by Henry James
CHAPTER XI
Since that visit paid by the Baroness Munster to Mrs. Acton, of whichsome account was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, theintercourse between these two ladies had been neither frequent norintimate. It was not that Mrs. Acton had failed to appreciate MadameMunster's charms; on the contrary, her perception of the gracesof manner and conversation of her brilliant visitor had been only tooacute. Mrs. Acton was, as they said in Boston, very "intense," and herimpressions were apt to be too many for her. The state of her healthrequired the restriction of emotion; and this is why, receiving, as shesat in her eternal arm-chair, very few visitors, even of the soberestlocal type, she had been obliged to limit the number of her interviewswith a lady whose costume and manner recalled to her imagination--Mrs.Acton's imagination was a marvel--all that she had ever read of the moststirring historical periods. But she had sent the Baroness a great manyquaintly-worded messages and a great many nosegays from her garden andbaskets of beautiful fruit. Felix had eaten the fruit, and the Baronesshad arranged the flowers and returned the baskets and the messages. Onthe day that followed that rainy Sunday of which mention has beenmade, Eugenia determined to go and pay the beneficent invalid a "visited'adieux;" so it was that, to herself, she qualified her enterprise.It may be noted that neither on the Sunday evening nor on the Mondaymorning had she received that expected visit from Robert Acton. To hisown consciousness, evidently he was "keeping away;" and as the Baroness,on her side, was keeping away from her uncle's, whither, for severaldays, Felix had been the unembarrassed bearer of apologies and regretsfor absence, chance had not taken the cards from the hands of design.Mr. Wentworth and his daughters had respected Eugenia's seclusion;certain intervals of mysterious retirement appeared to them, vaguely, anatural part of the graceful, rhythmic movement of so remarkable alife. Gertrude especially held these periods in honor; she wondered whatMadame Munster did at such times, but she would not have permittedherself to inquire too curiously.
The long rain had freshened the air, and twelve hours' brilliantsunshine had dried the roads; so that the Baroness, in the lateafternoon, proposing to walk to Mrs. Acton's, exposed herself to nogreat discomfort. As with her charming undulating step she moved alongthe clean, grassy margin of the road, beneath the thickly-hanging boughsof the orchards, through the quiet of the hour and place and the richmaturity of the summer, she was even conscious of a sort of luxuriousmelancholy. The Baroness had the amiable weakness of attaching herselfto places--even when she had begun with a little aversion; and now, withthe prospect of departure, she felt tenderly toward this well-woodedcorner of the Western world, where the sunsets were so beautiful andone's ambitions were so pure. Mrs. Acton was able to receive her; but onentering this lady's large, freshly-scented room the Baroness saw thatshe was looking very ill. She was wonderfully white and transparent,and, in her flowered arm-chair, she made no attempt to move. But sheflushed a little--like a young girl, the Baroness thought--and sherested her clear, smiling eyes upon those of her visitor. Her voicewas low and monotonous, like a voice that had never expressed any humanpassions.
"I have come to bid you good-by," said Eugenia. "I shall soon be goingaway."
"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 beautifullittle house."
Eugenia stared--that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor littlechalet and she wondered whether her hostess were jesting. "Yes, my houseis 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 amafraid my son will miss you."
"Ah, dear madame," said Eugenia, with a little laugh, "I can't stay inAmerica for your son!"
"Don't you like America?"
The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. "If I liked it--thatwould not be staying for your son!"
Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had notquite understood. The Baroness at last found something irritating inthe sweet, soft stare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to bemerciful to great invalids she would almost have taken the liberty ofpronouncing her, mentally, a fool. "I am afraid, then, I shall never seeyou 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 willprobably marry her cousin."
"Two such interesting young people," said the Baroness, vaguely. She wasnot thinking of Clifford Wentworth.
"I feel so tranquil about my end," Mrs. Acton went on. "It is comingso easily, so surely." And she paused, with her mild gaze always onEugenia'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 childrenbright and comfortable. You seem to me all so happy here--just as youare. So I wish you could stay. It would be so pleasant for Robert."
Eugenia wondered what she meant by its being pleasant for Robert; butshe 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 shewas dying. "Good-by, dear madame," she said. "I must remember that yourstrength is precious."
Mrs. Acton took her hand and held it a moment. "Well, you have beenhappy here, have n't you? And you like us all, don't you? I wish youwould stay," she added, "in your beautiful little house."
She had told Eugenia that her waiting-woman would be in the hall, toshow her down-stairs; but the large landing outside her door was empty,and Eugenia stood there looking about. She felt irritated; the dyinglady had not "la main heureuse." She passed slowly down-stairs, stilllooking about. The broad staircase made a great bend, and in the anglewas a high window, looking westward, with a deep bench, covered witha row of flowering plants in curious old pots of blue china-ware. Theyellow afternoon light came in through the flowers and flickered alittle on the white wainscots. Eugenia paused a moment; the house wasperfectly still, save for the ticking, somewhere, of a great clock. Thelower hall stretched away at the foot of the stairs, half covered overwith a large Oriental rug. Eugenia lingered a little, noticing a greatmany things. "Comme c'est bien!" she said to herself; such a large,solid, irreproachable basis of existence the place seemed to her toindicate. And then she reflected that Mrs. Acton was soon to withdrawfrom it. The reflection accompanied her the rest of the way down-stairs,where she paused again, making more observations. The hall was extremelybroad, and on either side of the front door was a wide, deeply-setwindow, which threw the shadows of everything back into the house.There were high-backed chairs along the wall and big Eastern vases upontables, and, on either side, a large cabinet with a glass front andlittle curiosities within, dimly gleaming. The doors were open--into thedarkened parlor, the library, the dining-room. All these rooms seemedempty. Eugenia passed along, and stopped a moment on the threshold ofeach. "Comme c'est bien!" she murmured again; she had thought of justsuch a house as this when she decided to come to America. She openedthe front door for herself--her light tread had summoned none of theservants--and on the threshold she gave a last look. Outside, shewas still in the humor for curious contemplation; so instead of goingdirectly down the little drive, to the gate, she wandered away towardsthe garden, which lay to the right of the house. She had not gonemany yards over the grass before she paused quickly; she perceived agentleman stretched upon the level verdure, beneath a tree. He had notheard her coming, and he lay motionless, flat on his back, with hishands clasped under his head, staring up at the sky; so that theBaroness was able to reflect, at her leisure, upon the question of
his identity. It was that of a person who had lately been much in herthoughts; but her first impulse, nevertheless, was to turn away; thelast thing she desired was to have the air of coming in quest of RobertActon. The gentleman on the grass, however, gave her no time to decide;he could not long remain unconscious of so agreeable a presence. Herolled back his eyes, stared, gave an exclamation, and then jumped up.He stood an instant, looking at her.
"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 Acton, "how you put it into my head! I wasthinking of you."
"The occupation of extreme leisure!" said the Baroness. "To think of awoman when you are in that position is no compliment."
"I did n't say I was thinking well!" Acton affirmed, smiling.
She looked at him, and then she turned away.
"Though I did n't come to see you," she said, "remember at least that Iam 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. Ihave been bidding her farewell."
"Farewell?" Acton demanded.
"I am going away," said the Baroness. And she turned away again, as ifto illustrate her meaning.
"When are you going?" asked Acton, standing a moment in his place. Butthe Baroness made no answer, and he followed her.
"I came this way to look at your garden," she said, walking back to thegate, over the grass. "But I must go."
"Let me at least go with you." He went with her, and they said nothingtill they reached the gate. It was open, and they looked down the roadwhich was darkened over with long bosky shadows. "Must you go straighthome?" Acton asked.
But she made no answer. She said, after a moment, "Why have you not beento see me?" He said nothing, and then she went on, "Why don't you answerme?"
"I am trying to invent an answer," Acton confessed.
"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 Acton went with her. Presently hesaid, "If I had done as I liked I would have come to see you severaltimes."
"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 youlie down--almost--in my drawing-room."
Acton stopped in the road, with a movement which seemed to beg her tolinger a little. She paused, and he looked at her awhile; he thought hervery charming. "You are jesting," he said; "but if you are really goingaway it is very serious."
"If I stay," and she gave a little laugh, "it is more serious still!"
"When shall you go?"
"As soon as possible."
"And why?"
"Why should I stay?"
"Because we all admire you so."
"That is not a reason. I am admired also in Europe." And she began towalk homeward again.
"What could I say to keep you?" asked Acton. He wanted to keep her, andit was a fact that he had been thinking of her for a week. He was inlove with her now; he was conscious of that, or he thought he was; andthe only question with him was whether he could trust her.
"What you can say to keep me?" she repeated. "As I want very much to goit 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 shehad told him than appeared. Ever since that evening of his return fromNewport her image had had a terrible power to trouble him. What CliffordWentworth had told him--that had affected him, too, in an adverse sense;but it had not liberated him from the discomfort of a charm of which hisintelligence was impatient. "She is not honest, she is not honest," hekept murmuring to himself. That is what he had been saying to the summersky, ten minutes before. Unfortunately, he was unable to say itfinally, definitively; and now that he was near her it seemed to matterwonderfully little. "She is a woman who will lie," he had said tohimself. Now, as he went along, he reminded himself of this observation;but it failed to frighten him as it had done before. He almost wished hecould make her lie and then convict her of it, so that he might see howhe should like that. He kept thinking of this as he walked by her side,while she moved forward with her light, graceful dignity. He had satwith her before; he had driven with her; but he had never walked withher.
"By Jove, how comme il faut she is!" he said, as he observed hersidewise. When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed intothe gate without asking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stoodthere, to bid him good-night.
"I asked you a question the other night which you never answered," hesaid. "Have you sent off that document--liberating yourself?"
She hesitated for a single moment--very naturally. Then, "Yes," shesaid, simply.
He turned away; he wondered whether that would do for his lie. But hesaw her again that evening, for the Baroness reappeared at her uncle's.He had little talk with her, however; two gentlemen had driven out fromBoston, in a buggy, to call upon Mr. Wentworth and his daughters,and Madame Munster was an object of absorbing interest to both of thevisitors. One of them, indeed, said nothing to her; he only sat andwatched with intense gravity, and leaned forward solemnly, presentinghis ear (a very large one), as if he were deaf, whenever she droppedan observation. He had evidently been impressed with the idea of hermisfortunes and reverses: he never smiled. His companion adopted alighter, easier style; sat as near as possible to Madame Munster;attempted to draw her out, and proposed every few moments a new topicof conversation. Eugenia was less vividly responsive than usual andhad less to say than, from her brilliant reputation, her interlocutorexpected, upon the relative merits of European and Americaninstitutions; but she was inaccessible to Robert Acton, who roamed aboutthe piazza with his hands in his pockets, listening for the gratingsound of the buggy from Boston, as it should be brought round to theside-door. But he listened in vain, and at last he lost patience. Hissister came to him and begged him to take her home, and he presentlywent off with her. Eugenia observed him leaving the house with Lizzie;in her present mood the fact seemed a contribution to her irritatedconviction that he had several precious qualities. "Even that mal-eleveelittle girl," she reflected, "makes him do what she wishes."
She had been sitting just within one of the long windows that openedupon the piazza; but very soon after Acton had gone away she got upabruptly, just when the talkative gentleman from Boston was asking herwhat she thought of the "moral tone" of that city. On the piazza sheencountered Clifford Wentworth, coming round from the other side of thehouse. She stopped him; she told him she wished to speak to him.
"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'tknow 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, forthe 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 afraidof the Baroness's looks, and he endeavored, now, to shift himself outof 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 w
ere 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 backroom!"
"I am afraid I am not of much use to you anywhere!" said Madame Munster."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 Europe?"
"To Europe, where you are to come and see me."
"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 youngkinsman.
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 matterwith that buggy?" His practiced ear had apparently detected an unnaturalcreak in the wheels of the light vehicle which had been brought to theportico, and he hurried away to investigate so grave an anomaly.
The Baroness walked homeward, alone, in the starlight, asking herselfa question. Was she to have gained nothing--was she to have gainednothing?
Gertrude Wentworth had held a silent place in the little circle gatheredabout the two gentlemen from Boston. She was not interested in thevisitors; she was watching Madame Munster, as she constantly watchedher. She knew that Eugenia also was not interested--that she was bored;and Gertrude was absorbed in study of the problem how, in spite ofher indifference and her absent attention, she managed to have such acharming manner. That was the manner Gertrude would have liked to have;she determined to cultivate it, and she wished that--to give her thecharm--she might in future very often be bored. While she was engaged inthese researches, Felix Young was looking for Charlotte, to whom he hadsomething to say. For some time, now, he had had something to say toCharlotte, and this evening his sense of the propriety of holding somespecial conversation with her had reached the motive-point--resolveditself into acute and delightful desire. He wandered through the emptyrooms on the large ground-floor of the house, and found her at last ina small apartment denominated, for reasons not immediately apparent, Mr.Wentworth's "office:" an extremely neat and well-dusted room, with anarray of law-books, in time-darkened sheep-skin, on one of the walls; alarge map of the United States on the other, flanked on either side byan old steel engraving of one of Raphael's Madonnas; and on the thirdseveral glass cases containing specimens of butterflies and beetles.Charlotte was sitting by a lamp, embroidering a slipper. Felix did notask for whom the slipper was destined; he saw it was very large.
He moved a chair toward her and sat down, smiling as usual, but, atfirst, not speaking. She watched him, with her needle poised, and witha certain shy, fluttered look which she always wore when he approachedher. There was something in Felix's manner that quickened her modesty,her self-consciousness; if absolute choice had been given her she wouldhave preferred never to find herself alone with him; and in fact,though she thought him a most brilliant, distinguished, and well-meaningperson, she had exercised a much larger amount of tremulous tact thanhe had ever suspected, to circumvent the accident of tete-a-tete. PoorCharlotte could have given no account of the matter that would not haveseemed unjust both to herself and to her foreign kinsman; she could onlyhave said--or rather, she would never have said it--that she didnot like so much gentleman's society at once. She was not reassured,accordingly, when he began, emphasizing his words with a kind ofadmiring radiance, "My dear cousin, I am enchanted at finding youalone."
"I am very often alone," Charlotte observed. Then she quickly added, "Idon't mean I am lonely!"
"So clever a woman as you is never lonely," said Felix. "You havecompany in your beautiful work." And he glanced at the big slipper.
"I like to work," declared Charlotte, simply.
"So do I!" said her companion. "And I like to idle too. But it is notto idle that I have come in search of you. I want to tell you somethingvery particular."
"Well," murmured Charlotte; "of course, if you must"--
"My dear cousin," said Felix, "it 's nothing that a young lady may notlisten to. At least I suppose it is n't. But voyons; you shall judge. Iam terribly in love."
"Well, Felix," began Miss Wentworth, gravely. But her very gravityappeared to check the development of her phrase.
"I am in love with your sister; but in love, Charlotte--in love!" theyoung man pursued. Charlotte had laid her work in her lap; her handswere tightly folded on top of it; she was staring at the carpet. "Inshort, I 'm in love, dear lady," said Felix. "Now I want you to helpme."
"To help you?" asked Charlotte, with a tremor.
"I don't mean with Gertrude; she and I have a perfect understanding; andoh, how well she understands one! I mean with your father and with theworld in general, including Mr. Brand."
"Poor Mr. Brand!" said Charlotte, slowly, but with a simplicity whichmade it evident to Felix that the young minister had not repeated toMiss Wentworth the talk that had lately occurred between them.
"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 veryshabby, eh?"
"Shabby?" exclaimed Charlotte softly, for whom Felix represented themost polished and iridescent qualities of mankind.
"I don't mean in my appearance," rejoined Felix, laughing; for Charlottewas looking at his boots. "I mean in my conduct. You don't think it 'san abuse of hospitality?"
"To--to care for Gertrude?" asked Charlotte.
"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 tomarry 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 strangecreature, Charlotte; I don't believe you really know her." Charlottetook up her tapestry again, and again she laid it down. "I know yourfather has had higher views," Felix continued; "and I think you haveshared them. You have wanted to marry her to Mr. Brand."
"Oh, no," said Charlotte, very earnestly. "Mr. Brand has always admiredher. But we did not want anything of that kind."
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 arrangedmarriages there is often the deuce to pay."
"Oh, Felix," said Charlotte, "we did n't want to 'arrange.'"
"I am delighted to hear that. Because in such cases--even when thewoman is a thoroughly good creature--she can't help looking for acompensation. A charming fellow comes along--and voila!" Charlotte satmutely staring at the floor, and Felix presently added, "Do go on withyour slipper, I like to see you work."
Charlotte took up her variegated canvas, and began to draw vague bluestitches in a big round rose. "If Gertrude is so--so strange," she said,"why do you want to marry her?"
"Ah, that 's it, dear Charlotte! I like strange women; I always haveliked them. Ask Eugenia! And Gertrude is wonderful; she says the mostbeautiful things!"
Charlotte looked at him, almost for the first time, as if her meaningrequired to be severely pointed. "You have a great influence over her."
"Yes--and no!" said Felix. "I had at first, I think; but now it is sixof one and half-a-dozen of the other; it is reciprocal. She affects mestrongly--for she is so strong. I don't believe you know her; it 's abeautiful 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 'sa folded flower. Let me pluck her from the parent tree and you will seeher expand. I 'm sure you will enjoy it."
"I don't understand you," murmured Charlotte. "I can't, Fel
ix."
"Well, you can understand this--that I beg you to say a good word forme to your father. He regards me, I naturally believe, as a very lightfellow, 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 ofinnocent pleasure. Pain is all one; but in pleasure, you know, there aretremendous distinctions. Say to him that Gertrude is a folded flower andthat I am a serious man!"
Charlotte got up from her chair slowly rolling up her work. "We knowyou are very kind to every one, Felix," she said. "But we are extremelysorry for Mr. Brand."
"Of course you are--you especially! Because," added Felix hastily, "youare a woman. But I don't pity him. It ought to be enough for any manthat you take an interest in him."
"It is not enough for Mr. Brand," said Charlotte, simply. And she stoodthere a moment, as if waiting conscientiously for anything more thatFelix might have to say.
"Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was," he presentlysaid. "He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked."
Charlotte looked at him now with beautiful, appealing eyes--eyes intowhich he saw the tears rising. "Oh, Felix, Felix," she cried, "what haveyou done to her?"
"I think she was asleep; I have waked her up!"
But Charlotte, apparently, was really crying, she walked straight outof the room. And Felix, standing there and meditating, had the apparentbrutality to take satisfaction in her tears.
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 ofher dress, but she said nothing. They walked together along one of thepaths, and Felix looked at the great, square, hospitable house, massingitself 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 youthis 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 weunderstand each other, it is a wonder how well we get on!"
"We have done nothing but meet since you came here--but meet alone. Thefirst time I ever saw you we were alone," Gertrude went on. "What is thedifference now? Is it because it is at night?"
"The difference, Gertrude," said Felix, stopping in the path, "thedifference is that I love you more--more than before!" And then theystood there, talking, in the warm stillness and in front of the closeddark house. "I have been talking to Charlotte--been trying to bespeakher interest with your father. She has a kind of sublime perversity; wasever a woman so bent upon cutting off her own head?"
"You are too careful," said Gertrude; "you are too diplomatic."
"Well," cried the young man, "I did n't come here to make any oneunhappy!"
Gertrude looked round her awhile in the odorous darkness. "I will doanything 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," hesaid. "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 sodifficult? Why can't they understand?"
"I will make them understand!" said Felix. He drew her hand into hisarm, and they wandered about in the garden, talking, for an hour.