A SERIES OF GAIETIES
Gaiety consists in rising in the morning so tired that it takes three
hours of earnest work with a maid, a masseuse, a physical directress, a
hairdresser, and a bonnetiere, before one can produce a spontaneous
silvery laugh, which is never required, expected or considered good form
before two P.M. Gail Sargent went in for gaiety, and, moreover, she
enjoyed it. She rode, she drove, she went calling and received, she
attended teas and gave them, she dined out and entertained, in the name
of her eager Aunt Grace, she went to theatres, the opera, concerts, and
the lively midnight cafés, which had all gone nervously insane with
freak dancing, she attended balls, house parties, and all the in-between
diversions which her novelty-seeking friends could discover or invent,
and she flirted outrageously! She used her eyes, and the pretty pout of
her red lips, and the toss of her head, and all the wiles of coquetry,
to turn men into asses, and she enjoyed that, too! It was a part of her
feminine birthright to enter with zest into this diversion, and it was
only envy which criticised her. Aunt Helen Davies, who knew her world by
chapter and verse, stood behind the scenes of all this active
vaudeville, and applauded. It was at the opera that Aunt Helen could no
longer conceal her marvel.
“My dear,” she said, under cover of the throbbing music of Thais, “I
have never seen anything like you!”
“I don’t quite know whether to take that as a compliment or not,”
laughed Gail, who had even, in her new stage of existence, learned to
pay no attention to music.
“The remark was not only intended to be complimentary, but positively
gushing,” replied Aunt Helen, returning with a smile the glance of their
hostess, the stiff Miss Van Ploon. “After two weeks of the gayest season
I have ever witnessed, you are as fresh and vivacious as when you
started.”
“It’s a return to first principles,” stated Gail, considering the matter
seriously. “I’ve discovered the secret of success in New York, either
commercial or social. It is to have an unbreakable constitution.”
The dapper little marquis, who was laying a very well conducted siege
for the heart and hand of Miss Van Ploon, leaned over Gail’s velvet
shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Gail leaned back a trifle
to answer him, her deep brown eyes flashing up at him, her red lips
adorably curved, that delicate colour wavering in her cheeks; and Mrs.
Davies, disregarding entirely the practised luring of the dapper little
marquis, who was as harmless as a canary bird, viewed Gail with
admiration.
Houston Van Ploon, surveying Gail with pride, made up his mind about a
problem which he had been seriously considering. Gail Sargent, taken
point by point, appearance, charm, manner, disposition and health, had
the highest percentage of perfection of any young woman he had ever met,
an opinion in which his father and sister had agreed, after several
solemn family discussions.
Nicholas Van Ploon leaned over to his daughter.
“She has dimples,” he catalogued, nodding his round head in satisfaction
and clasping his hands comfortably over his broad white evening
waistcoat.
Dick Rodley irrupted into the box with Lucile and Arly, just as Thais
started for the convent, and they were only the forerunners of a
constant stream which, during the intermission, came over to laugh with
Gail, and to look into her sparkling eyes, and exchange repartee with
her, and enjoy that beauty which was like a fragrance.
Who was the most delighted person in the Van Ploon box? Aunt Helen
Davies! She checked off the eligibles, counting them, estimating them,
judging the exact degree in which Gail had interested them, and the
exact further degree Gail might interest them if she chose.
Gail, standing, was a revelation to-night, not alone to Nicholas Van
Ploon, who nearly dislocated his neck in turning to feast his gaze on
her in numb wonder, but to Aunt Helen herself. Gail wore an Egyptian
costume, an absurdly straight thing fashioned like a cylinder, but
which, in some mysterious and alluring way, suggested the long, slender,
gracefully curving lines which it concealed. The foundation colour was
tarnished gold, on which were beaded panels in dark blue stones, touched
here and there with dull red. Encircling her small head was an Egyptian
tiara, studded in the front with lapis lazuli and deep red corals, with
one great fire opal glowing in the centre; and her shining brown hair
was waved well below the ears, and smoothly caught under around the back
of her perfect neck. On her cheeks and on her lips were the beautiful
natural tints which were the envy and despair of every pair of lorgnette
shielded eyes, but on her eyelashes, as part of her costume, Gail had
daringly lined a touch of that intense black which is ground in the
harems of the old Nile.
“You’re the throb of the evening, sweetheart,” Dick Rodley laughed down
at her, as they stood at the door of the box with the function passing
in and out.
“Thank you, Dicky dear,” she responded, smiling up at him. Since her
earnest gaieties had begun, Dick had been her most frequent companion.
He was one of the component members of that zestful little set composed
of Gail, Lucile and Arly, and the bubbling little Mrs. Babbitt, the
cherub-cheeked Marion Kenneth, the entirely sophisticated Gwen Halstead,
and whatever nice men happened to be available. Dick and Ted and Gerald
were, of course, always available.
“I’m disappointed,” complained Dick. “You don’t blush any more when I am
affectionate with you.”
“One loses the trick here,” she laughed. “The demands are too frequent.”
He bent a little closer to her.
“I’m going to propose to you again to-night,” he told her.
“You’re so satisfactory,” she returned carelessly. “But really, Dicky, I
don’t see how you’re going to manage it, unless you perform it right
here, and that’s so conventional.”
“Play hooky,” he mischievously advised. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.
You shoo Houston out of the house the minute you get in; then Lucile and
Ted and Arly and Gerald and I will sail up and carry you off to supper,
after which I’ll take you home and propose.”
Gail’s eyes snapped with the activity of that disloyal programme, and
the little silvery laugh, for which she had been so noted, welled up
from her throat.
“You have to wait around the corner until he goes away,” she insisted.
“I’ll bring a guitar if you like,” Dick promised, with so much avidity
that she feared, for an instant, that he might do it.
“You’re monopolising me scandalously,” she protested. “Go away,” and she
turned immediately to the dapper little marquis, who was enduring the
most difficult evening of his life. Gail was so thoroughly adapted to a
grand affair, one in which he could avow universes; and the Miss Van
Ploon was so exacting.
The study door was open when Houston Van Ploon sedately escorted Mrs.
Davies and Gail into the library, one of those rooms which appoint
themselves the instinctive lounging places of all family intimates. Gail
turned up her big eyes in sparkling acknowledgment as the punctilious
Van Ploon took her cloak, and, at that moment, as she stood gracefully
poised, she caught the gaze of the Reverend Smith Boyd fixed on her with
such infinite longing that it distressed her. She did not want him to
suffer.
Uncle Jim strode out with a hearty greeting, and, at the sound of the
voices of no one but Gail and Mrs. Davies and Houston Van Ploon, old
“Daddy” Manning appeared in the doorway, followed by the rector.
“The sweetest flower that blows in any dale,” quoted “Daddy” Manning,
patting Gail’s hand affectionately.
The rector stood by, waiting to greet her, after Manning had monopolised
her a selfish moment, and the newly aroused eye of colour in him seized
upon the gold and blue and red of her straight Egyptian costume, and
recognised in them a part of her endless variety. The black on her
lashes. He was close enough to see that; and he marvelled at himself
that he could not disapprove.
Gail was most uncomfortably aware of him in this nearness; but she
turned to him with a frank smile of friendship.
“This looks like a conspiracy,” she commented, glancing towards the
study, which was thick with smoke.
“It’s an offensively innocent one,” returned Manning, giving the rector
but small chance. “We’re discussing the plans for the new Vedder Court
tenements.”
“Oh!” observed Gail, and radiated a distinct chill, whereupon the
Reverend Smith Boyd, divesting himself of some courteous compliment,
exchanged inane adieus with Mrs. Davies and young Van Ploon, and took
his committee back into the study.
Mrs. Davies remained but a moment or so. She even seemed eager to
retire, and as she left the library, she cast a hopeful backward glance
at the dancing-eyed Gail and the correct young Van Ploon, who, with his
Dutch complexion and his blonde English moustache and his stalwart
American body, to say nothing of his being a Van Ploon, represented to
her the ideal of masculine perfection. He was an eligible who never did
anything a second too early or a second too late, or deviated by one
syllable from the exact things he should say.
If the anxious Aunt Helen had counted on any important results from this
evening’s opportunities, she had not taken into her calculations the
adroitness of Gail. In precisely five minutes Van Ploon was on the
doorstep, with his Inverness on his shoulders and his silk hat in his
hand, without even having approached the elaborate introduction to
certain important remarks he had definitely decided to make. Gail might
not have been able to rid herself of him so easily, for he was a person
of considerable momentum, but he had rather planned to make a more
deliberate ceremony of the matter, impulsive opportunities not being in
his line of thought.
A tall young man in an Inverness walked rapidly past the door while Van
Ploon was saying the correctly clever things in the way of adieu; and
shortly after she had closed the door on Van Ploon, a pebble struck the
side window of the library. Gail opened the window and looked out. Dick
Rodley stood just below, with his impossibly handsome face upturned to
the light, his black eyes shining with glee, his Inverness tossed
romantically back over one shoulder, and an imaginary guitar in his
hands. Up into the library floated the familiar opening strains of
Tosti’s Serenade, and the Reverend Smith Boyd glanced out through the
study door at the enticing figure of Gail, and knitted his brows in a
frown.
“You absurd thing,” laughed Gail to the serenader. “No, you daren’t come
in,” and she vigorously closed the window. Laughing to herself, she
bustled into her wraps.
“Here, where are you going?” called her Uncle Jim.
“Hush!” she admonished him, peering, for a glowing moment, in the study
door, a vision of such disturbing loveliness that the Reverend Smith
Boyd, for the balance of the evening, saw, staring up at him from the
Vedder Court tenement sketches, nothing but eyes and lips and waving
brown hair, and delicately ovalled cheeks, their colour heightened by
the rolling white fur collar. “None of you must say a word about this,”
she gaily went on. “It’s an escapade!” and she was gone.
Uncle Jim, laughing, but nevertheless intent upon his responsibilities,
grabbed her as she opened the front door, but on the step he saw Dick
Rodley, and, in the machine drawing up at the curb, Arly and Gerald and
Lucile and Ted, so he kissed Gail good-night, and passed her over to the
jovial Dick, and returned to the study to brag about her.
Gaiety reigned supreme once more! Lights and music and dancing, the hum
of chatter and laughter, the bustle and confusion of the place, the
hilarity which brings a new glow to the cheek and sparkle to the eye,
and then home again in the crisp wintry air, and Dick following into the
house with carefree assurance.
“Gracious, Dicky, you can’t come in!” protested Gail, with half
frowning, half laughing remonstrance. “It’s a fearful hour for calls.”
“I’m a friend of the family,” insisted Dick, calmly closing the door
behind them and hanging his hat on the rack. He took Gail’s cloak and
threw off his Inverness. “I guess you’ve forgotten the programme.”
“Oh, yes, the proposal,” remembered Gail. “Well, have it over with.”
“All right,” he agreed, and taking her arm and tucking her shoulder
comfortably close to him, he walked easily with her back to the library.
Arrived there, he seated her on her favourite chair, and drew up another
one squarely in front of her.
“I’m going to shock you to death,” he told her. “I’m going to propose
seriously to you.”
Some laughing retort was on her lips, but she caught a look in his eyes
which suddenly stopped her.
“I am very much in earnest about it, Gail,” and his voice bore the stamp
of deep sincerity. “I love you. I want you to be my wife.”
“Dick,” protested Gail, and it was she who reached out and placed her
hand in his. The action was too confidingly frank for him to mistake it.
“I was afraid you’d think that way about it,” he said, his voice full of
a pain of which they neither one had believed him capable. “This is the
first time I ever proposed, except in fun, and I want to make you take
me seriously. Gail, I’ve said so many pretty things to you, that now,
when I am in such desperate earnest, there’s nothing left but just to
try to tell you how much I love you; how much I want you!” He stopped,
and, holding her hand, patting it gently with unconscious tenderness, he
gazed earnestly into her eyes. His own were entirely without that
burning glow which he had, for so long, bestowed on all the young and
beautiful. They were almost sombre now, and in their depth was an humble
wistfulness which made Gail’s heart flow out to him.
“I can’t, Dick,” she told him, smiling affectionately at him. “You’re
the dearest boy in the world, and I want you for my friend as long as we
live; for my very dear friend!”
He studied her in silence for a moment, and then he put his hands on her
cheeks, and drew her gently towards him. Still smiling into his eyes,
she held up her lips, and he kissed her.
“I’d like to say something jolly before I go,” he said as he rose; “but
I can’t seem to think of it.”
Gail laughed, but there was a trace of moisture in her eyes as she took
his arm.
“I’d like to help you out, Dicky, but I can’t think of it either,” she
returned.
She was crying a little when she went up the stairs, and her mood was
not even interrupted by the fact that Aunt Helen’s door was ajar, and
that Aunt Helen stood just behind the crack.
“Why, child, that Egyptian black is running,” was Aunt Helen’s first
observation.
Gail dabbed hastily at the two tiny rivulets which had hesitated at the
curve of her pink cheeks, and then she put her head on Aunt Helen’s
shoulder, and wept softly.
“Poor Dicky,” she explained, and then turning, disappeared into her own
room.
Mrs. Helen Davies looked after her speculatively for a moment; but she
decided not to follow.