The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  In every disadvantage that a woman suffers at the hands of a man, there is inevitably, in what concerns the man, an element of cowardice. When I say “inevitably,” I mean that this is what the woman sees in it. This is what Bernard believed that Angela Vivian saw in the fact that by giving his friend a bad account of her he had prevented her making an opulent marriage. At first he had said to himself that, whether he had held his tongue or spoken, she had already lost her chance; but with time, somehow, this reflection had lost its weight in the scale. It conveyed little re-assurance to his irritated conscience— it had become imponderable and impertinent. At the moment of which I speak it entirely failed to present itself, even for form’s sake; and as he sat looking at this superior creature who came back to him out of an episode of his past, he thought of her simply as an unprotected woman toward whom he had been indelicate. It is not an agreeable thing for a delicate man like Bernard Longueville to have to accommodate himself to such an accident, but this is nevertheless what it seemed needful that he should do. If she bore him a grudge he must think it natural; if she had vowed him a hatred he must allow her the comfort of it. He had done the only thing possible, but that made it no better for her. He had wronged her. The circumstances mattered nothing, and as he could not make it up to her, the only reasonable thing was to keep out of her way. He had stepped into her path now, and the proper thing was to step out of it. If it could give her no pleasure to see him again, it could certainly do him no good to see her. He had seen her by this time pretty well—as far as mere seeing went, and as yet, apparently, he was none the worse for that; but his hope that he should himself escape unperceived had now become acute. It is singular that this hope should not have led him instantly to turn his back and move away; but the explanation of his imprudent delay is simply that he wished to see a little more of Miss Vivian. He was unable to bring himself to the point. Those clever things that he might have said to her quite faded away. The only good taste was to take himself off, and spare her the trouble of inventing civilities that she could not feel. And yet he continued to sit there from moment to moment, arrested, detained, fascinated, by the accident of her not looking round— of her having let him watch her so long. She turned another page, and another, and her reading absorbed her still. He was so near her that he could have touched her dress with the point of his umbrella. At last she raised her eyes and rested them a while on the blue horizon, straight in front of her, but as yet without turning them aside. This, however, augmented the danger of her doing so, and Bernard, with a good deal of an effort, rose to his feet. The effort, doubtless, kept the movement from being either as light or as swift as it might have been, and it vaguely attracted his neighbor’s attention. She turned her head and glanced at him, with a glance that evidently expected but to touch him and pass. It touched him, and it was on the point of passing; then it suddenly checked itself; she had recognized him. She looked at him, straight and open-eyed, out of the shadow of her parasol, and Bernard stood there—motionless now—receiving her gaze. How long it lasted need not be narrated. It was probably a matter of a few seconds, but to Bernard it seemed a little eternity. He met her eyes, he looked straight into her face; now that she had seen him he could do nothing else. Bernard’s little eternity, however, came to an end; Miss Vivian dropped her eyes upon her book again. She let them rest upon it only a moment; then she closed it and slowly rose from her chair, turning away from Bernard. He still stood looking at her—stupidly, foolishly, helplessly enough, as it seemed to him; no sign of recognition had been exchanged. Angela Vivian hesitated a minute; she now had her back turned to him, and he fancied her light, flexible figure was agitated by her indecision. She looked along the sunny beach which stretched its shallow curve to where the little bay ended and the white wall of the cliffs began. She looked down toward the sea, and up toward the little Casino which was perched on a low embankment, communicating with the beach at two or three points by a short flight of steps. Bernard saw— or supposed he saw—that she was asking herself whither she had best turn to avoid him. He had not blushed when she looked at him— he had rather turned a little pale; but he blushed now, for it really seemed odious to have literally driven the poor girl to bay. Miss Vivian decided to take refuge in the Casino, and she passed along one of the little pathways of planks that were laid here and there across the beach, and directed herself to the nearest flight of steps. Before she had gone two paces a complete change came over Bernard’s feeling; his only wish now was to speak to her— to explain—to tell her he would go away. There was another row of steps at a short distance behind him; he rapidly ascended them and reached the little terrace of the Casino. Miss Vivian stood there; she was apparently hesitating again which way to turn. Bernard came straight up to her, with a gallant smile and a greeting. The comparison is a coarse one, but he felt that he was taking the bull by the horns. Angela Vivian stood watching him arrive.

  “You did n’t recognize me,” he said, “and your not recognizing me made me— made me hesitate.”

  For a moment she said nothing, and then—

  “You are more timid than you used to be!” she answered.

  He could hardly have said what expression he had expected to find in her face; his apprehension had, perhaps, not painted her obtrusively pale and haughty, aggressively cold and stern; but it had figured something different from the look he encountered. Miss Vivian was simply blushing—that was what Bernard mainly perceived; he saw that her surprise had been extreme—complete. Her blush was re-assuring; it contradicted the idea of impatient resentment, and Bernard took some satisfaction in noting that it was prolonged.

  “Yes, I am more timid than I used to be,” he said.

  In spite of her blush, she continued to look at him very directly; but she had always done that—she always met one’s eye; and Bernard now instantly found all the beauty that he had ever found before in her pure, unevasive glance.

  “I don’t know whether I am more brave,” she said; “but I must tell the truth— I instantly recognized you.”

  “You gave no sign!”

  “I supposed I gave a striking one—in getting up and going away.”

  “Ah!” said Bernard, “as I say, I am more timid than I was, and I did n’t venture to interpret that as a sign of recognition.”

  “It was a sign of surprise.”

  “Not of pleasure!” said Bernard. He felt this to be a venturesome, and from the point of view of taste perhaps a reprehensible, remark; but he made it because he was now feeling his ground, and it seemed better to make it gravely than with assumed jocosity.

  “Great surprises are to me never pleasures,” Angela answered; “I am not fond of shocks of any kind. The pleasure is another matter. I have not yet got over my surprise.”

  “If I had known you were here, I would have written to you beforehand,” said Bernard, laughing.

  Miss Vivian, beneath her expanded parasol, gave a little shrug of her shoulders.

  “Even that would have been a surprise.”

  “You mean a shock, eh? Did you suppose I was dead?”

  Now, at last, she lowered her eyes, and her blush slowly died away.

  “I knew nothing about it.”

  “Of course you could n’t know, and we are all mortal. It was natural that you should n’t expect—simply on turning your head— to find me lying on the pebbles at Blanquais-les-Galets. You were a great surprise to me, as well; but I differ from you— I like surprises.”

  “It is rather refreshing to hear that one is a surprise,” said the girl.

  “Especially when in that capacity one is liked!” Bernard exclaimed.

  “I don’t say that—because such sensations pass away. I am now beginning to get over mine.”

  The light mockery of her tone struck him as the echo of an unforgotten air. He looked at her a moment, and then he said—

  “You are not changed; I find you quite the same.”

  “I am sorry for that!” And she turned aw
ay.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

  She looked about her, without answering, up and down the little terrace. The Casino at Blanquais was a much more modest place of reunion than the Conversation-house at Baden-Baden. It was a small, low structure of brightly painted wood, containing but three or four rooms, and furnished all along its front with a narrow covered gallery, which offered a delusive shelter from the rougher moods of the fine, fresh weather. It was somewhat rude and shabby—the subscription for the season was low—but it had a simple picturesqueness. Its little terrace was a very convenient place for a stroll, and the great view of the ocean and of the marble-white crags that formed the broad gate-way of the shallow bay, was a sufficient compensation for the absence of luxuries. There were a few people sitting in the gallery, and a few others scattered upon the terrace; but the pleasure-seekers of Blanquais were, for the most part, immersed in the salt water or disseminated on the grassy downs.

  “I am looking for my mother,” said Angela Vivian.

  “I hope your mother is well.”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “May I help you to look for her?” Bernard asked.

  Her eyes paused in their quest, and rested a moment upon her companion.

  “She is not here,” she said presently. “She has gone home.”

  “What do you call home?” Bernard demanded.

  “The sort of place that we always call home; a bad little house that we have taken for a month.”

  “Will you let me come and see it?”

  “It ‘s nothing to see.”

  Bernard hesitated a moment.

  “Is that a refusal?”

  “I should never think of giving it so fine a name.”

  “There would be nothing fine in forbidding me your door. Don’t think that!” said Bernard, with rather a forced laugh.

  It was difficult to know what the girl thought; but she said, in a moment—

  “We shall be very happy to see you. I am going home.”

  “May I walk with you so far?” asked Bernard.

  “It is not far; it ‘s only three minutes.” And Angela moved slowly to the gate of the Casino.

  CHAPTER XX

  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 so
und 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.