That she did look upon Jeff as her tormentor he could see. She took a
darting step to the door, but he was closing it.
"Wait a minute," he said. "There are one or two things we've got to get
at. Where did you find the necklace?"
She met his look immovably, in the softest obstinacy. It smote him like
a blow. There was something implacable in it, too, an aversion almost as
fierce as hate.
"This is the necklace," he went on. "It was lost, you know. Where did
you find it, Esther?"
But suddenly Esther remembered she had a counter charge to make.
"You have broken into this house," she said, "and taken it. If it is
Aunt Patricia's, you have taken it from her."
"No," said Aunt Patricia easily, "it isn't altogether mine. Jeff made me
a payment on it a good many years ago."
Esther turned upon her.
"He paid you for it? When?"
"He paid me something," said Madame Beattie. "Not the value of the
necklace. That was when you stole it, Esther. He meant to pay me the
full value. He will, in time. But he paid me what he could to keep you
from being found out. Hush money, Esther."
Queer things were going on in Jeff's mind. The necklace, no matter what
its market price, seemed to him of no value whatever in itself. There
it lay, a glittering gaud; but he had seen a piece of glass that threw
out colours as divinely. Certainly the dew was brighter. But as
evidence, it was very important indeed. The world was a place, he
realised, where we play with counters such as this. They enable us to
speak a language. When Esther had stolen it, the loss had not been so
much the loss of the gems as of his large trust in her. When Madame
Beattie had threatened him with exposing her he had not paid her what he
could because the gems were priceless, but that Esther's reputation was.
And so he had learned that Madame Beattie was unscrupulous. What was he
learning now? Nothing new about Madame Beattie, but something astounding
about Esther. The first upheaval of his faith had merely caused him to
adjust himself to a new sort of Esther, though only to the old idea of
women as most other men had had the sense to take them: children,
destitute of moral sense and its practical applications, immature
mammals desperately in love with enhancing baubles. He had not believed
then that Esther lied to him. She had, he was too sure for questioning,
actually lost the thing. But she had not lost it. She had hidden it,
with an inexplicable purpose, for all these years.
"Esther!" he said. She lifted her head slightly, but gave no other sign
of hearing. "We'll give this back to Madame Beattie."
"No, you won't, Jeff," said Madame Beattie. "I'd rather have the money
for it. Just as soon as you get into the swing again, you'll pay me a
little on the transaction."
"Sell the damned thing then, if you don't want it and do want money,"
said Jeff. "You've got it back."
"I can't sell it." She had half closed her eyes, and her lips gave an
unctious little relish to the words.
"Why can't you?"
"My dear Jeffrey, because, when the Royal Personage who gave it to me
was married, I signed certain papers in connection with this necklace
and I can't sell it, either as a whole or piecemeal. I assure you I
can't."
"Very well," said Jeff. "That's probably poppycock, invented for the
occasion. But you've got your necklace. There it is. Make the most of
it. I never shall pay you another cent."
"Oh, yes, you will," said Madame Beattie. She was unclasping and
clasping a bracelet on her small wrist, and she looked up at him idly
and in a perfect enjoyment of the scene. "Don't you want to pay me for
not continuing my reminiscences in that horrid little man's paper?
Here's the second chapter of the necklace. It was stolen. You come
walking in here and say you've stolen it again. But where from? Out of
Esther's hand-bag. Do you want the dirty little man to print that?
Necklace found in Mrs. Jeffrey Blake's hand-bag?"
Jeff was looking at her sharply.
"I never said I took it from a hand-bag," he rejoined.
Madame Beattie broke down and laughed. She gave the bracelet a final
snap.
"You're quite a clever boy," said she. "Alston Choate wouldn't have seen
that if he'd hammered at it a week. Yes, it was in Esther's bag. I don't
care much how it got out. The question is, how did it get in? How are
you going to shield Esther?"
He was aware that Esther was looking at him in a breathless waiting. The
hatred, he knew, must have gone out of her face. She was the abject
human animal beseeching mercy from the stronger. That she could ask him
whom she had repudiated to stand by her in her distress, hurt him like a
personal degradation. But he was sorry for her, and he would fight. He
answered roughly, at a venture, and he felt her start. Yet the roughness
was not for her.
"No. I shall do nothing whatever," he said, and heard her little cry and
Madame Beattie's assured tone following it, with an uncertainty whether
he had done well.
"You're quite decided?" Madame Beattie was giving him one more chance.
"You're going to let Esther serve her time in the dirty little man's
paper? It'll be something more than publicity here. My word! Her name
will fly over the globe."
He heard Esther's quick breathing nearer and nearer, and then he felt
her hand on his arm. She had crept closer, involuntarily, he could
believe, but drawn by the instinct to be saved. He felt his own heart
beating thickly, with sorrow for her, an agonising ruth that she should
have to sue to him. But he spoke sharply, not looking at her, his eyes
on Madame Beattie's.
"I shall not assume the slightest responsibility in the matter. I have
told you I took the necklace. You can say that in Weedon Moore's paper
till you are both of you--" he paused.
The hand was resting on his arm, and Esther's breathing presence choked
him with a sense of the strangeness of things and the poignant suffering
in mere life.
"I sha'n't mention you," said Madame Beattie. "I know who took the
necklace."
"What?"
His movement must have shaken the touch on his arm, for Esther's hand
fell.
"You don't suppose I'm a fool, do you?" inquired Madame Beattie. "I knew
it was going to happen. I saw the whole thing."
"Then," said Esther, slipping away from him a pace, "you didn't do it
after all."
If he had not been so shaken by Madame Beattie's words he could have
laughed with the grim humour of it. Esther was sorry he had not done it.
"So," said Madame Beattie, "you'd better think twice about it. I'll give
you time. But I shall assuredly publish the name of the person who took
the necklace out of Esther's bag, as well as the fact that it had to be
in Esther's bag or it couldn't have been taken out. Two thieves, Jeff.
You'd better think twice."
"Yes," said Jeff. "I will think. Is it understood?" He walked over to
her and stood there looking down at her.
She glanced pleasantly up at him.
"Of course, my dear boy," she said. "I shouldn't dream of saying a
word--till you've thought twice. But you must think quick, Jeff. I can't
wait forever."
"I swear," said Jeff, "you are--" Neither words nor breath failed him,
but he was afraid of his own passion.
Madame Beattie laughed.
"Jeff," said she, "I've no visible means of support. If I had I should
be as mild--you can't think!"
He turned and, without a look at Esther, strode out of the room. Esther
hardly waited for the door to close behind him before she fell upon
Madame Beattie.
"Who did it?" she cried. "That woman?"
Madame Beattie was exploring a little box for a tablet, which she took
composedly.
"What woman?" she asked.
"That woman upstairs."
"Rhoda Knox? God bless me, no! Rhoda Knox wouldn't steal a button. She's
New England to the bone."
"Sophy?"
"Esther, you're a fool. Why don't you let me manage Jeff in my own way?
You won't manage him yourself." She got up with a clashing of little
chains and yawned broadly. "Don't forget Alston Choate sitting in the
dining-room waiting like a messenger boy."
"In the dining-room?"
"Yes. Did you think he'd go? He's waiting there to hear Jeff assault
you, and come to the rescue. You told him you were afraid." She was on
her way to the door, but she turned. "I may as well take this," she said
idly, and swept the necklace into her hand. She held it up and shook it
in the light, and Esther's eyes, as she knew they would, dwelt on it
with a hungry passion.
"You are taking it away," said Esther. "You've no right to. He said he
had paid you money on it when it was lost. If he did, it belongs to him.
And I'm his wife."
"I might as well take it with me," said Madame Beattie. "You don't act
as if you were his wife."
A quick madness shot into Esther's brain and overwhelmed it, anger, or
fright, she could not tell what. She did not cry out because she knew
Alston Choate was in the next room, but she spoke sobbingly:
"He did take it out of my bag. You have planned it between you to get it
back into your hands."
Madame Beattie laughed pleasantly and went upstairs. And Esther crossed
the little hall and stood in the dining-room door looking at Alston
Choate. As she looked, her heart rose, for she saw conquest easy, in his
bowed head, his frowning glance. He had not wanted to stay, his attitude
told her; he was even yet raging against staying. But he could not leave
her. Passion in him was fighting side by side with feminine
implacability in her against the better part of him. She went forward
and stood before him droopingly, a most engaging picture of the purely
feminine. But he did not look at her, and she had to throw what argument
she might into her voice.
"You were so good to stay," she said, with a little tired sigh. "They've
gone. Come back into the other room."
He rose heavily and followed her, but in the library he did not sit
down. Esther sank into a low chair, leaned back in it and closed her
eyes. She really needed to give way a little. Her nerves were trembling
from the shock of more than one attack on them; fear, anger, these were
what her husband and Madame Beattie had roused in her. Jeffrey was
refusing to help her, and she hated him. But here was another man deftly
moved to her proximity by the ever careful hand of providence that had
made the creatures for her.
Alston stood by the mantel, leaning one elbow on it, with a strange
implication of wanting to put his head down and hide his face.
"Esther!" said he. There was no pretence now of being on terms too
distant to let him use her name.
She looked up at him, softly and appealingly, though he was not looking
at her. But Esther, if she had played Othello, would have blacked
herself all over. Alston began again in a voice of what sounded like an
extreme of irritation.
"For God's sake, tell me about this thing."
"You know all I do," she said brokenly.
"I don't know anything," said Choate. "You tell me your husband----"
"Don't call him that," she entreated.
"Your husband entered this house and took the necklace. I want to know
where he took it from."
"She told you," said Esther scornfully.
He gained a little courage now and ventured to look at her. If she could
repel Madame Beattie's insinuation, it must mean she had something on
her side. And when he looked he wondered, in a rush of pity, how he
could have felt anything for that crushed figure but ruth and love. So
when he spoke again his voice was gentler, and Esther's courage leaped
to meet it.
"I am told the necklace was in your bag. How did it get there?"
"I don't know," said Esther, in a perfect clarity.
His new formed hope crumbled. He could hear inexorably, like a counter
cry, Lydia's voice, saying, "She stole it." Had Esther stolen it? But
Esther did not know Lydia had said it, or that it had ever been said to
him at all, and she was daring more than she would have dared if she had
known of that antagonist.
"It is a plot between them," she said boldly.
"Between whom?"
"Aunt Patricia and him."
"What is the plot?"
"I don't know."
"If you think there was a plot, you must have made up your mind what the
plot was and what they were to gain by it. What do you believe the plot
to have been?"
This was all very stupid, Esther felt, when he might be assuring her of
his unchanged and practical devotion.
"Oh, I don't know," she said irritably. "How should I know?"
"You wouldn't think there was a plot without having some idea of what it
was," he was insisting, in what she thought his stupid way. "What is
your idea it was?"
This was really, she saw, the same question over again, which was
another instance of his heavy literalness. She had to answer, she knew
now, unless she was to dismiss him, disaffected.
"She put the necklace in my bag," she ventured, with uncertainty as to
the value of the statement and yet no diminution of boldness in making
it.
"What for?"
"To have him steal it, I suppose."
"To have him steal her own necklace? Couldn't she have given it to him?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Esther. "She is half crazy. Don't you see she
is? She might have had a hundred reasons. She might have thought if he
tried to steal it he'd get caught, and she could blackmail him."
"But how was he to know she had put it in the bag?"
"I don't know." Esther was settling into the stolidity of the obstinate
when they are crowded too far; yet she still remembered she must not
cease to be engaging.
"Why was it better to have him find it in your bag than anywhere else in
the house?" he was hammering on.
"I don't know," said Esther again, and now she gave a little sigh.
That, she thought, should have recalled him to his male responsibility
not to trap and torture. But she had begun to wonder how she could
escape when the door opened and Jeff came in. Alston turned to meet him,
and, with Esther, was amazed at his altered look. Jeff was like a man
who had had a rage and got over it, who had even heard good news, or had
in some way been recalled. And he had. On the way home, when he had
nearly reached there, in haste to find Lydia and tell her the necklace
was back in Madame Beattie's hands, he had suddenly remembered that he
was a prisoner and that all men were prisoners until they knew they
were, and it became at once imperative to get back to Esther and see if
he could let her out. And the effect of this was to make his face to
shine as that of one who was already released from bondage. To Esther
he looked young, like the Jeff she used to know.
"Don't go, Choate," he said, when Alston picked himself up from the
mantel and straightened, as if his next move might be to walk away. "I
wanted to see Esther, but I'd rather see you both. I've been thinking
about this infernal necklace, and I realise it's of no value at all."
Choate's mind leaped at once to the jewels in Maupassant's story, and
Madame Beattie's quick disclaimer when he ventured to hint the necklace
might be paste. Did Jeff know it was actually of no value?
Jeff began to walk about the room, expressing himself eagerly as if it
were difficult to do it at all and it certainly could not be done if he
sat.
"I mean," said he, "the only value of anything tangible is to help you
get at something that isn't tangible. The necklace, in itself, isn't
worth anything. It glitters. But if we were blind we shouldn't see it
glitter."
"We could sell it," said Choate drily, "or its owner could, to help us
live and support being blind."
Esther looked from one to the other. Jeffrey seemed to her quite mad.
She had known him to talk in erratic ways before he went into business
and had no time to talk, but that had been a wildness incident to youth.
But Choate was meeting him in some sort of understanding, and she
decided she could only listen attentively and see what Choate might find
in him.
"It's almost impossible to say what I want to," said Jeff. The sweat
broke out on his forehead and he plunged his hands in his pockets and
stood in an obstinate wrestling with his thought. "I mean, this
necklace, as an object, is of no more importance, really, than that
doorstone out there. But the infernal thing has captured us. It's made
us prisoner. And we've got to free ourselves."
Now Esther was entirely certain he was mad. Being mad, she did not see
that he could say anything she need combat. But her own name arrested
her and sent the blood up into her face.
"Esther," said he, "you're a prisoner to it because you've fallen in
love with its glitter, and you think if you wore it you'd be lovelier.
So it's made you a prisoner to the female instinct for adornment."
Alston was watching him sharply now. He was wondering whether Jeff was
going to accuse her of appropriating it in the beginning.
"Choate is a prisoner," said Jeff earnestly and with such simplicity
that even Choate, with his fastidious hatred of familiarity, could not
resent it. "He's a prisoner to your charm. But here's where the necklace
comes in again. If he could find out you'd done unworthy things to get
it your charm would be broken and he'd be free."
This was so true that Choate could only stare at him and wish he would
either give over or brutally tell him whether he was to be free.
"Madame Beattie uses the necklace as a means of livelihood," said Jeff.
He was growing quite happy in the way his mind was leading him, because
it did seem to be getting him somewhere, where all the links would hold.
"Because she can get more out of it, in some mysterious way I haven't
fathomed, than by selling it. And so she's prisoner to it, too."
"I shall be able to tell what the reason is," said Choate, "before long,
I fancy. I've sent for the history of the Beattie necklace. I know a man
in Paris who is getting it for me."
"Good!" said Jeff. "Now I propose we all escape from the necklace. We're
prisoners, and let's be free."
"How are you a prisoner?" Alston asked him.
Jeff smiled at him.
"Why," said he, "if, as I told you, I took the necklace from this house,
I'm a criminal, and the necklace has laid me by the heels. Who's got it
now?"
This he asked of Esther and she returned bitterly:
"Aunt Patricia's got it. She walked out of the room with it, shaking it
in the sun."
"Good!" said Jeff again. "Let her have it. Let her shake it in the sun.
But we three can escape. Have we escaped? Choate, have you?"
He looked at Choate so seriously that Choate had to take it with an
equal gravity. He knew how ridiculous the situation could be made by a
word or two. But Jeff was making it entirely sane and even epic.
"We know perfectly well," said Jeff, "that the law wouldn't have much to
do if all offenders and all witnesses told the truth. They don't,
because they're prisoners--prisoners to fear and prisoners to
selfishness and hunger. But if we three told each other the truth--and
ourselves, too--we could be free this instant. You, Esther, if you would
tell Choate here how you've loved that necklace and what you've done for
it, why, you'd free him."
Esther cried out here, a little sharp cry of rage against him.
"I see," said she, "it's only an attack on me. That's where all your
talk is leading."
"No, no," said Jeff earnestly. "I assure you it isn't. But if you owned
that, Esther, you'd be ashamed to want glittering things. And Choate
would get over wanting you. And that's what he'd better do."
The impudence of it, Choate knew, was only equalled by its coolness.
Jeff was at this moment believing so intently in himself that he could
have made anybody--but an angry woman--believe also. Jeff was telling
him that he mustn't love Esther, and virtually also that this was
because Esther was not worthy to be loved. But if Choate's only armor
was silence, Esther had gathered herself to snatch at something more
effectual.
"You say we're all prisoners to something," she said to Jeffrey. Her
face was livid now with anger and her eyes glowed upon him. "How about
you? You came into this house and took the necklace. Was that being a
prisoner to it? How about your being free?"
Choate turned his eyes away from her face as if it hurt him. The taunt
hurt him, too, like unclean words from lips beloved. But he looked
involuntarily at Jeff to see how he had taken them. Jeff stood in
silence looking gravely at Esther, but yet as if he did not see her. He
appeared to be thinking deeply. But presently he spoke, and as if still
from deep reflection.
"It's true, Esther. I'm a prisoner, too. I'm trying to see how I can get
out."
Choate spoke here, adopting the terms of Jeff's own fancy.
"If you want us all to understand each other, you could tell Esther why
you took the necklace. You could tell us both. We seem to be thrown
together over this."
"Yes," said Jeff. "I could. I must. And yet I can't." He looked up at
Alston with a smile so whimsical that involuntarily Alston met it with a
glimmer of a smile. "Choate, it looks as if I should have to be a
prisoner a little longer--perhaps for life."
He went toward the door like a man bound on an urgent errand, and
involuntarily Alston turned to follow him. The sight hurt Esther like an
indignity. They had forgotten her. Their man's country called them to
settle man's deeds, and the accordance of their going lashed her brain
to quick revolt. It had been working, that shrewd, small brain, through
all their talk, ever since Madame Beattie had denied Jeff's having taken
the necklace, and now it offered its result.
"You didn't take it at all," she called after them. "It was that girl
that's had the entry to this house. It's Lydia French."