The New York Stories of Henry James

by Henry James

  “But you can’t take a vehicle in.”

  “No: there is only a footpath, although I have ridden in. One of these days, when you’re stronger, you must drive to this point, and get out, and walk over to the bank.”

  Mason was silent a moment—a moment during which he felt in his limbs the tremor of a bold resolution. “I noticed the place the day I went out on the water with Mr. McCarthy. I immediately marked it as my own. The bank is quite high, and the trees make a little amphitheatre on its summit. I think there’s a bench.”

  “Yes, there are two benches,” said Caroline.

  “Suppose, then, we try it now,” said Mason, with an effort.

  “But you can never walk over that meadow. You see it’s broken ground. And, at all events, I can’t consent to your going alone.”

  “That, madam,” said Ferdinand, rising to his feet in the phaeton, “is a piece of folly I should never think of proposing. Yonder is a house, and in it there are people. Can’t we drive thither, and place the horse in their custody?”

  “Nothing is more easy, if you insist upon it. The house is occupied by a German family with a couple of children, who are old friends of mine. When I come here on horseback they always clamor for ‘coppers.’ From their little garden the walk is shorter.”

  So Miss Hofmann turned the horse toward the cottage, which stood at the head of a lane, a few yards from the road. A little boy and girl, with bare heads and bare feet,—the former members very white and the latter very black,—came out to meet her. Caroline greeted them good-humoredly in German. The girl, who was the elder, consented to watch the horse, while the boy volunteered to show the visitors the shortest way to the river. Mason reached the point in question without great fatigue, and found a prospect which would have repaid even greater trouble. To the right and to the left, a hundred feet below them, stretched the broad channel of the seaward-shifting waters. In the distance rose the gentle masses of the Catskills with all the intervening region vague and neutral in the gathering twilight. A faint odor of coolness came up to their faces from the stream below.

  “You can sit down,” said the little boy, doing the honors.

  “Yes, Colonel, sit down,” said Caroline. “You’ve already been on your feet too much.”

  Ferdinand obediently seated himself, unable to deny that he was glad to do so. Miss Hofmann released from her grasp the skirts which she had gathered up in her passage from the phaeton, and strolled to the edge of the cliff, where she stood for some moments talking with her little guide. Mason could only hear that she was speaking German. After the lapse of a few moments Miss Hofmann turned back, still talking—or rather listening—to the child.

  “He’s very pretty,” she said in French, as she stopped before Ferdinand.

  Mason broke into a laugh. “To think,” said he, “that that dirty little youngster should forbid us the use of two languages! Do you speak French, my child?”

  “No,” said the boy, sturdily, “I speak German.”

  “Ah, there I can’t follow you!”

  The child stared a moment, and then replied, with pardonable irrelevancy, “I’ll show you the way down to the water.”

  “There I can’t follow you either. I hope you’ll not go, Miss Hofmann,” added the young man, observing a movement on Caroline’s part.

  “Is it hard?” she asked of the child.

  “No, it’s easy.”

  “Will I tear my dress?”

  The child shook his head; and Caroline descended the bank under his guidance.

  As some moments elapsed before she reappeared, Ferdinand ventured to the edge of the cliff, and looked down. She was sitting on a rock on the narrow margin of sand, with her hat in her lap, twisting the feather in her fingers. In a few moments it seemed to Ferdinand that he caught the tones of her voice, wafted upward as if she were gently singing. He listened intently, and at last succeeded in distinguishing several words; they were German. “Confound her German!” thought the young man. Suddenly Miss Hofmann rose from her seat, and, after a short interval, reappeared on the platform. “What did you find down there?” asked Ferdinand, almost savagely.

  “Nothing,—a little strip of a beach and a pile of stones.”

  “You have torn your dress,” said Mason.

  Miss Hofmann surveyed her drapery. “Where, if you please?”

  “There, in front.” And Mason extended his walking-stick, and inserted it into the injured fold of muslin. There was a certain graceless brusquerie in the movement which attracted Miss Hofmann’s attention. She looked at her companion, and, seeing that his face was discomposed, fancied that he was annoyed at having been compelled to wait.

  “Thank you,” she said; “it’s easily mended. And now suppose we go back.”

  “No, not yet,” said Ferdinand. “We have plenty of time.”

  “Plenty of time to catch cold,” said Miss Hofmann, kindly.

  Mason had planted his stick where he had let it fall on withdrawing it from contact with his companion’s skirts, and stood leaning against it, with his eyes on the girl’s face. “What if I do catch cold?” he asked abruptly.

  “Come, don’t talk nonsense,” said Miss Hofmann.

  “I never was more serious in my life.” And, pausing a moment, he drew a couple of steps nearer. She had gathered her shawl closely about her, and stood with her arms lost in it, holding her elbows. “I don’t mean that quite literally,” Mason continued. “I wish to get well, on the whole. But there are moments when this perpetual self-coddling seems beneath the dignity of man, and I’m tempted to purchase one short hour of enjoyment, of happiness, at the cost—well, at the cost of my life if necessary!”

  This was a franker speech than Ferdinand had yet made; the reader may estimate his habitual reserve. Miss Hofmann must have been somewhat surprised, and even slightly puzzled. But it was plain that he expected a rejoinder.

  “I don’t know what temptations you may have had,” she answered, smiling; “but I confess that I can think of none in your present circumstances likely to involve the great sacrifice you speak of. What you say, Colonel Mason, is half—”

  “Half what?”

  “Half ungrateful. Aunt Maria flatters herself that she has made existence as easy and as peaceful for you—as stupid, if you like—as it can possibly be for a—a clever man. And now, after all, to accuse her of introducing temptations.”

  “Your aunt Maria is the best of women, Miss Hofmann,” said Mason. “But I’m not a clever man. I’m deplorably weak-minded. Very little things excite me. Very small pleasures are gigantic temptations. I would give a great deal, for instance, to stay here with you for half an hour.”

  It is a delicate question whether Miss Hofmann now ceased to be perplexed; whether she discerned in the young man’s accents—it was his tone, his attitude, his eyes that were fully significant, rather than his words—an intimation of that sublime and simple truth in the presence of which a wise woman puts off coquetry and prudery, and stands invested with perfect charity. But charity is nothing if not discreet; and Miss Hofmann may very well have effected the little transaction I speak of, and yet have remained, as she did remain, gracefully wrapped in her shawl, with the same serious smile on her face. Ferdinand’s heart was thumping under his waistcoat; the words in which he might tell her that he loved her were fluttering there like frightened birds in a storm-shaken cage. Whether his lips would form them or not depended on the next words she uttered. On the faintest sign of defiance or of impatience he would really give her something to coquet withal. I repeat that I do not undertake to follow Miss Hofmann’s feelings; I only know that her words were those of a woman of great instincts. “My dear Colonel Mason,” she said, “I wish we might remain here the whole evening. The moments are quite too pleasant to be wantonly sacrificed. I simply put you on your conscience. If you believe that you can safely do so,—that you’ll not have some dreadful chill in consequence,—let us by all means stay awhile. If you do not so believe, let us g
o back to the carriage. There is no good reason, that I see, for our behaving like children.”

  If Miss Hofmann apprehended a scene,—I do not assert that she did,—she was saved. Mason extracted from her words a delicate assurance that he could afford to wait. “You’re an angel, Miss Hofmann,” he said, as a sign that this kindly assurance had been taken. “I think we had better go back.”

  Miss Hofmann accordingly led the way along the path, and Ferdinand slowly followed. A man who has submitted to a woman’s wisdom generally feels bound to persuade himself that he has surrendered at discretion. I suppose it was in this spirit that Mason said to himself as he walked along, “Well, I got what I wanted.”

  The next morning he was again an invalid. He woke up with symptoms which as yet he had scarcely felt at all; and he was obliged to acknowledge the bitter truth that, small as it was, his adventure had exceeded his strength. The walk, the evening air, the dampness of the spot, had combined to produce a violent attack of fever. As soon as it became plain that, in vulgar terms, he was “in for it,” he took his heart in his hands and succumbed. As his condition grew worse, he was fortunately relieved from the custody of this valuable organ, with all it contained of hopes delayed and broken projects, by several intervals of prolonged unconsciousness.

  For three weeks he was a very sick man. For a couple of days his recovery was doubted of. Mrs. Mason attended him with inexhaustible patience and with the solicitude of real affection. She was resolved that greedy Death should not possess himself, through any fault of hers, of a career so full of bright possibilities and of that active gratitude which a good-natured elderly woman would relish, as she felt that of her protégé to be. Her vigils were finally rewarded. One fine morning poor long-silent Ferdinand found words to tell her that he was better. His recovery was very slow, however, and it ceased several degrees below the level from which he had originally fallen. He was thus twice a convalescent,—a sufficiently miserable fellow. He professed to be very much surprised to find himself still among the living. He remained silent and grave, with a newly contracted fold in his forehead, like a man honestly perplexed at the vagaries of destiny. “It must be,” he said to Mrs. Mason,—“it must be that I am reserved for great things.”

  In order to insure absolute quiet in the house, Ferdinand learned Miss Hofmann had removed herself to the house of a friend, at a distance of some five miles. On the first day that the young man was well enough to sit in his arm-chair Mrs. Mason spoke of her niece’s return, which was fixed for the morrow. “She will want very much to see you,” she said. “When she comes, may I bring her into your room?”

  “Good heavens, no!” said Ferdinand, to whom the idea was very disagreeable. He met her accordingly at dinner, three days later. He left his room at the dinner hour, in company with Dr. Knight, who was taking his departure. In the hall they encountered Mrs. Mason, who invited the Doctor to remain, in honor of his patient’s reappearance in society. The Doctor hesitated a moment, and, as he did so, Ferdinand heard Miss Hofmann’s step descending the stair. He turned towards her just in time to catch on her face the vanishing of a glance of intelligence. As Mrs. Mason’s back was against the staircase, her glance was evidently meant for Knight. He excused himself on the plea of an engagement, to Mason’s regret, while the latter greeted the younger lady. Mrs. Mason proposed another day,—the following Sunday; the Doctor assented, and it was not till some time later that Ferdinand found himself wondering why Miss Hofmann should have forbidden him to remain. He rapidly perceived that during the period of their separation this young lady had lost none of her charms; on the contrary, they were more irresistible than ever. It seemed to Mason, moreover, that they were bound together by a certain pensive gentleness, a tender, submissive look, which he had hitherto failed to observe. Mrs. Mason’s own remarks assured him that he was not the victim of an illusion.

  “I wonder what is the matter with Caroline,” she said. “If it were not that she tells me that she never was better, I should believe she is feeling unwell. I’ve never seen her so simple and gentle. She looks like a person who has a great fright,—a fright not altogether unpleasant.”

  “She has been staying in a house full of people,” said Mason. “She has been excited, and amused, and preoccupied; she returns to you and me (excuse the juxtaposition,—it exists)—a kind of reaction asserts itself.” Ferdinand’s explanation was ingenious rather than plausible.

  Mrs. Mason had a better one. “I have an impression,” she said, “George Stapleton, the second of the sons, is an old admirer of Caroline’s. It’s hard to believe that he could have been in the house with her for a fortnight without renewing his suit, in some form or other.”

  Ferdinand was not made uneasy, for he had seen and talked with Mr. George Stapleton,—a young man very good-looking, very good-natured, very clever, very rich, and very unworthy, as he conceived, of Miss Hofmann. “You don’t mean to say that your niece has listened to him,” he answered, calmly enough.

  “Listened, yes. He has made himself agreeable, and he has succeeded in making an impression,—a temporary impression,” added Mrs. Mason with a business-like air.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Ferdinand.

  “Why not? He’s a very nice fellow.”

  “Yes,—yes,” said Mason, “very nice indeed. He’s very rich too.” And here the talk was interrupted by Caroline’s entrance.

  On Sunday the two ladies went to church. It was not till after they had gone that Ferdinand left his room. He came into the little parlor, took up a book, and felt something of the stir of his old intellectual life. Would he ever again know what it was to work? In the course of an hour the ladies came in, radiant with devotional millinery. Mrs. Mason soon went out again, leaving the others together. Miss Hofmann asked Ferdinand what he had been reading; and he was thus led to declare that he really believed he should, after all, get the use of his head again. She listened with all the respect which an intelligent woman who leads an idle life necessarily feels for a clever man when he consents to make her in some degree the confidant of his intellectual purposes. Quickened by her delicious sympathy, her grave attention, and her intelligent questions, he was led to unbosom himself of several of his dearest convictions and projects. It was easy that from this point the conversation should advance to matters of belief and hope in general. Before he knew it, it had done so; and he had thus the great satisfaction of discussing with the woman on whom of all others his selfish and personal happiness was most dependent those great themes in whose expansive magnitude persons and pleasures and passions are absorbed and extinguished, and in whose austere effulgence the brightest divinities of earth remit their shining. Serious passions are a good preparation for the highest kinds of speculation. Although Ferdinand was urging no suit whatever upon his companion, and consciously, at least, making use in no degree of the emotion which accompanied her presence, it is certain that, as they formed themselves, his conceptions were the clearer for being the conceptions of a man in love. And, as for Miss Hofmann, her attention could not, to all appearances, have been more lively, nor her perception more delicate, if the atmosphere of her own intellect had been purified by the sacred fires of a responsive passion.

  Knight duly made his appearance at dinner, and proved himself once more the entertaining gentleman whom our friends had long since learned to appreciate. But Mason, fresh from his contest with morals and metaphysics, was forcibly struck with the fact that he was one of those men from whom these sturdy beggars receive more kicks than halfpence. He was nevertheless obliged to admit, that, if he was not a man of principles, he was thoroughly a man of honor. After dinner the company adjourned to the piazza, where, in the course of half an hour, the Doctor proposed to Miss Hofmann to take a turn in the grounds. All around the lawn there wound a narrow footpath, concealed from view in spots by clusters of shrubbery. Ferdinand and his hostess sat watching their retreating figures as they slowly measured the sinuous strip of gravel; Miss Hofmann’s light
dress and the Doctor’s white waistcoat gleaming at intervals through the dark verdure. At the end of twenty minutes they returned to the house. The Doctor came back only to make his bow and to take his departure; and, when he had gone, Miss Hofmann retired to her own room. The next morning she mounted her horse, and rode over to see the friend with whom she had stayed during Mason’s fever. Ferdinand saw her pass his window, erect in the saddle, with her horse scattering the gravel with his nervous steps. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Mason came into the room, sat down by the young man, made her habitual inquiries as to his condition, and then paused in such a way that he instantly felt she had something to tell him. “You’ve something to tell me,” he said; “what is it?”

  Mrs. Mason blushed a little, and laughed. “I was first made to promise to keep it a secret,” she said. “If I’m so transparent now that I have leave to tell it, what should I be if I hadn’t? Guess.”

  Ferdinand shook his head peremptorily. “I give it up.”

  “Caroline is engaged.”

  “To whom?”

  “Not to Mr. Stapleton,—to Dr. Knight.”

  Ferdinand was silent a moment; but he neither changed color nor dropped his eyes. Then, at last, “Did she wish you not to tell me?” he asked.

  “She wished me to tell no one. But I prevailed upon her to let me tell you.”

  “Thank you,” said Ferdinand, with a little bow—and an immense irony.

  “It’s a great surprise,” continued Mrs. Mason. “I never suspected it. And there I was talking about Mr. Stapleton! I don’t see how they have managed it. Well, I suppose it’s for the best. But it seems odd that Caroline should have refused so many superior offers, to put up at last with Dr. Knight.”

  Ferdinand had felt for an instant as if the power of speech was deserting him; but volition nailed it down with a great muffled hammer-blow.

  “She might do worse,” he said mechanically.

  Mrs. Mason glanced at him as if struck by the sound of his voice. “You’re not surprised, then?”