CHAPTER X
The first sunday that followed Robert Acton's return from Newportwitnessed a change in the brilliant weather that had long prevailed. Therain began to fall and the day was cold and dreary. Mr. Wentworth andhis daughters put on overshoes and went to church, and Felix Young,without overshoes, went also, holding an umbrella over Gertrude. It isto be feared that, in the whole observance, this was the privilege hemost highly valued. The Baroness remained at home; she was in neither acheerful nor a devotional mood. She had, however, never been, during herresidence in the United States, what is called a regular attendant atdivine service; and on this particular Sunday morning of which I beganwith speaking she stood at the window of her little drawing-room,watching the long arm of a rose-tree that was attached to her piazza,but a portion of which had disengaged itself, sway to and fro, shake andgesticulate, against the dusky drizzle of the sky. Every now and then,in a gust of wind, the rose-tree scattered a shower of water-dropsagainst the window-pane; it appeared to have a kind of human movement--amenacing, warning intention. The room was very cold; Madame Munster puton a shawl and walked about. Then she determined to have some fire; andsummoning her ancient negress, the contrast of whose polished ebony andwhose crimson turban had been at first a source of satisfaction to her,she made arrangements for the production of a crackling flame. This oldwoman's name was Azarina. The Baroness had begun by thinking that therewould be a savory wildness in her talk, and, for amusement, shehad encouraged her to chatter. But Azarina was dry and prim; herconversation was anything but African; she reminded Eugenia of thetiresome old ladies she met in society. She knew, however, how to makea fire; so that after she had laid the logs, Eugenia, who was terriblybored, found a quarter of an hour's entertainment in sitting andwatching them blaze and sputter. She had thought it very likelyRobert Acton would come and see her; she had not met him since thatinfelicitous evening. But the morning waned without his coming; severaltimes she thought she heard his step on the piazza; but it was only awindow-shutter shaking in a rain-gust. The Baroness, since the beginningof that episode in her career of which a slight sketch has beenattempted in these pages, had had many moments of irritation. But to-dayher irritation had a peculiar keenness; it appeared to feed uponitself. It urged her to do something; but it suggested no particularlyprofitable line of action. If she could have done something at themoment, on the spot, she would have stepped upon a European steamer andturned her back, with a kind of rapture, upon that profoundly mortifyingfailure, her visit to her American relations. It is not exactly apparentwhy she should have termed this enterprise a failure, inasmuch as shehad been treated with the highest distinction for which allowance hadbeen made in American institutions. Her irritation came, at bottom, fromthe sense, which, always present, had suddenly grown acute, that thesocial soil on this big, vague continent was somehow not adapted forgrowing those plants whose fragrance she especially inclined toinhale and by which she liked to see herself surrounded--a species ofvegetation for which she carried a collection of seedlings, as wemay say, in her pocket. She found her chief happiness in the sense ofexerting a certain power and making a certain impression; and now shefelt the annoyance of a rather wearied swimmer who, on nearing shore,to land, finds a smooth straight wall of rock when he had counted upona clean firm beach. Her power, in the American air, seemed to have lostits prehensile attributes; the smooth wall of rock was insurmountable."Surely je n'en suis pas la," she said to herself, "that I let it makeme uncomfortable that a Mr. Robert Acton should n't honor me with avisit!" Yet she was vexed that he had not come; and she was vexed at hervexation.
Her brother, at least, came in, stamping in the hall and shaking the wetfrom his coat. In a moment he entered the room, with a glow in his cheekand half-a-dozen rain-drops glistening on his mustache. "Ah, you have afire," he said.
"Les beaux jours sont passes," replied the Baroness.
"Never, never! They have only begun," Felix declared, planting himselfbefore the hearth. He turned his back to the fire, placed his handsbehind him, extended his legs and looked away through the window with anexpression of face which seemed to denote the perception of rose-coloreven in the tints of a wet Sunday.
His sister, from her chair, looked up at him, watching him; and what shesaw in his face was not grateful to her present mood. She was puzzledby many things, but her brother's disposition was a frequent sourceof wonder to her. I say frequent and not constant, for there were longperiods during which she gave her attention to other problems. Sometimesshe had said to herself that his happy temper, his eternal gayety, wasan affectation, a pose; but she was vaguely conscious that during thepresent summer he had been a highly successful comedian. They had neveryet had an explanation; she had not known the need of one. Felix waspresumably following the bent of his disinterested genius, and she feltthat she had no advice to give him that he would understand. With this,there was always a certain element of comfort about Felix--the assurancethat he would not interfere. He was very delicate, this pure-mindedFelix; in effect, he was her brother, and Madame Munster felt that therewas a great propriety, every way, in that. It is true that Felix wasdelicate; he was not fond of explanations with his sister; this was oneof the very few things in the world about which he was uncomfortable.But now he was not thinking of anything uncomfortable.
"Dear brother," said Eugenia at last, "do stop making les yeux doux atthe rain."
"With pleasure. I will make them at you!" answered Felix.
"How much longer," asked Eugenia, in a moment, "do you propose to remainin 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 amhappy," he said in his light, clear tone.
"And do you propose to spend your life in making love to GertrudeWentworth?"
"Yes!" said Felix, smiling sidewise at his sister.
The Baroness returned his glance, much more gravely; and then, "Do youlike her?" she asked.
"Don't you?" Felix demanded.
The Baroness was silent a moment. "I will answer you in the words of thegentleman 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?"
Again Madame Munster hesitated. "They should hate me! It 's a measure ofthe time I have been losing here that they don't."
"No time is lost in which one has been happy!" said Felix, with a brightsententiousness which may well have been a little irritating.
"And in which," rejoined his sister, with a harsher laugh, "one hassecured the affections of a young lady with a fortune!"
Felix explained, very candidly and seriously. "I have secured Gertrude'saffection, 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 knowhe 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 ofthe flame. Presently his sister added, "And you propose to elope withmademoiselle?"
"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 goodconscience. I made up my mind at the outset that it was not my place tomake love to Gertrude."
"So, to simplify matters, she made love to you!"
Felix looked at his sister with sudden gravity. "You say you are notafraid of her," he said. "But perhaps you ought to be--a little. She 'sa very clever person."
"I begin to see it!" cried the Baroness. Her brother, making norejoinder, leane
d back in his chair, and there was a long silence. Atlast, with an altered accent, Madame Munster put another question. "Youexpect, at any rate, to marry?"
"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 toEurope. Gertrude wants extremely to see the world."
"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 certaingentle seriousness. While he looked at her she rose from her chair, andhe also got up. "Gertrude is not at all like you," he went on; "but inher own way she is almost as clever." He paused a moment; his soul wasfull of an agreeable feeling and of a lively disposition to express it.His sister, to his spiritual vision, was always like the lunar disk whenonly a part of it is lighted. The shadow on this bright surface seemedto him to expand and to contract; but whatever its proportions, healways appreciated the moonlight. He looked at the Baroness, and thenhe kissed her. "I am very much in love with Gertrude," he said. Eugeniaturned away and walked about the room, and Felix continued. "She is veryinteresting, and very different from what she seems. She has never hada chance. She is very brilliant. We will go to Europe and amuseourselves."
The Baroness had gone to the window, where she stood looking out. Theday was drearier than ever; the rain was doggedly falling. "Yes, toamuse yourselves," she said at last, "you had decidedly better go toEurope!" Then she turned round, looking at her brother. A chair stoodnear her; she leaned her hands upon the back of it. "Don't you think itis very good of me," she asked, "to come all this way with you simply tosee you properly married--if properly it is?"
"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--withthe 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 somemoments. "Do you propose, however, to leave me here?" she inquired.
Felix smiled at her. "My dearest sister, where you are concerned I neverpropose. I execute your commands."
"I believe," said Eugenia, slowly, "that you are the most heartlessperson 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 willnot have discovered it for yourself. Robert Acton wants to marry me."
"No, I had not discovered that. But I quite understand it. Why does itmake you unhappy?"
"Because I can't decide."
"Accept him, accept him!" cried Felix, joyously. "He is the best fellowin 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 inhis favor. I am terribly candid." And she left her place and came nearerher 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 shemeant was that Felix should spare her the necessity of stating the casemore exactly and should hold himself commissioned to assist her by allhonorable means to marry the best fellow in the world. But in all thisit 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'tlive here. I could never live here."
"Make him go to Europe," Felix suggested.
"Ah, there you speak of happiness based upon violent effort," theBaroness rejoined. "That is not what I am looking for. He would neverlive in Europe."
"He would live anywhere, with you!" said Felix, gallantly.
His sister looked at him still, with a ray of penetration in hercharming eyes; then she turned away again. "You see, at all events," shepresently went on, "that if it had been said of me that I had come overhere 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, aftera moment. "But promise me one thing: pas de zele! If Mr. Acton shouldask you to plead his cause, excuse yourself."
"I shall certainly have the excuse," said Felix, "that I have a cause ofmy own to plead."
"If he should talk of me--favorably," Eugenia continued, "warn himagainst dangerous illusions. I detest importunities; I want to decide atmy 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. "Iwill go and dress and think of it," she said; and he heard her movingslowly to her apartments.
Late in the afternoon the rain stopped, and just afterwards there wasa great flaming, flickering, trickling sunset. Felix sat in hispainting-room and did some work; but at last, as the light, which hadnot been brilliant, began to fade, he laid down his brushes and came outto the little piazza of the cottage. Here he walked up and down for sometime, looking at the splendid blaze of the western sky and saying, as hehad often said before, that this was certainly the country of sunsets.There was something in these glorious deeps of fire that quickened hisimagination; he always found images and promises in the western sky. Hethought of a good many things--of roaming about the world with GertrudeWentworth; he seemed to see their possible adventures, in a glowingfrieze, between the cloud-bars; then of what Eugenia had just beentelling him. He wished very much that Madame Munster would make acomfortable and honorable marriage. Presently, as the sunset expandedand deepened, the fancy took him of making a note of so magnificent apiece of coloring. He returned to his studio and fetched out a smallpanel, with his palette and brushes, and, placing the panel against awindow-sill, he began to daub with great gusto. While he was so occupiedhe saw Mr. Brand, in the distance, slowly come down from Mr. Wentworth'shouse, nursing a large folded umbrella. He walked with a joyless,meditative tread, and his eyes were bent upon the ground. Felix poisedhis brush for a moment, watching him; then, by a sudden impulse, ashe drew nearer, advanced to the garden-gate and signaled to him--thepalette and bunch of brushes contributing to this effect.
Mr. Brand stopped and started; then he appeared to decide to acceptFelix's invitation. He came out of Mr. Wentworth's gate and passed alongthe road; after which he entered the little garden of the cottage. Felixhad gone back to his sunset; but he made his visitor welcome while herapidly brushed it in.
"I wanted so much to speak to you that I thought I would call you," hesaid, in the friendliest tone. "All the more that you have been to seeme so little. You have come to see my sister; I know that. But you haven'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, pullingtogether the large flaps of his umbrella. "Why should I come to seeyou?" he asked. "I know nothing of Art."
"It would sound very conceited, I suppose," said Felix, "if I were tosay 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 tothat. 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 theliveliest deprecation. "That 's because I keep you standing therewhile I splash my red paint! I beg a thousand pardons! You see what badmanners Art gives a man; and how right you are to let it alone. I didn't mean you should stand, either. The piazza, as you see, is ornamentedwith rustic chairs; though indeed I ought to warn you that they havenails in the wrong places. I was just making a note of that sunset. Inever saw such a blaze of different reds. It looks as if the CelestialCity were in flames, eh? If that were really the case I suppose it wouldbe the business of you theologians to put out the fire. Fancy me--anungodly artist--quietly sitting down to paint it!"
Mr. Brand had always credited Felix Young with a certain impudence, butit appeared to him that on this occasion his impudence was so great asto make a special explanation--or even an apology--necessary. And theimpression, it must be added, was sufficiently natural. Felix had at alltimes a brilliant assurance of manner which was simply the vehicle ofhis good spirits and his good will; but at present he had a specialdesign, and as he would have admitted that the design was audacious, sohe was conscious of having summoned all the arts of conversation to hisaid. But he was so far from desiring to offend his visitor that he wasrapidly asking himself what personal compliment he could pay the youngclergyman that would gratify him most. If he could think of it, he wasprepared to pay it down. "Have you been preaching one of your beautifulsermons to-day?" he suddenly asked, laying down his palette. This wasnot what Felix had been trying to think of, but it was a tolerablestop-gap.
Mr. Brand frowned--as much as a man can frown who has very fair, softeyebrows, and, beneath them, very gentle, tranquil eyes. "No, I have notpreached any sermon to-day. Did you bring me over here for the purposeof making that inquiry?"
Felix saw that he was irritated, and he regretted it immensely; but hehad no fear of not being, in the end, agreeable to Mr. Brand. Helooked at him, smiling and laying his hand on his arm. "No, no, not forthat--not for that. I wanted to ask you something; I wanted to tellyou something. I am sure it will interest you very much. Only--as it issomething rather private--we had better come into my little studio. Ihave a western window; we can still see the sunset. Andiamo!" And hegave a little pat to his companion's arm.
He led the way in; Mr. Brand stiffly and softly followed. The twilighthad thickened in the little studio; but the wall opposite the westernwindow was covered with a deep pink flush. There were a great manysketches and half-finished canvasses suspended in this rosy glow, andthe corners of the room were vague and dusky. Felix begged Mr. Brand tosit down; then glancing round him, "By Jove, how pretty it looks!" hecried. But Mr. Brand would not sit down; he went and leaned againstthe window; he wondered what Felix wanted of him. In the shadow, on thedarker parts of the wall, he saw the gleam of three or four picturesthat looked fantastic and surprising. They seemed to represent nakedfigures. Felix stood there, with his head a little bent and his eyesfixed 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'tthink I should venture to say it to a common man."
Mr. Brand was silent a moment. "If it is a question of yielding to aweakness, 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 abenefit--a great service! You will like it extremely. Only it 's sodelicate!" And, in the dim light, he continued to smile intensely. "Youknow I take a great interest in my cousins--in Charlotte and GertrudeWentworth. That 's very evident from my having traveled some fivethousand miles to see them." Mr. Brand said nothing and Felix proceeded."Coming into their society as a perfect stranger I received of course agreat many new impressions, and my impressions had a great freshness, agreat 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 particularlynatural that--coming in, as I say, from outside--I should be struck withthings that passed unnoticed among yourselves. And then I had my sisterto 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 twointelligent persons should have found food for observation. I am surethat, of late, I have found it myself!"
"Ah, but I shall surprise you yet!" cried Felix, laughing. "Both mysister 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 Charlotte?" Mr. Brand murmured.
"_Dame!_" exclaimed Felix, "she 's a very charming person; and Eugeniawas especially smitten." Mr. Brand stood staring, and he pursued,"Affection, you know, opens one's eyes, and we noticed something.Charlotte is not happy! Charlotte is in love." And Felix, drawingnearer, laid his hand again upon his companion's arm.
There was something akin to an acknowledgment of fascination in the wayMr. Brand looked at him; but the young clergyman retained as yet quiteenough 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 maritimeadventurer who feels a puff of wind in his sail. "Ah, no; if she were inlove with me I should know it! I am not so blind as you."
"As I?"
"My dear sir, you are stone blind. Poor Charlotte is dead in love withyou!"
Mr. Brand said nothing for a moment; he breathed a little heavily. "Isthat what you wanted to say to me?" he asked.
"I have wanted to say it these three weeks. Because of late she has beenworse. 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 yousee--as soon as I mention it--how everything is explained?" Mr. Brandanswered nothing; he looked for a chair and softly sat down. Felix couldsee 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 hadbeen a sort of irritation of his modesty. "Of course," said Felix, "Isuggest nothing; it would be very presumptuous in me to advise you. ButI think there is no doubt about the fact."
Mr. Brand looked hard at the floor for some moments; he was oppressedwith a mixture of sensations. Felix, standing there, was very surethat one of them was profound surprise. The innocent young man had beencompletely unsuspicious of poor Charlotte's hidden flame. This gaveFelix great hope; he was sure that Mr. Brand would be flattered. Felixthought him very transparent, and indeed he was so; he could neithersimulate nor dissimulate. "I scarcely know what to make of this," hesaid at last, without looking up; and Felix was struck with the factthat he offered no protest or contradiction. Evidently Felix had kindleda train of memories--a retrospective illumination. It was making, toMr. Brand's astonished eyes, a very pretty blaze; his second emotion hadbeen a gratification of vanity.
"Thank me for telling you," Felix rejoined. "It 's a good thing toknow."
"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 hisvisitor was simply appealing; but he saw he was a little ironical.
"It is in your interest; you have interfered with me," the youngclergyman went on.
Felix still stood and smiled. The little room had grown darker, and thecrimson glow had faded; but Mr. Brand could see the brilliant expressionof his face. "I won't pretend not to know what you mean," said Felixat last. "But I have not really interfered with you. Of what you hadto lose--with anothe
r person--you have lost nothing. And think what youhave gained!"
"It seems to me I am the proper judge, on each side," Mr. Branddeclared. He got up, holding the brim of his hat against his mouth andstaring 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 reallyknown--Gertrude Wentworth. Depend upon that," pursued Felix. "I don'tknow 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 hisvoice. "If you have the advantage of me that is not generous."
"My dear sir, I am melting with generosity!" exclaimed Felix. "And I amnot praising my cousin. I am simply attempting a scientific definitionof her. She doesn't care for abstractions. Now I think the contraryis what you have always fancied--is the basis on which you have beenbuilding. She is extremely preoccupied with the concrete. I care for theconcrete, 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 mostinteresting 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 ofthe vehicle it is no great matter. But if you should be thrown, Mr.Brand"--and Felix paused a moment--"another person also would sufferfrom the accident."
"What other person?"
"Charlotte Wentworth!"
Mr. Brand looked at Felix for a moment sidewise, mistrustfully; then hiseyes slowly wandered over the ceiling. Felix was sure he was secretlystruck with the romance of the situation. "I think this is none of ourbusiness," the young minister murmured.
"None of mine, perhaps; but surely yours!"
Mr. Brand lingered still, looking at the ceiling; there was evidentlysomething he wanted to say. "What do you mean by Miss Gertrude beingstrong?" he asked abruptly.
"Well," said Felix meditatively, "I mean that she has had a great dealof 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 apurpose. 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 oppositecorner of the room. Felix stood and watched him for a moment--almostgroping 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 walkaway into the thickening twilight with a relaxed rigidity that triedto rectify itself. "He is offended, excited, bewildered, perplexed--andenchanted!" Felix said to himself. "That 's a capital mixture."