“Margery Gans!” Mrs. Ted’s amazement left her speechless for a moment. Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she burst out: “And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent school! Tonight is her first! How on earth – ?”
It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she gave me small opportunity. “Why? Why?” she resumed, and suddenly her voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. “My dear Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?”
My confusion was patent, and she went on. “Because, whatever you have believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has happened to Margery Gans?”
“What?” I gasped.
Mrs. “Ted” studied me from beneath lowered lids. “Oh!” she said, and “Oh!” again. Then she linked her arm in mine. “There are chairs behind this palm,” she suggested.
We sat down. “Page,” she said, “I would not have believed it of you if you had not told me yourself.”
“What?” I asked, but her gaze was disconcerting; and when she smiled wisely, I did not repeat the question.
She laid her fan across my hand. “I wonder,” she remarked, reflectively, “I wonder how and when you and Margery met. But, no, that is unfair. Don’t tell me. I am very glad you did meet – that is all. And I was nearer to the truth than I thought when I asked you about coincidences. This is what I was going to tell you. Margery is the guest to-night of Edith Page – Mrs. Stoughton Page. At the last moment Edith’s baby was taken ill with the croup, and she sent word she could not leave home. She asked me to act as chaperon. Soon afterward Stoughton Page arrived in his car with Margery, and must have hurried home at once when he heard the baby was sick, for I haven’t been able to find him. I have told Margery that Mrs. Page was detained at home, but I have not told her the details, and I don’t wish you to. She would think it more serious than it is, and it would spoil her evening.”
I nodded.
“And now,” she went on, “the affair is up to you and me. I am chaperon, and you are one of the few men she appears to know. What are you going to do about it?”
A minute before I would have replied: “Tell her the whole truth.” But now a way out of the immediate complications seemed to present itself – a way beset with difficulties, but still a way. I made the one reply which seemed to be safe. “Do?” I said. “Do all I can to give Miss Gans a good time. I don’t dance, you know, but – ”
“But what?”
“But I’ll hang around and talk to her and take her into supper – if she’ll let me – and – all that sort of thing.”
“You dear!” cried Mrs. “Ted.” “You dear, self-sacrificing thing!” With this last she cocked a supercilious eye.
“But not if you’re going to bait me, or make fun of me afterward,” I qualified.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Mrs. “Ted.”
“And you promise not to mention my name to her, not even to allude to me? This sort of thing is altogether out of my line.”
“You surprise me,” she said, but she promised.
So it happened that, a little later, in one of those nooks which the genius of decorators devises, and the man of discernment discovers, Margery and I were having that talk – “all to ourselves.” It developed that we had an affinity of tastes. It was her ambition to travel – she had never traveled. She delighted in long tramps – heretofore she had found no one to be her companion. She was sure that automobiling was “just the best sort of fun,” judging from the one ride she had had. And so time slipped by, and I had utterly forgotten “Edith” and the other “Mr. Page,” and everything else except one thing, when Mrs. “Ted’s” voice, just outside the barrier of foliage which hid us, complained that Miss Gans could not be found anywhere.
Margery heard, and flushed. “Come on,” she said. “This is disgraceful.” She rose.
“But – ” I objected.
“No buts,” she insisted. “Have you forgotten Edith?”
“For the time being,” I admitted.
She brushed past me. Her bearing was one of indignant scorn. But, over her shoulder, she remarked, as she looked back: “What a nice place this would be to eat supper.”
I replied judiciously that whoever selected it for that purpose should anticipate the supper hour by early occupation. I added that it was my intention to pass the intervening time in the smoking room – alone.
She declared that I smoked too much. In Edith’s absence, she supposed, it was her duty, etc. Supper was at twelve o’clock; eleven-thirty seemed to be about the right hour to resume occupation of the bower.
Mrs. “Ted” saw us coming to her, and waited. Margery presented me. Mrs. “Ted” was properly grave. She remarked that she had had the honor of knowing the gentleman so long that sometimes she forgot to put the “Mister” before his name. It was a contagious habit, she had observed.
I withdrew. Mrs. “Ted’s” variety is infinite, and I was afraid she would forget – promises.
In the smoking room I got a corner to myself. But, not for long. Three men came and sat down near by; and, in company with long glasses filled with ice and other things, told stories. Most of these were of people of whom I knew nothing. But the mention of one name caught my attention. It was “Stoughton Page.” It appeared that he had met with an accident early in the evening. His automobile had broken down on the way to meet the seven-fifty train, and he had footed it to the railroad station, only to find that whoever he was to meet there had not come down. He had crawled back to the club, and somebody called “Bobbie” had towed him to his home.
As I flung away my cigar and left the smoking room, I was more than’ ever of the opinion that Mrs. “Ted’s” conclusions upon the instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable demonstration.
“I would hardly call you a ‘fool,’ Mr. Page,” said a laughing voice just behind me. “But, really, you are just a little shortsighted, aren’t you?”
“I am sure I have been looking everywhere,” I answered, reproachfully.
“For how long, and for whom?” she inquired.
“Let us discuss it in the bower,” I suggested.
“How very improper!” she remarked. But she led the way in, and, for the hour that followed, the world began and ended for me just where a little semicircle of palms drew its friendly screen about Margery and me. I believe I ate something; I know I made two forays upon the supper table and hurried back just in time to come upon Mrs. “Ted,” who made a most exasperating face at me, but said nothing. And I remember recording a mental note of Margery’s fondness for sweetbreads en coquille. But of the rest my recollection retains only the picture of a slender girl in the depths of a big, cane chair, a slipper impertinently cocked upon the rung of another chair, the soft light which filtered through the leaves throwing into tantalizing shadow the curves of a mouth and the hide-and-seek play of blue eyes which were successfully employed in supplying me with an entirely new set of sensations.
This experience, absorbing to myself, apparently was not without its diversion to the other party, for there was just enough left of “Home, Sweet Home” to identify the air when Margery suddenly slipped from the chair, and I, perforce, followed her. “I will be ready in ten minutes,” she told me. “Meet me downstairs.” Then she turned – to run into the arms of Mrs. “Ted.”
I waited by. There was no alternative; Mrs. “Ted” held me with a glance that definitely said: “Flight is at your peril.”
She asked Margery a question. I did not catch the words, but Margery’s reply was unmistakable. “Why, of course, Mr. Page will take me home. Edith expects me, you know.” And with that she passed into the dressing room.
Mrs. “Ted’s” perplexity would have been comic from another point of view than mine. To me it was like unto the frown of Jove. There was a little pause before she spoke. “Was there ever such another man?” she said. “If it was anyone but you, Page, I would tell that girl the truth at once. Mr. Stoughton Page has not come for her, and has sent no word. I see why, now, though I don’t understand it all, by any means. But – well, I am going to trust the rest to you, only —remember!”
I never liked Mrs. “Ted” as I did at that moment, and my liking was not altogether selfish, either. As for her “Remember,” it was – significant.
But when she had followed Margery, and I was walking slowly down the stairway, an appreciation of my own position began to obscure every other feeling. A trickle of something cold seemed to pass down my spine, and I am not accounted timid. In a haze I blundered over to the table. There I had the sense to sit down and try to fit together the few facts which must guide me.
The proposition shaped itself something like this: Given an automobile and a young woman who believes you to be the husband of her dearest friend – which you are not – how are you, without chaperon or voucher, to deliver her, safely and without destruction of her faith in you or of the good opinion of others for herself, into the keeping of this other man’s wife – residence unknown – at three o’clock in the morning?
I took up the premises separatively. First, the automobile. I lighted the lamps and cranked the engine. The motor started sweetly, and mentally I checked off the first item. Second, the young woman. I recalled my experience of the evening, and decided that, as Mrs. “Ted” trusted me, Margery would have no reason to distrust me. So far so good. Third, “the safe delivery.” That depended upon knowledge of the place we were to reach, and of the roads thereto.
I hunted up a stableman, and asked him for the shortest and best route to Mr. Stoughton Page’s place. He gave me directions. I made him repeat them. As the repetition was a little more confusing than the original information, I thanked him and decided to stake my chances on the apparent facts that the traveling was excellent and the distance only eight miles. The devil of it was there were four turnouts. I suspected that, before I was through, Mr. Stoughton Page’s reputation as an automobile driver would not be undamaged in the estimation of at least one person. But for that and for what must be when the crisis arrived – well, it was inevitable. I threw in the clutch and drew out of the stable. At any rate, there were the hours back of me, and Margery was – Margery. There was sweetness in this thought, and infinite anguish, too.
She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have “the trunk put into the tonneau, please.” A minute later we were off, Mrs. “Ted” watching our departure and calling out: “Remember! I consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs. Page!”
“Miss Gans” and “Mrs. Page”! Even to my dull comprehension those formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me, stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she could recall to my shame when – when the time came.
I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for, presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: “Are you so very tired? Am I such dreadfully slow company?”
“Neither,” I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.
She laughed. “You meant to say both. But the automobile does make one silent, doesn’t it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this evening for a long time to come.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the pleasure of your company.”
She became very grave over my statement. “If you really mean that, I am very glad,” she said. “For I like you, Mr. Page, ’deed I do. And I will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of you – for myself.”
“For yourself?” I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with unimpeachable politeness: “I am flattered that I should improve on acquaintance.”
“You surely do,” she replied. “Yet it is not so much that you do not look exactly as I had imagined. It is not that. But, you see, all I had heard of you came from Edith, and she – she nearly made me loathe you in advance by her continual singing of your praises. I had – yes, I had about decided to stay away to-night, when I thought it would be better to come and see for myself.”
“And you aren’t sorry?”
“Of course not. Haven’t I told you?”
“Margery!” I cried. Duty and discretion slipped my mind. Anyhow, I reflected, a woman who would make a fool of a man as “Edith” had done deserved no consideration. “Margery!” I repeated, very earnestly, and something in my voice must have warned her.
She uttered a little “Oh!” and drew away from me. But I leaned toward her, and spoke her name again.
And just then we struck a hummock on the side of the road, and the jolt threw me violently against the steering wheel. Margery clutched at me and held on. We came to a dead stop, and she sank back into the seat.
For an instant afterward I wavered between saying what it was in my heart to say and silence. But my pose was not heroic, and, to speak the entire truth, I was having some difficulty in regaining my breath. So I got out of the car slowly and explained. Something was wrong with the machinery, probably a ground wire, broken by the shock. It was nothing at which to be alarmed. Was she hurt?
She assured me she was not and that alarm was furtherest from her. I began my investigation, but the broken ground wire was not the only trouble. It I promptly repaired, and still the engine would not respond to my cranking. There were spasmodic explosions, but they came to naught. Nor was the trouble due to any one of the half dozen primary accidents for which, in turn, I made tests. There was a fine, fat spark at the plugs, the vibrator buzzed properly, the gasoline feed appeared to be adequate, the carburettor was performing its duty, and the engine did not seem to be overheated. The manifest fact was that the motor would not run. A few irregular beats, I say, I got out of it by almost winding my arm out of its socket with the crank, only to have the thing die away before I could regain my seat in the car. In my desperation I advanced the spark to a point which resulted in a “back kick” so tremendous that I was nearly thrown into the air.
Margery was patient and sympathetic through it all. She sat very still and watched me. When at last I came upon the real trouble and she understood from my pause and silence that I was puzzled by it, she asked: “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” I answered.
“Then, take all the time you need. It doesn’t matter in the least about me. I am very comfortable, and only sorry I can’t help you.”
“But you do help me,” I said; “you help me a great deal. If you only knew how much, you – ”
“Tell me about it,” she put in quickly – “what it is that has made us stop.”
I obeyed reluctantly. “It is this little spring.” I held it up. “You see, it closes the valve, and the end of it is broken, and the valve does not act as it should. The worst of the thing is that I have no substitute with me.”
“And you can’t mend the spring?”
“I’m going to try. But I must keep you waiting – perhaps quite a while.”
“And that is all that is worrying you? Won’t you forget I am here?”
“The one thing I cannot do,” I answered. I dropped the spring and stepped to the side of the car. “Margery!” I said. “Margery, don’t you understand? I can’t forget.”
“But you have forgotten!” she interposed instantly. “You have forgotten Edith.”
“Edith!” I ejaculated, in exasperation. “Edith may go to the devil for all I care!”
“Mr. Page!” she cried. There was no trace of raillery in her voice. I had hurt her, and I knew, even in that moment, that for this she would never forgive me, unless – unless —
I told her the truth. “I am not Mr. Page,” I said, bluntly.
She leaned forward and gazed at me in blank amazement. But what she was able to see of my face must have convinced her that I spoke the truth. “Not Mr. Page?” she echoed, faintly, and shrank from me.
“No,” I said; “my name is Winslow. And I am not married to Edith, or to anyone else. Mr. Stoughton Page, so far as I know, is at home and has been all evening.”
I waited for her to speak, but she sat very still, her hands dropped in her lap, her head turned from me, and I thought that I knew a little of what she was thinking, and every second, which passed made it harder for me to have her think this.
“Let me tell you something,” I said at last. “It was a mistake, and it was all my fault. I did not know who you were when I first saw you. I only thought of taking you quickly to the club and leaving you there before you should find out that I was not the person I let you think I was. But on the way to the club I – I – it seemed to me as if I must have known you all my life. And then – I saw Mrs. Mason, and she has been my friend for so long, and – everything helped me. So, when no one came to take you home, I could not bear to give you up that way and maybe never see you again. And I did – what I did. And – that is all.”
She had not moved while I spoke and her face was denied me. But now she looked up. The veil hid her eyes; I could only guess at what was in her mind.
“You let me call you ‘Mr. Page’?” she said, after a moment.
“Page is my first name,” I answered.
She gave a little gasp. Somehow, I felt that my case was not so nearly hopeless. “And Mrs. Mason – did she – was she also helping to deceive me?” she asked.
“She thought it was Mr. Stoughton Page who brought you to the club. She never knew, until we were leaving, that you did not know who I was. Oh, it was all my fault, all my fault, I tell you!” I finished, as she regarded me in silence. “I let you think everything you did – I never tried to help you out, after the first, because I couldn’t. I loved you, Margery.”
“You took a strange way to prove it,” she returned.
Her head was thrown back, her gloved hands pressed together. “Oh! oh! I hate you! It was contemptible! To take advantage of my trust! To lie to me! How could you do it?”
I turned away miserable, bitter with myself. And all the while I worked on the valve, stretching the spring so it would do its work and replacing the part, she said nothing. Even when I had started the engine and found it to work smoothly and climbed back in the car, she was silent. But she drew away from me with a movement which was unmistakable.
The east had begun to lighten long since, and there was a white streak along the horizon, streaked with the clearest of amber and rose, as we came to a crossroad, a mile on, and I got a glimpse of a signpost. If its information was correct, I had made the turns in the road aright, and we were within half a mile of our destination. A minute later we topped a slope, and I marked down a large, stone house which answered the description I had from the club stableman. It was approached by a driveway bordered with trees and shrubbery.
I brought the car to a stop at the gates. “I believe this is Mr. Page’s place,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. It was the first word she had spoken since she knew who I was.
“And before we go in,” I went on, “I thought you might wish to tell me who I am to be.”
“I have nothing to do with that,” she answered. “Please take me to the house.”
“But,” I insisted, “they will probably ask questions. If they do not, they will wonder. And I can hardly be a stranger to you – under the circumstances.”
“You will please take me to the house,” she repeated.
I started up the driveway, and once or twice it seemed to me she was about to speak. But she did not, and at the steps I got down and rang the bell. It was a matter of five minutes before there was response. Then there came the faint sound of footsteps from within, and the door was opened. A tall man, in dressing gown, candle in hand, sleep in his eyes, replied to my inquiry. Yes, this was Mr. Stoughton Page’s house, and he was Mr. Page. What did I want?
Before I could explain, a voice spoke at my elbow, and Margery stepped into the flickering circle of light. “Only to ask you for shelter,” she said.
The man in the dressing gown stared at her, then recognition sprang into his face, and he put down the candle hastily. “Margery Gans!” he cried.
“None other,” she answered. “Margery Gans, at your service, or, rather, at your door, and, with her, Mr. Page Winslow, to whom she owes her presence here and an evening of experiences besides. We are just from the dance at the club, at which, sir, you failed me. Is it a welcome, or must we go further?”
He held the door open and began to explain. Presently he realized that I was standing by, and urged me to come in. But I said no, I must return to the club, and all the while I looked at Margery, hoping for some little sign.
But she kept her face resolutely upon her host, and said nothing. Then, as I turned to go, she laid a hand upon his arm. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I had almost forgotten my trunk! It is in the car. Could you find some one to bring it in?”
“Of course,” he said, and turned back into the house. She threw a swift look over her shoulder, raised her veil, and stepped to the doorway. She held out both her hands.
I took them in mine. What I did concerned only us two. “Good-by, Margery,” I said at last.
“No, no, not really good-by,” she answered. “Just good-by for a little while – ” She faltered.
“Page,” I prompted.
“My ‘Mr. Page,’” she repeated, softly, and, at the sound of returning footsteps, slipped from me into the dimness of the hall, and was gone.