For the three or four days that followed Gordon Wright’s departure,
Bernard saw nothing of the ladies who had been committed to his charge.
They chose to remain in seclusion, and he was at liberty to interpret
this fact as an expression of regret at the loss of Gordon’s good
offices. He knew other people at Baden, and he went to see them and
endeavored, by cultivating their society, to await in patience the
re-appearance of Mrs. Vivian and her companions. But on the fourth day
he became conscious that other people were much less interesting than
the trio of American ladies who had lodgings above the confectioner’s,
and he made bold to go and knock at their door. He had been asked to
take care of them, and this function presupposed contact. He had
met Captain Lovelock the day before, wandering about with a rather
crest-fallen aspect, and the young Englishman had questioned him eagerly
as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Vivian.
“Gad, I believe they ‘ve left the place--left the place without giving a
fellow warning!” cried Lovelock.
“Oh no, I think they are here still,” said Bernard. “My friend Wright
has gone away for a week or two, but I suspect the ladies are simply
staying at home.”
“Gad, I was afraid your friend Wright had taken them away with him; he
seems to keep them all in his pocket. I was afraid he had given them
marching orders; they ‘d have been sure to go--they ‘re so awfully fond
of his pocket! I went to look them up yesterday--upon my word I did.
They live at a baker’s in a little back-street; people do live in rum
places when they come abroad! But I assure you, when I got there, I ‘m
damned if I could make out whether they were there or not. I don’t speak
a word of German, and there was no one there but the baker’s wife. She
was a low brute of a woman--she could n’t understand a word I said,
though she gave me plenty of her own tongue. I had to give it up. They
were not at home, but whether they had left Baden or not--that was
beyond my finding out. If they are here, why the deuce don’t they show?
Fancy coming to Baden-Baden to sit moping at a pastry-cook’s!”
Captain Lovelock was evidently irritated, and it was Bernard’s
impression that the turn of luck over yonder where the gold-pieces were
chinking had something to do with the state of his temper. But more
fortunate himself, he ascertained from the baker’s wife that though Mrs.
Vivian and her daughter had gone out, their companion, “the youngest
lady--the little young lady”--was above in the sitting-room.
Blanche Evers was sitting at the window with a book, but she
relinquished the volume with an alacrity that showed it had not been
absorbing, and began to chatter with her customary frankness.
“Well, I must say I am glad to see some one!” cried the young girl,
passing before the mirror and giving a touch to her charming tresses.
“Even if it ‘s only me,” Bernard exclaimed, laughing.
“I did n’t mean that. I am sure I am very glad to see you--I should
think you would have found out that by this time. I mean I ‘m glad to
see any one--especially a man. I suppose it ‘s improper for me to say
that--especially to you! There--you see I do think more of you than of
some gentlemen. Why especially to you? Well, because you always seem to
me to want to take advantage. I did n’t say a base advantage; I did n’t
accuse you of anything dreadful. I ‘m sure I want to take advantage,
too--I take it whenever I can. You see I take advantage of your being
here--I ‘ve got so many things to say. I have n’t spoken a word in three
days, and I ‘m sure it is a pleasant change--a gentleman’s visit. All of
a sudden we have gone into mourning; I ‘m sure I don’t know who ‘s dead.
Is it Mr. Gordon Wright? It ‘s some idea of Mrs. Vivian’s--I ‘m sure
it is n’t mine. She thinks we have been often enough to the Kursaal. I
don’t know whether she thinks it ‘s wicked, or what. If it ‘s wicked the
harm ‘s already done; I can’t be any worse than I am now. I have seen
all the improper people and I have learnt all their names; Captain
Lovelock has told me their names, plenty of times. I don’t see what good
it does me to be shut up here with all those names running in my ears.
I must say I do prefer society. We have n’t been to the Kursaal for
four days--we have only gone out for a drive. We have taken the most
interminable drives. I do believe we have seen every old ruin in
the whole country. Mrs. Vivian and Angela are so awfully fond of
scenery--they talk about it by the half-hour. They talk about the
mountains and trees as if they were people they knew--as if they were
gentlemen! I mean as if the mountains and trees were gentlemen. Of
course scenery ‘s lovely, but you can’t walk about with a tree. At any
rate, that has been all our society--foliage! Foliage and women; but I
suppose women are a sort of foliage. They are always rustling about and
dropping off. That ‘s why I could n’t make up my mind to go out
with them this afternoon. They ‘ve gone to see the Waterworths--the
Waterworths arrived yesterday and are staying at some hotel. Five
daughters--all unmarried! I don’t know what kind of foliage they are;
some peculiar kind--they don’t drop off. I thought I had had about
enough ladies’ society--three women all sticking together! I don’t think
it ‘s good for a young girl to have nothing but ladies’ society--it ‘s
so awfully limited. I suppose I ought to stand up for my own sex and
tell you that when we are alone together we want for nothing. But we
want for everything, as it happens! Women’s talk is limited--every one
knows that. That ‘s just what mamma did n’t want when she asked Mrs.
Vivian to take charge of me. Now, Mr. Longueville, what are you laughing
at?--you are always laughing at me. She wanted me to be unlimited--is
that what you say? Well, she did n’t want me to be narrowed down; she
wanted me to have plenty of conversation. She wanted me to be fitted
for society--that ‘s what mamma wanted. She wanted me to have ease of
manner; she thinks that if you don’t acquire it when you are young you
never have it at all. She was so happy to think I should come to Baden;
but she would n’t approve of the life I ‘ve been leading the last four
days. That ‘s no way to acquire ease of manner--sitting all day in a
small parlor with two persons of one’s own sex! Of course Mrs. Vivian’s
influence--that ‘s the great thing. Mamma said it was like the odor of
a flower. But you don’t want to keep smelling a flower all day, even
the sweetest; that ‘s the shortest way to get a headache. Apropos of
flowers, do you happen to have heard whether Captain Lovelock is alive
or dead? Do I call him a flower? No; I call him a flower-pot. He always
has some fine young plant in his button-hole. He has n’t been near me
these ten years--I never heard of anything so rude!”
Captain Lovelock came on the morrow, Bernard finding him in Mrs.
Vivian’s little sitting-room on paying a second visit. On this occasion
the two other ladies were at home and Bernard was not exclusively
indebted to Miss Evers for entertainment. It was to this source of
hospitality, however, that Lovelock mainly appealed, following the
young girl out upon the little balcony that was suspended above the
confectioner’s window. Mrs. Vivian sat writing at one of the windows of
the sitting-room, and Bernard addressed his conversation to Angela.
“Wright requested me to keep an eye on you,” he said; “but you seem very
much inclined to keep out of my jurisdiction.”
“I supposed you had gone away,” she answered--“now that your friend is
gone.”
“By no means. Gordon is a charming fellow, but he is by no means the
only attraction of Baden. Besides, I have promised him to look after
you--to take care of you.”
The girl looked at him a moment in silence--a little askance.
“I thought you had probably undertaken something of that sort,” she
presently said.
“It was of course a very natural request for Gordon to make.”
Angela got up and turned away; she wandered about the room and went and
stood at one of the windows. Bernard found the movement abrupt and
not particularly gracious; but the young man was not easy to snub. He
followed her, and they stood at the second window--the long window that
opened upon the balcony. Miss Evers and Captain Lovelock were leaning on
the railing, looking into the street and apparently amusing themselves
highly with what they saw.
“I am not sure it was a natural request for him to make,” said Angela.
“What could have been more so--devoted as he is to you?”
She hesitated a moment; then with a little laugh--
“He ought to have locked us up and said nothing about it.”
“It ‘s not so easy to lock you up,” said Bernard. “I know Wright has
great influence with you, but you are after all independent beings.”
“I am not an independent being. If my mother and Mr. Wright were to
agree together to put me out of harm’s way they could easily manage it.”
“You seem to have been trying something of that sort,” said Bernard.
“You have been so terribly invisible.”
“It was because I thought you had designs upon us; that you were
watching for us--to take care of us.”
“You contradict yourself! You said just now that you believed I had left
Baden.”
“That was an artificial--a conventional speech. Is n’t a lady always
supposed to say something of that sort to a visitor by way of pretending
to have noticed that she has not seen him?”
“You know I would never have left Baden without coming to bid you
good-bye,” said Bernard.
The girl made no rejoinder; she stood looking out at the little sunny,
slanting, rough-paved German street.
“Are you taking care of us now?” she asked in a moment. “Has the
operation begun? Have you heard the news, mamma?” she went on. “Do you
know that Mr. Wright has made us over to Mr. Longueville, to be kept
till called for? Suppose Mr. Wright should never call for us!”
Mrs. Vivian left her writing-table and came toward Bernard, smiling at
him and pressing her hands together.
“There is no fear of that, I think,” she said. “I am sure I am very glad
we have a gentleman near us. I think you will be a very good care-taker,
Mr. Longueville, and I recommend my daughter to put great faith in
your judgment.” And Mrs. Vivian gave him an intense--a pleading, almost
affecting--little smile.
“I am greatly touched by your confidence and I shall do everything I can
think of to merit it,” said the young man.
“Ah, mamma’s confidence is wonderful!” Angela exclaimed. “There was
never anything like mamma’s confidence. I am very different; I have no
confidence. And then I don’t like being deposited, like a parcel, or
being watched, like a curious animal. I am too fond of my liberty.”
“That is the second time you have contradicted yourself,” said Bernard.
“You said just now that you were not an independent being.”
Angela turned toward him quickly, smiling and frowning at once.
“You do watch one, certainly! I see it has already begun.” Mrs. Vivian
laid her hand upon her daughter’s with a little murmur of tender
deprecation, and the girl bent over and kissed her. “Mamma will tell you
it ‘s the effect of agitation,” she said--“that I am nervous, and don’t
know what I say. I am supposed to be agitated by Mr. Wright’s departure;
is n’t that it, mamma?”
Mrs. Vivian turned away, with a certain soft severity.
“I don’t know, my daughter. I don’t understand you.”
A charming pink flush had come into Angela’s cheek and a noticeable
light into her eye. She looked admirably handsome, and Bernard frankly
gazed at her. She met his gaze an instant, and then she went on.
“Mr. Longueville does n’t understand me either. You must know that I am
agitated,” she continued. “Every now and then I have moments of talking
nonsense. It ‘s the air of Baden, I think; it ‘s too exciting. It
‘s only lately I have been so. When you go away I shall be horribly
ashamed.”
“If the air of Baden has such an effect upon you,” said Bernard, “it
is only a proof the more that you need the solicitous attention of your
friends.”
“That may be; but, as I told you just now, I have no confidence--none
whatever, in any one or anything. Therefore, for the present, I shall
withdraw from the world--I shall seclude myself. Let us go on being
quiet, mamma. Three or four days of it have been so charming. Let the
parcel lie till it ‘s called for. It is much safer it should n’t be
touched at all. I shall assume that, metaphorically speaking, Mr.
Wright, who, as you have intimated, is our earthly providence, has
turned the key upon us. I am locked up. I shall not go out, except upon
the balcony!” And with this, Angela stepped out of the long window and
went and stood beside Miss Evers.
Bernard was extremely amused, but he was also a good deal puzzled, and
it came over him that it was not a wonder that poor Wright should not
have found this young lady’s disposition a perfectly decipherable page.
He remained in the room with Mrs. Vivian--he stood there looking at
her with his agreeably mystified smile. She had turned away, but on
perceiving that her daughter had gone outside she came toward
Bernard again, with her habitual little air of eagerness mitigated by
discretion. There instantly rose before his mind the vision of that
moment when he had stood face to face with this same apologetic mamma,
after Angela had turned her back, on the grass-grown terrace at Siena.
To make the vision complete, Mrs. Vivian took it into her head to utter
the same words.
“I am sure you think she is a strange girl.”
Bernard recognized them, and he gave a light laugh.
“You told me that the first time you ever saw me--in that quiet little
corner of an Italian town.”
Mrs. Vivian gave a little faded, elderly blush.
“Don’t speak of that,” she murmured, glancing at the open window. “It
was a little accident of travel.”
“I am dying to speak of it,” said Bernard. “It was such a charming
accident for me! Tell me this, at least--have you kept my sketch?”
Mrs. Vivian colored more deeply and glanced at the window again.
“No,” she just whispered.
Bernard looked out of the window too. Angela was leaning against the
railing of the balcony, in profile, just as she had stood while he
painted her, against the polished parapet at Siena. The young man’s eyes
rested on her a moment, then, as he glanced back at her mother:
“Has she kept it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Vivian, with decision.
The decision was excessive--it expressed the poor lady’s distress at
having her veracity tested. “Dear little daughter of the Puritans--she
can’t tell a fib!” Bernard exclaimed to himself. And with this
flattering conclusion he took leave of her.