The Green Jacket/Chapter 22
XXII
That night Milly slept lightly. She had a consciousness as she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep that she would be needed—that the mystery that her hand seemed almost to touch, but that receded as she drew near, would call to her. The events of the last few hours had left her confident that only one person possessed the knowledge that could solve the mystery that permeated the house and hung its impalpable veil between all natural human relations. . . . But how she was to win the confidence that would reveal what she needed to know, she could not reckon. Any attempt to do it might only shut off forever the possibility of success.
It seemed to her she had scarcely fallen asleep before she was awake again—every sense alert, calling to her, trying to tell her something. She sat up and listened. The moonlight shone into the room, almost with the brightness of day, and her watch showed a quarter to one. She got up softly and stepped to the window. The same scene of moonlit beauty lay before her, but nothing to break its repose, nothing to call her, startled, out of sleep.
A slight sound below caught her ear. She turned swiftly. She passed out of the room and down the stairs, blessing the well-built house that yielded no creaking tread to her swift-moving feet. At the juncture of the two corridors she paused with caution. Along the corridor to the right she could hear footsteps moving lightly and evenly; and she leaned forward far enough to see with a glance down the entire length of the corridor running to the front of the house. No one was in sight; but from a door on the left, at the far end, a chink of light shone softly.
She moved toward it, holding a swift breath, lest before she could reach it, a hand would draw it softly together and she would be shut out from what was hidden behind the polished oaken doors. Her hand reached out to the door as she neared it, and held it firm and opened it a breath while she listened, with intent ear. The room was wrapped in silence, but through a crack of the inner door she could see a fire playing on the hearth, apparently just touched with a match. The irregular flames leaped and shimmered along the walls and on the ceiling overhead and fell to steadier glow. But no sound came to her ear. She pushed the door the slowest trifle and looked in.
By the light of the fire on the hearth she saw, across the room, a man bending to an open desk; his back was to her and his fingers were reaching into one of the compartments and feeling softly. A panel fell forward silently on the desk and he reached in and took something in his hand and came toward the fire.
The inner door withdrew noiselessly, to a narrow crack. But through it, in the shadowy room, the figure of the man could be seen plainly as he moved toward the fire with the deft movement that had the ease and swiftness of habit. . . . Quietly he seated himself and held out his hands to the glowing flames. The hands seemed to tremble, as if he shivered with cold, and the jewels gleamed and shimmered in his fingers. The firelight that touched them lighted up the face bent over them. It was full of sadness, and yet as if held by the charm of the green fire that darted and shimmered in the stones as he turned the necklace slowly in his fingers. . . . Could he be insane? The watchful eyes behind the screening door noted every movement keenly—a kleptomaniac—"possessed" by the jewels? . . . The necklace was very beautiful in the firelight—more beautiful than anything the detective had imagined. And the man who held it and turned it this way and that, in the light of the flames, seemed in some subtle way to possess it by an inner right, almost as if the green fire his hands wrought spread from the moving finger-tips that ran along the jewels and drew it forth from its hidden place.
The detective reached back a hand and drew to the outer door softly, turning the key noiselessly in its lock, and dropping it into her pocket. Then she pushed open the inner door, without sound, and stepped into the room and crossed to the figure that bent forward caressing the jewels with intent look. The back of his chair was toward her, and as she came up she laid one hand on it lightly and touched his shoulder.
The figure remained, for a single moment, immovable. Then it turned—the necklace slipped with a clatter to the floor and his startled glance raised itself to the bending face. It changed to relief.
"Oh, it is you!" He looked quickly toward the door. "I did not lock it?" he said incredulously.
"No." Her voice was very quiet. She moved to the chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
Something in the movement seemed to reassure him, and he bent to the necklace and picked it up and laid it on the table between them—as if it were a trifle of no interest.
She did not look at it.
His fingers, almost of themselves, stole out along the surface of the table and regained the necklace, and he sank back in his chair with a slight sigh.
"I am glad you have come," he said quietly. He was silent a minute, looking broodingly into the fire. . . . "I do not know why you came. But now you are here, I think I should like to talk with you a little."
"Yes—I saw your open door. I thought some one was in trouble—perhaps Mrs. Mason."
His face lighted a little. "You have done something for her I cannot understand. . . . I told you how you have helped her. . . ." His eyes lifted themselves and studied her face.
"There is something restful about you," he said softly. "I could trust your face. I need some one to trust."
"Yes. You can trust me. . . . I shall never tell any one whatever you may care to tell me."
He turned the necklace slowly. "This is all wrought in with what I want to tell you." He held it up. Her eyes sought the stones as if for the first time.
"It is a very beautiful thing!" she said wonderingly.
"Yes." The word was a breath of sigh. He held it toward her.
"Have you ever seen more beautiful work than that?"
She took it in slow fingers, and turned it in the light of the fire, and looked at it reflectively and handed it back to him.
He took it with quick fingers—almost as if to protect or to conceal it.
"She used to wear it," he said. "I gave it to her—long ago."
He was silent a moment. "I am in great trouble and perplexity about her," he said softly. "And there is no one I can tell—" The words came slowly as if they hurt him.
"Could you not tell your son?"
He shook his head. "Not Stephen," he said quickly. He looked at her again. "But I have thought—I have watched you with my wife . . . she likes to have you in the house. You are doing her good. I have not seen her so happy for a long time. She is almost her old self."
"I should not call Mrs. Mason a happy woman," said Milly thoughtfully.
"No—but happier—far happier. She seems to be more rested—more at peace."
"She is glad to have her son at home," responded Milly.
"Yes." He turned the necklace absently, and his eyes, resting on it, seemed to follow his thought. "It was Stephen's leaving home that hurt her so. She loves the boy devotedly."
"I have seen that. Why did he go?"
"It is a long story. If I tell it to you, you may see nothing in it." He looked at her musingly. "But you are a woman. A woman may understand what I have been helpless to solve."
He touched the necklace softly.
"When I gave this to her I was the happiest man on God's earth"
"My husband is a poet," came softly to Milly's ear. "He is not like other men."
"I worshipped her. There was nothing I would not have done for her, or given her. . . . I brought it home one night and found her here by the fire holding the child. And when I gave it to her, I vowed that I would make her happy always. She should have no care that I could keep from her. We would travel everywhere. She should have the best the world could give—she and I and the child." . . . The eyes, set deep in the care-worn face, looked out at her with mysterious flaming glance. "It seemed to me a wonderful thing had been given into my hands—the happiness of a beautiful nature." His hands were gripping the necklace a little. He held it up. "This necklace I clasped about her throat was not more beautiful! They were mine—to guard and keep safe. The two were somehow linked in my mind."
He looked at her questioningly. "Can you understand how I might come to think of it—of the necklace like that? It was not merely an ornament I had bought for her—it was her happiness and her beauty, that nothing must harm. Can you understand that I could feel like that about a chain of jewels?"
"Perfectly," said Milly. "She must have been very beautiful."
"Ah! And I said she should never change!" he said fiercely. "And you have seen her!" The mockery in the words touched her.
"The necklace is not changed," she said gently. "Perhaps"
"Wait!"—he held up a hand—"wait till I tell you the whole. You shall hear the whole first, before you judge!"
"But she is still beautiful," said Milly quickly. "As I know her better, I am coming to think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—though I did not think so at first. . . . I thought her plain and there was something infinitely sad in her face—but now it seems to me rarely beautiful!"
He looked at her gratefully. "You see it, too!" he said. "I thank God that you say that to me!I have not seen it for a long time." The deep, glowing eyes looked into space—beyond her, beyond the room—back through time. . . . "Yet for years her beauty was the only thing in the world to me. Wherever we went people turned to look at her. And I would think: 'Mine, mine! I was like a miser with his gold— only I wanted all the world to see my gold, and to know it was mine!"
He sank back in his chair, as if watching the illusion—as if its very evanescence were precious to him.
"I did not dream then that anything could ever touch the security of my pride in her—that utter possession of her soul that knew her mine!" His voice sank to a low note. He roused himself. "I do not need to go over it—the happiness we lived; her beauty and her sweetness. It is all bound up in this—it all comes back to this at last!" He shook the necklace lightly in his hand and the stones shimmered in his trembling touch.
"Until two years ago there was not a cloud in our life. . . . Then one day my son came to me, telling me he was in difficulties—" He paused, as if thinking swiftly. "I do not need to tell you what the trouble was. It was nothing vitally wrong"—he glanced at her hurriedly—"though you might think so. He told me he was in debt, and might need money—three thousand dollars. Of course I promised it to him. I did not happen to have it in hand, nor any collateral I wanted to tie up. I would have to sell something and I planned to let a parcel of real estate go. But it was rising in value, and I ran over everything available, and the idea of the necklace flashed to me. My wife had not worn it for months. She would not miss it. . . . I made up my mind to use the stones for collateral. But I hesitated for a day or two. The necklace had a special meaning for us. Then Stephen came the next day and said he must have the money at once, and I decided what to do."
He looked down at the necklace, handling it softly, passing it through his fingers with wistful look.
"I could not bear to tell my wife, and at last I decided to have false stones substituted. She need never know. I should replace them soon. The stones would be as safe in McAndrews's hands as in her jewel-box, and I could have them reset when the emergency was past—I fancied I could do it perfectly—I could deceive her!" He smiled wanly.
"She always wore the key on a little chain on her neck. She kept guard on precious things!" he said, and in the low words there was a little touch of bitter scorn.
"I unlocked the case and took out the necklace and hid it safely in my travelling-bag, and returned the key to its chain while she slept."
"You did not think she would miss the necklace?"
He assented by a gesture. "I knew the chance. But as I told you—she had not worn it for months, and I had my plan made. I was going to New York the next morning. I could be back in a day. If the setting were delayed a little and she discovered the loss, I had only to quiet her till the necklace was ready. . . . But, curiously, she found it out at once—the very next morning before I left. I was in the hall with my bag—the necklace in it—when she came hurrying down i to tell me of the loss. I had no time to stop, the car was waiting; I had only time to make her promise to say nothing to any one till I came back. I told her she had mislaid it. We should find it somewhere when I returned to help her look. In fact," he smiled a little ironically, "I had picked out the very place where I expected to find it, in the chintz folds of a chair—in her room. . . . But I only made her promise to say nothing, and hurried off." He sat looking before him. Then he roused himself.
"I went at once to McAndrews's with the necklace and asked for Greenwald, with whom I had an appointment. They know me well at McAndrews's. I have bought many things of them—I am somewhat of a connoisseur in jewels. I care more for them than most people," he remarked quietly. . . . "And at McAndrews's they understand that. I am not a mere customer. Greenwald in particular understands me. He is a man of rare discernment in the value of stones—not the mere money value," he said with a slight gesture of disdain.
"I know Mr. Greenwald. He is a rare man," she assented.
He turned with a quick look. "Then you understand! It does not seem to you absurd that I should think of jewels as alive—almost as sentient things!" His voice deepened and his eager eyes glowed a little. "It is not an accident that they are called 'precious' stones!" he cried. "Something hidden in them shines—some precious secret that glimmers to us!" He sighed a little. "And it always escapes us!" he said with a smile.
The necklace had fallen to his lap. He did not touch it as he went rapidly on. "I gave the emeralds to Greenwald and told him what I wanted. They were glad to do it. I had not bought it there—but I did not want to take it back where I had bought it. I had a feeling of pride perhaps—or it may have been a fear that my wife would come to know. I did not want a shadow to touch the beauty of the necklace in our lives. . . . So I gave it into Greenwald's hands and he took it to an inner room to have the stones appraised. He took it away from me!"
His figure seemed to shrink a little—and he paused and lifted the necklace and placed it on the table between them. His hollow eyes looked across at her.
"He told me these were false!" He touched the stones and pushed the necklace toward her. They sent out little gleams of light.
Milly leaned toward them. "But they are very beautiful!" she said wonderingly.
"They are a damned good imitation!" he replied under his breath and almost fiercely. "They deceived me! That says something! . . . I could have sworn they were genuine—as true as her smile!" He said it bitterly. "As true as the life she must have been living!" He struck his hand on the table. "For how long?" he cried. "When was it done? Why? . . . She knew that all I had was hers—to spend as she liked! My money? My soul was hers! She could have cut it in little bits to trim her gown and I would not have cried out! But this!" He looked at the little blinking stones where they lay. "How can I know why she needed the money?" . . . His voice sank to a whisper. "And she wore it—close to the child's head—our child!" His hand clinched suddenly. "How do I know even that—that the child was mine!"
His head dropped forward to the table. He was sobbing in deep breaths that strove to hold themselves, and his outstretched fingers touched the necklace and pushed it from him. His breath grew quiet. . . .
The woman leaned forward to the necklace and took it in her fingers. She held it thoughtfully, her eyes full of deep compassion.
When at last he sat up and looked at her, across the table, his eyes thanked her gratefully. "I think I should have gone insane," he said, "if you had not come just now! I began to be afraid of myself—afraid to be alone with my thoughts!"
"You have not told any one before? There has been no one you could talk to?" Her look travelled from the stones to his face. He stared at her earnestly, his eyes seeming to dull a little, as if a mist crossed them, and the gaze changed to deep sadness.
"I have told one person, yes—she is dead now."
"Was it Marian?"
He stared at her. "Did you know—Marian?" He put out a hand.
She shook her head. "Your wife has told me of her. I wondered"
He nodded. "Yes, it was Marian."
He sighed a little. "She was a dear child! And I was harsh with her; cruel, almost!"
Her face was intent. "Will you tell me why?" she said softly.
"I grew afraid of her!" he replied swiftly.
"But why?"
"She knew!" He looked at her with deep eyes and motioned to the necklace.
"Knew that your wife"
"No!" He held himself in check. "Had she known that, I would have wrung it from her! She only knew what I had done—and that only by an accident. . . . I sat here one night, after I had come home with the necklace, brooding on it—torturing myself with questions I dared not ask. . . . I heard a step, just as I heard yours to-night. It was Marian; she had seen I was in trouble and had stolen down to comfort me. She saw the necklace before I could conceal it from her; I had to tell her—everything. I swore her to secrecy. The detectives were in the house even then. But I knew I could trust her."
"Why did you call in the detectives?" asked Milly curiously. "You knew where the necklace was." She lifted it in her hands.
He smiled at it a little sadly. "I knew where the false stones were—yes! I wanted the others. I thought if I could find what she had done with them, I might—" He broke off. "It came to nothing. I began to be afraid at last the detectives might stumble on the truth about me—and I called them off."
"You had not thought that Marian might have taken them?" she asked slowly—"that she might be suspected?"
He stared. "Marian!" He shook his head. "You have never seen Marian," he said simply. "She was like a crystal gem!"
He pointed to the stones in her hands. "The emeralds are my wife," he said. "They may deceive—but not the crystal!
"She was Stephen's wife," he added after a minute. "I was almost glad when she went away," he admitted. "It was a relief for a little, to my torture, that no one knew. But afterward I missed her sorely. I was glad when the boy told me he was going to her. . . . Now she is dead."
He sat brooding on it. "Life is finished," he said slowly, "for all of us. There is a curse on this house that not even an innocent girl's devotion could remove. . . . Perhaps it is our punishment!" His voice sank lower. The words came brokenly:
"I wanted to—keep her perfect—without change!" he whispered. . . . "And I loved a mirage. It was only a mock love!"
"Why did you never ask for the truth?" she demanded. "You could have forced her to tell you." She stopped at the little cynical smile in the eyes turned to her.
"You have never loved any one?" he said quietly.
"Why—I—" She flushed a little.
"Never!" he returned. "Or—you would know! . . . I wanted to keep the semblance of love." His hand moved to the green stones. "I had these, at least, and some times, with the firelight on them—I have been almost deceived!" He shook his head.
"No, you must not rob me of my mock jewels." He reached out a hand. "I will keep at least the semblance of love." He turned to her almost fiercely.
"Suppose I did compel her—strip the secret bare—exposed her, shivering, to the truth. What have I gained? What have I gained?" he repeated brokenly.
She mused on it. "But suppose you give the false ones up—yield them once for all, asking nothing in return?"
He regarded her intently. "What do you mean?" he asked almost breathlessly.
"Suppose you restored the jewels to her case?"
He stared at her. "But they are worthless!"
"Suppose you try it. Put the case on her toilet-table. Leave it in plain sight, and the emeralds in it—where they were before." She got up and laid the necklace beside him on the table.
"Try it," she said. "You have nothing to lose—but mock jewels. You may have everything to gain!" She moved from him with quiet step. At the door she looked back. He had lifted the necklace and was looking at it with half-wistful eyes, and the stones seemed to glimmer mockingly in the firelight.