The idea in prospect had seemed of the happiest, but in operation it made him a trifle uneasy. "What if Eugenia--what if Eugenia"--he asked himself softly; the question dying away in his sense of Eugenia's undetermined capacity. But before Felix had time either to accept or to reject its admonition, even in this vague form, he saw Robert Acton turn out of Mr. Wentworth's inclosure, by a distant gate, and come toward the cottage in the orchard.
Acton had evidently walked from his own house along a shady by-way and was intending 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 Providence and interrupt--if interruption were needed--Clifford's entanglement with Eugenia.
Felix passed through the garden toward the house and toward a postern gate which opened upon a path leading across the fields, beside a little wood, to the lake.
He stopped and looked up at the house; his eyes rested more particularly upon a certain open window, on the shady side.
Presently Gertrude appeared there, looking out into the summer light.
He took off his hat to her and bade her good-day; he remarked that he was going to row across the pond, and begged that she would do him the honor to accompany him.
She looked at him a moment; then, without saying anything, she turned away. But she soon reappeared below in one of those quaint and charming Leghorn hats, tied with white satin bows, that were worn at that period; she also carried a green parasol.
She went with him 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 it to 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 the only sound, and they found themselves listening to it. They disembarked, and, by a winding path, ascended the pine-crested mound which overlooked the water, whose white expanse glittered between the trees.
The place was delightfully cool, and had the added charm that--in the softly sounding pine boughs--you seemed to hear the coolness as well as feel it. Felix and Gertrude sat down on the rust-colored carpet of pine-needles and talked of many things.
Felix spoke at last, in the course of talk, of his going away; it was the first time he had alluded to it.
"You are going away?" said Gertrude, looking at him.
"Some day--when the leaves begin to fall. You know I can't stay forever."
Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after a pause, 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 never hear of you," she went on. "I shall know nothing about you.
I knew nothing about you before, and it will be the same again."
"I knew nothing about you then, unfortunately," said Felix.
"But now I shall 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 say strange things."
"They are not strange in themselves," the young man answered.
"They are only strange as said to you. You will come to Europe."
"With whom shall I come?" She asked this question simply; she was very much in earnest. Felix was interested in her earnestness; for some moments he hesitated. "You can't tell me that," she pursued.
"You can't say that I shall go with my father and my sister; you don't believe that."
"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 had not been "disloyal" to make love to the daughter of an old gentleman who had offered one hospitality. The afternoon waned; the shadows stretched themselves; and the light grew deeper in the western sky.
Two persons appeared on the opposite side of the lake, coming from the house and crossing the meadow. "It is Charlotte and Mr. Brand," said Gertrude.
"They are coming over here." But Charlotte and Mr. Brand only came down to the edge of the water, and stood there, looking across; they made no motion to enter the boat that Felix had left at the mooring-place. Felix waved his hat to them; it was too far to call.
They made no visible response, and they presently turned away and walked along the shore.
"Mr. Brand is not demonstrative," said Felix. "He is never demonstrative to 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 I should 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 to brilliant 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 they would not come over here."
"Ah, he is ****** la cour, as they say, to your sister?
They desire to be alone?"
"No," said Gertrude, gravely, "they have no such reason as that for being alone."
"But why does n't he make la cour to Charlotte?" Felix inquired.
"She is so pretty, so gentle, so good."
Gertrude glanced at him, and then she looked at the distantly-seen couple they were discussing. Mr. Brand and Charlotte were walking side by 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't understand."
"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 about together, come over and make me wiser by breaking up the unlawful interview 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.
