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!”