Part 50

“Look here!” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you last night. I don’t quite see why--but anyhow, I’m sorry!”

Her breakfast was on the table, and she sat down before it. It occurred to her that her silence was ungracious and unkind, but she knew no way to break it. For all her self-reliance, she was very young and very inexperienced. She could not mask her resentment; she could only hold her tongue.

Sambo sat down opposite her. She was determined not to raise her eyes, but, without doing so, she could see his slender brown hands extended across the table, and the cuffs of his soft blue shirt. She also saw that he was holding a little field daisy. Surely there was nothing in that to touch her heart, yet it did, and the pity that she felt for a passing instant increased her anger. An obstinate and forbidding look came over her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Look here! Do you mind if I sit here with you?”

“It’s not for me to dictate to Mrs. Page’s guests.”

“You can dictate to me all you want,” said he. “Nothing I’d like better!”

Again she was conscious that she was behaving ill, and again it strengthened her obstinacy.

“I’ll go away, if you like,” he went on; “but the way you talked to me yesterday--I’ve been thinking so much about it! Please tell me what I’ve done--what has made you change?”

“I haven’t changed,” she answered coldly.

He leaned nearer to her.

“Look here!” he said entreatingly. “Don’t treat me like this! Don’t shut me out! I came down early, just on the chance of seeing you. The others will be down presently, so I only have this little minute. Let me talk to you! You’re so wonderful--no one like you in the world--you and your poetry and your lovely, quiet face! Don’t send me away, dear girl!”

She sprang to her feet.

“You have no right!” she cried.

He, too, had risen.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind, if you knew how I felt about you. I’m at your feet.”

“You--” she began, but her voice was so uncertain that she could not go on.

“I’m at your feet,” he repeated quietly. “If you want to treat me like this, I can’t help it. It won’t make any difference. I’ll always--”

“Hush!” she said. “The servants will hear you!”

“Let ’em!” said he. “I’ll bet they’ve heard worse than that!”

Without another word he walked away, through the window, out to the terrace again.

Geraldine tried to go on with her breakfast, but a strange confusion and pain filled her. She told herself that this was only an episode, of no significance. Randall would go away soon, and she need never see him or think of him again. What he had said to her he said, very likely, to every woman he met. He had come here to see Serena. He belonged to Serena. He was one of that circle, one of those people without heart, without honor, without decency.

“At her feet!”

Geraldine remembered his hand on her shoulder, his laughter in the face of her just anger. It was a lie! He had no more respect for her than he had for these other women. He thought she was like them, and would be flattered by a smile from him. She hated him!

She had a fine opportunity to test his alleged humility that very day. By noon, the rest of the household had come downstairs, languid and heavy-eyed, and all in need of “bracers”; but not Sambo. He was not jaded or depressed. He laughed at the others. It seemed to Geraldine that wherever she went she could hear the sound of his debonair laughter. He was easily the leader among them. No longer was Serena their queen; it was Sambo who reigned supreme, not only because she had exalted him, but because of his quick wit, his audacity, his graceless and irresistible charm.

They sat about half dead, until lunch time. After lunch they were revivified enough to begin considering what to do with the afternoon. Serena wanted to visit some friends, Mrs. Anson wanted to play bridge, Levering wanted to go out on the yacht, but Sambo said they would go to the Country Club, and he had his way. Every one went upstairs to dress, except Geraldine. She wasn’t expected to come. Nobody thought about her at all.

Sambo had not spoken one word to her, had scarcely glanced at her. When they were alone, he called her “wonderful”; but when the others were there, he ignored her as they did.

V

Geraldine was in her room, dressing for dinner, when they returned. The house was suddenly in confusion. Electric bells rang, and she heard their voices in an excited babel. They came in like a party of raiders taking possession of an abandoned stronghold.

“I can’t stand it much longer,” thought Geraldine. “I’m getting nervous and irritable. I ought to go, only--”

Only she had nowhere to go--nowhere in all the world. Strangers were living in her old house. She wondered how it looked now. There used to be an air of peace about it at this hour of a summer day, when the tangled garden had grown dim, and the old house full of shadows. She and her mother used to sit by the open window, in the dusk, not talking very much, but so happy! Even old Norah in the kitchen was blessed by that peace, and would croon contentedly as she moved about. All gone now!

Geraldine had been a young girl then, like a child in the safe shelter of her mother’s love--only a little while ago; but she would not think of that. She would not shed a single tear. Her mother had been so brave, even when her father was ruined and heartbroken by his failure in business--for that was the “something dreadful” that had happened to him. Even when he died, her mother had been so brave, and always so quiet. That was the right way, and the way that Geraldine would follow. If her forlorn young heart grew faint in her exile, she would look back, just for a glance, would remember, just for an instant, and would be comforted and strengthened.

She put on her black dress, gave an indifferent glance in the mirror, and opened the door; and there in the hall was Sambo, waiting for her.

“Look here!” he said. “I want to know--I’ve simply got to know--what’s the matter!”

“Nothing,” she replied.

She tried to pass, but he barred the way.

“No!” he said. “I’m going away to-morrow morning, and I’ve got to know. Have I offended you, or done anything you don’t like? The first time I saw you, yesterday afternoon--what has made you change?”

She did not answer, but her averted face was eloquent enough.

“Look here!” he said. “If I thought it was simply that you disliked me--” He paused for a moment. “But I don’t think that,” he went on. “You did like me, at first. I’ve been thinking--Is it on account of Ser--of Mrs. Page?”

“What?” she cried, appalled.

“Because, you know”--she noticed that he glanced up and down the softly lit hall before he continued--“if it’s that, I give you my word there’s nothing in it--absolutely nothing! I’ve never even pretended to her--”

“Do you think I’m going to discuss _that_ with you?” she said, looking at him with a sort of horror.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he answered. “I wanted you to know that; but then--”

“Please let me pass!” she said. “I don’t want to--talk to you!”

He did not move. He stood squarely before her, with a queer, dogged, miserable look on his face.

“Not until you tell me why you--hate me,” he said.

She was silent for a moment, her heart filled with almost intolerable bitterness. Then suddenly she laughed.

“Oh, but you’d really better go!” she said. “You wouldn’t like it if some one should come and find you speaking to _me_!”

She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. A singular change came over him.

“You mean--” he began, and paused. “You think I’m ashamed to be seen talking to you?”

“Let me go!” she said vehemently. “I won’t listen!”

But her defiance was little more than bravado. Her knees felt weak. She was frightened by the inexplicable thing she had done.

“That was a beastly, unjust thing to think,” he went on. “It was only on your account. I thought you wouldn’t want any one to know--”

“Know? Know what?” she interrupted, with an attempt at her former scornfulness; but in her heart she was dismayed and terribly uneasy.

“All right!” he said. “You think I’m ashamed. By Heaven, you’ll see! I’m proud of it! It’s the finest thing I ever did in my life--to love you!”

“Oh, stop!” she whispered.

“No! I’d like every one in the world to know it. I’m proud of it! I told you I was at your feet, and I meant it. I’ll--”

“Oh, please!” she said.

He stopped, looking at her as if stricken dumb by some unbearable revelation. All that was hard and proud had vanished from her face, leaving a tragic and exquisite loveliness. She stood there, in her distress, like a lost princess, bewildered and solitary, but unassailable in her mystic innocence.

“Look here!” he said. “I--” His voice was so unsteady that he could not go on for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how--how young you are. If you’ll forgive me--”

She shook her head mutely. He waited in vain for a word, but none came. Then he turned and walked away, and she went back into her own room and locked the door.

She, too, had not realized how young she was, how untried her strength. This overwhelmed her; she was so miserable, so shaken, that now at last the tears came in a wild storm. Her pride was mortally wounded. It was a disgrace to her that Sam Randall should think of her like that. It was cruel, horrible, unforgetable, that the first words of love she had ever heard from a man should be his words. His talk of love was a mockery, an insult.

Yet the memory of his set face and his unsteady voice caused her a strange pain that was not anger.

“I can’t understand!” she cried to herself. “I can’t understand!”

And it was the first time in her life that Geraldine, with her rigid code, her intolerant and sharply defined opinions, had ever thought that.

VI

Jesse Page ordered the car stopped at the entrance to the driveway, and went the rest of the way on foot. The stars were out in the bland summer sky, and among the dark trees, stirred by no wind, the house with its lighted windows had a gay and delicate beauty, an air of festival. Down by the sea wall the little yacht was moored, swinging gently, throwing into the black water two little quivering pools of red and green; but there was not a sound from house or garden.

“Not even a dog to bark when I come home!” he thought, with a faint, bitter smile.

Heaven knows he had made this solitude for himself! He was a man who had found it easy to win affection--so easy that he distrusted what cost him so little effort. He could believe in nothing and no one--himself least of all.

He walked on the grass, so that his footsteps made no sound. He was a stalwart man, tall and of soldierly bearing, with a handsome, heavy face and dark hair a little gray on the temples. He was a domineering, headstrong, passionate man, and terribly unhappy. He wanted to be angry, but it was unhappiness that filled him--a queer, pathetic sort of bewilderment.

“By God, it’s not fair! It’s not _fair_!” he said to himself over and over again.

That was the way he saw it--it was not fair that he should be hurt like this. He never once looked for a cause, for any fault in himself, or for any general rule to apply. It simply was not fair that this should happen to him.

He had been away, in Chicago, looking after some business affairs, making more money--for her to spend, of course; and then this letter came. What if it was anonymous, what if it was written in savage malice? He had a pretty fair idea as to who had written it, and why. Serena had enemies. He had listened to innuendo before; and now he was going to know.

The front of the house was deserted, and he went round to the side, where the dining room was. Just as he turned the corner, he saw some one come out through one of the French windows. He stopped, and drew back into the shadow of the wall. It was a man, and he fancied he recognized that slender and vigorous figure. He waited and watched.

The other man stopped to light a cigarette, but his back was toward the house. Then he strolled on leisurely toward the garage. Page followed him a little way, but when the other entered the brightly lit building, he was satisfied. It was young Randall.

That was all he needed to know. He went back to the front of the house and entered there. It was his own house, but the servants--a new crew--did not know him. The butler tried to stop him, but he pushed the anxious little man aside, and proceeded to the dining room.

They were there, the whole crowd of them, sitting about the disordered table, jaded and hot, and full of a restless languor. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. A little blue-eyed man with a gray mustache was performing an elaborate conjuring trick with match sticks and somebody’s gold watch, and Serena lay back in her chair, looking at him with a distant smile. Her haggard face was flushed, her eyes heavy. Jesse Page thought he had never seen her more beautiful, or more hateful.

“By God, it’s not fair!” he thought again. “I’ve given her everything, I’ve put up with all her whims, and now I--I could kill her!”

It was as if his thought had sped through the room like an arrow. Serena straightened up in her chair, turned her head, and saw him standing in the doorway.

“Jesse!” she cried.

He did not speak or move. He stood there, his straw hat pushed back, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“Jesse!” she said again.

She half rose from her chair, her own eyes dilated and fixed upon him. Then some one near her stirred, and the sound recalled her to her surroundings. Here was the stage upon which she was accustomed to play a leading part, and every one was looking at her.

She sank back into the chair again, with a laugh.

“You beast!” she said. “You startled me so! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home, Jesse? Have you had your dinner?”

He gave his hat to a servant, and sat down in the one chair that was vacant. Now he had found out; now he knew. Startled her, had he? That was guilty terror he had seen in her face! Let her sit there smiling, radiant in her jewels, at the head of her own table! She was frightened, she couldn’t take her eyes off her husband.

“Hello, everybody!” he said genially. “Don’t let me spoil the party! Come on, now! All have another drink, eh?”

The response he got made him feel physically sick.

“God, what people!” he thought. “They’re all afraid of me--afraid of a row!”

He looked around the table at the eagerly smiling faces, and he smiled himself--a broad grin.

“One missing, isn’t there?” he asked. “Who was sitting in this place?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh, there?” said Serena. “Miss Moriarty. She’s gone upstairs with a bad headache.”

“I see!” said Page, still grinning.

“I suppose I really ought to go up and see how the poor girl’s getting on,” continued Serena.

“Oh, no!” he said suavely. “Don’t go! Wait a bit, and perhaps she’ll come back.”

There was another silence.

“We don’t want to sit here!” cried Betty Anson nervously, pushing back her chair. “Let’s go!”

“I like to sit here,” said Page. He poured himself another whisky, and lit a cigarette. “I think I’ll have a _demi-tasse_ and a sandwich. You people must keep me company. Don’t go, Betty!”

She settled back again. She was sorry for Serena, but it would never do to offend Jesse.

“If there’s any serious trouble,” she thought, “poor Serena ’ll be done for!”

The ambitious Mrs. Anson couldn’t afford to take up the cause of people who were done for. She glanced covertly across the table. Her husband sat with his eyes fixed on the cloth, his distinguished gray head bent. Levering was grave, but the shadow of a smile hovered about his lips. Jinky, sitting next him--what was the matter with Jinky?

“How queer she looks!” thought Mrs. Anson.

She was really distressed by the look on Jinky’s wasted young face; for of all the people there, Jinky could least afford any indiscreet pity. Jesse Page was a distant cousin of hers; he had been generous to her, and she needed it. No--she really shouldn’t look at Serena like that!

Suddenly Jinky jumped up, and, without a word, walked across the room to the window, and out on the terrace.

“Jinky!” Page called sharply. “Where are you going?”

She turned her head and glanced at him, but she did not answer. For a moment she stood there in the bright light, a curiously dramatic figure in her emerald green dress, with her gleaming black hair and her white, thin face. Then she put her jade cigarette holder between her teeth, and went off over the lawn.

Page jumped up and followed her.

“See here, Jinky!” he said furiously. “You’d better--”

“See here, Jesse!” she interrupted. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“All right! Perhaps I enjoy it.”

“It’ll take,” said Jinky deliberately, “just about five minutes for you to make such a mess of things that you’ll regret it all the rest of your days, Jesse!”

“Oh, no!” he said, with a grin. “It’ll take a good deal less than five minutes--when I catch sight of that lad!”

Jinky stopped. From where she stood she could look into the garage, and she was satisfied.

“Go ahead!” she said. “I’ll drop out.”

As she turned back toward the house, he went with her.

“Somehow,” he said, “I feel that where Jinky goes, there must I go, too.”

“Keep it up, Jesse!” said she. “You deserve what you’ll get!”

They found the dining room deserted, with an air of haste and disorder about it. A cigarette smoldered in a saucer, a cup of coffee had been overturned, and a dark stain was still spreading slowly over the lace cloth. Page went into the drawing-room, and Jinky followed. Serena was not there.

He went toward the door again, hesitated, and came back. Jinky had vanished now, through the card room.

“All right!” he said to himself. “Let them have a little more rope!”

VII

Jinky met Serena coming down the stairs. There had been no love lost between these two. They had never been friends, and Serena, with the memory of more than one petty blow dealt to Jinky, expected no mercy from her now. She was about to pass with a vague, strained smile, when the girl stopped her.

“You’ll have to try another line, Serena,” she said. “No use pretending that Sambo wasn’t here.”

“Oh, let me alone!” cried Serena desperately. “Don’t I know that?”

“Well, look here,” said Jinky thoughtfully. “Where is he, anyhow?”

“Down on the shore road, waiting for me. We were going to run over to the Abercrombies’ in his car. If I don’t show up, he’ll come back here, and they’ll telephone. Oh, Jinky, I’m--”

“Hold up a minute! Let’s see! No use in _my_ going--Jesse would tag along; but the Moriarty girl could go.”

“Moriarty!” cried Serena. “You’re simply insane, Jinky! Why, she’s the most--”

“I think she’s a pretty decent sort of kid. Anyhow, I’ll try.”

“But, Jinky, she’s ill--didn’t come down to dinner. She sent me word that she had an awful headache. There’s no use wasting time over her.”

“I’ll have a try at it,” persisted Jinky.

“Jinky!” said Serena, with fervor. “You’re a simply wonderful pal to me! I’ll never forget this--never!”

“I hope you won’t,” replied Jinky.

She went on up the stairs, and knocked on the Moriarty girl’s door.

“Who is it?” asked a cold voice.

“Let me in! I want to speak to you.”

The door was opened. Jinky went in and closed the door after her.

“Yes?” said Geraldine.

But Jinky did not answer for a moment. She was looking at Geraldine, studying her, with all her hard won wisdom. A child, she thought her--a lovely child, with her heavy hair in a braid, and her outgrown bath robe; but a child already half awakened to reality.

“Look here!” she said briefly. “Do you want a chance to do a decent thing?”

“I--what is it?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Jinky. “If you want to help, you can get dressed and run down to the Shore Road and meet Sam Randall--”

“No!” cried Geraldine. “I won’t! I won’t have anything to do with--with that!”

“You needn’t think it’s a grand operatic tragedy,” said Jinky. “Serena and Sam aren’t exactly _Tristan_ and _Isolde_. There’s nothing very wicked in their little flirtation; but Jesse Page just came home in a pretty poisonous temper, and if Sambo comes back to the house now there’ll be trouble.”

“I don’t care!”

“I suppose you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jinky. “I hope you don’t. If you understood that you could stop a nasty scandal, and perhaps something even worse, and you just wouldn’t do it, and didn’t care--” She paused. “It’s serious,” she went on. “Jesse means business. You can help these people if you want to. If you don’t want to, all right! It’s up to you.”

This was the first time Geraldine had had a problem presented to her in such a way. There was no question of right or wrong. Evidently Jinky thought it didn’t matter whether these people deserved to be helped or not. She simply offered the other girl a chance to do a decent thing.

Geraldine looked at Jinky, and found Jinky looking at her; and Savonarola never preached a more eloquent sermon than Jinky did by her silence. She stood there, smoking her cigarette, a haggard, reckless, wasted young creature, just waiting to see if the other girl was willing to help. It was up to Geraldine.

“I’ll go,” she said.

“Moriarty,” cried Jinky, “you’re a little gentleman! Hurry up now! I’ll help you.”

Geraldine needed assistance. Her hands were so unsteady that she was glad to let Jinky pin up her hair and hook her belt.

“Now, step!” said Jinky. “And see here, Moriarty--better let Sambo run you down to the Abercrombies’ and tell them not to telephone here. See Olive Abercrombie yourself; she’s got a down on Sambo. Tell her not to say anything about anything. She’ll understand.”

Geraldine put on her hat and took up a scarf--a funny, old-fashioned knitted scarf that made Jinky smile. She could never afterward think of that evening without remembering the old scarf.

VIII