Munsey's Magazine/Volume 86/Issue 4/That's Not Love

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

 

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 Trish 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 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—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

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.