She wandered about alone in the garden wondering what Mr. Brand would make of her words, which it had been a singular pleasure for her to utter. Shortly after, passing in front of the house, she saw at a distance two persons standing near the garden gate.
It was Mr. Brand going away and bidding good-night to Charlotte, who had walked down with him from the house. Gertrude saw that the parting was prolonged. Then she turned her back upon it.
She had not gone very far, however, when she heard her sister slowly following her. She neither turned round nor waited for her; she knew what Charlotte was going to say.
Charlotte, who at last overtook her, in fact presently began; she had passed her arm into Gertrude's.
"Will you listen to me, dear, if I say something very particular?"
"I know what you are going to say," said Gertrude.
"Mr. Brand feels very badly."
"Oh, Gertrude, how can you treat him so?" Charlotte demanded.
And as her sister made no answer she added, "After all he has done for you!"
"What has he done for me?"
"I wonder you can ask, Gertrude. He has helped you so.
You told me so yourself, a great many times. You told me that he helped you to struggle with your--your peculiarities.
You told me that he had taught you how to govern your temper."
For a moment Gertrude said nothing. Then, "Was my temper very bad?" she asked.
"I am not accusing you, Gertrude," said Charlotte.
"What are you doing, then?" her sister demanded, with a short laugh.
"I am pleading for Mr. Brand--reminding you of all you owe him."
"I have given it all back," said Gertrude, still with her little laugh.
"He can take back the virtue he imparted! I want to be wicked again."
Her sister made her stop in the path, and fixed upon her, in the darkness, a sweet, reproachful gaze. "If you talk this way I shall almost believe it. Think of all we owe Mr. Brand.
Think of how he has always expected something of you.
Think how much he has been to us. Think of his beautiful influence upon Clifford."
"He is very good," said Gertrude, looking at her sister.
"I know he is very good. But he should n't speak against Felix."
"Felix is good," Charlotte answered, softly but promptly. "Felix is very wonderful. Only he is so different. Mr. Brand is much nearer to us.
I should never think of going to Felix with a trouble--with a question.
Mr. Brand is much more to us, Gertrude."
"He is very--very good," Gertrude repeated. "He is more to you; yes, much more. Charlotte," she added suddenly, "you are in love with him!"
"Oh, Gertrude!" cried poor Charlotte; and her sister saw her blushing in the darkness.
Gertrude put her arm round her. "I wish he would marry you!" she went on.
Charlotte shook herself free. "You must not say such things!" she exclaimed, beneath her breath.
"You like him more than you say, and he likes you more than he knows."
"This is very cruel of you!" Charlotte Wentworth murmured.
But if it was cruel Gertrude continued pitiless. "Not if it 's true," she answered. "I wish he would marry you."
"Please don't say that."
"I mean to tell him so!" said Gertrude.
"Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude!" her sister almost moaned.
"Yes, if he speaks to me again about myself. I will say, 'Why don't you marry Charlotte? She 's a thousand times better than I.' "
"You are wicked; you are changed!" cried her sister.
"If you don't like it you can prevent it," said Gertrude.
"You can prevent it by keeping him from speaking to me!"
And with this she walked away, very conscious of what she had done; measuring it and finding a certain joy and a quickened sense of freedom in it.
Mr. Wentworth was rather wide of the mark in suspecting that Clifford had begun to pay unscrupulous compliments to his brilliant cousin; for the young man had really more scruples than he received credit for in his family.
He had a certain transparent shamefacedness which was in itself a proof that he was not at his ease in dissipation.
His collegiate peccadilloes had aroused a domestic murmur as disagreeable to the young man as the creaking of his boots would have been to a house-breaker. Only, as the house-breaker would have simplified matters by removing his chaussures, it had seemed to Clifford that the shortest cut to comfortable relations with people--relations which should make him cease to think that when they spoke to him they meant something improving--was to renounce all ambition toward a nefarious development.
And, in fact, Clifford's ambition took the most commendable form.
He thought of himself in the future as the well-known and much-liked Mr. Wentworth, of Boston, who should, in the natural course of prosperity, have married his pretty cousin, Lizzie Acton; should live in a wide-fronted house, in view of the Common; and should drive, behind a light wagon, over the damp autumn roads, a pair of beautifully matched sorrel horses.
Clifford's vision of the coming years was very simple; its most definite features were this element of familiar matrimony and the duplication of his resources for trotting.
He had not yet asked his cousin to marry him; but he meant to do so as soon as he had taken his degree.
Lizzie was serenely conscious of his intention, and she had made up her mind that he would improve.
Her brother, who was very fond of this light, quick, competent little Lizzie, saw on his side no reason to interpose.
It seemed to him a graceful social law that Clifford and his sister should become engaged; he himself was not engaged, but every one else, fortunately, was not such a fool as he.
He was fond of Clifford, as well, and had his own way--of which it must be confessed he was a little ashamed--of looking at those aberrations which had led to the young man's compulsory retirement from the neighboring seat of learning.
Acton had seen the world, as he said to himself; he had been to China and had knocked about among men. He had learned the essential difference between a nice young fellow and a mean young fellow, and was satisfied that there was no harm in Clifford.
