Selden himself had never been aware of any change in their relation. He found Gerty as he had left her, simple, undemanding and devoted, but with a quickened intelligence of the heart which he recognized without seeking to explain it. To Gerty herself it would once have seemed impossible that she should ever again talk freely with him of Lily Bart; but what had passed in the secrecy of her own breast seemed to resolve itself, when the mist of the struggle cleared, into a breaking down of the bounds of self, a deflecting of the wasted personal emotion into the general current of human understanding.
It was not till some two weeks after her visit from Lily that Gerty had the opportunity of communicating her fears to Selden. The latter, having presented himself on a Sunday afternoon, had lingered on through the dowdy animation of his cousin’s tea-hour, conscious of something in her voice and eye which solicited a word apart; and as soon as the last visitor was gone Gerty opened her case by asking how lately he had seen Miss Bart.
Selden’s perceptible pause gave her time for a slight stir of surprise.
“I haven’t seen her at all–I’ve perpetually missed seeing her since she came back.”
This unexpected admission made Gerty pause too; and she was still hesitating on the brink of her subject when he relieved her by adding: “I’ve wanted to see her–but she seems to have been absorbed by the Gormer set since her return from Europe.”
“That’s all the more reason: she’s been very unhappy.”
“Unhappy at being with the Gormers?”
“Oh, I don’t defend her intimacy with the Gormers; but that too is at an end now, I think. You know people have been very unkind since Bertha Dorset quarrelled with her.”
“Ah–-” Selden exclaimed, rising abruptly to walk to the window, where he remained with his eyes on the darkening street while his cousin continued to explain: “Judy Trenor and her own family have deserted her too–and all because Bertha Dorset has said such horrible things. And she is very poor–you know Mrs. Peniston cut her off with a small legacy, after giving her to understand that she was to have everything.”
“Yes–I know,” Selden assented curtly, turning back into the room, but only to stir about with restless steps in the circumscribed space between door and window. “Yes–she’s been abominably treated; but it’s unfortunately the precise thing that a man who wants to show his sympathy can’t say to her.”
His words caused Gerty a slight chill of disappointment. “There would be other ways of showing your sympathy,” she suggested.
Selden, with a slight laugh, sat down beside her on the little sofa which projected from the hearth. “What are you thinking of, you incorrigible missionary?” he asked.
Gerty’s colour rose, and her blush was for a moment her only answer. Then she made it more explicit by saying: “I am thinking of the fact that you and she used to be great friends–that she used to care immensely for what you thought of her–and that, if she takes your staying away as a sign of what you think now, I can imagine its adding a great deal to her unhappiness.”
“My dear child, don’t add to it still more–at least to your conception of it–by attributing to her all sorts of susceptibilities of your own.” Selden, for his life, could not keep a note of dryness out of his voice; but he met Gerty’s look of perplexity by saying more mildly: “But, though you immensely exaggerate the importance of anything I could do for Miss Bart, you can’t exaggerate my readiness to do it–if you ask me to.” He laid his hand for a moment on hers, and there passed between them, on the current of the rare contact, one of those exchanges of meaning which fill the hidden reservoirs of affection. Gerty had the feeling that he measured the cost of her request as plainly as she read the significance of his reply; and the sense of all that was suddenly clear between them made her next words easier to find.
“I do ask you, then; I ask you because she once told me that you had been a help to her, and because she needs help now as she has never needed it before. You know how dependent she has always been on ease and luxury–how she has hated what was shabby and ugly and uncomfortable. She can’t help it–she was brought up with those ideas, and has never been able to find her way out of them. But now all the things she cared for have been taken from her, and the people who taught her to care for them have abandoned her too; and it seems to me that if some one could reach out a hand and show her the other side–show her how much is left in life and in herself–-” Gerty broke off, abashed at the sound of her own eloquence, and impeded by the difficulty of giving precise expression to her vague yearning for her friend’s retrieval. “I can’t help her myself: she’s passed out of my reach,” she continued. “I think she’s afraid of being a burden to me. When she was last here, two weeks ago, she seemed dreadfully worried about her future: she said Carry Fisher was trying to find something for her to do. A few days later she wrote me that she had taken a position as private secretary, and that I was not to be anxious, for everything was all right, and she would come in and tell me about it when she had time; but she has never come, and I don’t like to go to her, because I am afraid of forcing myself on her when I’m not wanted. Once, when we were children, and I had rushed up after a long separation, and thrown my arms about her, she said:’Please don’t kiss me unless I ask you to, Gerty’–and she did ask me, a minute later; but since then I’ve always waited to be asked.”