The Europeans Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  Felix young finished Gertrude's portrait, and he afterwards transferredto canvas the features of many members of that circle of which it maybe said that he had become for the time the pivot and the centre. I amafraid it must be confessed that he was a decidedly flattering painter,and that he imparted to his models a romantic grace which seemed easilyand cheaply acquired by the payment of a hundred dollars to a young manwho made "sitting" so entertaining. For Felix was paid for his pictures,making, as he did, no secret of the fact that in guiding his steps tothe Western world affectionate curiosity had gone hand in hand with adesire to better his condition. He took his uncle's portrait quite as ifMr. Wentworth had never averted himself from the experiment; and as hecompassed his end only by the exercise of gentle violence, it is butfair to add that he allowed the old man to give him nothing but histime. He passed his arm into Mr. Wentworth's one summer morning--veryfew arms indeed had ever passed into Mr. Wentworth's--and led him acrossthe garden and along the road into the studio which he had extemporizedin the little house among the apple-trees. The grave gentleman felthimself more and more fascinated by his clever nephew, whose fresh,demonstrative youth seemed a compendium of experiences so strangelynumerous. It appeared to him that Felix must know a great deal; he wouldlike to learn what he thought about some of those things as regardswhich his own conversation had always been formal, but his knowledgevague. Felix had a confident, gayly trenchant way of judging humanactions which Mr. Wentworth grew little by little to envy; it seemedlike criticism made easy. Forming an opinion--say on a person'sconduct--was, with Mr. Wentworth, a good deal like fumbling in a lockwith a key chosen at hazard. He seemed to himself to go about the worldwith a big bunch of these ineffectual instruments at his girdle. Hisnephew, on the other hand, with a single turn of the wrist, openedany door as adroitly as a horse-thief. He felt obliged to keep up theconvention that an uncle is always wiser than a nephew, even if he couldkeep it up no otherwise than by listening in serious silence to Felix'squick, light, constant discourse. But there came a day when he lapsedfrom consistency and almost asked his nephew's advice.

  "Have you ever entertained the idea of settling in the United States?"he asked one morning, while Felix brilliantly plied his brush.

  "My dear uncle," said Felix, "excuse me if your question makes me smilea little. To begin with, I have never entertained an idea. Ideas oftenentertain me; but I am afraid I have never seriously made a plan. I knowwhat you are going to say; or rather, I know what you think, for I don'tthink you will say it--that this is very frivolous and loose-minded onmy part. So it is; but I am made like that; I take things as they come,and somehow there is always some new thing to follow the last. In thesecond place, I should never propose to settle. I can't settle, my dearuncle; I 'm not a settler. I know that is what strangers are supposedto do here; they always settle. But I have n't--to answer yourquestion--entertained that idea."

  "You intend to return to Europe and resume your irregular manner oflife?" Mr. Wentworth inquired.

  "I can't say I intend. But it 's very likely I shall go back to Europe.After all, I am a European. I feel that, you know. It will depend a gooddeal upon my sister. She 's even more of a European than I; here, youknow, she 's a picture out of her setting. And as for 'resuming,' dearuncle, I really have never given up my irregular manner of life. What,for me, could be more irregular than this?"

  "Than what?" asked Mr. Wentworth, with his pale gravity.

  "Well, than everything! Living in the midst of you, this way; thischarming, quiet, serious family life; fraternizing with Charlotte andGertrude; calling upon twenty young ladies and going out to walk withthem; sitting with you in the evening on the piazza and listening to thecrickets, and going to bed at ten o'clock."

  "Your description is very animated," said Mr. Wentworth; "but I seenothing improper in what you describe."

  "Neither do I, dear uncle. It is extremely delightful; I should n'tlike it if it were improper. I assure you I don't like improper things;though I dare say you think I do," Felix went on, painting away.

  "I have never accused you of that."

  "Pray don't," said Felix, "because, you see, at bottom I am a terriblePhilistine."

  "A Philistine?" repeated Mr. Wentworth.

  "I mean, as one may say, a plain, God-fearing man." Mr. Wentworth lookedat him reservedly, like a mystified sage, and Felix continued, "I trustI shall enjoy a venerable and venerated old age. I mean to live long.I can hardly call that a plan, perhaps; but it 's a keen desire--a rosyvision. I shall be a lively, perhaps even a frivolous old man!"

  "It is natural," said his uncle, sententiously, "that one should desireto prolong an agreeable life. We have perhaps a selfish indispositionto bring our pleasure to a close. But I presume," he added, "that youexpect to marry."

  "That too, dear uncle, is a hope, a desire, a vision," said Felix. Itoccurred to him for an instant that this was possibly a preface to theoffer of the hand of one of Mr. Wentworth's admirable daughters. But inthe name of decent modesty and a proper sense of the hard realities ofthis world, Felix banished the thought. His uncle was the incarnationof benevolence, certainly; but from that to accepting--much morepostulating--the idea of a union between a young lady with a dowrypresumptively brilliant and a penniless artist with no prospect offame, there was a very long way. Felix had lately become conscious ofa luxurious preference for the society--if possible unshared withothers--of Gertrude Wentworth; but he had relegated this young lady,for the moment, to the coldly brilliant category of unattainablepossessions. She was not the first woman for whom he had entertainedan unpractical admiration. He had been in love with duchesses andcountesses, and he had made, once or twice, a perilously near approachto cynicism in declaring that the disinterestedness of women had beenoverrated. On the whole, he had tempered audacity with modesty; andit is but fair to him now to say explicitly that he would have beenincapable of taking advantage of his present large allowance offamiliarity to make love to the younger of his handsome cousins. Felixhad grown up among traditions in the light of which such a proceedinglooked like a grievous breach of hospitality. I have said that he wasalways happy, and it may be counted among the present sources of hishappiness that he had as regards this matter of his relations withGertrude a deliciously good conscience. His own deportment seemed tohim suffused with the beauty of virtue--a form of beauty that he admiredwith the same vivacity with which he admired all other forms.

  "I think that if you marry," said Mr. Wentworth presently, "it willconduce to your happiness."

  "Sicurissimo!" Felix exclaimed; and then, arresting his brush, he lookedat his uncle with a smile. "There is something I feel tempted to say toyou. May I risk it?"

  Mr. Wentworth drew himself up a little. "I am very safe; I don't repeatthings." But he hoped Felix would not risk too much.

  Felix was laughing at his answer.

  "It 's odd to hear you telling me how to be happy. I don't think youknow yourself, dear uncle. Now, does that sound brutal?"

  The old man was silent a moment, and then, with a dry dignity thatsuddenly touched his nephew: "We may sometimes point out a road we areunable to follow."

  "Ah, don't tell me you have had any sorrows," Felix rejoined. "I did n'tsuppose it, and I did n't mean to allude to them. I simply meant thatyou all don't amuse yourselves."

  "Amuse ourselves? We are not children."

  "Precisely not! You have reached the proper age. I was saying that theother day to Gertrude," Felix added. "I hope it was not indiscreet."

  "If it was," said Mr. Wentworth, with a keener irony than Felix wouldhave thought him capable of, "it was but your way of amusing yourself. Iam afraid you have never had a trouble."

  "Oh, yes, I have!" Felix declared, with some spirit; "before I knewbetter. But you don't catch me at it again."

  Mr. Wentworth maintained for a while a silence more expressive than adeep-drawn sigh. "You have no children," he said at last.

  "Don't tell me," Felix exc
laimed, "that your charming young people are asource of grief to you!"

  "I don't speak of Charlotte." And then, after a pause, Mr. Wentworthcontinued, "I don't speak of Gertrude. But I feel considerable anxietyabout Clifford. I will tell you another time."

  The next time he gave Felix a sitting his nephew reminded him thathe had taken him into his confidence. "How is Clifford to-day?" Felixasked. "He has always seemed to me a young man of remarkable discretion.Indeed, he is only too discreet; he seems on his guard against me--asif he thought me rather light company. The other day he told hissister--Gertrude repeated it to me--that I was always laughing at him.If I laugh it is simply from the impulse to try and inspire him withconfidence. That is the only way I have."

  "Clifford's situation is no laughing matter," said Mr. Wentworth. "It isvery peculiar, as I suppose you have guessed."

  "Ah, you mean his love affair with his cousin?"

  Mr. Wentworth stared, blushing a little. "I mean his absence fromcollege. He has been suspended. We have decided not to speak of itunless we are asked."

  "Suspended?" Felix repeated.

  "He has been requested by the Harvard authorities to absent himself forsix months. Meanwhile he is studying with Mr. Brand. We think Mr. Brandwill help him; at least we hope so."

  "What befell him at college?" Felix asked. "He was too fond of pleasure?Mr. Brand certainly will not teach him any of those secrets!"

  "He was too fond of something of which he should not have been fond. Isuppose it is considered a pleasure."

  Felix gave his light laugh. "My dear uncle, is there any doubt about itsbeing a pleasure? C'est de son age, as they say in France."

  "I should have said rather it was a vice of later life--of disappointedold age."

  Felix glanced at his uncle, with his lifted eyebrows, and then, "Of whatare you speaking?" he demanded, smiling.

  "Of the situation in which Clifford was found."

  "Ah, he was found--he was caught?"

  "Necessarily, he was caught. He could n't walk; he staggered."

  "Oh," said Felix, "he drinks! I rather suspected that, from something Iobserved the first day I came here. I quite agree with you that it is alow taste. It 's not a vice for a gentleman. He ought to give it up."

  "We hope for a good deal from Mr. Brand's influence," Mr. Wentworth wenton. "He has talked to him from the first. And he never touches anythinghimself."

  "I will talk to him--I will talk to him!" Felix declared, gayly.

  "What will you say to him?" asked his uncle, with some apprehension.

  Felix for some moments answered nothing. "Do you mean to marry him tohis cousin?" he asked at last.

  "Marry him?" echoed Mr. Wentworth. "I should n't think his cousin wouldwant to marry him."

  "You have no understanding, then, with Mrs. Acton?"

  Mr. Wentworth stared, almost blankly. "I have never discussed suchsubjects with her."

  "I should think it might be time," said Felix. "Lizzie Acton isadmirably pretty, and if Clifford is dangerous...."

  "They are not engaged," said Mr. Wentworth. "I have no reason to supposethey are engaged."

  "Par exemple!" cried Felix. "A clandestine engagement? Trust me,Clifford, as I say, is a charming boy. He is incapable of that. LizzieActon, then, would not be jealous of another woman."

  "I certainly hope not," said the old man, with a vague sense of jealousybeing an even lower vice than a love of liquor.

  "The best thing for Clifford, then," Felix propounded, "is to becomeinterested in some clever, charming woman." And he paused in hispainting, and, with his elbows on his knees, looked with brightcommunicativeness at his uncle. "You see, I believe greatly in theinfluence of women. Living with women helps to make a man a gentleman.It is very true Clifford has his sisters, who are so charming. But thereshould be a different sentiment in play from the fraternal, you know. Hehas Lizzie Acton; but she, perhaps, is rather immature."

  "I suspect Lizzie has talked to him, reasoned with him," said Mr.Wentworth.

  "On the impropriety of getting tipsy--on the beauty of temperance? Thatis dreary work for a pretty young girl. No," Felix continued; "Cliffordought to frequent some agreeable woman, who, without ever mentioningsuch unsavory subjects, would give him a sense of its being veryridiculous to be fuddled. If he could fall in love with her a little, somuch the better. The thing would operate as a cure."

  "Well, now, what lady should you suggest?" asked Mr. Wentworth.

  "There is a clever woman under your hand. My sister."

  "Your sister--under my hand?" Mr. Wentworth repeated.

  "Say a word to Clifford. Tell him to be bold. He is well disposedalready; he has invited her two or three times to drive. But I don'tthink he comes to see her. Give him a hint to come--to come often. Hewill sit there of an afternoon, and they will talk. It will do him good."

  Mr. Wentworth meditated. "You think she will exercise a helpfulinfluence?"

  "She will exercise a civilizing--I may call it a sobering--influence. Acharming, clever, witty woman always does--especially if she is a littleof a coquette. My dear uncle, the society of such women has been halfmy education. If Clifford is suspended, as you say, from college, letEugenia be his preceptress."

  Mr. Wentworth continued thoughtful. "You think Eugenia is a coquette?"he asked.

  "What pretty woman is not?" Felix demanded in turn. But this, for Mr.Wentworth, could at the best have been no answer, for he did not thinkhis niece pretty. "With Clifford," the young man pursued, "Eugenia willsimply be enough of a coquette to be a little ironical. That 's whathe needs. So you recommend him to be nice with her, you know. Thesuggestion will come best from you."

  "Do I understand," asked the old man, "that I am to suggest to my son tomake a--a profession of--of affection to Madame Munster?"

  "Yes, yes--a profession!" cried Felix sympathetically.

  "But, as I understand it, Madame Munster is a married woman."

  "Ah," said Felix, smiling, "of course she can't marry him. But she willdo what she can."

  Mr. Wentworth sat for some time with his eyes on the floor; at last hegot up. "I don't think," he said, "that I can undertake to recommend myson any such course." And without meeting Felix's surprised glance hebroke off his sitting, which was not resumed for a fortnight.

  Felix was very fond of the little lake which occupied so many of Mr.Wentworth's numerous acres, and of a remarkable pine grove which layupon the further side of it, planted upon a steep embankment and hauntedby the summer breeze. The murmur of the air in the far off tree-topshad a strange distinctness; it was almost articulate. One afternoonthe young man came out of his painting-room and passed the open door ofEugenia's little salon. Within, in the cool dimness, he saw his sister,dressed in white, buried in her arm-chair, and holding to her face animmense bouquet. Opposite to her sat Clifford Wentworth, twirling hishat. He had evidently just presented the bouquet to the Baroness, whosefine eyes, as she glanced at him over the big roses and geraniums, worea conversational smile. Felix, standing on the threshold of the cottage,hesitated for a moment as to whether he should retrace his steps andenter the parlor. Then he went his way and passed into Mr. Wentworth'sgarden. That civilizing process to which he had suggested that Cliffordshould be subjected appeared to have come on of itself. Felix was verysure, at least, that Mr. Wentworth had not adopted his ingenious devicefor stimulating the young man's aesthetic consciousness. "Doubtlesshe supposes," he said to himself, after the conversation that has beennarrated, "that I desire, out of fraternal benevolence, to procure forEugenia the amusement of a flirtation--or, as he probably calls it, anintrigue--with the too susceptible Clifford. It must be admitted--andI have noticed it before--that nothing exceeds the license occasionallytaken by the imagination of very rigid people." Felix, on his own side,had of course said nothing to Clifford; but he had observed to Eugeniathat Mr. Wentworth was much mortified at his son's low tastes. "We oughtto do something to help them, after all their kindness to us," he hadadded. "Enc
ourage Clifford to come and see you, and inspire him with ataste for conversation. That will supplant the other, which only comesfrom his puerility, from his not taking his position in the world--thatof a rich young man of ancient stock--seriously enough. Make hima little more serious. Even if he makes love to you it is no greatmatter."

  "I am to offer myself as a superior form of intoxication--a substitutefor a brandy bottle, eh?" asked the Baroness. "Truly, in this countryone comes to strange uses."

  But she had not positively declined to undertake Clifford's highereducation, and Felix, who had not thought of the matter again, beinghaunted with visions of more personal profit, now reflected that thework of redemption had fairly begun. The idea in prospect had seemedof the happiest, but in operation it made him a trifle uneasy. "What ifEugenia--what if Eugenia"--he asked himself softly; the question dyingaway in his sense of Eugenia's undetermined capacity. But before Felixhad time either to accept or to reject its admonition, even in thisvague form, he saw Robert Acton turn out of Mr. Wentworth's inclosure,by a distant gate, and come toward the cottage in the orchard. Actonhad evidently walked from his own house along a shady by-way and wasintending to pay a visit to Madame Munster. Felix watched him a moment;then he turned away. Acton could be left to play the part of Providenceand interrupt--if interruption were needed--Clifford's entanglement withEugenia.

  Felix passed through the garden toward the house and toward a posterngate which opened upon a path leading across the fields, beside a littlewood, to the lake. He stopped and looked up at the house; his eyesrested more particularly upon a certain open window, on the shady side.Presently Gertrude appeared there, looking out into the summer light. Hetook off his hat to her and bade her good-day; he remarked that he wasgoing to row across the pond, and begged that she would do him thehonor to accompany him. She looked at him a moment; then, without sayinganything, she turned away. But she soon reappeared below in one of thosequaint and charming Leghorn hats, tied with white satin bows, that wereworn at that period; she also carried a green parasol. She went withhim to the edge of the lake, where a couple of boats were always moored;they got into one of them, and Felix, with gentle strokes, propelled itto the opposite shore. The day was the perfection of summer weather;the little lake was the color of sunshine; the plash of the oars was theonly sound, and they found themselves listening to it. They disembarked,and, by a winding path, ascended the pine-crested mound which overlookedthe water, whose white expanse glittered between the trees. The placewas delightfully cool, and had the added charm that--in the softlysounding pine boughs--you seemed to hear the coolness as well asfeel it. Felix and Gertrude sat down on the rust-colored carpet ofpine-needles and talked of many things. Felix spoke at last, in thecourse of talk, of his going away; it was the first time he had alludedto it.

  "You are going away?" said Gertrude, looking at him.

  "Some day--when the leaves begin to fall. You know I can't stayforever."

  Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after apause, she said, "I shall never see you again."

  "Why not?" asked Felix. "We shall probably both survive my departure."

  But Gertrude only repeated, "I shall never see you again. I shall neverhear of you," she went on. "I shall know nothing about you. I knewnothing about you before, and it will be the same again."

  "I knew nothing about you then, unfortunately," said Felix. "But now Ishall write to you."

  "Don't write to me. I shall not answer you," Gertrude declared.

  "I should of course burn your letters," said Felix.

  Gertrude looked at him again. "Burn my letters? You sometimes saystrange things."

  "They are not strange in themselves," the young man answered. "They areonly strange as said to you. You will come to Europe."

  "With whom shall I come?" She asked this question simply; she was verymuch in earnest. Felix was interested in her earnestness; for somemoments he hesitated. "You can't tell me that," she pursued. "You can'tsay that I shall go with my father and my sister; you don't believethat."

  "I shall keep your letters," said Felix, presently, for all answer.

  "I never write. I don't know how to write." Gertrude, for some time,said nothing more; and her companion, as he looked at her, wished it hadnot been "disloyal" to make love to the daughter of an old gentleman whohad offered one hospitality. The afternoon waned; the shadows stretchedthemselves; and the light grew deeper in the western sky. Two personsappeared on the opposite side of the lake, coming from the house andcrossing the meadow. "It is Charlotte and Mr. Brand," said Gertrude."They are coming over here." But Charlotte and Mr. Brand only came downto the edge of the water, and stood there, looking across; they made nomotion to enter the boat that Felix had left at the mooring-place. Felixwaved his hat to them; it was too far to call. They made no visibleresponse, and they presently turned away and walked along the shore.

  "Mr. Brand is not demonstrative," said Felix. "He is never demonstrativeto me. He sits silent, with his chin in his hand, looking at me.Sometimes he looks away. Your father tells me he is so eloquent; and Ishould like to hear him talk. He looks like such a noble young man.But with me he will never talk. And yet I am so fond of listening tobrilliant imagery!"

  "He is very eloquent," said Gertrude; "but he has no brilliant imagery.I have heard him talk a great deal. I knew that when they saw us theywould not come over here."

  "Ah, he is making la cour, as they say, to your sister? They desire tobe alone?"

  "No," said Gertrude, gravely, "they have no such reason as that forbeing alone."

  "But why does n't he make la cour to Charlotte?" Felix inquired. "She isso pretty, so gentle, so good."

  Gertrude glanced at him, and then she looked at the distantly-seencouple they were discussing. Mr. Brand and Charlotte were walking sideby side. They might have been a pair of lovers, and yet they might not."They think I should not be here," said Gertrude.

  "With me? I thought you did n't have those ideas."

  "You don't understand. There are a great many things you don'tunderstand."

  "I understand my stupidity. But why, then, do not Charlotte and Mr.Brand, who, as an elder sister and a clergyman, are free to walk abouttogether, come over and make me wiser by breaking up the unlawfulinterview into which I have lured you?"

  "That is the last thing they would do," said Gertrude.

  Felix stared at her a moment, with his lifted eyebrows. "Je n'ycomprends rien!" he exclaimed; then his eyes followed for a while theretreating figures of this critical pair. "You may say what you please,"he declared; "it is evident to me that your sister is not indifferentto her clever companion. It is agreeable to her to be walking there withhim. I can see that from here." And in the excitement of observationFelix rose to his feet.

  Gertrude rose also, but she made no attempt to emulate her companion'sdiscovery; she looked rather in another direction. Felix's words hadstruck her; but a certain delicacy checked her. "She is certainly notindifferent to Mr. Brand; she has the highest opinion of him."

  "One can see it--one can see it," said Felix, in a tone of amusedcontemplation, with his head on one side. Gertrude turned her back tothe opposite shore; it was disagreeable to her to look, but she hopedFelix would say something more. "Ah, they have wandered away into thewood," he added.

  Gertrude turned round again. "She is not in love with him," she said; itseemed her duty to say that.

  "Then he is in love with her; or if he is not, he ought to be. She issuch a perfect little woman of her kind. She reminds me of a pair ofold-fashioned silver sugar-tongs; you know I am very fond of sugar. Andshe is very nice with Mr. Brand; I have noticed that; very gentle andgracious."

  Gertrude reflected a moment. Then she took a great resolution. "Shewants him to marry me," she said. "So of course she is nice."

  Felix's eyebrows rose higher than ever. "To marry you! Ah, ah, this isinteresting. And you think one must be very nice with a man to inducehim to do that?"

  Gertrude
had turned a little pale, but she went on, "Mr. Brand wants ithimself."

  Felix folded his arms and stood looking at her. "I see--I see," he saidquickly. "Why did you never tell me this before?"

  "It is disagreeable to me to speak of it even now. I wished simply toexplain to you about Charlotte."

  "You don't wish to marry Mr. Brand, then?"

  "No," said Gertrude, gravely.

  "And does your father wish it?"

  "Very much."

  "And you don't like him--you have refused him?"

  "I don't wish to marry him."

  "Your father and sister think you ought to, eh?"

  "It is a long story," said Gertrude. "They think there are good reasons.I can't explain it. They think I have obligations, and that I haveencouraged him."

  Felix smiled at her, as if she had been telling him an amusing storyabout some one else. "I can't tell you how this interests me," he said."Now you don't recognize these reasons--these obligations?"

  "I am not sure; it is not easy." And she picked up her parasol andturned away, as if to descend the slope.

  "Tell me this," Felix went on, going with her: "are you likely to givein--to let them persuade you?"

  Gertrude looked at him with the serious face that she had constantlyworn, in opposition to his almost eager smile. "I shall never marry Mr.Brand," she said.

  "I see!" Felix rejoined. And they slowly descended the hill together,saying nothing till they reached the margin of the pond. "It is your ownaffair," he then resumed; "but do you know, I am not altogether glad? Ifit were settled that you were to marry Mr. Brand I should take a certaincomfort in the arrangement. I should feel more free. I have no rightto make love to you myself, eh?" And he paused, lightly pressing hisargument upon her.

  "None whatever," replied Gertrude quickly--too quickly.

  "Your father would never hear of it; I have n't a penny. Mr. Brand, ofcourse, has property of his own, eh?"

  "I believe he has some property; but that has nothing to do with it."

  "With you, of course not; but with your father and sister it must have.So, as I say, if this were settled, I should feel more at liberty."

  "More at liberty?" Gertrude repeated. "Please unfasten the boat."

  Felix untwisted the rope and stood holding it. "I should be able to saythings to you that I can't give myself the pleasure of saying now," hewent on. "I could tell you how much I admire you, without seeming topretend to that which I have no right to pretend to. I should makeviolent love to you," he added, laughing, "if I thought you were soplaced as not to be offended by it."

  "You mean if I were engaged to another man? That is strange reasoning!"Gertrude exclaimed.

  "In that case you would not take me seriously."

  "I take every one seriously," said Gertrude. And without his help shestepped lightly into the boat.

  Felix took up the oars and sent it forward. "Ah, this is what you havebeen thinking about? It seemed to me you had something on your mind.I wish very much," he added, "that you would tell me some of theseso-called reasons--these obligations."

  "They are not real reasons--good reasons," said Gertrude, looking at thepink and yellow gleams in the water.

  "I can understand that! Because a handsome girl has had a spark ofcoquetry, that is no reason."

  "If you mean me, it 's not that. I have not done that."

  "It is something that troubles you, at any rate," said Felix.

  "Not so much as it used to," Gertrude rejoined.

  He looked at her, smiling always. "That is not saying much, eh?" But sheonly rested her eyes, very gravely, on the lighted water. She seemed tohim to be trying to hide the signs of the trouble of which she had justtold him. Felix felt, at all times, much the same impulse to dissipatevisible melancholy that a good housewife feels to brush away dust. Therewas something he wished to brush away now; suddenly he stopped rowingand poised his oars. "Why should Mr. Brand have addressed himself toyou, and not to your sister?" he asked. "I am sure she would listen tohim."

  Gertrude, in her family, was thought capable of a good deal of levity;but her levity had never gone so far as this. It moved her greatly,however, to hear Felix say that he was sure of something; so that,raising her eyes toward him, she tried intently, for some moments, toconjure up this wonderful image of a love-affair between her own sisterand her own suitor. We know that Gertrude had an imaginative mind; sothat it is not impossible that this effort should have been partiallysuccessful. But she only murmured, "Ah, Felix! ah, Felix!"

  "Why should n't they marry? Try and make them marry!" cried Felix.

  "Try and make them?"

  "Turn the tables on them. Then they will leave you alone. I will helpyou as far as I can."

  Gertrude's heart began to beat; she was greatly excited; she had neverhad anything so interesting proposed to her before. Felix had begun torow again, and he now sent the boat home with long strokes. "I believeshe does care for him!" said Gertrude, after they had disembarked.

  "Of course she does, and we will marry them off. It will make themhappy; it will make every one happy. We shall have a wedding and I willwrite an epithalamium."

  "It seems as if it would make me happy," said Gertrude.

  "To get rid of Mr. Brand, eh? To recover your liberty?"

  Gertrude walked on. "To see my sister married to so good a man."

  Felix gave his light laugh. "You always put things on those grounds; youwill never say anything for yourself. You are all so afraid, here, ofbeing selfish. I don't think you know how," he went on. "Let me showyou! It will make me happy for myself, and for just the reverse of whatI told you a while ago. After that, when I make love to you, you willhave to think I mean it."

  "I shall never think you mean anything," said Gertrude. "You are toofantastic."

  "Ah," cried Felix, "that 's a license to say everything! Gertrude, Iadore you!"