Bernard sat thinking for a long time; at first with a good deal of mortification--at last with a good deal of bitterness.
He felt angry at last; but he was not angry with himself.
He was displeased with poor Gordon, and with Gordon's displeasure.
He was uncomfortable, and he was vexed at his discomfort.
It formed, it seemed to him, no natural part of his situation; he had had no glimpse of it in the book of fate where he registered on a fair blank page his betrothal to a charming girl.
That Gordon should be surprised, and even a little shocked and annoyed--this was his right and his privilege;
Bernard had been prepared for that, and had determined to make the best of it. But it must not go too far; there were limits to the morsel of humble pie that he was disposed to swallow.
Something in Gordon's air and figure, as he went off in a huff, looking vicious and dangerous--yes, that was positively his look--left a sinister impression on Bernard's mind, and, after a while, made him glad to take refuge in being angry.
One would like to know what Gordon expected, par exemple!
Did he expect Bernard to give up Angela simply to save him a shock; or to back out of his engagement by way of an ideal reparation?
No, it was too absurd, and, if Gordon had a wife of his own, why in the name of justice should not Bernard have one?
Being angry was a relief, but it was not exactly a solution, and Bernard, at last, leaving his place, where for an hour or two he had been absolutely unconscious of everything that went on around him, wandered about for some time in deep restlessness and irritation. At one moment he thought of going back to Gordon's hotel, to see him, to explain.
But then he became aware that he was too angry for that--to say nothing of Gordon's being too angry also; and, moreover, that there was nothing to explain. He was to marry Angela Vivian; that was a very ****** fact--it needed no explanation.
Was it so wonderful, so inconceivable, an incident so unlikely to happen? He went, as he always did on Sunday, to dine with Mrs. Vivian, and it seemed to him that he perceived in the two ladies some symptoms of a discomposure which had the same origin as his own. Bernard, on this occasion, at dinner, failed to make himself particularly agreeable; he ate fast--as if he had no idea what he was eating, and talked little; every now and then his eyes rested for some time upon Angela, with a strange, eagerly excited expression, as if he were looking her over and trying to make up his mind about her afresh.
This young lady bore his inscrutable scrutiny with a deal of superficial composure; but she was also silent, and she returned his gaze, from time to time, with an air of unusual anxiety.
She was thinking, of course, of Gordon, Bernard said to himself; and a woman's first meeting, in after years, with an ex-lover must always make a certain impression upon her. Gordon, however, had never been a lover, and if Bernard noted Angela's gravity it was not because he felt jealous. "She is simply sorry for him," he said to himself; and by the time he had finished his dinner it began to come back to him that he was sorry, too. Mrs. Vivian was probably sorry as well, for she had a slightly confused and preoccupied look--a look from which, even in the midst of his chagrin, Bernard extracted some entertainment.
It was Mrs. Vivian's intermittent conscience that had been reminded of one of its lapses; her meeting with Gordon Wright had recalled the least exemplary episode of her life--the time when she whispered mercenary counsel in the ear of a daughter who sat, grave and pale, looking at her with eyes that wondered.
Mrs. Vivian blushed a little now, when she met Bernard's eyes; and to remind herself that she was after all a virtuous woman, talked as much as possible about superior and harmless things--the beauty of the autumn weather, the pleasure of seeing French papas walking about on Sunday with their progeny in their hands, the peculiarities of the pulpit-oratory of the country as exemplified in the discourse of a Protestant pasteur whom she 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?"