The Amethyst Comb
MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad stationwaiting for the New York train. She wasabout to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet.With Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middle-aged New England woman, attired in the stiffestand most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried anold, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather largesole-leather jewel-case. The jewel-case, carriedopenly, was rather an unusual sight at a New Eng-land railroad station, but few knew what it was.They concluded it to be Margaret's special hand-bag. Margaret was a very tall, thin woman, un-bending as to carriage and expression. The onething out of absolute plumb about Margaret washer little black bonnet. That was askew. Timehad bereft the woman of so much hair that she couldfasten no head-gear with security, especially whenthe wind blew, and that morning there was a stiffgale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one eye.Miss Carew noticed it."Margaret, your bonnet is crooked," she said.Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immedi-ately the bonnet veered again to the side, weightedby a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed thecareen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable,and did not mention it again. Inwardly she resolvedupon the removal of the jet aigrette later on. MissCarew was slightly older than Margaret, and dressedin a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carewhad been alert upon the situation of departing youth.She had eschewed gay colors and extreme cuts, andhad her bonnets made to order, because there wereno longer anything but hats in the millinery shop.The milliner in Wheaton, where Miss Carew lived,had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence."A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," shesaid. "Women much older than you wear hats.""I trust that I know what is becoming to a womanof my years, thank you. Miss Waters," Jane hadreplied, and the milliner had meekly taken her order.After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told hergirls that she had never seen a woman so perfectlycrazy to look her age as Miss Carew. "And she apretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straightas an arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcelyturned at all."Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years,remained a pretty woman, softly slim, with an abun-dance of dark hair, showing little gray. SometimesJane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her timeof life to be entirely gray. She hoped nobody wouldsuspect her of dyeing it. She wore it parted in themiddle, folded back smoothly, and braided in acompact mass on the top of her head. The styleof her clothes was slightly behind the fashion, justenough to suggest conservatism and age. She car-ried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely glovedhand; with the other she held daintily out of thedust of the platform her dress-skirt. A glimpse ofa silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and anklesdelicately slim, was visible before the onslaught ofthe wind. Jane Carew made no futile effort to keepher skirts down before the wind-gusts. She was somuch of the gentlewoman that she could be gravelyoblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She lookedas if she had never heard of ankles when her blacksilk skirts lashed about them. She rose superblyabove the situation. For some abstruse reason Mar-garet's skirts were not affected by the wind. Theymight have been weighted with buckram, althoughit was no longer in general use. She stood, exceptfor her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as awooden doll.Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit toNew York was an innovation. Quite a crowd gath-ered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when it wasdumped on the platform by the local expressman."Miss Carew is going to New York," one said toanother, with much the same tone as if he had said,"The great elm on the common is going to moveinto Dr. Jones's front yard."When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed byMargaret, stepped aboard with a majestic disregardof ankles. She sat beside a window, and Margaretplaced the bag on the floor and held the jewel-casein her lap. The case contained the Carew jewels.They were not especially valuable, although theywere rather numerous. There were cameos inbrooches and heavy gold bracelets; corals whichMiss Carew had not worn since her young girlhood.There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamondsin ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments,and a really beautiful set of amethysts. There werea necklace, two brooches -- a bar and a circle -- ear-rings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charm-ing, set in filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhapsof them all the comb was the best. It was a verylarge comb. There was one great amethyst in thecenter of the top; on either side was an intricatepattern of plums in small amethysts, and seed-pearlgrapes, with leaves and stems of gold. Margaretin charge of the jewel-case was imposing. Whenthey arrived in New York she confronted every-body whom she met with a stony stare, which wasalmost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spiteof entire innocence on the part of the person staredat. It was inconceivable that any mortal wouldhave dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-caseunder that stare. It would have seemed to partakeof the nature of grand larceny from Providence.When the two reached the up-town residence ofViola Longstreet, Viola gave a little scream at thesight of the case."My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Mar-garet carrying that jewel-case out in plain sight.How dare you do such a thing? I really wonderyou have not been held up a dozen times."Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost sternsmile -- the Carew smile, which consisted in a widen-ing and slightly upward curving of tightly closed lips."I do not think," said she, "that anybody wouldbe apt to interfere with Margaret."Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of achild, although she was as old as Miss Carew. "Ithink you are right, Jane," said she. "I don't be-lieve a crook in New York would dare face thatmaid of yours. He would as soon encounter Ply-mouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your de-lightful old jewels, although you never wear any-thing except those lovely old pearl sprays and dulldiamonds.""Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride,"I have Aunt Felicia's amethysts.""Oh, sure enough! I remember you did writeme last summer that she had died and you had theamethysts at last. She must have been very old.""Ninety-one.""She might have given you the amethysts before.You, of course, will wear them; and I -- am goingto borrow the corals!"Jane Carew gasped."You do not object, do you, dear? I have a newdinner-gown which clamors for corals, and my bank-account is strained, and I could buy none equal tothose of yours, anyway.""Oh, I do not object," said Jane Carew; still shelooked aghast.Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh,I know. You think the corals too young for me.You have not worn them since you left off dottedmuslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old-- I insisted upon remaining young. I had twonew dotted muslins last summer. As for corals, Iwould wear them in the face of an opposing army!Do not judge me by yourself, dear. You laid holdof Age and held him, although you had your com-plexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I hadmy complexion and kept it. I also had my hairand kept it. My shape has been a struggle, but itwas worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth sotight that he has almost choked to death, but heldhim I have. You cannot deny it. Look at me,Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my looks,you can reasonably state that I have no longer theright to wear corals."Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile."You DO look very young, Viola," said Jane, "butyou are not.""Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. MayI wear your corals at my dinner to-morrow night?""Why, of course, if you think --""If I think them suitable. My dear, if therewere on this earth ornaments more suitable to ex-treme youth than corals, I would borrow them if youowned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer.Wait until you see me in that taupe dinner-gownand the corals!"Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom sheloved, although they had little in common, partlybecause of leading widely different lives, partly be-cause of constitutional variations. She was dressedfor dinner fully an hour before it was necessary,and she sat in the library reading when Violaswept in.Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity thatJane Carew had such an unswerving eye for theessential truth that it could not be appeased byactual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said,struggled to keep her slim shape, but she had keptit, and, what was more, kept it without evidenceof struggle. If she was in the least hampered bytight lacing and length of undergarment, she gaveno evidence of it as she curled herself up in a bigchair and (Jane wondered how she could bring her-self to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicatefoot and ankle, silk-stockinged with taupe, and shodwith a coral satin slipper with a silver heel and agreat silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck theCarew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful armswere clasped with them; a great coral brooch withwonderful carving confined a graceful fold of thetaupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted theshining waves of Viola's hair. Viola was an ash-blonde, her complexion was as roses, and the coralswere ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend'sbeauty, however, the fact that Viola was not young,that she was as old as herself, hid it and overshad-owed it."Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in thecorals, after all?" asked Viola, and there was some-thing pitiful in her voice.When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, evenif successfully, there is something of the pitiful andthe tragic involved. It is the everlasting struggleof the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose fleetingdistinguishes it from heaven, and whose retentionis not accomplished without an inner knowledge ofits futility."I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew,with the inflexibility of fate, "but I really thinkthat only very young girls ought to wear corals."Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence."But I AM a young girl, Jane," she said. "I MUSTbe a young girl. I never had any girlhood when Ishould have had. You know that."Viola had married, when very young, a man oldenough to be her father, and her wedded life had beena sad affair, to which, however, she seldom alluded.Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitablepast."Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feelingthat more might be expected, "Of course I supposethat marrying so very young does make a difference.""Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes ofone's girlhood an anti-climax, of which many dis-pute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I will. Jane,your amethysts are beautiful."Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stoneon her arm. "Yes," she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's ame-thysts have always been considered very beautiful.""And such a full set," said Viola."Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Violadid not know why. At the last moment Jane haddecided not to wear the amethyst comb, because itseemed to her altogether too decorative for a womanof her age, and she was afraid to mention it to Viola.She was sure that Viola would laugh at her and in-sist upon her wearing it."The ear-rings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear,I don't see how you ever consented to have yourears pierced.""I was very young, and my mother wished meto," replied Jane, blushing.The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly lis-tening for it all the time. Soon a very beautifulyoung man came with a curious dancing step intothe room. Harold Lind always gave the effect ofdancing when he walked. He always, moreover,gave the effect of extreme youth and of the utmostjoy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everythingand everybody with a smile as of humorous appre-ciation, and yet the appreciation was so good-natured that it offended nobody."Look at me -- I am absurd and happy; look atyourself, also absurd and happy; look at every-body else likewise; look at life -- a jest so deliciousthat it is quite worth one's while dying to be madeacquainted with it." That is what Harold Lindseemed to say. Viola Longstreet became even moreyouthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regrettedthat she had not worn her amethyst comb and be-gan to doubt its unsuitability. Viola very sooncalled the young man's attention to Jane's ame-thysts, and Jane always wondered why she did notthen mention the comb. She removed a brooch anda bracelet for him to inspect."They are really wonderful," he declared. "Ihave never seen greater depth of color in amethysts.""Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declaredViola. The young man shot a curious glance at her,which Jane remembered long afterward. It was oneof those glances which are as keystones to situations.Harold looked at the purple stones with the ex-pression of a child with a toy. There was much ofthe child in the young man's whole appearance,but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whomhis mother might observe, with adoration and ill-concealed boastfulness, "I can never tell what thatchild will do next!"Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane,and smiled at her as if amethysts were a lovelypurple joke between her and himself, uniting themby a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exqui-site, Miss Carew," he said. Then he looked at Viola."Those corals suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Long-street," he observed, "but amethysts would alsosuit you.""Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather piti-fully. There was something in the young man'sgaze and tone which she did not understand, butwhich she vaguely quivered before.Harold certainly thought the corals were too youngfor Viola. Jane understood, and felt an unworthytriumph. Harold, who was young enough in actualyears to be Viola's son, and was younger still byreason of his disposition, was amused by the sightof her in corals, although he did not intend to be-tray his amusement. He considered Viola in coralsas too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Violaonce grasped Harold Lind's estimation of her shewould have as soon gazed upon herself in her cof-fin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials wasbeyond Jane Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, par-taking of the nature of X-rays, but it never disturbedHarold Lind. He went along his dance-track undis-turbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lightsof glee, his lips never losing their inscrutable smileat some happy understanding between life and him-self. Harold had fair hair, which was very smoothand glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was sobeautiful that he showed cleverness in an affecta-tion of carelessness in dress. He did not like to wearevening clothes, because they had necessarily tobe immaculate. That evening Jane regarded himwith an inward criticism that he was too handsomefor a man. She told Viola so when the dinner wasover and he and the other guests had gone."He is very handsome," she said, "but I neverlike to see a man quite so handsome.""You will change your mind when you see himin tweeds," returned Viola. "He loathes eveningclothes."Jane regarded her anxiously. There was some-thing in Viola's tone which disturbed and shockedher. It was inconceivable that Viola should be inlove with that youth, and yet -- "He looks veryyoung," said Jane in a prim voice."He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quiteso young as he looks. Sometimes I tell him he willlook like a boy if he lives to be eighty.""Well, he must be very young," persisted Jane."Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young.Viola herself, now that the excitement was over,did not look so young as at the beginning of theevening. She removed the corals, and Jane con-sidered that she looked much better withoutthem."Thank you for your corals, dear," said Viola."Where Is Margaret?"Margaret answered for herself by a tap on thedoor. She and Viola's maid, Louisa, had been sit-ting on an upper landing, out of sight, watching theguests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals andplaced them in their nest in the jewel-case, also theamethysts, after Viola had gone. The jewel-casewas a curious old affair with many compartments.The amethysts required two. The comb was solarge that it had one for itself. That was the reasonwhy Margaret did not discover that evening that itwas gone. Nobody discovered it for three days,when Viola had a little card-party. There was awhist-table for Jane, who had never given up thereserved and stately game. There were six tablesin Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conserva-tory at one end and a leaping hearth fire at the other.Jane's partner was a stout old gentleman whose wifewas shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridgetable. The other whist-players were a stupid, verysmall young man who was aimlessly willing to playanything, and an amiable young woman who be-lieved in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously.She returned trump leads, and played second handlow, and third high, and it was not until the thirdrubber was over that she saw. It had been in fullevidence from the first. Jane would have seen itbefore the guests arrived, but Viola had not put itin her hair until the last moment. Viola was wildwith delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy.In a soft, white gown, with violets at her waist, shewas playing with Harold Lind, and in her ash-blondhair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gaspedand paled. The amiable young woman who was heropponent stared at her. Finally she spoke in a lowvoice."Aren't you well. Miss Carew?" she asked.The men, in their turn, stared. The stout onerose fussily. "Let me get a glass of water," he said.The stupid small man stood up and waved his handswith nervousness."Aren't you well?" asked the amiable young ladyagain.Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It wasseldom that she lost it. "I am quite well, thank you,Miss Murdock," she replied. "I believe diamondsare trumps."They all settled again to the play, but the younglady and the two men continued glancing at MissCarew. She had recovered her dignity of manner,but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewilderedexpression. Resolutely she abstained from glancingagain at her amethyst comb in Viola Longstreet'sash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of sub-conscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards,she arrived at a conclusion which caused her colorto return and the bewildered expression to disappear.When refreshments were served, the amiable younglady said, kindly:"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew,but at one time while we were playing I was reallyalarmed. You were very pale.""I did not feel in the least ill," replied JaneCarew. She smiled her Carew smile at the younglady. Jane had settled it with herself that of courseViola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealingto Margaret. Viola ought not to have done that;she should have asked her, Miss Carew; and Janewondered, because Viola was very well bred; butof course that was what had happened. Jane hadcome down before Viola, leaving Margaret in herroom, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not thenremember that Viola had not even been told thatthere was an amethyst comb in existence. Sheremembered when Margaret, whose face was aspale and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, whenshe was brushing her hair."I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret."Louisa and I were on the landing, and I lookeddown and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. Long-street's hair.""She had asked you for it, because I had gonedown-stairs?" asked Jane, feebly."No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I wentout right after you did. Louisa had finished Mrs.Longstreet, and she and I went down to the mail-box to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing,and -- I saw your comb.""Have you," asked Jane, "looked in the jewel-case?""Yes, Miss Jane.""And it is not there?""It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke witha sort of solemn intoning. She recognized what thesituation implied, and she, who fitted squarely andentirely into her humble state, was aghast beforea hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not,even with the evidence of her senses against a ladyand her mistress's old friend, believe in them. HadJane told her firmly that she had not seen thatcomb in that ash-blond hair she might have beenhypnotized into agreement. But Jane simply staredat her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken thanshe had ever seen it."Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret," orderedJane in a gasp.Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everythingwas taken out; all the compartments were opened,but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane couldnot sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubtedthe evidence of her senses. The jewel-case was thor-oughly overlooked again, and still Jane was incredu-lous that she would ever see her comb in Viola'shair again. But that evening, although there wereno guests except Harold Lind, who dined at thehouse, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with aknot of violets at her waist, and -- she wore the ame-thyst comb. She said not one word concerning it;nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild spirits. Theconviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible,beautiful youth was covertly amusing himself at her,at Viola's, at everybody's expense. Perhaps heincluded himself. He talked incessantly, not inreality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparklingeffervescence which was fairly dazzling. Viola'sservants restrained with difficulty their laughter athis sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealedtenderness and admiration. She herself looked evenyounger than usual, as if the innate youth in herleaped to meet this charming comrade.Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not under-stand her friend. Not for one minute did she dreamthat there could be any serious outcome of thesituation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth,who, she knew, was making such covert fun at herexpense; but she was bewildered and indignant.She wished that she had not come. That eveningwhen she went to her room she directed Margaretto pack, as she intended to return home the nextday. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity.She was as conservative as her mistress and sheseverely disapproved of many things. However, thematter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in hermind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardlydared inquire, but finally she did."About the amethyst comb, ma'am?" she said,with a delicate cough."What about it, Margaret?" returned Jane,severely."I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told youhow she happened to have it."Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide.For once she spoke her mind to her maid. "Shehas not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don'tknow what to think of it."Margaret pursed her lips."What do YOU think, Margaret?""I don't know. Miss Jane.""I don't.""I did not mention it to Louisa," said Margaret."Oh, I hope not!" cried Jane."But she did to me," said Margaret. "She askedhad I seen Miss Viola's new comb, and then shelaughed, and I thought from the way she actedthat --" Margaret hesitated."That what?""That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Violathe comb."Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!"she cried. "That, of course, is nonsense. Theremust be some explanation. Probably Mrs. Long-street will explain before we go."Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wonderedand expostulated when Jane announced her firmdetermination to leave, but she seemed utterly ata loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb.When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend shewas entirely sure in her own mind that she wouldnever visit her again -- might never even see heragain.Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in herown peaceful home, over which no shadow of absurdmystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light oflife, which disclosed gently but did not conceal orbetray. Jane settled back into her pleasant life,and the days passed, and the weeks, and the months,and the years. She heard nothing whatever fromor about Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, oneday, Margaret returned from the city, and she hadmet Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store,and she had news. Jane wished for strength torefuse to listen, but she could not muster it. Shelistened while Margaret brushed her hair."Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a longtime," said Margaret. "She is living with some-body else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had togive up her house and her servants, and Louisa saidshe cried when she said good-by."Jane made an effort. "What became of --" shebegan.Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. Shewas excited by gossip as by a stimulant. Her thincheeks burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind," saidMargaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to bereal bad. He got into some money trouble, andthen" -- Margaret lowered her voice -- "he was ar-rested for taking a lot of money which didn't belongto him. Louisa said he had been in some businesswhere he handled a lot of other folks' money, andhe cheated the men who were in the business withhim, and he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks,hid away somewhere so they wouldn't call her totestify, and then he had to go to prison; but --"Margaret hesitated."What is it?" asked Jane."Louisa thinks he died about a year and a halfago. She heard the lady where she lives now talkingabout it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, andshe heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison,that he couldn't stand the hard life, and that MissViola had lost all her money through him, and then"-- Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress proddedsharply -- "Louisa said that she heard the lady saythat she had thought Miss Viola would marry him,but she hadn't, and she had more sense than shehad thought.""Mrs. Longstreet would never for one momenthave entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lind;he was young enough to be her grandson," saidJane, severely."Yes, ma'am," said Margaret.It so happened that Jane went to New Yorkthat day week, and at a jewelry counter in one ofthe shops she discovered the amethyst comb. Therewere on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry,the precious flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthyfamilies which had drifted, nobody knew beforewhat currents of adversity, into that harbor ofsale for all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries;the saleswoman volunteered simply the informationthat the comb was a real antique, and the stoneswere real amethysts and pearls, and the setting wassolid gold, and the price was thirty dollars; andJane bought it. She carried her old amethyst combhome, but she did not show it to anybody. Shereplaced it in its old compartment in her jewel-case and thought of it with wonder, with a hint ofjoy at regaining it, and with much sadness. Shewas still fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did noteasily part with her loves. She did not know whereViola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, whodid not know. Poor Viola had probably driftedinto some obscure harbor of life wherein she washiding until life was over.And then Jane met Viola one spring day on FifthAvenue."It is a very long time since I have seen you,"said Jane with a reproachful accent, but her eyeswere tenderly inquiring."Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I haveseen nobody. Do you know what a change has comein my life?" she asked."Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaretmet Louisa once and she told her.""Oh yes -- Louisa," said Viola. "I had to dis-charge her. My money is about gone. I have onlyjust enough to keep the wolf from entering the doorof a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house.However, I often hear him howl, but I do not mindat all. In fact, the howling has become companyfor me. I rather like it. It is queer what things onecan learn to like. There are a few left yet, like theawful heat in summer, and the food, which I do notfancy, but that is simply a matter of time."Viola's laugh was like a bird's song -- a part of her-- and nothing except death could silence it for long."Then," said Jane, "you stay in New York allsummer?"Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied,"of course. It is all very simple. If I left NewYork, and paid board anywhere, I would never haveenough money to buy my return fare, and certainlynot to keep that wolf from my hall-bedroom door.""Then," said Jane, "you are going home with me.""I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane," saidViola. "Don't ask me."Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreetsaw Jane Carew's eyes blaze with anger. "Youdare to call it charity coming from me to you?"she said, and Viola gave in.When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived,she marveled, with the exceedingly great marvelingof a woman to whom love of a man has never come,at a woman who could give so much and with noreturn.Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane under-stood with a shudder of horror that it was almostdestitution, not poverty, to which her old friend wasreduced."You shall have that northeast room which youalways liked," she told Viola when they were onthe train."The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper,and the pine-tree growing close to one window?"said Viola, happily.Jane and Viola settled down to life together,and Viola, despite the tragedy which she had known,realized a peace and happiness beyond her imagina-tion. In reality, although she still looked so youth-ful, she was old enough to enjoy the pleasures of laterlife. Enjoy them she did to the utmost. She andJane made calls together, entertained friends atsmall and stately dinners, and gave little teas. Theydrove about in the old Carew carriage. Viola hadsome new clothes. She played very well on Jane'sold piano. She embroidered, she gardened. Shelived the sweet, placid life of an older lady in a littlevillage, and loved it. She never mentioned HaroldLind.Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Har-old Lind; rather among those of such beauty andcharm that the earth spoils them, making them, intheir own estimation, free guests at all its tablesof bounty. Moreover, the young man had, deeplyrooted in his character, the traits of a mischievouschild, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense ofhumor so keen that it verged on cruelty than fromany intention to harm others. Over that affair ofthe amethyst comb, for instance, his irresponsible,selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. Hehad not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondnessfor himself. He had made sport of her, but onlyfor his own entertainment -- never for the entertain-ment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seekingout paths of pleasure and folly for himself alone,which ended as do all paths of earthly pleasure andfolly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the samepoint of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when shelooked her youngest and best, always seemed soold as to be venerable to him. He had at timescompunctions, as if he were making a jest of hisgrandmother. Viola never knew the truth about theamethyst comb. He had considered that one of thebest frolics of his life. He had simply purloined itand presented it to Viola, and merrily left mattersto settle themselves.Viola and Jane had lived together a month beforethe comb was mentioned. Then one day Viola wasin Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and shebegan examining its contents. When she found theamethyst comb she gave a little cry. Jane, who hadbeen seated at her desk and had not seen what wasgoing on, turned around.Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheekswere burning. She fondled the trinket as if it hadbeen a baby. Jane watched her. She began tounderstand the bare facts of the mystery of the dis-appearance of her amethyst comb, but the subtletyof it was forever beyond her. Had the other womanexplained what was in her mind, in her heart -- howthat reckless young man whom she had loved hadgiven her the treasure because he had heard heradmire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconsciousof any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the oneevidence of his thoughtful tenderness, it being theone gift she had ever received from him; how sheparted with it, as she had parted with her otherjewels, in order to obtain money to purchase com-forts for him while he was in prison -- Jane couldnot have understood. The fact of an older womanbeing fond of a young man, almost a boy, was be-yond her mental grasp. She had no imaginationwith which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic,almost terrible love of one who has trodden theearth long for one who has just set dancing feetupon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lackingall such imagination, she acted as she did: that, al-though she did not, could not, formulate it to herself,she would no more have deprived the other womanand the dead man of that one little unscathed bondof tender goodness than she would have robbedhis grave of flowers.Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all aboutit; you would laugh at me," she whispered; "butthis was mine once.""It is yours now, dear," said Jane.
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