THAT’S NOT LOVE

          SERENA PAGE’S COUNTRY PLACE WAS A HOUSE OF MIRTH,
                 BUT MERRIMENT AND TRAGEDY ARE OFTEN
                           CLOSE TOGETHER

                     By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding


A gay world, that summer morning! The sprinkler on the lawn flung a
rainbow mist into the air, and left tiny diamonds shining on the
grass blades. Everything was astir—the leaves rustling on the
trees, gay flowers swaying on their stalks. Curtains fluttered at
the open windows, and through the cool, bright house voices came
floating, light as butterflies. Serena Page had arisen.

To be sure, she had told her house guests the night before that just
because she had to get up was no reason why any one else should be
disturbed at the outrageous hour of half past eight; but somehow
everybody was disturbed. Somehow her getting up made confusion all
through the house; for that was Serena’s especial talent—to create
an exciting sort of bustle about her, without herself doing anything
at all. Serena! Never was a woman so misnamed!

She came down the stairs, her filmy black negligee floating out
behind her, so that she seemed, as always, to be coming in a
breeze—an artificial breeze, though, perfumed and enervating,
bringing no health or color. She was without make-up at this early
hour. Her handsome, haggard face was pale, her eyes were heavy.

She entered the breakfast room, and there was the Moriarty girl,
standing by the window.

“Good morning, Mrs. Page,” she said, with that enigmatic smile of
hers.

Serena smiled, too, but faintly. Geraldine Moriarty was beginning to
get on her nerves very badly, and she was longing for an excuse to
fly into a rage with the girl. That was the only way Serena could
get rid of people. She could do nothing in cold blood. She had taken
on Geraldine in an outburst of generosity, and she would have to
have an outburst of anger before she could send her away.

“Had breakfast?” she inquired.

“No—I was waiting for you, Mrs. Page.”

Serena took her place at the table, and the Japanese butler came
forward to serve her. She did not know his name. She was not even
sure that she had seen him before. She got her servants from an
agency in the city, which upon demand would send her out a “crew”
commanded by a butler. Sometimes things went wrong, and the whole
lot left together; but another crew always came promptly, and her
household suffered very little from the change. She had the art of
making her home as impersonal as a hotel; but she did notice this
butler. She smiled upon him, because his charmingly deferential air
pleased her. He seemed to appreciate the solemnity of the occasion.

It was indeed an important occasion. It was the beginning of
Serena’s diet. Before this elegant and luxurious creature the butler
set half of a grapefruit, two slices of Graham bread toast without
butter, and a cup of black coffee.

She shuddered a little, and closed her eyes. Every morning,
henceforth, she was to get up at half past eight, go through a set
of exercises, take a cold shower, and come downstairs—to this!
Every one said she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Those who pleased
her best said she had absolutely no need of a reducing diet, and
would be made ill by it.

Only the Moriarty girl showed no interest at all. Serena observed
that Geraldine had a slice of grilled Virginia ham on her plate.

“How Connie could ever have called her a sweet child!” she thought.
“She’s as hard as nails!”

Some six weeks ago Connie Blanchard had come to Serena with a most
piteous tale about Geraldine Moriarty.

“Her mother and I went to the same school in Paris,” she had said;
“and now this sweet child’s all alone in the world. Something awful
happened to her father. He went bankrupt, or lost his mind, or
something—I can’t remember now—and Geraldine simply hasn’t a
penny. Fine old Irish family, you know, and she’s awfully well
educated. I’d love to help her, but you know how it is with me, my
dear, living as I do in hotels—and I’m not strong. Do please do
something for the poor child, Serena!”

Who could have done more? Serena had at once engaged Miss Moriarty
as secretary-companion, and here she was, getting a nice little
salary, and with practically no work to do. The secretarial duties
were almost nonexistent, for Serena very seldom wrote or even
answered a letter. She and her friends carried on their social
activities by telephone, and they liked to do their own talking.

As for the companion part, that was absurd. Serena was always
surrounded by companions, and mighty obliging ones, too—penniless
cousins, ambitious and ambiguous ladies, all sorts of eager and
pliant creatures, who made up a little court where Serena ruled
magnificently. No—all the Moriarty girl had to do was to look on,
and of course to admire; and it was at this simple task that she so
utterly failed.

She didn’t seem to admire anything or anybody, not even herself. She
was ironically indifferent to her own dark beauty. She had no decent
clothes, and when Serena had offered her some very good things that
she was tired of, Geraldine had refused—politely, of course. She
was always polite, always careful not to give Serena any excuse for
getting rid of her.

“But you’ll go, my dear!” thought Serena. “I’ve done quite enough
for you!”

She glanced across the table at her silent companion.

“Hopeless!” she reflected. “Simply hopeless! Of course she’s
good-looking, in a way—but she has absolutely _no_ charm, and _no_
figure.”

Miss Moriarty went on eating with an excellent appetite. She was
never talkative. She was quiet, but with a quiet which Serena did
not find restful or soothing. She was a tall girl, thin and supple,
with a careless grace in every movement. Her face had a gypsy
darkness, with high cheek bones, features delicate and yet bold, and
black eyes with a scornful light in them. She was dressed in a black
skirt, a black jersey, and a plain white blouse—a costume that made
her look lanky, thought the dieting Serena; and she had that air of
not caring.

“For Heaven’s sake, do talk, my dear!” cried Serena, overcome by
exasperation. “I’m all on edge this morning, and it makes me
horribly nervous to see you sitting there like a—like a graven
image!”

“I’ll try,” said Miss Moriarty obligingly. “Have you seen the
delphiniums?”

“Never heard of the things,” said Serena. “Oh, do answer that for
me, my dear!”

For the butler had come forward to say that a “generman” wanted to
speak to Mrs. Page on the telephone.

There was, inevitably, a telephone in the breakfast room. There were
telephones everywhere in that house, so that, in order to speak to a
friend perhaps a hundred miles away, one need not have the fatigue
of walking more than twenty feet. Geraldine took up the receiver.

“This is Mrs. Page’s secretary,” she said. “Will you give me the
message, please?”

“Tell Mrs. Page it’s Sambo,” said a curt and very clear masculine
voice.

“It’s Sambo,” repeated Miss Moriarty, turning toward Serena.

She was surprised by the change that came over that haggard,
petulant face. Forgotten were the nerves and the cruel diet. Serena
sprang to her feet and ran to the telephone, and even her voice was
changed.

“Sambo!” she cried. “What an hour! Yes, I know, but why didn’t you
write me, just once? I’m not reproaching you, silly boy! Only I did
think you’d have time just for a line. No, no! To-day, Sambo? But
can’t you give me some idea what time? Surely some time to-day? Oh,
all right! By-by, big boy!”

She came back to the table and sank into her chair, laughing.

“I’ll take a slice of that ham,” she said to the butler, “and cream
for my coffee. Quick! I’m starving!” Then she looked at Geraldine.
“Sammy Randall is coming,” she announced.

“How nice,” said Geraldine.

But Serena missed any irony there may have been in the words. Mrs.
Anson had appeared in the doorway, and she called to her:

“Betty, Sambo’s coming out to-day!”

“My dear, how simply marvelous!” cried Betty Anson, with fervor.

Serena expected that fervor. She took it for granted that all her
friends would rejoice with her; and so they did. Serena, the queen,
was happy, and all her court was happy, too, reaping the benefits of
her good humor.

“But that awful Moriarty!” she whispered to Betty Anson. “She’s
worse than usual this morning. I don’t know what’s the matter with
her. She’s so indifferent and ungrateful!”

“Those people are always envious,” said Mrs. Anson. “Governesses and
companions—they’re not exactly servants, you know, and yet they’re
not—well, they’re simply out of everything.”

“I wish she’d stay out altogether!” said Serena.

Geraldine Moriarty wished the same thing. As she stepped out through
the long window of the breakfast room to the lawn, she wished that
she need never set foot in that house again. She hated it, she hated
the life there, and at times she came dangerously close to hating
the people in it.

For, though Serena’s conclusion that the girl was “as hard as nails”
was an exaggeration, there was a grain of truth in it. She had, for
her nineteen years, a character remarkably definite and independent.
She had fortitude, courage, and the pride of Lucifer. She had come
here, penniless, solitary, and so young, direct from the almost
cloistered life she had led with her invalid mother, and not for one
instant had she been dazzled or swayed by the luxury and the
feverish gayety about her. She stayed because she knew no other way
to earn her bread, but all her salary she put into a savings bank,
and would not touch a penny of it. When there was enough, she meant
to go away. She would learn typing and shorthand, find work in an
office, and be done with this existence which she hated.

She lived here in exile, utterly alien and lonely, among these
people whom she neither comprehended nor pitied. Her people had been
gentlefolk. She had been brought up in a tradition of dignity,
honor, and reserve, and she clung to that tradition with all the
strength of her loyal heart. What her people had been, she would be.
Their ways were the right ways. Their manners, their speech, their
tastes, formed the standards by which all others should be judged.
And, so judged, Serena and her friends were damned. Geraldine saw no
good in them at all. They were base, heartless, and vulgar.

She walked across the lawn to the sea wall at the foot of the
garden, and jumped down to the beach, a few feet below. She wanted
to be alone for a little while in the fresh, sweet summer morning,
in the sun and the salt wind, and to forget the monstrous thing she
had seen; but she could not forget. In anger, in contempt, she was
obliged to remember Serena’s face at the mention of that man’s name.

Evidently Serena “loved” this man with the mountebank name, and her
friends seemed to think it a charming idyl—the “love” of a woman of
forty, who had divorced one husband and was living in constant
bickering with a second. The fact of her being married was simply a
side issue. Faith and honor had no meaning at all for these people,
and love—that was what they called “love”!


                                  II

The summer day was drawing to a close. The shadows of the trees were
long upon the grass, the sun was sinking through a sky wistful and
delicate, faint rose and yellow.

There was a blessed quiet all through the house. Serena and her
friends had certainly intended to be back for tea, but they had not
come. They never could do what they meant to do. Obstacles
intervened, and they were not well equipped for dealing with
obstacles. It took so little to stop them, to bar a road, to turn
them off toward a new destination. They had not come back, and
Geraldine was having her tea alone in the library, reading a book as
she sipped it.

That was how Sambo first saw her, sitting, very straight, in a
high-backed chair, with the last light of the sunset on her clear,
pale face. He said later that she had put him in mind of a Madonna,
and there were not many women he knew who could do that. He stood in
the doorway, staring at her, for quite a long time—so long that he
never afterward forgot how she looked then, so still, so lovely, so
aloof.

For a moment he was almost afraid to disturb her.

But the fear of disturbing other persons had not yet greatly
influenced young Samuel Randall. He was a conqueror, nonchalant and
superb. He took whatever things pleased him in this world. Slender,
almost slight, with his fine features, his mournful dark eyes, he
had a poetic and touching look about him; but it belied him. He was
not poetic. He was greedy, and willful, and reckless.

He wanted to talk to this lovely image, so in he went.

“This a gentle hint?” he asked.

Geraldine put down her book and looked at him.

“I said I was coming to-day,” he went on, “and they’re all out. That
mean I’m not wanted?”

And he smiled his charming, arrogant smile, for he knew so well that
he was always wanted.

“Mrs. Page meant to be home by five,” said Geraldine, with no smile
at all. “Something must have delayed her.”

“Then you’ll give me a cup of tea, won’t you? I’m Randall, you
know.”

She said yes, none too cordially, and rang the bell for fresh tea.
He sat down opposite her, slouching in his chair, his handsome head
thrown back, his dark eyes watching her.

“I’m Mrs. Page’s secretary,” she explained with cold formality.

“Lucky, lucky Mrs. Page!” said he.

A faint color rose in her cheeks. She resented his attitude, his
easy and careless manner, his appraising glance, and he read the
resentment in her face.

“Prudish!” he thought.

This did not annoy him. He liked this tall, dark, unsmiling girl
just as she was, a charming novelty; but he would have to change his
tactics.

“You were reading, weren’t you?” he said respectfully. “I hope I
didn’t interrupt you.”

“No, Mr. Randall,” she answered.

Then, suddenly, his undisciplined soul was filled with a sort of
envy for this untroubled and superior creature who read books.

“I try to read,” he said. “I wish to Heaven I could; but it’s too
late now.”

“I don’t see how it could ever be too late to read,” said Geraldine,
with a trace of scorn.

He had straightened up in his chair. He was no longer staring at
her, but at the unlighted cigarette that he was rolling between his
fingers.

“The thing is,” he said, “I’ve been spoiled. People listen to
me—any damned nonsense I spout—and I’ve got out of the way of
listening myself. Now, you see, when I take up a book that’s worth
reading, I feel as if the writer fellow had got me into a corner,
and was trying to lay down the law; so I want to contradict him, and
I chuck the blamed thing across the room.”

He spoke earnestly, and he was in earnest. It was his great charm
that he was always sincere. He was not inventing things to say to
this girl. He was simply selecting from his restless, curious mind
those things which he thought would interest her. He was succeeding,
too—he saw that.

Geraldine did not speak, because to her reserved and proud spirit it
was impossible to speak easily to a stranger; but she thought over
his words with an odd sensation of distress. She felt sorry for the
conquering Sambo.

He had picked up her book, and was turning the pages. It was a copy
of “The Hound of Heaven,” which her father had given her long ago.

“Poetry!” he said. “Queer sort of stuff!”

Then he read aloud:

    “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
      I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
    I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
      Of my own mind—”

He stopped, and for a moment he sat silent. The light was fading out
of the sky now, and in the dusk his face looked white and strained.
The echo of his strong young voice seemed still to drift through the
shadowy room.

Looking at him, Geraldine had an extraordinary fancy, almost a
vision, of his terribly defiant soul fleeing, swift and laughing, to
its own destruction. She was filled with an austere compassion and
wonder. It was as if, in an instant, and without a word spoken, he
had told her all the long tale of his wasted years.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the prey gets away from Him!”

“No!” said Geraldine steadily. “No—never!”

He struck a match, and by the flame that sprang out, vivid in the
gray dusk, she had a glimpse of his face, with eyes half closed,
proud and sorrowful; and he was changed in her sight forever. She
saw him, not as a puppet in a shameful drama, but as a fellow
creature with a soul.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve got lost!”

The match went out, and the room seemed very dark now. Geraldine
wanted to speak, to tell him something, but she could not remember,
afterward, what incredible words had come to her mind. They were
never to be spoken, however, for just at that moment Serena came
home.


                                  III

In her first generous enthusiasm Serena had declared that the “sweet
child” must dine with them, no matter who was there, and now neither
she nor Geraldine could find a plausible reason for altering the
arrangement which had grown so irksome. This evening, as usual,
Geraldine went upstairs to put on her one and only dinner dress.

But she was not so reluctant as usual, nor so disdainful. She felt
that she was no longer utterly alone. This man who had come to the
house was different from the others. She remembered his face as she
had seen it in the flare of the match, and remembered the sound of
his voice. If he was lost, it was because he had been misguided. He
was somehow a victim.

Nobody noticed Miss Moriarty when she came to the table, for they
were all very well used to her and her one evening gown—that is,
nobody but Sambo; and to him she was new and lovely and profoundly
interesting. He thought that her slender hands were beautiful. So
was the sweep of her shining black hair away from her temples, and
so was the proud arch of her brows; and he thought that her poor
little black dress, and her youth and her disdainful air, were
beyond measure touching.

But he prudently kept his interest in Miss Moriarty to himself, and
behaved as he was expected to behave. The diet was postponed, and
Serena had asked the butler to see that there was “an awfully good
dinner.” He had justified her blind faith in him, for the dinner was
an excellent one. From the well stocked cellar he had selected the
proper wines; but nobody cared for these. They all preferred whisky.
Throughout the meal they drank whisky and smoked cigarettes, and
their talk was in keeping with this.

“It’s not my business,” thought Geraldine. “I can’t change the
world. I’m just here to earn a living.”

But the contempt and indifference which until now had been her armor
failed her to-night. She was troubled and very unhappy. None of
these people were mere puppets any longer. They had come alive, and
they were pitiful, and a little horrible.

There was the girl they called Jinky—tall, gaunt, with a sort of
wasted beauty in her face. A year ago she had eloped with a very
young millionaire, and, as he was under age, his parents had had the
marriage annulled—annulled, wiped out, so that Jinky had come back
from her wedding trip discredited and shamed before all her world.
She didn’t seem to care. She seemed hilariously amused by the
whispered conversation of Levering, who sat next her; but to-night
Geraldine felt sure that Jinky did care—that the wound had left a
cruel scar.

There was Levering himself, with his supercilious, high-bred face.
He had married for money, and he hadn’t got the money. It was a
notorious joke in that circle that his middle-aged wife begrudged
him every penny. He suffered his ignoble humiliation, and his wife
suffered, too, because of her jealous and bitter infatuation for
him.

There was the _chic_ and lively little Mrs. Anson, with her eternal
scheming for invitations and other benefits. There was her husband,
gray-haired, distinguished in appearance, a slave to her ambition
and his own weakness.

There was Serena, magnificent in her diamonds, talking only to
Sambo, looking only at Sambo. There was Sambo himself, the man who
had said that he was lost. He listened to Serena carelessly, and
smiled, even when her face was anxious and frowning. He smoked
incessantly. The light ashes from his cigarettes fell upon his
plate, into his glass, and he swallowed them, as if he neither knew
nor cared what was barren ash and what life-giving food.

“Now what?” cried Serena, jumping up. “Bridge, or dancing, or what?”

Geraldine had risen, too, and she fancied that she heard Mr. Anson,
standing beside her, mutter:

“The deluge!”

He was unsteady on his feet, and his weary face was a curious gray.
Geraldine had seen him like this before. He was trying to play,
trying to be one of them, to forget—and he never could.

“Oh, dancing, of course!” said Jinky. They all went into the
drawing-room, and one of the servants started the phonograph
playing. The music began, the thud of drums like bare feet stamping,
the sweet whine of Hawaiian guitars, like lazy laughter. Geraldine
had followed the others, meaning only to pass through on her way to
the garden, but halfway across the room Sambo stopped her.

“Give me this dance!” he said softly.

“No!” she answered with a quick frown, and moved away.

But he came after her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Please!” he said. “Why won’t you?”

The touch of his hand filled her with a great anger. She turned her
head and looked at him with scornful amazement—and found in his
face only laughter and cajolery.

“Please!” he said again. “Just one dance!”

“No!” she said.

He could not very well misunderstand—or pretend to
misunderstand—her tone. He dropped his hand and stood back.

“Sorry!” he said.

She knew that he wasn’t sorry. She went past him, threading her way
among the dancing couples, and went upstairs to her own room. She
locked the door and stood leaning against it, in the dark, breathing
a little fast from her haste and anger.

She hated him! Vivid before her was the image of his handsome face,
flushed with drinking, and of his conqueror’s smile. Intolerable was
the memory of his hand upon her shoulder. She hated him, and she
could almost hate herself because even for a minute she had thought
he was different.


                                  IV

The next morning, when Geraldine came downstairs, the house was like
an enchanted castle. The sun was streaming in, for it was full day,
yet all the rooms were silent and deserted. The little Japanese men
had done their work like brownies, and were now invisible, and all
the people who had danced the night before were lost in sleep.

She went into the breakfast room and rang, and the butler came
hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. She told him what she wanted to
eat, and crossed to the window, for a breath of sweet air and a
glimpse of the garden in its morning beauty.

The first thing she saw was Sam Randall, on the terrace, smoking a
cigarette. Her first impulse was to run away. He was down at the
other end, and he had not seen her yet; but she checked herself with
a sort of severity. Why should she run away from him? What had she
to do with him, or with any of the people in this house? She had
judged and condemned them long ago. It was only through a moment’s
weakness that she had been betrayed into taking an interest in this
man. The weakness was mastered now, and the interest had turned to
scorn. He was just like the others—perhaps a little worse!

She heard his leisurely footsteps on the flags outside. She heard
him come in through the long window. She knew that he was standing
beside her, but she paid no heed until he spoke.

“Good morning!” he said.

Then she looked straight into his face.

“Good morning,” she answered evenly.

She was sorry, then, that she had looked at him, for there was no
laughter or arrogance about him now. He seemed subdued and anxious,
younger than she had remembered, and somehow appealing.

“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 tomorrow 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, unforgettable, 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

Sambo sat in his car, smoking, and contemplating the starry sky. He
was very unhappy, very much troubled, and so intent upon his own
affairs that Serena’s lateness had caused him no concern whatever.
Indeed, when he thought of her at all, it was to wish that she would
never come. He wished that he could start up his car and drive off
somewhere—into another world.

Yet the world he was in was beautiful to-night. His car was drawn up
beside a coppice of pine trees—brave, tall trees standing black
against the sky, which was filled with the mild light of the stars.
Behind him lay the sea. He could hear it breaking quietly on the
sand, and the salt savor of it was in the air, with the aromatic
fragrance of the pines. A beautiful world, and he was young and
vigorous, and his pockets were well filled, and still he was saying
to himself:

“I’m so sick of the whole show—so blamed sick of the whole thing!”

His quick ear caught the sound of footsteps hurrying along the road.
He sighed, sat up a little straighter, and waited, with a resigned
and somber expression upon his face. Now he realized that Serena was
very late, and he thought he would be justified in being rather
disagreeable about it. He didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to go
to the Abercrombies’. He was mortally weary of all this.

The hurried steps drew nearer, and now he could dimly see an
approaching figure. Serena never walked like that—never came light
and swift, tall and free-moving as a young Diana! It looked
like—but of course it couldn’t be. It seemed so only because he had
been thinking so much of that other girl, and longing so much to see
her.

He turned up the headlights of his car, sending a clear river of
light along the road; and the hastening figure was plain to him now.
It _was_ Geraldine.

He sprang out of the car and went to meet her, his dark face all
alight.

“Dear girl!” he cried. “Why, I couldn’t believe—”

She drew back a little.

“No!” she cried. “I—I only came—”

“I don’t care why you came,” he began. “You’re here—that’s enough!”

Then he noticed how anxious she was, how hurried, and how pale. The
light died out of his face. He became grave, as she was.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

His voice was gentle, and he stood before her with a sort of
humility. He knew now that she had not come on his account, and he
was terribly disappointed. She saw that, yet she felt that, after
all, it would not be hard to explain to him, to ask anything of him.
She felt sure that he would understand, and would do whatever she
wanted; and that knowledge caused her an odd little thrill, half of
pain, half of pride.

“Mr. Randall,” she said, “Mr. Page has come home, and—”

She stopped, and he saw a change come across her face—that cold and
scornful look again. When she had to put this thing into words, the
shamefulness and the ugliness of it were not to be disguised.

“So they sent me,” she went on curtly, “to say that you had better
not come back now.”

“I see!” said Randall. “I’m to run away, when Jesse comes? Well, I
won’t!” She had not expected this.

“But don’t you see?” she said vehemently. “You’ll have to, on—on
Mrs. Page’s account.”

“I won’t!” he declared again.

They were both silent for a moment.

“Look here!” he said abruptly. “How did you get mixed up in this?
Why did _you_ come?”

“Because—I wanted—to help,” she answered, as if the words were
hard to speak. Again there was a silence.

“All right!” he said, at last. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

She looked away as she answered:

“Miss—Jinky is the only name I know her by—she thought I’d better
go and speak to Mrs. Abercrombie.”

“All right! Do you want me to run you down there now?”

“Yes, please.”

He opened the door of the car, but made no effort to help her in.
Then, when she was seated, he got in beside her.

“Miss Moriarty!” he said. “Look here! Will you marry me?”

She was too much astounded to utter a word. She sat staring at him.

“You needn’t bother to answer,” he went on, without even turning his
head toward her. “I know you won’t. I just wanted you to know that
that was how I felt about you. Now you understand, anyhow!”

He started the engine, and the little car shot off smoothly along
the road, under the shadow of trees, out into the open country, past
wide and quiet fields, past little lighted houses. They went at a
terrific speed. Geraldine closed her eyes, dazed by the rush of wind
against her face, the steady hum of the engine, and the dark
landscape that seemed to be streaming past her like a figured scarf.

Randall did not speak again, yet she could almost believe that this
wild haste was the very voice of his reckless spirit. It was as if
she were listening to him all the time, as if he were telling her
again that he was lost—that he didn’t know where he was going, and
didn’t care.

And a very passion of regret and pity seized upon her. She did not
judge him now, or remember his misdeeds. She could not see him, but
she knew so well how he looked—so young, so gallant, so debonair,
and so pitiful. She was not frightened; she was sorrowfully resigned
to go with him, rushing through the dark, whatever their
destination.

Suddenly the car slowed down. Geraldine opened her eyes, faintly
surprised to find the world so quiet again.

“Need gas,” he explained.

He stopped before a little gasoline station, theatrically brilliant
against the dark trees. He jumped out, lifted the hood, looked in at
the engine, was satisfied; and, closing the hood, turned to speak to
the man who had come out of the station.

The thing that followed was utterly unreal. Geraldine saw him
standing there, bareheaded, in his dinner jacket, in that brilliant
light, like an actor on a stage. He had just lit a cigarette, and
was smiling at something the garage man said, when another car came
by and stopped with grating brakes, a voice shouted something, and a
shot rang out. Before the girl could believe that it had happened,
the other car had gone on, and Randall and the garage man stood
there, motionless, white, as if listening intently to the shot that
still echoed in the air.

“Get his number!” the man bawled suddenly.

She saw Randall put his hand into his pocket and bring out a roll of
bills. She could not hear what he said, but it was a short enough
speech. The man thrust the money into his own pocket, and ran to
connect the hose. Randall climbed back into the car.

“That’s enough!” he said.

In a minute they were off again. They went around the drive before
the station, turned homeward.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said curtly. Then, in a moment: “I suppose you’ve got
to know. It was Page, trying a little melodrama. No harm done,
but—but I wish to God you hadn’t got mixed up in it! I’m going to
get you home as fast as I can. Just keep quiet about the whole
thing, won’t you? Don’t—”

He stopped abruptly, and the car swerved to one side. He muttered
something under his breath, and went on steadily again; but
suspicion began to dawn upon her.

“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

“No!” he replied, with a laugh—a strange laugh; “only—”

“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I’m sure—oh, please stop the car! I
_know_ you’re hurt!”

“Would you care, if I were?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, I would care! Oh, please don’t go on! Stop
the car, and let me see!”

But he went on along the smooth, empty road, not driving fast now,
but very, very carefully.

“It would be worth a bullet through the head,” he said, “to hear you
speak like that! But I’m _not_ hurt—I’m—not—”

His labored voice almost broke her heart.

“Sambo!” she cried. “Please, please let me see! Stop! Stop!”

He did stop then. He put his arm about her, and drew her close to
him.

“My little darling!” he said. “My little blessed angel! For you to
care like this!”

She let her head rest against his shoulder. She let him kiss her
pale, cold cheek. Then she began to sob.

“Tell me!” she pleaded.

“I’m not hurt,” he said gently. “Nothing for you to cry about,
little sweetheart; only, don’t you see, you’ve got to get home
quick, before he does? If you’ll go quietly to your room, and say
nothing, there’ll be no harm done. Come, now!”

He took his arm from her shoulder, and started the engine. He went
still faster now. She spoke, but he did not answer. His eyes were
intent upon the road before him. He stopped at the foot of Serena’s
garden.

“Now stroll up to the house as if you’d been taking a walk,” he
said.

“No, I won’t! I can’t! I’m afraid you’re hurt!”

“Look here!” he said. “There’s just one thing on earth you can do
for me, and that is to clear out. There’s nothing that could be so
bad as your getting mixed up in this. I mean it! Don’t—don’t make
it hard. Just go!”

She could not withstand his broken and anxious voice. She obeyed as
a child obeys, leaden-hearted, in tears, only half comprehending,
going simply because he entreated her to go. She opened the door of
the car and got down into the road; but her scarf had caught in
something. She pulled at it, jerked it upward, and still it held
fast.

“Oh, go on!” he cried, as if in anger.

“It’s my scarf!” she explained, with a sob.

He turned to help her, tore the scarf loose, and then, with a
strange little whistling sigh, doubled over, with his head lying
against the side of the car.

“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Sambo! Oh, what’s the matter?”

There was no answer from him. The engine was still running, the
headlights were shining out in the dark. The car was like a living
creature, trembling with impatience to be off, but the owner and
master of it lay still and silent. Geraldine reached out her hand,
and her fingers touched the soft, short hair on his temple.

“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “Oh, what shall I do?”

For a moment she was lost, panic-stricken, ready to sink down in the
dust beside the car and hide her eyes; but not for long. Little by
little her native courage flowed back. She grew strong again, and
tried to face this situation with her old austere and
straightforward mind.

“He’s fainted—that’s all,” she thought. “I must help him. I mustn’t
call any one else, because that’s just what he doesn’t want. It
would be unfair and cruel to call any one else, now that
he’s—helpless!”

Helpless, this man who, not an hour ago, had been so vividly alive,
so headstrong, so impetuous! Such pity seized her that she sobbed
aloud. Her hand still rested upon his bent head. She drew nearer,
and kissed his hair.

“Oh, Sambo, dear!” she said. “I will help you!”

Then she set off across the lawn that lay before her like a vast
wilderness. She dared not hurry, lest some one might see her and
question her. She had to go at a quiet and ordinary pace, had to
restrain her passionate impulse to run.

“Brandy!” she thought. “That’s what they give people who faint. I’m
sure there’s some on the sideboard in the dining room. I mustn’t be
silly. I mustn’t let go of myself!”

She had left him there alone, unconscious and helpless, but she must
not run. Nobody else must know. As she passed the front of the
house, she heard the sound of music and dancing feet from the
drawing-room, and she went by, carefully avoiding the bright
rectangles of light from the windows. On the buffet were three
decanters. She was not quite sure which was the brandy, but there
was no time for hesitation. She poured out a glassful from what she
hoped was the right one, and turned toward the window again.

A voice spoke behind her.

“Caught in the act!” It was Serena. She stood in the doorway, gay
and glittering, her face bright with a feverish excitement. “I’d
never have thought it of _you_!” she said, laughing.

Geraldine stood like a statue, with the glass in her hand. It was
horrible to her to be caught like this, to be judged guilty as these
others were guilty; but it never occurred to her to invent a
plausible lie. Serena might think what she liked; there would be no
explanation. The girl turned to face her.

“I needed it,” she said.

“It’s a pretty stiff—” Serena began, and stopped short, staring at
the girl. “My God!” she cried. “What’s happened? Your scarf—”

Geraldine looked down. One side of the scarf about her shoulders was
sodden and stained with blood.

The glass dropped from her hand and crashed upon the floor, and a
sickening blackness swam before her eyes. She stretched out her
hands, and they touched nothing. Her knees gave way, and she
staggered back. Then, with a supreme effort, she recovered herself.
She leaned against the wall, sick and trembling, until the wild
chaos in her brain passed by. She heard Serena speaking. Presently
she could see Serena’s frightened face before her.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” she was saying.

“It’s Sambo,” said Geraldine, with an effort. “He’s hurt. Send some
one to bring him in!”

“In here? Where is he?”

“Down on the North Road, in his car. Send some one—”

Serena came nearer.

“See here, Geraldine!” she whispered. “I can’t! Wait! Let’s
see—let’s think how we can get him away!”

“I tell you he’s hurt!” insisted Geraldine. “Send some one—”

“Hush! Not so loud! I can’t have him here! You don’t understand.
I’ve had the most awful time with Jesse! I had to promise I’d never
speak to Sambo again. I simply can’t—”

“I tell you he’s hurt!” reiterated Geraldine, with a sort of horror.
“It may be serious. He may be—”

Serena began to cry.

“I can’t help it! I’m awfully sorry, but I simply can’t have any
more trouble with Jesse. You ought to see that—”

“Mrs. Page,” said Geraldine, “he may be dying. He’s got to be
brought in here at once!”

“I can’t help it!” cried Serena petulantly. “Sam Randall is nothing
to me, and Jesse is simply everything. Jesse’s the only man I ever
really cared for, and I won’t—”

“You beast!” said Geraldine.

Serena stared at her in blank astonishment. It was incredible that
the cold and correct Miss Moriarty should have said that.

“I’m surprised—” she began, but Geraldine would not listen.

“A beast!” she said again. “You will have him in here, too!”

“I won’t!” declared Serena.

“Yes, you will!” said Geraldine.

She stood holding the stained scarf against her heart, and it was as
if she held him, as if she were sheltering and defending the man who
had done so gallant a thing for her. Wounded and suffering, his one
thought had been for her—to protect her good name, to bring her
safely home. He was helpless now, and it was her turn.

Nothing else mattered. All her stern reserve, her stiff-necked
dignity, her pride, were flung to the winds. She was ready to fight
for him, to defy all the world for his sake.

“Send some one out for him at once!” she said. “He’s been shot—and
I know who shot him. It was your—”

“Hush! Not so loud, you horrible girl!”

“I don’t care!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care who hears me! He’s
been shot. He’s going to be brought in here and taken care of, no
matter what it means to you or any one else. If you won’t do it,
then I’m going to—”

“Wait!” whispered Serena. “Oh, what shall I do? Oh, can’t you see?”

“No!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care about anything but Sambo!”


                                  IX

When young Randall opened his eyes again, he found himself back in
his room at the Pages’. He lay still for a moment, remembering. The
window was open, and the dark blue silk curtains fluttered, giving a
glimpse of darkness outside. The room was filled with a mild, quiet
light, however, and he felt sure that some one was there. He could
not turn; his shoulder was stiff and painful, and a mortal weariness
weighed him down. He tried to speak, and could not. All that he
could manage was to draw one hand across the cover a little way.

But it was enough. Geraldine saw it. She came and stood beside him,
grave and lovely as ever, so untroubled, so quiet.

“Everything’s all right,” she said gently. “The doctor’s seen you.
You’re very weak, but he says you’ll soon—”

She stopped, because it was so hard to see him there, white and
still, with that mute appeal in his eyes.

“You’re getting on nicely!” she said, with a sudden brisk
cheerfulness.

Then he managed to speak.

“No!” he said, in that old defiant way of his.

That was more than Geraldine could bear. She knelt down beside him
and laid her hand over his. She did not know how to say the words he
wanted to hear. She could only look and look at him, with tears in
her eyes and a little anxious, trembling smile on her lips.

Again he tried to speak, but only one word came:

“Love!” he said faintly.


                               (The end.)


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1926 issue of
Munsey’s Magazine.]