One thing she was sure of, and it made her glad beyond words to express: his offer of marriage had not been prompted by charity. He was in earnest, terribly in earnest; but also he was, as usual, selfish. She was hearing his point of view, but he showed with every word that he had no conception of hers.
The world would say, when its scandal-loving ear had taken in all the facts, that Geraldine Wells, bankrupt, who had been brazenly living for several years on the savings of negro servants, had deliberately forced herself upon a rich young man—a notoriously rich young man, at that—had inveigled him into her home and had trapped him into making an offer of marriage. A Wells would never permit a situation like that!
Proud Miss Piddiwit!
And how the newspapers would seize the theme! Their searchlight would flare into every nook; nothing would prevent their discovery of the incognito and the “romance”; the latter, she knew, would be a particularly tempting morsel. They make no distinction between the great and the notorious, but play each impartially to the tune of their scareheads. Reporters would come by special train; even George Alexander would be interviewed! Just because a father had had a genius for accumulation an innocent second generation must suffer publicity. If Richard Richard had only been a nobody! But he was not; he was by very birth notorious.
She conjured up headlines that even a hardened city editor would not have sanctioned. The cable would carry the “news” to Europe. Their engagement would be one long nightmare of publicity; the marriage would be a vulgarian’s holiday. And then she remembered the columnist and the cartoonist. The thought was revolting.
But she drifted, nevertheless, with the compelling events of the night. To-morrow with its harsh necessities would come in due time, and to-morrow and to-morrow.
She would do well to linger as long as possible in the exhilarating illusion of the moment. Even if it were all to be eventually cancelled and forgotten, it was delightfully thrilling to have this strong man by her side making most complimentary speeches. His earnestness was very soothing to her pride; one might as well steep as long as possible in the experience.
Meanwhile, out on the Lake, Walter had been struggling with his remnant of a soul, and had found some touch of that peace which comes to the Lake people, to all people who look out daily on vast stretches of water. It was peace, but it was tinged with tragic sorrow, and thereby, and only thereby, it was worthy and beyond price.
While Jerry and Richard were still strolling along the Penn Yan road, Walter was again at Phœbe’s door. She had prepared herself for bed when his knock came; so she slipped on a kimono and came to the door wondering. When she saw his stern face, she stepped back quickly, and called on her Saint Francis, as a child in great fear might cry to the mother.