Confidence [84]
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
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