Massingale did not perceive her entrance. A moment later she was in the
arms of one of her escorts, lost in the confusion of the dance. Whirling
figures obscured her view. She caught flashes of his erect
square-shouldered figure, glimpses of the high forehead and stern gaze,
and the next moment she was flinging back a laughing salutation to a
suddenly appearing acquaintance flying past her. Whatever happened, she
would never look in his direction; he should never know that he existed
for her! And still, in the kaleidoscopic hazards of the frantic measure,
his face was the only fixed point which a dozen futile shapes strove in
vain to obscure. He had his hand on Lindaberry's shoulder, bending over
him in animated exhortation; other men, three or four, laughingly
provocative or dissuading, were in the group. Then, all at once, an
abrupt end, laughter, applause, a quick clearing of the floor, and
Massingale, looking across the room, saw her.
She had no experience of the discipline of society; she understood only
crude impulses of nature; she never believed that he would dare approach
her. He came directly to her, offered his hand with perfect courtesy,
gave a formal greeting, bowed and left her immediately. She was so taken
by surprise by the ease with which he had surmounted a difficult moment
that she suffered him to take her hand and to depart without the
slightest resistance. But immediately afterward her anger flamed up.
What! not a word of excuse, not a regret, nothing but a trivial evasion!
And forgetting all her own resolves, she flung herself recklessly into
the excitement of the evening, recklessly resolved to make herself a
thousand times more desirable, to outdo even the most daring of the
dancers, to draw on herself every regard, that he might see to what he
had driven her. He continued to watch her, transformed into a spectator,
arms folded, seeing no one else; and with a keen cutting joy she saw the
furrow of pain and doubt which gathered across his brow, as she
abandoned herself, head thrown back, laughing up at her partner, as she
had seen Georgie Gwynne once in the embrace of Lindaberry. The men,
already over-excited, crowded about her, contending for each dance.
Now she no longer avoided Massingale's troubled gaze. Each time she
passed near him, she sent him a scornful veiled glance, a smile of
derision and recklessness, which said: "There--you see! This is what you
have done to me; this is where I am going!" A fury impelled her on; she
wished to drive him, at all costs, from the room. But still he remained
rooted by the piano, never averting his eyes. She saw that he suffered,
and by every coqueting provoking glance, by every seductive movement of
her body, by the very vertigo of her languorous, half closed eyes and
parted eager lips, she sought to bury deeper the sting.
Lindaberry sought her, among others, and she danced with him once,
twice, a third time, granting him that personal distinction which would
double the pain she was inflicting. This evening Lindaberry was
different. She felt in him an agitation equal to her own. He danced
extraordinarily well, with an impulsive sense of the alternately
controlled or passionately rebellious movements of the dance. And the
impulses within him which subdued her movements to his, fiercely
checking them or suddenly enveloping her in a mad, surging, frantic rush
which left her breathless, was something not of the room, or the
mechanics of the step, but an inner fierce revolt that sought its
liberating expression in this physical madness. Even in her obsession of
resentment, she felt a curiosity to know why this was so. Other men
enlightened her, whispering caution:
"For God's sake, Miss Baxter, don't let him drink any more!"
"He's been on a spree for a week!"
"They say he lost forty thousand last night at Canfield's."
She could not believe it. His face was so hilariously young, lighted up
with such boyish laughter. To-night she had no fear of him; if he was
reckless, so was she!
"This is nothing!" he had said to her once, when he had driven her about
the room at such a pace that she had halted, laughing, protesting that
it was glorious, waiting for breath. "How would you like to go spinning
along at eighty miles an hour? That's sensation!"
[Illustration: A Fury impelled her]
She had not understood his meaning, but, the idea once in her head, she
returned to it. It seemed to her all at once that in her hand lay the
final stroke that would wound Massingale as nothing else would wound,
which would show him how little she cared for anything now--reputation,
danger, or what might come after.
"You like the feeling of eighty miles an hour?" she said to Lindaberry,
the next time he came.
"Adore it!"
"Is your machine here?"
"Yes."
"Show me what it is like--eighty miles an hour!"
"Do you mean it?"
"Of course!"
"You've got the nerve?"
She laughed; it was not a question of courage.
"Come on, then!"
She nodded, and glanced about the room. Ida Summers was at the piano,
clamoring for a certain dance, not five feet from Massingale. She went
quickly, saying, in a voice that would carry where she intended:
"Ida, I'm off for a lark. Don't be worried if I disappear!"
"Heavens, Dodo, what are you going to do now?" said Ida, looking up
startled.
"Great fun! Mr. Lindaberry's going to show me what it feels like to go a
mile a minute in the dark."
To her surprise, she was instantly surrounded by those who had heard
her remark--a group in violent protest.
"You're mad!"
"Lindaberry'll wreck the car!"
"Don't you know his condition?"
"Miss Baxter, it's suicide!"
Massingale alone did not offer a word.
She put them laughingly away with double-edged words:
"Danger? So much the better! What do I care?"
But she had considerable difficulty in freeing herself. When finally she
escaped, laughing, and had made for the entrance, Lindaberry, too, was
facing a storm of protest from those who had learned of his proposed
escapade.
"I say, Miss Baxter, I'm looked on as a slaughter-house champion here,"
he said, laughing. "No one particularly cares about my neck, but a good
many do about yours! What do you say? Shall we give them the slip?"
"I'm ready!"
"Can't we put up a little bet on this?" he continued triumphantly. "It's
now ten minutes before one. Yonkers and back, despite cops, punctures
and accidents, in forty minutes! Who'll take me for a hundred, even at
that?"
A chorus of murmurs alone answered him:
"Don't be a fool, Garry!"
"Not I!"
"You ought to be manacled!"
"I'll make it two to one--five to one!" He stopped expectantly, shrugged
his shoulders, and turned to Dore. "Miss Baxter, I give you my word of
honor there's not the slightest risk. Still, it's up to you. Well?"
"I'm crazy about it!" she said, with a reckless laugh, slipping her hand
through his proffered arm.
Below, she drew back suddenly. Judge Massingale was on the sidewalk,
standing by the car. He turned at once to Lindaberry, looking steadily
past her.
"Garry, this is sheer madness! You have no right to do what you're
doing! Miss Baxter does not know what she is getting into!"
Lindaberry's only answer was a boyish laugh, and a hand to Dore, who
sprang to her seat.
"Risk your own life. If you'll go alone, I'll take up your bet!"
"Listen to him, Miss Baxter!" said Lindaberry, with an airy wave of his
hand. "Why, upon my honor, I'm the safest driver in New York!"
Massingale gave a groan of despair.
"Besides, if you're arrested and brought into court, Garry, Miss
Baxter's name will be dragged--"
"I won't be nabbed. And, if I am, Judge, I'll telephone for you!
Besides, there isn't a cop in the place that doesn't love me like a
brother. Ask Mulligan, here!"
The patrolman on the beat, who had lazily sauntered up at his colloquy,
grinned and shook his head.
"Why, every time I get in a scrap with one of them," continued
Lindaberry joyously, "I send the kids to college! They'd break my head
open the first chance they got, but beyond that they wouldn't harm a
hair. Eh, Mulligan?"
"Sure! That's right!"
Lindaberry, ready to take the wheel, bent over.
"I say, Mulligan, is De Lima on deck to-night?"
Mulligan gazed anxiously in the direction of Judge Massingale, who was
standing helplessly by.
"Oh, the judge is a good sport!" said Lindaberry. "Well, where's De
Lima?"
"Above Ninety-sixth, I believe, sorr!"
"Good! I'll keep an eye out. De Lima's expensive! Well, Judge, too bad
you can't join us. Little bet? Now, don't worry! I'll promise nothing
faster than a mile a minute until we strike the country!"
They were drawn up in the electric flare of the side entrance. Quite a
group of staring white-aproned waiters, impudent newsboys, appearing
like bats out of the hidden night, chauffeurs and curious creatures of
the underworld hung around open-mouthed, very black and very white in
the artificial region of light and shadow. Massingale turned suddenly to
her, forced to his last appeal.
"Miss Baxter," he said, looking up directly, "I wouldn't insist if I
didn't know the chances you are running with this madman! Believe me, it
is a reckless thing to do! Miss Baxter, please don't go!"
"Please?" she repeated, looking into his eyes with a glance as cold as
his own was excited.
"Yes! I ask you--I beg you not to go! You don't know--you don't
understand. Mr. Lindaberry is not a safe person--now, under present
conditions!"
She leaned a little toward him, modulating her voice for his ear alone.
"I'm sure, Judge Massingale," she said coldly "that I will be much safer
with Mr. Lindaberry, wherever he wishes to take me, than with some other
man, even in my own house, alone!"
He understood: she saw it by the hurt look in his eyes. He withdrew
without further proffer.
The next instant the car shot out, with the trailing scream of a rocket,
shaved a wheel by an inch, swung the corner with hardly a break, the
rear wheels sliding over the asphalt, and went streaming up the avenue,
the naked trees of the park running at their side.
She sank back into the shaggy coat, adjusting the glasses which the wind
cut sharply into her face, appalled at the speed, yet strangely,
contemptuously unafraid.
"Fast enough?" he cried, and the words seemed to whistle by her.
"Love it!" she shouted, bending toward him.
She watched him, shrunk against the seat, her curiosity awakening at his
mood, so married to her own. Massingale, the dancers, the stirring
pain-giving world of pleasure, were miles away. She remembered all at
once that she was with him--a stranger, wild as herself, heedlessly,
recklessly engaged in a mad thing. All at once she laughed aloud, a
curious sound that made him jerk his head hastily back. If he knew how
little she cared if the wheel swerved that necessary fraction of an
inch!
"Crazy! We're crazy, both of us!" she thought to herself joyfully. At
this moment of wild cynicism she felt that she had flung over
everything, done forever with scruples; that, now that she had
compromised herself so publicly, nothing more mattered. She would be
cruel, selfish, mercenary, but she would make this city of Mammon that
went roaring past her serve her by its own false gods of money and
success. In the gathering roar of the hollow air, high roof and low
roof, sudden sparkling streets, file on file of blinking lights, fatally
brilliant as the lure of shop windows, black instantaneous masses on the
avenue, streamed behind her in a giddy torrent. Yes, it was her last
scruples she thus flung to the winds, and foolishly confident of
divining inscrutable fates, she repeated fiercely, defiantly, drunk with
the speed madness:
"What do I care! This is the end!"