Bernard walked beside her, and for some moments nothing was said between
them. As the silence continued, he became aware of it, and it vexed
him that she should leave certain things unsaid. She had asked him no
question--neither whence he had come, nor how long he would stay, nor
what had happened to him since they parted. He wished to see whether
this was intention or accident. He was already complaining to himself
that she expressed no interest in him, and he was perfectly aware that
this was a ridiculous feeling. He had come to speak to her in order to
tell her that he was going away, and yet, at the end of five minutes,
he had asked leave to come and see her. This sudden gyration of mind
was grotesque, and Bernard knew it; but, nevertheless, he had an immense
expectation that, if he should give her time, she would manifest some
curiosity as to his own situation. He tried to give her time; he held
his tongue; but she continued to say nothing. They passed along a sort
of winding lane, where two or three fishermen’s cottages, with old brown
nets suspended on the walls and drying in the sun, stood open to the
road, on the other side of which was a patch of salt-looking grass,
browsed by a donkey that was not fastidious.
“It ‘s so long since we parted, and we have so much to say to each
other!” Bernard exclaimed at last, and he accompanied this declaration
with a laugh much more spontaneous than the one he had given a few
moments before.
It might have gratified him, however, to observe that his companion
appeared to see no ground for joking in the idea that they should have a
good deal to say to each other.
“Yes, it ‘s a long time since we spent those pleasant weeks at Baden,”
she rejoined. “Have you been there again?”
This was a question, and though it was a very simple one, Bernard was
charmed with it.
“I would n’t go back for the world!” he said. “And you?”
“Would I go back? Oh yes; I thought it so agreeable.”
With this he was less pleased; he had expected the traces of resentment,
and he was actually disappointed at not finding them. But here was the
little house of which his companion had spoken, and it seemed, indeed, a
rather bad one. That is, it was one of those diminutive structures which
are known at French watering-places as “chalets,” and, with an exiguity
of furniture, are let for the season to families that pride themselves
upon their powers of contraction. This one was a very humble specimen of
its class, though it was doubtless a not inadequate abode for two quiet
and frugal women. It had a few inches of garden, and there were flowers
in pots in the open windows, where some extremely fresh white curtains
were gently fluttering in the breath of the neighboring ocean. The
little door stood wide open.
“This is where we live,” said Angela; and she stopped and laid her hand
upon the little garden-gate.
“It ‘s very fair,” said Bernard. “I think it ‘s better than the
pastry-cook’s at Baden.”
They stood there, and she looked over the gate at the geraniums. She did
not ask him to come in; but, on the other hand, keeping the gate closed,
she made no movement to leave him. The Casino was now quite out of
sight, and the whole place was perfectly still. Suddenly, turning her
eyes upon Bernard with a certain strange inconsequence--
“I have not seen you here before,” she observed.
He gave a little laugh.
“I suppose it ‘s because I only arrived this morning. I think that if I
had been here you would have noticed me.”
“You arrived this morning?”
“Three or four hours ago. So, if the remark were not in questionable
taste, I should say we had not lost time.”
“You may say what you please,” said Angela, simply. “Where did you come
from?”
Interrogation, now it had come, was most satisfactory, and Bernard
was glad to believe that there was an element of the unexpected in his
answer.
“From California.”
“You came straight from California to this place?”
“I arrived at Havre only yesterday.”
“And why did you come here?”
“It would be graceful of me to be able to answer--‘Because I knew you
were here.’ But unfortunately I did not know it. It was a mere chance;
or rather, I feel like saying it was an inspiration.”
Angela looked at the geraniums again.
“It was very singular,” she said. “We might have been in so many places
besides this one. And you might have come to so many places besides this
one.”
“It is all the more singular, that one of the last persons I saw in
America was your charming friend Blanche, who married Gordon Wright. She
did n’t tell me you were here.”
“She had no reason to know it,” said the girl. “She is not my friend--as
you are her husband’s friend.”
“Ah no, I don’t suppose that. But she might have heard from you.”
“She does n’t hear from us. My mother used to write to her for a while
after she left Europe, but she has given it up.” She paused a moment,
and then she added--“Blanche is too silly!”
Bernard noted this, wondering how it bore upon his theory of a spiteful
element in his companion. Of course Blanche was silly; but, equally of
course, this young lady’s perception of it was quickened by Blanche’s
having married a rich man whom she herself might have married.
“Gordon does n’t think so,” Bernard said.
Angela looked at him a moment.
“I am very glad to hear it,” she rejoined, gently.
“Yes, it is very fortunate.”
“Is he well?” the girl asked. “Is he happy?”
“He has all the air of it.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” she repeated. And then she moved the latch
of the gate and passed in. At the same moment her mother appeared in the
open door-way. Mrs. Vivian had apparently been summoned by the sound
of her daughter’s colloquy with an unrecognized voice, and when she saw
Bernard she gave a sharp little cry of surprise. Then she stood gazing
at him.
Since the dispersion of the little party at Baden-Baden he had not
devoted much meditation to this conscientious gentlewoman who had been
so tenderly anxious to establish her daughter properly in life; but
there had been in his mind a tacit assumption that if Angela deemed that
he had played her a trick Mrs. Vivian’s view of his conduct was not more
charitable. He felt that he must have seemed to her very unkind, and
that in so far as a well-regulated conscience permitted the exercise of
unpractical passions, she honored him with a superior detestation.
The instant he beheld her on her threshold this conviction rose to the
surface of his consciousness and made him feel that now, at least, his
hour had come.
“It is Mr. Longueville, whom we met at Baden,” said Angela to her
mother, gravely.
Mrs. Vivian began to smile, and stepped down quickly toward the gate.
“Ah, Mr. Longueville,” she murmured, “it ‘s so long--it ‘s so
pleasant--it ‘s so strange--”
And suddenly she stopped, still smiling. Her smile had an odd intensity;
she was trembling a little, and Bernard, who was prepared for hissing
scorn, perceived with a deep, an almost violent, surprise, a touching
agitation, an eager friendliness.
“Yes, it ‘s very long,” he said; “it ‘s very pleasant. I have only just
arrived; I met Miss Vivian.”
“And you are not coming in?” asked Angela’s mother, very graciously.
“Your daughter has not asked me!” said Bernard.
“Ah, my dearest,” murmured Mrs. Vivian, looking at the girl.
Her daughter returned her glance, and then the elder lady paused again,
and simply began to smile at Bernard, who recognized in her glance that
queer little intimation--shy and cautious, yet perfectly discernible--of
a desire to have a private understanding with what he felt that she
mentally termed his better nature, which he had more than once perceived
at Baden-Baden.
“Ah no, she has not asked me,” Bernard repeated, laughing gently.
Then Angela turned her eyes upon him, and the expression of those fine
organs was strikingly agreeable. It had, moreover, the merit of being
easily interpreted; it said very plainly, “Please don’t insist, but
leave me alone.” And it said it not at all sharply--very gently and
pleadingly. Bernard found himself understanding it so well that he
literally blushed with intelligence.
“Don’t you come to the Casino in the evening, as you used to come to the
Kursaal?” he asked.
Mrs. Vivian looked again at her daughter, who had passed into the
door-way of the cottage; then she said--
“We will go this evening.”
“I shall look for you eagerly,” Bernard rejoined. “Auf wiedersehen, as
we used to say at Baden!”
Mrs. Vivian waved him a response over the gate, her daughter gave him a
glance from the threshold, and he took his way back to his inn.
He awaited the evening with great impatience; he fancied he had made a
discovery, and he wished to confirm it. The discovery was that his idea
that she bore him a grudge, that she was conscious of an injury, that he
was associated in her mind with a wrong, had all been a morbid illusion.
She had forgiven, she had forgotten, she did n’t care, she had possibly
never cared! This, at least, was his theory now, and he longed for a
little more light upon it. His old sense of her being a complex and
intricate girl had, in that quarter of an hour of talk with her, again
become lively, so that he was not absolutely sure his apprehensions
had been vain. But, with his quick vision of things, he had got the
impression, at any rate, that she had no vulgar resentment of any slight
he might have put upon her, or any disadvantage he might have caused
her. Her feeling about such a matter would be large and original.
Bernard desired to see more of that, and in the evening, in fact, it
seemed to him that he did so.
The terrace of the Casino was far from offering the brilliant spectacle
of the promenade in front of the gaming-rooms at Baden. It had neither
the liberal illumination, the distinguished frequenters, nor the
superior music which formed the attraction of that celebrated spot; but
it had a modest animation of its own, in which the starlight on the open
sea took the place of clustered lamps, and the mighty resonance of
the waves performed the function of an orchestra. Mrs. Vivian made her
appearance with her daughter, and Bernard, as he used to do at Baden,
chose a corner to place some chairs for them. The crowd was small, for
most of the visitors had compressed themselves into one of the rooms,
where a shrill operetta was being performed by a strolling troupe. Mrs.
Vivian’s visit was a short one; she remained at the Casino less than
half an hour. But Bernard had some talk with Angela. He sat beside
her--her mother was on the other side, talking with an old French lady
whose acquaintance she had made on the beach. Between Bernard and Angela
several things were said. When his friends went away Bernard walked home
with them. He bade them good-night at the door of their chalet, and then
slowly strolled back to the Casino. The terrace was nearly empty; every
one had gone to listen to the operetta, the sound of whose contemporary
gayety came through the open, hot-looking windows in little thin quavers
and catches. The ocean was rumbling just beneath; it made a ruder but
richer music. Bernard stood looking at it a moment; then he went down
the steps to the beach. The tide was rather low; he walked slowly down
to the line of the breaking waves. The sea looked huge and black and
simple; everything was vague in the unassisted darkness. Bernard stood
there some time; there was nothing but the sound and the sharp, fresh
smell. Suddenly he put his hand to his heart; it was beating very fast.
An immense conviction had come over him--abruptly, then and there--and
for a moment he held his breath. It was like a word spoken in the
darkness--he held his breath to listen. He was in love with Angela
Vivian, and his love was a throbbing passion! He sat down on the stones
where he stood--it filled him with a kind of awe.