The Green Jacket/Chapter 16
XVI
It was Margaret who brought the black dress when luncheon was over, with the message: "Miss Annie is lying down. She's going to get a little nap if she can."
"That's good," replied Milly. She took the dress and ripped the shoulder-seams and laid it aside to wait for Mrs. Mason. When, a little later, she appeared in the doorway, wearing the dark-red robe, her face was pale.
"I could not sleep," she said. "It will rest me to be with you." She watched Milly's fingers adjusting the folds of the dress.
"How skilful you are! And you are not really a dressmaker?"
Milly smiled. "Oh, yes. I am a dressmaker. I learned the trade. I thought then I should always make dresses. . . . Now it is ready to try on."
She slipped it over the woman's head and drew the folds in place and pinned them skilfully.
"There—that is much better!" She stood back to look at it. "Now we can finish it quickly."
She gathered up the dress and slipped on her thimble, with a glance at the woman who, with her hands idle in her lap, was looking at her almost wistfully.
"Here—you can help." She detached a bit of the trimming and fitted it in place. "You can run on this braid while I do the seams. It will save time. Yes—here is an extra thimble."
The woman settled contentedly to the bit of work in her hands. The rhythm of the needle passing in and out through the black cloth seemed to tranquillize her, and her face became quiet. "I like to sew," she said, smoothing the braid under her fingers. "I used to sew when Marian was home. We used to spend hours together, and even when she was off with the young people, I always felt she might come back any minute and take up her work by the other window. . . . I have scarcely touched a needle since she went—" She broke off, gazing before her. Then she went on sewing, her needle moving swiftly.
"Were any of the young people in the neighborhood intimate with her?" asked Milly. "Did they come and go in the house?"
"Not in the house. They lived out-of-doors—on the terrace here, and on the tennis-court; and there were drives and picnics often—and dances in the winter."
"But no one who ran in and out of the houses-more intimately than the others?" pursued Milly.
The woman hesitated. "Yes. Elise Marshall was here often. She was almost like a daughter in the house." The words were low, and Milly caught a hidden tone in them.
"Perhaps you hoped she might be—some day?" she said gently.
"I did hope it—yes. . . . I tried one day to say something to Stephen about it, but he turned away."
"And did not say anything?"
"He said: 'I shall get married when my debts are paid.' We never spoke of it again."
"Was he so deeply in debt?"
"Nearly ten thousand dollars," said the woman.
Milly held the work in her hands and stared at her. "But how could it be so much!—living at home, with no establishment to keep up! He had a good salary?"
"Yes—I don't think it ever occurred to Stephen that he could deny himself anything he wanted. His father was generous with him, too! That was his way—the boy and I must have everything always. . . . That was the way he ruined us, I think!" She spoke softly.
"But even so—" Milly spoke thoughtfully. "He was hardly more than a boy?"
"Twenty-three," said his mother. "The picture I showed you was taken on his twenty-third birthday. . . She seemed to hesitate a little. She looked down at the bit of sewing on her lap and smoothed it with her fingers. "He came to me one morning, very excited. . . . He had a great roll of bills in his hand. He told me he had found five thousand dollars in the pocket of his coat that morning. The coat had been at the tailor's, being pressed, and had just come home the day before."
"But who could have"
"There was a note with it," went on the mother quickly. "He showed it to me. It was typewritten, not signed, and only said a friend wanted him to pay his debts and settle down—become the man his friends believed him capable of becoming. The giver did not wish to be known. He did not want the money to come between their friendship. It was a free gift. . . . We talked it over and I advised Stephen to do it. . . ."
"When did this money come to him?"
"It was Wednesday, May 3; I have reason to remember the date."
"Why?"
"It was the next day that the necklace disappeared."
"Then it was taken after he had the money!"
"Yes—that is what makes it so puzzling."
A little click registered itself in Milly's mind.
"What did you do when you found it was gone?"
"At first, as I told you, I tried to keep it quiet. My husband thought that was best. He said I was almost sure to find it somewhere—I had laid it down and forgotten. . . . Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to change, and insisted on having in a detective. Then Marian had to be told."
"And your son?"
"No. We never told him." It was almost a whisper. "From the very first I suspected Marian—though I tried hard not to be unjust to her. But I could not conceal the change in my feelings. Marian felt it keenly. At last she went away."
"Did the others know where she had gone?"
"No. . . . My son was very fond of her." She seemed wrestling with something. Then she spoke in a low voice that could scarcely be heard. "He wanted to marry her. I was glad to have her go—I could not let him marry a thief!"
"And he did not marry the other—this Elise Marshall?"
"No. He became restless and went away. He took a position in a branch of the bank he worked in here. It was better pay and a better position." She looked at her appealingly. "I think he was glad to go—glad to get away from the sadness and mystery of this house!" She sighed and her hands rested idle in her lap.
"There was no one else except Marian whom you could suspect?" asked Milly. "No visitor or one of the servants?"
"Absolutely no one. The necklace was too valuable for a petty thief."
Milly broke off her thread and held up the finished work.
"There, it is done! Would you like to put it on?"
"Yes. I will go to my room." She took it and hesitated and then spoke quickly:
"Do you suppose I might have tea brought here—on the terrace by the door—I often have it here when Mr. Mason is away. The servants would not think it queer—and then I could ask you to take a cup of tea with me?"
"Very well. Put on your dress and come down quickly." Something in the woman's face arrested her attention. It was as if she had been under a long strain of some kind and were suddenly released.
When she reappeared she had tucked a scarlet flower in the folds of the black dress.
She touched it lightly as Milly looked up.
"That is what you have done for me!" she said. "I put it on to thank you."
She led the way to the terrace, talking happily, and arranged the cups, chatting with the seamstress as if she were a casual guest of the day.
Milly, who had brought her knitting and was seated opposite her in the low wicker chair, regarded her over her needles with a quiet smile. The conversation in the sewing-room had lighted up many things that had puzzled her, and the woman's attitude revealed more than the words she had spoken. . . . Milly, recalling the conversation, gathered up the words and knit them carelessly into the flying wool as it passed through her fingers. The pattern was growing almost intricate.
The woman, leaning back in her chair, watched the swift-moving needles that knit the pattern.
"What is it you are making?" she asked.
Milly laid down the green knitted meshes and spread them a little on her lap, looking at them reflectively.
"I think it will be a jacket," she said.
"Don't you know what it will be?" The woman's laugh was puzzled and happy.
"No—not exactly." She spoke slowly. She was still spreading the meshes under her fingers. "You see, I always have a piece of work in hand—a new piece for every case—" She looked up.
"Oh!" The woman sat up.
Milly nodded. "Yes. This is yours."
The other looked at it more closely. "But you have made mistakes!" she said. She pointed to the scattered doubled and purled stitches that crossed the even pattern.
Milly's touch ran over them lightly.
"You do not think they spoil it, do you?"
"No-o." The woman looked at them in a little perplexity. "They make a pattern almost," she said wonderingly.
"Almost," said Milly, smiling. She took up her needles again. "You see, I cannot tell how long I shall have to work on a case. . . . Sometimes it is short—and then it is a jacket, and if it keeps on and grows longer, I call it a sweater."
The woman's smile played with the idea. "And if it is very long, I suppose it has to be a kimono!" She laughed out. "A knitted kimono! . . . And suppose it is never finished!" she cried.
"Then I put it away," said Milly, "and it is nothing."
The woman looked at her curiously. "Did you ever have one like that?" she asked softly.
"Yes. There is a very long one in a drawer at home. It has lain there for years. Perhaps it will never be finished. But I shake it out now and then, to be sure the moths have not got at it!" She laughed and the other's face lightened and smiled at her wistfully.
"I hope this one will not be shut away in a drawer," she murmured. She moved her hand to the flying needles.
"This one? Oh, this one will be finished soon. It will not be as short as some I have made—mere shoulder-capes, some of them, hardly more than scarfs, you know! But this will be quite a presentable jacket." She spread it out again and looked up with an assuring smile.
A laugh broke from the woman's lips. Then it held itself. She turned quickly. A shadow had fallen on the table.
Her hand gripped the arm of her chair.
The man had come upon them suddenly around an angle of the house. He could not have seen them till he was close upon them.
For a long moment he stood staring down at his wife and at the look of happiness in her face. Then his glance travelled to the gray figure in the wicker chair and to the amber needles that had not paused in their flight. He lifted his hat courteously.
"I did not mean to disturb you." He turned away and entered the house by an other door.
Slowly the woman's hand relaxed its grip on the chair. She sank back with a sigh.
Milly's needles went on with even touch; her eyes followed the retreating figure thoughtfully. The man's gaze had seemed to her infinitely sad as it rested on them—a look of loneliness and hopeless regret.
The woman's hands lay relaxed in her lap. Her eyes were half veiled. But to Milly the glance behind the veiling lids was fixed on her intently.
"Mr. Mason came home early," said Milly. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "Twenty minutes to six."
"Yes. . . . He must have walked across the fields from the station. It is only two miles that way. He often used to do it—before we had the car." All the animation had gone from her face. It had a tense look of being on guard—as if the sudden appearance of her husband had recalled some constant sense of danger, that might withdraw for a minute, but never wholly left her.
Milly looked across at her. "There is one more thing I want to ask you," she said slowly.
"Yes." The figure in the chair stirred slightly and seemed to stiffen a little.
"You told me the other day," said Milly, "that the amount your son 'borrowed' from the bank was three thousand dollars. Were the emeralds worth as much as that?" She leaned forward, speaking the words low. They could not have been heard beyond the other chair.
The woman sat up. A swift flush spread over her face. She lifted it quickly. "You must not think!" she cried under her breath.
"I do not think," said Milly. "But were they—worth as much as that?"
"Oh, more—much more!" cried the woman. She covered her face for a moment. "I do not know how valuable they were," she said at last in a low voice. "I only know my husband said we should not come to want as long as I had my necklace." She hesitated. "I shall never forget his face the morning I discovered they were gone. I had not realized till then what the jewels meant to him. . . . They had always seemed to me like playthings—to do what I liked with!"
"You say it was he who insisted on having in the detectives?"
"Yes."
"You did not want them?"
"No— Oh, no!" She clasped her hands quickly.
"Why did you not want them?" The question was very gentle.
"I was—afraid. It was all so bewildering! I could not be sure who was guilty! It might be—" She broke off.
"Your own son."
Her lip was trembling. Two tears were rolling down her cheek.
Milly got up and put away her knitting, stabbing the needles through the ball.
"You must be brave. . . . I think we shall find out who took your jewels and where they are."
The woman's hand reached out. "But suppose"
Milly shook her head. "You need not fear—whatever we discover. I am going now for a little walk and you must rest before dinner."
As she passed her she touched her shoulder gently. "Do not think of anything while you rest, except that your son is coming in the morning."