Edith Lyle

There were many guests at the Bartons’, and the Montgomeries’, and the Morrises, that summer, but nowhere was there so much hilarity and mirth as at Schuyler Hill, for there from time to time came dashing, brilliant people from New York and Philadelphia, and every room was full, and Godfrey took a small apartment in the attic, and made many jokes upon the high life he was enjoying. There were sails upon the river, and excursions to the mountains, and picnics in the woods, and dances on the piazza, and croquet parties on the lawn, and dinners, and suppers, and breakfasts, and lunches, and private theatricals in the great drawing-room; and toward the close of the summer there was a grand party at the Ridge House, to which the young people from the Hill were bidden, and Alice’s toilet was wonderful in texture and style, while Julia was pronounced the most beautiful lady there, until Gertie came, in her simple muslin dress, and eclipsed them all. It was rather late when she entered the crowded rooms, and after greeting Mrs. Barton and Rosamond drifted away from the colonel, who had accompanied her, and found herself close to Godfrey before she was aware of his proximity. Since that promise to his father, she had studiously avoided him, and Alice had no just cause for jealousy so far as Gertie was concerned. Godfrey, too, had made up his mind to accept his fate, and kept aloof from Gertie as much as possible, though there was a world of kindness in his voice whenever he spoke to her, and he always knew when she came in and when she went out, and his eyes followed her with a longing, hungry look, which Alice would have resented, had she noticed it and interpreted it aright. But she was not quick to see, and as Godfrey was very attentive to her, and called her his little cat, and teased her unmercifully, and kissed her every morning, she was satisfied and happy, and on the night of the party stood, flushed and triumphant, at his side, while he fanned her heated face, telling her she must not dance again for an hour at least, no matter who asked her; it was too warm for such exercise, and he preferred the open air; he did not mean to dance himself if he could help it, and if Alice liked they’d go out upon the west balcony, where it was cooler.

There had been a cloud on Godfrey’s face the entire evening, and his eyes were constantly wandering over the moving throng in quest of one they did not see.

“Where is Miss Westbrooke?” Tom Barton had asked him anxiously, but Godfrey could not tell him.

She was intending to come with his father, he said, and possibly had not yet arrived; and as the festivity was nothing to Tom without Gertie, he sauntered away to an open window, and when Rosamond asked him to dance with a young lady who was a guest at the Ridge House, and who had been a wallflower all the evening, he answered, “Oh, bother! I can’t; it’s too hot. I’m melting now,” and stepped through the window upon the balcony to be out of the way.

Neither he nor Godfrey cared to dance, though both had in their minds a graceful little figure which they would gladly have whirled about the room, and when at last she appeared and came upon Godfrey just as he had proposed going out upon the piazza with Alice, he forgot everything but his surprise and delight at seeing her, and exclaimed, joyfully:

“Oh, Gertie, I’m so glad you have come. I’ve been waiting for you to dance with me. Come, they are just forming a new set.”

He held both his arms toward her, and Gertie, unmindful of everything and seeing nothing but the look in Godfrey’s eyes and the arms held to her, went straight into them, thinking to herself, “For just this once,—I may be happy with him.”

And she was happy, and Godfrey, too,—and people looked admiringly at the handsome pair, and strangers asked who the beautiful girl with the bright hair and simple dress was, and where she came from.

I was at the party that night, and stood very near to Alice, when Gertie came in and was snatched up so quickly by Godfrey. I had heard him announce his intention not to dance, and ask Alice to go with him where it was cooler, and Alice had taken a step toward the door when Gertie came and changed the entire aspect of affairs.

“Godfrey,” I heard Alice say, as her lover moved away from her, but Godfrey was deaf and blind to everything but the girl on his arm, and Alice called in vain.

Godfrey had teased her for her red face, but it was pale enough now, and her small eyes had in them a greenish light as they followed Godfrey’s tall form and caught occasional glimpses of Gertie’s long, bright curls which came below her waist and were the wonder of the room. Alice was very indignant, and when the question was put to her, “Who is that beautiful girl dancing with Mr. Schuyler?” she stood on tiptoe, and pretending to be looking toward the dancers, answered with suppressed bitterness:

“Oh, that is Gertie Westbrooke, a girl who lives with Mrs. Schuyler, and sees a little to Arthur,—a kind of nursery governess, I believe.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” and Mrs. Jamieson, from Philadelphia, put up her glass to look again at the girl “who lived with Mrs. Schuyler and was a kind of nursery governess.”

Meanwhile Godfrey and Gertie were unmindful of everything but the fact that for a brief space they were together, hand touching hand in a clasp of love rather than form, and eye meeting eye with a sad, remorseful kind of pitying tenderness, as if each knew they were tasting forbidden fruit and for the last time, too. This, at least, was Godfrey’s thought. To-morrow it would all be over, and he would be Alice’s again, but to-night he was Gertie’s and she was his, and he abandoned himself to the delight until he seemed intoxicated with happiness. He had never danced with her since the memorable church sociable years ago, when she was a little, airy, restless humming-bird, who had infused something of her own life and elasticity into his rather languid movements and made him try to be worthy of his partner. Gertie was very young then, and no thought of calling her his had entered Godfrey’s heart, where now the sad refrain was repeating itself over and over again, “It might have been, It might have been.”

There was another dance, and another, and then Godfrey led Gertie out upon the west balcony where he had proposed taking Alice, and where he now sat down with Gertie at his side, and looking into her eyes of blue forgot the eyes of gray which had followed his every movement, and in which were little gleams of fire when they saw him going out, and the care he took to wrap Gertie’s cloak around her arms and shoulders. It certainly was not chance which led Alice that way; she went on purpose with a group of heated girls eager for a breath of air, and her garments swept against Gertie’s as she went by, and the green eyes looked at Godfrey with a look he understood and did not resent, for he knew that he deserved it, but he was not penitent and he did not give Gertie up until his father, who had been talking politics in a distant room, and did not know of his son’s misdemeanor, came to find her and take her out to supper. Then Godfrey went in quest of Alice, but she was already appropriated by a young Bostonian, who waxed his mustache and wore a quizzing glass on his nose, and her only answer was a little defiant snort when Godfrey said: “I see I am too late.” So Godfrey took me out and was restless and excited and full of life and fun. But I saw that his spirits were forced, and that his eyes went often to the part of the room where Gertie stood, surrounded by a group of gentlemen who were ostensibly talking to Colonel Schuyler, but really admiring her as the most beautiful lady there. Alice was standing near us, and once Godfrey offered her some lobster salad with a comical look on his face, but Alice did not take it or respond to him in any way, and I knew there was a quarrel in store for him, and pitied him because he was answerable for his actions to that little pug-nosed lady whose only attraction, beside a certain grace and piquancy of manner, was thirty thousand a year.

I do not think she spoke to him again that night, and I know she did not ride home with him, for I saw the four girls from the Hill stowed away with Colonel Schuyler, and heard Godfrey tell his father not to send the carriage back, as he and Robert preferred to walk. And so the party was over and one heart at least was sadder for it, and one was in a wild tumult of joy and regret as it recalled glances and tones which meant so much and which had come too late to be of any avail.