“It is hard, Gertrude; very hard! But I must be in London a week from
to-day.”
Gertrude Van Vleck looked up at her father as he uttered these words,
and her face grew a shade paler, while the tears started to her eyes.
She was clad in a travelling costume that was extremely becoming to her
tall and graceful figure. In her hand she held an almost undecipherable
scrawl. It was from Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, and ran as follows:--
“MY DEAR GERTRUDE,--Perhaps you have already heard the awful
news. My husband died suddenly at the Union Club last night. I
am so utterly stunned that I cannot write coherently, but one
insistent thought is with me at this sad time. You must not
change your plans on my account. I long for you at this moment
with my whole heart, but my selfishness must have no weight with
you. If you really wish it, I will join you in London soon; but I
can make no special arrangements just now. I will write to you
or send you a cable message as soon as I have the strength and
opportunity to think of the future.”
“Listen, Gertrude,” continued Mr. Van Vleck, almost sternly, “We have
no time to lose. Don’t think me heartless, my child; but I must be in
London on the date I have set, for many reasons that would not interest
you. Sit down and write to Mrs. Percy-Bartlett at once. Tell her that
we will wait for her in London, and take her to the Continent with
us. I absolutely cannot wait over a steamer at this time. Poor little
woman, I am sorry that there is no other way.”
With a heavy heart Gertrude Van Vleck penned a note--how inadequate,
almost heartless, it appeared to her as she re-read it--and despatched
it by a messenger to Mrs. Percy-Bartlett. The generous, affectionate
heart of the girl rebelled against the necessity that compelled her to
take this course; but there seemed to be, at the moment, no alternative.
Gertrude had had but little personal contact with that mysterious thing
we call death. The suddenness of her friend’s bereavement appalled
her. There comes a time in every one’s experience, early or late, when
the insignificance of one human life in the make-up of the illimitable
universe is emphasized with a stunning force that leaves us wiser,
perhaps, but infinitely more sad. Gertrude Van Vleck had thought much
about the strange problems that the life of the world presents, but
the final and most significant riddle that haunts the mind of man, the
awful question that death asks, had never touched her deeply. But now
it had come to her in a new guise, and she felt crushed and hopeless
with the pitiless suddenness of the shock.
The drive to the steamer seemed almost interminable. The noises of
the streets, the disjointed exclamations of her father, the feverish
throbbing in her head, caused Gertrude the most acute suffering. The
bustle and excitement at the pier aggravated the restlessness and
discontent that made her whole being ache. There seemed to be something
childish in the vivacity of the men and women around her, who came
and went, laughed and cried, were silent or loquacious, as if a voyage
across the Atlantic were a thing of great moment. What was it compared
with that mysterious journey into the unknown that we must all take
to-day, or to-morrow, or a few years hence?
It was not until the steamer was well down the bay, and the cool,
salt breeze that swept the decks had begun to bring the color back to
Gertrude’s cheeks, that she was able to throw off the dreary thoughts
that oppressed her. And even then it was not with a cheerful gleam in
her eyes that she gazed out upon the throbbing sea. Her heart cried
out in revolt against the fate that had followed her. She was leaving
behind her all that had made life interesting of late. The only woman
she really cared for, and the only man she had ever felt that she could
love, were going out of her life, as the great city sank toward the
horizon in the west. It was very hard. She gazed down upon the waters
rushing backward in her sight, while the hot tears filled her eyes, and
the sea-breeze kissed them cold against her cheek.
“This is a weird and inexplicable world,” she heard a voice that
thrilled her with mingled amazement and joy saying at her side. She
started, for the words seemed to give expression to her very thought,
and turning, she beheld John Fenton, his face reflecting the wonder and
delight that filled her soul. Her hand trembled as she placed it in his
for a moment.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said simply, but her voice trembled with
the nervous reaction that affected her. “I--I--did not know that you
were going abroad.”
John Fenton kept her cold hand in his much longer than perfect
etiquette warranted. Words come less readily to a man than to a woman
at a great and unexpected crisis, and he was silent for some time.
Finally he said, as he leaned against the rail and looked at her white
face, that still bore traces of her despairing mood,--
“What is to be, will be. Tell me, are you a fatalist?”
“I hardly know,” she answered. “Everything seems inexplicable and
unnatural to me at this moment. You have heard that Percy-Bartlett is
dead?”
“Yes,” answered Fenton, gazing seaward for a moment. “I received a note
from Richard Stoughton this morning. He was coming with me, you know.
He has postponed the voyage for a week or so.”
Gertrude’s blue eyes looked into his questioningly.
“He was there last evening?” she asked.
“Yes. He was just leaving when Mrs. Percy-Bartlett received a note from
Buchanan Budd saying that her husband had died suddenly at the club.”
“I am very glad that Mr. Stoughton did not sail,” she said, more to
herself than to Fenton. It was strange how much the salt air had done
to restore the color to her face and the light of contentment to her
eyes. “She--that is Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, you know--is coming over to us
at once.”
There was silence for a time. As they looked down at the surging
waters, the strange coincidence that had thrown them together again
seemed to them both to take on a supernatural character.
“You were going away without bidding me good-by,” she said in a low
voice. Her eyes met his reproachfully.
“You do me an injustice,” he returned. “I wrote to you this morning.”
She turned from him, and her eyes sought the horizon. She felt that his
words had placed her in an embarrassing position. She could not ask him
what his letter said; but she longed to know.
They stood without speaking for some time. He was gazing at her
clear-cut profile, and, as he looked, the scruples that had led him to
make a great renunciation for her sake seemed to him at that moment to
be strained and illogical. Had he not made every sacrifice on the altar
of his Quixotic creed? And had not fate rendered his efforts futile?
Surely he and Gertrude Van Vleck would not be standing together on the
deck of an ocean steamer, outward bound, if the stars in their courses
had not ordained that he should tell her what was in his heart.
“I wish,” he said at length, “that you would do me a favor.”
She turned to him with a puzzled smile on her face.
“Promise me,” he continued earnestly, “that, if the letter I sent to
you this morning ever comes to your hand, you will destroy it unopened.”
The smile died away from her face. He saw that he had placed himself
in the position of being misunderstood. What could he do but explain
himself? His face was pale with emotion, and he grasped the rail
nervously.
“Gertrude,” he said in a low voice, vibrant with suppressed passion,
“Gertrude, I love you! Tell me, will you--can you give me hope?”
She was gazing seaward, with eyes that were moist with the tears of
happiness.
Presently he felt a cold, trembling hand in his and the sun on the
instant broke through the clouds and kissed the smiling sea, as their
grasp grew firm with the fervor of their love.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unpaired quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unpaired.