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”!