Chapter 17
Yes, he was conscious — he was very conscious; so Bernard reflected
during the two or three first days of his visit to his friend. Gordon knew it
must seem strange to so irreverent a critic that a man who had once
aspired to the hand of so intelligent a girl — putting other things aside — as
Angela Vivian should, as the Ghost in
Hamlet
says, have
declined upon
a young lady who, in force of understanding,
was so very much Miss Vivian's inferior; and this knowledge kept him ill
at his ease and gave him a certain pitiable awkwardness. Bernard's sense
of the anomaly grew rapidly less acute; he made various observations
which helped it to seem natural. Blanche was wonderfully pretty; she was
very graceful, innocent, amusing. Since Gordon had determined to marry
a little goose, he had chosen the animal with extreme discernment. It had
quite the plumage of a swan, and it sailed along the stream of life with an
extraordinary lightness of motion. He asked himself indeed at times
whether Blanche were really so silly as she seemed; he doubted whether
any woman could be so silly as Blanche seemed. He had a suspicion at
times that, for ends of her own, she was playing a part — the suspicion
arising from the fact that, as usually happens in such cases, she
over-played it. Her empty chatter, her futility, her childish coquetry and
frivolity — such light wares could hardly be the whole substance of any
woman's being; there was something beneath them which Blanche was
keeping out of sight. She had a scrap of a mind somewhere, and even a
little particle of a heart. If one looked long enough one might catch a
glimpse of these possessions. But why should she keep them out of sight,
and what were the ends that she proposed to serve by this uncomfortable
perversity? Bernard wondered whether she were fond of her husband, and
he heard it intimated by several good people in New York who had had
some observation of the courtship, that she had married him for his
money. He was very sorry to find that this was taken for granted, and he
determined, on the whole, not to believe it. He was disgusted with the
idea of such a want of gratitude; for, if Gordon Wright had loved Miss
Evers for herself,
the young lady might certainly have discovered the
intrinsic value of so disinterested a suitor. Her mother had the credit of
having made the match. Gordon was known to be looking for a wife; Mrs.
Evers had put her little feather-head of a daughter very much forward, and
Gordon was as easily captivated as a child by the sound of a rattle.
Blanche had an affection for him now, however; Bernard saw no reason to
doubt that, and certainly she would have been a very flimsy creature
indeed if she had not been touched by his inexhaustible kindness. She had
every conceivable indulgence, and if she married him for his money, at
least she had got what she wanted. She led the most agreeable life
conceivable, and she ought to be in high good-humor. It was impossible to
have a prettier house, a prettier carriage, more jewels and laces for the
adornment of a plump little person. It was impossible to go to more
parties, to give better dinners, to have fewer privations or annoyances.
Bernard was so much struck with all this that, advancing rapidly in the
intimacy of his gracious hostess, he ventured to call her attention to her
blessings. She answered that she was perfectly aware of them, and there
was no pretty speech she was not prepared to make about Gordon.
I know what you want to say,
she went on;
you
want to say that he spoils me, and I don't see why you should hesitate.
You generally say everything you want, and you need n't be afraid of me.
He does n't spoil me, simply because I am so bad I can't be spoiled; but
that 's of no consequence. I was spoiled ages ago; every one spoiled
me — every one except Mrs. Vivian. I was always fond of having
everything I want, and I generally managed to get it. I always had lovely
clothes; mamma thought that was a kind of a duty. If it was a duty, I
don't suppose it counts as a part of the spoiling. But I was very much
indulged, and I know I have everything now. Gordon is a perfect husband;
I believe if I were to ask him for a present of his nose, he would cut it off
and give it to me. I think I will ask him for a small piece of it some day;
it will rather improve him to have an inch or two less. I don't say he 's
handsome; but he 's just as good as he can be. Some people say that if
you are very fond of a person you always think them handsome; but I
don't agree with that at all. I am
very fond of Gordon, and yet I am not
blinded by affection, as regards his personal appearance. He 's too light
for my taste, and too red. And because you think people handsome, it
does n't follow that you are fond of them. I used to have a friend who was
awfully handsome — the handsomest man I ever saw — and I was perfectly
conscious of his defects. But I 'm not conscious of Gordon's, and I don't
believe he has got any. He 's so intensely kind; it 's quite pathetic. One
would think he had done me an injury in marrying me, and that he wanted
to make up for it. If he has done me an injury I have n't discovered it yet,
and I don't believe I ever shall. I certainly shall not as long as he lets me
order all the clothes I want. I have ordered five dresses this week, and I
mean to order two more. When I told Gordon, what do you think he did?
He simply kissed me. Well, if that 's not expressive, I don't know what
he could have done. He kisses me about seventeen times a day. I suppose
it 's very improper for a woman to tell any one how often her husband
kisses her; but, as you happen to have seen him do it, I don't suppose you
will be scandalized. I know you are not easily scandalized; I am not afraid
of you. You are scandalized at my getting so many dresses? Well, I told
you I was spoiled — I freely acknowledge it. That 's why I was afraid to tell
Gordon — because when I was married I had such a lot of things; I was
supposed to have dresses enough to last for a year. But Gordon had n't to
pay for them, so there was no harm in my letting him feel that he has a
wife. If he thinks I am extravagant, he can easily stop kissing me. You
don't think it would be easy to stop? It 's very well, then, for those that
have never begun!
Bernard had a good deal of conversation with Blanche, of which, so
far as she was concerned, the foregoing remarks may serve as a specimen.
Gordon was away from home during much of the day; he had a chemical
laboratory in which he was greatly interested, and which he took Bernard
to see; it was fitted up with the latest contrivances for the pursuit of
experimental science, and was the resort of needy young students, who
enjoyed, at Gordon's expense, the opportunity for pushing their
researches. The place did great honor to Gordon's liberality and to his
ingenuity; but Blanche, who had
also paid it a visit, could never speak of
it without a pretty little shudder.
Nothing would induce me to go there again,
she
declared,
and I consider myself very fortunate to have escaped from
it with my life. It 's filled with all sorts of horrible things, that fizzle up
and go off, or that make you turn some dreadful color if you look at
them. I expect to hear a great clap some day, and half an hour afterward
to see Gordon brought home in several hundred small pieces, put up in a
dozen little bottles. I got a horrid little stain in the middle of my dress that
one of the young men — the young savants — was so good as to drop there.
Did you see the young savants who work under Gordon's orders? I
thought they were too forlorn; there is n't one of them you would look at.
If you can believe it, there was n't one of them that looked at me; they
took no more notice of me than if I had been the charwoman. They might
have shown me some attention, at least, as the wife of the proprietor.
What is it that Gordon 's called — is n't there some other name? If you say
`proprietor,' it sounds as if he kept an hotel. I certainly don't want to pass
for the wife of an hotel-keeper. What does he call himself? He must have
some name. I hate telling people he 's a chemist; it sounds just as if he
kept a shop. That 's what they call the druggists in England, and I formed
the habit while I was there. It makes me feel as if he were some dreadful
little man, with big green bottles in the window and `night-bell' painted
outside. He does n't call himself anything? Well, that 's exactly like
Gordon! I wonder he consents to have a name at all. When I was telling
some one about the young men who work under his orders — the young
savants — he said I must not say that — I must not speak of their working
`under his orders.' I don't know what he would like me to say! Under his
inspiration!
During the hours of Gordon's absence, Bernard had frequent
colloquies with his friend's wife, whose irresponsible prattle amused him,
and in whom he tried to discover some faculty, some quality, which might
be a positive guarantee of Gordon's future felicity. But often, of course,
Gordon was an auditor as well; I say an auditor, because it seemed to
Bernard that he had grown to be less of a talker than of yore. Doubtless,
when a man finds himself united to a garrulous wife, he naturally learns to
hold his tongue; but sometimes, at the close of one of Blanche's discursive
monologues, on glancing at her husband just to see how he took it, and
seeing him sit perfectly silent, with a fixed, inexpressive smile, Bernard
said to himself that Gordon found the lesson of listening attended with
some embarrassments. Gordon, as the years went by, was growing a little
inscrutable; but this, too, in certain circumstances, was a usual tendency.
The operations of the mind, with deepening experience, became more
complex, and people were less apt to emit immature reflections at forty
than they had been in their earlier days. Bernard felt a great kindness in
these days for his old friend; he never yet had seemed to him such a good
fellow, nor appealed so strongly to the benevolence of his disposition.
Sometimes, of old, Gordon used to irritate him; but this danger appeared
completely to have passed away. Bernard prolonged his visit; it gave him
pleasure to be able to testify in this manner to his good will. Gordon was
the kindest of hosts, and if in conversation, when his wife was present, he
gave precedence to her superior powers, he had at other times a good deal
of pleasant bachelor-talk with his guest. He seemed very happy; he had
plenty of occupation and plenty of practical intentions. The season went
on, and Bernard enjoyed his life. He enjoyed the keen and brilliant
American winter, and he found it very pleasant to be treated as a
distinguished stranger in his own land — a situation to which his long and
repeated absences had relegated him. The hospitality of New York was
profuse; the charm of its daughters extreme; the radiance of its skies
superb. Bernard was the restless and professionless mortal that we know,
wandering in life from one vague experiment to another, constantly
gratified and never satisfied, to whom no imperious finality had as yet
presented itself; and, nevertheless, for a time he contrived to limit his
horizon to the passing hour, and to make a good many hours pass in the
drawing-room of a demonstrative flirt.
For Mrs. Gordon was a flirt; that had become tolerably obvious.
Bernard had known of old that Blanche Evers was one, and two or three
months' observation of his friend's wife assured him that she did not judge
a certain ethereal coquetry
to be inconsistent with the conjugal character.
Blanche flirted, in fact, more or less with all men, but her opportunity for
playing her harmless batteries upon Bernard were of course exceptionally
large. The poor fellow was perpetually under fire, and it was inevitable
that he should reply with some precision of aim. It seemed to him all
child's play, and it is certain that when his back was turned to his pretty
hostess he never found himself thinking of her. He had not the least
reason to suppose that she thought of him — excessive concentration of mind
was the last vice of which he accused her. But before the winter was over,
he discovered that Mrs. Gordon Wright was being talked about, and that
his own name was, as the newspapers say, mentioned in connection with
that of his friend's wife. The discovery greatly disgusted him; Bernard
Longueville's chronicler must do him the justice to say that it failed to
yield him an even transient thrill of pleasure. He thought it very
improbable that this vulgar rumor had reached Gordon's ears; but he
nevertheless — very naturally — instantly made up his mind to leave the
house. He lost no time in saying to Gordon that he had suddenly
determined to go to California, and that he was sure he must be glad to
get rid of him. Gordon expressed no surprise and no regret. He simply
laid his hand on his shoulder and said, very quietly, looking at him in the
eyes —
Very well; the pleasantest things must come to an end.
It was not till an hour afterwards that Bernard said to himself that
his friend's manner of receiving the announcement of his departure had
been rather odd. He had neither said a word about his staying longer nor
urged him to come back again, and there had been (it now seemed to
Bernard) an audible undertone of relief in the single sentence with which
he assented to his visitor's withdrawal. Could it be possible that poor
Gordon was jealous of him, that he had heard this loathsome gossip, or
that his own observation had given him an alarm? He had certainly never
betrayed the smallest sense of injury; but it was to be remembered that
even if he were uneasy, Gordon was quite capable, with his characteristic
habit of weighing everything, his own honor included, in scrupulously
adjusted scales, of denying himself the luxury of active suspicion. He
would never have let a half suspicion
make a difference in his conduct,
and he would not have dissimulated; he would simply have resisted belief.
His hospitality had been without a flaw, and if he had really been wishing
Bernard out of his house, he had behaved with admirable self-control.
Bernard, however, followed this train of thought a very short distance. It
was odious to him to believe that he could have appeared to Gordon,
however guiltlessly, to have invaded even in imagination the mystic line of
the marital monopoly; not to say that, moreover, if one came to that, he
really cared about as much for poor little Blanche as for the weather-cock
on the nearest steeple. He simply hurried his preparations for departure,
and he told Blanche that he should have to bid her farewell on the
following day. He had found her in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner.
She was expecting company to dine, and Gordon had not yet come down.
She was sitting in the vague glow of the fire-light, in a wonderful
blue dress, with two little blue feet crossed on the rug and pointed at the
hearth. She received Bernard's announcement with small satisfaction, and
expended a great deal of familiar ridicule on his project of a journey to
California. Then, suddenly getting up and looking at him a moment —
I know why you are going,
she said.
I am glad to hear my explanations have not been lost.
Your explanations are all nonsense. You are going for another
reason.
Well,
said Bernard,
if you insist upon it, it 's
because you are too sharp with me.
It 's because of me. So much as that is true.
Bernard
wondered what she was going to say — if she were going to be silly enough
to allude to the most impudent of fictions; then, as she stood opening and
closing her blue fan and smiling at him in the fire-light, he felt that she
was silly enough for anything.
It 's because of all the talk — it 's
because of Gordon. You need n't be afraid of Gordon.
Afraid of him? I don't know what you mean,
said
Bernard, gravely.
Blanche gave a little laugh.
You have discovered that people are talking about us —
about you and me. I must say I wonder you care. I don't care, and if it 's
because of Gordon, you might as well know that he does n't care. If he
does n't care, I don't see why I should; and if I don't, I don't see why
you should!
You pay too much attention to such insipid drivel in even
mentioning it.
Well, if I have the credit of saying what I should n't — to you
or to any one else — I don't see why I should n't have the advantage too.
Gordon does n't care — he does n't care what I do or say. He does n't care
a pin for me!
She spoke in her usual rattling, rambling voice, and brought out this
declaration with a curious absence of resentment.
You talk about advantage,
said Bernard.
I don't
see what advantage it is to you to say that.
I want to — I must — I will! That 's the advantage!
This
came out with a sudden sharpness of tone; she spoke more excitedly.
He does n't care a button for me, and he never did! I don't know
what he married me for. He cares for something else — he thinks of
something else. I don't know what it is — I suppose it 's chemistry!
These words gave Bernard a certain shock, but he had his
intelligence sufficiently in hand to contradict them with energy.
You labor under a monstrous delusion,
he exclaimed.
Your husband thinks you fascinating.
This epithet, pronounced with a fine distinctness, was ringing in the
air when the door opened and Gordon came in. He looked for a moment
from Bernard to his wife, and then, approaching the latter, he said,
softly —
Do you know that he leaves us to-morrow?