"When Gertrude came forward to meet Selden Avery and Francis King, she
felt the disapproving eyes of her father fixed upon her. It was a new
and a painful sensation. It made her greeting less free and frank than
usual, and both Avery and Francis felt without being able to analyze it.
"She don't like me to be with him," thought Francis, and felt humiliated
and hurt.
"Surely Gertrude cannot doubt me," was Avery's mental comment, and a
sore spot in his heart, left by a comment made at the club touching
Gertrude's friendship for this same tall, fiery girl at his side, made
itself felt again. John Martin exchanged glances with Gertrude's father.
Avery saw, and seeing, resented what he believed to be its meaning.
The three men bowed rather stiffly to each other. Francis felt that she
was, somehow, to blame. She wished that she had not come. She longed
to go, but did not know what to say nor how to start. The situation was
awkward for all. Gertrude wished for and yet dreaded the entrance of her
mother.
Avery felt ashamed to explain, but he began as if speaking to Gertrude
and ended with a look of challenge at the two men facing him. "I chanced
to meet Miss King in the street and as both of us stood in need of
advice from you," he was trying to smile unconcernedly, "we came up the
avenue together."
There was a distinct look of displeasure and disapproval upon Mr.
Foster's face, while John Martin took scant pains to conceal his
disgust. He, also, had heard, and repeated, the club gossip to
Gertrude's father.
"If good advice is what you want particularly," said Mr. Foster, slowly,
"I don't know but that I might accommodate you. I hardly think Gertrude
is in a position to--to--"
The bell rang sharply and in an instant the little cash girl from the
store rushed in gasping for breath.
"Come quick! quick! Ettie is killed! She fell down stairs and then--oh,
something _awful_ happened! I don't know what it was. The doctor is
there. He sent me here, 'cause Ettie cried and called for you!" She was
looking at Gertrude, who started toward the door.
"Go back and tell the doctor that Miss Foster cannot come," said her
father, rising.
"Certainly not, I should hope," remarked John Martin under his breath;
"the most preposterous idea!" Gertrude paused. She was looking at her
father with appeal in her face. Then her eyes fell upon the tense lips
and piercing gaze of Francis King who, half way to the street door, had
turned and was looking first from one to the other.
"Papa," said Gertrude, "don't say that. I must go. It is right that I
should, and I must." Then with outstretched hands, "I want to go, papa!
I need to. Don't--"
"You will do nothing of the kind, Gertrude. It is outrageous. What
business have you got with that kind of girls? I _asked_ you to stop
having them come here, and I told you to let them alone. I am perfectly
disgusted with Avery, here, for--" He had thought Francis was gone. The
drapery where she had turned to hear what Gertrude would say hid her
from him. "_With that kind of girls!_" was ringing in her ears. "I hope
when you are married _that_ is not the sort of society he is going to
surround you with. It--" Avery saw for the first time what the trouble
was. He stepped quickly to Gertrude's side and slipped one arm about
her. Then he took the hand she still held toward her father.
"My wife shall have her own choice. She is as capable as I to choose.
I shall not interfere. She shall not find me a master, but a comrade.
Gertrude is her own judge and my adviser. That is all I ask, and it is
all I assume for myself as her husband--when that time comes," he added,
with her hand to his lips.
Mrs. Foster entered attired for the street. The unhappy face of Francis
King with wide eyes staring at Gertrude met her gaze. She had heard what
went before. "Get your hat, Gertrude," she said. "I will go with you. It
might take too long to get a carriage. Francis, come with me; Gertrude
will follow us. Come with her, my son," she said, to Selden Avery, and
a spasm of happiness swept over his face. She had never called him that
before. He stooped and kissed her, and there were tears in the young
man's eyes as Mrs. Foster led Francis King away.
"I suppose it was all my fault to begin with," said John Martin, when
the door had closed behind them. "It all started from that visit to the
Spillinis. The only way to keep the girls of this age in--" he was going
to say "in their place," but he changed to 'where they belong,' "is not
to let them find out the facts of life. Charity and religion did well
enough to appease the consciences of women before they had colleges, and
all that. I didn't tell you so at the time, but I always did think it
was a mistake to send Gertrude to a college where she could measure her
wits with men. She'll never give it up. She don't know where to stop."
Mr. Foster lighted a cigar--a thing he seldom did in the drawing-room.
He handed one to John Martin.
"I guess you're right, John," he said, slowly. "She can't seem to see
that graduation day ended all that. It was Katherine's idea, sending her
there, though. I wanted her to go to Vassar or some girl's school like
that. I don't know what to make of Katherine lately; when I come to
think of it, I don't know what to make of her all along. She seems to
have laid this plan from the first, college and all; but I never saw
it. Sometimes I'm afraid--sometimes I almost think--" He tapped his
forehead and shook his head, and John Martin nodded contemplatively, and
said: "I shouldn't wonder if you are right, Fred. Too much study is a
dangerous thing for women. The structure of their brains won't stand
it. It is sad, very sad;" and they smoked in sympathetic silence, while
James had hastened below stairs to assure Susan that he thought he'd
catch himself allowing his sweetheart or wife to demean herself and
disgrace him by having anything to do with a person in the position of
Ettie Berton. And Susan had little doubt that James was quite right,
albeit Susan felt moderately sure that in a contest of wits--after the
happy day--she could be depended upon to get her own way by hook or by
crook, and Susan had no vast fund of scruple to allay as to method or
motive. Deception was not wholly out of Susan's line. Its necessity did
not disturb her slumbers.