Blanche flirted, in fact, more or less with all men, but her opportunity for playing her harmless batteries upon Bernard were of course exceptionally large. The poor fellow was perpetually under fire, and it was inevitable that he should reply with some precision of aim.
It seemed to him all child's play, and it is certain that when his back was turned to his pretty hostess he never found himself thinking of her.
He had not the least reason to suppose that she thought of him--excessive concentration of mind was the last vice of which he accused her.
But before the winter was over, he discovered that Mrs. Gordon Wright was being talked about, and that his own name was, as the newspapers say, mentioned in connection with that of his friend's wife. The discovery greatly disgusted him; Bernard Longueville's chronicler must do him the justice to say that it failed to yield him an even transient thrill of pleasure.
He thought it very improbable that this vulgar rumor had reached Gordon's ears; but he nevertheless--very naturally--instantly made up his mind to leave the house. He lost no time in saying to Gordon that he had suddenly determined to go to California, and that he was sure he must be glad to get rid of him. Gordon expressed no surprise and no regret.
He simply laid his hand on his shoulder and said, very quietly, looking at him in the eyes--"Very well; the pleasantest things must come to an end."
It was not till an hour afterwards that Bernard said to himself that his friend's manner of receiving the announcement of his departure had been rather odd. He had neither said a word about his staying longer nor urged him to come back again, and there had been (it now seemed to Bernard) an audible undertone of relief in the single sentence with which he assented to his visitor's withdrawal. Could it be possible that poor Gordon was jealous of him, that he had heard this loathsome gossip, or that his own observation had given him an alarm?
He had certainly never betrayed the smallest sense of injury; but it was to be remembered that even if he were uneasy, Gordon was quite capable, with his characteristic habit of weighing everything, his own honor included, in scrupulously adjusted scales, of denying himself the luxury of active suspicion.
He would never have let a half suspicion make a difference in his conduct, and he would not have dissimulated; he would simply have resisted belief. His hospitality had been without a flaw, and if he had really been wishing Bernard out of his house, he had behaved with admirable self-control. Bernard, however, followed this train of thought a very short distance. It was odious to him to believe that he could have appeared to Gordon, however guiltlessly, to have invaded even in imagination the mystic line of the marital monopoly; not to say that, moreover, if one came to that, he really cared about as much for poor little Blanche as for the weather-cock on the nearest steeple.
He simply hurried his preparations for departure, and he told Blanche that he should have to bid her farewell on the following day.
He had found her in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner.
She was expecting company to dine, and Gordon had not yet come down.
She was sitting in the vague glow of the fire-light, in a wonderful blue dress, with two little blue feet crossed on the rug and pointed at the hearth. She received Bernard's announcement with small satisfaction, and expended a great deal of familiar ridicule on his project of a journey to California. Then, suddenly getting up and looking at him a moment--"I know why you are going," she said.
"I am glad to hear my explanations have not been lost."
"Your explanations are all nonsense. You are going for another reason.
"
"Well," said Bernard, "if you insist upon it, it 's because you are too sharp with me."
"It 's because of me. So much as that is true." Bernard wondered what she was going to say--if she were going to be silly enough to allude to the most impudent of fictions; then, as she stood opening and closing her blue fan and smiling at him in the fire-light, he felt that she was silly enough for anything. "It 's because of all the talk--it 's because of Gordon.
You need n't be afraid of Gordon."
"Afraid of him? I don't know what you mean," said Bernard, gravely.
Blanche gave a little laugh.
"You have discovered that people are talking about us--about you and me.
I must say I wonder you care. I don't care, and if it 's because of Gordon, you might as well know that he does n't care. If he does n't care, I don't see why I should; and if I don't, I don't see why you should!"
"You pay too much attention to such insipid drivel in even mentioning it."
"Well, if I have the credit of saying what I should n't--to you or to any one else--I don't see why I should n't have the advantage too.
Gordon does n't care--he does n't care what I do or say. He does n't care a pin for me!"
She spoke in her usual rattling, rambling voice, and brought out this declaration with a curious absence of resentment.
"You talk about advantage," said Bernard. "I don't see what advantage it is to you to say that."
"I want to--I must--I will! That 's the advantage!" This came out with a sudden sharpness of tone; she spoke more excitedly.
"He does n't care a button for me, and he never did!
I don't know what he married me for. He cares for something else--he thinks of something else. I don't know what it is--I suppose it 's chemistry!"
These words gave Bernard a certain shock, but he had his intelligence sufficiently in hand to contradict them with energy.
"You labor under a monstrous delusion," he exclaimed.
"Your husband thinks you fascinating."
This epithet, pronounced with a fine distinctness, was ringing in the air when the door opened and Gordon came in.
He looked for a moment from Bernard to his wife, and then, approaching the latter, he said, softly--"Do you know that he leaves us to-morrow?"