Henry James

Roderick Hudson Henry James

Mallet had made his arrangements to sail for Europe on the first of September, and having in theinterval a fortnight to spare, he determined to spend it with his cousin Cecilia, the widow of anephew of his father. He was urged by the reflection that an affectionate farewell might help toexonerate him from the charge of neglect frequently preferred by this lady. It was not that the youngman disliked her; on the contrary, he regarded her with a tender admiration, and he had notforgotten how, when his cousin had brought her home on her marriage, he had seemed to feel theupward sweep of the empty bough from which the golden fruit had been plucked, and had then andthere accepted the prospect of bachelorhood. The truth was, that, as it will be part of theentertainment of this narrative to exhibit, Rowland Mallet had an uncomfortably sensitiveconscience, and that, in spite of the seeming paradox, his visits to Cecilia were rare because she andher misfortunes were often uppermost in it. Her misfortunes were three in number: first, she hadlost her husband; second, she had lost her money (or the greater part of it); and third, she lived atNorthampton, Massachusetts. Mallet's compassion was really wasted, because Cecilia was a veryclever woman, and a most skillful counter-plotter to adversity. She had made herself a charminghome, her economies were not obtrusive, and there was always a cheerful flutter in the folds of hercrape. It was the consciousness of all this that puzzled Mallet whenever he felt tempted to put in hisoar. He had money and he had time, but he never could decide just how to place these giftsgracefully at Cecilia's service. He no longer felt like marrying her: in these eight years that fancy haddied a natural death. And yet her extreme cleverness seemed somehow to make charity difficult andpatronage impossible. He would rather chop off his hand than offer her a check, a piece of usefulfurniture, or a black silk dress; and yet there was some sadness in seeing such a bright, proud womanliving in such a small, dull way. Cecilia had, moreover, a turn for sarcasm, and her smile, which washer pretty feature, was never so pretty as when her sprightly phrase had a lurking scratch in it. Rowland remembered that, for him, she was all smiles, and suspected, awkwardly, that he ministerednot a little to her sense of the irony of things. And in truth, with his means, his leisure, and hisopportunities, what had he done? He had an unaffected suspicion of his uselessness. Cecilia, meanwhile, cut out her own dresses, and was personally giving her little girl the education of aprincess. This time, however, he presented himself bravely enough; for in the way of activity it wassomething definite, at least, to be going to Europe and to be meaning to spend the winter in Rome. Cecilia met him in the early dusk at the gate of her little garden, amid a studied combination of floralperfumes. A rosy widow of twenty-eight, half cousin, half hostess, doing the honors of an odorouscottage on a midsummer evening, was a phenomenon to which the young man's imagination wasable to do ample justice. Cecilia was always gracious, but this evening she was almost joyous. Shewas in a happy mood, and Mallet imagined there was a private reason for it-a reason quite distinctfrom her pleasure in receiving her honored kinsman. The next day he flattered himself he was on theway to discover it. For the present, after tea, as they sat on the rose-framed porch, while Rowland held his youngercousin between his knees, and she, enjoying her situation, listened timorously for the stroke ofbedtime, Cecilia insisted on talking more about her visitor than about herself