IN JACK'S PRIVATE SITTING ROOM
Next morning Jack Manners was hideously jerked from sleep before eight
by the jangle of a telephone bell close to his bed. In self-defence he
reached out and grabbed the receiver, in haste to stop the din.
"Hello!" his voice said: but his tone said "Damn!" And he was
astounded when Juliet answered. Juliet! 'phoning at this hour!
Juliet, who had been at the opera last night, as he happened to know,
and who had always loved her beauty sleep, as a young bird loves its
nest!
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Jack," she was saying. "I suppose you were
fast asleep, and you'll wish you hadn't told me you were going to stop
at the Tarascon. But I can't help it! Do you mind getting up and
dressing in a hurry, and letting me come round to see you?"
"Shan't I call at your house instead?" Jack suggested, wide awake now.
"No, I must come to you. Have you a private sitting room?"
"I haven't."
"Then take one at once, and be ready to receive me in it. Will half an
hour be too soon for you?"
"Not a bit," Jack assured her. He spoke with the warmth of affection,
and felt it. But that was all he felt. The reaction he'd been
expecting yesterday hadn't come yet!
He 'phoned downstairs that he wanted a private sitting room, and
breakfast for two, with flowers on the table, in half an hour. Then he
plunged into his bath, and as he shaved and dressed with the haste that
knows how not to waste a single step or gesture (this was
characteristic of him) he wondered, as he had wondered yesterday, about
himself and Juliet.
Funny, how he had dreaded meeting her married, for fear the boiling
lava should break through the cooled crust! And the lava hadn't broken
through. He couldn't even feel it boil. Juliet had her old sweetness,
and charm--even more. She was prettier than ever, too.
He still loved her, of course, only the love didn't hurt like a wound
with someone twisting a knife in it, as it had hurt when she told him
she was engaged, and on the day of her wedding. There was just a
gentle, rather interesting pain, like the pain of remembering a
beautiful dream which had broken off in the midst; and it was no
sharper this morning than when she came to tea with him yesterday.
Just to test himself he had gone to the opera, and stood up (because
there wasn't a seat to be had) in order to have Juliet burst upon him
in all her glory, wearing the pearls, and, perhaps, beaming with
recovered happiness at Claremanagh's side. Well, she had come late
into her box, and made a sensation. Everyone had stared at her--_and_
the pearls--through levelled glasses. She had been just as glorious as
he'd expected, though she hadn't exactly beamed. And he--Jack--had not
turned a hair! He hardly knew whether to attribute this to his
superhuman self-control, or the strong moral barrier set up between his
thoughts and his love by her marriage.
Anyhow, there it was! He was enduring no Calvary, and his heart played
none of the tricks it would have played once at being awakened by
Juliet's voice, with the request for a meeting alone with him. All he
felt was sympathetic interest, and a fear that the girl was coming to
say she'd made a hash of things, in spite of his advice.
In precisely twenty-five minutes after the first call of the telephone
bell in his ear, he was dressed, and criticising the arrangement of La
France roses on the table in his new sitting room. Sharp on the half
hour, again came the jangling call.
"Lady for you, sir. Says she's your cousin, and it's not necessary to
give her name. You're expecting her."
"Quite right," Manners answered. "Send her up at once. I'll meet her
at the lift." Which he did, and got rather a shock at seeing Juliet
all in black--even a black veil.
"I don't think I _ever_ saw you dressed like that before," he began,
leading her to the sitting room. "I thought you always hated black
clothes."
"So I did. So I do. That's the reason I'm wearing them to-day," the
girl almost breathlessly explained. "I suppose you'll think it's
melodramatic of me, and maybe it is, though I don't feel so. I wanted
to put on mourning."
"Good heavens! What for?"
"My happiness."
If she had been less beautiful, that announcement certainly would have
sounded a melodramatic note--or else it would have been funny. But she
was so white, so big eyed, so like a broken lily in her black
draperies, that Jack's heart yearned over her. She leaned to him
wistfully, as they stood just inside the closed door, her hands in his;
and the man knew suddenly that it would be perfectly safe and good for
him to take her in his arms. He held them out, having dropped her
hands, and the girl flung herself on his breast as she used to do when
she was ten, if a finger had been cut or a knee bruised. The next
moment she was crying on his shoulder as though her heart would break,
her slim young body an incarnate sob as it heaved and shook in his
clasp.
"Oh, Jack, you're the only one I have in the world now!" she gasped.
"Nonsense, nonsense, child. You've got Claremanagh. You'll always
have him," he soothed her. "This is some passing trouble. It will
blow over. Tell me all about it. But no, first you must have
breakfast. You haven't had bite or sup, I'll bet!"
History repeated itself. Again his handkerchief was out. He wiped her
eyes with it. He mopped them. How long and dark her lashes were, wet
and clinging together! He bent over her, and kissed her forehead. It
was hot, and she smelled like a ripe, delicious peach. But his pulses
hardly tingled. He was too sorry for her, however, to analyze his own
feelings much, or even think of himself, although after years the
Adored One--married, and belonging to another man--was in his arms!
Of course she hadn't had breakfast, she said. She didn't want
breakfast. The very idea of it made her sick. She had been awake all
night, and had been dressed--without a maid to help her--since seven.
She was just one bunch of raw, aching nerves! But somehow Jack was
able to soothe her a little, as Pat, at his best, could never have
done, because she loved him too wildly. Jack got her to the sofa, her
back to the door, so that the waiter bustling in with breakfast should
not see the tear-stained face. Soon there were cushions behind her
shoulders; the blinds were pulled half down; there was a cool, dewy
rose in her hand. Then, when the waiter had gone, she was sipping hot
coffee with cream in it and (on one knee beside the sofa) Jack was
feeding her with bits of toasted and buttered roll. In spite of
herself, Juliet felt better. She didn't want to feel better, but she
did! And she had drunk nearly a cupful of coffee before Jack let her
begin to talk.
Having begun, however, she told him everything. It all came out with a
rush, and Jack listened in silence. Not once did he interrupt, and,
fast as she spoke (she could not control her speech to slowness), she
thought that he was judging, classifying each incident, considering how
one bore upon another.
He did not give away his own secret of yesterday: that he had seen Lyda
Pavoya go into the house, and that he had known she must be hidden
somewhere in the room while he and Defasquelle were in Claremanagh's
study. There was nothing to be gained by telling the poor girl that.
She might even be aggravated, by the additional proof against Pavoya,
into accusing the woman as a thief! And the more he thought, the more
inclined he was to advise against an open scandal.
"So you see why I wanted to put on mourning for my dead happiness,"
Juliet finished. "You said this was a 'passing trouble.' But you
can't say that now, can you?"
"Yes. I can and do," Jack maintained stoutly, for her sake wholly, not
for Claremanagh's. He began to believe, in his heart, that this
generous, loving girl had been badly "let down," between the Duke and
the Polish dancer. Nevertheless, it was still only fair to give "Pat"
(as Juliet called him) the benefit of the doubt, just as he had urged
yesterday. "You say yourself that, judging from his manner when the
box was opened, and when you spoke about the clasp, Claremanagh was as
surprised as you were at the false pearls being there."
"Yes. Of course I don't accuse him of 'stealing' the real ones
himself, as he so cruelly pretended I did. But he must have had this
copy made for Pavoya. Probably she thought at first that she had the
true pearls, and when she found out how she'd been tricked, she made up
her mind to turn the tables on Pat. Or else she saw a way to humble
me--his wife. Yes, _that_ must be it! I'm glad--glad I wore the
horrid imitation rope last night. I hardly knew why I did it, unless
it was for a kind of bluff. But I see now, it was more like
inspiration. If I choose to stick to it that I have the real pearls,
she can't get much fun out of wearing them, can she? People will
believe _me_, instead of her, if it comes to open defiance."
"It won't come to that, from Pavoya, and it oughtn't from you, I
think," said Jack. "My theory is rather different from yours."
"What is it, for heaven's sake?"
"It's rather scrappy as yet. But so far, I should think Pavoya might
have been working in a much more subtle way than you suppose. I knew
that once, long ago, and again later, there was a plot to steal the
pearls. Apparently both times it was got up by Russians. And you know
they were royal pearls, given by the Tsarina of his day to
Claremanagh's great-great-grandfather. Pavoya's a Pole, I believe, but
she may be in Russian pay, or under Bolshevik influence. It certainly
looks, on circumstantial evidence, as if she'd somehow got hold of the
pearls, either in Paris, through Louis Mayen, unknown to his messenger;
or else, yesterday by some amazing sleight of hand, while she was in
Claremanagh's study. If she could have worried out of him the
combination of the safe--and if by some excuse she induced him to leave
her in the room alone after Defasquelle delivered up the box (we might
assume she came at that time on purpose, perhaps _not_ by Pat's
invitation) she might have managed the job. Well--but that's about as
far as my mind has worked, so far. Except that Claremanagh can't be
expected to give the woman away so long as he isn't dead sure she's
guilty--or which he hopes against hope that she isn't. He wouldn't
accuse her, or have her accused if he could help it, even to save
himself from your suspicions, which must make him writhe!"
"Are you standing up for him?" Juliet asked, quickly.
"No, not especially. But you've done him an injustice in one detail,
to begin with. He did not have the copy of the Tsarina pearls made for
Pavoya. He didn't have it made at all. It was done before his
day--done by his mother's order. He told me the story in Paris, where
the everlasting subject was you--you and the pearls. It seems that the
Duchess--your Pat's mother--soon after her marriage received an
anonymous letter warning her of a plot to steal the Tsarina pearls. It
was signed 'A Well Wisher', and the writing looked foreign, but not ill
spelt or uneducated. There was a hint that the plan was Russian, and
the thieves would not be 'ordinary thieves.' Immediately after the
Duchess ordered a London jeweller to copy the rope, clasp and all.
When it was ready she had the real thing locked up in the bank. The
copy was so good that no one except an expert could tell the
difference. But there had been one mistake. The eye of the design in
the clasp looked the wrong way--to the right instead of the left.
However, hardly any one knew which way the original eye turned, so the
mistake didn't matter much, and the family didn't trouble to have it
rectified. That was a long time ago. But years after there came
another warning; and when it was compared with the first the
handwriting appeared to be the same. This time the letter was
addressed to Claremanagh, who had come of age and had lent the pearls
to some charitable exhibition. 'Russia will try again to get back her
own. Take care,' the letter said--or something like that. I've
forgotten the precise words Pat used. And it was signed, as before: 'A
Well Wisher'. Now you see what my mind's working on."
"I do see," said Juliet. "Of course, in a way you make things look
better for Pat. At least, he wasn't infatuated enough with that woman
to have a copy of those famous pearls actually made for her to wear.
Still, he must have given them to her--or lent them."
"I suppose so," Jack admitted, "unless----"
"Unless what?"
"Well, I know nothing about the lady except what I've heard--and that
she's a dream of a dancer. But right or wrong, she has the reputation
of being a tigerish young person when her blood's up. And it's
conceivable she may simply have annexed the imitation pearls: put them
on to 'see how she looked,' and refused to disgorge! Claremanagh isn't
the sort of fellow who would be brutal with a pretty woman."
"He isn't, indeed! But, anyhow, he let her keep the things--and wear
them, too; even if she never had the real ones. He receives her at the
house when I'm out--when he pretends to be shut up with a cold. It
must have been arranged that she should come then, and Togo bribed to
let her in. Oh, it's all nearly as bad as it can be, if not _quite_!
Pat doesn't deserve that his mind should be eased as it must have been
when he saw at the last minute that I was wearing the horrid false
beads last night. He'd been in such a state, for fear I'd 'make a
scandal!' When he saw the rope on my neck, and heard me calmly
accepting compliments on it, I suppose he thought, 'That settles
_that_. She can't accuse dear Lyda now!' But he forgets. I can find
proof enough to divorce him, without bringing up a question of the
pearls at all."
"Is that what you intend to do?" asked Jack.
Juliet threw out her hands in a gesture of feverish weariness. "I
don't know what I intend," she sighed, hopelessly, "I wish I could just
_die_. Then maybe Pat would be sorry."
"That's what you used to say about your family when you were a kid. No
doubt Pat would be sorry if you died. But wouldn't _you_ be
sorry--when you'd divorced him?"
"I don't care whether I'm sorry or not," cried Juliet. "I'm too
miserable now to care about how I may feel then."
"That's the state of mind for jumping out of the frying-pan into the
fire," said Jack. "Listen, my kid, did you come here to me to ask my
advice?"
"Yes, partly. Though I wouldn't promise to take it if it was anything
I didn't like. But mostly I came for something else."
"What?"
"To beg you to _help_ me. Help's better than advice."
"You ought to know I'll help you, in any way I jolly well can----"
"In _any_ way?" she caught him up.
Jack was slightly startled, knowing Juliet as he did know her:
impulsive, even unscrupulous, if a thing passionately wished for were
to be obtained--like all spoiled young women, to whom life has refused
nothing. "Why not out with it at once, and not beat round the bush?"
he asked. "You've some special thing in your mind----"
"I have," she cut him short. "But, truly, Jack, I hadn't when I came.
I was just going to ask for your advice and help, mixed up together.
You were to advise me what to do; and then if I wanted to do it, you
were to help get it done. I've no one except you to depend on, and you
were my only hope--if I had any hope left--of making things somehow
work out right in the end. It's you yourself who has given me the real
idea--the inspiration: the thing to be done. And if you are the one
person on earth who can do it, the question is--will you?"
"I can't suppose a 'question,'" Manners said, "if the thing is a thing
that will _really_ help you."
"It will--it will, more than _anything_ else. But you might think
it--_caddish_."
"You wouldn't ask me to do it, I'm sure, if it were caddish."
"Well--you see, I'm a girl--a woman. It doesn't seem caddish to me, as
it may to a man. But, Jack, it's to _save_ me! It's the one hope to
make life worth living--or to know the worst and not wear out my soul
in suspense. I can't bear suspense."
"Neither can I," Jack reminded her.
He was sitting beside her on the sofa now, and Juliet seized his hands.
"The thing is--I want you to get acquainted with Lyda Pavoya," she
ventured at last. "To contrive to be her _friend_, to win her
confidence even if you must make love to her. Stop at nothing, until
she's told you the whole secret of the pearls. That secret means
everything to me. Wrapped up in it is the secret I care so much more
for, the secret of Pat's love--whether it's hers or mine. And his
honour is bound up with it, too. Will you do this for me, Jack? Or is
it too much?"
Never had Jack Manners thought that he could pull his hands away from
Juliet's clinging fingers, and push her off almost roughly, as she
would have held him. But now he did both, before he had realized what
he was doing. And he even felt a hot resentment against her, not
unlike repulsion: Juliet, whom he had worshipped for years--Juliet, for
whom his life would have been a small gift!
Before he quite knew what had happened to him, he was standing at the
window, staring out. He had not answered, had spoken no word. She
ought to understand that no answer was the one safe answer a man could
give ... "Caddish!" ... She had wondered if he would "think it
caddish!" Perhaps women _were_ cads--just naturally. He had heard it
said that they didn't know the difference. But _Juliet_!
Standing there with his back to her, he began to gather his wits
together to face her attack. She would reproach him with violence. He
would try not to be harsh, because she wasn't herself, of course. He
would explain that what she asked wasn't "too much"; it wasn't a
question of quantity but quality. There were some things a man
couldn't do....
But she wasn't reproaching him. She was crying. God! he had never
heard a woman cry as that girl was crying! Such sobs would tear her
soul to pieces. They mustn't go on. They would kill her--and him!
He went back to her. He knelt on the floor, and drew into his arms the
shaken figure, abandoned among the cushions.
"Don't, don't, my dear--my sweet one!" he implored, awkwardly smoothing
the ruffled gold of her hair. "Trust old Jack! I'll do something.
I'll find out for you. I don't know how. Goodness knows how! But
I'll worm her secret from that Pavoya girl!"