baroness declared. "You never ask anything outright; there seem to be so many things you can't talk about."
"We Americans are very polite," said
"The Prince fell in love with me," replied the Baroness simply. "He pressed his suit very hard. At first he did n't wish me to marry him; on the contrary. But on that basis I refused to listen to him. So he offered me marriage--in so far as he might. I was young, and I confess I was rather flattered. But if it were to be done again now, I certainly should not accept him."
"How long ago was this?" asked
"Oh--several years," said Eugenia. "You should never ask a woman for dates."
"Why, I should think that when a woman was relating
"They want him to make a political marriage. It is his brother's idea. His brother is very clever."
"They must be a precious pair!" cried Robert Acton.
The Baroness gave a little philosophic shrug. "Que voulez-vous? They are princes. They think they are treating me very well. Silberstadt is a perfectly despotic little state, and the Reigning Prince may annul the marriage by a stroke of his pen. But he has promised me, nevertheless, not to do so without my formal consent."
"And this you have refused?"
"Hitherto. It is an indignity, and I have wished at least to make it difficult for them. But I have a little document in my writing-desk which I have only to sign and send back to the Prince."
"Then it will be all over?"
The Baroness lifted her hand, and dropped it again. "Of course I shall keep my title; at least, I shall be at liberty to keep it if I choose. And I suppose I shall keep it. One must have a name. And I shall keep my pension. It is very small--it is wretchedly small; but it is what I live on."
"And you have only to sign that paper?"
The Baroness looked at him a moment. "Do you urge it?"
He got up slowly, and stood with his hands in his pockets. "What do you gain by not doing it?"
"I am supposed to gain this advantage--that if I delay, or temporize, the Prince may come back to me, may make a stand against his brother. He is very fond of me, and his brother has pushed him only little by little."
"If he were to come back to you," said
The Baroness met his eyes; she colored just a little. Then she rose. "I should have the satisfaction of saying, 'Now it is my turn. I break with your serene highness!' "
They began to walk toward the carriage. "Well," said Robert Acton, "it 's a curious story! How did you make his acquaintance?"
"I was staying with an old lady--an old Countess--in
"Your brother ought to have stayed with you,"
The Baroness was silent a moment, and then, "He did
what he could," she said. "He
sent me money. The old Countess
encouraged the Prince; she was even pressing.
It seems to me," Madame
"Well, I don't know--I don't know," said
"In one case I should have my revenge; in another case I should have my liberty."
A couple of days afterward he asked her to come and see his
house. The visit had already been proposed, but it had been put off in
consequence of his mother's illness. She
was a constant invalid, and she had passed these recent years, very patiently,
in a great flowered arm-chair at her bedroom window. Lately, for some days, she had been unable to
see any one; but now she was better, and she sent the Baroness a very civil
Lizzie reappeared to say that her mother would now be happy
to receive Madame
"I have heard a great deal about you," she said, softly, to the Baroness.
"From your son, eh?" Eugenia asked. "He has talked to me immensely of you. Oh, he talks of you as you would like," the Baroness declared; "as such a son must talk of such a mother!"
Mrs. Acton sat gazing; this was part of Madame
When she had given him her hand in farewell she looked at him a moment. "I have almost decided to dispatch that paper," she said.
He knew that she alluded to the document that she had called her renunciation; and he assisted her into the carriage without saying anything. But just before the vehicle began to move he said, "Well, when you have in fact dispatched it, I hope you will let me know!"
Felix young finished Gertrude's portrait, and he afterwards transferred to canvas the features of many members of that circle of which it may be said that he had become for the time the pivot and the centre. I am afraid it must be confessed that he was a decidedly flattering painter, and that he imparted to his models a romantic grace which seemed easily and cheaply acquired by the payment of a hundred dollars to a young man who made "sitting" so entertaining. For Felix was paid for his pictures, making, as he did, no secret of the fact that in guiding his steps to the Western world affectionate curiosity had gone hand in hand with a desire to better his condition. He took his uncle's portrait quite as if Mr. Wentworth had never averted himself from the experiment; and as he compassed his end only by the exercise of gentle violence, it is but fair to add that he allowed the old man to give him nothing but his time. He passed his arm into Mr. Wentworth's one summer morning--very few arms indeed had ever passed into Mr. Wentworth's--and led him across the garden and along the road into the studio which he had extemporized in the little house among the apple-trees. The grave gentleman felt himself more and more fascinated by his clever nephew, whose fresh, demonstrative youth seemed a compendium of experiences so strangely numerous. It appeared to him that Felix must know a great deal; he would like to learn what he thought about some of those things as regards which his own conversation had always been formal, but his knowledge vague. Felix had a confident, gayly trenchant way of judging human actions which Mr. Wentworth grew little by little to envy; it seemed like criticism made easy. Forming an opinion--say on a person's conduct--was, with Mr. Wentworth, a good deal like fumbling in a lock with a key chosen at hazard. He seemed to himself to go about the world with a big bunch of these ineffectual instruments at his girdle. His nephew, on the other hand, with a single turn of the wrist, opened any door as adroitly as a horse-thief. He felt obliged to keep up the convention that an uncle is always wiser than a nephew, even if he could keep it up no otherwise than by listening in serious silence to Felix's quick, light, constant discourse. But there came a day when he lapsed from consistency and almost asked his nephew's advice.
"Have you ever entertained the idea of settling in the
"My dear uncle," said Felix, "excuse me if your question makes me smile a little. To begin with, I have never entertained an idea. Ideas often entertain me; but I am afraid I have never seriously made a plan. I know what you are going to say; or rather, I know what you think, for I don't think you will say it--that this is very frivolous and loose-minded on my part. So it is; but I am made like that; I take things as they come, and somehow there is always some new thing to follow the last. In the second place, I should never propose to settle. I can't settle, my dear uncle; I 'm not a settler. I know that is what strangers are supposed to do here; they always settle. But I have n't--to answer your question--entertained that idea."
"You intend to return to
"I can't say I intend.
But it 's very likely I shall go back to
"Than what?" asked Mr. Wentworth, with his pale gravity.
"Well, than everything! Living in the midst of you, this way; this charming, quiet, serious family life; fraternizing with Charlotte and Gertrude; calling upon twenty young ladies and going out to walk with them; sitting with you in the evening on the piazza and listening to the crickets, and going to bed at ten o'clock."
"Your description is very animated," said Mr. Wentworth; "but I see nothing improper in what you describe."
"Neither do I, dear uncle. It is extremely delightful; I should n't like it if it were improper. I assure you I don't like improper things; though I dare say you think I do," Felix went on, painting away.
"I have never accused you of that."
"Pray don't," said Felix, "because, you see, at bottom I am a terrible Philistine."
"A Philistine?" repeated Mr. Wentworth.
"I mean, as one may say, a plain, God-fearing man." Mr. Wentworth looked at him reservedly, like a mystified sage, and Felix continued, "I trust I shall enjoy a venerable and venerated old age. I mean to live long. I can hardly call that a plan, perhaps; but it 's a keen desire--a rosy vision. I shall be a lively, perhaps even a frivolous old man!"
"It is natural," said his uncle, sententiously, "that one should desire to prolong an agreeable life. We have perhaps a selfish indisposition to bring our pleasure to a close. But I presume," he added, "that you expect to marry."
"That too, dear uncle, is a hope, a desire, a vision," said Felix. It occurred to him for an instant that this was possibly a preface to the offer of the hand of one of Mr. Wentworth's admirable daughters. But in the name of decent modesty and a proper sense of the hard realities of this world, Felix banished the thought. His uncle was the incarnation of benevolence, certainly; but from that to accepting--much more postulating--the idea of a union between a young lady with a dowry presumptively brilliant and a penniless artist with no prospect of fame, there was a very long way. Felix had lately become conscious of a luxurious preference for the society--if possible unshared with others--of Gertrude Wentworth; but he had relegated this young lady, for the moment, to the coldly brilliant category of unattainable possessions. She was not the first woman for whom he had entertained an unpractical admiration. He had been in love with duchesses and countesses, and he had made, once or twice, a perilously near approach to cynicism in declaring that the disinterestedness of women had been overrated. On the whole, he had tempered audacity with modesty; and it is but fair to him now to say explicitly that he would have been incapable of taking advantage of his present large allowance of familiarity to make love to the younger of his handsome cousins. Felix had grown up among traditions in the light of which such a proceeding looked like a grievous breach of hospitality. I have said that he was always happy, and it may be counted among the present sources of his happiness that he had as regards this matter of his relations with Gertrude a deliciously good conscience. His own deportment seemed to him suffused with the beauty of virtue--a form of beauty that he admired with the same vivacity with which he admired all other forms.
"I think that if you marry," said Mr. Wentworth presently, "it will conduce to your happiness."
"Sicurissimo!" Felix exclaimed; and then, arresting his brush, he looked at his uncle with a smile. "There is something I feel tempted to say to you. May I risk it?"
Mr. Wentworth drew himself up a little. "I am very safe; I don't repeat things." But he hoped Felix would not risk too much.
Felix was laughing at his answer.
"It 's odd to hear you telling me how to be happy. I don't think you know yourself, dear uncle. Now, does that sound brutal?"
The old man was silent a moment, and then, with a dry dignity that suddenly touched his nephew: "We may sometimes point out a road we are unable to follow."
"Ah, don't tell me you have had any sorrows," Felix rejoined. "I did n't suppose it, and I did n't mean to allude to them. I simply meant that you all don't amuse yourselves."
"Amuse ourselves? We are not children."
"Precisely not! You have reached the proper age. I was saying that the other day to Gertrude," Felix added. "I hope it was not indiscreet."
"If it was," said Mr. Wentworth, with a keener irony than Felix would have thought him capable of, "it was but your way of amusing yourself. I am afraid you have never had a trouble."
"Oh, yes, I have!" Felix declared, with some spirit; "before I knew better. But you don't catch me at it again."
Mr. Wentworth maintained for a while a silence more expressive than a deep-drawn sigh. "You have no children," he said at last.
"Don't tell me," Felix exclaimed, "that your charming young people are a source of grief to you!"
"I don't speak of
The next time he gave Felix a sitting his nephew reminded him that he had taken him into his confidence. "How is Clifford to-day?" Felix asked. "He has always seemed to me a young man of remarkable discretion. Indeed, he is only too discreet; he seems on his guard against me--as if he thought me rather light company. The other day he told his sister--Gertrude repeated it to me--that I was always laughing at him. If I laugh it is simply from the impulse to try and inspire him with confidence. That is the only way I have."
"Clifford's situation is no laughing matter," said Mr. Wentworth. "It is very peculiar, as I suppose you have guessed."
"Ah, you mean his love affair with his cousin?"
Mr. Wentworth stared, blushing a little. "I mean his absence from college. He has been suspended. We have decided not to speak of it unless we are asked."
"Suspended?" Felix repeated.
"He has been requested by the Harvard authorities to absent himself for six months. Meanwhile he is studying with Mr. Brand. We think Mr. Brand will help him; at least we hope so."
"What befell him at college?" Felix asked. "He was too fond of pleasure? Mr. Brand certainly will not teach him any of those secrets!"
"He was too fond of something of which he should not have been fond. I suppose it is considered a pleasure."
Felix gave his light laugh.
"My dear uncle, is there any doubt about its being a pleasure? C'est de son age,
as they say in
"I should have said rather it was a vice of later life--of disappointed old age."
Felix glanced at his uncle, with his lifted eyebrows, and then, "Of what are you speaking?" he demanded, smiling.
"Of the situation in which Clifford was found."
"Ah, he was found--he was caught?"
"Necessarily, he was caught. He could n't walk; he staggered."
"Oh," said Felix, "he drinks! I rather suspected that, from something I observed the first day I came here. I quite agree with you that it is a low taste. It 's not a vice for a gentleman. He ought to give it up."
"We hope for a good deal from Mr. Brand's influence," Mr. Wentworth went on. "He has talked to him from the first. And he never touches anything himself."
"I will talk to him--I will talk to him!" Felix declared, gayly.
"What will you say to him?" asked his uncle, with some apprehension.
Felix for some moments answered nothing. "Do you mean to marry him to his cousin?" he asked at last.
"Marry him?" echoed Mr. Wentworth. "I should n't think his cousin would want to marry him."
"You have no understanding, then, with Mrs. Acton?"
Mr. Wentworth stared, almost blankly. "I have never discussed such subjects with her."
"I should think it might be time," said Felix. "Lizzie Acton is admirably pretty, and if Clifford is dangerous...."
"They are not engaged," said Mr. Wentworth. "I have no reason to suppose they are engaged."
"Par exemple!" cried Felix. "A clandestine engagement? Trust me, Clifford, as I say, is a charming boy. He is incapable of that. Lizzie Acton, then, would not be jealous of another woman."
"I certainly hope not," said the old man, with a vague sense of jealousy being an even lower vice than a love of liquor.
"The best thing for Clifford, then," Felix propounded, "is to become interested in some clever, charming woman." And he paused in his painting, and, with his elbows on his knees, looked with bright communicativeness at his uncle. "You see, I believe greatly in the influence of women. Living with women helps to make a man a gentleman. It is very true Clifford has his sisters, who are so charming. But there should be a different sentiment in play from the fraternal, you know. He has Lizzie Acton; but she, perhaps, is rather immature."
"I suspect Lizzie has talked to him, reasoned with him," said Mr. Wentworth.
"On the impropriety of getting tipsy--on the beauty of temperance? That is dreary work for a pretty young girl. No," Felix continued; "Clifford ought to frequent some agreeable woman, who, without ever mentioning such unsavory subjects, would give him a sense of its being very ridiculous to be fuddled. If he could fall in love with her a little, so much the better. The thing would operate as a cure."
"Well, now, what lady should you suggest?" asked Mr. Wentworth.
"There is a clever woman under your hand. My sister."
"Your sister--under my hand?" Mr. Wentworth repeated.
"Say a word to Clifford. Tell him to be bold. He is well disposed already; he has invited her two or three times to drive. But I don't think he comes to see her. Give him a hint to come--to come often. He will sit there of an afternoon, and they will talk. It will do him good. "
Mr. Wentworth meditated. "You think she will exercise a helpful influence?"
"She will exercise a civilizing--I may call it a sobering--influence. A charming, clever, witty woman always does--especially if she is a little of a coquette. My dear uncle, the society of such women has been half my education. If Clifford is suspended, as you say, from college, let Eugenia be his preceptress."
Mr. Wentworth continued thoughtful. "You think Eugenia is a coquette?" he asked.
"What pretty woman is not?" Felix demanded in turn. But this, for Mr. Wentworth, could at the best have been no answer, for he did not think his niece pretty. "With Clifford," the young man pursued, "Eugenia will simply be enough of a coquette to be a little ironical. That 's what he needs. So you recommend him to be nice with her, you know. The suggestion will come best from you."
"Do I understand," asked the old man, "that I
am to suggest to my son to make a--a profession of--of affection to Madame
"Yes, yes--a profession!" cried Felix sympathetically.
"But, as I understand it, Madame
"Ah," said Felix, smiling, "of course she can't marry him. But she will do what she can."
Mr. Wentworth sat for some time with his eyes on the floor; at last he got up. "I don't think," he said, "that I can undertake to recommend my son any such course." And without meeting Felix's surprised glance he broke off his sitting, which was not resumed for a fortnight.
Felix was very fond of the little lake which occupied so many of Mr. Wentworth's numerous acres, and of a remarkable pine grove which lay upon the further side of it, planted upon a steep embankment and haunted by the summer breeze. The murmur of the air in the far off tree-tops had a strange distinctness; it was almost articulate. One afternoon the young man came out of his painting-room and passed the open door of Eugenia's little salon. Within, in the cool dimness, he saw his sister, dressed in white, buried in her arm-chair, and holding to her face an immense bouquet. Opposite to her sat Clifford Wentworth, twirling his hat. He had evidently just presented the bouquet to the Baroness, whose fine eyes, as she glanced at him over the big roses and geraniums, wore a conversational smile. Felix, standing on the threshold of the cottage, hesitated for a moment as to whether he should retrace his steps and enter the parlor. Then he went his way and passed into Mr. Wentworth's garden. That civilizing process to which he had suggested that Clifford should be subjected appeared to have come on of itself. Felix was very sure, at least, that Mr. Wentworth had not adopted his ingenious device for stimulating the young man's aesthetic consciousness. "Doubtless he supposes," he said to himself, after the conversation that has been narrated, "that I desire, out of fraternal benevolence, to procure for Eugenia the amusement of a flirtation--or, as he probably calls it, an intrigue--with the too susceptible Clifford. It must be admitted--and I have noticed it before--that nothing exceeds the license occasionally taken by the imagination of very rigid people." Felix, on his own side, had of course said nothing to Clifford; but he had observed to Eugenia that Mr. Wentworth was much mortified at his son's low tastes. "We ought to do something to help them, after all their kindness to us," he had added. "Encourage Clifford to come and see you, and inspire him with a taste for conversation. That will supplant the other, which only comes from his puerility, from his not taking his position in the world--that of a rich young man of ancient stock--seriously enough. Make him a little more serious. Even if he makes love to you it is no great matter."
"I am to offer myself as a superior form of intoxication--a substitute for a brandy bottle, eh?" asked the Baroness. "Truly, in this country one comes to strange uses."
But she had not positively declined to undertake Clifford's
higher education, and Felix, who had not thought of the matter again, being
haunted with visions of more personal profit, now reflected that the work of
redemption had fairly begun. The idea in prospect had seemed of the happiest,
but in operation it made him a trifle uneasy.
"What if Eugenia--what if Eugenia"--he asked himself softly;
the question dying away in his sense of Eugenia's undetermined capacity. But before Felix had time either to accept or
to reject its admonition, even in this vague form, he saw Robert Acton turn out
of Mr. Wentworth's inclosure, by a distant gate, and
come toward the cottage in the orchard.
Felix passed through the garden toward the house and toward
a postern gate which opened upon a path leading across the fields, beside a
little wood, to the lake. He stopped and looked up at the house; his eyes
rested more particularly upon a certain open window, on the shady side.
Presently Gertrude appeared there, looking out into the summer light. He took
off his hat to her and bade her good-day; he remarked that he was going to row
across the pond, and begged that she would do him the honor to accompany him.
She looked at him a moment; then, without saying anything, she turned
away. But she soon reappeared below in
one of those quaint and charming
"You are going away?" said Gertrude, looking at him.
"Some day--when the leaves begin to fall. You know I can't stay forever."
Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after a pause, she said, "I shall never see you again."
"Why not?" asked Felix. "We shall probably both survive my departure."
But Gertrude only repeated, "I shall never see you again. I shall never hear of you," she went on. "I shall know nothing about you. I knew nothing about you before, and it will be the same again."
"I knew nothing about you then, unfortunately," said Felix. "But now I shall write to you."
"Don't write to me. I shall not answer you," Gertrude declared.
"I should of course burn your letters," said Felix.
Gertrude looked at him again. "Burn my letters? You sometimes say strange things."
"They are not strange in themselves," the young
man answered. "They are only strange as said to you. You will come to
"With whom shall I come?" She asked this question simply; she was very much in earnest. Felix was interested in her earnestness; for some moments he hesitated. "You can't tell me that," she pursued. "You can't say that I shall go with my father and my sister; you don't believe that."
"I shall keep your letters," said Felix, presently, for all answer.
"I never write. I don't know how to write." Gertrude, for some time, said nothing more; and her companion, as he looked at her, wished it had not been "disloyal" to make love to the daughter of an old gentleman who had offered one hospitality. The afternoon waned; the shadows stretched themselves; and the light grew deeper in the western sky. Two persons appeared on the opposite side of the lake, coming from the house and crossing the meadow. "It is Charlotte and Mr. Brand," said Gertrude. "They are coming over here." But Charlotte and Mr. Brand only came down to the edge of the water, and stood there, looking across; they made no motion to enter the boat that Felix had left at the mooring-place. Felix waved his hat to them; it was too far to call. They made no visible response, and they presently turned away and walked along the shore.
"Mr. Brand is not demonstrative," said Felix. "He is never demonstrative to me. He sits silent, with his chin in his hand, looking at me. Sometimes he looks away. Your father tells me he is so eloquent; and I should like to hear him talk. He looks like such a noble young man. But with me he will never talk. And yet I am so fond of listening to brilliant imagery!"
"He is very eloquent," said Gertrude; "but he has no brilliant imagery. I have heard him talk a great deal. I knew that when they saw us they would not come over here."
"Ah, he is making la cour, as they say, to your sister? They desire to be alone?"
"No," said Gertrude, gravely, "they have no such reason as that for being alone."
"But why does n't he make la cour to
Gertrude glanced at him, and then she looked at the distantly-seen couple they were discussing. Mr. Brand and Charlotte were walking side by side. They might have been a pair of lovers, and yet they might not. "They think I should not be here," said Gertrude.
"With me? I thought you did n't have those ideas."
"You don't understand. There are a great many things you don't understand."
"I understand my stupidity. But why, then, do not Charlotte and Mr. Brand, who, as an elder sister and a clergyman, are free to walk about together, come over and make me wiser by breaking up the unlawful interview into which I have lured you?"
"That is the last thing they would do," said Gertrude.
Felix stared at her a moment, with his lifted eyebrows. "Je n'y comprends rien!" he exclaimed; then his eyes followed for a while the retreating figures of this critical pair. "You may say what you please," he declared; "it is evident to me that your sister is not indifferent to her clever companion. It is agreeable to her to be walking there with him. I can see that from here." And in the excitement of observation Felix rose to his feet.
Gertrude rose also, but she made no attempt to emulate her companion's discovery; she looked rather in another direction. Felix's words had struck her; but a certain delicacy checked her. "She is certainly not indifferent to Mr. Brand; she has the highest opinion of him."
"One can see it--one can see it," said Felix, in a tone of amused contemplation, with his head on one side. Gertrude turned her back to the opposite shore; it was disagreeable to her to look, but she hoped Felix would say something more. "Ah, they have wandered away into the wood," he added.
Gertrude turned round again. "She is not in love with him," she said; it seemed her duty to say that.
"Then he is in love with her; or if he is not, he ought to be. She is such a perfect little woman of her kind. She reminds me of a pair of old-fashioned silver sugar-tongs; you know I am very fond of sugar. And she is very nice with Mr. Brand; I have noticed that; very gentle and gracious."
Gertrude reflected a moment. Then she took a great resolution. "She wants him to marry me," she said. "So of course she is nice."
Felix's eyebrows rose higher than ever. "To marry you! Ah, ah, this is interesting. And you think one must be very nice with a man to induce him to do that?"
Gertrude had turned a little pale, but she went on, "Mr. Brand wants it himself."
Felix folded his arms and stood looking at her. "I see--I see," he said quickly. "Why did you never tell me this before?"
"It is disagreeable to me to speak of it even now. I
wished simply to explain to you about
"You don't wish to marry Mr. Brand, then?"
"No," said Gertrude, gravely.
"And does your father wish it?"
"And you don't like him--you have refused him?"
"I don't wish to marry him."
"Your father and sister think you ought to, eh?"
"It is a long story," said Gertrude. "They think there are good reasons. I can't explain it. They think I have obligations, and that I have encouraged him."
Felix smiled at her, as if she had been telling him an amusing story about some one else. "I can't tell you how this interests me," he said. "Now you don't recognize these reasons--these obligations?"
"I am not sure; it is not easy." And she picked up her parasol and turned away, as if to descend the slope.
"Tell me this," Felix went on, going with her: "are you likely to give in--to let them persuade you?"
Gertrude looked at him with the serious face that she had constantly worn, in opposition to his almost eager smile. "I shall never marry Mr. Brand," she said.
"I see!" Felix rejoined. And they slowly descended the hill together, saying nothing till they reached the margin of the pond. "It is your own affair," he then resumed; "but do you know, I am not altogether glad? If it were settled that you were to marry Mr. Brand I should take a certain comfort in the arrangement. I should feel more free. I have no right to make love to you myself, eh?" And he paused, lightly pressing his argument upon her.
"None whatever," replied Gertrude quickly--too quickly.
"Your father would never hear of it; I have n't a penny. Mr. Brand, of course, has property of his own, eh?"
"I believe he has some property; but that has nothing to do with it."
"With you, of course not; but with your father and sister it must have. So, as I say, if this were settled, I should feel more at liberty. "
"More at liberty?" Gertrude repeated. "Please unfasten the boat."
Felix untwisted the rope and stood holding it. "I should be able to say things to you that I can't give myself the pleasure of saying now," he went on. "I could tell you how much I admire you, without seeming to pretend to that which I have no right to pretend to. I should make violent love to you," he added, laughing, "if I thought you were so placed as not to be offended by it."
"You mean if I were engaged to another man? That is strange reasoning!" Gertrude exclaimed.
"In that case you would not take me seriously."
"I take every one seriously," said Gertrude. And without his help she stepped lightly into the boat.
Felix took up the oars and sent it forward. "Ah, this is what you have been thinking about? It seemed to me you had something on your mind. I wish very much," he added, "that you would tell me some of these so-called reasons--these obligations."
"They are not real reasons--good reasons," said Gertrude, looking at the pink and yellow gleams in the water.
"I can understand that! Because a handsome girl has had a spark of coquetry, that is no reason."
"If you mean me, it 's not that. I have not done that."
"It is something that troubles you, at any rate," said Felix.
"Not so much as it used to," Gertrude rejoined.
He looked at her, smiling always. "That is not saying much, eh?" But she only rested her eyes, very gravely, on the lighted water. She seemed to him to be trying to hide the signs of the trouble of which she had just told him. Felix felt, at all times, much the same impulse to dissipate visible melancholy that a good housewife feels to brush away dust. There was something he wished to brush away now; suddenly he stopped rowing and poised his oars. "Why should Mr. Brand have addressed himself to you, and not to your sister?" he asked. "I am sure she would listen to him."
Gertrude, in her family, was thought capable of a good deal of levity; but her levity had never gone so far as this. It moved her greatly, however, to hear Felix say that he was sure of something; so that, raising her eyes toward him, she tried intently, for some moments, to conjure up this wonderful image of a love-affair between her own sister and her own suitor. We know that Gertrude had an imaginative mind; so that it is not impossible that this effort should have been partially successful. But she only murmured, "Ah, Felix! ah, Felix!"
"Why should n't they marry? Try and make them marry!" cried Felix.
"Try and make them?"
"Turn the tables on them. Then they will leave you alone. I will help you as far as I can."
Gertrude's heart began to beat; she was greatly excited; she had never had anything so interesting proposed to her before. Felix had begun to row again, and he now sent the boat home with long strokes. "I believe she does care for him!" said Gertrude, after they had disembarked.
"Of course she does, and we will marry them off. It will make them happy; it will make every one happy. We shall have a wedding and I will write an epithalamium."
"It seems as if it would make me happy," said Gertrude.
"To get rid of Mr. Brand, eh? To recover your liberty?"
Gertrude walked on. "To see my sister married to so good a man."
Felix gave his light laugh. "You always put things on those grounds; you will never say anything for yourself. You are all so afraid, here, of being selfish. I don't think you know how," he went on. "Let me show you! It will make me happy for myself, and for just the reverse of what I told you a while ago. After that, when I make love to you, you will have to think I mean it."
"I shall never think you mean anything," said Gertrude. "You are too fantastic."
"Ah," cried Felix, "that 's a license to say everything! Gertrude, I adore you!"
Charlotte and Mr. Brand had not returned when they reached the house; but the Baroness had come to tea, and Robert Acton also, who now regularly asked for a place at this generous repast or made his appearance later in the evening. Clifford Wentworth, with his juvenile growl, remarked upon it.
"You are always coming to tea nowadays, Robert,"
he said. "I should think you had drunk enough tea in
"Since when is Mr. Acton more frequent?" asked the Baroness.
"Since you came," said Clifford. "It seems as if you were a kind of attraction."
"I suppose I am a curiosity," said the Baroness. "Give me time and I will make you a salon."
"It would fall to pieces after you go!" exclaimed
"Don't talk about her going, in that familiar way," Clifford said. "It makes me feel gloomy."
Mr. Wentworth glanced at his son, and taking note of these words, wondered if Felix had been teaching him, according to the programme he had sketched out, to make love to the wife of a German prince.
"It is cruel of you to ask me that," he answered, very softly. He had a large morsel of cake before him; but he fingered it without eating it. "I sometimes think you are growing cruel," he added.
Gertrude said nothing; she was afraid to speak. There was a kind of rage in her heart; she
felt as if she could easily persuade herself that she was persecuted. She said to herself that it was quite right
that she should not allow him to make her believe she was wrong. She thought of
what Felix had said to her; she wished indeed Mr. Brand would marry
"I did n't come to you this afternoon because you were not alone," he began; "because you were with a newer friend."
"Felix? He is an old friend by this time."
Mr. Brand looked at the ground for some moments. "I thought I was prepared to hear you speak in that way," he resumed. "But I find it very painful."
"I don't see what else I can say," said Gertrude.
Mr. Brand walked beside her for a while in silence; Gertrude wished he would go away. "He is certainly very accomplished. But I think I ought to advise you."
"To advise me?"
"I think I know your nature."
"I think you don't," said Gertrude, with a soft laugh.
"You make yourself out worse than you are--to please him," Mr. Brand said, gently.
"Worse--to please him? What do you mean?" asked Gertrude, stopping.
Mr. Brand stopped also, and with the same soft straight-forwardness, "He does n't care for the things you care for--the great questions of life."
Gertrude, with her eyes on his, shook her head. "I don't care for the great questions of life. They are much beyond me."
"There was a time when you did n't say that," said Mr. Brand.
"Oh," rejoined Gertrude, "I think you made me talk a great deal of nonsense. And it depends," she added, "upon what you call the great questions of life. There are some things I care for."
"Are they the things you talk about with your cousin?"
"You should not say things to me against my cousin, Mr. Brand," said Gertrude. "That is dishonorable."
He listened to this respectfully; then he answered, with a little vibration of the voice, "I should be very sorry to do anything dishonorable. But I don't see why it is dishonorable to say that your cousin is frivolous."
"Go and say it to himself!"
"I think he would admit it," said Mr. Brand. "That is the tone he would take. He would not be ashamed of it."
"Then I am not ashamed of it!" Gertrude declared. "That is probably what I like him for. I am frivolous myself."
"You are trying, as I said just now, to lower yourself."
"I am trying for once to be natural!" cried Gertrude passionately. "I have been pretending, all my life; I have been dishonest; it is you that have made me so!" Mr. Brand stood gazing at her, and she went on, "Why should n't I be frivolous, if I want? One has a right to be frivolous, if it 's one's nature. No, I don't care for the great questions. I care for pleasure--for amusement. Perhaps I am fond of wicked things; it is very possible!"
Mr. Brand remained staring; he was even a little pale, as if he had been frightened. "I don't think you know what you are saying!" he exclaimed.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps I am talking nonsense. But it is only with you that I talk nonsense. I never do so with my cousin."
"I will speak to you again, when you are less excited," said Mr. Brand.
"I am always excited when you speak to me. I must tell you that--even if it prevents you altogether, in future. Your speaking to me irritates me. With my cousin it is very different. That seems quiet and natural."
He looked at her, and then he looked away, with a kind of helpless distress, at the dusky garden and the faint summer stars. After which, suddenly turning back, "Gertrude, Gertrude!" he softly groaned. "Am I really losing you?"
She was touched--she was pained; but it had already occurred to her that she might do something better than say so. It would not have alleviated her companion's distress to perceive, just then, whence she had sympathetically borrowed this ingenuity. "I am not sorry for you," Gertrude said; "for in paying so much attention to me you are following a shadow--you are wasting something precious. There is something else you might have that you don't look at--something better than I am. That is a reality!" And then, with intention, she looked at him and tried to smile a little. He thought this smile of hers very strange; but she turned away and left him.
She wandered about alone in the garden wondering what Mr. Brand
would make of her words, which it had been a singular pleasure for her to
utter. Shortly after, passing in front
of the house, she saw at a distance two persons standing near the garden gate.
It was Mr. Brand going away and bidding good-night to Charlotte, who had walked
down with him from the house. Gertrude
saw that the parting was prolonged. Then
she turned her back upon it. She had not gone very far, however, when she heard
her sister slowly following her. She
neither turned round nor waited for her; she knew what
"Will you listen to me, dear, if I say something very particular?"
"I know what you are going to say," said Gertrude. "Mr. Brand feels very badly."
"Oh, Gertrude, how can you treat him so?"
"What has he done for me?"
"I wonder you can ask, Gertrude. He has helped you so. You told me so yourself, a great many times. You told me that he helped you to struggle with your--your peculiarities. You told me that he had taught you how to govern your temper."
For a moment Gertrude said nothing. Then, "Was my temper very bad?" she asked.
"I am not accusing you, Gertrude," said
"What are you doing, then?" her sister demanded, with a short laugh.
"I am pleading for Mr. Brand--reminding you of all you owe him."
"I have given it all back," said Gertrude, still with her little laugh. "He can take back the virtue he imparted! I want to be wicked again."
Her sister made her stop in the path, and fixed upon her, in the darkness, a sweet, reproachful gaze. "If you talk this way I shall almost believe it. Think of all we owe Mr. Brand. Think of how he has always expected something of you. Think how much he has been to us. Think of his beautiful influence upon Clifford."
"He is very good," said Gertrude, looking at her sister. "I know he is very good. But he should n't speak against Felix."
"Felix is good,"
"He is very--very good," Gertrude repeated. "He is more to you; yes, much more.
"Oh, Gertrude!" cried poor Charlotte; and her sister saw her blushing in the darkness.
Gertrude put her arm round her. "I wish he would marry you!" she went on.
"You like him more than you say, and he likes you more than he knows."
"This is very cruel of you!" Charlotte Wentworth murmured.
But if it was cruel Gertrude continued pitiless. "Not if it 's true," she answered. "I wish he would marry you."
"Please don't say that."
"I mean to tell him so!" said Gertrude.
"Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude!" her sister almost moaned.
"Yes, if he speaks to me again about myself. I will say, 'Why don't you marry
"You are wicked; you are changed!" cried her sister.
"If you don't like it you can prevent it," said Gertrude. "You can prevent it by keeping him from speaking to me!" And with this she walked away, very conscious of what she had done; measuring it and finding a certain joy and a quickened sense of freedom in it.
Mr. Wentworth was rather wide of the mark in suspecting that
Clifford had begun to pay unscrupulous compliments to his brilliant cousin; for
the young man had really more scruples than he received credit for in his
family. He had a certain transparent shamefacedness which was in itself a proof that he was not at his ease in dissipation.
His collegiate peccadilloes had aroused a domestic murmur as disagreeable to
the young man as the creaking of his boots would have been to a house-breaker.
Only, as the house-breaker would have simplified matters by removing his chaussures, it had seemed to Clifford that the shortest cut
to comfortable relations with people--relations which should make him cease to
think that when they spoke to him they meant something improving--was to renounce
all ambition toward a nefarious development. And, in fact, Clifford's ambition
took the most commendable form. He thought of himself in the future as the
well-known and much-liked Mr. Wentworth, of Boston, who should, in the natural
course of prosperity, have married his pretty cousin, Lizzie Acton; should live
in a wide-fronted house, in view of the Common; and should drive, behind a
light wagon, over the damp autumn roads, a pair of beautifully matched sorrel
horses. Clifford's vision of the coming years was very simple; its most
definite features were this element of familiar matrimony and the duplication
of his resources for trotting. He had not yet asked his cousin to marry him;
but he meant to do so as soon as he had taken his degree. Lizzie was serenely
conscious of his intention, and she had made up her mind that he would improve.
Her brother, who was very fond of this light, quick, competent little Lizzie,
saw on his side no reason to interpose. It seemed to him a graceful social law
that Clifford and his sister should become engaged; he himself was not engaged,
but every one else, fortunately, was not such a fool as he. He was fond of
Clifford, as well, and had his own way--of which it must be confessed he was a
little ashamed--of looking at those aberrations which had led to the young
man's compulsory retirement from the neighboring seat of learning.
Eugenia herself, as we know, had plenty of leisure to
enumerate her uses. As I have had the honor of intimating, she had come four
thousand miles to seek her fortune; and it is not to be supposed that after
this great effort she could neglect any apparent aid to advancement. It is my
misfortune that in attempting to describe in a short compass the deportment of
this remarkable woman I am obliged to express things rather brutally. I feel this to be the case, for instance,
when I say that she had primarily detected such an aid to advancement in the
person of Robert Acton, but that she had afterwards remembered that a prudent
archer has always a second bowstring. Eugenia was a woman of finely-mingled
motive, and her intentions were never sensibly gross. She had a sort of aesthetic ideal for
Clifford which seemed to her a disinterested reason for taking him in
hand. It was very well for a
fresh-colored young gentleman to be ingenuous; but Clifford, really, was crude.
With such a pretty face he ought to have prettier manners. She would teach him
that, with a beautiful name, the expectation of a large property, and, as they
Once Clifford had begun to come and see her by himself and for himself, he came very often. He hardly knew why he should come; he saw her almost every evening at his father's house; he had nothing particular to say to her. She was not a young girl, and fellows of his age called only upon young girls. He exaggerated her age; she seemed to him an old woman; it was happy that the Baroness, with all her intelligence, was incapable of guessing this. But gradually it struck Clifford that visiting old women might be, if not a natural, at least, as they say of some articles of diet, an acquired taste. The Baroness was certainly a very amusing old woman; she talked to him as no lady--and indeed no gentleman--had ever talked to him before.
"You should go to
"I don't want to go," Clifford declared. "I know some fellows who have been to
"That depends. It depends upon your idea of fun. Your friends probably were not introduced."
"Introduced?" Clifford demanded.
"They had no opportunity of going into society; they formed no relations." This was one of a certain number of words that the Baroness often pronounced in the French manner.
"They went to a ball, in
"Ah, there are balls and balls; especially in
"Oh, I 'm very well," said Clifford. "I 'm not sick."
"I don't mean for your health, my poor child. I mean for your manners. "
"I have n't got any manners!" growled Clifford.
"Precisely. You don't mind my assenting to that,
eh?" asked the Baroness with a smile.
"You must go to
All this, to Clifford's apprehension, was a great mixture--his beginning young, Eugenia's return to Europe, his being introduced to her charming little circle. What was he to begin, and what was her little circle? His ideas about her marriage had a good deal of vagueness; but they were in so far definite as that he felt it to be a matter not to be freely mentioned. He sat and looked all round the room; he supposed she was alluding in some way to her marriage.
"Oh, I don't want to go to
She looked at him a while, smiling with her lips, but not with her eyes.
"You have scruples?" she asked.
"Scruples?" said Clifford.
"You young people, here, are very singular; one does n't know where to expect you. When you are not extremely improper you are so terribly proper. I dare say you think that, owing to my irregular marriage, I live with loose people. You were never more mistaken. I have been all the more particular."
"Oh, no," said Clifford, honestly distressed. "I never thought such a thing as that."
"Are you very sure? I am convinced that your father does, and your sisters. They say to each other that here I am on my good behavior, but that over there--married by the left hand--I associate with light women. "
"Oh, no," cried Clifford, energetically, "they don't say such things as that to each other!"
"If they think them they had better say them," the Baroness rejoined. "Then they can be contradicted. Please contradict that whenever you hear it, and don't be afraid of coming to see me on account of the company I keep. I have the honor of knowing more distinguished men, my poor child, than you are likely to see in a life-time. I see very few women; but those are women of rank. So, my dear young Puritan, you need n't be afraid. I am not in the least one of those who think that the society of women who have lost their place in the vrai monde is necessary to form a young man. I have never taken that tone. I have kept my place myself, and I think we are a much better school than the others. Trust me, Clifford, and I will prove that to you," the Baroness continued, while she made the agreeable reflection that she could not, at least, be accused of perverting her young kinsman. "So if you ever fall among thieves don't go about saying I sent you to them."
Clifford thought it so comical that he should know--in spite of her figurative language--what she meant, and that she should mean what he knew, that he could hardly help laughing a little, although he tried hard. "Oh, no! oh, no!" he murmured.
"Laugh out, laugh out, if I amuse you!" cried the Baroness. "I am here for that!" And Clifford thought her a very amusing person indeed. "But remember," she said on this occasion, "that you are coming--next year--to pay me a visit over there."
About a week afterwards she said to him, point-blank, "Are you seriously making love to your little cousin?"
"Seriously making love"--these words, on Madame
"Why would n't you say it?" the Baroness demanded. "Those things ought to be known."
"I don't care whether it is known or not," Clifford rejoined. "But I don't want people looking at me."
"A young man of your importance ought to learn to bear observation--to carry himself as if he were quite indifferent to it. I won't say, exactly, unconscious," the Baroness explained. "No, he must seem to know he is observed, and to think it natural he should be; but he must appear perfectly used to it. Now you have n't that, Clifford; you have n't that at all. You must have that, you know. Don't tell me you are not a young man of importance," Eugenia added. "Don't say anything so flat as that."
"Oh, no, you don't catch me saying that!" cried Clifford.
"Yes, you must come to
Clifford sat staring, blushing and laughing. "I shall mind it a good deal!" he declared.
"Ah, not too much, you know; that would be uncivil. But I give you leave to mind it a little; especially if you have a passion for Miss Acton. Voyons; as regards that, you either have or you have not. It is very simple to say it."
"I don't see why you want to know," said Clifford.
"You ought to want me to know. If one is arranging a marriage, one tells one's friends."
"Oh, I 'm not arranging anything," said Clifford.
"You don't intend to marry your cousin?"
"Well, I expect I shall do as I choose!"
The Baroness leaned her head upon the back of her chair and closed her eyes, as if she were tired. Then opening them again, "Your cousin is very charming!" she said.
"She is the prettiest girl in this place," Clifford rejoined.
" 'In this place' is saying little; she would be charming anywhere. I am afraid you are entangled."
"Oh, no, I 'm not entangled."
"Are you engaged? At your age that is the same thing."
Clifford looked at the Baroness with some audacity. "Will you tell no one?"
"If it 's as sacred as that--no."
"Well, then--we are not!" said Clifford.
"That 's the great secret--that you are not, eh?" asked the Baroness, with a quick laugh. "I am very glad to hear it. You are altogether too young. A young man in your position must choose and compare; he must see the world first. Depend upon it," she added, "you should not settle that matter before you have come abroad and paid me that visit. There are several things I should like to call your attention to first."
"Well, I am rather afraid of that visit," said Clifford. "It seems to me it will be rather like going to school again."
The Baroness looked at him a moment.
"My dear child," she said, "there is no agreeable man who has not, at some moment, been to school to a clever woman--probably a little older than himself. And you must be thankful when you get your instructions gratis. With me you would get it gratis."
The next day Clifford told Lizzie Acton that the Baroness thought her the most charming girl she had ever seen.
Lizzie shook her head. "No, she does n't!" she said.
"Do you think everything she says," asked Clifford, "is to be taken the opposite way?"
"I think that is!" said Lizzie.
Clifford was going to remark that in this case the Baroness must desire greatly to bring about a marriage between Mr. Clifford Wentworth and Miss Elizabeth Acton; but he resolved, on the whole, to suppress this observation.
It seemed to Robert Acton, after Eugenia had come to his house, that something had passed between them which made
them a good deal more intimate. It was
hard to say exactly what, except her telling him that she had taken her
resolution with regard to the Prince Adolf; for Madame
Toward the middle of August he was obliged to leave home for
some days; an old friend, with whom he had been associated in
He returned home rapidly, and, arriving in the afternoon,
lost as little time as possible in joining the familiar circle at Mr.
Wentworth's. On reaching the house, however, he found the piazzas empty. The
doors and windows were open, and their emptiness was made clear by the shafts
of lamp-light from the parlors. Entering
the house, he found Mr. Wentworth sitting alone in one of these apartments,
engaged in the perusal of the "North American Review." After they had
exchanged greetings and his cousin had made discreet inquiry about his journey,
"They are scattered about, amusing themselves as
usual," said the old man. "I saw
"I suppose you mean Felix," said
"Your sister has not come this evening. You must have seen her at home," said Mr. Wentworth.
"Yes. I proposed to her to come. She declined."
"Lizzie, I suppose, was expecting a visitor," said the old man, with a kind of solemn slyness.
"If she was expecting Clifford, he had not turned up."
Mr. Wentworth, at this intelligence, closed the "North
American Review" and remarked that he had understood Clifford to say that
he was going to see his cousin.
Privately, he reflected that if Lizzie Acton had had no news of his son,
Clifford must have gone to
"You must remember that he has two cousins," said
Mr. Wentworth stared a moment, and remembered that queer
proposition of Felix's. For a moment he did not know whether it was not to be
wished that Clifford, after all, might have gone to
"Is she ill?"
"No; I have been to see her."
"What is the matter with her?"
"Well," said Mr. Wentworth, "I infer she has tired of us."
His quiet-faced kinsman looked at him a moment. "Are you going home?" he asked.
"Well, you are honest, at least," said Mr. Wentworth, sadly.
"So are you, if you come to that!" cried
The old man opened the "North American" again, and read a few lines. "If we have ever had any virtue among us, we had better keep hold of it now," he said. He was not quoting.
"We have a Baroness among us," said
donc!" she said at last.
"I have just returned from my journey," said
"Ah, very kind, very kind," she repeated, looking about her where to sit.
"I went first to the other house,"
She had sunk into her usual chair; but she got up again, and
began to move about the room.
"It 's too early to end
She looked at him again, and, after a moment, dropped once more into her low chair, while he took a place near her. "We are in the middle, then?" she asked. "Was that where we were when you went away? No, I have n't been to the other house."
"Not yesterday, nor the day before, eh?"
"I don't know how many days it is."
"You are tired of it," said
She leaned back in her chair; her arms were folded. "That is a terrible accusation, but I have not the courage to defend myself."
"I am not attacking you," said
"It 's a proof of extreme intelligence. I hope you enjoyed your journey."
"Not at all,"
"Now you are attacking me," said the Baroness. "You are contrasting my inconstancy with your own fidelity."
"I confess I never get tired of people I like."
"Ah, you are not a poor wicked foreign woman, with irritable nerves and a sophisticated mind!"
"Something has happened to you since I went away,"
"Your going away--that is what has happened to me."
"Do you mean to say that you have missed me?" he asked.
"If I had meant to say it, it would not be worth your making a note of. I am very dishonest and my compliments are worthless."
"Only for a moment. I shall pull myself together again."
"You had better not take it too hard. If you are bored, you need n't be afraid to say so--to me at least."
"You should n't say such things as that," the Baroness answered. "You should encourage me."
"I admire your patience; that is encouraging."
"You should n't even say that. When you talk of my patience you are disloyal to your own people. Patience implies suffering; and what have I had to suffer?"
"Oh, not hunger, not unkindness, certainly," said
"You all detest me!" cried the Baroness, with a sudden vehemence, turning her back toward him.
"You make it hard," said
Eugenia had been looking at the door on the other side of the room; now she slowly turned her eyes toward Robert Acton. "What can be the motive," she asked, "of a man like you--an honest man, a galant homme--in saying so base a thing as that?"
"Does it sound very base?" asked
The Baroness stood looking at him. "How do you mean it?" she asked.
This question was difficult to answer, and
"Oh, it is n't an
The Baroness was silent a moment; and then, "I think I have told you too much!" she said.
This declaration appeared to
The Baroness had sunk once more into a chair, and she had taken up a fan which she held, with both hands, to her mouth. Over the top of the fan her eyes were fixed on him. "You are very strange to-night," she said, with a little laugh.
"I will do anything in the world," he rejoined,
standing in front of her. "Should n't you like
to travel about and see something of the country? Won't you go to
"With you, do you mean?"
"I should be delighted to take you."
"If you were not what you are," she answered, "I should feel insulted."
"How do you mean--what I am?"
"If you were one of the gentlemen I have been used to all my life. If you were not a queer Bostonian."
"If the gentlemen you have been used to have taught you
to expect insults," said
"If you wish to 'amuse' me," the Baroness declared, "you need go to no further expense. You amuse me very effectually."
He sat down opposite to her; she still held her fan up to
her face, with her eyes only showing above it.
There was a moment's silence, and then he said, returning to his former
question, "Have you sent that document to
Again there was a moment's silence. The expressive eyes of Madame M; auunster seemed, however, half to break it.
"I will tell you--at
She had hardly spoken when the door at the further end of
the room opened--the door upon which, some minutes previous, Eugenia had fixed
her gaze. Clifford Wentworth stood there, blushing and looking rather awkward.
The Baroness rose, quickly, and
"Ah, you were here?" exclaimed
"He was in Felix's studio," said Madame
Clifford looked at Robert Acton, but said nothing; he only
fanned himself with his hat. "You
chose a bad moment," said
"I had n't any!" said Clifford, laughing.
"Your candle went out?" Eugenia asked. "You should have come back here and lighted it again."
Clifford looked at her a moment. "So I have--come back. But I have left the candle!"
Eugenia turned away. "You are very stupid, my poor boy. You had better go home."
"Well," said Clifford, "good night!"
"Have n't you a word to throw
to a man when he has safely returned from a dangerous journey?"
"How do you do?" said Clifford. "I thought--I thought you were"--and he paused, looking at the Baroness again.
"You thought I was at
"Good night, clever child!" said Madame
Clifford stared at her--not at all like a clever child; and then, with one of his little facetious growls, took his departure.
"What is the matter with him?" asked
Eugenia, who was near the window, glanced out, listening a moment. "The matter--the matter"--she answered. "But you don't say such things here."
"If you mean that he had been drinking a little, you can say that."
"He does n't drink any more. I have cured him. And in return--he 's in love with me."
Eugenia was silent a little. "He had not been in the studio. I invented that at the moment."
"Invented it? For what purpose?"
"He has an idea of being romantic. He has adopted the habit of coming to see me at midnight--passing only through the orchard and through Felix's painting-room, which has a door opening that way. It seems to amuse him," added Eugenia, with a little laugh.
"To your sister?"
"You know they are decidedly intimate," said
"Ah," cried Eugenia, smiling, "has she--has she"--
"I don't know,"
"Ah, par exemple!" the Baroness went on. "The little monster! The next time he becomes sentimental I will him tell that he ought to be ashamed of himself."
"I had told him as much already, on general
grounds," said the Baroness.
"But in this country, you know, the relations of young people are
so extraordinary that one is quite at sea. They are not engaged when you would
quite say they ought to be. Take Charlotte Wentworth, for instance, and that
young ecclesiastic. If I were her father I should insist upon his marrying her;
but it appears to be thought there is no urgency. On the other hand, you
suddenly learn that a boy of twenty and a little girl who is still with her
governess--your sister has no governess?
Well, then, who is never away from her mamma--a young couple, in short,
between whom you have noticed nothing beyond an exchange of the childish
pleasantries characteristic of their age, are on the point of setting up as man
and wife." The Baroness spoke with a certain exaggerated volubility which
was in contrast with the languid grace that had characterized her manner before
Clifford made his appearance. It seemed to
"I have not been here an hour," he said, "and they are still sitting up at the other house. You can see the lights. Your brother has not come in."
"Oh, at the other house," cried Eugenia, "they are terrible people! I don't know what they may do over there. I am a quiet little humdrum woman; I have rigid rules and I keep them. One of them is not to have visitors in the small hours--especially clever men like you. So good night!"
Decidedly, the Baroness was incisive; and though
The next day Clifford Wentworth came to see Lizzie, and Acton, who was at home and saw him pass through the garden, took note of the circumstance. He had a natural desire to make it tally with Madame M; auunster's account of Clifford's disaffection; but his ingenuity, finding itself unequal to the task, resolved at last to ask help of the young man's candor. He waited till he saw him going away, and then he went out and overtook him in the grounds.
"I wish very much you would answer me a question,"
Clifford began to laugh and to blush, by no means like a young man with a romantic secret. "What did she tell you?" he asked.
"That is exactly what I don't want to say."
"Well, I want to tell you the same," said Clifford; "and unless I know it perhaps I can't."
They had stopped in a garden path;
Clifford stared, looking a little alarmed. "Oh, come," he growled, "you don't mean that!"
"And that when--for common civility's sake--you came occasionally to the house you left her alone and spent your time in Felix's studio, under pretext of looking at his sketches."
"Oh, come!" growled Clifford, again.
"Did you ever know me to tell an untruth?"
"Yes, lots of them!" said Clifford, seeing an opening, out of the discussion, for his sarcastic powers. "Well," he presently added, "I thought you were my father."
"You knew some one was there?"
"We heard you coming in."
"I was in the parlor. We heard your step outside. I thought it was my father."
"And on that," asked
"She told me to go--to go out by the studio."
"Well," said Clifford, "father does n't like to see me there."
"Well, I hope not," said Clifford. "He has n't said so--in so many words--to me. But I know it worries him; and I want to stop worrying him. The Baroness knows it, and she wants me to stop, too."
"To stop coming to see her?"
"I don't know about that; but to stop worrying father. Eugenia knows everything," Clifford added, with an air of knowingness of his own.
"She knew it was not father coming in."
"Then why did you go?"
Clifford blushed and laughed afresh. "Well, I was afraid it was. And besides, she told me to go, at any rate."
"Did she think it was I?"
"She did n't say so."
Again Robert Acton reflected. "But you did n't go," he presently said; "you came back."
"I could n't get out of the studio," Clifford rejoined. "The door was locked, and Felix has nailed some planks across the lower half of the confounded windows to make the light come in from above. So they were no use. I waited there a good while, and then, suddenly, I felt ashamed. I did n't want to be hiding away from my own father. I could n't stand it any longer. I bolted out, and when I found it was you I was a little flurried. But Eugenia carried it off, did n't she?" Clifford added, in the tone of a young humorist whose perception had not been permanently clouded by the sense of his own discomfort.
"Oh," cried Clifford, with the indifference of a young man who feels that however he may have failed of felicity in behavior he is extremely just in his impressions, "Eugenia does n't care for anything!"
"No, sir!" said Clifford, almost shaking off his hand.
The first sunday
that followed Robert Acton's return from
Her brother, at least, came in, stamping in the hall and shaking the wet from his coat. In a moment he entered the room, with a glow in his cheek and half-a-dozen rain-drops glistening on his mustache. "Ah, you have a fire," he said.
"Les beaux jours sont passes," replied the Baroness.
"Never, never! They have only begun," Felix declared, planting himself before the hearth. He turned his back to the fire, placed his hands behind him, extended his legs and looked away through the window with an expression of face which seemed to denote the perception of rose-color even in the tints of a wet Sunday.
His sister, from her chair, looked up at him, watching him;
and what she saw in his face was not grateful to her present mood. She was
puzzled by many things, but her brother's disposition was a frequent source of
wonder to her. I say frequent and not
constant, for there were long periods during which she gave her attention to
other problems. Sometimes she had said to herself that his happy temper, his
eternal gayety, was an affectation, a pose; but she was vaguely conscious that
during the present summer he had been a highly successful comedian. They had
never yet had an explanation; she had not known the need of one. Felix was
presumably following the bent of his disinterested genius, and she felt that
she had no advice to give him that he would understand. With this, there was
always a certain element of comfort about Felix--the assurance that he would
not interfere. He was very delicate,
this pure-minded Felix; in effect, he was her brother, and Madame
"Dear brother," said Eugenia at last, "do stop making les yeux doux at the rain."
"With pleasure. I will make them at you!" answered Felix.
"How much longer," asked Eugenia, in a moment, "do you propose to remain in this lovely spot?"
Felix stared. "Do you want to go away--already?"
" 'Already' is delicious. I am not so happy as you."
Felix dropped into a chair, looking at the fire. "The fact is I am happy," he said in his light, clear tone.
"And do you propose to spend your life in making love to Gertrude Wentworth?"
"Yes!" said Felix, smiling sidewise at his sister.
The Baroness returned his glance, much more gravely; and then, "Do you like her?" she asked.
"Don't you?" Felix demanded.
The Baroness was silent a moment. "I will answer you in the words of the gentleman who was asked if he liked music: 'Je ne la crains pas!'"
"She admires you immensely," said Felix.
"I don't care for that. Other women should not admire one."
"They should dislike you?"
"No time is lost in which one has been happy!" said Felix, with a bright sententiousness which may well have been a little irritating.
"And in which," rejoined his sister, with a harsher laugh, "one has secured the affections of a young lady with a fortune!"
Felix explained, very candidly and seriously. "I have secured Gertrude's affection, but I am by no means sure that I have secured her fortune. That may come--or it may not."
"Ah, well, it may! That 's the great point."
"It depends upon her father. He does n't smile upon our union. You know he wants her to marry Mr. Brand."
"I know nothing about it!" cried the Baroness. "Please to put on a log." Felix complied with her request and sat watching the quickening of the flame. Presently his sister added, "And you propose to elope with mademoiselle?"
"By no means. I don't wish to do anything that 's disagreeable to Mr. Wentworth. He has been far too kind to us."
"But you must choose between pleasing yourself and pleasing him."
"I want to please every one!" exclaimed Felix, joyously. "I have a good conscience. I made up my mind at the outset that it was not my place to make love to Gertrude."
"So, to simplify matters, she made love to you!"
Felix looked at his sister with sudden gravity. "You say you are not afraid of her," he said. "But perhaps you ought to be--a little. She 's a very clever person."
"I begin to see it!" cried the Baroness. Her brother, making no rejoinder, leaned back
in his chair, and there was a long silence. At last, with an altered accent,
"I shall be greatly disappointed if we don't."
"A disappointment or two will do you good!" the Baroness declared. "And, afterwards, do you mean to turn American?"
"It seems to me I am a very good American already. But
we shall go to
"Ah, like me, when I came here!" said the Baroness, with a little laugh.
"No, not like you," Felix rejoined, looking at his
sister with a certain gentle seriousness.
While he looked at her she rose from her chair, and he also got up. "Gertrude is not at all like you,"
he went on; "but in her own way she is almost as clever." He paused a
moment; his soul was full of an agreeable feeling and of a lively disposition
to express it. His sister, to his spiritual vision, was always like the lunar
disk when only a part of it is lighted.
The shadow on this bright surface seemed to him to expand and to
contract; but whatever its proportions, he always appreciated the moonlight. He
looked at the Baroness, and then he kissed her. "I am very much in love
with Gertrude," he said. Eugenia turned away and walked about the room,
and Felix continued. "She is very interesting, and very different from
what she seems. She has never had a chance.
She is very brilliant. We will go to
The Baroness had gone to the window, where she stood looking
out. The day was drearier than ever; the rain was doggedly falling. "Yes,
to amuse yourselves," she said at last, "you had decidedly better go
"Oh, it will be properly!" cried Felix, with light eagerness.
The Baroness gave a little laugh. "You are thinking only of yourself, and you don't answer my question. While you are amusing yourself--with the brilliant Gertrude--what shall I be doing?"
"Vous serez de la partie!" cried Felix.
"Thank you: I should spoil it." The Baroness dropped her eyes for some moments. "Do you propose, however, to leave me here?" she inquired.
Felix smiled at her. "My dearest sister, where you are concerned I never propose. I execute your commands."
"I believe," said Eugenia, slowly, "that you are the most heartless person living. Don't you see that I am in trouble?"
"I saw that you were not cheerful, and I gave you some good news."
"Well, let me give you some news," said the Baroness. "You probably will not have discovered it for yourself. Robert Acton wants to marry me."
"No, I had not discovered that. But I quite understand it. Why does it make you unhappy?"
"Because I can't decide."
"Accept him, accept him!" cried Felix, joyously. "He is the best fellow in the world."
"He is immensely in love with me," said the Baroness.
"And he has a large fortune. Permit me in turn to remind you of that."
"Oh, I am perfectly aware of it," said Eugenia. "That 's a great item in his favor. I am terribly candid." And she left her place and came nearer her brother, looking at him hard. He was turning over several things; she was wondering in what manner he really understood her.
There were several ways of understanding her: there was what she said, and there was what she meant, and there was something, between the two, that was neither. It is probable that, in the last analysis, what she meant was that Felix should spare her the necessity of stating the case more exactly and should hold himself commissioned to assist her by all honorable means to marry the best fellow in the world. But in all this it was never discovered what Felix understood.
"Once you have your liberty, what are your objections?" he asked.
"Well, I don't particularly like him."
"Oh, try a little."
"I am trying now," said Eugenia. "I should succeed better if he did n't live here. I could never live here."
"Make him go to
"Ah, there you speak of happiness based upon violent
effort," the Baroness rejoined.
"That is not what I am looking for. He would never live in
"He would live anywhere, with you!" said Felix, gallantly.
His sister looked at him still, with a ray of penetration in her charming eyes; then she turned away again. "You see, at all events," she presently went on, "that if it had been said of me that I had come over here to seek my fortune it would have to be added that I have found it!"
"Don't leave it lying!" urged Felix, with smiling solemnity.
"I am much obliged to you for your interest," his sister declared, after a moment. "But promise me one thing: pas de zele! If Mr. Acton should ask you to plead his cause, excuse yourself."
"I shall certainly have the excuse," said Felix, "that I have a cause of my own to plead."
"If he should talk of me--favorably," Eugenia continued, "warn him against dangerous illusions. I detest importunities; I want to decide at my leisure, with my eyes open."
"I shall be discreet," said Felix, "except to you. To you I will say, Accept him outright."
She had advanced to the open door-way, and she stood looking at him. "I will go and dress and think of it," she said; and he heard her moving slowly to her apartments.
Late in the afternoon the rain stopped, and just afterwards there was a great flaming, flickering, trickling sunset. Felix sat in his painting-room and did some work; but at last, as the light, which had not been brilliant, began to fade, he laid down his brushes and came out to the little piazza of the cottage. Here he walked up and down for some time, looking at the splendid blaze of the western sky and saying, as he had often said before, that this was certainly the country of sunsets. There was something in these glorious deeps of fire that quickened his imagination; he always found images and promises in the western sky. He thought of a good many things--of roaming about the world with Gertrude Wentworth; he seemed to see their possible adventures, in a glowing frieze, between the cloud-bars; then of what Eugenia had just been telling him. He wished very much that Madame M; auunster would make a comfortable and honorable marriage. Presently, as the sunset expanded and deepened, the fancy took him of making a note of so magnificent a piece of coloring. He returned to his studio and fetched out a small panel, with his palette and brushes, and, placing the panel against a window-sill, he began to daub with great gusto. While he was so occupied he saw Mr. Brand, in the distance, slowly come down from Mr. Wentworth's house, nursing a large folded umbrella. He walked with a joyless, meditative tread, and his eyes were bent upon the ground. Felix poised his brush for a moment, watching him; then, by a sudden impulse, as he drew nearer, advanced to the garden-gate and signaled to him--the palette and bunch of brushes contributing to this effect.
Mr. Brand stopped and started; then he appeared to decide to accept Felix's invitation. He came out of Mr. Wentworth's gate and passed along the road; after which he entered the little garden of the cottage. Felix had gone back to his sunset; but he made his visitor welcome while he rapidly brushed it in.
"I wanted so much to speak to you that I thought I would call you," he said, in the friendliest tone. "All the more that you have been to see me so little. You have come to see my sister; I know that. But you have n't come to see me--the celebrated artist. Artists are very sensitive, you know; they notice those things." And Felix turned round, smiling, with a brush in his mouth.
Mr. Brand stood there with a certain blank, candid majesty, pulling together the large flaps of his umbrella. "Why should I come to see you?" he asked. "I know nothing of Art."
"It would sound very conceited, I suppose," said Felix, "if I were to say that it would be a good little chance for you to learn something. You would ask me why you should learn; and I should have no answer to that. I suppose a minister has no need for Art, eh?"
"He has need for good temper, sir," said Mr. Brand, with decision.
Felix jumped up, with his palette on his thumb and a
movement of the liveliest deprecation.
"That 's because I keep you standing there
while I splash my red paint! I beg a
thousand pardons! You see what bad manners Art gives a man; and how right you
are to let it alone. I did n't mean you should stand, either. The piazza, as you see,
is ornamented with rustic chairs; though indeed I ought to warn you that they
have nails in the wrong places. I was
just making a note of that sunset. I never saw such a blaze of different reds. It looks as if the
Mr. Brand had always credited Felix Young with a certain impudence, but it appeared to him that on this occasion his impudence was so great as to make a special explanation--or even an apology--necessary. And the impression, it must be added, was sufficiently natural. Felix had at all times a brilliant assurance of manner which was simply the vehicle of his good spirits and his good will; but at present he had a special design, and as he would have admitted that the design was audacious, so he was conscious of having summoned all the arts of conversation to his aid. But he was so far from desiring to offend his visitor that he was rapidly asking himself what personal compliment he could pay the young clergyman that would gratify him most. If he could think of it, he was prepared to pay it down. "Have you been preaching one of your beautiful sermons to-day?" he suddenly asked, laying down his palette. This was not what Felix had been trying to think of, but it was a tolerable stop-gap.
Mr. Brand frowned--as much as a man can frown who has very fair, soft eyebrows, and, beneath them, very gentle, tranquil eyes. "No, I have not preached any sermon to-day. Did you bring me over here for the purpose of making that inquiry?"
Felix saw that he was irritated, and he regretted it immensely; but he had no fear of not being, in the end, agreeable to Mr. Brand. He looked at him, smiling and laying his hand on his arm. "No, no, not for that--not for that. I wanted to ask you something; I wanted to tell you something. I am sure it will interest you very much. Only--as it is something rather private--we had better come into my little studio. I have a western window; we can still see the sunset. Andiamo!" And he gave a little pat to his companion's arm.
He led the way in; Mr. Brand stiffly and softly followed. The twilight had thickened in the little studio; but the wall opposite the western window was covered with a deep pink flush. There were a great many sketches and half-finished canvasses suspended in this rosy glow, and the corners of the room were vague and dusky. Felix begged Mr. Brand to sit down; then glancing round him, "By Jove, how pretty it looks!" he cried. But Mr. Brand would not sit down; he went and leaned against the window; he wondered what Felix wanted of him. In the shadow, on the darker parts of the wall, he saw the gleam of three or four pictures that looked fantastic and surprising. They seemed to represent naked figures. Felix stood there, with his head a little bent and his eyes fixed upon his visitor, smiling intensely, pulling his mustache. Mr. Brand felt vaguely uneasy. "It is very delicate--what I want to say," Felix began. "But I have been thinking of it for some time."
"Please to say it as quickly as possible," said Mr. Brand.
"It 's because you are a clergyman, you know," Felix went on. "I don't think I should venture to say it to a common man."
Mr. Brand was silent a moment. "If it is a question of yielding to a weakness, of resenting an injury, I am afraid I am a very common man."
"My dearest friend," cried Felix, "this is not an injury; it 's a benefit--a great service! You will like it extremely. Only it 's so delicate!" And, in the dim light, he continued to smile intensely. "You know I take a great interest in my cousins--in Charlotte and Gertrude Wentworth. That 's very evident from my having traveled some five thousand miles to see them." Mr. Brand said nothing and Felix proceeded. "Coming into their society as a perfect stranger I received of course a great many new impressions, and my impressions had a great freshness, a great keenness. Do you know what I mean?"
"I am not sure that I do; but I should like you to continue."
"I think my impressions have always a good deal of freshness," said Mr. Brand's entertainer; "but on this occasion it was perhaps particularly natural that--coming in, as I say, from outside--I should be struck with things that passed unnoticed among yourselves. And then I had my sister to help me; and she is simply the most observant woman in the world."
"I am not surprised," said Mr. Brand, "that in our little circle two intelligent persons should have found food for observation. I am sure that, of late, I have found it myself!"
"Ah, but I shall surprise you yet!" cried Felix, laughing. "Both my sister and I took a great fancy to my cousin Charlotte."
"Your cousin Charlotte?" repeated Mr. Brand.
"We fell in love with her from the first!"
"You fell in love with
"Dame!" exclaimed Felix, "she
's a very charming person; and Eugenia was especially
smitten." Mr. Brand stood staring,
and he pursued, "Affection, you know, opens one's eyes, and we noticed
There was something akin to an acknowledgment of fascination in the way Mr. Brand looked at him; but the young clergyman retained as yet quite enough self-possession to be able to say, with a good deal of solemnity, "She is not in love with you."
Felix gave a light laugh, and rejoined with the alacrity of a maritime adventurer who feels a puff of wind in his sail. "Ah, no; if she were in love with me I should know it! I am not so blind as you."
"My dear sir, you are stone blind. Poor
Mr. Brand said nothing for a moment; he breathed a little heavily. "Is that what you wanted to say to me?" he asked.
"I have wanted to say it these three weeks. Because of late she has been worse. I told you," added Felix, "it was very delicate."
"Well, sir"--Mr. Brand began; "well, sir"--
"I was sure you did n't know it," Felix continued. "But don't you see--as soon as I mention it--how everything is explained?" Mr. Brand answered nothing; he looked for a chair and softly sat down. Felix could see that he was blushing; he had looked straight at his host hitherto, but now he looked away. The foremost effect of what he had heard had been a sort of irritation of his modesty. "Of course," said Felix, "I suggest nothing; it would be very presumptuous in me to advise you. But I think there is no doubt about the fact."
Mr. Brand looked hard at the floor for some moments; he was
oppressed with a mixture of sensations.
Felix, standing there, was very sure that one of them was profound
surprise. The innocent young man had
been completely unsuspicious of poor
"Thank me for telling you," Felix rejoined. "It 's a good thing to know."
"I am not sure of that," said Mr. Brand.
"Ah, don't let her languish!" Felix murmured, lightly and softly.
"You do advise me, then?" And Mr. Brand looked up.
"I congratulate you!" said Felix, smiling. He had thought at first his visitor was simply appealing; but he saw he was a little ironical.
"It is in your interest; you have interfered with me," the young clergyman went on.
Felix still stood and smiled. The little room had grown darker, and the crimson glow had faded; but Mr. Brand could see the brilliant expression of his face. "I won't pretend not to know what you mean," said Felix at last. "But I have not really interfered with you. Of what you had to lose--with another person--you have lost nothing. And think what you have gained!"
"It seems to me I am the proper judge, on each side," Mr. Brand declared. He got up, holding the brim of his hat against his mouth and staring at Felix through the dusk.
"You have lost an illusion!" said Felix.
"What do you call an illusion?"
"The belief that you really know--that you have ever really known--Gertrude Wentworth. Depend upon that," pursued Felix. "I don't know her yet; but I have no illusions; I don't pretend to."
Mr. Brand kept gazing, over his hat. "She has always been a lucid, limpid nature," he said, solemnly.
"She has always been a dormant nature. She was waiting for a touchstone. But now she is beginning to awaken."
"Don't praise her to me!" said Mr. Brand, with a little quaver in his voice. "If you have the advantage of me that is not generous."
"My dear sir, I am melting with generosity!" exclaimed Felix. "And I am not praising my cousin. I am simply attempting a scientific definition of her. She doesn't care for abstractions. Now I think the contrary is what you have always fancied--is the basis on which you have been building. She is extremely preoccupied with the concrete. I care for the concrete, too. But Gertrude is stronger than I; she whirls me along!"
Mr. Brand looked for a moment into the crown of his hat. "It 's a most interesting nature."
"So it is," said Felix. "But it pulls--it pulls--like a runaway horse. Now I like the feeling of a runaway horse; and if I am thrown out of the vehicle it is no great matter. But if you should be thrown, Mr. Brand"--and Felix paused a moment--"another person also would suffer from the accident."
"What other person?"
Mr. Brand looked at Felix for a moment sidewise, mistrustfully; then his eyes slowly wandered over the ceiling. Felix was sure he was secretly struck with the romance of the situation. "I think this is none of our business," the young minister murmured.
"None of mine, perhaps; but surely yours!"
Mr. Brand lingered still, looking at the ceiling; there was evidently something he wanted to say. "What do you mean by Miss Gertrude being strong?" he asked abruptly.
"Well," said Felix meditatively, "I mean that she has had a great deal of self-possession. She was waiting--for years; even when she seemed, perhaps, to be living in the present. She knew how to wait; she had a purpose. That 's what I mean by her being strong."
"But what do you mean by her purpose?"
"Well--the purpose to see the world!"
Mr. Brand eyed his strange informant askance again; but he said nothing. At last he turned away, as if to take leave. He seemed bewildered, however; for instead of going to the door he moved toward the opposite corner of the room. Felix stood and watched him for a moment--almost groping about in the dusk; then he led him to the door, with a tender, almost fraternal movement. "Is that all you have to say?" asked Mr. Brand.
"Yes, it 's all--but it will bear a good deal of thinking of."
Felix went with him to the garden-gate, and watched him slowly walk away into the thickening twilight with a relaxed rigidity that tried to rectify itself. "He is offended, excited, bewildered, perplexed--and enchanted!" Felix said to himself. "That 's a capital mixture."
Since that visit paid by the Baroness Munster to Mrs. Acton,
of which some account was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, the
intercourse between these two ladies had been neither frequent nor
intimate. It was not that Mrs. Acton had
failed to appreciate Madame M; auunster's charms; on
the contrary, her perception of the graces of manner and conversation of her
brilliant visitor had been only too acute. Mrs. Acton was, as they said in
The long rain had freshened the air, and twelve hours' brilliant sunshine had dried the roads; so that the Baroness, in the late afternoon, proposing to walk to Mrs. Acton's, exposed herself to no great discomfort. As with her charming undulating step she moved along the clean, grassy margin of the road, beneath the thickly-hanging boughs of the orchards, through the quiet of the hour and place and the rich maturity of the summer, she was even conscious of a sort of luxurious melancholy. The Baroness had the amiable weakness of attaching herself to places--even when she had begun with a little aversion; and now, with the prospect of departure, she felt tenderly toward this well-wooded corner of the Western world, where the sunsets were so beautiful and one's ambitions were so pure. Mrs. Acton was able to receive her; but on entering this lady's large, freshly-scented room the Baroness saw that she was looking very ill. She was wonderfully white and transparent, and, in her flowered arm-chair, she made no attempt to move. But she flushed a little--like a young girl, the Baroness thought--and she rested her clear, smiling eyes upon those of her visitor. Her voice was low and monotonous, like a voice that had never expressed any human passions.
"I have come to bid you good-by," said Eugenia. "I shall soon be going away."
"When are you going away?"
"Very soon--any day."
"I am very sorry," said Mrs. Acton. "I hoped you would stay--always."
"Always?" Eugenia demanded.
"Well, I mean a long time," said Mrs. Acton, in her sweet, feeble tone. "They tell me you are so comfortable--that you have got such a beautiful little house."
Eugenia stared--that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor little chalet and she wondered whether her hostess were jesting. "Yes, my house is exquisite," she said; "though not to be compared to yours. "
"And my son is so fond of going to see you," Mrs. Acton added. "I am afraid my son will miss you."
"Ah, dear madame," said
Eugenia, with a little laugh, "I can't stay in
"Don't you like
The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. "If I liked it--that would not be staying for your son!"
Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had not quite understood. The Baroness at last found something irritating in the sweet, soft stare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to be merciful to great invalids she would almost have taken the liberty of pronouncing her, mentally, a fool. "I am afraid, then, I shall never see you again," said Mrs. Acton. "You know I am dying."
"Ah, dear madame," murmured Eugenia.
"I want to leave my children cheerful and happy. My daughter will probably marry her cousin."
"Two such interesting young people," said the Baroness, vaguely. She was not thinking of Clifford Wentworth.
"I feel so tranquil about my end," Mrs. Acton went on. "It is coming so easily, so surely." And she paused, with her mild gaze always on Eugenia's.
The Baroness hated to be reminded of death; but even in its imminence, so far as Mrs. Acton was concerned, she preserved her good manners. "Ah, madame, you are too charming an invalid," she rejoined.
But the delicacy of this rejoinder was apparently lost upon her hostess, who went on in her low, reasonable voice. "I want to leave my children bright and comfortable. You seem to me all so happy here--just as you are. So I wish you could stay. It would be so pleasant for Robert."
Eugenia wondered what she meant by its being pleasant for Robert; but she felt that she would never know what such a woman as that meant. She got up; she was afraid Mrs. Acton would tell her again that she was dying. "Good-by, dear madame," she said. "I must remember that your strength is precious."
Mrs. Acton took her hand and held it a moment. "Well, you have been happy here, have n't you? And you like us all, don't you? I wish you would stay," she added, "in your beautiful little house."
She had told Eugenia that her waiting-woman would be in the
hall, to show her down-stairs; but the large landing outside her door was
empty, and Eugenia stood there looking about. She felt irritated; the dying
lady had not "la main heureuse." She passed
slowly down-stairs, still looking about.
The broad staircase made a great bend, and in the angle was a high
window, looking westward, with a deep bench, covered with a row of flowering
plants in curious old pots of blue china-ware. The yellow afternoon light came
in through the flowers and flickered a little on the white wainscots. Eugenia
paused a moment; the house was perfectly still, save for the ticking,
somewhere, of a great clock. The lower
hall stretched away at the foot of the stairs, half covered over with a large
Oriental rug. Eugenia lingered a little, noticing a great many things. "Comme c'est bien!"
she said to herself; such a large, solid, irreproachable basis of existence the
place seemed to her to indicate. And then she reflected that Mrs. Acton was
soon to withdraw from it. The reflection accompanied her the
rest of the way down-stairs, where she paused again, making more observations. The hall was extremely broad, and on either
side of the front door was a wide, deeply-set window, which threw the shadows
of everything back into the house. There
were high-backed chairs along the wall and big Eastern vases upon tables, and,
on either side, a large cabinet with a glass front and little curiosities
within, dimly gleaming. The doors were
open--into the darkened parlor, the library, the dining-room. All these rooms
seemed empty. Eugenia passed along, and stopped a moment on the threshold of
each. "Comme c'est bien!" she murmured again; she had thought of just
such a house as this when she decided to come to
"Excuse my ridiculous position," he said.
"I have just now no sense of the ridiculous. But, in case you have, don't imagine I came to see you."
"Take care," rejoined
"The occupation of extreme leisure!" said the Baroness. "To think of a woman when you are in that position is no compliment."
"I did n't say I was thinking
She looked at him, and then she turned away.
"Though I did n't come to see you," she said, "remember at least that I am within your gates."
"I am delighted--I am honored! Won't you come into the house?"
"I have just come out of it. I have been calling upon your mother. I have been bidding her farewell."
"I am going away," said the Baroness. And she turned away again, as if to illustrate her meaning.
"When are you going?" asked
"I came this way to look at your garden," she said, walking back to the gate, over the grass. "But I must go."
"Let me at least go with you." He went with her, and they said nothing till
they reached the gate. It was open, and
they looked down the road which was darkened over with long bosky shadows.
"Must you go straight home?"
But she made no answer. She said, after a moment, "Why have you not been to see me?" He said nothing, and then she went on, "Why don't you answer me?"
"I am trying to invent an answer,"
"Have you none ready?"
"None that I can tell you," he said. "But let me walk with you now."
"You may do as you like."
She moved slowly along the road, and
"Is that invented?" asked Eugenia.
"No, that is natural. I stayed away because"--
"Ah, here comes the reason, then!"
"Because I wanted to think about you."
"Because you wanted to lie down!" said the Baroness. "I have seen you lie down--almost--in my drawing-room."
"If I stay," and she gave a little laugh, "it is more serious still!"
"When shall you go?"
"As soon as possible."
"Why should I stay?"
"Because we all admire you so."
"That is not a reason.
I am admired also in
"What could I say to keep you?" asked
"What you can say to keep me?" she repeated. "As I want very much to go it is not in my interest to tell you. Besides, I can't imagine."
He went on with her in silence; he was much more affected by
what she had told him than appeared.
Ever since that evening of his return from
"By Jove, how comme il faut she is!" he said, as he observed her sidewise. When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed into the gate without asking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stood there, to bid him good-night.
"I asked you a question the other night which you never answered," he said. "Have you sent off that document--liberating yourself?"
She hesitated for a single moment--very naturally. Then, "Yes," she said, simply.
He turned away; he wondered whether that would do for his
lie. But he saw her again that evening, for the Baroness reappeared at her
uncle's. He had little talk with her, however; two gentlemen had driven out
She had been sitting just within one of the long windows
that opened upon the piazza; but very soon after
"Why did n't you go home with your cousin?" she asked.
Clifford stared. "Why, Robert has taken her," he said.
"Exactly so. But you don't usually leave that to him."
"Oh," said Clifford, "I want to see those fellows start off. They don't know how to drive."
"It is not, then, that you have quarreled with your cousin?"
Clifford reflected a moment, and then with a simplicity which had, for the Baroness, a singularly baffling quality, "Oh, no; we have made up!" he said.
She looked at him for some moments; but Clifford had begun to be afraid of the Baroness's looks, and he endeavored, now, to shift himself out of their range. "Why do you never come to see me any more?" she asked. "Have I displeased you?"
"Displeased me? Well, I guess not!" said Clifford, with a laugh.
"Why have n't you come, then?"
"Well, because I am afraid of getting shut up in that back room."
Eugenia kept looking at him. "I should think you would like that."
"Like it!" cried Clifford.
"I should, if I were a young man calling upon a charming woman."
"A charming woman is n't much use to me when I am shut up in that back room!"
"I am afraid I am not of much use to you anywhere!" said Madame M; auunster. "And yet you know how I have offered to be."
"Well," observed Clifford, by way of response, "there comes the buggy."
"Never mind the buggy. Do you know I am going away?"
"Do you mean now?"
"I mean in a few days. I leave this place."
"You are going back to
"Oh, yes, I 'll come out there," said Clifford.
"But before that," Eugenia declared, "you must come and see me here."
"Well, I shall keep clear of that back room!" rejoined her simple young kinsman.
The Baroness was silent a moment. "Yes, you must come frankly--boldly. That will be very much better. I see that now."
"I see it!" said Clifford. And then, in an instant, "What 's the matter with that buggy?" His practiced ear had apparently detected an unnatural creak in the wheels of the light vehicle which had been brought to the portico, and he hurried away to investigate so grave an anomaly.
The Baroness walked homeward, alone, in the starlight, asking herself a question. Was she to have gained nothing--was she to have gained nothing?
Gertrude Wentworth had held a silent place in the little
circle gathered about the two gentlemen from
He moved a chair toward her and sat down, smiling as usual,
but, at first, not speaking. She watched
him, with her needle poised, and with a certain shy, fluttered look which she
always wore when he approached her. There was something in Felix's manner that
quickened her modesty, her self-consciousness; if absolute choice had been
given her she would have preferred never to find herself alone with him; and in
fact, though she thought him a most brilliant, distinguished, and well-meaning
person, she had exercised a much larger amount of tremulous tact than he had
ever suspected, to circumvent the accident of tete-a-tete.
"I am very often alone,"
"So clever a woman as you is never lonely," said Felix. "You have company in your beautiful work." And he glanced at the big slipper.
"I like to work," declared
"So do I!" said her companion. "And I like to idle too. But it is not to idle that I have come in search of you. I want to tell you something very particular."
"My dear cousin," said Felix, "it 's nothing that a young lady may not listen to. At least I suppose it is n't. But voyons; you shall judge. I am terribly in love."
"Well, Felix," began Miss Wentworth, gravely. But her very gravity appeared to check the development of her phrase.
"I am in love with your sister; but in love,
"To help you?" asked
"I don't mean with Gertrude; she and I have a perfect understanding; and oh, how well she understands one! I mean with your father and with the world in general, including Mr. Brand."
"Poor Mr. Brand!" said
"Ah, now, don't say 'poor' Mr. Brand! I don't pity Mr. Brand at all. But I pity your father a little, and I don't want to displease him. Therefore, you see, I want you to plead for me. You don't think me very shabby, eh?"
"I don't mean in my appearance," rejoined Felix,
"To--to care for Gertrude?" asked
"To have really expressed one's self. Because I have expressed myself, Charlotte; I
must tell you the whole truth--I have! Of course I want to marry her--and here
is the difficulty. I held off as long as
I could; but she is such a terribly fascinating person! She
's a strange creature,
"Oh, no," said
Felix stared. "Surely, marriage was what you proposed."
"Yes; but we did n't wish to force her."
"A la bonne heure! That 's very unsafe you know. With these arranged marriages there is often the deuce to pay."
"Oh, Felix," said
"I am delighted to hear that. Because in such cases--even
when the woman is a thoroughly good creature--she can't help looking for a
compensation. A charming fellow comes along--and voila!"
"Ah, that 's it, dear
"Yes--and no!" said Felix. "I had at first, I think; but now it is six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it is reciprocal. She affects me strongly--for she is so strong. I don't believe you know her; it 's a beautiful nature."
"Oh, yes, Felix; I have always thought Gertrude's nature beautiful."
"Well, if you think so now," cried the young man, "wait and see! She 's a folded flower. Let me pluck her from the parent tree and you will see her expand. I 'm sure you will enjoy it."
"I don't understand you," murmured
"Well, you can understand this--that I beg you to say a good word for me to your father. He regards me, I naturally believe, as a very light fellow, a Bohemian, an irregular character. Tell him I am not all this; if I ever was, I have forgotten it. I am fond of pleasure--yes; but of innocent pleasure. Pain is all one; but in pleasure, you know, there are tremendous distinctions. Say to him that Gertrude is a folded flower and that I am a serious man!"
"Of course you are--you especially! Because," added Felix hastily, "you are a woman. But I don't pity him. It ought to be enough for any man that you take an interest in him."
"It is not enough for Mr. Brand," said
"Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was," he presently said. "He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked."
"I think she was asleep; I have waked her up!"
Late that night Gertrude, silent and serious, came to him in the garden; it was a kind of appointment. Gertrude seemed to like appointments. She plucked a handful of heliotrope and stuck it into the front of her dress, but she said nothing. They walked together along one of the paths, and Felix looked at the great, square, hospitable house, massing itself vaguely in the starlight, with all its windows darkened.
"I have a little of a bad conscience," he said. "I ought n't to meet you this way till I have got your father's consent."
Gertrude looked at him for some time. "I don't understand you."
"You very often say that," he said. "Considering how little we understand each other, it is a wonder how well we get on!"
"We have done nothing but meet since you came here--but meet alone. The first time I ever saw you we were alone," Gertrude went on. "What is the difference now? Is it because it is at night?"
"The difference, Gertrude," said Felix, stopping
in the path, "the difference is that I love you more--more than
before!" And then they stood there, talking, in the warm stillness and in
front of the closed dark house. "I
have been talking to
"You are too careful," said Gertrude; "you are too diplomatic."
"Well," cried the young man, "I did n't come here to make any one unhappy!"
Gertrude looked round her awhile in the odorous darkness. "I will do anything you please," she said.
"For instance?" asked Felix, smiling.
"I will go away. I will do anything you please."
Felix looked at her in solemn admiration. "Yes, we will go away," he said. "But we will make peace first."
Gertrude looked about her again, and then she broke out, passionately, "Why do they try to make one feel guilty? Why do they make it so difficult? Why can't they understand?"
"I will make them understand!" said Felix. He drew her hand into his arm, and they wandered about in the garden, talking, for an hour.
Mr. Wentworth sat there, with his legs crossed, lifting his
dry, pure countenance from the
Felix looked at
"We are not in
"No, luckily, we are not in
Felix gazed at him, smiling. "Pour la demande!" And then, drawing up a chair, he seated himself, hat in hand, with a kind of conscious solemnity.
Presently he turned to
But Felix, rising too, begged her to remain. "I can speak better to an audience!" he declared.
"I hope it is nothing disagreeable," said Mr. Wentworth.
"It 's something delightful,
for me!" And Felix, laying down his
hat, clasped his hands a little between his knees. "My dear uncle," he said, "I
desire, very earnestly, to marry your daughter Gertrude."
"This is very abrupt," said Mr. Wentworth, at last.
"Have you never suspected it, dear uncle?" Felix inquired. "Well, that proves how discreet I have been. Yes, I thought you would n't like it."
"It is very serious, Felix," said Mr. Wentworth.
"You think it 's an abuse of hospitality!" exclaimed Felix, smiling again.
"Of hospitality?--an abuse?" his uncle repeated very slowly.
"That is what Felix said to me," said
"Of course you think so; don't defend yourself!" Felix pursued. "It is an abuse, obviously; the most I can claim is that it is perhaps a pardonable one. I simply fell head over heels in love; one can hardly help that. Though you are Gertrude's progenitor I don't believe you know how attractive she is. Dear uncle, she contains the elements of a singularly--I may say a strangely--charming woman!"
"She has always been to me an object of extreme concern," said Mr. Wentworth. "We have always desired her happiness."
"Well, here it is!" Felix declared. "I will make her happy. She believes it, too. Now had n't you noticed that?"
"I had noticed that she was much changed," Mr. Wentworth declared, in a tone whose unexpressive, unimpassioned quality appeared to Felix to reveal a profundity of opposition. "It may be that she is only becoming what you call a charming woman."
"Gertrude, at heart, is so earnest, so true," said
"I delight to hear you praise her!" cried Felix.
"She has a very peculiar temperament," said Mr. Wentworth.
"Eh, even that is praise!" Felix rejoined. "I know I am not the man you might have looked for. I have no position and no fortune; I can give Gertrude no place in the world. A place in the world--that 's what she ought to have; that would bring her out."
"A place to do her duty!" remarked Mr. Wentworth.
"Ah, how charmingly she does it--her duty!" Felix exclaimed, with a radiant face. "What an exquisite conception she has of
it! But she comes honestly by that, dear
uncle." Mr. Wentworth and Charlotte both looked at him as if they were
watching a greyhound doubling. "Of
course with me she will hide her light under a bushel," he continued;
"I being the bushel! Now I know you like me--you have certainly proved it.
But you think I am frivolous and penniless and shabby! Granted--granted--a
thousand times granted. I have been a loose fish--a fiddler, a painter, an
actor. But there is this to be said: In
the first place, I fancy you exaggerate; you lend me qualities I have n't had. I have been a Bohemian--yes; but in
Felix's tongue obviously moved much faster than the imagination of his auditors; his eloquence, like the rocking of a boat in a deep, smooth lake, made long eddies of silence. And he seemed to be pleading and chattering still, with his brightly eager smile, his uplifted eyebrows, his expressive mouth, after he had ceased speaking, and while, with his glance quickly turning from the father to the daughter, he sat waiting for the effect of his appeal. "It is not your want of means," said Mr. Wentworth, after a period of severe reticence.
"Now it 's delightful of you to say that! Only don't say it 's my want of character. Because I have a character--I assure you I have; a small one, a little slip of a thing, but still something tangible."
"Ought you not to tell Felix that it is Mr. Brand,
"It is not only Mr. Brand," Mr. Wentworth solemnly declared. And he looked at his knee for a long time. "It is difficult to explain," he said. He wished, evidently, to be very just. "It rests on moral grounds, as Mr. Brand says. It is the question whether it is the best thing for Gertrude."
"What is better--what is better, dear uncle?" Felix rejoined urgently, rising in his urgency and standing before Mr. Wentworth. His uncle had been looking at his knee; but when Felix moved he transferred his gaze to the handle of the door which faced him. "It is usually a fairly good thing for a girl to marry the man she loves!" cried Felix.
While he spoke, Mr. Wentworth saw the handle of the door
begin to turn; the door opened and remained slightly ajar, until Felix had
delivered himself of the cheerful axiom just quoted. Then it opened altogether
and Gertrude stood there. She looked excited; there was a spark in her sweet,
dull eyes. She came in slowly, but with an air of resolution, and, closing the
door softly, looked round at the three persons present. Felix went to her with
tender gallantry, holding out his hand, and
"We are talking of you!" said Felix.
"I know it," she answered. "That 's why I came." And she fastened her eyes on her father, who returned her gaze very fixedly. In his own cold blue eyes there was a kind of pleading, reasoning light.
"It is better you should be present," said Mr. Wentworth. "We are discussing your future."
"Why discuss it?" asked Gertrude. "Leave it to me."
"That is, to me!" cried Felix.
"I leave it, in the last resort, to a greater wisdom than ours," said the old man.
Felix rubbed his forehead gently. "But en attendant the last resort, your father lacks confidence," he said to Gertrude.
"Have n't you confidence in
Felix?" Gertrude was frowning;
there was something about her that her father and Charlotte had never seen.
Mr. Wentworth, however, was not afraid. "I have had more confidence in Felix than in you," he said.
"Yes, you have never had confidence in me--never, never! I don't know why."
"Oh sister, sister!" murmured
"You have always needed advice," Mr. Wentworth declared. "You have had a difficult temperament."
"Why do you call it difficult? It might have been easy, if you had allowed it. You would n't let me be natural. I don't know what you wanted to make of me. Mr. Brand was the worst."
Gertrude looked at her intently an instant; then kissed her. "No, he does not," she said.
"I have never seen you so passionate," observed Mr. Wentworth, with an air of indignation mitigated by high principles.
"I am sorry if I offend you," said Gertrude.
"You offend me, but I don't think you are sorry."
"Yes, father, she is sorry," said
"I would even go further, dear uncle," Felix interposed. "I would question whether she really offends you. How can she offend you?"
To this Mr. Wentworth made no immediate answer. Then, in a moment, "She has not profited as we hoped."
"Profited? Ah voila!" Felix exclaimed.
Gertrude was very pale; she stood looking down. "I have told Felix I would go away with him," she presently said.
"Ah, you have said some admirable things!" cried the young man.
"Go away, sister?" asked
"Away--away; to some strange country."
"That is to frighten you," said Felix, smiling at
"To--what do you call it?" asked Gertrude, turning
an instant to Felix. "To
"Do you propose to dispense with preliminaries?" asked Mr. Wentworth, getting up.
"Dear uncle, vous plaisantez!" cried Felix. "It seems to me that these are preliminaries."
Gertrude turned to her father. "I have profited," she said. "You wanted to form my character. Well, my character is formed--for my age. I know what I want; I have chosen. I am determined to marry this gentleman."
"You had better consent, sir," said Felix very gently.
"Yes, sir, you had better consent," added a very different voice.
"Yes, sir, you had better consent," Mr. Brand repeated, coming forward. "I know what Miss Gertrude means."
"My dear friend!" murmured Felix, laying his hand caressingly on the young minister's arm.
Mr. Brand looked at him; then at Mr. Wentworth; lastly at
Gertrude. He did not look at
"Come in, sir," said Mr. Wentworth, with an angular wave of his hand. "It is very proper that you should be present."
"I know what you are talking about," Mr. Brand rejoined. "I heard what your nephew said."
"And he heard what you said!" exclaimed Felix, patting him again on the arm.
"I am not sure that I understood," said Mr. Wentworth, who had angularity in his voice as well as in his gestures.
Gertrude had been looking hard at her former suitor. She had
been puzzled, like her sister; but her imagination moved more quickly than
The young minister gave her a strange look. "It is not because I don't want to see you any more," he declared, in a tone intended as it were for publicity.
"I should n't think you would want to see me any more," Gertrude answered, gently.
Mr. Wentworth stood staring. "Is n't this rather a change, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir." And Mr. Brand looked anywhere; only still not
"Where are our moral grounds?" demanded Mr. Wentworth, who had always thought Mr. Brand would be just the thing for a younger daughter with a peculiar temperament.
"It is sometimes very moral to change, you know," suggested Felix.
"It is better not to speak of change," said Mr. Brand. "In one sense there is no change. There was something I desired--something I asked of you; I desire something still--I ask it of you." And he paused a moment; Mr. Wentworth looked bewildered. "I should like, in my ministerial capacity, to unite this young couple."
Gertrude, watching her sister, saw
"That is very nice; that is very handsome!" Felix exclaimed.
"I don't understand," said Mr. Wentworth; though it was plain that every one else did.
"That is very beautiful, Mr. Brand," said Gertrude, emulating Felix.
"I should like to marry you. It will give me great pleasure."
"As Gertrude says, it 's a beautiful idea," said Felix.
Felix was smiling, but Mr. Brand was not even trying to. He himself treated his proposition very seriously. "I have thought of it, and I should like to do it," he affirmed.
Mr. Brand heard her; he looked away. Mr. Wentworth, evidently, had no imagination at all. "I have always thought," he began, slowly, "that Gertrude's character required a special line of development."
Then, at last, Mr. Brand looked at her. Her father felt her leaning more heavily upon his folded arm than she had ever done before; and this, with a certain sweet faintness in her voice, made him wonder what was the matter. He looked down at her and saw the encounter of her gaze with the young theologian's; but even this told him nothing, and he continued to be bewildered. Nevertheless, "I consent," he said at last, "since Mr. Brand recommends it."
"I should like to perform the ceremony very soon," observed Mr. Brand, with a sort of solemn simplicity.
"Come, come, that 's charming!" cried Felix, profanely.
Mr. Wentworth sank into his chair. "Doubtless, when you understand it," he said, with a certain judicial asperity.
Gertrude went to her sister and led her away, and Felix having passed his arm into Mr. Brand's and stepped out of the long window with him, the old man was left sitting there in unillumined perplexity.
Felix did no work that day. In the afternoon, with Gertrude, he got into one of the boats and floated about with idly-dipping oars. They talked a good deal of Mr. Brand--though not exclusively.
"That was a fine stroke," said Felix. "It was really heroic."
Gertrude sat musing, with her eyes upon the ripples. "That was what he wanted to be; he wanted to do something fine."
"He won't be comfortable till he has married us," said Felix. "So much the better."
"He wanted to be magnanimous; he wanted to have a fine moral pleasure. I know him so well," Gertrude went on. Felix looked at her; she spoke slowly, gazing at the clear water. "He thought of it a great deal, night and day. He thought it would be beautiful. At last he made up his mind that it was his duty, his duty to do just that--nothing less than that. He felt exalted; he felt sublime. That 's how he likes to feel. It is better for him than if I had listened to him."
"It 's better for me," smiled Felix. "But do you know, as regards the sacrifice, that I don't believe he admired you when this decision was taken quite so much as he had done a fortnight before?"
"He never admired me.
"Well, then, he did n't pity you so much."
Gertrude looked at Felix a little, smiling. "You should n't
permit yourself," she said, "to diminish the splendor of his action.
"That's capital!" said Felix laughingly, and dipping his oars. I cannot say exactly to which member of Gertrude's phrase he alluded; but he dipped his oars again, and they kept floating about.
Neither Felix nor his sister, on that day, was present at Mr. Wentworth's at the evening repast. The two occupants of the chalet dined together, and the young man informed his companion that his marriage was now an assured fact. Eugenia congratulated him, and replied that if he were as reasonable a husband as he had been, on the whole, a brother, his wife would have nothing to complain of.
Felix looked at her a moment, smiling. "I hope," he said, "not to be thrown back on my reason."
"It is very true," Eugenia rejoined, "that one's reason is dismally flat. It 's a bed with the mattress removed."
But the brother and sister, later in the evening, crossed over to the larger house, the Baroness desiring to compliment her prospective sister-in-law. They found the usual circle upon the piazza, with the exception of Clifford Wentworth and Lizzie Acton; and as every one stood up as usual to welcome the Baroness, Eugenia had an admiring audience for her compliment to Gertrude.
Robert Acton stood on the edge of the piazza, leaning against one of the white columns, so that he found himself next to Eugenia while she acquitted herself of a neat little discourse of congratulation.
"I shall be so glad to know you better," she said; "I have seen so much less of you than I should have liked. Naturally; now I see the reason why! You will love me a little, won't you? I think I may say I gain on being known." And terminating these observations with the softest cadence of her voice, the Baroness imprinted a sort of grand official kiss upon Gertrude's forehead.
Increased familiarity had not, to Gertrude's imagination,
diminished the mysterious impressiveness of Eugenia's personality, and she felt
flattered and transported by this little ceremony. Robert Acton also seemed to
admire it, as he admired so many of the gracious manifestations of Madame
They had the privilege of making him restless, and on this occasion he walked away, suddenly, with his hands in his pockets, and then came back and leaned against his column. Eugenia was now complimenting her uncle upon his daughter's engagement, and Mr. Wentworth was listening with his usual plain yet refined politeness. It is to be supposed that by this time his perception of the mutual relations of the young people who surrounded him had become more acute; but he still took the matter very seriously, and he was not at all exhilarated.
"Felix will make her a good husband," said Eugenia. "He will be a charming companion; he has a great quality--indestructible gayety."
"You think that 's a great quality?" asked the old man.
Eugenia meditated, with her eyes upon his. "You think one gets tired of it, eh?"
"I don't know that I am prepared to say that," said Mr. Wentworth.
"Well, we will say, then, that it is tiresome for others but delightful for one's self. A woman's husband, you know, is supposed to be her second self; so that, for Felix and Gertrude, gayety will be a common property."
"Gertrude was always very gay," said Mr. Wentworth. He was trying to follow this argument.
Robert Acton took his hands out of his pockets and came a little nearer to the Baroness. "You say you gain by being known," he said. "One certainly gains by knowing you."
"What have you gained?" asked Eugenia.
"An immense amount of wisdom."
"That 's a questionable advantage for a man who was already so wise!"
"And being a fool you made my acquaintance? You are very complimentary."
"Let me keep it up," said
"Why should I stop for my brother's marriage when I would not stop for my own?" asked the Baroness.
"Why should n't you stop in
either case, now that, as you say, you have dissolved that mechanical tie that
bound you to
The Baroness looked at him a moment. "As I say? You look as if you doubted it."
But she seemed not to hear him; she was looking at him still. "My word was never doubted before," she said.
"We are to have another marriage,"
Then she appeared to understand. "Another
marriage?" And she looked at the others. Felix was chattering to Gertrude;
"Well," said the Baroness, "I never guess my own lovers; so I can't guess other people's."
"I was just telling the Baroness,"
"Mr. Acton was apparently about to announce his own engagement," said Eugenia.
Mr. Wentworth's jocosity increased. "It is not exactly that; but it is in the family. Clifford, hearing this morning that Mr. Brand had expressed a desire to tie the nuptial knot for his sister, took it into his head to arrange that, while his hand was in, our good friend should perform a like ceremony for himself and Lizzie Acton."
The Baroness threw back her head and smiled at her uncle;
then turning, with an intenser radiance, to Robert
Acton, "I am certainly very stupid not to have thought of that," she
"They are spending the evening with my mother."
"Is not the thing very sudden?"
"The impulse," said the Baroness, "was the charms of your very pretty sister."
"But my sister's charms were an old story; he had
always known her."
Here, however, it was evident the Baroness would not help him. "Ah, one can't say! Clifford is very young; but he is a nice boy."
"He 's a likeable sort of boy,
and he will be a rich man." This was
She made but a short visit and Felix took her home. In her little drawing-room she went almost straight to the mirror over the chimney-piece, and, with a candle uplifted, stood looking into it. "I shall not wait for your marriage," she said to her brother. "To-morrow my maid shall pack up."
"My dear sister," Felix exclaimed, "we are to be married immediately! Mr. Brand is too uncomfortable."
But Eugenia, turning and still holding her candle aloft, only looked about the little sitting-room at her gimcracks and curtains and cushions. "My maid shall pack up," she repeated. "Bonte divine, what rubbish! I feel like a strolling actress; these are my 'properties.' "
"Is the play over, Eugenia?" asked Felix.
She gave him a sharp glance. "I have spoken my part."
"With great applause!" said her brother.
"Oh, applause--applause!" she murmured. And she gathered up two or three of her dispersed draperies. She glanced at the beautiful brocade, and then, "I don't see how I can have endured it!" she said.
"Endure it a little longer. Come to my wedding."
"Thank you; that 's your affair. My affairs are elsewhere."
"Where are you going?"
"You have decided not to marry Mr. Acton?"
"I have refused him," said Eugenia.
Her brother looked at her in silence. "I am sorry," he rejoined at last. "But I was very discreet, as you asked me to be. I said nothing. "
"Please continue, then, not to allude to the matter," said Eugenia.
Felix inclined himself gravely. "You shall be obeyed. But your position
"Please to make no observations upon it."
"I was only going to say that I supposed it was altered."
"You are mistaken."
"But I thought you had signed"--
"I have not signed!" said the Baroness.
Felix urged her no further, and it was arranged that he should immediately assist her to embark.
Mr. Brand was indeed, it appeared, very impatient to
consummate his sacrifice and deliver the nuptial benediction which would set it
off so handsomely; but Eugenia's impatience to withdraw from a country in which
she had not found the fortune she had come to seek was even less to be
mistaken. It is true she had not made any very various exertion;
but she appeared to feel justified in generalizing--in deciding that the
conditions of action on this provincial continent were not favorable to really
superior women. The elder world was,
after all, their natural field. The unembarrassed directness with which she
proceeded to apply these intelligent conclusions appeared to the little circle
of spectators who have figured in our narrative but the supreme exhibition of a
character to which the experience of life had imparted an inimitable pliancy.
It had a distinct effect upon Robert Acton, who, for the two days preceding her
departure, was a very restless and irritated mortal. She passed her last
evening at her uncle's, where she had never been more charming; and in parting
with Clifford Wentworth's affianced bride she drew from her own finger a
curious old ring and presented it to her with the prettiest speech and
kiss. Gertrude, who as an affianced
bride was also indebted to her gracious bounty, admired this little incident
extremely, and Robert Acton almost wondered whether it did not give him the
right, as Lizzie's brother and guardian, to offer in return a handsome present
to the Baroness. It would have made him
extremely happy to be able to offer a handsome present to the Baroness; but he
abstained from this expression of his sentiments, and they were in consequence,
at the very last, by so much the less comfortable. It was almost at the very
last that he saw her--late the night before she went to
"For myself, I wish you might have stayed," he said. "But not for your own sake."
"I don't make so many differences," said the Baroness. "I am simply sorry to be going."
"That 's a much deeper
difference than mine,"
Felix parted with her on the deck of the ship. "We shall often meet over there," he said.
"I don't know," she answered. "Europe seems to me much larger than
Mr. Brand, of course, in the days that immediately followed,
was not the only impatient spirit; but it may be said that of all the young
spirits interested in the event none rose more eagerly to the level of the
occasion. Gertrude left her father's
house with Felix Young; they were imperturbably happy and they went far away.
Clifford and his young wife sought their felicity in a narrower circle, and the
latter's influence upon her husband was such as to justify, strikingly, that
theory of the elevating effect of easy intercourse with clever women which Felix
had propounded to Mr. Wentworth. Gertrude was for a good while a distant
figure, but she came back when