by Henry James
“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.
CHAPTER XII
Felix allowed Charlotte time to plead his cause; and then, on the third day, he sought an interview with his uncle. It was in the morning; Mr. Wentworth was in his office; and, on going in, Felix found that Charlotte was at that moment in conference with her father. She had, in fact, been constantly near him since her interview with Felix; she had made up her mind that it was her duty to repeat very literally her cousin’s passionate plea. She had accordingly followed Mr. Wentworth about like a shadow, in order to find him at hand when she should have mustered sufficient composure to speak. For poor Charlotte, in this matter, naturally lacked composure; especially when she meditated upon some of Felix’s intimations. It was not cheerful work, at the best, to keep giving small hammer-taps to the coffin in which one had laid away, for burial, the poor little unacknowledged offspring of one’s own misbehaving heart; and the occupation was not rendered more agreeable by the fact that the ghost of one’s stifled dream had been summoned from the shades by the strange, bold words of a talkative young foreigner. What had Felix meant by saying that Mr. Brand was not so keen? To herself her sister’s justly depressed suitor had shown no sign of faltering. Charlotte trembled all over when she allowed herself to believe for an instant now and then that, privately, Mr. Brand might have faltered; and as it seemed to give more force to Felix’s words to repeat them to her father, she was waiting until she should have taught herself to be very calm. But she had now begun to tell Mr. Wentworth that she was extremely anxious. She was proceeding to develop this idea, to enumerate the objects of her anxiety, when Felix came in.
Mr. Wentworth sat there, with his legs crossed, lifting his dry, pure countenance from the Boston “Advertiser.” Felix entered smiling, as if he had something particular to say, and his uncle looked at him as if he both expected and deprecated this event. Felix vividly expressing himself had come to be a formidable figure to his uncle, who had not yet arrived at definite views as to a proper tone. For the first time in his life, as I have said, Mr. Wentworth shirked a responsibility; he earnestly desired that it might not be laid upon him to determine how his nephew’s lighter propositions should be treated. He lived under an apprehension that Felix might yet beguile him into assent to doubtful inductions, and his conscience instructed him that the best form of vigilance was the avoidance of discussion. He hoped that the pleasant episode of his nephew’s visit would pass away without a further lapse of consistency.
Felix looked at Charlotte with an air of understanding, and then at Mr. Wentworth, and then at Charlotte again. Mr. Wentworth bent his refined eyebrows upon his nephew and stroked down the first page of the “Advertiser.” “I ought to have brought a bouquet,” said Felix, laughing. “In France they always do.”
“We are not in France,” observed Mr. Wentworth, gravely, while Charlotte earnestly gazed at him.
“No, luckily, we are not in France, where I am afraid I should have a harder time of it. My dear Charlotte, have you rendered me that delightful service?” And Felix bent toward her as if some one had been presenting him.
Charlotte looked at him with almost frightened eyes; and Mr. Wentworth thought this might be the beginning of a discussion. “What is the bouquet for?” he inquired, by way of turning it off.
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 Charlotte again. “My good Charlotte, my admirable Charlotte,” he murmured, “you have not played me false— you have not sided against me?”
Charlotte got up, trembling extremely, though imperceptibly. “You must speak to my father yourself,” she said. “I think you are clever enough.”
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.” Charlotte sank slowly into her chair again, and Mr. Wentworth sat staring, with a light in his face that might have been flashed back from an iceberg. He stared and stared; he said nothing. Felix fell back, with his hands still clasped. “Ah—you don’t like it. I was afraid!” He blushed deeply, and Charlotte noticed it— remarking to herself that it was the first time she had ever seen him blush. She began to blush herself and to reflect that he might be much in love.
“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 Charlotte, conscientiously.
“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 Charlotte, very softly, fastening her eyes upon her father.
“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 Bohemia I always passed for a gentleman. I wish you could see some of my old camarades— they would tell you! It was the liberty I liked, but not the opportunities! My sins were all peccadilloes; I always respected my neighbor’s property—my neighbor’s wife. Do you see, dear uncle?” Mr. Wentworth ought to have seen; his cold blue eyes were intently fixed. “And then, c’est fini! It ‘s all over. Je me range. I have settled down to a jog-trot. I find I can earn my living—a very fair one— by going about the world and painting bad portraits. It ‘s not a glorious profession, but it is a perfectly respectable one. You won’t deny that, eh? Going about the world, I say? I must not deny that, for that I am afraid I shall always do— in quest of agreeable sitters. When I say agreeable, I mean susceptible of delicate flattery and prompt of payment. Gertrude declares she is willing to share my wanderings and help to pose my models. She even thinks it will be charming; and that brings me to my third point. Gertrude likes me. Encourage her a little and she will tell you so.”
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, father?” Charlotte asked, with infinite mildness.
“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 Charlotte made a place for her on the sofa. But Gertrude put her hands behind her and made no motion to sit down.
“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. Charlotte got up and came to her, as if to put her arm round her; but suddenly, she seemed afraid to touch her.
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 Charlotte.
“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.”
Charlotte at last took hold of her sister. She laid her two hands upon Gertrude’s arm. “He cares so much for you,” she almost whispered.
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 Charlotte.
“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 Charlotte.
“Away—away; to some strange country.”
“That is to frighten you,” said Felix, smiling at Charlotte.
“To—what do you call it?” asked Gertrude, turning an instant to Felix. “To Bohemia.”
“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.
Charlotte gave a little jump, and the others turned to the direction from which it had come. It was the voice of Mr. Brand, who had stepped through the long window which stood open to the piazza. He stood patting his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief; he was very much flushed; his face wore a singular expression.
“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 Charlotte. But Charlotte’s earnest eyes were fastened to his own countenance; they were asking an immense question of it. The answer to this question could not come all at once; but some of the elements of it were there. It was one of the elements of it that Mr. Brand was very red, that he held his head very high, that he had a bright, excited eye and an air of embarrassed boldness—the air of a man who has taken a resolve, in the execution of which he apprehends the failure, not of his moral, but of his personal, resources. Charlotte thought he looked very grand; and it is incontestable that Mr. Brand felt very grand. This, in fact, was the grandest moment of his life; and it was natural that such a moment should contain opportunities of awkwardness for a large, stout, modest young man.
“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.”
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p; “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 Charlotte’s. “Mr. Brand asked you to let Felix take me away,” she said to her father.
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.