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 were spoken. A singular change
came over him.
“You mean--” he began, and paused. “You think I’m ashamed to be seen
talking to you?”
“Let me go!” she said vehemently. “I won’t listen!”
But her defiance was little more than bravado. Her knees felt weak. She
was frightened by the inexplicable thing she had done.
“That was a beastly, unjust thing to think,” he went on. “It was only on
your account. I thought you wouldn’t want any one to know--”
“Know? Know what?” she interrupted, with an attempt at her former
scornfulness; but in her heart she was dismayed and terribly uneasy.
“All right!” he said. “You think I’m ashamed. By Heaven, you’ll see! I’m
proud of it! It’s the finest thing I ever did in my life--to love you!”
“Oh, stop!” she whispered.
“No! I’d like every one in the world to know it. I’m proud of it! I told
you I was at your feet, and I meant it. I’ll--”
“Oh, please!” she said.
He stopped, looking at her as if stricken dumb by some unbearable
revelation. All that was hard and proud had vanished from her face,
leaving a tragic and exquisite loveliness. She stood there, in her
distress, like a lost princess, bewildered and solitary, but
unassailable in her mystic innocence.
“Look here!” he said. “I--” His voice was so unsteady that he could not
go on for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how--how
young you are. If you’ll forgive me--”
She shook her head mutely. He waited in vain for a word, but none came.
Then he turned and walked away, and she went back into her own room and
locked the door.
She, too, had not realized how young she was, how untried her strength.
This overwhelmed her; she was so miserable, so shaken, that now at last
the tears came in a wild storm. Her pride was mortally wounded. It was a
disgrace to her that Sam Randall should think of her like that. It was
cruel, horrible, unforgetable, that the first words of love she had ever
heard from a man should be his words. His talk of love was a mockery, an
insult.
Yet the memory of his set face and his unsteady voice caused her a
strange pain that was not anger.
“I can’t understand!” she cried to herself. “I can’t understand!”
And it was the first time in her life that Geraldine, with her rigid
code, her intolerant and sharply defined opinions, had ever thought
that.