Part 25 (2/2)

”Don't praise her to me!” said Mr. Brand, with a little quaver in his voice. ”If you have the advantage of me that is not generous.”

”My dear sir, I am melting with generosity!” exclaimed Felix. ”And I am not praising my cousin. I am simply attempting a scientific definition of her. She doesn't care for abstractions. Now I think the contrary is what you have always fancied--is the basis on which you have been building. She is extremely preoccupied with the concrete. I care for the concrete, too. But Gertrude is stronger than I; she whirls me along!”

Mr. Brand looked for a moment into the crown of his hat. ”It 's a most interesting nature.”

”So it is,” said Felix. ”But it pulls--it pulls--like a runaway horse.

Now I like the feeling of a runaway horse; and if I am thrown out of the vehicle it is no great matter. But if you should be thrown, Mr.

Brand”--and Felix paused a moment--”another person also would suffer from the accident.”

”What other person?”

”Charlotte Wentworth!”

Mr. Brand looked at Felix for a moment sidewise, mistrustfully; then his eyes slowly wandered over the ceiling. Felix was sure he was secretly struck with the romance of the situation. ”I think this is none of our business,” the young minister murmured.

”None of mine, perhaps; but surely yours!”

Mr. Brand lingered still, looking at the ceiling; there was evidently something he wanted to say. ”What do you mean by Miss Gertrude being strong?” he asked abruptly.

”Well,” said Felix meditatively, ”I mean that she has had a great deal of self-possession. She was waiting--for years; even when she seemed, perhaps, to be living in the present. She knew how to wait; she had a purpose. That 's what I mean by her being strong.”

”But what do you mean by her purpose?”

”Well--the purpose to see the world!”

Mr. Brand eyed his strange informant askance again; but he said nothing.

At last he turned away, as if to take leave. He seemed bewildered, however; for instead of going to the door he moved toward the opposite corner of the room. Felix stood and watched him for a moment--almost groping about in the dusk; then he led him to the door, with a tender, almost fraternal movement. ”Is that all you have to say?” asked Mr.

Brand.

”Yes, it 's all--but it will bear a good deal of thinking of.”

Felix went with him to the garden-gate, and watched him slowly walk away into the thickening twilight with a relaxed rigidity that tried to rectify itself. ”He is offended, excited, bewildered, perplexed--and enchanted!” Felix said to himself. ”That 's a capital mixture.”

CHAPTER XI

Since that visit paid by the Baroness Munster to Mrs. Acton, of which some account was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, the intercourse between these two ladies had been neither frequent nor intimate. It was not that Mrs. Acton had failed to appreciate Madame Munster's charms; on the contrary, her perception of the graces of manner and conversation of her brilliant visitor had been only too acute. Mrs. Acton was, as they said in Boston, very ”intense,” and her impressions were apt to be too many for her. The state of her health required the restriction of emotion; and this is why, receiving, as she sat in her eternal arm-chair, very few visitors, even of the soberest local type, she had been obliged to limit the number of her interviews with 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 most stirring historical periods. But she had sent the Baroness a great many quaintly-worded messages and a great many nosegays from her garden and baskets of beautiful fruit. Felix had eaten the fruit, and the Baroness had arranged the flowers and returned the baskets and the messages. On the day that followed that rainy Sunday of which mention has been made, Eugenia determined to go and pay the beneficent invalid a ”visite d'adieux;” so it was that, to herself, she qualified her enterprise.

It may be noted that neither on the Sunday evening nor on the Monday morning had she received that expected visit from Robert Acton. To his own consciousness, evidently he was ”keeping away;” and as the Baroness, on her side, was keeping away from her uncle's, whither, for several days, Felix had been the unembarra.s.sed bearer of apologies and regrets for 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, a natural part of the graceful, rhythmic movement of so remarkable a life. Gertrude especially held these periods in honor; she wondered what Madame Munster did at such times, but she would not have permitted herself to inquire too curiously.

The long rain had freshened the air, and twelve hours' brilliant suns.h.i.+ne had dried the roads; so that the Baroness, in the late afternoon, proposing to walk to Mrs. Acton's, exposed herself to no great discomfort. As with her charming undulating step she moved along the clean, gra.s.sy margin of the road, beneath the thickly-hanging boughs of the orchards, through the quiet of the hour and place and the rich maturity of the summer, she was even conscious of a sort of luxurious melancholy. The Baroness had the amiable weakness of attaching herself to places--even when she had begun with a little aversion; and now, with the prospect of departure, she felt tenderly toward this well-wooded corner of the Western world, where the sunsets were so beautiful and one's ambitions were so pure. Mrs. Acton was able to receive her; but on entering this lady's large, freshly-scented room the Baroness saw that she was looking very ill. She was wonderfully white and transparent, and, in her flowered arm-chair, she made no attempt to move. But she flushed a little--like a young girl, the Baroness thought--and she rested her clear, smiling eyes upon those of her visitor. Her voice was low and monotonous, like a voice that had never expressed any human pa.s.sions.

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