"And now," she went on, "the affair is up to you and me. I am
chaperon, and you are one of the few men she appears to know. What are
you going to do about it?"
A minute before I would have replied: "Tell her the whole truth." But
now a way out of the immediate complications seemed to present
itself--a way beset with difficulties, but still a way. I made the one
reply which seemed to be safe. "Do?" I said. "Do all I can to give
Miss Gans a good time. I don't dance, you know, but----"
"But what?"
"But I'll hang around and talk to her and take her into supper--if
she'll let me--and--all that sort of thing."
"You dear!" cried Mrs. "Ted." "You dear, self-sacrificing thing!" With
this last she cocked a supercilious eye.
"But not if you're going to bait me, or make fun of me afterward," I
qualified.
"I wouldn't think of it," declared Mrs. "Ted."
"And you promise not to mention my name to her, not even to allude to
me? This sort of thing is altogether out of my line."
"You surprise me," she said, but she promised.
So it happened that, a little later, in one of those nooks which the
genius of decorators devises, and the man of discernment discovers,
Margery and I were having that talk--"all to ourselves." It developed
that we had an affinity of tastes. It was her ambition to travel--she
had never traveled. She delighted in long tramps--heretofore she had
found no one to be her companion. She was sure that automobiling was
"just the best sort of fun," judging from the one ride she had had.
And so time slipped by, and I had utterly forgotten "Edith" and the
other "Mr. Page," and everything else except one thing, when Mrs.
"Ted's" voice, just outside the barrier of foliage which hid us,
complained that Miss Gans could not be found anywhere.
Margery heard, and flushed. "Come on," she said. "This is
disgraceful." She rose.
"But----" I objected.
"No buts," she insisted. "Have you forgotten Edith?"
"For the time being," I admitted.
She brushed past me. Her bearing was one of indignant scorn. But, over
her shoulder, she remarked, as she looked back: "What a nice place
this would be to eat supper."
I replied judiciously that whoever selected it for that purpose should
anticipate the supper hour by early occupation. I added that it was my
intention to pass the intervening time in the smoking room--alone.
She declared that I smoked too much. In Edith's absence, she supposed,
it was her duty, etc. Supper was at twelve o'clock; eleven-thirty
seemed to be about the right hour to resume occupation of the bower.
Mrs. "Ted" saw us coming to her, and waited. Margery presented me.
Mrs. "Ted" was properly grave. She remarked that she had had the honor
of knowing the gentleman so long that sometimes she forgot to put the
"Mister" before his name. It was a contagious habit, she had observed.
I withdrew. Mrs. "Ted's" variety is infinite, and I was afraid she
would forget--promises.
In the smoking room I got a corner to myself. But, not for long. Three
men came and sat down near by; and, in company with long glasses
filled with ice and other things, told stories. Most of these were of
people of whom I knew nothing. But the mention of one name caught my
attention. It was "Stoughton Page." It appeared that he had met with
an accident early in the evening. His automobile had broken down on
the way to meet the seven-fifty train, and he had footed it to the
railroad station, only to find that whoever he was to meet there had
not come down. He had crawled back to the club, and somebody called
"Bobbie" had towed him to his home.
As I flung away my cigar and left the smoking room, I was more than'
ever of the opinion that Mrs. "Ted's" conclusions upon the
instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary
of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes
of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the
bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the
floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point
that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke
one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable
demonstration.
"I would hardly call you a 'fool,' Mr. Page," said a laughing voice
just behind me. "But, really, you _are_ just a little shortsighted,
aren't you?"
"I am sure I have been looking everywhere," I answered, reproachfully.
"For how long, and for whom?" she inquired.
"Let us discuss it in the bower," I suggested.
"How very improper!" she remarked. But she led the way in, and, for
the hour that followed, the world began and ended for me just where a
little semicircle of palms drew its friendly screen about Margery and
me. I believe I ate something; I know I made two forays upon the
supper table and hurried back just in time to come upon Mrs. "Ted,"
who made a most exasperating face at me, but said nothing. And I
remember recording a mental note of Margery's fondness for sweetbreads
_en coquille_. But of the rest my recollection retains only the
picture of a slender girl in the depths of a big, cane chair, a
slipper impertinently cocked upon the rung of another chair, the soft
light which filtered through the leaves throwing into tantalizing
shadow the curves of a mouth and the hide-and-seek play of blue eyes
which were successfully employed in supplying me with an entirely new
set of sensations.
This experience, absorbing to myself, apparently was not without its
diversion to the other party, for there was just enough left of "Home,
Sweet Home" to identify the air when Margery suddenly slipped from the
chair, and I, perforce, followed her. "I will be ready in ten
minutes," she told me. "Meet me downstairs." Then she turned--to run
into the arms of Mrs. "Ted."
I waited by. There was no alternative; Mrs. "Ted" held me with a
glance that definitely said: "Flight is at your peril."
She asked Margery a question. I did not catch the words, but Margery's
reply was unmistakable. "Why, of course, Mr. Page will take me home.
Edith expects me, you know." And with that she passed into the
dressing room.
Mrs. "Ted's" perplexity would have been comic from another point of
view than mine. To me it was like unto the frown of Jove. There was a
little pause before she spoke. "Was there ever such another man?" she
said. "If it was anyone but you, Page, I would tell that girl the
truth at once. Mr. Stoughton Page has not come for her, and has sent
no word. I see why, now, though I don't understand it all, by any means.
But--well, I am going to trust the rest to you, only--_remember_!"
I never liked Mrs. "Ted" as I did at that moment, and my liking was
not altogether selfish, either. As for her "Remember," it
was--significant.
But when she had followed Margery, and I was walking slowly down the
stairway, an appreciation of my own position began to obscure every
other feeling. A trickle of something cold seemed to pass down my
spine, and I am not accounted timid. In a haze I blundered over to the
table. There I had the sense to sit down and try to fit together the
few facts which must guide me.
The proposition shaped itself something like this: Given an automobile
and a young woman who believes you to be the husband of her dearest
friend--which you are not--how are you, without chaperon or voucher,
to deliver her, safely and without destruction of her faith in you or
of the good opinion of others for herself, into the keeping of this
other man's wife--residence unknown--at three o'clock in the morning?
I took up the premises separatively. First, the automobile. I lighted
the lamps and cranked the engine. The motor started sweetly, and
mentally I checked off the first item. Second, the young woman. I
recalled my experience of the evening, and decided that, as Mrs. "Ted"
trusted me, Margery would have no reason to distrust me. So far so
good. Third, "the safe delivery." That depended upon knowledge of the
place we were to reach, and of the roads thereto.
I hunted up a stableman, and asked him for the shortest and best route
to Mr. Stoughton Page's place. He gave me directions. I made him
repeat them. As the repetition was a little more confusing than the
original information, I thanked him and decided to stake my chances on
the apparent facts that the traveling was excellent and the distance
only eight miles. The devil of it was there were four turnouts. I
suspected that, before I was through, Mr. Stoughton Page's reputation
as an automobile driver would not be undamaged in the estimation of at
least one person. But for that and for what must be when the crisis
arrived--well, it was inevitable. I threw in the clutch and drew out
of the stable. At any rate, there were the hours back of me, and
Margery was--Margery. There was sweetness in this thought, and
infinite anguish, too.
She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of
possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have
"the trunk put into the tonneau, please." A minute later we were off,
Mrs. "Ted" watching our departure and calling out: "_Remember!_ I
consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs.
Page!"
"Miss Gans" and "Mrs. Page"! Even to my dull comprehension those
formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood
toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me,
stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she
could recall to my shame when--when the time came.
I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for,
presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: "Are you so
_very_ tired? Am I such _dreadfully_ slow company?"
"Neither," I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.
She laughed. "You meant to say both. But the automobile _does_ make
one silent, doesn't it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this
evening for a long time to come."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For the pleasure of your company."
She became very grave over my statement. "If you really mean that, I
am very glad," she said. "For I like you, Mr. Page, 'deed I do. And I
will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of
you--for myself."
"For yourself?" I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with
unimpeachable politeness: "I am flattered that I should improve on
acquaintance."
"You surely do," she replied. "Yet it is not so much that you do not
look exactly as I had imagined. It is not that. But, you see, all I
had heard of you came from Edith, and she--she nearly made me loathe
you in advance by her continual singing of your praises. I had--yes, I
had about decided to stay away to-night, when I thought it would be
better to come and see for myself."
"And you aren't sorry?"
"Of course not. Haven't I told you?"
"Margery!" I cried. Duty and discretion slipped my mind. Anyhow, I
reflected, a woman who would make a fool of a man as "Edith" had done
deserved no consideration. "Margery!" I repeated, very earnestly, and
something in my voice must have warned her.
She uttered a little "Oh!" and drew away from me. But I leaned toward
her, and spoke her name again.
And just then we struck a hummock on the side of the road, and the
jolt threw me violently against the steering wheel. Margery clutched
at me and held on. We came to a dead stop, and she sank back into the
seat.
For an instant afterward I wavered between saying what it was in my
heart to say and silence. But my pose was not heroic, and, to speak
the entire truth, I was having some difficulty in regaining my breath.
So I got out of the car slowly and explained. Something was wrong with
the machinery, probably a ground wire, broken by the shock. It was
nothing at which to be alarmed. Was she hurt?
She assured me she was not and that alarm was furtherest from her. I
began my investigation, but the broken ground wire was not the only
trouble. It I promptly repaired, and still the engine would not
respond to my cranking. There were spasmodic explosions, but they came
to naught. Nor was the trouble due to any one of the half dozen
primary accidents for which, in turn, I made tests. There was a fine,
fat spark at the plugs, the vibrator buzzed properly, the gasoline
feed appeared to be adequate, the carburettor was performing its duty,
and the engine did not seem to be overheated. The manifest fact was
that the motor would not run. A few irregular beats, I say, I got out
of it by almost winding my arm out of its socket with the crank, only
to have the thing die away before I could regain my seat in the car.
In my desperation I advanced the spark to a point which resulted in a
"back kick" so tremendous that I was nearly thrown into the air.
Margery was patient and sympathetic through it all. She sat very still
and watched me. When at last I came upon the real trouble and she
understood from my pause and silence that I was puzzled by it, she
asked: "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything," I answered.
"Then, take all the time you need. It doesn't matter in the least
about me. I am very comfortable, and only sorry I can't help you."
"But you _do_ help me," I said; "you help me a great deal. If you only
knew how much, you----"
"Tell me about it," she put in quickly--"what it is that has made us
stop."
I obeyed reluctantly. "It is this little spring." I held it up. "You
see, it closes the valve, and the end of it is broken, and the valve
does not act as it should. The worst of the thing is that I have no
substitute with me."
"And you can't mend the spring?"
"I'm going to try. But I must keep you waiting--perhaps quite a
while."
"And that is all that is worrying you? Won't you forget I am here?"
"The one thing I cannot do," I answered. I dropped the spring and
stepped to the side of the car. "Margery!" I said. "Margery, don't you
understand? I can't forget."
"But you have forgotten!" she interposed instantly. "You have
forgotten Edith."
"Edith!" I ejaculated, in exasperation. "Edith may go to the devil for
all I care!"
"Mr. Page!" she cried. There was no trace of raillery in her voice. I
had hurt her, and I knew, even in that moment, that for this she would
never forgive me, unless--unless----