THE EXPLANATION
A perfectly charming young man came in--a young man so delightful to
look at that it seemed almost too much that he should be a duke. With
that merry brown face (the war had left a scar across cheek and
temple), those Celtic grey eyes, that jet-black hair, that "figure for
a fencer," and above all that engaging grin of his, the merest Nobody
might hope to make his mark as Somebody.
"Breezing in" (as Emmy had put it), he smiled his nice smile that
brought a dimple like a cut line into each thin, tanned cheek. The
smile was for Juliet, whose velvet throne was opposite the door, and
for her he waved aloft a small, sealed white parcel. Then he saw Lady
West, and his expression changed. As the saying is, his "face fell,"
but in half a second he had controlled his features.
"How do you do?" he enquired. His voice was as pleasant as his grin,
but there was a slight stiffness in his tone for the red-haired
war-widow.
"I'm going strong, thanks! Going in every sense of the word," Emmy
assured him. "I should have taken myself off before now, only Juliet
pretended not to be expecting you. Of course, the day before the
wedding _is_ supposed by old-fashioned folk to be close time for
brides, where their loving bridegrooms are concerned, and so----"
"I'm not old-fashioned," said Claremanagh.
"Rather not! I've every reason for knowing that. We all have. But
Juliet had some story about a 'bad luck' superstition. I thought you
were the last man to be superstitious, Irish as you are, but it didn't
sound like a joke----"
"It wasn't a joke. I'm as superstitious as the deuce about one or two
things," the man confessed. "Juliet wasn't 'pretending' but"--and he
turned to the girl--"I had to come. There was something I didn't want
to explain in a letter, and--hang 'bad luck!' It's a cross dog that
would dare bite us."
As Emmy West saw the look he gave Juliet, she felt as though her heart
had been sharply pinched between a thumb and a finger. She had
believed till now that his "superstition" was an excuse for spending
his time with someone whose society he preferred to the bride's. Yet
here he was, bouncing in like a bomb, with that eager light in his
eyes, and in his hand a packet which _might_ be the pearls!
When Juliet explained that there "was a reason" why Claremanagh
"couldn't give his present till to-day," an exciting thought had
tumbled into Emmy's head: What if Lyda Pavoya had refused to return the
pearls he'd been teased into lending her, and had taken them to New
York, where she was now dancing? Emmy visioned the poor Duke
frantically cabling, the moment he had secured the American heiress; or
perhaps engaging a lawyer to frighten the Polish siren. Lyda wouldn't
be easy to frighten, Emmy imagined, admiringly. (She, in fact, admired
the dancer so sincerely, that her own attempts at sirenhood were copied
from Pavoya.) Even if Lyda had disgorged the booty, would there have
been time for it to arrive from across the Atlantic? Only the opening
of that little parcel would show, and Emmy's jealous pain was
complicated by curiosity.
Still, she decided, it would be useless to wear out her welcome by
lingering. The chances were that Claremanagh wouldn't break those
thrilling seals till she had gone. Besides, Juliet was in a state of
suppressed fury, and was capable in that mood of banishing her with
rudeness. In some moods, the girl was capable of _anything_! So Lady
West "kissed air" in the neighbourhood of Miss Phayre's burning cheeks,
and accepted defeat with one sole satisfaction: If the pearls had
come--or if they ever came!--she had pretty well spoiled them for the
future Duchess.
"_Au revoir_, dearest child," she said. "I shall be in church
to-morrow, of course. _Au revoir_, Peter, and good luck in spite of
the Claremanagh curse. I do hope it won't put on seven-league boots
and follow you to New York."
"Leather's too dear since the war for superannuated old curses to buy
seven-league boots," replied the Duke, unflatteringly prompt in opening
the door.
The pretty lady went to it with wormlike meekness, but turned on the
threshold. "If I meet the Curse, I'll tell it to mind its business,"
she laughed. "The Claremanaghs have had enough bad luck. You'll
create a new record, working out your democratic notions in a new
country, with one or two _old friends_ there to applaud them."
With this exit speech she put herself in charge of Parker, who would
ring up the lift for her. The Duke shut the salon door, and turned to
the girl. He didn't even say "Thank goodness, the woman's gone!" He
seemed to have forgotten her existence.
"Heavens, what hair you have!" he exclaimed. "I knew it must be
gorgeous, but I didn't dream of _this_. To-night I _shall_ dream of
it! By rights, I oughtn't to have seen this show till to-morrow night,
ought I? But I'm glad I have. All your beauties bursting upon me at
once would be too much for my brain."
"Don't make fun of me," Juliet laughed, with a wistfulness rather
pathetic in so pretty and so rich a girl.
"Make fun of you!" Claremanagh snatched her up from the low seat, and
crushed the yielding, thinly clad young body in his arms. On the
sweet-scented, damp hair he rained kisses. "Am I a wooden man? Take
that--and that, to punish you! Mavourneen--if it were _to-morrow_!"
Between warm joy and chilling doubt Juliet Phayre shivered. If only
she could believe him--believe that he cared for her, and not for the
money! She almost had believed--before Emmy West came.
The girl burned to tell "Pat" what Emmy had said and hinted. If he
could reassure her, it would be balm on a wound never quite healed.
But--_if he couldn't_. If questioning should make bad things worse?
Then she would wish in vain that she'd "let sleeping dogs lie," because
she loved the man too much to give him up. She had wanted him as a
child wants the moon, ever since the day she, a gilt-edged Red Cross
nurse, had met him, a soldier on leave, in Paris. Now she had got
him--or almost--and the future _might_ be so wonderful!
He had promised her uncle, Henry Phayre, to live for at least half of
each year in America, there to work as other men worked (Phayre would
supply the employment), and Juliet had looked forward to being proud of
her adorable husband, happy with him; a living proof--the pair of
them--that an American girl can marry a duke for himself, not for his
title; that a duke can make an American heiress his wife for love. But
now, Emmy had raked up those old rags of gossip, nearly forgotten. And
Juliet had read in the paper only a few days ago about Pavoya's first
night in New York; the furore her "wild eastern dancing and strange,
Slavic fascination" had created. The girl felt sick at heart as she
asked herself if Pat's pleasure in the thought of "seeing New York" had
any connection with Pavoya's presence there.
It was all she could do not to purr out her complaints of "that _cat_,
Emmy West," but native prudence prevailed over hot impulse. She
enjoyed as much as Emmy permitted Pat's praise of her glorious hair
(surely Pavoya's wasn't as long or thick, and probably its "rusty red"
was due to dye), and then she reminded him of the parcel.
"Is it my present from you?" she asked, almost shyly, nodding toward
the table where Pat had thrown the neat white square.
Instantly he let her go, and took the little parcel again in his hand.
"Yes, sweet, it _is_ my present for you," he said. "But _not_ the
present I wanted to give you. That's why I risked the 'curse' and came
to explain."
"Oh!" was the girl's noncommittal answer. Her heart sank. The pearls
were not in the packet, she knew now, but her disappointment was not so
much in missing them as in the thought that Emmy could say "I told you
so!"
"Before you open these silly seals, and see what I've brought," the
Duke went on, "I want to make my explanation, and be sure you
understand the whole business. Come and sit by me on the sofa, will
you?"
He drew her down beside him, and gathered her close.
"Of course, you know all about our pearls, the one ewe lamb of ancient
glory left to us poor Claremanaghs," he said.
"I don't know _all_ about them," amended Juliet, her heart missing a
beat.
"Tell me just what you do know, and then I shan't bore you with
repetitions."
"Oh, people have told me things," she hedged. "Didn't a Tsarina of
Russia sell the pearls to some old ancestor of yours?"
"Good lord, no!" he chuckled. "Never was a Claremanagh so stony broke
as yours truly; yet never was there one since the days of pterodactyls
who could run to the price of a Tsarina's pearls; that is, in _lucre_.
My great-great-grandfather bought them with kisses. But joking apart,
it's rather a romantic tale. He was a soldier and offered his services
to Russia because he'd seen a portrait of the Tsarina, which the Prince
of Wales had, and fell in love with it. Well, she fell in love with
him, too, at sight. He wasn't bad to look at, judging from his
portrait----"
"Was he like you?" cut in Juliet.
Pat laughed. "They say so. When we can get those Pill people out of
Castle Claremanagh (their lease has a year to run) you shall tell me if
you find a likeness. There was an 'affair' between the two; and
great-great-grandfather Pat (he was Patrick, too, like all the eldest
sons) had it politely intimated to him, through his friend Wales, that
he'd better come home--a marriage had been arranged for him. He'd not
have stirred a foot if it hadn't been for his Love. She begged him to
go. There was a plot to murder him, it seems, and as for her, she'd
ceased to be very popular with the Tsar, her husband. She made her
sweetheart promise to marry the English girl, and she gave him the rope
of pearls which since then have been called after her--the 'Tsarina's
pearls.' They were for his wife, as a gift from her, so the girl
shouldn't hate the thought of their love."
"_I_ should have hated it all the more!" cried Juliet. "I wouldn't
have _worn_ the things if I'd been his bride."
"Well, as _my_ bride I hope you will wear them often. They'll be
dashed becoming to your blondness, for the things are unique in one
way: they're _blue_; a hundred and eighty immense and perfectly matched
blue pearls. Never has anything been seen like them, the expert
johnnies say."
"Was the Tsarina a blonde?" the girl wanted to know.
"A copper-headed blonde. You shall see her miniature."
Juliet said nothing. But she thought of Lyda Pavoya's head. She had
never seen the Polish dancer, but she had heard her described: the
traditional "siren-green" eyes, white face, and red hair. And she knew
that Emmy West modelled herself, so far as Nature permitted, on Pavoya.
"In the ordinary sense of the word, the Tsarina pearls aren't an
heirloom in our family," Claremanagh continued. "But the first bride
who received them passed on the gift to her eldest son's bride. So it
has gone on ever since. The thing falls to the heir, or his wife; and
it's tacitly understood that neither the rope as a whole, nor even one
of the pearls, shall be sold. Well, I came into the inheritance (if
you can call it that) seven years ago, when I was twenty-one. I'm
afraid I'd have sold the bally thing more than once if I could have
done it in common decency. But I couldn't. So there you _are_!"
"What _did_ you do with it?" Juliet ventured, half dreading the answer.
Her head was pressed close to Pat's shoulder. She could not look up at
his face, but she thought a muscle jumped in the arm that held her, and
that there was a sudden change in his tone.
"Do with it?" he echoed. "Why, what should I do but keep it in the
bank waiting for the Lady of my Dreams? I couldn't wear it round my
neck, you know! But, well, I did get it out of the bank now and then,
to show to beautiful beings who begged to see it. Once it was in a
Loan Exhibition for the benefit of something or other, I forget what.
The confession I have to make, though, is this: only two months before
I met the dearest girl on earth I was so hard up I'd have had to grind
a monkey-organ in the streets if I hadn't been engaged in fighting for
King and Country. I'd had some beastly bad luck with a speculation an
alleged pal had let me in for, and honest Injun, I didn't know which
way to turn, until a chap I know offered me two hundred thousand francs
on the security of the pearls."
"_Francs?_" echoed Juliet.
"Yes. The man's a Frenchman. And the business was done in France.
He's a dashed good fellow in his way. But it's a queer way. He's a
kind of gilded, super money-lender. His transactions are only with his
friends, and the interest he takes is fair and square: twenty per cent.
instead of sixty or so, as the sharks do--to my bitter knowledge. With
what I got from Louis Mayen I paid my debts, and hung onto a bit, a few
thousands. Then, two months later, I met you--and the fat was in the
fire!"
"How, in the fire?"
"Why, I made up my mind at first sight to grab you if I could----"
Juliet broke out laughing like a child, forgetful of her secret burden.
"_Did_ you--really? So did I you!"
"Bold hussy!" He kissed her with passion. "But it was worse for me
than you. I'd just lost my chance of giving you your legitimate
wedding present--if you'd have me. The day you said 'Yes', instead of
walking on air I could have thrown myself in the sea, I felt such a
fool."
"Silly boy!" cried the girl. "Any real money-lender, or even your
super, gilded one, would have let you have all you wanted if you'd said
you were marrying Silas Phayre's heiress. I mayn't know much about
business, but I know that!"
"And I mayn't be a saint, but I'm not a cad," Claremanagh capped her.
"I wouldn't go to a money-lender on the strength of being engaged to
you. I don't say that if Louis Mayen had been in France then I'd not
have wheedled the pearls back from him, on the mere strength of
friendship, and an I.O.U., or some such arrangement. He'd have trusted
me," Pat laughed; "anyhow, in the circumstances! But you and I were
engaged a fortnight after the Armistice, you remember. Just a week
before our own Great Day (yours and mine) Mayen went to Russia with a
lot of important Frenchmen of Hebrew blood, on a diplomatic mission.
He had a bad time in Petrograd. He and his lot were stuck into the
prison of St. Peter and St. Paul, by the Bolchies. I didn't know where
the pearls were and couldn't find out. That was two months ago. But
after six weeks in a cell, Mayen was released by order of Lenine; and
it was expected in Paris that he and the rest would be back in France
by now.
"We were there ourselves--you and your uncle in Paris, and I at G.H.Q.
you know, till just ten days ago--though it seems longer. And I was
hoping against hope that Mayen might turn up. I wouldn't say a word to
you, for I didn't want you to be disappointed. And even as late as
last night I wouldn't quite give up. Your Cousin Jack Manners, who is
the best fellow on earth, has been watching things for me in Paris.
He'd heard that Mayen had quietly sneaked back, and hadn't let any one
know, in order to get a good rest cure. But this turns out to be a
_canard_. Now you see why I had to go out and find you a 'fairing' as
the Scots say. I couldn't afford anything worth while unless I
borrowed; so I thought things over, and decided that you'd prefer a
little remembrance of our wedding, bought with my own 'pocket-money,'
and supplemented by a souvenir of my mother. Am I right?"
"Absolutely! Whatever you give me, I shall love it," said Juliet. "I
wouldn't care if it cost sixpence. It's from _you_; that makes the
value for me. But, Pat, I can't bear to think of your being poor! You
won't be after to-morrow. I haven't liked to talk of such things, but
I told Uncle Henry I wanted a million dollars settled on you, to use as
you pleased. Surely he did what I----"
"He did, my child. But I 'wasn't taking any'. I meant to tell you
this myself when we were old married people--a week after the wedding,
let's say! But since you've brought up the subject, we might as well
have it out. Your money is going to restore Claremanagh, and the jolly
old London house in Queen Anne's gate that my great-grandfather bought.
I don't so much mind that. You'll enjoy the places. And it won't be
till the tenants there turn out. I'm to have a screw from your uncle
for pretending to work in the S. P. Phayre Bank: a hundred dollars a
week to begin with (he offered more, but I wouldn't have it), about a
fiftieth part of which I'll really earn. But even that will bring me
nearly a hundred pounds a month, so I shan't disgrace my wife by
wearing paper collars or elastic-sided boots, or not getting my hair
cut. Then, as my earning power increases, so will my pay. Besides,
your noble guardian wants to buy my place at Maidenhead, when it's
free, next spring. He'll give sixty thousand pounds, which will leave
me fifty when the mortgage is paid off; and Mr. Phayre will advise me
about investments. So you see, you're not marrying a pauper after all,
my good girl! As for the pearls, it's only a delay--an annoying delay.
When Mayen really does get back to Paris, he'll find a letter from me
containing a post-dated cheque for the two hundred thousand francs, and
interest. That will come out of the fifty thousand pounds, and still
leave me a decent pile. Mayen will at once take steps to get the
pearls to me."
"But we'll be in New York," objected Juliet. "How can Monsieur Mayen
send them without danger of their being stolen?"
"Trust him to arrange that," Claremanagh soothed her. "There must be
lots of ways. Besides, they'll be insured for their full value, which
is supposed to be--intrinsic, not sentimental--one hundred thousand
pounds. What I hope is, they'll be in time for you to make a show in
your box at the opera--Metropolitan Opera House, you call it, don't
you? You see, I've been reading up a guide book to New York! And now
I've made all my explanations and excuses, my darling, you'd better
open the poor little box."
His arm still round her, the girl broke the jeweller's seals. Inside
the white paper was a white velvet case, and inside the white velvet
case was a string of white pearls. They were small, but good, and from
them depended an old-fashioned, open-faced locket containing an ivory
miniature of a beautiful boy.
"The pearls are from me," Pat said. "The locket and miniature are from
my mother. She used always to wear the locket. And when she died,
eight years ago, one of the last things she did was to give it to me,
'for my bride'."
Juliet Phayre would not have been human if she had not forgotten, in
that moment, both Emmy West and Lyda Pavoya.