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!”