Human nature being as it is, it is probable that the loss of the pearls
was nothing to Edna Conway in comparison with the satisfaction of being
able to telegraph her brother that his priceless Pearl was suspected of
having stolen them. She was a kind-hearted woman and would not normally
have wished to put even the most degraded criminal in prison; but there
seemed an ironic justice in the fact that a woman sent to reform the
manners of her children should turn out to be a thief. She valued her
pearls too. They were not only beautiful and becoming but they had a
sentimental association. Her husband had given them to her when they
were first married, after a tremendous success at Monte Carlo. They had
cost a great deal of money in the days when pearls were cheap, and yet,
as he had got them from a ruined Polish nobleman, they had not cost
their full value. He had said to her as he gave them to her, "There, my
dear, if I never give you anything else----" As a matter of fact, he
never had given her anything else; in fact, he had often tried to take
them away from her when things had first begun to go wrong. But Edna
had managed to cling to them, feeling that they would always keep away
that wolf which idle well-to-do middle-aged women appear to dread more
than any other group in the community.
Edna was not only kind-hearted but she was normally utterly lacking
in persistence; she would not have been able to conceal suspicions
from anyone over a protracted period. But malice is a powerful motive,
and she managed in the days that followed the loss to play her part
admirably. The idea that Anthony was already hurrying home to meet the
imposter who had slipped into the real Miss Exeter's place gave her a
determination she usually lacked.
It was perhaps stupid of Pearl not to guess that her fraud had been
detected as soon as the detectives set to work. But Pearl was so much
interested in the recovery of the jewels that it never crossed her
mind she herself was suspected. She did notice a slight change for
the better in Mrs. Conway's manner--a certain sugary sweetness--a
willingness to be in the same room with her, especially if the
detectives were for any reason busy--a new interest in all her plans.
The thought that occupied her mind was the idea that Wood was on his
way home; that at last she and the man she had been writing to every
day for weeks were to meet face to face. How could he fail to be
pleased with her--she who had made Antonia neat, Durland studious, and
had at least suggested to Dolly's egotism that there were other women
in the world at least as attractive as she? Pearl thought a great deal
about their first meeting; there would be a certain awkwardness about
it, especially if it took place in the presence of the family, as it
probably would. Still, she could manage it. She would say in a few
simple words that she was Augusta Exeter's best friend, and had taken
her place. He was sure to be amused and smile that nice smile which
Augusta had described. The interview went on and on in her imagination,
a different way each time she imagined it; but always agreeable, always
exciting, always ending in Mr. Wood expressing his gratitude and
admiration.
Yet this man about whom she was thinking so constantly was actually
speeding toward her, feeling as bitter about her as it is possible to
feel about a person you have never seen. We forgive anything better
than being made ridiculous. It was not mere vanity, though, that made
Anthony so angry. He knew that much of his power over his sister had
been destroyed. Everything that he suggested in the future would be met
by Edna's amused "Another priceless pearl, Anthony." Yes, he said to
himself as he sat with folded arms and stared out of the train window,
he had made a fool of himself. What did he know of the real Miss
Exeter? He had no one but himself to blame.
He had been on the point of starting home when he received Edna's
second telegram announcing her loss. Everyone, as the author of
Cranford has observed, has a pet economy, and Edna's economy was
telegrams. She never cabled or telegraphed if she could help it, and
then she usually obscured her meaning by compressing it into as few
words as possible. When Anthony opened this one and saw its great
length and her name at the bottom of it he knew that something was
terribly wrong. It said:
Pearls stolen from safe. Only governess had combination.
Detectives discover she is imposter. Real Miss Exeter married and
went to Canada two days after you saw her in New York. This woman
has no idea she is suspected. Is closely watched and has had no
opportunity of disposing of jewels. Pearls thought to be still on
place or hidden on beach. Please return immediately. Be careful
about telegrams. She might get them first.
As soon as Anthony read that message he felt a conviction that it was
all true. Whether or not she had stolen the pearls, he knew she was an
imposter, for he realized now that he had known from the beginning that
he had been in correspondence with a beautiful woman. He had tried to
tell himself that the quality he felt in her letters was the vanity
of a plain one, but all along he had known in his heart that in some
strange and subtle way beauty had exuded from every line she wrote. He
had been made a fool of by a beautiful and criminal woman. Well, he
would hurry home and settle that score in short order. He was not a
cruel man, he said to himself, but this did not seem a situation that
called for mercy.
It was, of course, necessary that someone should meet Anthony on his
arrival in New York and acquaint him with all the details. As Edna was
unwilling to leave her household, the duty fell to Miss Wellington, who
complained a great deal and leaped at the chance.
So when Anthony got off the train in the Pennsylvania Station there was
not only his secretary but his old friend, Cora Wellington, waiting
to greet him. The secretary remained to see about the bags, while he
and Miss Wellington drove to his apartment. The robbery was still a
secret--not to be told to the papers--even the secretary did not know
of it. As they drove up the long incline to the level of Seventh Avenue
Cora said the thing that Anthony wanted to hear and yet would not say
even to himself:
"Really, Anthony, I think Edna might have guessed that it was not the
governess you had sent. You couldn't have selected such a person--dyed
yellow hair and a sort of exuberant, almost coarse good looks that you
wouldn't admire in any woman and would not tolerate in a governess, I'm
sure."
It was agreeable to hear, but he would not admit it.
"Poor old Edna," he said. "I don't feel exactly in a position to
criticize. This woman must be clever."
"Clever!" exclaimed Miss Wellington. "It's uncanny! Instantly she
obtained an almost hypnotic influence over Durland and Antonia. Even
Dolly was on the point of succumbing--if it had not been that the
woman overreached herself in her affair with young Williams. Between
ourselves, Anthony, though I haven't said this to Edna, I don't feel
at all sure that that affair did not go a great deal further than the
kiss."
Anthony frowned in silence. This was almost more than he could bear.
He said to himself that it was the idea of Antonia being brought into
contact with such a situation that disgusted him.
Cora was kind enough to sit in his drawing-room and wait while he had
a bath and dressed. It was a nice room and she thought as she waited
how she would rearrange the furniture if ever she should come to live
there. There were photographs of the children about--Antonia as a baby,
Durland in his first sailor suit, a picture of Edna with the three
children grouped about her like English royalties.
She was wearing the pearls.
Then Anthony came out of his room, looking handsome and sleek and brown
and very well dressed in blue serge; and they went out and had luncheon
together, and then started at once for their drive of a hundred miles
in Anthony's car.
She answered all his questions--and one he did not ask. She
volunteered: "I must confess, Anthony, when I first saw this girl--saw
how unsuitable she was--I felt your wonderful judgment must have been
clouded by your having fallen in love with her."
"Recollect, please," he returned, "that even if it had been the girl I
saw, I had only seen her once."
"Don't people fall in love at first sight?"
Anthony smiled.
"I don't," he said; and he went on to describe the slow process by
which a love which can be depended on to last must necessarily grow.
To Miss Wellington, who had known Anthony for fifteen years, the
description was perfectly satisfactory.
They reached Edna's house a little after five. Dolly had gone away
the day before to soothe her wounded feelings at a house party in
the Adirondacks. Durland was playing golf and Antonia having supper
with her friend Olive. Edna alone received the traveler. She did not
reproach him; she gave him the greeting of a woman simply crushed by
anxiety.
He said, "I'm awfully sorry about this, Edna. You've had a disagreeable
time--aside from the pearls, I mean."
She raised her large sullen eyes.
"If only you had not made me promise, Tony--so that I was not free
to turn a thief out of my house until she had actually stolen my
valuables. A woman has an intuition when she's allowed to follow it."
He had not a word to say in answer. He had an interview with the
detective--the head man, Mr. Albertson; the other one was engaged in
watching Miss Exeter--the false Miss Exeter, who was sitting, as her
custom was of an afternoon, on the beach. It was this habit of sitting
for hours alone on the beach that had led to the theory that the pearls
were hidden there, waiting the right opportunity to be dug up and
dispatched to a confederate.
Mr. Albertson was a tall, gray-haired man of the utmost dignity.
His figure would have been improved by a faithful addiction to the
daily dozen, and his feet were extraordinarily large. He had a calm,
grand manner and was extremely chivalrous in his attitude toward all
women--even those he was engaged in sending to jail. He reminded
Anthony of the walrus--or was it the carpenter?--who wept so bitterly
for the oysters while he sorted out those of the largest size. Mr.
Albertson melted with pity for that sweet young creature as he
detailed the growing mass of evidence against her: The burglaries in
Southampton since her coming; the fact that she had insisted on having
the combination of the safe; the fact that Mrs. Conway had locked the
pearls in the safe and that only Miss Exeter had gone to the safe
afterward; the mysterious appearance of Miss Exeter in Mrs. Conway's
room during the night before the robbery, and, of course, her alias.
It had been largely a matter of form, Mr. Albertson said--the sending
of his men to look up her record. It had been a shock to them all to
find that the agency which had originally sent Wood the names of
governesses could offer proof that their Miss Exeter had married and
gone to Canada. So far they had not been able to get any information as
to this woman who had slipped into her place. Some of her things had a
P on them. Mr. Albertson mentioned that there was a notorious English
thief--Golden Polly or Golden Moll.
"She's called by both names," said Mr. Albertson. "This girl answers
her description very good."
Wood nodded. Had he in fact been getting a daily letter all these weeks
from Golden Moll? The idea intrigued him not a little.
"I think I'll go and have a talk with her," he said.
"By all means, by all means," said Mr. Albertson. "We've just been
waiting for you, you know--just to see how she'll act when confronted
with you. She hasn't a notion, you know, that you've left Mexico. But,"
he went on in his deep rich voice, "I'd speak her fair if I was you.
Kindness, Mr. Wood, never does any harm. What are we put in this world
for except to help each other--women especially? If I was you I'd say,
'Look, girlie, we want to help you. We have you dead to rights, and
you'd better come across. Come across, girlie,' I'd say, 'and make it
easy for everyone.'" Mr. Albertson had already recommended this speech
to Mrs. Conway without success, and now it seemed to him that Mr. Wood
was not really going to make it.
"Ay, yes," Anthony said rather noncommittally.
He turned from Mr. Albertson quietly, as is some people's manner when
they are doing something important and, crossing the piazza, stood a
moment at the top of the steps.
The sun had just set behind his right shoulder, and to those who love
the sea the bare flat scene had at this moment an extraordinary beauty.
All round the circle of the horizon there was a grayish lilac color.
The sea was blue and gray, the beach was pink, with gray shadows under
the dunes--strange blending colors that come with no other light.
The storm was over, and the sea, though not smooth, was heaving with
a slow, regular swell. The beach, even to the dunes, was strewn still
with seaweed and lumber and all the flotsam and jetsam of a high tide.
Immediately in front of Anthony was a large rose-colored parasol, the
owner of which had evidently forgotten to put it down, although for an
hour now it could have been of not the slightest use. Nothing appeared
beneath it but the tip of a white suède slipper.
Anthony stood and looked, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
There she was--possibly the Golden Moll of Albertson's suspicions,
certainly the writer of interesting letters, the reformer of his
niece's manners, the stealer of the pearls.
Then he heard Antonia's voice behind him, calling his name. Ordinarily
she would have stolen up behind him and clung round his neck with her
feet off the ground; but now she evidently wanted him to get the full
effect of her changed appearance, for she stood ten feet off and spoke
to him. Oddly enough, she was wearing the very clothes which Pearl
had described--the pink linen, the hat with the pink rose, the gray
silk stockings and gray suède pumps. Nothing, Anthony thought, could
have been more accurate. The child was very beautiful, just as he had
hoped--hardly dared to hope--to see her.
She gave him just that second to take her all in, and then sprang at
his neck.
"Oh, don't you think I look nice?" she said passionately. "It's all
Miss Exeter--your priceless pearl--and she is priceless. Don't you
think I look nice? I like her better almost than anyone I ever knew,
because she's so straight. Don't you think I look nice?"
"Indeed I do," said her uncle. He managed to free his neck from the
yoke of Antonia's arms and held her off and turned her round. "Yes," he
said, "you look exactly as I like to see you."
Antonia smiled and then sighed.
"I feel every stitch I have on," she said, "particularly the shoes
and stockings." She raised first one leg and then the other and shook
it, with a gesture not at all graceful. "I've never worn them except
in winter before. But still, it does make a difference in one's
popularity--clothes--particularly with boys. Boys are funny, Uncle
Anthony."
Nothing interested Anthony more than to discuss the problems of life
with his niece, but at the moment his mind was not sufficiently
disengaged. He was sorry to interrupt her, but he was obliged to go and
have a few words with her governess.
"That's all right," said Antonia. "I'll go too." And she slipped her
arm through his and, leaning her head against the point of his shoulder
prepared to descend the steps.
But Anthony explained to her that he wished to talk to Miss Exeter by
himself. Antonia was disappointed. She had looked forward to being
present when her uncle and the governess met again, but she adjusted
herself as usual.
"There's Mr. Albertson," she said. "I'll get him to come and sit with
me while I have supper, and tell me stories of crime. He says there
aren't any people like Sherlock Holmes, and that stories like that make
it hard for real detectives. I suppose that's true, and yet it's horrid
to face facts sometimes, isn't it, Uncle Anthony? It makes real life
seem pretty dull sometimes."
"Real life is not dull, Antonia," said her uncle, "take it from me."
He watched her safely into a conversation with Mr. Albertson, and then,
with his hands in his pockets, he sauntered down the steps, across the
sand toward that rose-colored parasol.
"Good afternoon, Miss Exeter," he said pleasantly.
It had been kept a profound secret that Anthony was on his way
home. The detectives had pointed out to Mrs. Conway that this was
important--that if the woman knew she was about to be unmasked she
might be goaded into sudden action--perhaps even into destroying the
pearls.
Hearing a strange voice calling her by name, Pearl came out of a
trance into which the sunset and the sea had thrown her; glancing up
from under her parasol, she saw at once that the speaker was Anthony
Wood, and that he was exactly as she had imagined him. Seeing this,
her heart gave a peculiar leap, and she beamed at him, more freely and
wonderfully than she had ever beamed at anyone in the world. The look
affected him--it would have affected any man; not just her beauty, for
he had seen a good deal of beauty in his day, but this warm, generous
honesty combined with beauty was something he had never seen. For
a second or two they just looked at each other, Pearl beaming and
beaming, and Wood looking at her, his face like a dark mask, but his
turquoise eyes piercing her heart.
She spoke first. She said in her queer deep voice, "Oh, I'm so glad
you've come, Mr. Wood."
"Are you?" he said.
Of all the sentences with which she might have greeted him--sentences
of excuse, of explanation, of appeal--he had never thought of her
saying this, and saying it with all the manner of joy and relief.
"Indeed I am," she went on, still on that same note. "Have you seen
Antonia?"
"Yes, I have."
"And isn't she----"
"We'll leave that for a moment," he said, for her effrontery began
to annoy him, and his tone was curt. But instead of being alarmed or
apologetic, she gave a little chuckle.
"Oh, yes, I know," she said; "of course you want an explanation; only I
wanted to be sure you'd seen my great achievement first, for it is an
achievement, isn't it?"
His eyebrows went up.
"Do you really expect to be praised for anything you may have done,"
he said, "before you offer some explanation as to why you are here
masquerading as Miss Exeter?"
Pearl's face fell. He was really quite cross. It seemed hard to her
that the meaningless sort of beam with which she accompanied a casual
good morning had been enough to reduce the third vice president to
weeping on his desk, while a particularly concentrated beam--a beam
designed to say in a ladylike, yet unmistakable manner that the one
man of all men was now standing before her--seemed to have no effect
whatsoever on said man. She tried it nevertheless.
Anthony, seeing it, suddenly became angry. Did this woman, he thought,
who was perhaps a thief and was certainly an impostor, really suppose
she was going to charm him, Anthony Wood, by her mere beauty--he who
was well known to be indifferent to women? She would learn----
But what she would learn was not formulated, for she now surprised
him by jumping to her feet and running like a gazelle toward the
sea, crying out something to him which he did not catch. He started,
however, in full pursuit--his first thought being that she intended
to drown herself; the second that she meant to fling the pearls into
the sea--the well-known trick of destroying the evidence in a tight
place. She ran on. The sea was up to her knees--up to her waist, fully
dressed as she was; she was now swimming. They had the sea entirely to
themselves. Even the detectives, trusting to Mr. Wood, had withdrawn
for a bite to eat; and at five o'clock all those fortunate people who
come to the seaside for the summer are engaged in golfing or playing
bridge, and seem to ignore the existence of the Atlantic Ocean.
Anthony had hesitated at the brink of the sea long enough to take off
first his shoes, second his watch and third the light coat which he
had worn driving the car, so that he was some little distance behind
her. Swimming hard and for the most part under water, he did not see
for some time the object which had attracted Pearl's attention. Neither
suicide nor the pearls were the object of her plunge, but a small white
dog which appeared to be drowning. Some children up the beach had been
throwing sticks for it, and now at the end of a long afternoon it had
got caught in some current and was obviously in trouble, every third or
fourth wave washing over its little pointed nose.
Pearl, never doubting that Wood was actuated by the same motives as
herself, panted out, "Can we get there in time?"
He came alongside her now.
"You're not going to drown too!" he said.
She shook her wet head. Together they towed the exhausted little
creature back. As soon as she could walk Pearl picked it up in her arms
and strode ashore.
"Don't you think it was a crime for those children to go away and leave
him like that?" Her gray eyes, instead of beaming, glowed angrily.
"Are you so against crime?" said Anthony, trying to smooth the water
out of his hair.
She did not even take the trouble to answer but became absorbed in
tending the dog. It was a white dog, at least its hair was white; but
now, soaked and plastered to its body, the general effect was of a
cloudy pink with gray spots. It was the offspring probably of a spotted
carriage dog and a poodle. Between it and Pearl a perfect understanding
seemed to have been at once established. She knelt beside it, and
suddenly looking up at Anthony with one of her spreading smiles, she
said, "I'm afraid it's awfully ugly."
"It has personality," he answered. He could not but be aware that
Pearl's thin dress was clinging to her almost as closely as the dog's
soft coat.
"Let me have your coat," she said.
He held it out, expecting that she meant to put it on, for every line
of her figure was visible, and every line was lovely. But Pearl was
utterly unconscious of herself. She took the coat and wrapped the dog
in it, so that only its head stuck out, with its adoring eyes turned
to her. As he watched her he found he knew positively that she had not
taken the pearls. It was no logical process; he did not say, "This girl
is too kind or too generous or too without selfconsciousness or too
much at peace." Perhaps it was a combination of all these ideas, or
perhaps it was just the miracle of personality; but somehow or other he
knew positively and for all time that she was not a thief; that she,
on the contrary, was just what in his opinion a woman ought to be. He
looked down at the bent golden head, dripping pure drops of crystal.
Dyed! What a spiteful goose Cora Wellington was!
Then Durland came down the steps.
"What's happened?" he asked.
"We've been rescuing a dog," said Anthony. "Miss--Exeter and I." So far
he knew no other name for her.
Durland smiled at him above her head, as much as to say, "Could
anything be more ridiculously attaching than women are--this woman in
particular?" And Anthony smiled back in a similar manner.
Then there was a shout, and Antonia, having finished her supper and
exhausted at least for the moment Mr. Albertson's narrative powers,
came flying down the steps, eager to know why it was that Miss Exeter
and her uncle had been in swimming with their clothes on. When
explained, it appeared to her the most natural thing in the world.
"Isn't he sweet?" she said, when she had heard the story. "I think
Horatius would be a good name for him--on account of 'Never, I ween,
did swimmer, in such an evil case, struggle through such a raging
flood'--you know. Do you think mother will let us keep him? Or do you
want to keep him, Miss Exeter? Oh, dear, I suppose you do!"
"No, I can't," said Pearl, with regret. "I'd like to, but Alfred hates
dogs."
Anthony was surprised to hear his own voice saying sharply, "And who is
Alfred?"
"He's my cat," said Pearl, turning her whole face up to him. "Everyone
says he's very ugly, but I love him."
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?"