The Black Pearls

by Marjorie Bowen

The
Black Pearls

BY MARJORIE BOWEN

I.

MRS. ANN BRACEGIRDLE was radiant in white silk and swansdown; her velvet hat was tilted charmingly over dark brown curls, and cast a bewitching shadow over those eyes that held the town in thrall. All the fashion of London was gathered in Mr. Samuel's toy-shop in Piccadilly, and many were fair and many were famous, but none was either so lovely or so famous as the brunette in the swansdown.

'Tis a paradox that hath always found power, that the outwardly splendid have some secret sorrow, and they who are the envy of others are in reality the most to be pitied. 'Twas so with sweet Mrs. Ann Bracegirdle. While admiring eyes followed her progress through Mr. Samuel's galleries, while all the ladies were jealous and all the gentlemen gallant, while her gay exterior deceived the wisest, the heart in her bosom beat in a sick, faint fashion.

They said she was Diana, a statue as cold and white as the snow that drifted without; they said she was cruel as she was charming, and that, while many had died for love of her, she had given not one thought, not one glance, to any.

Alas! she knew this was not so: she knew one to whom her glance had ever turned, one for whom her heart had throbbed the faster; she knew one who had proved she was no statue; her ears had always been open to his flatteries. Flatteries? He loved her.

She was assured of that—the Marquess did not court her because she was the toast of the town and a famous actress—he loved her; she had thought he would marry her—that had been the bourne of all her possible happiness; then into her paradise had come a lady from the country, a pale young Marchioness with indignant eyes.... Alas!

Mrs. Bracegirdle, leaning on her brother's arm, came to a point where, round a glass case, a crowd fluttered. “They are looking at something wonderful—it will not trouble me; I am thinking of eyes that have wooed me, lips that have besought me, and a pale young wife with a child in her arms”—so ran her poor thoughts, distractedly. But she smiled gaily upon them all as they made way for her, and her sparkling glance belied her thoughts.

'Twas a string of black pearls they gazed at, a thing said to have been worn round the white neck of Mary of Scotland; there was a bloom on them such as is shown by the cheek of a grape—in all thirty, as large as a lady's thumb-nail. The price was as princely as the jewels, for the black pearls shared with Mrs. Ann Bracegirdle the glamour of beauty, fame, and rarity; and these things must be paid for lavishly.

The high price gave an exquisite value to both: the lady who could not be bought with a coronet was a precious thing indeed, and worth striving for; the pearls at a price large for any wealth were the envy and desire of every belle in the town.

Neglected to-day, the array of chicken-skin and ivory fans, the fine webs of lace from Venice, the grinning purple and green monsters from China, the slim polished canes with agate and cameo handles, the crystal watches, the gilt clocks from France, the doeskin gloves, fringed and embroidered, the little porcelain buttons delicately painted, the china, the silver; satin skirts crushed round the case where the black pearls lay, fair faces bent over them, light voices praised them, and every lady looked covertly at her escort: “An' if some one would buy it for me!”

But the purses of the fine gentlemen did not equal the desires of the fine ladies. Mrs. Bracegirdle smiled faintly to see the glances that were purposely misunderstood, the hints that were ignored. Gallantry has limits; 'tis a fine thing to fight for a rose, a foolish thing to spend a fortune on a toy; though both have the same end, to please a woman, the first is easier and more prudent—especially if one have lost more than he could afford the night before at the Cocoa Tree, have just bought my lady a curricle or a black page, or given a masquerade to startle St. James's,

Mrs. Bracegirdle's smile deepened; she wondered if any of the suitors who had praised her charms as beyond price would buy the pearls for her. It was Christmastide, and so a fair excuse for a gift.

She laughed at her thought. There were many of these gallants in the shop now; one of them vowed that black pearls were an abortion, hideous; another said they were vastly unbecoming; a third declared frankly: “Split and sink me! the price is purely impossible.”

Mrs, Bracegirdle was choosing china; an assistant brought the pieces and laid them for her inspection on an oak table before her; since every one crowded round the pearls, and she had dismissed the few who followed, she was almost alone with her brother in the dark corner of the shop.

Her delicate fingers handled a dish of Nevers ware, a royal blue ground, with a pattern in thin white and a glittering yellow; she considered it, laid it down, and took up a Moustiers teacup, white, decorated with a severe design in blue. Her heart was not in the choice; she gazed at them languidly. The attendant showed her a Chaffagiolo vase; she pronounced its rude shape and bright lustred colours provokingly ugly; a duchess had bought the companion yesterday, she was informed; but Mrs. Ann Bracegirdle was not moved—she again considered the Moustiers cup.

Her brother had moved away; she sank into a reverie in no way connected with the cup she held in her hand. A light footstep and the rustle of a man's skirts made her look up, and, actress as she was, she could not on the instant frame the light greeting she desired: it was the Marquess,

He stood opposite her, with a fervent, pleased air, as one sure of his welcome; a little angry colour crept into her cheeks, but with brown eyes and red lips she smiled on him,

“I am choosing a tea service,” she said easily. “I did not expect to see you here to-day.”

“Why not?” he asked. Between the full curls of his peruke his attractive face showed cool and composed, but with a purpose and a fire in the handsome grey eyes that contradicted the careless elegance of his manner. “I came because I thought I should find you here; now, why did you not know that?”

Mrs. Bracegirdle set down the Moustiers cup. “Lud!” she cried, with a smile that showed an entrancing dimple; “I thought the Marchioness came to town yesterday?”

So some tatler had informed her! He was half angry, half relieved, but showed neither feeling.

“I saw her in the park,” continued Mrs. Bracegirdle, “yesterday; I conceived that you would be showing her London this morning. She is fresh from the country, is she not?”

She picked up the cup again—and again set it down.

“The Marchioness has her own diversions,” he answered coolly, nettled by her show of indifference.

She lifted her eyes from contemplation of the Moustiers cup and her fine hand encircling it. “And is this one of your diversions?” she asked, with a complete change of manner—pale gravity now, and lips curving tragically.

If her hope was to move him, to stir him beyond concealment, she succeeded: a bitter pride and a bitter pain flushed his face; the mask of his easy manner slipped aside, showing the angry tumult beneath.

“Diversion!” he repeated in a thick voice. “It may divert the devil, madam!”

Again her manner altered. “Oh! I understand,” she said with a sweet sadness.

'Twas always considered that her quick sympathies and keen comprehension made her so moving an actress. As she said, she understood, and for that reason she could play neither the affronted nor the offended woman, nor take him up with reproaches, tearful or angry; she understood.

The Marquess leant on the table, looking down; the light from the high window touched his arm and shoulder, shone in the pink silk of his coat and glittered in the band of sequinned embroidery on his cuff; but his face was in the shadow of a tall black bureau that darkened the corner where they sat.

Mrs. Bracegirdle leant back in her chair; her breath lightly stirred the swansdown on her collar and bosom; out of the shadow he looked up at her swiftly, and she looked at him.

As he gazed at her sweet face he thought fiercely: “What a pitiful thing it is to be an ordinary fool, an unthinking fool—to have given all I had to give to a dull country miss, when this woman of women was somewhere in the world waiting for me!”

And she thought: “It is over now. I shall never know again such joy as I have known, nor such pain as yesterday when they showed me his wife; one life, one love—it is over now!”

Aloud she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice: “Do you like this china, my lord? 'Tis new from France, and much admired, they say.”

For answer he said, very earnestly:

“You understand? Very well. Listen to me——”

“'Tis part of my profession,” interrupted Mrs. Bracegirdle, “to discern—understand.” She laughed from her throat. “You also are a man of wit—you are here for nothing more than to help me choose my china—you understand also?”

He clenched the hand that lay along the table. “I will not take your meaning,” he said masterfully. “I will not give it all up”—he strove after his usual manner—“so easily.”

With his other hand he swung his glass to and fro; to an onlooker his attitude was careless; to Mrs. Bracegirdle his voice was eloquent of all she could not read in his shadowed face.

He laughed, gaining assurance from her silence; his glass flirted in and out of the shadows, catching the light vividly.

“This—lady”—he avoided her name and her title—“need not disturb our...” he felt for the word—“friendship.” He wished to say that his wife was dull, that his marriage had been a mad mistake, that he had never cared for her, but the still, sweet presence of the woman held him silent; instinctively he felt that she would leave him at any hint of slight towards his wife to her, yet her quiet emboldened him.

“Sweet Ann,” he said very low, “you would not be unreasonable?”

She had her fan at her lips, the ivory stem of it resting against her soft bosom.

“Why do you speak like this?” she answered, and smiled. “Of what are you afraid?”

He leant out of the shadow; his face showed nearly the same hue as his lace cravat, but his grey eyes were undaunted. “Of losing you,” he said boldly.

“Why, Lud!” she cried lightly and steadily, “I shall not leave the boards because your wife has come to town; there will always be your old place in the pit, an you care for it.”

The spy-glass hung slack in his hand; his face reddened.

“And you must bring your wife,” added Mrs. Bracegirdle.

At that he lost control, and said something passionate under his breath, but still audible, though Mrs. Bracegirdle feigned not to hear, and instead of taking any heed of it put out her hand and fingered his wide cuff.

“How finely 'tis worked!” she said softly, looking at the gorgeous embroidery of glass sequins and silk roses. He glanced at her keenly. “Your wife did it?” she asked under her breath.

“How did you know?” He winced obviously.

“Why!” she answered between a smile and sigh, “it looks the work of patient, devoted fingers, my lord.”

“You mock me!” he said angrily, his colour high. “By the Lord, madam, you mock me!”

He imprisoned the hand that touched his cuff, and held it firmly, leaning towards her heedless of the public place.

Her eyes flashed between fear and anger. “You will not do that,” she said,

He withdrew his hand at once, but he smiled defiantly at her and was about to speak, when:

“Your wife!” said Mrs. Bracegirdle, and unfurled her fan,

The Marchioness! He had not expected her here; but he was in no way moved by her sudden appearance—a very fine gentleman did not dream of being troubled by his wife's recognition when he met her abroad; the Marquess took to swinging his glass again, waiting for her to pass.

But Mrs. Bracegirdle was not so certain that the Marchioness would pass; she was from the country.

A lady and a gentleman accompanied her; she looked very young, very pale; among the great black feathers of her hat, on the shoulders of her blue velvet walking-habit, lay a few flakes of snow. She came straight down the gallery, not looking about her or feigning any interest in the objects her companions admired; then, perceiving her husband and Mrs. Bracegirdle, she hesitated, while the colour rushed over her face and throat, and she stood irresolute—for a moment only. With a quick step and a high carriage she came towards them; several people turned to watch her as she swept round the black bureau, and paused at the table where her husband sat.

The Marquess rose and stared at her, red with annoyance; he had imagined that even her rustic breeding had given her more savoir faire than this.

She, trembling, and pointedly ignoring the actress (whom obviously she knew), addressed him with a poor attempt at ease, resulting only in defiance. “It is vastly agreeable to have met you, George—will you take me round the galleries?”

Her manner, assurance pitifully near tears, her use of his name, her open claiming of him as if he were some truant country swain, caused the Marquess to turn from red to white with wrath. “Madam, I am in attendance on this lady,” he answered with a dangerously cold politeness.

But the Marchioness would not take warning; she on her side had heard things; human nature was stronger than fashion. “This—lady?” she repeated, her hand clenched tightly over her cane and gloves.

Mrs. Bracegirdle rose; her white dress made a soft shimmer in the shadows; she gave her lovable little sad smile. “Will you not present me to your wife, my lord?” she said gently.

The two women surveyed each other: in the Marchioness's tear-stained eyes, anger, pride, and misery; in Mrs. Bracegirdle's, tenderness and a sad appeal.

Then the younger woman spoke, “Present me to a play-actress!” she said, in a low, shaken voice.

The Marquess shuddered with anger. “Is it your intention, madam, to publicly insult me?” he asked under his breath; and at his darkened face his wife fell back.

Mrs. Bracegirdle glanced from one to the other piteously. “My lady, I am only an actress,” she said sweetly, “but the honour of your acquaintance would not be lost on me. I am Ann Bracegirdle.”

The Marchioness stood rigid, ignoring the famous name of the incomparable beauty, as if an orange wench had spoken. “Do you desire me to patronise your playhouse?” she asked in a hard voice. “Is that what you mean, madam?”

The Marquess went hot with shame, Mrs. Bracegirdle had kissed the Queen, and taken tea with duchesses; earls contended for the honour of her hand to her chair; she had had her choice of coronets. The scorn of this stiff country-girl rebounded on himself, humiliating him.

“My lady,” said the Marquess unpleasantly, “permit me to remind you that this is St. James's—your ladyship had forgotten?”

He was so near the limit of his endurance, that even his wife perceived it; she controlled herself, and moved away with her friends, white set, laughing miserably.

Mrs. Bracegirdle's bosom heaved. If she had said she understood, meaning thereby why he had concealed from her the hasty marriage he had sickened of, and the fierce chafing at an irreparable mistake, she also understood the position of the proud, neglected young wife, fired beyond discretion by the sight of her rival. She had acted foolishly, enraging her husband and exposing herself; but Mrs. Bracegirdle understood.

“I'm damned unlucky!” said the Marquess unsteadily. “She shall come and ask your pardon.”

“No—oh no!” Then Mrs. Bracegirdle laughed. “For what? Lud, don't they always teach country misses that players are—impossible?”

He stared at her with a passionate face; she put her hand quickly on his arm.

“My lord—my lord, we have not the excuse of ignorance if we forget this is St. James's,” she breathed. “They are beginning to stare.” Then aloud, “Come and see these famous pearls, my lord.”

His look gave assent to her wisdom and her charm: in stately fashion they came down the gallery a pace behind the Marchioness.

Mrs. Bracegirdle was sweetly composed; the Marquess, provoked and infuriated, had a flaunt and daring in his manner—an extravagance of homage towards his companion, a boldness of admiration in his air, to show his wife how little she had gained by her country-bred impertinence.

For her part the Marchioness laughed loudly and jested, covering her bitterness with a poor mask of feigned indifference.

With outward ease Mrs. Bracegirdle submitted to the inevitable, but she felt inward shame—shame and heartache, deeper, more terrible than any his wife could know; with her, it was for what was over.

Carelessly the Marquess put up his glass and looked at the pearls,

“The lady who receives them will know she has a devoted lover,” smiled Mrs. Bracegirdle. “The price, good Lud, Is prodigious!”

She uttered a mere commonplace; but he took her up instantly.

“Are they still unsold, then?” His grey eyes flashed to her face.

“They are the most beautiful jewels in England,” she said, “and should be worn by the most beautiful of women!”

He rested his glass against his chin, studying her. “A brunette!”

The strained laughter of the Marchioness came across the shop. Mrs. Bracegirdle could bear it no longer.

“I will return home, my lord!” She looked round for her brother, saw him, and beckoned.

She would have taken leave of the Marquess then, but he tore down her opposition with a high hand, and saw her to her curricle before them all. She caught his wife's tragic eyes on her—his wife standing forgetful of the gilt mirror she held in her hand, forgetful of the forced laugh on her lips, of her companions, of the crowd, while she watched her lord smiling on the brilliant beauty of Ann Bracegirdle.

The actress, under the influence of those eyes, bestowed only a curt farewell upon her escort; but the Marquess stood on the snowy road with his hat in his hand, and smiled after her undauntedly, though she had shut the window, and sharply turned her lovely head away.

She gazed out of the window at the lead-coloured sky, at the houses and street-posts outlined in snow, at the drab-coloured passers-by, and shivered.

The tall young Marchioness once had also had her romance; stiff, awkward, and cold now, once she too had been melting, charming. “Ah, what have I robbed her of?” cried Mrs. Bracegirdle, and her heart answered: “Everything!” “Does she love him so?” she mused with a touch of disdain, as if she wondered, was he worth a woman's broken heart?

Her rosy, white-mittened fingers pulled at her fan. That of all men she should have chosen this one—why? She did not know, but she knew that she was constant, and had not two hearts to give.

Then a little sharp colour flamed into her face. How did the Marchioness think of her? “Present me to an actress!” she had cried, and with genuine horror in her tone. Did she share the opinion of the country dames who held “actress” one with “vice”? Did she hold her, in her genteel parlance, a “bad woman”? Ah! it was over; and, “Fie on all this for a mere man!” thought Mrs. Bracegirdle, as the curricle paused before her door.

Yet five minutes later she sat before her mirror dabbing eyes that were red with tears.

“Oh! folly,” she said aloud, in an agony of self-reproach. “Am I not a woman of wit?”

She went downstairs to the white and pink room where her parrot, her monkey, her harpsichord, her books, soothed her with their homely aspect; the sweet familiarity of the place, the bright cosy, light of the fire, were pleasant things.

She pushed back the lovely bright brown hair that curled round her face, and seated herself by the hearth.

She must act to-night—Mr. Dryden's raving Empress. Her little black page interrupted her thoughts, bringing a packet left for her; she laid it down idly, not knowing the hand it was addressed in. Before her seemed to rise the proud face and cold brows of the Marchioness; yesterday she had learnt a little of her history: a Miss Ann Whiteford, one time a country beauty. Mrs. Bracegirdle dismissed the subject: why must she ever linger on it?

To distract herself she opened the packet, and a small tooled leather casket was revealed.

She unfastened the lid, and gave a cry under her breath.

The black pearls!—and a note (with the ink hardly dry) from the Marquess.

She became very pale as she broke the seal with trembling fingers. So he dared so much—he valued her so much! He——

His note was brief, written evidently in Samuel's shop on a leaf of his note-book.

“Sweet Ann,—

“We did part something unkindly, Will you wear these sometimes, thinking of me—ah! not unkindly? Will you accept them, so showing that you smile again on your devoted servant? Sweet Ann, in charity!”

Pride and joy fired her cheek. He had bought them for her; he had given them magnificently, as if they were merely roses or ribbons. Instantly on her momentary triumph followed shame, nay, anger.

Oh! what thoughts had he of her that he sent a gift like this? what did he intend to buy when he paid a fortune for these pearls? More than the jewels—not dear, but cheap—he held her, then; he knew she had no right to take, he none to offer, nevertheless he had dared.

She put the pearls from her. “Oh, my lord!—my lord!” she said, gazing at his letter on her lap. “You have mistaken me!”

II.'

The Marchioness sat in her stately, dark drawing-room, Through the tall window was a dreary view of the grey square, and thick descending snowflakes; from the sombre ceiling, heavy painted goddesses smiled: the place was splendid but gloomy. She was not alone. A friend, a voluble and gossiping lady, seated opposite, held up a pink silk hand-screen between her face and the fire.

They were discussing my lady's grievances.

“Odious!” said the lady confidante. “Why! I believe, my dear”—she lowered her voice—“that your coming to town will make no difference. Did you notice them yesterday in the toy-shop? I think he is going to buy the baggage those pearls, my dear.”

“He would never dare!” whispered the pale young Marchioness. “He could not be so—shameless.”

The other lady smiled in the superior knowledge of town life. “There is the excuse of Christmastide, my dear—and I will tell you one thing. Lady Joan was in Samuel's yesterday afternoon, and the pearls were gone, she says.”

“Well!” said the Marchioness, with desperate eyes.

“Well, there are not many men in London able to buy them, and I heard my lord say yesterday—to her——”

My lady interrupted, colouring proudly. “You are a gossip, Kate.”

The friend tossed her head. “Oh! if you care to submit so vastly tamely to be slighted and neglected for a pert madam from the theatre—ruddled with red and white to the eyes, too.”

“Mrs. Bracegirdle is not painted,” said the Marchioness coldly. “She may be wicked, but she is beautiful.”

“Oh! fie on you to condone his taste,” pronounced Kate. “Lud! but you might as well have stayed in the country and left him free with his Chloe, as come to town in this spirit, to mope indoors.”

The Marchioness flushed again; the feeling that she had but come to London to expose herself as an unloved, despised wife before his world, forced the bitter tears into her eyes. “Of course,” she said faintly, “if this be true, I shall go back.”

“If?” echoed Kate, and flirted her hand-screen suggestively.

The proud colour burnt deeper in my lady's cheeks. “Yes—if,” she repeated. “I think he still cares for me.” Then she grew very pale and still, and turned her head away.

Her friend rose to take leave; if the Marchioness were not in the mood to discuss her husband's shortcomings, the visit promised to be dull. Stinging my lady with an account of the presents she had received, and the masquerade she was to attend, she left.

With a haughty face the Marchioness sat alone in her dreary splendour, and gazed into the great shadows of the room, My lord was abroad, with Mrs. Bracegirdle perhaps!—perhaps he fastened the black pearls round the fair throat of the actress....

Oh! if he had done it—bought for her the jewels all the ladies of St. James's desired!

Silent footmen entered and lit the candles in their gilt sconces; the Marchioness sent for her little boy to keep her company, caught him on to her knee and rocked him to sleep in the firelight, pillowed on the rich folds of her flowered satin gown.

Presently, when the door opened, she looked up with a painful expectation at her heart—if it might be he.... It was the servant with a packet for her. She laid the sleeping child in the great tapestried chair, and took it with indifferent hands.

From her mother, perhaps, or her sister; but she discovered a jewel casket and a letter, the handwriting of which brought her trembling to her feet.

She held it to the light of the candle near, and read:

“Sweet Ann,—

“We did part something unkindly. Will you wear these sometimes, thinking of me—ah! not unkindly. Will you accept them, as showing that you smile again on your devoted servant? Sweet Ann, in charity!”

With the colour bright in her cheeks and her bosom heaving, she turned to the casket and opened it.

The famous black pearls!

The Marchioness stared at them a moment, then crushed his letter to her lips, and broke into the relief of happy tears.

Ah! how she had misjudged, how she had listened to slander, when all the while he had been thinking of her. Not for the famous actress, but for his country wife, had he bought this magnificent gift. He had come back to her—nay, rather she had never lost him; she was distinguished, honoured before every one; who would dare to call her. slighted or neglected when she wore these round her throat?

She kissed each of the pearls with trembling lips; she was a different woman; the hard look left her face, the proud repression was gone from her mouth. Ah! he did well to stare her down when she resented so his mere civility to Mrs. Bracegirdle. She blushed for her rustic manners and vowed to make amends; then, stepping to the mirror, she fastened the necklace round her throat.

As she stood so, she saw in the looking-glass the door open and the Marquess enter.

He advanced into the room, swinging his cane by the tassels, his hat under his arm; she turned, her face rosy with blushes, her eyes sparkling, and the black pearls glimmering round her neck.

The Marquess stopped dead, and ceased to swing his cane.

“You see, sir,” she said unsteadily, “that—I—am wearing them?”

“Wearing what, madam?” he answered, in a strange voice.

Her stiff dress rustled as she came towards him full into the yellow candle-light.

“Your gift,” she whispered.

His grey eyes wandered from her happy face to the pearls. He paled a little, bit his under-lip, and was silent.

“What can I say?” murmured the Marchioness, with a break in her voice. “My dear, dear lord, I do thank you for this honour done me.”

She crept to his side, and lifting his hand kissed it; he stood still, looking at her.

“You said,” she continued, “that we parted unkindly——”

“I said?” he interrupted. “When?”

“In your letter,” she answered—“the letter you sent with these.” She touched the necklace.

“Ah—yes,” said the Marquess slowly. “The letter I sent with those.”

“'Twas my fault,” she murmured: “I was foolish, jealous.”

The Marquess sat down at a table near the wall, laid his cane across it, and played with the tassels, staring at the ground.

“Are you still offended with me?” pleaded his wife. “I have been vastly cold and stiff since we came to town, but I did not know London manners, and they told me——” she paused, then added simply “—that you were in love with Mistress Bracegirdle, my lord.”

He looked up with a set face. “So they told you that, did they?”

She crimsoned with shame. “And I believed it—oh! forgive me! I mistook common courtesies—I did not know—I was unmannerly yesterday—but your dear note assures me I am forgiven.”

He moved in his chair and gave an awkward laugh. “Is it these pearls have softened you so, child?” he asked, his face curiously strained and pale.

“'Twas the thought that sent them,” she answered softly, “and your words, Ah! my pride and pleasure——”

“For the Lord's sake, child!” he said, and rose abruptly, cutting short her speech,

She looked surprised. “Are you not glad that I am pleased?” she questioned.

He stared at her. “Why! yes—yes.”

The great folding doors opened; the servant murmured a name, and Mrs. Bracegirdle entered.

She went straight to the Marchioness and took her hands, “I have come,” she said, “to wish you the good wishes of the season, my lady. We have met only once, but I was on my way to the theatre; I vowed I would come in.”

The Marchioness smiled frankly up at her; she read in this action a desire to allay rumours that her own behaviour yesterday might have given rise to.

“Madam, I hope you will be my friend. I do desire it. Have you seen my lord?”

Mrs. Bracegirdle swept him a curtsy where he stood silent. With great pride the Marchioness unclasped her necklace and held it out. “My lord's Christmas gift to me,” she said. “You saw this yesterday?”

She exulted to her soul that Mrs. Bracegirdle should have found her so, with her husband and this magnificent gift. The actress admired and praised it until my lady's heart went out to her.

“I shall be late at the theatre,” said Mrs. Bracegirdle. She saw the sleeping boy in the chair. “Ah! but he is sweet, my dear.” She kissed him, her eyes suddenly full of tears.

“My lord will see you to your chariot,” said the happy Marchioness,

The Marquess had not spoken a word since the visitor entered; in silence he watched the two women take leave; in silence he followed Mrs. Bracegirdle on to the landing and closed the door. Then he turned to her and—“Now,” he said, “what does this mean?”

Under the drooping brim of her hat her great eyes met his steadily. “It means that you made a mistake,” she answered, “and I corrected it.”

“You know——” he began.

“I know some one placed the wrong superscription on your gift,” she said quietly. “And so it came to the woman to whom it meant insult.”

“Ann!” he broke in,

“Instead of the woman to whom it means joy.”

He looked at her brilliant beauty, and coloured with the first shame of his life.

“Do you care so little?” His tone was humble.

She lowered her voice. “I care more than you will ever know.”

He gave a smothered sound of sorrow.

“Ah! hush!” she said, turning her sweet face away. “I have done my part—you will do yours?”

He understood her; the red of humiliation was still in his cheek.

Neither spoke again. He came with her to the door; her rose-coloured curricle flew off in the snow. She did not look back.

The Marquess went upstairs to his wife. She met him with her sweet face glowing with the joy of their first wooing; he kissed her with lips he knew to be unworthy, abased before her trusting gratitude.

“Sweet Ann!” he said unsteadily, and now even in his soul he did not mean the actress.

So Mistress Bracegirdle brought him back to his first love, and the black pearls proved worth their price.