WHAT JULIET TOLD JACK
At five minutes before five o'clock Jack Manners entered the Palm Room
of the Hotel Lorne. This room adjoined the restaurant, and was crowded
with small tables lit by pink-shaded electric candles. The Lorne was a
good hotel, but too stodgily respectable to be amusing. As there was
no band at meal times or tea time, its clients were mostly unmodern
creatures with a strange preference for peace and quiet.
It was well that Jack had arrived before the hour fixed, for at five
precisely Juliet appeared. He had already engaged a table in a
secluded corner half screened by drooping, feather-like branches; but
his eyes were on the door, and he sprang up as the tall, girlish figure
drifted in between two palms.
At sight of his boyhood's love, his heart gave a bound. How lovely she
was in her sheathlike grey dress, with dangling silvery things, like
clouds of dawn filming a pale sunrise sky! Her hat was simple yet
quaint, pushing forward her bright hair, and making her face look young
as a child's--pathetically young. Yes, "pathetic" was the word, Jack
thought as he went to meet her, and she came hastening to him as to a
haven. And "pathetic" was a new word in connection with Juliet Phayre!
She had been proud, fantastic, absurd, charming, obstinate,
unaccountable, and a hundred other things, but never pathetic. Manners
wondered if it could be the dip of her odd hat-brim which gave her that
look of transparent pallor, and the blue shadows under her big eyes.
There were not many people in the room, as tea at the Lorne was far
from a fashionable function. Those who were there seemed absorbed, in
a tired, provincial-shoppers' way, in the muffin and tea business.
Still, Juliet was too tall and beautiful not to be conspicuous even if
unrecognized, and a few weeks ago no Sunday Supplement had been
complete without her photograph. The two could do no more than gaze
deep, eyes in eyes, for an instant, as they met near the door, and
squeeze instead of shaking hands; but all prudence was Jack's. He saw
by Juliet's face that the tea-drinkers were of no more importance to
her than the chairs they sat in, and he could have kissed the face
turned up affectionately to his--if he would. But he would not, and he
did not even speak until he had her seated at their palm-screened table.
"Oh, Jack, it's great to see you!" Juliet said, when a too-attentive
waiter had finished taking their order. Tears suddenly welled to her
eyes. She dived into a gorgeous gold mesh bag for a handkerchief,
which was not there. "Must be lost!" she sniffed. Hastily Jack passed
his across the table, and had a heart-piercing impression that he had
lived through this scene before, in happier days. But yes, of course!
Often, when he was a big boy and she was a little girl, she had come to
him for consolation. And she had always lost her "hanky!" It was
then, when he was about sixteen, and she eleven, that he had first
begun to love her, with a protecting love that had changed but never
waned as the years passed. Now she belonged to another man. Yet she
still called to him, across the gulf marriage had made, for help and
comfort! Jack Manners wondered what had happened to his red blood,
that the pain he suffered was not more acute.
"I'm too sorry for the child to think of myself just now," he diagnosed
his feelings, with the picture of Pavoya in his mind. "The reaction
will come by and by."
Juliet began at once to pour out her woes, forgetting to ask what had
happened during Jack's visit to the house--what her husband had said,
or whether the pearls had come.
"Pat doesn't love me," she broke out. "That's why I'm miserable. I
don't know how to live. And I wouldn't have believed it if any one had
told me--except himself."
"You don't mean that Claremanagh says----" Jack began to blunder; but
Juliet cut him short. "Not in _words_, of course. But I found a
letter from that devil, Pavoya. It began, 'My Best and Dearest
Friend'. Isn't that the same thing as telling me? The woman wouldn't
write to him like that if he didn't encourage her."
Jack longed to comfort the girl; but after what he had seen, he was at
a loss for consoling words. "How did you happen to find the letter?"
he temporized.
"Why, it had to do with the fuss about Pat's seal ring," the girl
confessed. "But first, I'd better explain that when I was being
married, I made firm resolutions never to mention the name of Pavoya to
Pat. Emmy West almost _dared_ me to! And that alone was enough to
show me it would be a silly mistake. But one night after we'd come to
New York and were settling down happily, we had an exciting, intimate
sort of talk about our pasts. It was a _beautiful_ talk! And I felt
so sure of Pat, I just couldn't resist asking if he'd ever loved
Pavoya. He swore he hadn't; he'd only admired her a lot, and flirted a
little. It was nothing at all beside what he felt for _me_. He was so
dear that I burst out about how nasty Emmy West and other people had
been--how unhappy they'd made me, more than once. Pat said '_Damn_
Emmy West and all the cats!' I _loved_ that! And while the mood was
on, I asked if he were willing to promise he'd not see Pavoya in New
York.
"The minute those words were spoken, I saw a change in Pat. He said he
couldn't make such a promise. There might be circumstances which would
force him to see her. He wouldn't call on her, though. I had to be
satisfied with that, and I was--_almost_, till one day when I'd teased
him to lend me his seal ring. It's supposed to bring luck, you know.
So I thought I'd try it, for bridge. I had to wear it on my thumb;
it's too big for my fingers. I was playing that afternoon at Nancy Van
Esten's. I had a Frenchwoman for a partner. I'd never met her before.
Perhaps you knew her in Paris? A Comtesse de Saintville: her husband
is on some mission here. She's a very impulsive woman--neurotic, I
should think. I didn't feel drawn to her, because I'd heard she was a
great pal of Lyda Pavoya's: that they went about together a lot.
Suddenly she noticed the ring. She squeaked, 'Why, I _know_ that eye!
I saw it on a letter the other day.' Then she shut up and turned red.
I could see her colour through _inches_ of powder! Of course, I
guessed where she'd seen the letter. And there was only one person who
could have sent it. Maybe I turned red, too. But I pretended to take
no interest, and Nancy Van Esten said '_Do_ let's play bridge!'
"I went home perfectly wretched. Pat thought I was ill. I didn't
contradict him. I hadn't made up my mind what to do. But one thing I
did--I kept the ring. Day before yesterday he asked me for it. I knew
what that meant! He wanted to write to _her_ again--perhaps had a
letter to answer. I showed quite plainly that I hated giving up the
ring. But he didn't care. He would have it. The only sort of
'concession' he made was to say he'd give it back next day--after he'd
finished a batch of correspondence. Well, the next day came, and he
didn't give the ring back, though I saw he wasn't wearing it. You know
how forgetful and careless he often is! I was sure he'd left the ring
where he sealed his letters. He'd promised I should have it again. I
suppose I had a right to _take_ it, hadn't I?"
Juliet paused, her eyes dry now, challenging Jack. But he did not
speak, and she hurried on to defend herself. "I _felt_ I had the
right," she persisted, without conviction. "So yesterday I went into
the room that used to be Dad's den. It's Pat's den now. He wasn't
in----"
"Did you think he would be?"
"No-o. As a matter of fact, he'd gone to the bank. You know he works
there. He's quite keen. He'd been late about getting off, so he'd
started in a hurry. His desk wasn't locked. I don't know whether he
ever locks it, because I never tried the drawers before. Anyhow, in
the top drawer a lot of letters were tumbled in--letters he'd received,
and letters he'd written--not in envelopes yet. All sorts of things
were there in disorder--fountain pens, sealing wax, and--_the ring_!
It was on an open letter that lay face up, a letter with a purple
monogram of L.P. A perfume came up from the paper--a queer perfume,
and the writing--in purple ink--was queer, too. I saw the beginning I
told you about: 'My Best and Dearest Friend'--in French. Oh, Jack, I
thought I should have died. I almost wish I had!"
"Nonsense!" Jack scouted her grief. "If the letter had had anything in
it Pat was ashamed to have you see, you may be sure even he wouldn't
have been so careless."
"It wasn't exactly carelessness made him leave it," Juliet said, sadly.
"It was trust in me. He didn't dream that I--would do such a thing as
read a letter of his. And I didn't read it. I didn't read another
word, Jack. One side of me wanted to, horribly. The other side was
disgusted at the idea--the stronger side, it turned out."
"Good girl!" cried Jack.
"Yes, I do think I was a saint. But virtue never has any reward except
its own. I left the ring and the letter. But I felt half dead. I
decided things couldn't go on as they were. I meant to speak to Pat
when he came home."
"And did you?"
"No, because he was ill--had a bad headache--the beginning of a cold.
Or else he was pretending. I can't trust him now! But he looked pale
and odd, so I nobly left him alone till this morning. Then I went to
the study, and asked him to keep his promise about the ring. He pulled
open the drawer. There it was on the letter, as I saw it yesterday.
That gave me my chance. I said, 'Pavoya has been writing to you. I
see her monogram.' And I pretended to read, 'My Best and Dearest
Friend', for the first time."
"By George!" exclaimed Jack, as Juliet stopped for breath.
"By George, indeed!" she echoed. "Pat accused me of being suspicious.
I accused him of being untrue. We had a _scene_! I never thought I
could say such things to Pat as I said. The way he took them made me
worse. He just looked at me in silence, with his mouth shut like a
steel trap. I suppose he hates me now. If he hadn't deserved every
word I said, _I_ should deserve to be hated for saying them. If he'd
_loved_ me, he would have boxed my ears! I half expected he would.
But seeing him stand like a graven image, I turned to leave the room.
He opened the door for me to go out, and _handed me the ring_."
"You took it!"
"I had to, or fling it in his face. I went straight off and wrote that
letter to you, which I sealed with the ring. Then I sent it back to
him by Old Nick. I haven't seen Pat, of course, since he shut the door
on me. And I don't know how we are going to behave to each other when
we meet next."
"You will behave as if nothing had happened, of course," Jack said with
decision.
"That's your advice?"
"Certainly. And nothing _has_ really happened, so far as you know.
You have no proof that Claremanagh has broken his word about calling on
Pavoya. And you've seen no letter from him to her----"
"Someone else saw his seal!"
"The most innocent words may have been under it. And you can't blame a
man if a woman chooses to address him as her 'dearest friend'. At
least you've no right to do so."
"Don't you think I have? That's because you're a man, always ready to
defend another man. And you don't understand women."
"Good heavens, I don't claim to! And I do not defend Claremanagh. I
merely say, give him the benefit of the doubt. Only men and women in
melodrama refuse to hear any defense from the suspected one. You asked
for my advice. There it is, my child, whether it pleases you or not."
"Well, if you want me to be as cool and reasonable as you are, you've
got to stand by me, and see me through."
"I'm neither cool nor reasonable where you're concerned, Juliet. But
you know I'll stand by you."
"You mean, you'll not go to Long Island? You'll stay in New York, and
be our guest?"
"I'll not go to Long Island--at present. I'll stay in New York. But I
_won't_ be your guest."
"You're cruel, Jack! You're selfish!" Juliet cried, as she had often
unjustly cried before.
"You know better," he said. "It is the outsider who sees the game. I
ought to see it--if I'm to help. And I _wouldn't_ be an outsider if I
were your guest. I've taken rooms at the Hotel Tarascon, only one
street away from your house and Pat's."
Juliet was silent for a moment. She had a hideous fear that, in her
anger, she had flung _Her_ house, _Her_ money, _Her_ everything, at
Claremanagh's stone pale face.