Chapter 14
Gordon asked him no questions for twenty-four hours after his return, then
suddenly he began:
Well, have n't you something to say to me?
It was at the hotel, in Gordon's apartment, late in the afternoon. A
heavy thunder-storm had broken over the place an hour before, and
Bernard had been standing at one of his friend's windows, rather idly,
with his hands in his pockets, watching the rain-torrents dance upon the
empty pavements. At last the deluge abated, the clouds began to
break — there was a promise of a fine evening. Gordon Wright, while the
storm was at its climax, sat down to write letters, and wrote half a dozen.
It was after he had sealed, directed and affixed a postage-stamp to the last
of the series that he addressed to his companion the question I have just
quoted.
Do you mean about Miss Vivian?
Bernard asked,
without turning round from the window.
About Miss Vivian, of course.
Bernard said nothing
and his companion went on.
Have you nothing to tell me about Miss
Vivian?
Bernard presently turned round looking at Gordon and smiling a
little.
She 's a delightful creature!
That won't do — you have tried that before,
said Gordon.
No,
he added in a moment,
that won't do.
Bernard turned back to the window, and Gordon continued, as he
remained silent.
I shall have a right to consider your saying nothing
a proof of an unfavorable judgment. You don't like her!
Bernard faced quickly about again, and for an instant the two men
looked at each other.
Ah, my dear Gordon,
Longueville murmured.
Do you like her then?
asked Wright, getting up.
No!
said Longueville.
That 's just what I wanted to know, and I am much obliged to
you for telling me.
I am not obliged to you for asking me. I was in hopes you
would n't.
You dislike her very much then?
Gordon exclaimed,
gravely.
Won't disliking her, simply, do?
said Bernard.
It will do very well. But it will do a little better if you will tell
me why. Give me a reason or two.
Well,
said Bernard,
I tried to make love to her
and she boxed my ears.
The devil!
cried Gordon.
I mean morally, you know.
Gordon stared; he seemed a little puzzled.
You tried to make love to her morally?
She boxed my ears morally,
said Bernard, laughing out.
Why did you try to make love to her?
This inquiry was made in a tone so expressive of an unbiassed
truth-seeking habit that Bernard's mirth was not immediately quenched.
Nevertheless, he replied with sufficient gravity —
To test her fidelity to you. Could you have expected anything
else? You told me you were afraid she was a latent coquette. You gave me
a chance, and I tried to ascertain.
And you found she was not. Is that what you mean?
She 's as firm as a rock. My dear Gordon, Miss Vivian is as
firm as the firmest of your geological formations.
Gordon shook his head with a strange positive persistence.
You are talking nonsense. You are not serious. You are not
telling me the truth. I don't believe that you attempted to make love to
her. You would n't have played such a game as that. It would n't have
been honorable.
Bernard flushed a little; he was irritated.
Oh come, don't make too much of a point of that! Did n't you
tell me before that it was a great opportunity?
An opportunity to be wise — not to be foolish!
Ah, there is only one sort of opportunity,
cried
Bernard.
You exaggerate the reach of human wisdom.
Suppose she had let you make love to her,
said
Gordon.
That would have been a beautiful result of your
experiment.
I should have seemed to you a rascal, perhaps, but I should
have saved you from a latent coquette. You would owe some thanks for
that.
And now you have n't saved me,
said Gordon, with a
simple air of noting a fact.
You assume — in spite of what I say — that she is a
coquette!
I assume something because you evidently conceal something.
I want the whole truth.
Bernard turned back to the window with increasing irritation.
If he wants the whole truth he shall have it,
he said to
himself.
He stood a moment in thought and then he looked at his companion again.
I think she would marry you — but I don't think she cares for
you.
Gordon turned a little pale, but he clapped his hands together.
Very good,
he exclaimed.
That 's exactly how I
want you to speak.
Her mother has taken a great fancy to your fortune and it has
rubbed off on the girl, who has made up her mind that it would be a pleasant
thing to have thirty thousand a year, and that her not caring for you is
an unimportant detail.
I see — I see,
said Gordon, looking at his friend with an
air of admiration for his frank and lucid way of putting things.
Now that he had begun to be frank and lucid, Bernard found a
charm in it, and the impulse under which he had spoken urged him almost
violently forward.
The mother and daughter have agreed together to bag you,
and Angela, I am sure, has made a vow to be as nice to you after
marriage as possible. Mrs. Vivian has insisted upon the importance of
that; Mrs. Vivian is a great moralist.
Gordon kept gazing at his friend; he seemed positively fascinated.
Yes, I have noticed that in Mrs. Vivian,
he said.
Ah, she 's a very nice woman!
It 's not true, then,
said Gordon,
that you tried to
make love to Angela?
Bernard hesitated a single instant.
No, it is n't true. I calumniated myself, to save her reputation.
You insisted on my giving you a reason for my not liking her — I gave you
that one.
And your real reason —
My real reason is that I believe she would do you what I can't
help regarding as an injury.
Of course!
and Gordon, dropping his interested eyes,
stared for some moments at the carpet.
But it is n't true, then, that
you discovered her to be a coquette?
Ah, that 's another matter.
You did discover it all the same?
Since you want the whole truth — I did!
How did you discover it?
Gordon asked, clinging to his
right of interrogation.
Bernard hesitated.
You must remember that I saw a great deal of her.
You mean that she encouraged you?
If I had not been a very faithful friend I might have thought
so.
Gordon laid his hand appreciatively, gratefully, on Bernard's
shoulder.
And even that did n't make you like her?
Confound it, you make me blush!
cried Bernard,
blushing a little in fact.
I have said quite enough; excuse me from
drawing the portrait of too insensible a man. It was my point of view; I
kept thinking of you.
Gordon, with his hand still on his friend's arm, patted it an instant
in response to this declaration; then he turned away.
I am much obliged to you. That 's my notion of friendship.
You have spoken out like a man.
Like a man, yes. Remember that. Not in the least like an
oracle.
I prefer an honest man to all the oracles,
said Gordon.
An honest man has his impressions! I have given you
mine — they pretend to be nothing more. I hope they have n't offended
you.
Not in the least.
Nor distressed, nor depressed, nor in any way discomposed
you?
For what do you take me? I asked you a favor — a service; I
imposed it on you. You have done the thing, and my part is simple
gratitude.
Thank you for nothing,
said Bernard, smiling.
You have asked me a great many questions; there is one that in turn
I have a right to ask you. What do you propose to do in consequence of
what I have told you?
I propose to do nothing.
This declaration closed the colloquy, and the young men separated.
Bernard saw Gordon no more that evening; he took for granted he had
gone to Mrs. Vivian's. The burden of Longueville's confidences was a
heavy load to carry there, but Bernard ventured to hope that he would
deposit it at the door. He had given Gordon his impressions, and the latter
might do with them what he chose — toss them out of the window, or let
them grow stale with heedless keeping. So Bernard meditated, as he
wandered about alone for the rest of the evening. It was useless to look
for Mrs. Vivian's little circle, on the terrace of the Conversation-house,
for the storm in the afternoon had made the place so damp that it was
almost forsaken of its frequenters. Bernard spent the evening in the
gaming-rooms, in the thick of the crowd that pressed about the tables, and
by way of a change — he had hitherto been almost nothing of a gambler — he
laid down a couple of pieces at roulette. He had played but two or three
times, without winning a penny; but now he had the agreeable sensation of
drawing in a small handful of gold. He continued to play, and he
continued to win. His luck surprised and excited him — so much so that
after it had repeated itself half a dozen times he left the place and walked
about for half an hour in the outer darkness. He felt amused and
exhilarated, but the feeling amounted almost to agitation. He,
nevertheless, returned to the tables, where he again found success awaiting
him. Again and again he put his money on a happy number, and so steady
a run of luck began at last to attract attention. The rumor of it spread
through the rooms, and the crowd about the roulette received a large
contingent of spectators. Bernard felt that they were looking more or less
eagerly for a turn of the tide; but he was in the humor for disappointing
them, and he left the place, while his luck was
still running high, with ten
thousand francs in his pocket. It was very late when he returned to the
inn — so late that he forbore to knock at Gordon's door. But though he
betook himself to his own quarters, he was far from finding, or even
seeking, immediate rest. He knocked about, as he would have said, for
half the night — not because he was delighted at having won ten thousand
francs, but rather because all of a sudden he found himself disgusted at the
manner in which he had spent the evening. It was extremely characteristic
of Bernard Longueville that his pleasure should suddenly transform itself
into flatness. What he felt was not regret or repentance. He had it not in
the least on his conscience that he had given countenance to the
reprehensible practice of gaming. It was annoyance that he had passed out
of his own control — that he had obeyed a force which he was unable to
measure at the time. He had been drunk and he was turning sober. In spite
of a great momentary appearance of frankness and a lively relish of any
conjunction of agreeable circumstances exerting a pressure to which one
could respond, Bernard had really little taste for giving himself up, and he
never did so without very soon wishing to take himself back. He had now
given himself to something that was not himself, and the fact that he had
gained ten thousand francs by it was an insufficient salve to an aching
sense of having ceased to be his own master. He had not been playing — he
had been played with. He had been the sport of a blind, brutal chance,
and he felt humiliated by having been favored by so rudely-operating a
divinity. Good luck and bad luck? Bernard felt very scornful of the
distinction, save that good luck seemed to him rather the more vulgar. As
the night went on his disgust deepened, and at last the weariness it brought
with it sent him to sleep. He slept very late, and woke up to a
disagreeable consciousness. At first, before collecting his thoughts, he
could not imagine what he had on his mind — was it that he had spoken ill
of Angela Vivian? It brought him extraordinary relief to remember that he
had gone to bed in extreme ill-humor with his exploits at roulette. After
he had dressed himself and just as he was leaving his room, a servant
brought him a note superscribed in Gordon's hand — a note of which the
following proved to be the contents.
Seven o'clock, A.M.
My dear Bernard: Circumstances have determined me to leave
Baden immediately, and I shall take the train that starts an hour hence. I
am told that you came in very late last night, so I won't disturb you for a
painful parting at this unnatural hour. I came to this decision last evening,
and I put up my things; so I have nothing to do but to take myself off. I
shall go to Basel, but after that I don't know where, and in so comfortless
an uncertainty I don't ask you to follow me. Perhaps I shall go to
America; but in any case I shall see you sooner or later. Meanwhile, my
dear Bernard, be as happy as your brilliant talents should properly make
you, and believe me yours ever,
G.W.
P.S. It is perhaps as well that I should say that I am leaving in
consequence of something that happened last evening, but not — by any
traceable process — in consequence of the talk we had together. I may also
add that I am in very good health and spirits.
Bernard lost no time in learning that his friend had in fact departed
by the eight o'clock train — the morning was now well advanced; and then,
over his breakfast, he gave himself up to meditative surprise. What had
happened during the evening — what had happened after their conversation
in Gordon's room? He had gone to Mrs. Vivian's — what had happened
there? Bernard found it difficult to believe that he had gone there simply
to notify her that, having talked it over with an intimate friend, he gave up
her daughter, or to mention to the young lady herself that he had ceased to
desire the honor of her hand. Gordon alluded to some definite occurrence,
yet it was inconceivable that he should have allowed himself to be
determined by Bernard's words — his diffident and irresponsible impression.
Bernard resented this idea as an injury to himself, yet it was difficult to
imagine what else could have happened. There was Gordon's word for it,
however, that there was no
traceable
connection between the
circumstances which led to his sudden departure and the information he
had succeeded in extracting from his friend.
What did he mean by a
traceable
connection? Gordon never used words idly, and he
meant to make of this point an intelligible distinction. It was this sense of
his usual accuracy of expression that assisted Bernard in fitting a meaning
to his late companion's letter. He intended to intimate that he had come
back to Baden with his mind made up to relinquish his suit, and that he
had questioned Bernard simply from moral curiosity — for the sake of
intellectual satisfaction. Nothing was altered by the fact that Bernard had
told him a sorry tale; it had not modified his behavior — that effect would
have been traceable. It had simply affected his imagination, which was a
consequence of the imponderable sort. This view of the case was
supported by Gordon's mention of his good spirits. A man always had
good spirits when he had acted in harmony with a conviction. Of course,
after renouncing the attempt to make himself acceptable to Miss Vivian,
the only possible thing for Gordon had been to leave Baden. Bernard,
continuing to meditate, at last convinced himself that there had been no
explicit rupture, that Gordon's last visit had simply been a visit of
farewell, that its character had sufficiently signified his withdrawal, and
that he had now gone away because, after giving the girl up, he wished
very naturally not to meet her again. This was, on Bernard's part, a
sufficiently coherent view of the case; but nevertheless, an hour afterward,
as he strolled along the Lichtenthal Alley, he found himself stopping
suddenly and exclaiming under his breath —
Have I done her an
injury? Have I affected her prospects?
Later in the day he said to
himself half a dozen times that he had simply warned Gordon against an
incongruous union.