At five minutes before five o'clock Jack1 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 stodgily3 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 fixed4, for at five precisely5 Juliet appeared. He had already engaged a table in a secluded6 corner half screened by drooping7, 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 dangling8 silvery things, like clouds of dawn filming a pale sunrise sky! Her hat was simple yet quaint9, 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 haven10. And "pathetic" was a new word in connection with Juliet Phayre! She had been proud, fantastic, absurd, charming, obstinate11, 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 transparent12 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 conspicuous13 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 prudence14 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 mesh16 bag for a handkerchief, which was not there. "Must be lost!" she sniffed17. 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 consolation18. 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 waned19 as the years passed. Now she belonged to another man. Yet she still called to him, across the gulf20 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 woes21, 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 miserable22. 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 temporized23.
"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 flirted24 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 impulsive25 woman—neurotic, I should think. I didn't feel drawn26 to her, because I'd heard she was a great pal2 of Lyda Pavoya's: that they went about together a lot. Suddenly she noticed the ring. She squeaked27, '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 perfectly28 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 'concession29' he made was to say he'd give it back next day—after he'd finished a batch30 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 den15. 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 monogram31 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 scouted32 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 virtue33 never has any reward except its own. I left the ring and the letter. But I felt half dead. I decided34 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 melodrama35 refuse to hear any defense36 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 hideous37 fear that, in her anger, she had flung Her house, Her money, Her everything, at Claremanagh's stone pale face.
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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stodgily
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4
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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6
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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7
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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8
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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9
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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10
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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12
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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14
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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15
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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17
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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18
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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19
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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21
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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22
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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23
temporized
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| v.敷衍( temporize的过去式和过去分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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24
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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26
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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27
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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28
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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29
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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30
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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31
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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32
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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33
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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34
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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35
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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36
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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37
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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