A carnival of motor cars kept on whirling to all parts of the town where
Madame Beattie was likely to speak. She spoke in strange places: at
street corners, in a freight station, at the passenger station when the
incoming train had brought a squad of workmen from the bridge repairing
up the track. It was always to workmen, and always they knew, by some
effective communication, where to assemble. The leisure class, too, old
Addingtonians, followed her, as if it were all the best of jokes, and
protested they sometimes understood what she said. But nobody did,
except the foreigners and not one of them would own to knowing. Weedon
Moore made little clipped bits of speeches, sliced off whenever her car
appeared and his audience turned to her in a perfect obedience and
glowing interest. Jeff, speaking for Alston, now got a lukewarm
attention, the courtesy born out of affectionate regard. None of the
roars and wild handclappings were for him. Madame Beattie was eating up
all the enthusiasm in town. Once Jeff, walking along the street, came on
her standing in her car, haranguing a group of workmen, all intent,
eager, warm to her with a perfect sympathy and even a species of
adoration.
He stepped up in the car beside her. He had an irritated sense that, if
he got near enough, he might find himself inside the mystic ring. She
turned to him with a gracious and dramatic courtesy. She even put a hand
on his arm, and he realised, with more exasperation, that he was
supporting her while she talked. The crowd cheered, and, it appeared,
they were cheering him.
"What are you saying?" he asked her, in an irascible undertone. "Talk
English for ten minutes. Play fair."
But she only smiled on him the more sympathetically, and the crowd
cheered them both anew. Jeff stuck by, that night. He stayed with her
until, earlier than usual because she had tired her voice, she told the
man to drive home.
"I am taking you with me to see Esther," she mentioned unconcernedly, as
they went.
"No, you're not," said Jeff. "I'm not going into that house."
"Very well," said Madame Beattie. "Then tell him to stop here a minute,
while we talk."
Jeff hesitated, having no desire to talk, and she herself gave the
order.
"Poor Esther!" said Jeff, when the chauffeur had absented himself to a
sufficient distance, and, according to Madame Beattie's direction, was
walking up and down. "Isn't it enough for you to pester her without
bringing me into it? Why are you so hard on her?"
"I've been quite patient," said Madame Beattie, "with both of you. I've
sat down and waited for you to make up your minds what is going to be
done about my necklace. You're doing nothing. Esther's doing nothing.
The little imp that took it out of Esther's bag is doing nothing. I've
got to be paid, among you. If I am not paid, the little dirty man is
going to have the whole story to publish: how Esther took the necklace,
years ago, how the little imp took it, and how you said you took it, to
save her."
"I have told Weedon Moore," said Jeff succinctly, "in one form or
another that I'll break his neck if he touches the dirty job."
"You have?" said Madame Beattie. She breathed a dramatic breath,
whether of outraged pride or for calculated effect he could not tell.
"Jeff, I can assure you if the little man refuses to do it--and I doubt
whether he will--I'll have it set up myself in leaflets, and I'll go
through the town distributing them from this car. Jeff, I must have
money. I must have it."
He sat back immovable, arms folded, eyes on the distance, and frowningly
thought. What use to blame her who acted after her kind and was no more
to be stirred by appeals than a wild creature red-clawed upon its prey?
"Madame Beattie," said he, "if I had money you should have it. Right or
wrong you should have it if it would buy you out of here. But I haven't
got it."
"It's there you are a fool," she said, moved actually now by his
numbness to his own endowment. "I could beat my head and scream, when I
think how you're throwing things away, your time, in that beastly night
school, your power, your personal charm. Jeff, you've the devil's own
luck. You were born with it. And you simply won't use it."
He had said that himself in a moment of hope not long before: that he
had the devil's own luck. But he wasn't going to accept it from her.
"You talk of luck," he said, "to a man just out of jail."
"You needn't have been in jail," she was hurling at him in an unpleasant
intensity of tone, as if she would have liked to scream it and the quiet
street denied her. "If you hadn't pleaded guilty, if you hadn't handed
over every scrap of evidence, if you had been willing to take advantage
of what that clerk was ready to swear--why, you might have got off and
kept on in business and be a millionaire to-day."
How she managed to know some of the things she did he never fathomed.
He had never seen anybody of the direct and shameless methods of Madame
Beattie, willing to ask the most intimate questions, make the most
unscrupulous demands. He remembered the young clerk who had wanted to
perjure himself for his sake.
"That would have made a difference, I suppose," he said, "young
Williams' testimony. I wonder how he happened to think of it."
"He thought of it because I went to him," said Madame Beattie. "I said,
'Isn't there anything you could swear to that would help him?' He knew
at once. He turned white as a sheet. 'Yes,' he said, 'and I'll swear to
it.' I told him we'd make it worth his while."
"You did?" said Jeff. "Well, there's another illusion gone. I took a
little comfort in young Williams. I thought he was willing to perjure
himself because he had an affection for me. So you were to make it worth
his while."
She laughed a little, indifferently, with no bitterness, but in
retrospect of a scene where she had been worsted.
"You needn't mourn that lost ideal," she said. "Young Williams showed me
the door. It was in your office, and he actually did show me the door.
He was glad to perjure himself, he said, for you. Not for money. Not for
me."
Jeff laughed out.
"Well," he said, "that's something to the good anyway. We haven't lost
young Williams. He wrote to me, not long ago. When I answer it, I'll
tell him he's something to the good."
But Madame Beattie was not going to waste time on young Williams.
"It ought to be a criminal offence," she said rapidly, "to be such a
fool. You had the world in your hand. You've got it still. You and
Esther could run such a race! think what you've got, both of you, youth,
beauty, charm. You could make your way just by persuasion, persuading
this man to one thing and that man to another. How Esther could help
you! Don't you see she's an asset? What if you don't love her? Love! I
know it from the first letter to the last, and there's nothing in it,
Jeff, nothing. But if you make money you can buy the whole world."
Her eager old face was close to his, the eyes, greedy, ravenous,
glittered into his and struck their base messages deeper and deeper into
his soul. The red of nature had come into her cheeks and fought there
with the overlying hue of art. Jeff, from an instinct of blind courage,
met her gaze and tried to think he was defying it bravely. But he was
overwhelmed with shame for her because she was avowedly what she was.
Often he could laugh at her good-tempered cynicism. Over her now, for he
actually did have a kind of affection for her, he could have cried.
"Don't!" he said involuntarily, and she misunderstood him. His shame for
her disgrace she had taken for yielding and she redoubled the hot
torrent of temperamental persuasion.
"I will," she said fiercely, "until you get on your legs and act like a
man. Go to Esther. Go to her now, this night. Come with me. Make love to
her. She's a pretty woman. Sweep her off her feet. Tell her you're going
to make good and she's going to help you."
Jeff rose and stepped out of the car. The ravenous old hand still
dragged at his arm, but he lifted it quietly and gave it back to her. He
stood there a moment, his hat off, and signalled the chauffeur. Madame
Beattie leaned over to him until her eyes were again glittering into
his.
"Is that it?" she asked. "Are you going to run away?"
"Yes," said Jeff, quietly. "I'm going to run away."
The man came and Jeff stood there, hat still in hand, until the car had
started. He felt like showing her an exaggerated courtesy. Jeff thought
he had never been so sorry for anybody in his life as for Madame
Beattie.
Madame Beattie drew her cloak the closer, sunk her chin in it and
concluded Jeff was done with her. She was briefly sorry though not from
shame. It scarcely disconcerted her to find he liked her even less than
she had thought. Where was his large tolerance, she might have asked,
the moral neutrality of the man of the world?
He had made it incumbent on her merely to take other measures, and next
day, seeing Lydia walk past the house, she went to call on Anne. Her way
was smooth. Anne herself came to the door in the neighbourly Addington
fashion when help was busy, and took her into the library, expressing
regret that her father was not there. The family had gone out on various
errands. This she offered in her gentle way, even with a humorous
ruefulness, Madame Beattie would find her so inadequate. To Anne, Madame
Beattie was exotic as some strange eastern flower, not less impressive
because it was a little wilted and showed the results of brutal usage.
Madame Beattie composedly took off her cloak and put her feet up on the
fender, an attitude which perilously tipped her chair. On this Anne
solicitously volunteered to move the fender and did it, bringing the
high-heeled shoes comfortably near the coals. Then Madame Beattie,
wasting no time in preliminaries, began, with great circumspection and
her lisp, and told Anne the later story of the necklace. To her calm
statement of Esther's thievery Anne paid a polite attention though no
credence. She had not believed it when Lydia told her. Why should she be
the more convinced from these withered lisping lips? But Madame Beattie
went on explicitly, through the picturesque tale of Lydia and the
necklace and the bag. Then Anne looked at her in unaffected horror. She
sat bolt upright, her slender figure tense with expectation, her hands
clasped rigidly. Madame Beattie enjoyed this picture of a sympathetic
attention, a nature played upon by her dramatic mastery. Anne had no
backwardness in believing now, the deed was so exactly Lydia's. She
could see the fierce impulse of its doing, the reckless haste, no pause
for considering whether it were well to do. She could appreciate Lydia's
silence afterward. "Poor darling" she murmured, and though Madame
Beattie interrogated sharply, "What?" she was not to hear. All the
mother in Anne, faithfully and constantly brooding over Lydia, grew into
passion. She could hardly wait to get the little sinner into her arms
and tell her she was eternally befriended by Anne's love. Madame Beattie
was coming to conclusions.
"The amount of the matter is," she said, "I must be paid for the
necklace."
"But," Anne said, with the utmost courtesy, "I understand you have the
necklace."
"That isn't the point," said Madame Beattie. "I have been given a great
deal of annoyance, and I must be compensated for that. What use is a
necklace that I can neither sell nor even pawn? I am in honour bound
"--and then she went on with her story of the Royal Personage, to which
Anne listened humbly enough now, since it seemed to touch Lydia. Madame
Beattie came to her alternative: if nobody paid her money to ensure her
silence, she would go to Weedon Moore and give him the story of
Esther's thievery and of Lydia's. Anne rose from her chair.
"You have come to me," she said, "to ask a thing like that? To ask for
money--"
"You are to influence Jeff," Madame Beattie lisped. "Jeff can do almost
anything he likes if he doesn't waste himself muddling round with
turnips and evening schools. You are to tell him his wife and the imp
are going to be shown up. He wouldn't believe me. He thinks he can
thrash Moore and there'll be an end of it. But it won't be an end of it,
my dear, for there are plenty of channels besides Weedon Moore. You tell
him. If he doesn't care for Esther he may for the little imp. He thinks
she's very nice."
Madame Beattie here, in establishing an understanding, leered a little
in the way of indicating a man's pliability when he thought a woman
"very nice", and this finished the utter revolt of Anne, who stood, her
hand on a chair back, gazing at her.
"I never," said Anne, in a choked way, "I never heard such horrible
things in my life." Then, to her own amazement, for she hardly knew the
sensation and never with such intensity as overwhelmed her now, Anne
felt very angry. "Why," she said, in a tone that sounded like wonder,
"you are a dreadful woman. Do you know what a dreadful woman you are?
Oh, you must go away, Madame Beattie. You must go out of this house at
once. I can't have you here."
Madame Beattie looked up at her in a pleasant indifference, as if it
rather amused her to see the grey dove bristling for its young. Anne
even shook the chair she held, as if she were shaking Madame Beattie.
"I mean it," she said. "I can't have you stay here. My father might
come in and be civil to you, and I won't have anybody civil to you in
this house. Lydia might come in, and Lydia likes you. Why, Madame
Beattie, can you bear to think Lydia likes you, when you're willing to
say the things you do?"
Madame Beattie was still not moved except by mild amusement. Anne left
the chair and took a step nearer.
"Madame Beattie," she said, "you don't believe a word I say. But I mean
it. You've got to go out of this house, or I shall put you out of it
with my hands. With my hands, Madame Beattie--and I'm very strong."
Madame Beattie was no coward, but she was not young and she had a sense
of physical inadequacy. About Anne there was playing the very spirit of
tragic anger, none of it for effect, not in the least gauged by any idea
of its efficiency. Those slender hands, gripping each other until the
knuckles blanched, were ready for their act. The girl's white face was
lighted with eyes of fire. Madame Beattie rose and slowly assumed her
cloak.
"You're a silly child," she said. "When you're as old as I am you'll
have more common-sense. You'd rather risk a scandal than tell Jeff he
has a debt to pay. By to-morrow you'll see it as I do. Come to me in the
morning, and we'll talk it over. I won't act before then."
She walked composedly to the door and Anne scrupulously held it for her.
They went through the hall, Anne following and ready to open the last
door also. But she closed it without saying good-bye, in answer to
Madame Beattie's oblique nod over her shoulder and the farewell wave of
her hand. For an instant Anne felt like slipping the bolt lest her
adversary should return, but she reflected, with a grimness new to her
gentle nature, that if Madame Beattie did return her own two hands were
ready. She stood a moment, listening, and when the carriage wheels
rolled away down the drive, she went to the big closet under the stairs
and caught at her own coat and hat. She was going, as fast as her feet
would carry her, to see Alston Choate.