He had not specified, in writing to Gordon Wright, the day on which
he should arrive at Baden-Baden; it must be confessed that he was
not addicted to specifying days. He came to his journey’s end in the
evening, and, on presenting himself at the hotel from which his friend
had dated his letter, he learned that Gordon Wright had betaken himself
after dinner, according to the custom of Baden-Baden, to the grounds
of the Conversation-house. It was eight o’clock, and Longueville, after
removing the stains of travel, sat down to dine. His first impulse had
been to send for Gordon to come and keep him company at his repast; but
on second thought he determined to make it as brief as possible. Having
brought it to a close, he took his way to the Kursaal. The great German
watering-place is one of the prettiest nooks in Europe, and of a summer
evening in the gaming days, five-and-twenty years ago, it was one of the
most brilliant scenes. The lighted windows of the great temple of hazard
(of as chaste an architecture as if it had been devoted to a much purer
divinity) opened wide upon the gardens and groves; the little river that
issues from the bosky mountains of the Black Forest flowed, with an air
of brook-like innocence, past the expensive hotels and lodging-houses;
the orchestra, in a high pavilion on the terrace of the Kursaal, played
a discreet accompaniment to the conversation of the ladies and gentlemen
who, scattered over the large expanse on a thousand little chairs,
preferred for the time the beauties of nature to the shuffle of coin and
the calculation of chance; while the faint summer stars, twinkling above
the vague black hills and woods, looked down at the indifferent groups
without venturing to drop their light upon them.
Longueville, noting all this, went straight into the gaming-rooms; he
was curious to see whether his friend, being fond of experiments, was
trying combinations at roulette. But he was not to be found in any of
the gilded chambers, among the crowd that pressed in silence about the
tables; so that Bernard presently came and began to wander about the
lamp-lit terrace, where innumerable groups, seated and strolling, made
the place a gigantic conversazione. It seemed to him very agreeable and
amusing, and he remarked to himself that, for a man who was supposed not
to take especially the Epicurean view of life, Gordon Wright, in coming
to Baden, had certainly made himself comfortable. Longueville went his
way, glancing from one cluster of talkers to another; and at last he saw
a face which brought him to a stop. He stood a moment looking at it; he
knew he had seen it before. He had an excellent memory for faces; but
it was some time before he was able to attach an identity to this one.
Where had he seen a little elderly lady with an expression of timorous
vigilance, and a band of hair as softly white as a dove’s wing? The
answer to the question presently came--Where but in a grass-grown corner
of an old Italian town? The lady was the mother of his inconsequent
model, so that this mysterious personage was probably herself not far
off. Before Longueville had time to verify this induction, he found his
eyes resting upon the broad back of a gentleman seated close to the old
lady, and who, turning away from her, was talking to a young girl.
It was nothing but the back of this gentleman that he saw, but
nevertheless, with the instinct of true friendship, he recognized in
this featureless expanse the robust personality of Gordon Wright. In a
moment he had stepped forward and laid his hand upon Wright’s shoulder.
His friend looked round, and then sprang up with a joyous exclamation
and grasp of the hand.
“My dear fellow--my dear Bernard! What on earth--when did you arrive?”
While Bernard answered and explained a little, he glanced from his
friend’s good, gratified face at the young girl with whom Wright had
been talking, and then at the lady on the other side, who was giving him
a bright little stare. He raised his hat to her and to the young
girl, and he became conscious, as regards the latter, of a certain
disappointment. She was very pretty; she was looking at him; but she was
not the heroine of the little incident of the terrace at Siena.
“It ‘s just like Longueville, you know,” Gordon Wright went on; “he
always comes at you from behind; he ‘s so awfully fond of surprises.” He
was laughing; he was greatly pleased; he introduced Bernard to the two
ladies. “You must know Mrs. Vivian; you must know Miss Blanche Evers.”
Bernard took his place in the little circle; he wondered whether he
ought to venture upon a special recognition of Mrs. Vivian. Then it
seemed to him that he should leave the option of this step with the
lady, especially as he had detected recognition in her eye. But Mrs.
Vivian ventured upon nothing special; she contented herself with soft
generalities--with remarking that she always liked to know when people
would arrive; that, for herself, she never enjoyed surprises.
“And yet I imagine you have had your share,” said Longueville, with a
smile. He thought this might remind her of the moment when she came out
of the little church at Siena and found her daughter posturing to an
unknown painter.
But Mrs. Vivian, turning her benignant head about, gave but a
superficial reply.
“Oh, I have had my share of everything, good and bad. I don’t complain
of anything.” And she gave a little deprecating laugh.
Gordon Wright shook hands with Bernard again; he seemed really very glad
to see him. Longueville, remembering that Gordon had written to him
that he had been “making love,” began to seek in his countenance for the
ravages of passion. For the moment, however, they were not apparent; the
excellent, honest fellow looked placid and contented. Gordon Wright had
a clear gray eye, short, straight, flaxen hair, and a healthy diffusion
of color. His features were thick and rather irregular; but his
countenance--in addition to the merit of its expression--derived a
certain grace from a powerful yellow moustache, to which its wearer
occasionally gave a martial twist. Gordon Wright was not tall, but he
was strong, and in his whole person there was something well-planted and
sturdy. He almost always dressed in light-colored garments, and he wore
round his neck an eternal blue cravat. When he was agitated he grew very
red. While he questioned Longueville about his journey and his health,
his whereabouts and his intentions, the latter, among his own replies,
endeavored to read in Wright’s eyes some account of his present
situation. Was that pretty girl at his side the ambiguous object of his
adoration, and, in that case, what was the function of the elder lady,
and what had become of her argumentative daughter? Perhaps this was
another, a younger daughter, though, indeed, she bore no resemblance to
either of Longueville’s friends. Gordon Wright, in spite of Bernard’s
interrogative glances, indulged in no optical confidences. He had
too much to tell. He would keep his story till they should be alone
together. It was impossible that they should adjourn just yet to
social solitude; the two ladies were under Gordon’s protection. Mrs.
Vivian--Bernard felt a satisfaction in learning her name; it was as if a
curtain, half pulled up and stopped by a hitch, had suddenly been raised
altogether--Mrs. Vivian sat looking up and down the terrace at the
crowd of loungers and talkers with an air of tender expectation. She was
probably looking for her elder daughter, and Longueville could not help
wishing also that this young lady would arrive. Meanwhile, he saw that
the young girl to whom Gordon had been devoting himself was extremely
pretty, and appeared eminently approachable. Longueville had some talk
with her, reflecting that if she were the person concerning whom Gordon
had written him, it behooved him to appear to take an interest in her.
This view of the case was confirmed by Gordon Wright’s presently turning
away to talk with Mrs. Vivian, so that his friend might be at liberty to
make acquaintance with their companion.
Though she had not been with the others at Siena, it seemed to
Longueville, with regard to her, too, that this was not the first time
he had seen her. She was simply the American pretty girl, whom he had
seen a thousand times. It was a numerous sisterhood, pervaded by a
strong family likeness. This young lady had charming eyes (of the color
of Gordon’s cravats), which looked everywhere at once and yet found time
to linger in some places, where Longueville’s own eyes frequently
met them. She had soft brown hair, with a silky-golden thread in it,
beautifully arranged and crowned by a smart little hat that savoured
of Paris. She had also a slender little figure, neatly rounded, and
delicate, narrow hands, prettily gloved. She moved about a great deal
in her place, twisted her little flexible body and tossed her head,
fingered her hair and examined the ornaments of her dress. She had
a great deal of conversation, Longueville speedily learned, and she
expressed herself with extreme frankness and decision. He asked her,
to begin with, if she had been long at Baden, but the impetus of
this question was all she required. Turning her charming, conscious,
coquettish little face upon him, she instantly began to chatter.
“I have been here about four weeks. I don’t know whether you call that
long. It does n’t seem long to me; I have had such a lovely time. I have
met ever so many people here I know--every day some one turns up. Now
you have turned up to-day.”
“Ah, but you don’t know me,” said Longueville, laughing.
“Well, I have heard a great deal about you!” cried the young girl, with
a pretty little stare of contradiction. “I think you know a great friend
of mine, Miss Ella Maclane, of Baltimore. She ‘s travelling in Europe
now.” Longueville’s memory did not instantly respond to this signal, but
he expressed that rapturous assent which the occasion demanded, and
even risked the observation that the young lady from Baltimore was very
pretty. “She ‘s far too lovely,” his companion went on. “I have often
heard her speak of you. I think you know her sister rather better than
you know her. She has not been out very long. She is just as interesting
as she can be. Her hair comes down to her feet. She ‘s travelling in
Norway. She has been everywhere you can think of, and she ‘s going to
finish off with Finland. You can’t go any further than that, can you?
That ‘s one comfort; she will have to turn round and come back. I want
her dreadfully to come to Baden-Baden.”
“I wish she would,” said Longueville. “Is she travelling alone?”
“Oh, no. They ‘ve got some Englishman. They say he ‘s devoted to Ella.
Every one seems to have an Englishman, now. We ‘ve got one here, Captain
Lovelock, the Honourable Augustus Lovelock. Well, they ‘re awfully
handsome. Ella Maclane is dying to come to Baden-Baden. I wish you ‘d
write to her. Her father and mother have got some idea in their heads;
they think it ‘s improper--what do you call it?--immoral. I wish you
would write to her and tell her it is n’t. I wonder if they think that
Mrs. Vivian would come to a place that ‘s immoral. Mrs. Vivian says she
would take her in a moment; she does n’t seem to care how many she has.
I declare, she ‘s only too kind. You know I ‘m in Mrs. Vivian’s care.
My mother ‘s gone to Marienbad. She would let me go with Mrs. Vivian
anywhere, on account of the influence--she thinks so much of Mrs.
Vivian’s influence. I have always heard a great deal about it, have n’t
you? I must say it ‘s lovely; it ‘s had a wonderful effect upon me. I
don’t want to praise myself, but it has. You ask Mrs. Vivian if I have
n’t been good. I have been just as good as I can be. I have been so
peaceful, I have just sat here this way. Do you call this immoral? You
‘re not obliged to gamble if you don’t want to. Ella Maclane’s father
seems to think you get drawn in. I ‘m sure I have n’t been drawn in. I
know what you ‘re going to say--you ‘re going to say I have been drawn
out. Well, I have, to-night. We just sit here so quietly--there ‘s
nothing to do but to talk. We make a little party by ourselves--are you
going to belong to our party? Two of us are missing--Miss Vivian and
Captain Lovelock. Captain Lovelock has gone with her into the rooms to
explain the gambling--Miss Vivian always wants everything explained. I
am sure I understood it the first time I looked at the tables. Have you
ever seen Miss Vivian? She ‘s very much admired, she ‘s so very unusual.
Black hair ‘s so uncommon--I see you have got it too--but I mean for
young ladies. I am sure one sees everything here. There ‘s a woman
that comes to the tables--a Portuguese countess--who has hair that is
positively blue. I can’t say I admire it when it comes to that shade.
Blue ‘s my favorite color, but I prefer it in the eyes,” continued
Longueville’s companion, resting upon him her own two brilliant little
specimens of the tint.
He listened with that expression of clear amusement which is not always
an indication of high esteem, but which even pretty chatterers, who are
not the reverse of estimable, often prefer to masculine inattention; and
while he listened Bernard, according to his wont, made his reflections.
He said to himself that there were two kinds of pretty girls--the
acutely conscious and the finely unconscious. Mrs. Vivian’s protege was
a member of the former category; she belonged to the genus coquette. We
all have our conception of the indispensable, and the indispensable, to
this young lady, was a spectator; almost any male biped would serve
the purpose. To her spectator she addressed, for the moment, the whole
volume of her being--addressed it in her glances, her attitudes, her
exclamations, in a hundred little experiments of tone and gesture and
position. And these rustling artifices were so innocent and obvious
that the directness of her desire to be well with her observer became
in itself a grace; it led Bernard afterward to say to himself that the
natural vocation and metier of little girls for whom existence was but a
shimmering surface, was to prattle and ruffle their plumage; their
view of life and its duties was as simple and superficial as that of
an Oriental bayadere. It surely could not be with regard to this
transparent little flirt that Gordon Wright desired advice; you could
literally see the daylight--or rather the Baden gaslight--on the other
side of her. She sat there for a minute, turning her little empty head
to and fro, and catching Bernard’s eye every time she moved; she had for
the instant the air of having exhausted all topics. Just then a young
lady, with a gentleman at her side, drew near to the little group, and
Longueville, perceiving her, instantly got up from his chair.
“There ‘s a beauty of the unconscious class!” he said to himself. He
knew her face very well; he had spent half an hour in copying it.
“Here comes Miss Vivian!” said Gordon Wright, also getting up, as if to
make room for the daughter near the mother.
She stopped in front of them, smiling slightly, and then she rested her
eyes upon Longueville. Their gaze at first was full and direct, but
it expressed nothing more than civil curiosity. This was immediately
followed, however, by the light of recognition--recognition embarrassed,
and signalling itself by a blush.
Miss Vivian’s companion was a powerful, handsome fellow, with a
remarkable auburn beard, who struck the observer immediately as being
uncommonly well dressed. He carried his hands in the pockets of a little
jacket, the button-hole of which was adorned with a blooming rose. He
approached Blanche Evers, smiling and dandling his body a little, and
making her two or three jocular bows.
“Well, I hope you have lost every penny you put on the table!” said the
young girl, by way of response to his obeisances.
He began to laugh and repeat them.
“I don’t care what I lose, so long--so long--”
“So long as what, pray?”
“So long as you let me sit down by you!” And he dropped, very gallantly,
into a chair on the other side of her.
“I wish you would lose all your property!” she replied, glancing at
Bernard.
“It would be a very small stake,” said Captain Lovelock. “Would you
really like to see me reduced to misery?”
While this graceful dialogue rapidly established itself, Miss Vivian
removed her eyes from Longueville’s face and turned toward her
mother. But Gordon Wright checked this movement by laying his hand on
Longueville’s shoulder and proceeding to introduce his friend.
“This is the accomplished creature, Mr. Bernard Longueville, of whom you
have heard me speak. One of his accomplishments, as you see, is to drop
down from the moon.”
“No, I don’t drop from the moon,” said Bernard, laughing. “I drop
from--Siena!” He offered his hand to Miss Vivian, who for an appreciable
instant hesitated to extend her own. Then she returned his salutation,
without any response to his allusion to Siena.
She declined to take a seat, and said she was tired and preferred to go
home. With this suggestion her mother immediately complied, and the two
ladies appealed to the indulgence of little Miss Evers, who was obliged
to renounce the society of Captain Lovelock. She enjoyed this luxury,
however, on the way to Mrs. Vivian’s lodgings, toward which they all
slowly strolled, in the sociable Baden fashion. Longueville might
naturally have found himself next Miss Vivian, but he received an
impression that she avoided him. She walked in front, and Gordon Wright
strolled beside her, though Longueville noticed that they appeared to
exchange but few words. He himself offered his arm to Mrs. Vivian, who
paced along with a little lightly-wavering step, making observations
upon the beauties of Baden and the respective merits of the hotels.