THE MESSAGE FROM NEW YORK
It was good to be home! Gail wondered that she could ever have been
content away from the loving shelter of her many, many friends. She had
grown world weary in all the false gaiety of New York! She was
disillusioned! She was blasé. She was tired of frivolity; and she
immediately planned or enthusiastically agreed to take part in a series
of gaieties which would have made an average hard-working man anticipate
them with an already broken constitution.
The house was full of them, morning, noon and night; young girls, sedate
and jolly, and all of them excitedly glad that Gail was among them
again; and young men, in all the degrees from social butterflies to
plodding business pluggers, equally glad.
Good comfortable home folks these, who were deliciously nice to the
stately black-haired Arly, and voted her a tremendous beauty, and stood
slightly in awe of her. The half cynical Arly, viewing them critically,
found in them one note of interesting novelty; a certain general
clean-hearted wholesomeness, and, being a seeker after the unusual, and
vastly appreciative, she deliberately cultivated them; flattering the
boys, but not so much as to make the other girls hate her. To the girls
she made herself even more attractive, because she liked them better.
She complimented them individually on the point of perfection for which
each girl most prided herself; she told them that they were infinitely
more clever than the women of New York, and better looking, in general;
for the New York women were mostly clothes and make-up; and, above all,
she envied them their truer lives!
No group of young people could resist such careful work as that,
especially when performed by a young woman so adroit and so attractive,
and so well gowned; so they lost their awkwardness with her, which
removed any sense of discomfort Gail might have felt, which was the aim
to be accomplished. In those first few days Gail was the happiest of all
creatures, in spite of the fact that the local papers had carried a
politer echo of that despicable slave story. At nights, however,
beginning with the second one, when the girls had retired to the mutual
runway of their adjoining suites, the conversation would turn something
like this.
“Let’s see, this is the seventeenth, isn’t it?” thus Arly.
“Yes; Tuesday,” concentratedly selecting a chocolate, the box of which
bore a New York name.
“Mrs. Matson’s ice skating ball is to-night.” A sidelong glance at the
busy Gail.
“Um-hum.” A chocolate between her white teeth.
“She always has such original affairs.”
“Doesn’t she!” Gail draws her sandalled feet up under her and stretches
down her pink negligee, so that she looks like a stiff little statue in
tinted ivory.
“And such interesting people. That new artist is certain to be there.
What’s his name? Oh yes, Vloddow. I could adore him.”
“You’re a mere verbal adorer,” laughs Gail, studying anxiously over the
problem of whether she wants another piece of chocolate or not. Allison
had sent such good ones. “Vloddow eats garlic.”
“That’s why I adore him, from a distance. Of course all the nice regular
fellows will be there; Dick Rodley, and Ted, and Houston, and — Oh, oh!
I forgot to write Gerald,” and with a swift passing kiss somewhere
between Gail’s ear and her chin, she hurries into her own dressing-room,
with a backward glance to make sure that Gail is staring, with softened
brown eyes, down into her chocolate box, and seeing there amid the brown
confections, the laughing, swirling skaters in Mrs. Matson’s glistening
ballroom. Dick, and Ted, and Houston, and Willis, Lucile and Marion, Flo
Reynolds, and the gay little Mrs. Babbitt, and a host of others. There
were some who would not be at that ball; Allison, and the Reverend Smith
Boyd, and—Arlene has plenty of time to write her formally dutiful letter
without disturbance.
Gail has letters, too, as the days wear on. She scarcely has time for
them amid all the impromptu gaieties, but she does find a chance to read
them; some of them twice. Of course there are letters from “home,” a
prim and still affectionate one from Aunt Helen Davies, and a loving
one, full of worry about Gail’s possible tonsilitis, from Aunt Grace, a
hearty scrawl from Jim, a bubbling little note from Lucile, an absurd
love letter from Ted, couched in terms of the utmost endearment, and
winding up with the proposition to elope with her if she’d only come
back. That was the tenor of all her letters; if she’d only come back!
Bless their hearts, she loved them; and yes, longed for them, even here
in the happy, sheltering environment of her own dear home and friends!
There were still other letters; a confidently friendly one from Allison,
who sent her regularly candy and flowers on alternate days; a
substantial one from Houston Van Ploon; a thoughtful one from Willis
Cunningham; a florid one from Dick Rodley; nice little notes, calculated
to relieve her embarrassment, from all her “slaves” except the missing
Count; and a discussion from the Reverend Smith Boyd. That was one of
those which she read more than once; for it was quite worth it.
“Dear Miss Sargent:
“This being our regular evening for discussion, I beg to remind you
that on our last debate, I shall not call it a dispute, we had
barely touched upon the necessity for ritual, or rather, to avoid
any quibble over the word necessity, on my insistence for the need
of a ritual, when we decided that it was better to sing for the
balance of the evening. I was the more ready to acquiesce in this,
as we had, for the first time, hit upon a theorem to which we could
both subscribe; namely, that it is just as easy for the human mind
to grasp the biblical theory of creation as to grasp the creation of
the life-producing chaos out of which evolution must have
proceeded.”
Gail laid down the letter at this point and smiled, with dancing eyes.
She could see the stern face of the young rector brightening with
pleasure as she had herself propounded this thought, and she could
revisualise his grave pleasure as he had clothed it in accurate words
for them both. It was, as he had said, an extremely solid starting
point, to which they could always return.
“That this belief is sufficient, even including a continuance of the
omnipresent personal regard which we both admit to assume in that
Creator, I deny. I can see your cheeks flush and your brown eyes
sparkle as you come to this flat statement; and I am willing to
answer for you that you object to my making so far-sweeping a
statement, in the very beginning of what was to have been a slowly
deductive process. You may not be wording it in just this manner,
but this is, in effect, what you are saying.
“With much patience, I reply that you have not waited for me to
finish, which, I must observe, in justice to myself, you seldom do.
“Kindly wait just a minute, please. You have thrown back your head,
your brown hair tossing, your pointed chin uptilted, and a little
red spot beginning to appear in your delicately tinted cheeks, but I
hasten to remind you that, if we take up this little side matter of
my unfortunate mention of one of your youthful proclivities, we
shall forget entirely the topic under discussion. I apologise for
having been so rude as to remind you of it, and beg to state that
when I pause at a comma, you had heard but half a statement.
“At this point you remark that no discussion should be based upon a
half statement, and I admit, with shame, that I am slightly
indignant, for you have not yet permitted me to finish my original
proposition. Now you are sitting back, with your slender white hands
folded in your lap, and the toe of one of your little pointed
slippers waving gently, your curved lashes drooping, and your eyes
carelessly fixed on my cravat, which I can not see, but which I
believe to have been tied with as much care as a gentleman should
expend upon his attire.
“Miss Sargent, you leave me helpless. I feel a chill sensation in my
cheeks, as if a cold draught had blown upon them. You are firmly
resolved to let me talk without interruption for the next half hour,
upon which you will give me a most adroit answer to everything I
have said. Your answer will have all the effect of refuting my
entire line of logic, without having given me an opportunity to
defend the individual steps.
“I decline, with much patience, very much patience indeed, to lay
myself open to this conclusion, not because of the undeserved sense
of defeat it will force upon me, but because the matter at issue is
too grave and important to be given a prejudiced dismissal.
“I can see you now, as I refuse to carry the subject further at this
session. You stiffen in your chair, your eyes, which have seemed so
carelessly indifferent, suddenly glow, and snap, and sparkle, and
flash. The tiny red spots have deepened, enhancing the velvet of
your cheeks. Your red lips curl. You impatiently touch back the
waves of your rippling brown hair with your slender white hand,
which turns so gracefully upon its wrist. You blaze straight into my
eyes, and tell me that I have taken this means of avoiding the
discussion, because I perceive in advance that I am beaten.
“Miss Sargent, I do not tell you that you are unfair and ungenerous
to seize upon this advantage; instead, I bite my lip, and compel my
countenance to befitting gravity, knowing that I should be above the
petty emotions of anger, impatience, and offended pride; but humbly
confessing, to myself, that I have not my nature under such perfect
subjection as I should like to have.
“Consequently, I beg you to defer this step in our logical deduction
to another night, and turn, with grateful relief, to the music. I
need not say how heartily I wish that you were here to sing with me.
“Yours earnestly,
“SMITH BOYD.”
Gail shrieked when she first read that letter, then she read it again
and blushed. She had, as she came upon his initial flat statement of
denial, felt a flush in her cheeks and a snap in her eyes. She had, as
she read, stiffened with indignation, and relaxed in scornful disdain,
and flashed with hot retort, in advance of his discernment that she
would do so! She was flamingly vexed with him! On the third reading her
eyes twinkled, and her red lips curved deliciously with humour, as she
admired the cleverness which she had previously only recognised. In
subsequent readings this was her continued attitude, and she kept the
letter somewhere in the neighbourhood where she might touch it
occasionally, because of the keen mental appreciation she had for it.
Were her eyes really capable of such an infinite variety of expression
as he had suggested? She looked in the glass to see; but was
disappointed. They were merely large, and brown, and deep, and, just
now, rather softened.
There was an impromptu party at Gail’s house, a jolly affair, indeed.
All her old, steadfast friends, you know, who were quite sufficient to
fill her life; and this was the night of the gay little Mrs. Babbitt’s
affair in New York. How much better than those great, glittering, social
pageants was a simple, wholesome little ball like this, with all her
dear girl chums, in their pretty little Paris model frocks, and all the
boys, in their shiny white fronts. No one had changed, not even
impulsive Howard Clemmens. Poor Howard! He knew now that his refusal was
permanent and enduring, yet he came right to the front with his same
assumption of proprietorship. She let him do it. You see, in all these
years, the boys had tacitly admitted that Howard “had the inside track”;
so, while they all admired and loved her, they stepped aside and
permitted him to monopolise her. Back home there was a sort of esprit de
corps like that, though it was sometimes hard on the girl. When Gail had
flown home from the cruel world to the sheltering arms of her mother and
her friends, she had firmly planned to set Howard in his proper place as
a formal friend, and thereafter be free. There were quite a number of
the boys who had, at one time or another, seemed quite worth
cultivation. When she came to meet them again, however, with that same
old brotherly love shining in their eyes, she somehow found that she did
not care to be free. Anyhow, it would humiliate Howard to reduce him so
publicly to the ranks, snip off his buttons and take his sabre, as it
were; so she allowed him to clank his spurs, to the joy and delight of
Arly.
This was the gayest party of which Gail had been the bright particular
ornament since her return, and she quite felt, except for the presence
of Arly, that she had fallen back into her old familiar life. Why, it
seemed as if she had been home for ages and ages! There was the same old
dance music, the Knippel orchestra, with the wonderfully gifted fat
violinist, and the pallid pianist with the long hair, who had four
children, and the ’cellist who scowled so dreadfully but played the deep
passages so superbly, and clarinettist, whom every one thought should
have gone in for concert work, and the grey-haired old basso player, who
never looked up and who never moved a muscle except those in his arms,
one up and down and the other crosswise; there was a new second
violinist, a black-browed man who looked as if he had been disappointed
in life, but second violinists always do.
At the end of the Sargent ballroom, where Gail’s sedate but hospitable
mother always sat until the “Home, Sweet Home” dance was ended, were the
same dear, familiar palms, which Marty, the florist, always sent to
everybody’s house to augment the home collection. The gorgeous big one
had a leaf gone, but it was sprouting two others.
Tremendously gay affair. Everybody was delighted, and said so; and they
laughed and danced and strolled and ate ices, and said jolly nothings,
and knew, justifiably, that they were nice, and clever, and happy young
people; and Arly Fosland, with any number of young men wondering how old
her husband was, danced conscientiously, and smiled immediately when any
one looked at her. Gail also was dancing conscientiously, and having a
perfectly happy evening. At about this hour there would be something
near four hundred people in the ballroom, and the drawing-rooms, and the
conservatory of Mrs. Babbitt’s.
She was whirling near the balcony windows with a tall young friend who
breathed, when there was an exclamation from a group of girls at the
window. Vivian Jennings turned. She was a girl with the sort of eyes
which, in one sweep, can find the only four-leafed clover in a
forty-acre field.
“Gail!” she cried, almost dancing. “Gail! Do come and see it!”
Gail did not desert her partner; she merely started over to the window
with one hand trailing behind her as an indication to follow, and
immediately, without looking around, she called:
“Arly! Where’s Arly?”
What she saw was this. A rich brown limousine, in which the dome light
was brightly burning, had drawn up to the steps. Inside, among the rich
brown cushions and hangings, and pausing to light a leisurely cigarette,
sat the most wickedly handsome man in the world! He was black-haired,
and black-moustached and black-goateed, and had large, lustrous, melting
black eyes, while on his oval cheeks was the ruddy bloom of health.
Every girl in the window sighed, as, with a movement which was grace in
every changing line, he stepped out of the brilliantly lighted
limousine, and came slowly up the steps, tall, slender, magnificent, in
his shining silk hat and his flowing Inverness, and his white tie, and
his pleated shirt front—Oh, everything; correct to the last detail,
except for the trifling touches of originality, down to his patent
leather tips! With a wave of careless ease he flung back his Inverness
over one shoulder, and rang the bell!
“Dick!” cried a voice just behind Gail’s ear. Gail had not known that
any one was leaning heavily on her shoulders, but now she and Arly, with
one accord, turned and raced for the vestibule!
“You handsome thing!” cried Arly, as he stepped into the hall and held
out a hand to each of them. “I’ve a notion to kiss you!”
“All right,” he beamed down on her, sparing another beam for Gail. No,
Gail had not exaggerated in memory the magic of his melting eyes. It
could not be exaggerated!
“There aren’t any words to tell you how welcome you are!” said Gail, as
the butler disappeared with his hat and Inverness.
“What on earth brought you here to bless us?” demanded Arly.
“I came to propose to Gail,” announced Dick calmly, and took her hand
again, bending down on her that wonderfully magnetic gaze, so that she
was panic-stricken in the idea that he was about to proceed with his
project right on the spot.
“Wait until after the dance,” she laughingly requested, drawing back a
step and blushing furiously.
“We’re wasting time,” protested Arly. “Hurry on in, Dick. We want to
exhibit you.”
“I don’t mind,” consented Dick cheerfully, and stepped through the
doorway, where he created the gasp.
Eleven girls dreamed of his melting eyes that night; and Howard Clemmens
lost his monopoly. Viewing Gail’s victorious scramble with Arly for
Dick’s exclusive possession, Howard’s friends unanimously reduced him to
the ranks.
After the dance, Dick made good his threat with Gail, and formally
proposed, urging his enterprise in coming after her as one of his claims
to consideration; but Gail, laughing, and liking him tremendously, told
him he was too handsome to be married, and sent him back home with a
fresh gardenia in his buttonhole. That night Arly and Gail sat long and
silently on the comfortable couch in front of Arly’s fireplace, one in
fluffy blue and the other in fluffy pink, and the one in fluffy blue
furtively studying the one in fluffy pink from under her black
eyelashes. The one in pink was gazing into the fire with far-seeing
brown eyes, and was braiding and unbraiding, with slender white fingers,
a flowing strand of her brown hair.
“Gail,” ventured the one in blue.
“Yes.” This abstractedly.
“Aren’t you a little bit homesick? I am.”
“So am I!” answered Gail, with sudden animation.
“Let’s go back!” excitedly.
“When?” and Gail jumped up.