Priceless Pearl — Chapter IV Part 2
They smiled at each other; it was so obvious that Anthony refrained from saying, "Lucky creature."
Presently they moved toward the house--first Pearl, bearing Horatius still wrapped in Anthony's motoring coat; then Durland, most solicitous lest the dog should be too heavy for Miss Exeter; then Anthony carrying his shoes and coat and waistcoat; and then Antonia, dancing about.
They approached the house in a quiet and rather sneaky way, by the kitchen entrance.
Anthony had no wish to meet his sister, who supposed that he had been grilling a criminal.
The children felt grave doubts that their mother would welcome Horatius at all--not that she was a cruel woman, but that she feared strange curs about the house.
Fortunately the cook, who had a great weakness for Antonia, was cordial, and allowed Horatius to dry out behind the kitchen stove.
It was now high time to dress for dinner, so there was a good excuse for stealing softly up the back stairs.
While Anthony was tying his tie a knock came at the door, and Edna came in with the manner of a person confidently expecting important intelligence.
She said in a low voice, but with an immense amount of facial gesticulation to take the place of sound, "Albertson told me you had an interview.
What did you find out?"
For the first time Anthony realized that he had been an hour in the company of the false Miss Exeter without having even asked her true name.
He might at least have done that.
A weak man would have answered irritably that what between stray dogs drowning and Edna's children interrupting he had not had an opportunity to ask the woman anything.
But he was not weak.
He simply told her the truth.
He saw that she accepted the story with reservations.
A drowning dog was all very well, but how about her pearls?
Dinner ought to have been a terrible meal, with Edna bitter and suspicious and the two detectives looking in at the window every now and then--just to show that they were on the job; but, as a matter of fact, it was extremely gay and pleasant.
Antonia was allowed to hover about the room in honor of her uncle's return, and Pearl and Anthony were--or appeared to be--in the highest spirits.
Need it be recorded that Pearl had on her best dress?
It was a soft, black, shining crêpe which she had run up one afternoon in the spring when she felt most depressed about not being able to find a position.
Dressmaking often lightened her black moments; it was to her an exciting form of creation.
It had been quickly and casually done, but it had turned out well.
Round her neck she wore the silliest little string of bright blue-glass beads, which someone had once given a doll of Antonia's in the dead past when Antonia played with dolls, and which Antonia herself occasionally wore.
Antonia had left them in Pearl's room, for her new-found personal neatness did not as yet extend to the care of her possessions, and in an impulse Pearl had put them on and found the result good.
So did Antonia.
"Oh, see!"
she said as they sat down at table.
"She has on my beads."
"Fancy Miss Exeter wearing someone else's beads!"
said Edna in a tone hard to mistake for a friendly one.
"But don't they look well on her?"
said Antonia.
"Uncle Tony, don't you think they look well on her?
How could you describe her as 'of pleasing appearance'?
It nearly made me miss her at the station that first day.
I went dodging about, trying to find a pale, plain girl--that's what mother told me to look for.
I think Miss Exeter is beautiful, don't you?"
"Antonia!"
said her mother scornfully, as if nonsense were being talked.
Anthony, however, never allowed his niece to put him in a hole.
"I certainly do," he said, and he looked straight at Pearl, and she looked straight at him and laughed and said, "You'd be a brave man to say no when Antonia takes that tone."
"I should be worse than brave--I should be a liar," said Anthony.
The sentiment, which brought a lovely beam from Pearl, brought him a dark glance from his sister.
She thought it was not like Anthony to be silly about a woman, and then the encouraging idea occurred to her that he was luring her on in order to win her confidence--clever creature that he was.
As soon as dinner was over the children rushed away to feed Horatius;
and Edna, who felt the need of uninterrupted conversation with her brother, led him across the lawn to Miss Wellington's house.
It was not easy, for he showed the same reluctance to go that people show toward leaving a wood fire on a cold day; but when Miss Exeter--who, of course, everyone knew wasn't Miss Exeter--said she had a letter to write he rose to his feet.
"A letter?"
he said, the idea being, of course, that now he was at home, there could be no more letters in the world.
Pearl nodded.
It really was important, for she had always promised Augusta to write her a full account of the first meeting with her respected employer; and, as a matter of fact, Pearl was bursting with eagerness to express her emotion to someone.
If she wrote at once the letter could be posted that evening, when, about nine o'clock, a man came to deliver and receive mail.
As Edna and her brother went out they passed Mr. Albertson on guard, and Edna conveyed the information to him that "she" had gone to write a letter.
Albertson made a reassuring gesture and they passed on.
Cora was all eagerness and cordiality.
"And what has Anthony discovered about her?"
were her first words--spoken to Edna, but directed toward him.
Edna came nobly to his assistance, gave an account of the rescue of Horatius quite as if she thought it a natural, explainable incident, which she was really very far from thinking.
"And what are his impressions?"
said Cora.
Anthony found this question almost as embarrassing as the first one.
He could not share his impressions.
They were mingled--that the girl was beautiful--that swimming was a sensuous and graceful motion--that wet garments clinging to lovely limbs had not been sculptured since the Greeks made statuettes--that absolute integrity is consistent with masquerading under another name than your own and stealing someone else's references.
But, alas, these convictions were as impossible to share as a religious revelation.
He turned for help to the most ancient methods.
"And what do you think of her, Cora?"
he said, as if he really cared.
"I wrote you what I thought," said Cora, and went into it again, while he sat smoking and trying to remember whether or not he had ever read that letter of Cora's with the long description of moonlight on the sea.
He rather thought he hadn't. "Ah," said Edna, willing to do Cora a kindness, "so you and Anthony correspond, do you?"
At which Cora laughed self-consciously, and Anthony looked like a graven image--his well-known method of concealing emotion.
This time the emotion was simply irritation, but Edna said to herself, "Well, after all, she wouldn't be so bad."
In the short pause that followed, Durland bounded suddenly into the room.
His eyes, which were normally blue like his mother's, looked almost white in the sudden lights of the room.
They were very wide open, and his small face was pale under his freckles and set with anger.
"Look here, Uncle Anthony," he said, "did you know what is going on in our house?
Did you know they suspected Miss Exeter of stealing mother's pearls?"
No one answered, and he continued, his voice shaking a little: "She asked me to give a letter she had been writing to the man who comes with the evening mail, and as I did Albertson came out and tried to take it from me--but that was a little too much."
The letter was still in his hand, crumpled from the struggle.
"I never heard of such a thing!
It's an outrage!
Did you know of this, mother?"
There was something menacing in his tone.
"My dear boy," said Edna, in that patronizing tone that people use as if their ability to conceal something from a child were a tremendous proof of their own superiority.
"I'm afraid it will be a great shock to you, but you must face the fact that she did steal my pearls--at least so we believe; and that she is not Miss Exeter at all--she is a notorious English jewel thief known by the agreeable sobriquet of Golden Moll."
"You don't know that, Edna," said her brother quickly.
"I should say not!"
cried Durland.
"Mother, I think it's perfectly rotten of you to think it's even possible."
Edna turned to her brother.
"You see, Anthony," she said, "what you've done to me, introducing this woman into my house--turning my own children against me."
Cora smiled at the boy soothingly.
"But Durland doesn't know that we have proof that she took the pearls," she said, as one calmly able to make all smooth and easy.
"No, Durland," said his mother, "I have not been able to tell you--the detectives would not let me until your uncle got back--that we have proof.
Miss Exeter is not Miss Exeter at all--just an imposter.
Oh, tell him, Anthony--tell him that she's--a common, everyday thief."
"I can't do that," said Wood, "because I don't think so."
"You mean," said his sister, as if now, indeed, a chasm had opened at her very feet, "that you have any doubt that she stole the pearls?"
"I'm perfectly certain that she didn't," said Wood.
Edna burst out at this into a wail of reproach and anger, ending with the not unnatural accusation that her brother must be in love with the woman too.
"Yes, perhaps I am," said Anthony.
The idea was new to him, and not repugnant; but he spoke more to annoy his sister than from any more serious motive; but as he spoke he saw that Pearl and Mr. Albertson were in the room and must have heard him, Pearl, however, was too much excited already to register any further excitement.
She strode into the room as she strode into the board room of the Encyclopedia; and almost at once catching sight of her letter, still in Durland's hand, she made a grab for it; only Edna was quicker--or rather nearer--and succeeded in getting it first.
Pearl turned to Anthony.
"Mr. Wood," she said, "I want my letter--I won't have anyone read my letter.
It's an outrage!"
Mr. Albertson felt his moment had come.
"Now look, girlie," he said, "we about have the goods on you.
Think of your folks!
We want to help you."
He took the letter from Mrs. Conway.
"I know," he said, "that a lady's correspondence ought to be sacred, but----" "But," said Edna, not able to refrain from interrupting--"but ask her why it is she doesn't want her letter read."
"Well, I reckon I can figure that out for myself," said Mr. Albertson.
But in this instance--perhaps the only one of his long and successful career--he was wrong.
He could not figure out why it was Pearl objected so violently to allowing that letter to be read.
The reason was this: She had always promised Augusta that she would communicate her first impressions of Mr. Wood, and as soon as he and his sister left the house to go to Miss Wellington's she had run upstairs, and on the much-used typewriter she hastily ticked out a prose lyric on the subject of her meeting with the only man she ever could have or ever had loved.
It began: My dear, he came this afternoon.
Why didn't you tell me what he was like?
Oh, I know you said he was attractive.
Attractive!
He's incredible!
He's devastating!
And that voice!
You never said a word about that voice, which makes me shake every time he speaks--like a telegraph wire in a wind.
Oh, Augusta, isn't it silly?
But I think I love him---- That was just the way it began.
At the sight of that letter in Mrs. Conway's hands, a storm of emotion swept over Pearl, even before she remembered just what she had said.
But as phrase after phrase flashed before her eyes and seemed actually to tingle down to the tips of her fingers, she sprang like an animal at its prey, and would have had it, too, if it had not been for Mr. Albertson, who catching her elbow as she went by, not only stopped her, but spun her completely round--so vigorous had been her motion.
Frustrated in action, Pearl burst into speech.
She said that she must and would have that letter back; she said that opening other people's letters was a state's prison offense; she went on like a maniac, and every word she uttered made Mr. Albertson feel more and more convinced that the letter must be read.
Still, he was a chivalrous man; he believed in chivalry as some people believe in Christianity--as the important highway in their lives, from which at moments they are obliged to stray.
"Now look, girlie," he said again, in accents even more honeyed, "don't excite yourself.
Why would you mind me reading your letter, which I see is to another lady?"
"It's none of your business why I mind," said Pearl.
"I just do.
Oh, Mr. Wood," she said, turning to Anthony, "don't let them read my letter!"
"I won't," he said.
"I'll read it myself."
"Oh, no!"
said Pearl with a little scream.
There was a pause.
Anthony already had the letter in his hands now.
He looked very gravely at Pearl.
"I'm sorry you mind," he said.
"But this letter must be read either by my sister or me or Albertson.
Which one would you rather have read it?"
It was a hard choice.
Pearl looked deliberately from one to another, and then she looked at Anthony.
"You," she said.
In complete silence he opened it and read it carefully through.
Pearl stood motionless, watching him, studying his face.
If he had laughed, if he had even smiled, she would have killed him.
She was hardly aware of Albertson and Edna and Cora and Durland, all also watching him, to read in his face what he was reading on the paper.
None of them read anything.
His face was like a mask.
He folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.
Then he took out his pocketbook and put the letter in it and put the pocketbook back in his pocket.
Then he said, "I wish to have a word with Miss Exeter alone."
There was a small room that opened off the room in which they were sitting; he walked toward it.
"May we go in here, Cora?"
he said.
He made a motion with his hand, and Pearl, like a person bewitched, preceded him.
"Don't be long, Tony," Edna called to him.
"I may be some time," he answered, and shut the door behind him.
Five minutes passed--ten.
To those waiting it seemed an hour.
Once Mr. Albertson walked near the door and bent his head.
"Can you hear anything?"
said Edna.
"Not a thing," said Mr. Albertson.
"You wouldn't be such a cad as to listen, would you?"
said Durland.
Nobody answered him.
More time elapsed; and then Albertson, springing up, walked with a firm step to the door and turned the handle.
It was locked.
Albertson shook back a long gray lock from his forehead.
"What do you make of that?"
he said.
Miss Wellington laughed.
"Mrs. Conway has the right explanation, I think," she said.
"She's done the trick with Mr. Wood too."
"Not at all," said Edna.
"How can you be so low, Cora?
I only said that to make Anthony angry.
He's finding out--luring her to tell him everything."
"Kidding her along, you mean?"
said Mr. Albertson, who hated people not to use the right word.
"They've probably both got out of the back window by this time," said Miss Wellington.
This time Mr. Albertson frankly leaned his ear against the crack of the door.
"No, they're there yet," he said, moving away again.
"I can hear them talking--low."
Another silence succeeded to this information, and then Mrs. Conway's butler appeared in the doorway.
He looked about and said over his shoulder, "Yes, sir, she's here."
He drew back and ushered in Gordon Conway.
Edna looked at the man who had been her husband and said irritably, "You, Gordon; This is really a little too much!"
"Hullo, father," said Durland.
"Hullo, Durlie," said his father, as if he were trying to be cordial;
and then, seeing Albertson, he added in a tone really cordial, "Why, Albertson, how do you do?
I haven't seen you since the night what's his name--who had that crooked wheel in Hester Street--was pulled.
Off the force?"
The two men shook hands.
"Gordon," said Edna, again determined to know the worst, "what do you want?"
"Why, oddly enough--nothing at all," replied Mr. Conway.
He did not give the same impression of furtiveness and wasted pallor that Pearl had gained when she had caught a glimpse of him on the steps.
No one could say he had a color, but he was distinctly less corpselike.
There was nothing shabby about him now either.
He was very well dressed in a dark morning suit; his boots, his tie, the wrist watch which he kept glancing at as if his time was rather short, were all of the most elegant sort.
"No, my dear," he went on, "you ought to welcome me most cordially, for I have come to make you a present--quite a present."
And fishing languidly in his pocket he produced the string of pearls.
"A present!"
cried Edna.
"Those are my pearls!"
"They are now," said her husband politely, "because I have made up my mind to give them to you."
"You gave them to me originally--they were always mine."
Conway shook his head a number of times.
"So you have always said, Edna; but saying a thing over and over again does not make it any truer.
I did not give them to you----" "You did," said Edna.
"Ah, Edna," he answered sadly, "how you can take the grace out of life!
You can make even the present of a splendid string of pearls seem ungracious.
I never gave them to you.
I let you wear them while you were my wife--a mistake, for when you ceased to be my wife you would not give them back--natural, but hardly honest."
"That's absolutely untrue," said Edna.
He did not allow her to ruffle him.
"But now," he went on, "I do give them to you--freely and completely.
Be witness, Albertson, that I present this string of pearls to this lady--who was once my wife."
Edna was examining them pearl by pearl.
"They seem to be all right," she said.
"The number is right.
What's this?"
she added, indicating an emerald drop which had never been on them before.
"That's an extra; that's interest on the money," answered Conway with a flourish; "that's an expression of thanks for your courtesy in letting me have them at a moment when they meant so much to me."
This recalled the question of how he had obtained them.
"Gordon," she said, "did you steal those out of my safe?"
He shook his head.
"You can't steal what is already your own."
"I can't see how in the world you got them," said Edna, "unless that woman is a confederate.
Did she give them to you?"
"I don't even know what woman you mean, Edna," he answered.
"If you mean a magnificent Hebe who was coming into the house in a hurry as I was going out the other day, I may say I should always be glad to be her confederate in anything--one of the few times in my life, Edna, I was actually sorry to leave your house.
No, I did not go to your safe, although I am interested to know that you have one."
"That's where they were," said Edna indignantly, looking round.
"The pearls were locked up in the safe.
I know that."
"Like so much of your more positive information, my dear, that, too, is wrong," said Conway.
"You had them on when I called.
And as we talked they came unfastened, and you took them off and laid them on the table beside you.
Something told me that you had not been aware of what you did, and so when you refused so very roughly to lend me the sum of money I needed I simply took back my pearls--when you were not looking."
"Gordon," said Edna, "you stole my pearls."
And her tone had a note of triumph as if the old delight of putting him in the wrong had not entirely died.
"I took my pearls from the table," said Conway, "and turned them for a few days into cash, with which I know you will be glad to know I made a lot of money--a pot of money, Albertson--there is money still to be made on the races for a smart fellow who knows how; and then, my dear, with a quixotic impulse I gave you the pearls, as I have always thought of doing.
Some men might have given them to a younger and more amiable woman, but my nature has always been distinguished by a peculiar form of loyalty.
I give them to you--for the sake of old times."
"You brought them back for the sake of not going to jail," said Edna, her eyes flashing at him.
He smiled gently.
"Edna," he said, "as time goes on you learn nothing--absolutely nothing.
Durland, when are you going to begin to grow?
Good night, Albertson.
Remember that you are a witness to this gift.
Good night."
And he had taken his departure before anyone spoke again.
It was Durland who spoke first.
His voice shook a little.
"You see, mother," he said, "what a terrible injustice you have done Miss Exeter.
She might sue you, only she's too generous.
Oh, if you had only told me that my father had been about that day--only you never tell me anything, as if I were a baby.
You will apologize to her, won't you?"
"I do not seem to be likely to get the chance of speaking to her at all," said Edna, glancing at the closed door.
Cora Wellington rose to her feet.
"I'm sorry to be inhospitable, Edna," she said, "but I have had a long, hard day attending to your business, and I want to go to bed.
In fact, I think I'll go."
And she walked firmly out of the room and upstairs, where, since the house--like the Conways'--was lightly built, she could be heard rapidly walking about on her heels in the room immediately overhead.
"Well," said Mr. Albertson, "It looks like I may as well be getting back to the Great White Way myself.
I congratulate you on the happy termination of this affair, Mrs. Conway.
I do not think that emerald is genuine, but I presume it is the sentiment that will appeal to you.
I
feel as happy as you do that that sweet young lady is as innocent as a baby."
It cannot be said that Edna looked particularly happy over this point.
She raised her shoulders.
"But we don't know yet who she is.
She certainly is not Miss Exeter."
Albertson smiled.
"You will find it was just a girlish prank," he said.
"And I think we may presume that Mr. Wood now knows the whole story.
I think if you'll permit me I'll call my assistant and we will get the car and be off."
Mrs. Conway, once again wearing her pearls, and Durland, still talking of apologies, accompanied Mr. Albertson back to the other house.
So the room was empty.
Gradually it seemed to lose even the remembrance of its late occupants.
The down cushion of the chair in which Edna had been sitting rose softly to its accustomed level with something like a sigh of relief.
A wicker sofa, of stiffer nature, creaked in every fibre.
A drooping flower in a glass vase gave a little shiver and shed every last petal on the table, as if it had been waiting all the evening to do this.
Even the window curtains ceased swaying in the sea-breeze.
It was as if the room and everything in it settled down to a breathless expectancy.
And at last the door of the little room opened and Pearl and Anthony came out.
They did not appear at all surprised to find the room empty.
They would not have been surprised to find the universe empty--to hear phantom newsboys calling an extra announcing that no one existed but themselves--"Rumor confirmed that only Pearl and Anthony Exist."
Pearl looked about her with that beautiful starry blankness that certain emotions bring to any human countenance--a thousand times starrier than ever before.
"I wonder," she said, without the slightest trace of real interest, "what has happened."
"Haven't you been listening to me," said Anthony.
"A miracle has happened--we have fallen in love."
Nevertheless he understood her meaning; and just to please her he walked to the door and glanced into the corridor.
