“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.