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!”