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The Amethyst Comb
by
Jane started violently. “Absolutely impossible!” she cried. “That, of course, is nonsense. There must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. Longstreet will explain before we go.”
Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane announced her firm determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb.
When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in her own mind that she would never visit her again — might never even see her again.
Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over which no shadow of absurd mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light of life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane settled back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks, and the months, and the years. She heard nothing whatever from or about Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from the city, and she had met Viola’s old maid Louisa in a department store, and she had news. Jane wished for strength to refuse to listen, but she could not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair.
“Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time,” said Margaret. “She is living with somebody else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she said good-by.”
Jane made an effort. “What became of –” she began.
Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip as by a stimulant. Her thin cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. “Mr. Lind,” said Margaret, “Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got into some money trouble, and then” — Margaret lowered her voice — “he was arrested for taking a lot of money which didn’t belong to him. Louisa said he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other folks’ money, and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they wouldn’t call her to testify, 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 half ago. She heard the lady where she lives now talking about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn’t stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through him, and then” — Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded sharply — “Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had thought Miss Viola would marry him, but she hadn’t, and she had more sense than she had thought.”
“Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lind; he was young enough to be her grandson,” said Jane, severely.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Margaret.
It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a jewelry counter in one of the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. There were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody knew before what currents of adversity, into that harbor of sale for all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered simply the information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was solid gold, and the price was thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old amethyst comb home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it in its old compartment in her jewel-case and thought of it with wonder, with a hint of joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She did not know where Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who did not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of life wherein she was hiding until life was over.