“Even if it turns out happily, Harriet, I will always feel that she did
an unwomanly thing.”
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett and Gertrude Van Vleck were seated _en tête-à-tête_
in the drawing-room, talking of a quiet wedding that had taken place
recently in the inner circle. This matrimonial event had possessed
peculiar features. It was rumored, on evidence more conclusive than
gossip often enjoys, that the bride had done the larger part of the
wooing and had actually proposed to the man of her choice. What the
circumstances were that had led to this reversal of ancient custom
on the part of people to whom time-honored precedents are especially
dear nobody but the high contracting parties knew; but it was well
understood that the woman had taken the initiative, and had been
successful in her egotistic match-making. There were a good many
spinsters in society who approved of her course, but Gertrude Van
Vleck was not among them.
“But,” argued Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, “I thought, Gertrude, that you were
progressive. You seem to accept many of the new ideas, but reject
others. I am sure I can’t see why she did an unwomanly thing. In these
days there is hardly anything that can be called unwomanly--if it is
done gracefully.”
Gertrude smiled sadly as she looked into her friend’s sympathetic eyes.
They both realized that the problem they were discussing was not an
abstract question, but that, on the contrary, it possessed a concrete
and vital significance for one of them.
“I’m afraid, Harriet,” said Gertrude musingly, “that I cannot keep
up with women who are determined to be in the front ranks of the new
movement. I have too many conservative characteristics in my make-up,
inherited from my father.”
She looked about her with restless eyes, her glance seeming to appeal
to the spirit of the room in which they sat for strength and comfort.
There are many drawing-rooms in New York that combine luxury with
taste. Not a few are actually regal in their magnificence. But a
drawing-room that indicates ancestral glories, that seems to rejoice in
the fact that it is the storehouse of patrician memories, is a rarity.
The Van Vlecks’ drawing-room was a shrine sacred to the cult of true
American aristocracy. You might pooh-pooh the Van Vlecks’ coat-of-arms,
their family livery, or other outward manifestations of ancestral
pride, but only an iconoclast deluded by delirium could enter that
drawing-room without feeling the subtle influence that it exerted in
opposition to the image-breakers of to-day.
Suddenly Mrs. Percy-Bartlett broke the silence that had followed
Gertrude’s last remark.
“You sail Wednesday. You do not expect to see him before you go?”
“No. Why should I? He will not come to me again.”
“Tell me, Gertrude, how you know,” said Mrs. Percy-Bartlett gently,
taking the girl’s cold hand in hers.
“It is hard to explain,” remarked Gertrude wearily. “I understand
him so well, Harriet. He is very proud, and has such queer ideas!
He--he--don’t think me awfully conceited, Harriet--he--I’m sure he
likes me. But I never expect to see him again.”
There was the suspicion of a sob in her voice. Mrs. Percy-Bartlett
gazed earnestly into her friend’s eyes.
“Tell me, Gertrude,” she said beseechingly, “what has happened. You are
concealing something from me.”
“Nothing, truly,” exclaimed Gertrude, a frank smile on her lips. “There
has been absolutely nothing between Mr. Fenton and myself that you do
not know about, Harriet.”
“But why, my dear, do you say that you never expect to see him again? I
can’t understand it.”
“I hardly know how to explain it to you, Harriet. I am not in the
habit of placing too much confidence in intuition and inexplicable
impressions, but I feel certain that he will never come to me
again--unless I send for him.”
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett was silent for a time. Things seemed so fatally
wrong in the world at that moment. She felt confused, discontented,
wholly unfit to give comfort or advice to her unhappy friend. And
yet why should she not urge her to take a step that might lead to
happiness? Why should pride and precedent be permitted to stand between
John Fenton and Gertrude Van Vleck when the very spirit of the age was
teaching men and women to be broad-minded and reasonable, and, perhaps,
more natural? Impulsively she turned to Gertrude and bent very close to
her.
“My dear girl, you are doing him and yourself a great wrong. You should
write to him and ask him to come to you. It is the only way.”
“And when he comes?” asked Gertrude in a whisper.
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett bent and kissed the pale cheek of the trembling
girl.
“Tell him that you love him, Gertrude.”
A flush overspread Gertrude’s face and her eyes flashed. She arose and
looked down at her friend.
“I cannot, Harriet. When you put it into words, it scares me. It is
horrible to talk of such a thing. I am sorry--so sorry, that you said
it.” She reseated herself and looked into the sad, brown eyes that
gazed at her almost reproachfully.
“I know that you meant it for the best, Harriet, but it can never be.
And, now, promise me that you will never refer to this again. You know
my secret. Let us go on as though I had never told you.”
They were silent for a time, their cold hands clasped in a contact that
expressed more than words. After a time Gertrude spoke,--
“I am so sorry to go away from you just now, Harriet. I never needed
you so much before.”
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett sighed wearily.
“I am so tired, Gertrude. When you are gone I don’t know what I shall
do. Life is such a weird and wearisome affair. I am young, and the
world has given me everything that I ought to ask of it--but--but”--
She hesitated. Gertrude bent toward her.
“I think I understand, my dear. I am so sorry.”
There was a note of sympathetic pity in her voice that was sweet and
soothing in her hearer’s ear. They were both tasting the bitter cup
that every man and woman must sometime hold to the lips, and in the
moment of their sorrow their friendship for each other became more
precious than it had ever been. It was hard to part at the greatest
crisis in their lives, to say farewell when they needed from each other
the inspiration that the closest intercourse could give.
Cornelius Van Vleck and Percy-Bartlett entered the drawing-room.
“I have great news for you both,” cried the former as he came forward,
his phlegmatic face more animated than usual.
They looked up at him inquiringly.
“Your husband and I have a secret, Mrs. Percy-Bartlett,” he went on
playfully. “Are you not curious to know what it is?”
“Of course I am, Mr. Van Vleck. Am I not a woman?”
The glimpse she caught of her husband’s face startled her. There was an
unnatural flush in his cheeks, and his eyes were feverishly bright.
“What is it, dear?” she exclaimed, rising and putting her hand on his
arm. Percy-Bartlett smiled reassuringly.
“Nothing serious,” he answered. “I disobeyed the doctor and smoked one
of Mr. Van Vleck’s cigars. Furthermore,” and he looked at his host
knowingly, “I fear that I am threatened with an attack of _mal-de-mer_.”
Gertrude Van Vleck sprang up in excitement.
“Do you mean it?” she cried. “O Harriet! don’t you understand? You are
going with us. Am I not right, papa?”
Cornelius Van Vleck smiled benignantly.
“I have become your husband’s medical adviser,” he remarked, turning to
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, “and have ordered him to take a sea-voyage for
his health.”
“And you have agreed?” asked Mrs. Percy-Bartlett of her husband, her
voice cold, almost harsh, from the excitement that she restrained.
“If you wish,” he answered, seating himself wearily, and looking up at
his wife with an affectionate gleam in his eyes.
“It is almost too good to be true,” cried Gertrude Van Vleck, trying to
meet Harriet’s averted gaze. “I am so happy.”
“Is it not charming, Gertrude?” said Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, seating
herself by her husband’s side and speaking with as much enthusiasm as
she could summon to her aid. But she was not an actress, and to her
husband and her confidante there seemed to be an unconvincing note in
her voice, a suggestion that she was accepting the inevitable with a
protest that vainly craved expression.