Once outside, he lost not a moment in drawing her hand through his arm and leading her down the quieter side street. Where they walked or what they said to each other neither of them knew. The evening was balmy and the little park in Madison Square a quiet haven with most accommodating benches in the deep shadows. And as the benches can neither see nor speak nor hear, what transpired there was, therefore, never recorded.
When Margaret reached the house in Gramercy Park, she found it as quiet as a church. The vestibule, that time-honored institution of America, the ever-ready refuge for laughing swains and coy maidens, was inviting and bright. Margaret did not see the fantastic designs on Howard’s face made by the arabesques etched on the glass panels of the door, nor did he see anything but her sweet eyes and arched lips. And here they sealed their plighted troth; here they made their plans for the morrow’s new-coming happiness. John Morton need have no fear about Margaret going with Helène. The good fairy had done his day’s work most excellently well.
Helène was sitting in comfortable deshabille, waiting for Margaret. She had almost made up her mind to chide the lax duenna for her dereliction of duty. But when she saw Margaret open the door she greeted her as if a midnight home-coming were a common occurrence in their lives.
And Margaret? Margaret carefully locked the door and then walked straight up to Helène. She knelt down before her, put her arms about her and kissed her without giving utterance to a single word.
For a few moments the two rested thus in close embrace, and then Helène, the inexperienced, innocent child-woman, kissed her dear friend and stroking her cheek and hair, murmured:
“I am glad from my heart, dearest, that it has come. I am sure you will both be very, very happy.”
Who had told her? Ah, who knows?
The workings of a woman’s brain are mysterious, her moods subtle, and the communion between one woman’s mind and another’s ever a miracle. The instant she had spoken Helène felt that she had always known that Van Dusen loved Margaret; nay, that he could not help loving her. And yet, a moment before she would have denied vehemently the possibility of her entertaining even a suspicion of such a thought. Scientists may write volumes about the feminine brain; they may dissect and weigh it as much as they please—their experiments will but bear witness to their futility, for their analyses will have been in vain. It is wisest not to analyse but simply to bow down and accept this perfect organism. Man may intellectualize and reason; but woman knows, and she never questions how or why she knows.
Margaret, her head against Helène’s breast was crying softly and protesting that she would never leave her darling, never forsake her so long as Helène wanted her. Helène said nothing, but sat still and allowed the girl to kiss and embrace her. Her sympathetic silence had its beneficent influence, and when Margaret had quieted down, Helène said to her:
“Margy, dear, it is the best that could come to you. I have known it all along. You must think now only of your own happiness. And now, good night, Margy, dear, it is very late and we must be up early in the morning. Happy dreams be with you.”