He felt a touch on his arm; Gertrude was standing at his side, her hand on his sleeve. “Paul,” she said simply, “will you take me away to someone now, and marry me? Tonight? Right away?”
He put his hand over hers and held it tightly against him. “Tonight, Trudie? But doesn’t that sound silly? We don’t have to elope.” He smiled. “I’ll take you home now to your Mama, and tomorrow we’ll make all arrangements—”
“No! You’ll marry me tonight, Paul, or never! Never! I mean it. If you don’t marry me right away, I’ll go away myself, out of Windsor, right this night.” He tried to smile, but when he looked into her eyes he stopped smiling. “Don’t you see, Paul, I’ve got to do this for Philippe? So he’ll have peace? So there’s no recalling anything, and going over the misery again and again?” She was gasping loudly. “Or have you changed your mind about me? You told me once that you didn’t care whether I loved you or not. I don’t love you. But if you’ll take me away I’ll try—I’ll try so hard—”
“But Trudie, love, what will your father say?”
“He’s always wanted me to marry you, Paul. He won’t care. He’ll be glad.”
“But people like us just don’t do these things, child.”
“What do I care what we do?” Her voice, her gestures, her manner, were wild and desperate and full of agony. “I’m thinking of Philippe. I’m thinking of tomorrow! I couldn’t face tomorrow, hoping there might be a chance, when I know there’ll be no chance. And even if there were, making Philippe suffer!” She clutched his sleeve. “Is it because I’ve offended you, speaking so of him? Hurting your pride? But you’ve always said you wanted me no matter how. And I’ve promised you I’ll try to love you. You won’t regret it; I’ll try to forget Philippe. I’ll be a good wife.” She began to whimper, like a distraught child. “Take me away now, Paul, and marry me.”
“All right, Trudie. But let us send for your Papa and Mama to see us married tonight, if you must have it that way.”
“No! I don’t want them! I can’t stand any more words—I can’t stand faces and voices and talk!”
“But this is a mad, mad thing to do! Like a ditch-digger and a housemaid. A sneaking, secret marriage.” He was silent for a few moments. “Well, if you must, you must, Trudie. Judge Bainbridge will marry us. God, what will he think when we burst in on him at dinner this way!” He reached for his coat and hat where they lay across his desk. “The newspapers will make a Roman holiday of this.”
CHAPTER LXXVI
The marriage did indeed create a furore in the newspapers and among the friends of the Barbour family. May issued formal announcements: “Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Barbour announce the marriage of their daughter, Gertrude, to Mr. Paul Barbour, of this city, her cousin.” When the excitement was at its height, with one or two reporters from New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington present, the news exploded that Mr. Philippe Bouchard, member of the wealthy Bouchard family, had left for Montreal, Canada, in order to enter a seminary to study for the priesthood.
Rumor had been flying about that both events were cause and effect. Gertrude, the heartless flirt, had jilted one cousin to marry the other. (“Whoever would have thought it!” exclaimed countless friends of the family. “That anæmic plain little thing, with no life in her, no color! Why, we all thought her a born old maid!”) But May, with an eye on the prostrated Florabelle, declared that her daughter had never been engaged to Philippe Bouchard, who, by very reason of being a professing Catholic, could not have married his cousin. Fastidious May loathed this necessity of satisfying the hungry dogs of scandal, but upon realizing that it had to be done, did it vigorously. She even called the reporters into the Sessions house, served them coffee and sandwiches and cake, thus flabbergasting and enslaving them, and told them a story in which truth and fiction were dexterously mixed. Gertrude, she said, had been privately engaged to her cousin, Paul, for some time, and a large marriage was scheduled for the day before Christmas. But the young couple had frequently expressed themselves as disliking the thought of a large and tiresome wedding, and on a lark, “more as a prank,” said May, smiling with indulgence, “the naughty young creatures had run off on impulse and had gotten married. Mr. Barbour,” continued May, “was really very much annoyed at the whole irresponsible business, and was still rather cool to the gay silly children, but we all hope that he will soon be reconciled to the informality of the affair.” Then May, remembering countless columns she had idly read in women’s books and magazines railing against the ponderous and exhausting social pageant of fashionable weddings, with its attendant weariness on the part of the young bride, the irritability and confusion of the groom, rivalry and heartburnings and enemies made, “money poured out like water,” merely closed her eyes, and quoted at great and fluent length. This much impressed everyone, who began to think more respectfully of the scapegraces; the newspapers became very pompous and asked their readers if this sensible act was not to pave the way for simpler and more dignified society marriages, “where all is not fuss and feathers and vulgar jewels and too much rich food,” but a return to the days “of our fathers, who were rugged and simple and strong, not effete like their elegant and spendthrift descendants of these days.” Gertrude and Paul were commended by the press as young folk who remembered the old pioneer stories, and because they were unaffected and modest, in spite of the vast wealth of their family, had resolved to set an example that others might very well follow.
Then May, determined and a little haggard these strenuous days, turned her attention to the hysterical and vituperative Florabelle. For days she had refused to see any one, the poor, foolish, heartbroken woman, but having in some measure recovered her strength, allowed May to be brought into her bedroom, whereon she broke into cries and screams and sobs and reproaches: “That horrible little beast of a Gertrude of yours! Jilting my darling that way, and driving him away from his mother into a dreadful priests’ place! Leaving me forever!”
“You know that’s a lie, Florabelle,” said May quietly. “Philippe told you the truth. You didn’t want to believe it. Now, I’ll tell you something else. You remember that day you told us of Bishop Dominick’s message to Philippe? Well, Gertrude left us, you remember? and went directly to your house, where she saw Philippe and had a talk with him. And he told her that he couldn’t marry her because she was his cousin, and the poor girl begged and begged, heartbroken, but he would not listen. I don’t blame the boy; he believes in that religion of his, and who are we to fight faith in any one? So Gertrude, in her bewilderment and sorrow and hurt, went to the bank to find her father. You know what a favorite she is with Ernest. They told her he had gone to the bank. But when she reached there he had left for home, but Paul was there. And Paul, who is really the finest of young men, sympathized with her and comforted her, and asked her to marry him. And on impulse, because she was so hurt, she decided to marry him. At once.”
(And after saying this, May closed her eyes and said to herself: God forgive me!)
But Florabelle was comforted. May had well known that pride and money are the greatest comforters of grief, and so she had given Florabelle pride. Recovering as much as possible after the loss of her son to his religion, Florabelle whispered mysteriously to her friends that “all had not been told,” but that her Philippe had really been very cruel to his cousin, Gertrude, and had chosen his Church at the last moment in preference to her. So very soon after May’s visit, she dressed herself in elaborate black, as one who mourns, called for her new carriage, and went to visit Gertrude. Sitting in the drawing room with the pale and silent girl, Florabelle wept over her, commiserated with her, shook her head, became faint, and sent Gertrude scurrying for smelling-salts. Gertrude held the salts under her aunt’s nose, as she knelt beside her. Florabelle, recovering somewhat, looked at the little hand that held the bottle: it was, as she said later, “like a poor little bird’s claw, so thin and bony and trembling.”
Paul and Gertrude remained at the Sessions house, tempora
rily, until Paul could decide where he wished to buy a home. He had half decided on a section just opening up, tentatively called Roseville, quite near the river, but on an elevation. Several fine homes were just in process of being built, already sold, some for sale. Gertrude and Paul had driven out to look at one especial house, sentimentally called Robin’s Nest, a dignified and restrained structure of light gray stone, with broad low rooms, deep old trees and terraces. The house, when bought, was to be Ernest’s wedding present to the young couple, and Gertrude’s dowry was to be an income of one hundred dollars per week until her father’s death, with an increase, Ernest said with a sly smile, of fifty dollars per week for every child. May had promised to supply all furniture and linens, and to staff the house.
Nothing, thought the contented Paul, was wanting in Gertrude. No young bride could have been sweeter nor more docile. Of course, he thought, she lacked life and vigor; she had a habit of sitting quite still for hours, not with a serene and restful stillness, but in a sort of half-expectant trance, like a statue. Her hands would lie empty, palms up, curled upon her knee, in a curiously helpless or defenseless attitude, her head a little bent, with a wing of the dark lustreless hair cloudy about her small colorless face, her eyes partially closed as though she waited for something in a dream. She had always been noted among her less friendly friends as “a piece with a sting in her tongue,” but now the sting had gone, temporarily at least, and when she spoke it was in a faint distant voice, gentle and abstracted. Marriage, May’s friends told her, had certainly improved Gertrude. She was not near so nervous or jumpy, not near so wild of eye and quick of speech, though, of course, she had always been a perfect lady. But she seemed so dignified now, they said, so reticent, so properly matronly, knowing her place in the company of older and wiser matrons. And May, listening, smiled politely and agreeably, with pain tearing her heart.
Within a few days after the sudden wedding, Amy called at the Sessions home for the first time since Gregory’s death. The cousins had not met for nearly two years; the social paths of each, these days, did not cross, for Amy had gone into virtual retirement, and if May ever saw Amy at a distance she was careful to avoid her. Between the two lay a horizonless area of silence.
May was sitting alone in her morning room, sadly and heavily going over household accounts, when Amy was announced. Gertrude was upstairs in her own large bedroom which she shared with Paul. The house was full of sunny morning quiet, the early snow deep and white over the grounds and trees.
May’s first sensation when her cousin was announced was a thick and trembling fury, a feeling of outrage, a “rising of her gorge.” The pen fell from her hand, and, rolling over her neat black book, left a smeared trail behind it. But after a moment she said, calmly enough: “Please show Mrs. Barbour in.” And while she waited, she clenched her hands together and locked her teeth and stared out into the snowy garden.
Amy came in, vital and poised and smiling, sleek in brown sealskin sacque, toque and muff. Her clear skin was flushed with cold and her quiet brown eyes sparkled from exercise, for she had walked from her own home. She looks like my daughter, thought May bitterly and with hatred. But her own face was calm and smiling, if cold with reserve.
She rose. “How nice, Amy,” she murmured. Her heart was beating with unbearable force, and her throat threatened to close.
Amy smiled, hesitated. Does she possibly think I can kiss her? May asked herself in outrage and repugnance. But what shall I do if she holds out her hand? Dare I refuse to shake her hand? Dare I acknowledge openly to her that I have reason to refuse? Dare I humiliate myself so?
But Amy did not offer her hand. Her smile became a little fixed as she loosened the neck of her sacque. “I had to see you, May,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. “Do sit down, Amy,” said May. The two women sat opposite each other, but though they sat in the same room, hardly five feet apart, the horizonless area of silence still lay between them, untouched, desolate, concealing things they both knew were there but which neither dared openly acknowledge.
Amy was silent; she gazed steadily at her cousin, and then into her gaze came a sort of helplessness, a distress. The slender white hands on the muff trembled. But Amy had never lacked courage; the color did not increase nor fade in her face, and she did not flinch. Nor did her voice shake or waver when she spoke:
“May, I had to see you. Alone. I wanted to tell you that this marriage was as much a shock to me as it was to you. I never thought it would occur. You see, I knew Gertrude liked Philippe Bouchard. I thought it was settled between them. And then, when I heard that she had married Paul, I assure you I was utterly amazed.” She paused; her eyes implored May to understand.
“Just what,” said May in a clear cold voice, “are you trying to say to me, Amy?”
Amy dropped her head, and one hand began to smooth her muff, over and over. “I’m sorry Gertrude married Paul,” she said sadly. “I never was so sorry for anything in my life. There are things I don’t understand, about this. But I am sure that whatever they are, they are very, very wrong. But I had to come, to find out if Gertrude was not too unhappy. I couldn’t rest, until I knew she had chosen, herself, and that it was all going to be for the best.”
May did not answer. And after a long time Amy looked up. Tears were standing in May’s eyes. But there was no softening in her face.
“O God!” cried Amy sharply, pinched lines appearing about her nose, “she is unhappy! The poor child!” She stood up in her agitation. “I can’t bear it! Something awful’s the matter! Let me see her, please let me see her!”
Contempt sprang out upon May’s face. “What could be the matter? What makes you think Gertrude’s unhappy? It is true that Gertrude preferred Philippe, but he decided he could not marry her, because they were cousins. Gertrude always knew that she might marry Paul some day. And so, she married him.”
They regarded each other across the bitter silence for some moments. Then Amy sat down again. She turned her profile to May, and the latter could see the cords straining in her throat. She could see the wet lashes. But nothing softened in May; the rigidity spread from her heart over her whole body, so that she seemed, finally, not to feel anything.
“Paul’s my son,” said Amy at last, very quietly, as though she were thinking aloud, “but I’ve never felt there was anything between us but the accident of birth. My children are not like their father, my poor good Martin, and they’re not like me. I’ve never been able to touch them; and I’m certain that they don’t love me in the slightest. It seems incredible, but a long time ago when Paul first began to speak of marrying Gertrude, I was against it. I love Gertrude,” she went on simply, still not looking at her cousin. “I love Godfrey, too. Even Reggie and Guy have seemed closer to me than my own children. Yes, I was against the marriage. I felt it would be very bad for Gertrude. If I had known about this, before it happened, I would have done all I could to prevent it.”
There was a strange and empty pause. Then May, with a pale and malignant smile, said: “This is very odd, from Paul’s mother. Mothers don’t usually talk so of their children. But I am certain that you underestimate Paul, and do him a shameful injustice. He is really very excellent; in the long run he will make a better husband for Trudie than Philippe could have done. I assure you I am quite satisfied, so you need worry no longer.”
Amy turned to her, and again the two women regarded each other steadfastly. Finally, Amy asked without emotion: “May I see Gertrude, for just a moment?”
“Yes, certainly.” May was cool and courteous again. “She is upstairs in the big bedroom. Where Gregory used to sleep.”
Amy stood up. We can never be friends, of course, thought she, sadly. It is quite terrible. She did not know what to say. Naked hatred, now, stood between the two women; it wore Ernest’s face. They recognized it; neither was hypocritical enough to pretend that it was not there for any one to see. Amy walked out of the room without a backward look.
She went up the broad t
wisting stairway. And as she climbed the stairs, running her hand lightly over the balustrade, she said to herself: This is a stairway of pain! How many, many times I’ve gone up it this way, feeling as I feel now, that life was a sick misery and not to be endured! And when that purple light fell on my hand then, as it does now, through that window, I can remember I felt the same, that it was the light of death and I wished that I could be dissolved in it.
May sat rigidly by her desk after Amy had left the room. She listened; everything about her seemed to listen. She heard Gertrude’s door open; she heard Gertrude’s joyful, shaking cry: “Aunt Amy!” Then the door closed.
May still sat so, and then, quite suddenly, she let her head fall upon the desk. After a little, she began to cry, slow and tortured tears that scalded her eyes and her cheeks. But she was not crying for Gertrude.
CHAPTER LXXVII
A week before Christmas Ernest sent for Paul. As he had parted casually enough from his uncle at the breakfast table that morning, Paul knew that he was not being summoned to the Barbour-Bouchard offices for mere pleasantries. Ernest greeted him cordially; his expression always became amiable when he saw his nephew.
“Sit down, Paul. I want to talk to you. Here are some of your favorite tobaccos. Help yourself.” He smiled at the young man. How can any one help liking him, wanting to do anything for him? thought Paul, charmed by that rare and agreeable smile. He thought his uncle rather pale and reserved since the marriage, though he well knew that Ernest had not been displeased at the precipitate ceremony. Nor could it be that Gertrude troubled him, for though she was somewhat quiet and absent she had acquired a certain sweetness of manner, had lost all of her old swift abruptness and fragile wildness, and seemed to depend more than ever on her father’s affection. But no one, thought Paul without resentment, ever knew what Ernest was thinking.
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