the terrace steps. “Let me know when you can ride again. I hate going
out alone.”
Phil headed his horse toward home. “Oh, yes, I’ll play in the morning,”
he answered; “but I’ll take a car out in the afternoon, probably.
Good-bye, Sue.” And with Larry following hard on his tracks he galloped
away.
Sue drove over to The Lilacs immediately after breakfast, the day of
the Hadbury game--to find Genevieve still in a soft dressing-gown of
cobwebby lace and pink ribbons, lazily sipping her chocolate. She held
up a satin cheek to be kissed.
“I’m on time, you see,” laughed Sue. “But don’t hurry. I’ve got the
Lenox wagon and the bay ponies, and we’ll go a-zipping. How did the
lawn fête turn out?”
Genevieve did not look up, but broke her toast with tapering fingers.
“I didn’t go,” she said carelessly, after a moment of silence.
“Oh!” Sue’s tone was one of relief. “So you went to town, after
all--Phil said you had. We hoped the dentist didn’t hurt you.”
A shade of annoyance crossed the face of the other girl. Then, “He
didn’t, thank you,” she said shortly, and got up to make ready for the
drive.
The two arrived at Hadbury in plenty of time. It was a perfect
morning--the sun warm, the air soft and still, the sky cloudless--and
the scene at the polo-field was a gay one. On one side of the rectangle
rose the “ladies’ stand,” a grassy slope occupied by little groups of
people who had come on foot; on the other side, at a discreet distance,
was a line of vehicles. Sue guided her scampering ponies midway of the
line, between two other teams. Phil came over to them for a moment.
Others gathered, too, until there was a man for every spoke of the nigh
front wheel, and dark-eyed Genevieve held a little court.
There were no callers at the off wheel, and Sue had all her attention
for the lines. So she protested to Phil against his having sent the
red-haired, red-cheeked Shadow to stand at her horses’ heads. “I don’t
need him,” she said, “and it makes the ponies cross to be held.”
“Larry came of his own accord,” whispered Phil. “He’s an obliging lad,
and he likes you.”
At that, Sue brightened and observed the red-haired lad pleasantly. But
Larry did not see her kindly glance. Standing straight, with heel to
heel and a hand at either bit, his gaze was fixed in open, undisguised
wonderment upon the beautiful Miss Unger.
Soon the match began--and went superbly. To quote Mr. Hammond, it was
“the greatest ever since the Persians played polo, by Jove!” Upon the
vivid green of the field went the teams, playing a hard-galloping,
hard-hitting game, in which Phil particularly distinguished himself. He
rode the brown pony, and his sleeves were rolled up, his head was bare,
despite the heavy sticks that described circles about him, his hair
flew in the wind like a young Indian’s. Now his orders rang out sharp
and clear--“Take the ball!” or “Back-hander there!” or “Ride the man
and leave the ball!” And his mount sped up and down; his square-headed
stick did skilful work.
“It’s an education to watch him,” declared Sue enthusiastically, as a
rousing bravo from a group of onlooking men went up, for Phil had just
dashed in, changed places with Number Three and made a brilliant stroke.
Genevieve did not answer. She was talking to a tall man with a face the
approximate shade of Larry’s. “May I present Mr. Valentine?” she asked
presently, with some affectation, “--late of the English Army, you
know.”
Sue bowed.
“Churmed,” observed Mr. Valentine, in what was to Sue an entirely new
British mode of pronunciation.
At the end of the first period Phil came over to the wagon a second
time and chatted with Genevieve, who was looking particularly handsome
in a mauve linen and a tailored hat--so handsome that Sue, dressed in
less striking colours, seemed white and tired in comparison. Again a
group was gathered at Genevieve’s side of the wagon, but Sue, more
quiet than was her wont, had no smiles for them. She looked away
between the paper goal-posts that, painted in wide cream-and-blue
bands, loomed up near by like giant sticks of candy.
“This afternoon he’ll motor”--it was Mr. St. Ives who was talking; he
was standing beside Phil. “_To-morrow_ afternoon he’ll motor. The next
afternoon he’ll go out in his car.” Then he made a wry face and reached
over the back of the seat to seize Sue’s fingers and squeeze them
gratefully under a pretext of shaking hands.
“Will you go this afternoon, Miss Unger?” asked Phil. “My ten minutes
are nearly up, aren’t they, Sue?”
“Sue’s only got her locket,” said Miss Unger with a lazy smile.
“Well, what’s the time by your locket, Sue?” demanded Mr. St. Ives, and
reached for it.
Sue slipped the locket inside her shirtwaist.
“Say yes, Miss Unger,” urged Phil.
“I’m fearfully sorry--I really can’t go this afternoon.” Genevieve gave
a quick glance past Phil to the man behind him--Valentine. “I have an
engagement.”
At that, Phil fell back, his face suddenly grave, lifted a hand in a
gay salute and strode away.
But throughout the remainder of the game he played harder than ever,
and with such coolness, resource and accuracy that there was frequent
hand-clapping from the line of vehicles, and even Hadbury parasols were
waved from the ladies’ stand; while to one side, where the extra ponies
waited, groom leaned to groom, commenting excitedly. But when the match
was done, with the Brampton team victors, he disappeared, and Sue did
not see him again. She got away as soon as she could manage it, and
turned the bays homeward at top speed.
“Don’t you think Mr. Valentine handsome?” asked Genevieve, as they
rolled along. “Soldierly, I think.”
“Bob doesn’t believe the man has ever been in the army,” said Sue. “And
he says Mr. Valentine owes everyone in Brampton.”
Genevieve opened her eyes. “Why, Sue!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never heard
you repeat things against anyone before. Mr. Valentine has plenty of
money. And shopkeepers always gossip to curry favor with servants.”
“And Bob says he gambles,” persisted Sue. “I like you too well to see
him claim any of your attention.”
“Don’t all men gamble?” demanded Genevieve.
“Not professionally--that’s common.”
Genevieve put up her pretty chin. “It’s hardly any commoner than
gossip,” she answered. “However, I’ve noticed that if a man is
distinguished he gets a lot of criticism. But”--with a shrug--“one
never minds the criticism of kids.”
Sue said nothing.
She left Genevieve at The Lilacs and went home. But she had
only arrived when she was summoned to the telephone. As she
took the receiver she could hear sobbing. Then, “Sue!” wailed a
voice--Genevieve’s; “l-look in the wagon, Sue. I--I lost my p-purse
this morning.” She began to sob again.
Sue gave a prompt order. “Dear Genevieve,” she answered back, “don’t
worry. The purse is sure to turn up.” A few minutes later she was in
the carriage-house, dressed for riding. And when she learned that no
purse had been found, telephoned Genevieve again before mounting the
grey to ride to The Lilacs.
Genevieve was gone to Hadbury when Sue arrived, Phil having urged that
an advertisement be placed at once in the _Star_, together with the
offer of a suitable reward.
“Then Phil came, after all,” said Sue. She was walking to and fro in
the old-fashioned drawing-room.
“I called him,” answered Mrs. Vander Laan, who was a little old lady
with an enthusiastic liking for young people. “When he got here he
telephoned to have the field searched; then started. The reward is to
be one hundred dollars.”
“That much?” asked the girl. “The purse must have contained a good
deal.”
“Exactly seven hundred,” said Mrs. Vander Laan; “all of her month’s
allowance. Wasn’t she foolish to be carrying so much about with her!
But the sweet child was so pretty as she wept.”
“Seven hundred!” exclaimed Sue. “Has she any idea where she lost it?”
“She thinks it was when she was just starting for home. She remembers
having the purse when she was still at the polo-field. She says you
drove so rapidly----”
“I did,” admitted Sue, conscience-stricken. “Oh, I sha’n’t let her lose
it, Mrs. Vander Laan. It was my fault. Why didn’t she deposit it in a
bank that day she went into town?”
Mrs. Vander Laan was embroidering. Now she suddenly stopped and looked
up at Sue. “But she hasn’t been to town,” she declared.
“Not to the dentist’s?” asked Sue, “--the day of the Fanshaw garden
fête?”
“No, dear. She went driving with Mr. Valentine.”
“Oh.” Sue began to walk the floor again.
She was still walking when Genevieve and Phil came in. “Genevieve, I’m
_so_ sorry,” she cried, giving her hand to the other girl. “Tell me
something to do.”
Genevieve met her sympathy ungraciously. “Oh, don’t bother,” she said
with a little irritation. “I’d rather not have such a fuss made about
it.” Then, to Mrs. Vander Laan: “May we have tea, _mütterchen_? Sue,
take Mr. Rawson home with you and jolly him up with some tennis.”
But Phil did not look like a candidate for “jollying up.” He turned to
Sue. “To think that Miss Unger carried the money all around New York
that afternoon in a hand-bag that anybody might have grabbed,” he said,
“and then lost it at the polo match.”
Mrs. Vander Laan had stopped to look up again. Sue was close by,
suddenly pink with embarrassment for Genevieve, who was rattling the
cups and saucers at the tea-table.
“All around New York?” repeated Mrs. Vander Laan. “Why do you say that,
Mr. Rawson? Genevieve hasn’t been to New York.”
Genevieve whirled toward them now, anger flaming in her cheeks. “Oh,
please, _please_ let the matter of the money drop!” she exclaimed. “If
I’d staked it at bridge and lost it you’d have all thought it a good
joke.”
“Indeed _not_,” replied the little old lady, suddenly sitting up. “I
think gambling----”
But what she thought was left unsaid. For at that moment the
drawing-room door was opened by a maid and Mr. Aubrey Valentine was
announced.
Phil went home in the wake of Sue’s pony. Once she glanced round at him
as she galloped. His lips were set, his feet were braced, his cap was
pulled far down. He circled his machine into the driveway leading up to
Arbor Lodge with preciseness.
They were out in the wicker chairs at the tennis-court before he spoke.
Then he faced her squarely and blurted out one sentence: “Sue, she lied
to me.”
“Now, Phil,” began Sue, “didn’t you ask her something you had no right
to ask? You met her two weeks ago--just two weeks. Since then you’ve
claimed her time pretty steadily, haven’t you? She didn’t want to go
out with you that day; she wanted to do something else.”
“She lied to me,” repeated Phil.
“She may have fibbed. Most women do that. You cornered her, probably.”
“It wasn’t necessary to lie.”
“She thought it was.”
“Where _did_ she go?” His eyes narrowed.
Sue shook her head smiling. “Have you any right to know, Phil? Now,
think?”
“No. But you remember Elizabeth Carlton’s nasty hint? I spoke of it. Is
it possible----” He turned away impatiently.
“Listen, Phil,” she begged. “I’ll ask Genevieve about it, and then tell
you what she says. She’ll explain it all satisfactorily, I’m sure.
The dear girl is so worried to-day, Phil, she’s likely to say almost
anything. Seven hundred is a lot to lose.”
“Oh, never mind asking her,” said Phil. “I suppose you’re right.” He
chose a racquet and played until early twilight. Then, bareheaded and
smiling once more, he went chugging away down the drive.
Larry met him as he turned in at the gate of his own estate. The man
was not in his wonted livery, but was outward bound along the drive,
dressed in a Sixth Avenue copy of Phil’s newest Fifth Avenue lounge
suit--a copy that had exaggerated scallops cut out of cuffs and
pocket-flaps. “I’ve got news, sir,” he announced, holding up a hand.
“News?--about what, Larry? Jump in.” The car came to a stop under the
arc-light at the gate.
“Jim come home from Hadbury at six, sir,” began Larry, his red face
blowzier than usual and his eyes wide with excitement; “and he says to
me, ‘Larry, the Princess’ (that’s what we call Miss Unger, sir)--‘the
Princess lost seven hunderd-dollar bills at the Hadbury polo-grounds
to-day.’ I kicked my heels clean into the air, sir, I was that
happy----”
“Why, Larry!”
“I found ’em, sir.” Now his face was fairly purple with joy.
“You found them!” repeated his master. “Well, that _is_ luck!”
“Here, sir.” Larry produced a slender purse of brown seal from the
inside pocket of his coat. “You was gone before I could tell you.”
“Are you sure it’s Miss Unger’s?” asked Phil.
“I haven’t looked into it, sir.”
Seated, heads together, they opened the purse. “Two, four, six, seven,”
counted Phil, lifting the crisp bills when he had flattened them
out. “Sure enough! Well, Larry, you light the lamps, and we’ll make
The Lilacs two-forty. I’ll wait at the side gate; and don’t you say
anything about my being there. I couldn’t go in. Just ask for Miss
Unger and hand her the purse.”
“Me, sir?” asked Larry. “_Me_ take it to the Princess?”
“Yes. We won’t let her stay worried a second longer than we can help.
Here--put the purse into your pocket again. Miss Unger has offered a
reward, Larry, but I’ll give you the hundred myself. I’d rather. Are
we ready? Good!” The car went forward at a bound.
“Bless you, sir, I don’t want no reward,” the man answered. “Why, it’s
reward enough just to have her talk to me, sir, for ten minutes, maybe,
and thank me, and--and smile. Many’s the time I’ve looked at her, sir,
like I’d look at a beautiful star, and I’ve said to myself, ‘I’d like
to have a missis like her.’”
“Oh, you would.” The car came to a stop at Mrs. Vander Laan’s side gate.
“Yes, sir--you’ll excuse me, sir,” added Larry quickly. The gravity and
thoughtfulness in the other’s tone seemed very like reproof. Then the
groom sprang down from his seat and was off toward the house at a run.
He was breathless when he reached the servants’ entrance. But while
he waited he recovered his breath instead of imparting his good news
to the maid who welcomed him. Also (that same maid remarked upon it
afterward), he twirled his hat constantly, refused to sit down, and
kept wetting his lips as if he were nervous. Then--he was in the
old-fashioned, dimly-lighted drawing-room, his hat revolving steadily
and his tongue cloven to the roof of his mouth.
She came presently, sweeping through a door at the farther end of
the long, high room. She was in pink--a cloudy pink that set off her
loveliness marvelously. And as she advanced toward him Larry forgot to
do anything but look.
“You wish to see me?” she asked.
“Y-Yes, Miss. You lost a purse this mornin’.”
“Yes.”
“I found it, Miss.”
She gave a cry of delight. “You found it! Oh, I’m _so_ glad!”
Larry hung his hat between his knees, despite the fact that these were
trembling. Then he held out a coat-lapel with one hand and reached into
an inner pocket with the other. “Here, Miss,” he said proudly, and
laid the purse upon the table beside which she stood; after that he
recovered his hat.
She caught the purse up with another little cry--an inarticulate cry.
Then she turned and walked swiftly to the yellow-shaded candelabrum on
a second table at the farther end of the long room. Here she opened the
purse, leaning down with her back toward him.
It was fully a minute before she straightened and turned and came
toward him once more, slowly, the bills in her hand. As she paused near
him, something--a change in her carriage or her look--made him retreat
a step.
“Where did you find it?” she asked brusquely.
“Not ten feet from where the wagon stood, Miss. It must ’a’ fell in
turnin’.”
She was silent a moment. Then, “So you knew where the wagon stood,” she
commented. There was no attempt to hide the meaning in her voice.
“I--I seen where you was,” stammered Larry, shifting from one foot to
the other.
“Indeed! You were present at the game, then?”
“Yes, Miss. After the ladies and gents went I goes across to that
side--ridin’. There she laid, big as life.”
“I see.” She walked to and fro a few steps. After a little she paused
in her walk and spoke again: “You know of the reward, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, Miss, but----”
She interrupted him. Her eyes were angry, her slender figure was rigid,
as if with some sudden resolution. “Why did you wait until now?” she
demanded. “It’s after seven o’clock. You knew it was mine.”
“When Jim told me about the advertisement I did, Miss, and I says to
myself, ‘Wasn’t you a crazy not to guess whose it was?’ I says. But,
you see, I was on the other side of the field most of the time.”
“_Most_ of the time,” she repeated, a little sneeringly. “Were you near
the wagon at all?”
Her reference was plain. He rubbed at his chin with the back of a
shaking hand. “Well, I--I held Miss Townsend’s team a bit,” he admitted
huskily.
“Oh, you did!” There was a triumphant ring in her voice. “Then I think
you have impudence to dare to come to me. If you didn’t take the
purse----”
“No!”
“--You picked it up knowing it belonged to me. And you held it until I
offered a reward, instead of coming straight here to give it back. What
is the difference between that and theft?”
He made no reply, only stood, his back against the door, and stared at
her.
“I shall not pay you the reward,” she went on. “I found out something
about you when you first came in. I counted the money there at that
table”--she pointed to the other end of the room--“_and there weren’t
seven bills in the purse_. Look!” she held six out to him.
His jaw set. He stood upon both feet, bringing heel to heel, his arms
at his side.
She flung up one hand. “Don’t deny it!” she cried. “I gave you a chance
a moment ago to say that you’d helped yourself to the reward. You kept
still. One hundred wasn’t enough. You wanted two--for hanging about
and pilfering.” She stopped, panting with excitement. Presently she
continued, crumpling the bills in her fingers: “You thought because I’m
a woman that I wouldn’t count the money. You thought you could take
advantage. I ought to put you under arrest.”
To that he said nothing.
“But I won’t--I don’t want the notoriety. I’ve got the purse back and
all the money I expected. But who are you? You sha’n’t leave this room
till you tell me that.”
“As long as you think the way you do, it don’t matter who I am.”
“Ah! So you daren’t tell your name! But I know your face--now that I’ve
looked at you well. And I’d know you again anywhere. You’re employed
about here. You’re a groom.”
“Yes, I’m a groom,” he answered; “I’m Mr. Philip Rawson’s man.”
Now there was a long silence. He rested his weight on one foot again,
and folded his arms, with his hat under one of them. He was pale, and
met her look with resentful calm. She stood, swaying a little and
swallowing.
“So you work for Mr. Rawson?” she said finally, her voice uneven. “He’s
a friend, and I don’t intend that any friend of mine shall keep a man
like you in his employ. I shall see him about you. That is all. You may
go.”
The young master of Hillcrest was out of his machine and pacing the
walk impatiently when Larry came into sight, and he advanced a few
steps to meet the man, scarcely able to restrain his eagerness. “Well,
Larry,” he began, “was the Princess made happy?”
Larry did not reply at once. But as he paused in the light of the
automobile lamps his face looked a deathly white, and his red hair
seemed to be standing out straight and stiff, like bristles.
“Larry!”
“She ain’t no princess!” said the man. “And I don’t think her beautiful
no more. If you could a-seen her, sir,--why, she crumpled up, her
face did, like the money in her fingers. She was afraid I’d want that
hunderd, you see. So I hadn’t been in the room two minutes before she’d
slipped a bill and then called me a thief.”
“For Heaven’s sake, man!”
“A _thief_!--as if I’d chance bein’ let out by you, sir, for the sake
of a hunderd dollars! I knowed that minute how I’d been mistaken
in her--terrible. She ain’t no thoroughbred, sir. There’s Miss
Townsend--fifteen hands and ev’ry inch a lady--would _she_ a-done me
like that? This is bold talk, and you’ll feel like kickin’ me from
here to Brampton. But I’m thinkin’ too much of you to pick words--I’m
thinkin’ so much of you I’d hate to see you marry her. And, now, I’ve
got you down on me, sir. She’ll tell you I lied for spite because I
didn’t get the money. It ain’t spite--nothin’ like it, sir. But you
won’t believe me against her--I know that. And it means I’ll have to
leave Hillcrest. Well, I’ll go, sir,--I’ll go. I couldn’t work for her,
anyhow, you see, sir. So--good--good-bye, sir.”
* * * * *
It was a week later before Sue heard the story of Larry and the seven
one-hundred-dollar bills. Then Phil told it to her--one afternoon when
he came to join her in a horseback ride. After he had told it (they
were in the library at Arbor Lodge), he leaned back in his chair, his
crop across his knees, and studied her face.
Sue looked troubled. “Oh, I think there must be some dreadful mistake
about the whole thing,” she said. “I don’t mean that Larry isn’t
honest--I think he is. He’s got a nice face, and I simply couldn’t lose
faith in a red-headed person.”
Phil smiled. “And you simply couldn’t say anything against anybody,”
said he; “I know that. But this involves theft, Sue.”
Sue looked more troubled than ever. “We’ll all steal if we’re
sufficiently tempted,” she declared. “Isn’t that so? You or I wouldn’t
steal money. That’s because we don’t need it.”
“Larry was entitled to the reward; but he didn’t have the slightest
idea of accepting one cent. What he did expect was--Gad! what a
backhander!”
“But, Phil,” she said, “you mustn’t let the word of a groom make any
difference between you and Genevieve.”
“I won’t.”
“Genevieve wouldn’t be so tricky, Phil.”
Phil said nothing.
“She must have thought Larry guilty if she was so severe with him,”
persisted Sue. “She’s so just. And generosity itself.”
Phil looked at his boots.
“My servants adore her.”
Phil examined the end of his crop.
“Give her a chance to explain, Phil, at the Carltons’ to-night.”
“I’m not going. Are you?”
“No. I’ve planned an early canter for to-morrow.”
He leaned forward. “Am I included?” he asked.
She regarded him critically, and reflected that he looked pale. “Would
you like to go--this afternoon and to-morrow, too?”
“I’d like to go,” he declared. “There’s Wheaton Hill, too; we haven’t
been there yet. And those collies of Bob’s--if we don’t watch out
they’ll be grown dogs before we see ’em.”
She hesitated a little. Then, “I wouldn’t care to have Genevieve
think,” she began, “that I’d stayed away from the Carltons’, and that
you stayed away, too, and that we----”
“May I come?” he persisted, and rose.
Again she looked at him critically. His manner was not cheerless--yet
what pain might not be hidden by bravado? “Yes, come,” she said.
Looking down at her, he saw that her eyes were full of pity and
sympathy and tender appeal--yes, and tears. He came to stand in front
of her. “Do you know,” he said, “I think Genevieve is an epidemic.
We’ve all had it, by Jove, just as if it were contagious. But, luckily,
it’s not incurable.”
“Let’s not criticise her, Phil.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You’ve got the disease worse than
anybody,” he declared. He swept one arm about the room, pointing--to
the picture of Genevieve on the mantle; to the two pictures of
Genevieve on the writing-desk; to the panel between the two bookcases,
where Genevieve was feeding the fawn. “One, two, three, four,” he
counted. Then he looked at the round gold locket hanging between the
lapels of her coat. “And I’ll bet a pony that there’s a picture of
Genevieve in that locket,” he added.
She blushed, hastily hid the locket in the palm of a hand, and stood
up. “The brown pony?” she said.
“Books, gloves, cigars, ties,” enumerated Phil, “I don’t care what you
bet. Come!”
“I like that brown pony. But--I shan’t bet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m betting about something that I know about, and you’re
betting about something that you don’t know about. It would be taking
advantage of you.”
“Is it that, or is it that you don’t want to admit that you’ve got the
Genevieve epidemic?”
Two spots of scarlet brightened her cheeks. “I’ll wager a box of gloves
with you against the pony that Genevieve’s picture _isn’t_ in this
locket; but on one condition: Grandmamma must look at the locket and
tell you Yes or No.”
He shook his head. “I won’t agree to that. I’ve got to look at it
myself.”