The day Jeffrey began to spade up the ground he knew he had got hold of
something bigger than the handle of the spade. It was something rudely
beneficent, because it kept him thinking about his body and the best way
to use it, and it sent him to bed so tired he lay there aching. Not
aching for long though: now he could sleep. That seemed to him the only
use he could put himself to: he could work hard enough to forget he had
much of an identity except this physical one. He had not expected to
escape that horrible waking time between three and four in the morning
when he had seen his life as an ignorant waste of youth and power. It
was indeed confusion, nothing but that: the confusion of overwhelming
love for Esther, of a bravado of display when he made money for them
both to spend, of the arrogant sense that there was always time enough,
strength enough, sheer brilliant insight enough to dance with life and
drink with it and then have abundance of everything left. And suddenly
the clock had struck, the rout was over and there was nothing left. It
had all been forfeit. He hardly knew how he had come out of prison so
drained of courage when he had been so roistering with it before he went
in. Sometimes he had thought, at three o'clock in the morning, that it
was Esther who had drained him: she, sweet, helpless, delicate flower of
life. She had not merely been swayed by the wind that worsted him. She
had perhaps been broken by it. Or at least it had done something
inexplicable which he, entirely out of communication with her, had not
been able to understand. And he had come back to find her more lovely
than ever, and wearing no mark of the inner cruelties he had suffered
and had imagined she must share with him.
He believed that his stay in prison had given him an illuminating idea
of what hell really is: the vision of heaven and a certainty of the
closed door. Confronted with an existence pared down to the satisfying
of its necessities, he had loathed the idea of luxury while he hated the
daily meagreness. Life had stopped for him when he entered inexorable
bounds. It could not, he knew, be set going. Some clocks have merely
stopped. Others are smashed. It had been the only satisfaction of his
craving instincts to build up a scheme of conduct for the prison paper:
but it had been the vision of a man lost to the country of his dreams
and destined to eternal exile. Now all these aches and agonies of the
past were lulled by the surge of tired muscles. He worked like a fury
and the colonel, according to his strength, worked with him. They talked
little, and chiefly about the weather prospects and the ways of the
earth. Sometimes Anne would appear, and gently draw the colonel in, to
advise her about something, and being in, he was persuaded to an egg-nog
or a nap. But he also was absorbed, she saw, though he went at a slower
pace than Jeff. He who had been old seemed to be in physical revolt; he
was not sitting down to wait for death. He was going to dig the ground,
even if he dug his grave, and not look up to see what visitant was
waiting for him. It might be the earthly angel of a renewed and sturdy
life. It might be the last summoner. But death, he told himself stoutly,
though in a timorous bravado, waited for all.
Jeffrey's manuscript was laid aside. On Sundays he was too tired to
write, too sleepy at night. For Lydia and Anne, it was, so far as family
life went, a time of arrested intercourse. Their men were planting and
could not talk to them, or tired and could not talk then. The colonel
had even given up pulling out classical snags for Mary Nellen. He would
do it in the evening, he said; but every evening he was asleep. Lydia
had developed an astounding intimacy with Madame Beattie, and Anne was
troubled. She told Alston Choate, who came when he thought there was a
chance of seeing her alone, because he was whole-heartedly sorry for
her, at the mercy of the vagaries of the little devil, as he permitted
himself to call Lydia in his own mind.
"Madame Beattie," Anne said, "isn't a fit companion for a young girl.
She can't be."
Alston remembered the expression of satiric good-humour on Madame
Beattie's face, and was not prepared wholly to condemn her. He thought
she could be a good fellow by habit without much trying, and he was very
sure that, with a girl, she would play fair. But if he had heard Madame
Beattie this morning in June, as she took Lydia to drive, he might not
have felt so assured. These drives had become a matter of custom now. At
first, Madame Beattie had taken Denny and an ancient victoria, but she
tired of that.
"The man's as curious as a cat," she said to Lydia. "He can move his
ears. That's to hear better. Didn't you see him cock them round at us?
Can you drive?"
"Yes, Madame Beattie," said Lydia. "I love to."
"Then we'll have a phaeton, and you shall drive."
Nobody knew there was a phaeton left in Addington. But nobody had known
there was a victoria, and when Madame Beattie had set her mind upon
each, it was in due course forthcoming, vehicles apparently of an equal
age and the same extent of disrepair. So they set forth together, the
strange couple, and jogged, as Madame Beattie said. She would send the
unwilling Sophy, who had a theory that she was to serve Esther and
nobody else, and that scantily, over with a note. The Blake house had
no telephone. Jeff, for unformulated reasons, owned to a nervous
distaste for being summoned. And the note would say:
"Do you want to jog?"
Lydia always wanted to, and she found it the more engaging because
Madame Beattie told her it drove Esther to madness and despair.
"She's furious," said Madame Beattie, with her lisp. "It's very silly of
her. She doesn't want to go with me herself. Not that I'd have her. But
you are an imp, my dear, and I like you."
This warm morning, full of sun and birds, they were jogging up Haldon
Hill, a way they took often because it only led down again and motorists
avoided it. Madame Beattie, still thickly clad and nodded over by
plumes, lounged and held her parasol with the air of ladies in the Bois.
Lydia, sitting erect and hatless, looked straight ahead, though the
reins were loose, anxiously piercing some obscurity if she might, but
always a mental one. Her legal affairs were stock still. Alston Choate
talked with her cordially, though gravely, about her case, dissuading
her always, but she was perfectly aware he was doing nothing. When she
taxed him with it, he reminded her that he had told her there was
nothing to do. But he assured her everything would be attempted to save
her father and Anne from anxiety, and incidentally herself. About this
Madame Beattie was asking her now, as they jogged under the flicker of
leaves.
"What has that young man done for you, my dear, young Choate?"
"Nothing," said Lydia.
She put her lips together and thought what she would do if she were
Jeff.
"But isn't he agitating anything?"
"Agitating?"
"Yes. That's what he must do, you know. That's all he can do."
Lydia turned reproachful eyes upon her.
"You think so, too," she said.
"Why, yes, dear imp, I know it. Jeff's case is ancient history.
We can't do anything practical about it, so what we want is to
agitate--agitate--until he leaves his absurd plaything--carrots, is it,
or summer squash?--and gets into business in a civilised way. The man's
a genius, if only his mind wakes up. Let him think we're going to spread
the necklace story far and wide, let him see Esther about to be hauled
before public opinion--"
"He doesn't love Esther," said Lydia, and then savagely bit her lip.
"Don't you believe it," said Madame Beattie sagely. "She's only to crook
her finger. Agitate. Why, I'll do it myself. There's that dirty little
man that wants an interview for his paper. I'll give him one."
"Weedon Moore?" asked Lydia. "Anne won't let me know him."
"Well, you do know him, don't you?"
"I saw him once. But when I threaten to take Jeff's case to him, if Mr.
Choate won't stir himself, Anne says I sha'n't even speak to him. He
isn't nice, she thinks. I don't know who told her."
"Choate, my dear," said Madame Beattie. "He's afraid Moore will get hold
of you. He's blocking your game, that's all."
Madame Beattie, the next day, did go to Weedon Moore's office. He was
unprepared for her and so the more agonisingly impressed. Here was a
rough-spoken lady who, he understood, was something like a princess in
other countries, and she was offering him an interview.
Madame Beattie showed she had the formula, and could manage quite well
alone.
"The point is the necklace," said she, sitting straight and fanning
herself, regarding him with so direct a gaze that he pressed his knees
in nervous spasms. "You don't need to ask me how old I am nor whether I
like this country. The facts are that I was given a very valuable
necklace--by a Royal Personage. Bless you, man! aren't you going to take
it down?"
"Yes, yes," stammered Moore. "I beg your pardon."
He got block and pencil, and though the attitude of writing relieved him
from the necessity of looking at her, he felt the sweat break out on his
forehead and knew how it was dampening his flat hair.
"The necklace," said Madame Beattie, "became famous. I wore it just
enough to give everybody a chance to wonder whether I was to wear it or
not. The papers would say, 'Madame Beattie wore the famous necklace.'"
"Am I permitted to say--" Weedon began, and then wondered how he could
proceed.
"You can say anything I do," said Madame Beattie promptly. "No more. Of
course not anything else. What is it you want to say?"
Weedon dropped the pencil, and under the table began to squeeze
inspiration from his knees.
"Am I permitted," he continued, aghast at the liberty he was taking, "to
know the name of the giver?"
"Certainly not," said Madame Beattie, but without offence. "I told you a
Royal Personage. Besides, everybody knows. If your people here don't,
it's because the're provincial and it doesn't matter whether they know
it or not. I will continue. The necklace, I told you, became almost as
famous as I. Then there was trouble."
"When?" ventured Weedon.
"Oh, a long time after, a very long time. The Royal Personage was going
to be married and her Royal Highness--"
"Her Royal Highness?"
"Of course. Do you suppose he would have been allowed to marry a
commoner? That was always the point. She made a row, very properly. The
necklace was famous and some of the gems in it are historic. She was a
thrifty person. I don't blame her for it. She wasn't going to see
historic jewels drift back to the rue de la Paix. So they made me a
proposition."
Moore was forgetting to be shy. He licked his lips, the story promised
so enticingly.
"As I say," Madame Beattie pursued, "they made me a proposition." She
stopped and Moore, pencil poised, looked at her inquiringly. She closed
her fan, with a decisive snap, and rose. "There," said she, "you can
elaborate that. Make it as long as you please, and it'll do for one
issue."
Weedon felt as if somehow he had been done.
"But you haven't told me anything," he implored. "Everybody knows as
much as that."
"I reminded you of that," said Madame Beattie. "But I know several
things everybody doesn't know. Now you do as I tell you. Head it: 'The
True Story of Patricia Beattie's Necklace. First Instalment.' And you'll
sell a paper to every man, woman and baby in this ridiculous town. And
when the next day's paper doesn't have the second instalment, they'll
buy the next and the next to see if it's there."
"But I must have the whole in hand," pleaded Weedon.
"Well, you can't. Because I sha'n't give it to you. Not till I'm ready.
You can publish a paragraph from time to time: 'Madame Beattie under
the strain of recollection unable to continue her reminiscences. Madame
Beattie overcome by her return to the past.' I'm a better journalist
than you are."
"I'm not a journalist," Weedon ventured. "I practise law."
"Well, you run the paper, don't you? I'm going now. Good-bye."
And so imbued was he with the unassailable character of her right to
dictate, that he did publish the fragment, and Addington bought it
breathlessly and looked its amused horror over the values of the foreign
visitor.
"Of course, my dear," said the older ladies--they called each other "my
dear" a great deal, not as a term of affection, but in moments of
conviction and the desire to impress it--"of course her standards are
not ours. Nobody would expect that. But this is certainly going too far.
Esther must be very much mortified."
Esther was not only that: she was tearful with anger and even penetrated
to her grandmother's room to rehearse the circumstance, and beg Madam
Bell to send Aunt Patricia away. Madam Bell was lying with her face
turned to the wall, but the bedclothes briefly shook, as if she
chuckled.
"You must tell her to go," said Esther again. "It's your house, and it's
a scandal to have such a woman living in it. I don't care for myself,
but I do care for the dignity of the family." Esther, Madam Bell knew,
never cared for herself. She did things from the highest motives and the
most remote. "Will you," Esther insisted, "will you tell her to leave?"
"No," said grandmother, from under the bedclothes. "Go away and call
Rhoda Knox."
Esther went, angry but not disconcerted. The result of her invasion was
perhaps no more bitter than she had expected. She had sometimes talked
to grandmother for ten minutes, meltingly, adjuringly, only to be asked,
at a pause, to call Rhoda Knox. To-day Rhoda, with a letter in her hand,
was just outside the door.
"Would you mind, Mrs. Blake," she said, "asking Sophy to mail this?"
Esther did mind, but she hardly ventured to say so. With bitterness in
her heart, she took the letter and went downstairs. Everybody, this
swelling heart told her, was against her. She still did not dare
withstand Rhoda, for the woman took care of grandmother perfectly, and
if she left it would be turmoil thrice confounded. She hated Rhoda the
more, having once heard Madame Beattie's reception of a request to carry
a message when she was going downstairs.
"Certainly not," said Madame Beattie. "That's what you are here for, my
good woman. Run along and take down my cloak and put it in the
carriage."
Rhoda went quite meekly, and Esther having seen, exulted and thought she
also should dare revolt. But she never did.
And now, having gone to grandmother in her mortification and trouble,
she knew she ought to go to Madame Beattie with her anger. But she had
not the courage. She could hear the little satiric chuckle Madame
Beattie would have ready for her. And yet, she knew, it had to be done.
But first she sent for Weedon Moore. The interview had but just been
published, and Weedon, coming at dusk, was admitted by Sophy to the
dining-room, where Madame Beattie seldom went. Esther received him with
a cool dignity. She was pale. Grandmother would no doubt have said she
made herself pale in the interest of pathos; but Esther was truly
suffering. Moore, fussy, flattered, ill at ease, stood before her,
holding his hat. She did not ask him to sit down. There was an unspoken
tradition in Addington, observed by everybody but Miss Amabel, that
Moore was not, save in cases of unavoidable delay, to be asked to sit.
He passed his life, socially, in an upright posture. But Esther began at
once, fixing her mournful eyes on his.
"Mr. Moore, I am distressed about the interview in your paper."
Moore, standing, could not squeeze inspiration out of his knees, and
missed it sorely.
"Mrs. Blake," said he, "I wouldn't have distressed you for the world."
"I can't speak to my aunt about it," said Esther. "I can't trust myself.
I mustn't wound her as I should be forced to do. So I have sent for you.
Mr. Moore, has she given you other material?"
"Not a word," said Weedon earnestly. "If you could prevail upon her--"
There he stopped, remembering Esther was on the other side.
"I shall have to be very frank with you," said Esther. "But you will
remember, won't you, that it is in confidence?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Moore. He had never fully risen above former
conditions of servitude when he ran errands and shovelled paths for
Addington gentry. "You can rely on me."
"My aunt," said Esther delicately, with an air of regret and several
other picturesque emotions mingled carefully, "my aunt has one delusion.
It is connected with this necklace, which she certainly did possess at
one time. She imagines things about it, queer things, where it went and
where it is now. But you mustn't let her tell you about it, and if she
insists you mustn't allow it to get into print. It would be taking
advantage, Mr. Moore. Truly it would." And as a magnificent concession
she drew forward a chair, and Weedon, without waiting to see her placed,
sank into it and put his hands on his knees. "You must promise me,"
Esther half implored, half insisted. "It isn't I alone. It's everybody
that knows her. We can't, in justice to her, let such a thing get into
print."
Weedon was much impressed, by her beauty, her accessibility and his own
incredible position of having something to accord. But he had a system
of mental bookkeeping. There were persons who asked favours of him, whom
he put down as debtors. "Make 'em pay," was his mentally jotted note. If
he did them an obliging turn, he kept his memory alert to require the
equivalent at some other time. But he did not see how to make Esther
pay. So he could only temporise.
"I'd give anything to oblige you, Mrs. Blake," he said, "anything, I
assure you. But I have to consider the paper. I'm not alone there, you
know. It's a question of other people."
Esther was familiar with that form of withdrawal. She herself was always
escaping by it.
"But you own the paper," she combated him. "Everybody says so."
"I have met with a great deal of misrepresentation," he replied
solemnly. "Justice is no more alive to-day than liberty." Then he
remembered this was a sentence he intended to use in his speech to-night
on the old circus-ground, and added, as more apposite, "I'd give
anything to serve you, Mrs. Blake, I assure you I would. But I owe a
certain allegiance--a certain allegiance--I do, really."
With that he made his exit, backing out and bowing ridiculously over his
hat. And Esther had hardly time to weigh her defeat, for callers came.
They began early and continued through the afternoon, and they all
asked for Madame Beattie. It was a hot day and Madame Beattie, without
her toupee and with iced _eau sucree_ beside her, was absorbedly
reading. She looked up briefly, when Sophy conveyed to her the summons
to meet lingering ladies below, and only bade her: "Excuse me to them.
Say I'm very much engaged."
Then she went on reading. Esther, when the message was suavely but
rather maliciously delivered by Sophy, who had a proper animosity for
her social betters, hardly knew whether it was easier to meet the
invaders alone or run the risk of further disclosure if Madame Beattie
appeared. For though no word was spoken of diamonds or interviews or
newspapers, she could follow, with a hot sensitiveness, the curiosity
flaring all over the room, like a sky licked by harmless lightnings.
When a lady equipped in all the panoply of feminine convention asked for
grandmother's health, she knew the thought underneath, decently
suppressed, was an interest, no less eager for being unspoken, in
grandmother's attitude toward the interview. Sometimes she wanted to
answer the silent question with a brutal candour, to say: "No,
grandmother doesn't care. She was perfectly horrible about it. She only
laughed." And when the stream of callers had slackened somewhat she
telephoned Alston Choate, and asked if he would come to see her that
evening at nine. She couldn't appoint an earlier hour because she wasn't
free. And immediately after that, Reardon telephoned her and asked if he
might come, rather late, he hesitated, to be sure of finding her alone.
And when she had to put him off to the next night, he spoke of the
interview as "unpardonable ". He was coming, no doubt, to bring his
condolence.