"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 man!
At the same time, as I say, he liked me, too; it was out of his liking me that all his trouble came! He caught himself in the act of listening to you too credulously--and that seemed to him unmanly and dishonorable.
The sensation brought with it a reaction, and to prove to himself that in such a matter he could be influenced by nobody, he marched away, an hour after he had talked with you, and, in the teeth of his perfect mistrust, confirmed by your account of my irregularities--heaven forgive you both!--again asked me to be his wife. But he hoped I would refuse!"
"Ah," cried Bernard, "the recreant! He deserved--he deserved--"
"That I should accept him?" Angela asked, smiling still.
Bernard was so much affected by this revelation, it seemed to him to make such a difference in his own responsibility and to lift such a weight off his conscience, that he broke out again into the liveliest ejaculations of relief.
"Oh, I don't care for anything, now, and I can do what I please!
Gordon may hate me, and I shall be sorry for him; but it 's not my fault, and I owe him no reparation. No, no; I am free!"
"It 's only I who am not, I suppose," said Angela, "and the reparation must come from me! If he is unhappy, I must take the responsibility."
"Ah yes, of course," said Bernard, kissing her.
"But why should he be unhappy?" asked Angela. "If I refused him, it was what he wanted."
"He is hard to please," Bernard rejoined. "He has got a wife of his own."
"If Blanche does n't please him, he is certainly difficult;" and Angela mused a little. "But you told me the other day that they were getting on so well."
"Yes, I believe I told you," Bernard answered, musing a little too.
"You are not attending to what I say."
"No, I am thinking of something else--I am thinking of what it was that made you refuse him that way, at the last, after you had let your mother hope."
And Bernard stood there, smiling at her.
"Don't think any more; you will not find out," the girl declared, turning away.
"Ah, it was cruel of you to let me think I was wrong all these years," he went on; "and, at the time, since you meant to refuse him, you might have been more frank with me."
"I thought my fault had been that I was too frank."
"I was densely stupid, and you might have made me understand better."
"Ah," said Angela, "you ask a great deal of a girl!"
"Why have you let me go on so long thinking that my deluded words had had an effect upon Gordon--feeling that I had done you a brutal wrong?
It was real to me, the wrong--and I have told you of the pangs and the shame which, for so many months, it has cost me! Why have you never undeceived me until to-day, and then only by accident?"
At this question Angela blushed a little; then she answered, smiling--"It was my vengeance."
Bernard shook his head.
"That won't do--you don't mean it. You never cared--you were too proud to care; and when I spoke to you about my fault, you did n't even know what I meant. You might have told me, therefore, that my remorse was idle, that what I said to Gordon had not been of the smallest consequence, and that the rupture had come from yourself."
