CHAPTER IX
It seemed to Robert Acton, after Eugenia had come to his house, thatsomething had passed between them which made them a good deal moreintimate. It was hard to say exactly what, except her telling him thatshe had taken her resolution with regard to the Prince Adolf; for MadameMunster's visit had made no difference in their relations. He came tosee her very often; but he had come to see her very often before. It wasagreeable to him to find himself in her little drawing-room; but thiswas not a new discovery. There was a change, however, in this sense:that if the Baroness had been a great deal in Acton's thoughts before,she was now never out of them. From the first she had been personallyfascinating; but the fascination now had become intellectual as well. Hewas constantly pondering her words and motions; they were as interestingas the factors in an algebraic problem. This is saying a good deal; forActon was extremely fond of mathematics. He asked himself whether itcould be that he was in love with her, and then hoped he was not; hopedit not so much for his own sake as for that of the amatory passionitself. If this was love, love had been overrated. Love was a poeticimpulse, and his own state of feeling with regard to the Baroness waslargely characterized by that eminently prosaic sentiment--curiosity.It was true, as Acton with his quietly cogitative habit observedto himself, that curiosity, pushed to a given point, might become aromantic passion; and he certainly thought enough about this charmingwoman to make him restless and even a little melancholy. It puzzled andvexed him at times to feel that he was not more ardent. He was not inthe least bent upon remaining a bachelor. In his younger years he hadbeen--or he had tried to be--of the opinion that it would be a good deal"jollier" not to marry, and he had flattered himself that his singlecondition was something of a citadel. It was a citadel, at all events,of which he had long since leveled the outworks. He had removed the gunsfrom the ramparts; he had lowered the draw-bridge across the moat. Thedraw-bridge had swayed lightly under Madame Munster's step; why shouldhe not cause it to be raised again, so that she might be kept prisoner?He had an idea that she would become--in time at least, and on learningthe conveniences of the place for making a lady comfortable--a tolerablypatient captive. But the draw-bridge was never raised, and Acton'sbrilliant visitor was as free to depart as she had been to come. It waspart of his curiosity to know why the deuce so susceptible a man was notin love with so charming a woman. If her various graces were, as I havesaid, the factors in an algebraic problem, the answer to this questionwas the indispensable unknown quantity. The pursuit of the unknownquantity was extremely absorbing; for the present it taxed all Acton'sfaculties.
Toward the middle of August he was obliged to leave home for some days;an old friend, with whom he had been associated in China, had begged himto come to Newport, where he lay extremely ill. His friend got better,and at the end of a week Acton was released. I use the word "released"advisedly; for in spite of his attachment to his Chinese comrade he hadbeen but a half-hearted visitor. He felt as if he had been called awayfrom the theatre during the progress of a remarkably interesting drama.The curtain was up all this time, and he was losing the fourth act; thatfourth act which would have been so essential to a just appreciation ofthe fifth. In other words, he was thinking about the Baroness, who, seenat this distance, seemed a truly brilliant figure. He saw at Newporta great many pretty women, who certainly were figures as brilliant asbeautiful light dresses could make them; but though they talked agreat deal--and the Baroness's strong point was perhaps also herconversation--Madame Munster appeared to lose nothing by the comparison.He wished she had come to Newport too. Would it not be possible to makeup, as they said, a party for visiting the famous watering-place andinvite Eugenia to join it? It was true that the complete satisfactionwould be to spend a fortnight at Newport with Eugenia alone. It would bea great pleasure to see her, in society, carry everything before her,as he was sure she would do. When Acton caught himself thinking thesethoughts he began to walk up and down, with his hands in his pockets,frowning a little and looking at the floor. What did it prove--forit certainly proved something--this lively disposition to be "off"somewhere with Madame Munster, away from all the rest of them? Such avision, certainly, seemed a refined implication of matrimony, after theBaroness should have formally got rid of her informal husband. Atany rate, Acton, with his characteristic discretion, forbore to giveexpression to whatever else it might imply, and the narrator of theseincidents is not obliged to be more definite.
He returned home rapidly, and, arriving in the afternoon, lost as littletime as possible in joining the familiar circle at Mr. Wentworth's. Onreaching the house, however, he found the piazzas empty. The doors andwindows were open, and their emptiness was made clear by the shafts oflamp-light from the parlors. Entering the house, he found Mr. Wentworthsitting alone in one of these apartments, engaged in the perusal ofthe "North American Review." After they had exchanged greetings and hiscousin had made discreet inquiry about his journey, Acton asked what hadbecome of Mr. Wentworth's companions.
"They are scattered about, amusing themselves as usual," said the oldman. "I saw Charlotte, a short time since, seated, with Mr. Brand,upon the piazza. They were conversing with their customary animation.I suppose they have joined her sister, who, for the hundredth time, wasdoing the honors of the garden to her foreign cousin."
"I suppose you mean Felix," said Acton. And on Mr. Wentworth'sassenting, he said, "And the others?"
"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 akind 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 tosee his cousin. Privately, he reflected that if Lizzie Acton had had nonews of his son, Clifford must have gone to Boston for the evening: anunnatural course of a summer night, especially when accompanied withdisingenuous representations.
"You must remember that he has two cousins," said Acton, laughing. Andthen, coming to the point, "If Lizzie is not here," he added, "neitherapparently is the Baroness."
Mr. Wentworth stared a moment, and remembered that queer proposition ofFelix's. For a moment he did not know whether it was not to be wishedthat Clifford, after all, might have gone to Boston. "The Baronesshas not honored us tonight," he said. "She has not come over for threedays."
"Is she ill?" Acton asked.
"No; I have been to see her."
"What is the matter with her?"
"Well," said Mr. Wentworth, "I infer she has tired of us."
Acton pretended to sit down, but he was restless; he found it impossibleto talk with Mr. Wentworth. At the end of ten minutes he took up his hatand said that he thought he would "go off." It was very late; it was teno'clock.
His quiet-faced kinsman looked at him a moment. "Are you going home?" heasked.
Acton hesitated, and then answered that he had proposed to go over andtake a look at the Baroness.
"Well, you are honest, at least," said Mr. Wentworth, sadly.
"So are you, if you come to that!" cried Acton, laughing. "Why shouldn't I be honest?"
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 itnow," he said. He was not quoting.
"We have a Baroness among us," said Acton. "That 's what we must keephold of!" He was too impatient to see Madame Munster again to wonderwhat Mr. Wentworth was talking about. Nevertheless, after he had passedout of the house and traversed the garden and the little piece of roadthat separated him from Eugenia's provisional residence, he stopped amoment outside. He stood in her little garden; the long window ofher parlor was open, and he could see the white curtains, with thelamp-light shining through them, swaying softly to and fro in the warmnight wind. There was a sort of excitement
in the idea of seeing MadameMunster again; he became aware that his heart was beating rather fasterthan usual. It was this that made him stop, with a half-amused surprise.But in a moment he went along the piazza, and, approaching the openwindow, tapped upon its lintel with his stick. He could see the Baronesswithin; she was standing in the middle of the room. She came to thewindow and pulled aside the curtain; then she stood looking at him amoment. She was not smiling; she seemed serious.
"Mais entrez donc!" she said at last. Acton passed in across thewindow-sill; he wondered, for an instant, what was the matter with her.But the next moment she had begun to smile and had put out her hand."Better late than never," she said. "It is very kind of you to come atthis hour."
"I have just returned from my journey," said Acton.
"Ah, very kind, very kind," she repeated, looking about her where tosit.
"I went first to the other house," Acton continued. "I expected to findyou there."
She had sunk into her usual chair; but she got up again, and beganto move about the room. Acton had laid down his hat and stick; he waslooking at her, conscious that there was in fact a great charm in seeingher again. "I don't know whether I ought to tell you to sit down," shesaid. "It is too late to begin a visit."
"It 's too early to end one," Acton declared; "and we need n't mind thebeginning."
She looked at him again, and, after a moment, dropped once more into herlow 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'tbeen 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 Acton.
She leaned back in her chair; her arms were folded. "That is a terribleaccusation, but I have not the courage to defend myself."
"I am not attacking you," said Acton. "I expected something of thiskind."
"It 's a proof of extreme intelligence. I hope you enjoyed yourjourney."
"Not at all," Acton declared. "I would much rather have been here withyou."
"Now you are attacking me," said the Baroness. "You are contrasting myinconstancy 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 anda sophisticated mind!"
"Something has happened to you since I went away," said Acton, changinghis place.
"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."
Acton was silent for some moments. "You have broken down," he said atlast.
Madame Munster left her chair, and began to move about.
"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 beafraid to say so--to me at least."
"You should n't say such things as that," the Baroness answered. "Youshould encourage me."
"I admire your patience; that is encouraging."
"You should n't even say that. When you talk of my patience you aredisloyal to your own people. Patience implies suffering; and what have Ihad to suffer?"
"Oh, not hunger, not unkindness, certainly," said Acton, laughing."Nevertheless, we all admire your patience."
"You all detest me!" cried the Baroness, with a sudden vehemence,turning her back toward him.
"You make it hard," said Acton, getting up, "for a man to say somethingtender to you." This evening there was something particularly strikingand touching about her; an unwonted softness and a look of suppressedemotion. He felt himself suddenly appreciating the fact that she hadbehaved very well. She had come to this quiet corner of the worldunder the weight of a cruel indignity, and she had been so gracefully,modestly thankful for the rest she found there. She had joined thatsimple circle over the way; she had mingled in its plain, provincialtalk; she had shared its meagre and savorless pleasures. She had setherself a task, and she had rigidly performed it. She had conformed tothe angular conditions of New England life, and she had had the tact andpluck to carry it off as if she liked them. Acton felt a more downrightneed than he had ever felt before to tell her that he admired her andthat she struck him as a very superior woman. All along, hitherto,he had been on his guard with her; he had been cautious, observant,suspicious. But now a certain light tumult in his blood seemed to tellhim that a finer degree of confidence in this charming woman would beits own reward. "We don't detest you," he went on. "I don't know whatyou mean. At any rate, I speak for myself; I don't know anything aboutthe others. Very likely, you detest them for the dull life they make youlead. Really, it would give me a sort of pleasure to hear you say so."
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 bethe motive," she asked, "of a man like you--an honest man, a galanthomme--in saying so base a thing as that?"
"Does it sound very base?" asked Acton, candidly. "I suppose itdoes, and I thank you for telling me so. Of course, I don't mean itliterally."
The Baroness stood looking at him. "How do you mean it?" she asked.
This question was difficult to answer, and Acton, feeling the leastbit foolish, walked to the open window and looked out. He stood there,thinking a moment, and then he turned back. "You know that documentthat you were to send to Germany," he said. "You called it your'renunciation.' Did you ever send it?"
Madame Munster's eyes expanded; she looked very grave. "What a singularanswer to my question!"
"Oh, it is n't an answer," said Acton. "I have wished to ask you, manytimes. I thought it probable you would tell me yourself. The question,on my part, seems abrupt now; but it would be abrupt at any time."
The Baroness was silent a moment; and then, "I think I have told you toomuch!" she said.
This declaration appeared to Acton to have a certain force; he hadindeed a sense of asking more of her than he offered her. He returnedto the window, and watched, for a moment, a little star that twinkledthrough the lattice of the piazza. There were at any rate offers enoughhe could make; perhaps he had hitherto not been sufficiently explicit indoing so. "I wish you would ask something of me," he presently said. "Isthere nothing I can do for you? If you can't stand this dull life anymore, let me amuse you!"
The Baroness had sunk once more into a chair, and she had taken up a fanwhich she held, with both hands, to her mouth. Over the top of the fanher 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 ofher. "Should n't you like to travel about and see something of thecountry? Won't you go to Niagara? You ought to see Niagara, you know."
"With you, do you mean?"
"I should be delighted to take you."
"You alone?"
Acton looked at her, smiling, and yet with a serious air. "Well, yes; wemight go alone," he said.
"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. Ifyou were not a queer Bostonian."
"If the gentlemen you have been used to have taught you to expectinsults," said Acton, "I am glad I am what I am. You had much bettercome to Niagara."
"If you wish to 'amuse' me," the Baroness declared, "you need go to nofurther expense. You amuse me very effectually."
He sat down opposite to her; she still held her fan up to her face, withher eyes only showing above it. There was a moment's silence, and thenhe said, returning to his former question, "Have you sent that documentto Germany?"
Again there was a moment's silence. The expressive eyes of Madame Munsterseemed, however, half to break it.
"I will tell
you--at Niagara!" she said.
She had hardly spoken when the door at the further end of the roomopened--the door upon which, some minutes previous, Eugenia had fixedher gaze. Clifford Wentworth stood there, blushing and looking ratherawkward. The Baroness rose, quickly, and Acton, more slowly, did thesame. Clifford gave him no greeting; he was looking at Eugenia.
"Ah, you were here?" exclaimed Acton.
"He was in Felix's studio," said Madame Munster. "He wanted to see hissketches."
Clifford looked at Robert Acton, but said nothing; he only fannedhimself with his hat. "You chose a bad moment," said Acton; "you had n'tmuch light."
"I had n't any!" said Clifford, laughing.
"Your candle went out?" Eugenia asked. "You should have come back hereand lighted it again."
Clifford looked at her a moment. "So I have--come back. But I have leftthe candle!"
Eugenia turned away. "You are very stupid, my poor boy. You had bettergo home."
"Well," said Clifford, "good night!"
"Have n't you a word to throw to a man when he has safely returned froma dangerous journey?" Acton asked.
"How do you do?" said Clifford. "I thought--I thought you were"--and hepaused, looking at the Baroness again.
"You thought I was at Newport, eh? So I was--this morning."
"Good night, clever child!" said Madame Munster, over her shoulder.
Clifford stared at her--not at all like a clever child; and then, withone of his little facetious growls, took his departure.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Acton, when he was gone. "He seemedrather in a muddle."
Eugenia, who was near the window, glanced out, listening a moment. "Thematter--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 inlove with me."
It was Acton's turn to stare. He instantly thought of his sister; buthe said nothing about her. He began to laugh. "I don't wonder at hispassion! But I wonder at his forsaking your society for that of yourbrother's paint-brushes."
Eugenia was silent a little. "He had not been in the studio. I inventedthat at the moment."
"Invented it? For what purpose?"
"He has an idea of being romantic. He has adopted the habit of coming tosee me at midnight--passing only through the orchard and through Felix'spainting-room, which has a door opening that way. It seems to amusehim," added Eugenia, with a little laugh.
Acton felt more surprise than he confessed to, for this was a new viewof Clifford, whose irregularities had hitherto been quite withoutthe romantic element. He tried to laugh again, but he felt rather tooserious, and after a moment's hesitation his seriousness explaineditself. "I hope you don't encourage him," he said. "He must not beinconstant to poor Lizzie."
"To your sister?"
"You know they are decidedly intimate," said Acton.
"Ah," cried Eugenia, smiling, "has she--has she"--
"I don't know," Acton interrupted, "what she has. But I always supposedthat Clifford had a desire to make himself agreeable to her."
"Ah, par exemple!" the Baroness went on. "The little monster! The nexttime he becomes sentimental I will him tell that he ought to be ashamedof himself."
Acton was silent a moment. "You had better say nothing about it."
"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 soextraordinary that one is quite at sea. They are not engaged whenyou would quite say they ought to be. Take Charlotte Wentworth, forinstance, and that young ecclesiastic. If I were her father I shouldinsist upon his marrying her; but it appears to be thought there is nourgency. On the other hand, you suddenly learn that a boy of twentyand a little girl who is still with her governess--your sister has nogoverness? Well, then, who is never away from her mamma--a young couple,in short, between whom you have noticed nothing beyond an exchange ofthe childish pleasantries characteristic of their age, are on thepoint of setting up as man and wife." The Baroness spoke with a certainexaggerated volubility which was in contrast with the languid grace thathad characterized her manner before Clifford made his appearance. Itseemed to Acton that there was a spark of irritation in her eye--a noteof irony (as when she spoke of Lizzie being never away from her mother)in her voice. If Madame Munster was irritated, Robert Acton was vaguelymystified; she began to move about the room again, and he looked at herwithout saying anything. Presently she took out her watch, and, glancingat it, declared that it was three o'clock in the morning and that hemust go.
"I have not been here an hour," he said, "and they are still sitting upat the other house. You can see the lights. Your brother has not comein."
"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 humdrumwoman; I have rigid rules and I keep them. One of them is not to havevisitors in the small hours--especially clever men like you. So goodnight!"
Decidedly, the Baroness was incisive; and though Acton bade her goodnight and departed, he was still a good deal mystified.
The next day Clifford Wentworth came to see Lizzie, and Acton, whowas at home and saw him pass through the garden, took note of thecircumstance. He had a natural desire to make it tally with MadameMunster's account of Clifford's disaffection; but his ingenuity,finding itself unequal to the task, resolved at last to ask help of theyoung man's candor. He waited till he saw him going away, and then hewent out and overtook him in the grounds.
"I wish very much you would answer me a question," Acton said. "Whatwere you doing, last night, at Madame Munster's?"
Clifford began to laugh and to blush, by no means like a young man witha 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 knowit perhaps I can't."
They had stopped in a garden path; Acton looked hard at his rosy youngkinsman. "She said she could n't fancy what had got into you; youappeared to have taken a violent dislike to her."
Clifford stared, looking a little alarmed. "Oh, come," he growled, "youdon't mean that!"
"And that when--for common civility's sake--you came occasionally to thehouse you left her alone and spent your time in Felix's studio, underpretext 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 thediscussion, for his sarcastic powers. "Well," he presently added, "Ithought you were my father."
"You knew some one was there?"
"We heard you coming in."
Acton meditated. "You had been with the Baroness, then?"
"I was in the parlor. We heard your step outside. I thought it was myfather."
"And on that," asked Acton, "you ran away?"
"She told me to go--to go out by the studio."
Acton meditated more intensely; if there had been a chair at hand hewould have sat down. "Why should she wish you not to meet your father?"
"Well," said Clifford, "father does n't like to see me there."
Acton looked askance at his companion and forbore to make any commentupon this assertion. "Has he said so," he asked, "to the Baroness?"
"Well, I hope not," said Clifford. "He has n't said so--in so manywords--to me. But I know it worries him; and I want to stop worryinghim. 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 knowseverything," Clifford added, with an air of knowingness of his own.
"Ah," said Acton, interrogatively, "Eugenia knows everything?"
"She knew it was not father coming in."
"Then why did you go?"
Clifford blushe
d and laughed afresh. "Well, I was afraid it was. Andbesides, she told me to go, at any rate."
"Did she think it was I?" Acton asked.
"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 waslocked, and Felix has nailed some planks across the lower half of theconfounded windows to make the light come in from above. So they were nouse. I waited there a good while, and then, suddenly, I felt ashamed. Idid n't want to be hiding away from my own father. I could n't standit any longer. I bolted out, and when I found it was you I was a littleflurried. But Eugenia carried it off, did n't she?" Clifford added, inthe tone of a young humorist whose perception had not been permanentlyclouded by the sense of his own discomfort.
"Beautifully!" said Acton. "Especially," he continued, "when oneremembers that you were very imprudent and that she must have been agood deal annoyed."
"Oh," cried Clifford, with the indifference of a young man who feelsthat however he may have failed of felicity in behavior he is extremelyjust in his impressions, "Eugenia does n't care for anything!"
Acton hesitated a moment. "Thank you for telling me this," he said atlast. And then, laying his hand on Clifford's shoulder, he added,"Tell me one thing more: are you by chance a little in love with theBaroness?"
"No, sir!" said Clifford, almost shaking off his hand.