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!”