Chapter 26
Bernard sat thinking for a long time; at first with a good deal of
mortification — at last with a good deal of bitterness. He felt angry at last;
but he was not angry with himself. He was displeased with poor Gordon,
and with Gordon's displeasure. He was uncomfortable, and he was vexed
at his discomfort. It formed, it seemed to him, no natural part of his
situation; he had had no glimpse of it in the book of fate where he
registered on a fair blank page his betrothal to a charming girl. That
Gordon should be surprised, and even a little shocked and annoyed — this
was his right and his privilege; Bernard had been prepared for that, and
had determined to make the best of it. But it must not go too far; there
were limits to the morsel of humble pie that he was disposed to swallow.
Something in Gordon's air and figure, as he went off in a huff, looking
vicious and dangerous — yes, that was positively his look — left a sinister
impression on Bernard's mind, and, after a while, made him glad to take
refuge in being angry. One would like to know what Gordon expected, par
exemple! Did he expect Bernard to give up Angela simply to save him a
shock; or to back out of his engagement by way of an ideal reparation?
No, it was too absurd, and, if Gordon had a wife of his own, why in the
name of justice should not Bernard have one?
Being angry was a relief, but it was not exactly a solution, and
Bernard, at last, leaving his place, where for an hour or two he had been
absolutely unconscious of everything that went on around him, wandered
about for some time in deep restlessness and irritation. At one moment he
thought of going back to Gordon's hotel, to see him, to explain. But then
he became aware that he was too angry for that — to say nothing of
Gordon's being too angry also; and, moreover, that there was nothing to
explain. He was to marry Angela Vivian; that was a very simple fact — it
needed no explanation. Was it so wonderful, so inconceivable, an incident
so unlikely to happen? He went, as he always did on Sunday, to dine with
Mrs. Vivian, and it seemed to him that he perceived in the two ladies
some symptoms of a discomposure which
had the same origin as his own.
Bernard, on this occasion, at dinner, failed to make himself particularly
agreeable; he ate fast — as if he had no idea what he was eating, and talked
little; every now and then his eyes rested for some time upon Angela, with
a strange, eagerly excited expression, as if he were looking her over and
trying to make up his mind about her afresh. This young lady bore his
inscrutable scrutiny with a deal of superficial composure; but she was also
silent, and she returned his gaze, from time to time, with an air of unusual
anxiety. She was thinking, of course, of Gordon, Bernard said to himself;
and a woman's first meeting, in after years, with an ex-lover must always
make a certain impression upon her. Gordon, however, had never been a
lover, and if Bernard noted Angela's gravity it was not because he felt
jealous.
She is simply sorry for him,
he said to himself; and
by the time he had finished his dinner it began to come back to him that
he was sorry, too. Mrs. Vivian was probably sorry as well, for she had a
slightly confused and preoccupied look — a look from which, even in the
midst of his chagrin, Bernard extracted some entertainment. It was Mrs.
Vivian's intermittent conscience that had been reminded of one of its
lapses; her meeting with Gordon Wright had recalled the least exemplary
episode of her life — the time when she whispered mercenary counsel in the
ear of a daughter who sat, grave and pale, looking at her with eyes that
wondered. Mrs. Vivian blushed a little now, when she met Bernard's
eyes; and to remind herself that she was after all a virtuous woman, talked
as much as possible about superior and harmless things — the beauty of the
autumn weather, the pleasure of seeing French papas walking about on
Sunday with their progeny in their hands, the peculiarities of the
pulpit-oratory of the country as exemplified in the discourse of a
Protestant
pasteur whom she had been to hear in the morning.
When they rose from table and went back into her little
drawing-room, she left her daughter alone for awhile with Bernard. The
two were standing together before the fire; Bernard watched Mrs. Vivian
close the door softly behind her. Then, looking for a moment at his
companion —
He is furious!
he announced at last.
Furious?
said Angela.
Do you mean Mr.
Wright?
The amiable, reasonable Gordon. He takes it very hard.
Do you mean about me?
asked Angela.
It 's not with you he 's furious, of course; it is with me. He
won't let me off easily.
Angela looked for a moment at the fire.
I am very sorry for him,
she said, at last.
It seems to me I am the one to be pitied,
said Bernard;
and I don't see what compassion you, of all people in the world,
owe him.
Angela again rested her eyes on the fire; then presently, looking
up —
He liked me very much,
she remarked.
All the more shame to him!
cried Bernard.
What do you mean?
asked the girl, with her beautiful
stare.
If he liked you, why did he give you up?
He did n't give me up.
What do you mean, please?
asked Bernard, staring back
at her.
I sent him away — I refused him,
said Angela.
Yes; but you thought better of it, and your mother had
persuaded you that if he should ask you again, you had better accept him.
Then it was that he backed out — in consequence of what I said to him on
his return from England.
She shook her head slowly, with a strange smile.
My poor Bernard, you are talking very wildly. He did ask me
again.
That night?
cried Bernard.
The night he came back from England — the last time I saw
him, until to-day.
After I had denounced you?
our puzzled hero
exclaimed, frowning portentously.
I am sorry to let you know the small effect of your
words!
Bernard folded his hands together — almost devoutly — and stood
gazing at her with a long, inarticulate murmur of satisfaction.
Ah! then, I did n't injure you — I did n't deprive you of a
chance?
Oh, sir, the intention on your part was the same!
Angela exclaimed.
Then all my uneasiness, all my remorse, were wasted?
he went on.
But she kept the same tone, and its tender archness only gave a
greater sweetness to his sense of relief.
It was a very small penance for you to pay.
You dismissed him definitely, and that was why he
vanished?
asked Bernard, wondering still.
He gave me another `chance,' as you elegantly express it, and
I declined to take advantage of it.
Ah, well, now,
cried Bernard,
I am sorry for
him!
I was very kind — very respectful,
said Angela.
I
thanked him from the bottom of my heart; I begged his pardon very
humbly for the wrong — if wrong it was — that I was doing him. I did n't in
the least require of him that he should leave Baden at seven o'clock the
next morning. I had no idea that he would do so, and that was the reason
that I insisted to my mother that we ourselves should go away. When we
went I knew nothing about his having gone, and I supposed he was still
there. I did n't wish to meet him again.
Angela gave this information slowly, softly, with pauses between the
sentences, as if she were recalling the circumstances with a certain effort;
and meanwhile Bernard, with his transfigured face and his eyes fixed upon
her lips, was moving excitedly about the room.
Well, he can't accuse me, then!
he broke out again.
If what I said had no more effect upon him than that, I certainly did
him no wrong.
I think you are rather vexed he did n't believe you,
said
Angela.
I confess I don't understand it. He had all the air of it. He
certainly had not the air of a man who was going to rush off and give you
the last proof of his confidence.
It was not a proof of confidence,
said Angela.
It
had nothing to do with me. It was as between himself and you; it was a
proof of independence. He did believe you, more or less, and what you
said fell in with his own impressions — strange impressions that they were,
poor man! At the same time, as I say, he liked me, too; it was out of his
liking me
that all his trouble came! He caught himself in the act of
listening to you too credulously — and that seemed to him unmanly and
dishonorable. The sensation brought with it a reaction, and to prove to
himself that in such a matter he could be influenced by nobody, he
marched away, an hour after he had talked with you, and, in the teeth of
his perfect mistrust, confirmed by your account of my
irregularities — heaven forgive you both! — again asked me to be his wife.
But he hoped I would refuse!
Ah,
cried Bernard,
the recreant! He deserved — he
deserved —
That I should accept him?
Angela asked, smiling still.
Bernard was so much affected by this revelation, it seemed to him to
make such a difference in his own responsibility and to lift such a weight
off his conscience, that he broke out again into the liveliest ejaculations of
relief.
Oh, I don't care for anything, now, and I can do what I
please! Gordon may hate me, and I shall be sorry for him; but it 's not
my fault, and I owe him no reparation. No, no; I am free!
It 's only I who am not, I suppose,
said Angela,
and the reparation must come from me! If he is unhappy, I must
take the responsibility.
Ah yes, of course,
said Bernard, kissing her.
But why should he be unhappy?
asked Angela.
If
I refused him, it was what he wanted.
He is hard to please,
Bernard rejoined.
He has
got a wife of his own.
If Blanche does n't please him, he is certainly difficult;
and Angela mused a little.
But you told me the other day that they
were getting on so well.
Yes, I believe I told you,
Bernard answered, musing a
little too.
You are not attending to what I say.
No, I am thinking of something else — I am thinking of what it
was that made you refuse him that way, at the last, after you had let your
mother hope.
And Bernard stood there, smiling at her.
Don't think any more; you will not find out,
the girl
declared, turning away.
Ah, it was cruel of you to let me think I was wrong all these
years,
he went on;
and, at the time, since you meant to refuse
him, you might have been more frank with me.
I thought my fault had been that I was too frank.
I was densely stupid, and you might have made me understand
better.
Ah,
said Angela,
you ask a great deal of a
girl!
Why have you let me go on so long thinking that my deluded
words had had an effect upon Gordon — feeling that I had done you a brutal
wrong? It was real to me, the wrong — and I have told you of the pangs and
the shame which, for so many months, it has cost me! Why have you
never undeceived me until to-day, and then only by accident?
At this question Angela blushed a little; then she answered,
smiling —
It was my vengeance.
Bernard shook his head.
That won't do — you don't mean it. You never cared — you were
too proud to care; and when I spoke to you about my fault, you did n't
even know what I meant. You might have told me, therefore, that my
remorse was idle, that what I said to Gordon had not been of the smallest
consequence, and that the rupture had come from yourself.
For some time Angela said nothing, then at last she gave him one of
the deeply serious looks with which her face was occasionally ornamented.
If you want really to know, then — can't you see that your
remorse seemed to me connected in a certain way with your affection; a
sort of guarantee of it? You thought you had injured some one or other,
and that seemed to be mixed up with your loving me, and therefore I let it
alone.
Ah,
said Bernard,
my remorse is all gone, and
yet I think I love you about as much as ever! So you see how wrong you
were not to tell me.
The wrong to you I don't care about. It is very true I might
have told you for Mr. Wright's sake. It would perhaps have made him
look better. But as you never attacked him for deserting me, it seemed
needless for me to defend him.
I confess,
said Bernard,
I am quite at sea about
Gordon's look in the matter. Is he looking better now — or is he looking
worse? You put it very well just now; I was attending to you, though you
said I was not. If he hoped you would refuse him, with whom is his
quarrel at present? And why was he so cool to me for months after we
parted at Baden? If that was his state of mind, why should he accuse me
of inconsistency?
There is something in it, after all, that a woman can
understand. I don't know whether a man can. He hoped I would refuse
him, and yet when I had done so he was vexed. After a while his vexation
subsided, and he married poor Blanche; but, on learning to-day that I had
accepted you, it flickered up again. I suppose that was natural enough; but
it won't be serious.
What will not be serious, my dear?
asked Mrs. Vivian,
who had come back to the drawing-room, and who, apparently, could not
hear that the attribute in question was wanting in any direction, without
some alarm.
Shall I tell mamma, Bernard?
said Angela.
Ah, my dear child, I hope it 's nothing that threatens your
mutual happiness,
mamma murmured, with gentle earnestness.
Does it threaten our mutual happiness, Bernard?
the
girl went on, smiling.
Let Mrs. Vivian decide whether we ought to let it make us
miserable,
said Bernard.
Dear Mrs. Vivian, you are a casuist,
and this is a nice case.
Is it anything about poor Mr. Wright?
the elder lady
inquired.
Why do you say `poor' Mr. Wright?
asked Bernard.
Because I am sadly afraid he is not happy with
Blanche.
How did you discover that — without seeing them
together?
Well, perhaps you will think me very fanciful,
said
Mrs. Vivian;
but it was by the way he looked at Angela. He has
such an expressive face.
He looked at me very kindly, mamma,
Angela
observed.
He regularly stared, my daughter. In any one else I should
have said it was rude. But his situation is so peculiar; and one could see
that he admired you still.
And Mrs. Vivian gave a little soft sigh.
Ah! she is thinking of the thirty thousand a year,
Bernard said to himself.
I am sure I hope he admires me still,
the girl cried,
laughing.
There is no great harm in that.
He was comparing you with Blanche — and he was struck with
the contrast.
It could n't have been in my favor. If it 's a question of being
looked at, Blanche bears it better than I.
Poor little Blanche!
murmured Mrs. Vivian, sweetly.
Why did you tell me he was so happy with her?
Angela
asked, turning to Bernard, abruptly.
Bernard gazed at her a moment, with his eyebrows raised.
I never saw any one ask such sudden questions!
he
exclaimed.
You can answer me at your leisure,
she rejoined,
turning away.
It was because I adored you.
You would n't say that at your leisure,
said the girl.
Mrs. Vivian stood watching them.
You, who are so happy together, you ought to think kindly of
others who are less fortunate.
That is very true, Mrs. Vivian; and I have never thought of
any one so kindly as I have of Gordon for the last year.
Angela turned round again.
Is Blanche so very bad, then?
You will see for yourself!
Ah, no,
said Mrs. Vivian,
she is not bad; she is
only very light. I am so glad she is to be near us again. I think a great
deal can be done by association. We must help her, Angela. I think we
helped her before.
It is also very true that she is light, Mrs. Vivian,
Bernard observed,
and if you could make her a little heavier, I
should be tremendously grateful.
Bernard's prospective mother-in-law looked at him a little.
I don't know whether you are laughing at me — I always think
you are. But I shall not give up Blanche for that. I never
give up any one
that I have once tried to help. Blanche will come back to me.
Mrs. Vivian had hardly spoken when the sharp little vibration of her
door-bell was heard in the hall. Bernard stood for a moment looking at the
door of the drawing-room.
It is poor Gordon come to make a scene!
he announced.
Is that what you mean — that he opposed your marriage?
asked Mrs. Vivian, with a frightened air.
I don't know what he proposes to do with Blanche,
said
Bernard, laughing.
There were voices in the hall. Angela had been listening.
You say she will come back to you, mamma,
she
exclaimed.
Here she is arrived!