The Green Jacket/Chapter 23
XXIII
The sun in the breakfast-room was very bright. A little of the brightness reached to the room beyond and touched the gray figure seated there at work. The amber needles went swiftly back and forth through the meshes, and the bent eyes followed the needles intently. . . . If the jacket were to be finished, Millicent knew she must make haste. Already the threads were gathered up and the unseen hands that guided the pattern were shaping it to a finish. The talk in the library the night before had shown her that her part was nearly done.
When she had returned from the library to her room, daylight was already beginning to glimmer through the window. She had thrown back the curtains and stood watching the change from the mystery of dawn to full sunrise. Below in the shrubbery, birds had broken into singing and from the grass a thousand shining drops flashed back the light. Emeralds everywhere! . . . She had pressed her hands for a minute over her eyes, shutting them out—her heart lifting a prayer of thankfulness.
Then she had bathed and dressed and gone for a walk through the grounds, and had come back to find her breakfast waiting on its tray. . . . They were all late this morning, and she had eaten her breakfast and taken up her knitting. Her thoughts were busy with the lives that belonged to this gracious house and the mystery that was lifting from it, withdrawing its shadows before the coming sun.
Stephen Mason entered the breakfast-room and glanced at the empty table with a little look of surprise. He went to the window and stood looking out and waiting, his back to the room.
When his father came in, a moment later, he wheeled quickly.
"Good morning, sir—I thought it was mother coming." He went to the table and drew back his father's chair.
The older man accepted the courtesy with a little nod. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the eyes were heavy from lack of sleep; the straight shoulders seemed to stoop a little as he came forward.
The son was looking at him with solicitous glance. "Did you rest well, father?"
The man assented with quiet look. "I rested—yes." He waited a minute. "I rested—but I did not sleep. I got to thinking. . . . Your mother is late this morning." He glanced across to the empty place.
"Shall I speak to her? She's never late!"
"No." He held up a hand as the son made a little move. "Don't go," he said. "She will be down directly. I stopped at her room—to leave something for her. She was in the dressing-room. She told me, through the door, she was almost ready, and said not to wait for her."
The son seated himself. "Will you have an orange, sir?"
Oswald Mason reached out for the fruit and laid it on his plate, and looked down at it with absent gaze. He took up the paper from beside his plate and put it back unopened. His hand seemed to tremble a little and hesitate. He turned quickly to the opening door.
Half-way across the room his wife was holding out her hands piteously. In the open jewel-box the necklace flashed to him.
"Oswald!" she cried. "My necklace! It has come back! Some one has put it back! It is here!"
He sprang to her, and, leaning on him, she came to the table and they stood looking down at the jewels lying in the box. Suddenly she sank into a chair, great sobs shaking her, and the man stood looking down at the broken figure. The son had not moved from his place. He seemed to watch some strange, inexplicable scene in which he had no part, and to which he had no clew.
The woman raised her head and looked at his father. The tears lay unheeded on her lifted face.
"That poor child!" she said slowly. "That poor child!" The face quivered and dropped again to her arms, and over the bent head the son's glance sought his father.
The man made a little imperious gesture of negation and stooped to her. He did not speak. Only his hand resting on her hair stroked it gently.
She lifted her face at last. A quiet shudder went through her and she laid her hand on the box, and, lifting the stones, held them toward him.
"They are false!" she said quietly.
He did not speak. His hand held itself tense and waited.
She looked down at the jewels, speaking hurriedly, as if urged by some inner need.
"I sold the others—our emeralds. I pawned them—to get the money for Stephen"
The son started with quick motion, but again his father's hand restrained him.
"Wait," he said quietly.
Her voice was very low. "I pawned them—and I thought Marian was a thief!" She said the ugly word clearly, and seemed to stare at it. "Marian—a thief! how could I!"
Her husband bent to her—as if the low voice must deceive him. He searched her face swiftly.
"You thought that Marian took your emeralds?" he cried.
"She"
"Why—it was I—I who took them," he said gently.
"You— But why?"
"To pay Stephen's debts," he answered. "I wanted the boy to have another chance—start fair once more. I knew I could replace them later. You would never know. It might mean the boy's life! . . . Then, when I took them to McAndrews's they told me they had already been reset, and these were only baubles." He moved his hand to them contemptuously.
"Yes, I had them put in at Daggett's—where you bought them for me." She raised her hand to draw his face to hers. "Where you bought them for me!" she repeated tenderly.
He looked at them thoughtfully. "Suppose I had taken them to Daggett's. Would they have told me, I wonder?"
"Oh—no! They were my own. They saw you give them to me—when you bought them. I swore them to secrecy. They would never tell!"
In the sewing-room the gray woman smiled and knit a double stitch in the work in her hands, and listened to the voice in the room beyond. "They would never tell. They knew they were my own"
She scanned the face so near her own. "You are different!" she cried. "You love me, Oswald!"
He took the tear-flushed face in his hands and gazed at it, and bent and kissed the forehead.
"Forgive me, Annie!" he said gently.
"But—I have nothing to forgive!" she cried, with puzzled eyes. "It is I who have been cruel!" Her lips quivered with the pain, and the tears stole down her cheeks. . . . "If only there were something I could do for her—say to her—something I could do for Marian!" she cried softly. Her face dropped again to her hands.
The younger man rose swiftly. He moved to her side and laid his hand on her shoulder and bent to her gently.
"Mother—there is something you can do for her—and for me."
She looked up, breathless.
"There is a little child—her child and mine—that needs your care."
Then the woman broke into sobs, deep and silent, as if all the bitterness of life were breaking up in her.
In the sewing-room Milly knitted a stitch, and another, and drew out her needles and dropped them softly into the basket beside her. The green jacket was done.