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 tomorrow 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, unforgettable, 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.