dressed, of admirable manners, and with a society behavior which was as faultless as a monogram champagneglass, was only of importance so far as that it might give him the clew out of the theatrical labyrinth, and bring him back to the salon - so thought his lady friends. He had thus a leg in two worlds-he was the colossus of the footlights. Now, there were two lovely widows whom he knew, who were only to be seen behind the palings and through the latticework of a tremendous social position. They were guarded by tradition and by aunts. The families were religious-if the widows were not- and they unitedly regarded the stage, and stage-plays, and playactors (as they always called them), with contempt, abhorrence and fear. Mrs. Clairville was the blonde widow with the retroussé nose, and a doublet and hose in her disposition, who was the prize pattern soubrette of Sinclair's dreams, but she was deftly guarded. Very poor, she had to obey the two Misses Griggs, her rich aunts, or else give up that luxury, which was her life, and those Worth dresses, which were dearer than life! The late Clairville had been but a poor match-had, in fact, been buried at the expense of the Misses Griggs. Indeed, he only left his wife one piece of property: it was a set of antique ornaments which he declared had belonged to Marie Antoinette. The necklace was quaint; little landscape plaques painted in sepia, alternated with cupids, nymphs and groups of gay beauties-all touched in, one would think, by fairy fingers; these plaques were surrounded with pearls, and hung together with copper-colored chains. There were bracelets and long pendent earrings, belonging also to the set. Very little did Mrs. Clairville care whether Marie Antoinette had worn it or not, as she clasped it about her plump white throat. "This copper-colored gold is very becoming! But I wish I had an inch more length of throat! Now, Mrs. Percival!" she whispered. For Mrs. Clairville had every belonging of a woman of energetic fashion-even a rival! And Mrs. Percival was a foeman worthy of her steel. She was her complete contrast-tall, dark, quiet. There were people who said that Mrs. Percival was less a woman than an angel. She went to balls, but did not dance; she looked cool and pale when other pretty women were flushed; she talked little, but mused a great deal. Her smile was eloquent; it spoke volumes, but she had in her dark beauty a certain brilliancy-something fearful; a light which cast its shadow before. Some people called her a "prédestinée.” Jem Hitchcock, who was in love with both these pretty widows, declared that books were injuring Mrs. Percival. To him books were simply black lines running after one another-something uncanny and cabalistic! No book but a betting-book had any health in it to Jem, and looking into Mrs. Percival's black eyes, as adorably soft as an Italian sky, he remarked: "You mustn't read so much; it is ruining your eyes." Mrs. Clairville needed no such advice. She read mankind, and her dinner-cards, her dancing-list, her visitingbook, and counted the beads of that long rosary on which her invitations were recorded. But this done, her devotions and her aspirations for literary renown and culture were appeased. She went to church regularly, but that she did not count as devotion; that was concession to a fashionable position, and done to please her aunts. With her little "nose tip-tilted like a flower," in a fashionable bonnet, and in splendid velvet and furs, she sat in the grand old family pew of the Griggses, and was not unhappy, particularly when she caught a view of the fine profile of Sinclair, half hidden by the neighboring pillar. Coming out of church was very pleasant indeed, and the walk up Fifth Avenue charming. It was on one of these walks up Fifth Avenue that Sinclair joined her, and told her of his new play. "I want you and Mrs. Percival to do it for charity," said he, looking sideways at the retroussé nose. "Impossible! The Bacons, the Browns and the Smiths will keep her from playing, and the Palmers, the Russells and the Griggses will keep me," said Mrs. Clairville, regretfully, for she saw the long line of exciting footlights flash like Summer lightning. She saw herself in the tightest of bodices, the shortest of skirts, the cunningest of caps and neatest of slippers, doing Suzanne behind them. "I have propitiated the Bacons, the Browns and the Smiths. I have got Mrs. Percival," said he. “Oh, I see! The Home for the One-armed Tramps. You have promised to give the proceeds to that; well, come around and conquer the Palmers, the Russellse and the Griggses for me. "I will," said he. "Certainly; all my jewels. I will bring them over to-morrow. They are not, all told, so valuable as that. rococo necklace." So, in Mrs. Clairville's boudoir, while that little lady tried on the sparkling diamonds, the rich rubies, the flashing emeralds, the mysterious opals, and the prophetic amethysts which crowded Mrs. Percival's jewelbox, the latter sat down with the necklace on her lap, and studied it. She saw, with her educated eye, that Jean Baptiste Vanloo had painted some of these plaques; that the cupids had fallen from the hands of Boucher; that, perhaps, Watteau had designed the gay groups of "les fêtes galantes." It was a little epitome of the eighteenth century. It whispered to her of the Guimard, Camargo, perhaps Dubarry, Pompadour. Some French marquis had ordered this necklace made out of many necklaces, before it had reached that neck which, half hidden by a white gauze fichu, was so superb that its glorious charm had become historical. She who owned it had once acted comedy at the Trianon. As Mrs. Percival looked it over, pressing with delicate finger the plaque nearest the clasp, a little spring started, one of the settings flew back, and she read the words: "Percival, 1802." "Who owned this necklace, after the Queen ?" she asked, shutting it instinctively, without telling Mrs. Clairville of her discovery. "Oh! my husband's great-grandmother. She was a rich Englishwoman, who came to Paris after the Revolution, and I dare say she bought it at the sale of the Queen's jewels." Mrs. Percival was rich, and independent in every sense but one. Her vailed nature, her quiet, studious tastes, her as yet unemancipated soul, made her the still easily governed daughter of her haughty house. She had not | and not at her clothes. Acting like Jessie Jumpits, too," been "born a widow "—she had been born a nun-but said the more romantic and chivalrous Lukes. the tropical air of the footlights apparently opened this splendid flower, and brought it to its blossoming. The Bacons, the Browns and the Smiths were frightened to death when they saw her play. They said, tremulously "Why, she plays like a regular actress!" That is a charge which but few of the friends of amateurs have, often, to prefer! A beautiful role! yes! like some of those tender things which Alfred de Musset has written. A sort of Louise La Vallière, such was the part which Sinclair had given her, and she played it well. She looked so divinely lovely, in her Louis Quinze costume, with the antique necklace round her slender white throat, that Sinclair's heart swelled into inconvenient bumpiness; so he affected brutality-it is a common dodge with a lover. A loud ring at the shop-door bell sent Potter into the front shop, and presently a high, shrill but not unpleasant, voice penetrated to the two old men, and told them that Potter was so fortunate as to have a lady customer. He talked to her a long time, and Gilbert examined the weird ornaments. Presently, waking Lukes out of a very good restorative nap, Potter came in hastily and gathered up the ornaments from Gilbert's trembling fingers. "It's Jessie Jumpits, the actress," said he. "She has come down to take her jewels out of pawn, and says that she wants something old-fashioned for her neck. She is to play in Sinclair's new play. Come in and tell her how the swells played it. This will just do for her." It ended in Jessie Jumpits being asked in to punch and toast in the back office, where she made herself very "Your stage walk is very bad, Mrs. Percival," said he, agreeable. at the last rehearsal. Now, you see, this is all very nice," said Jessie, "Is it ?" said she, sending an inspired gleam out of her "about the ladies playing so well; but do you know I black eyes at him, across the footlights. have coached them on the sly?" And so Sinclair got an opportunity to go on the stage, to take her arm, to show her how to walk, and to be thus lost for her. Mrs. Clairville saw through him, and swore vengeance. Not for this was she dancing the gavotte ! CHAPTER II. THE one-armed tramps netted a handsome sum from these private theatricals, and at the third representation, when the two pretty widows played better than ever, the ingenuous objects of this beneficent charity were allowed to be present. "I say, Lukes," said one of them to his neighbor, "I used to be a jeweler once, and I have seen that necklace the handsome black-eyed woman wears once before." "So have I. It was pawned, wasn't it? I remember it, too, down at Potter's," said his chum. "Before we fell into charity! Yes; queer place, Potter's. Let's get leave of absence and go down there tomorrow. These hospitals are pretty stupid." Gilbert and Lukes were favorite old-men pensioners. They were often put in the front row, to be looked at as specimen charity cards, so they had no great difficulty in obtaining leave to take an outing. Potter, a pawnbroker of wealth, was still not above welcoming his old comrades, who had fallen on their feet in the prosperous hospital. He mixed them a toddy in the back shop, and heard their description of, the theatricals with pleasure. "One great swell wore a necklace that I have seen here," said Gilbert. "Have you, now? Well, that accounts for it," said Lukes, who in his young days had once played Charles Marlowe, and who had a great admiration for Jessie Jumpits, as he had had for that excellent actress, her mother before her. all. "Yes, Sinclair is a friend of mine, and he arranged it They were polite and delightful, and the dark one made me a splendid present, and the light one was very chatty and nice, but they were dreadfully afraid; they used to come to my lodgings n green vails and aquascutum cloaks, poor things !" said Jessie, giving a hearty laugh. They were so afraid of being seen with an actress." "And so you coached them ?" said old Lukes, admiringly. “Yes,” said Jessie, sipping her punch; "and they have talent. No wooden sticks there. Mrs. Percival would drive me off the stage if she chose to go on it." "Did you ever see that before ?" said Potter, holding up the necklace. "No, I didn't," said Jessie, stretching out an exceedingly white hand to take it from him; "but it is just what I want for my costume." "So you play the part which Mrs. Percival played, do you, Jessie ?" asked Gilbert, in a paternal way. "And you didn't see her play for the Home of the One-armed Tramps, my dear ?" "No; I was professionally busy every evening, of course," said Jessie. "Well, she wore a necklace exactly like this, and there's meaning in it; when things begin to work "I dare say. They come and go," said Potter. "What strange and into one another like a network, it means sort of a one ?" "An antique, copper-colored gold chain, with plaques and pearls," said the old jeweler, sententiously. "That is here now," said Potter. "Saw it last night,” said Gilbert, doubtfully. "Hasn't left here for ten years." Potter put down his glass of toddy and went to his safe. Taking from it an old box, he brought it to Gilbert; the very necklace, or a fac-simile of it, which Mrs. Percival had worn the night before. "Now, ain't that queer ?" said the old jeweler, passing his skilled fingers over the delicate settings. "I could have sworn-couldn't you, Lukes ?-that I see the tall, dark lady wear one like this." something. We ain't heard the end of this necklace yet, Jessie." After which oracular utterance, Gilbert, who was a scrt of Captain Cuttle, devoted himself to the remaining toddy, and though shaking his head violently from time to time, he spoke no more. “Well, Potter," said Jessie, with somo abruptness, "I'll hire this necklace of you for the season. Here's ten dollars in advance, more than the old thing is worth; but it hits my fancy." "Miss Jumpits, I could not do it," reasoned Potter, true to his pawnbroker instinct. "Oh, law!" said Jessie, dropping it into her pocket, forcing the bill into his gaping palm, and with a care "I dunno. She was a stunner, and I looked at her, less bow to the two old men, the leading lady of Ruth's Then, looking round furtively, and bending her head down, she whispered something in the ear of the pawnbroker. There was the usual haggling and disputing, but it ended in the usual way. The man kept the necklace; the woman departed, muttering dissatisfaction. "Well, the old gentleman is in this !" said Potter, looking up the newly arrived old necklace. "It came to me queerly at first. Do what I can, I can't get rid of it. It always comes back." CHAPTER III. MRS. PERCIVAL and Mrs. Clairville had grown very intimate over their guilty secret-their stolen visits to Jessie Jumpits. That they found her a good, hardworking girl, who supported her mother, and her drunken old father, and a lame brother, appealed very much to their youthful sympathies; but they were quite sure that none of their relations would see things in the same light as they did. The Bacons, the Browns, the Smiths, the Palmers, the Russells and the Griggses belonged to that class of the respectable who considered certain minor observances, such as playing cards at home, knitting or visiting on a Sunday evening, knowing artists, dancing in Lent, playing certain tunes and not others, and going to see the opera-bouffe, as crimes quite equal to murder, theft, and arson. Raffling at fairs was also very wicked, but when they had a rug to dispose of "well, that was different, you know." Such. people are just as good, and perhaps much better, than the Bohemians or the respectable Liberals, but they are apt to be deceived by their young people. The nose of the teapot refuses to be stopped up. But this violent friendship and its secret bond was destined to be disrupted by the furious jealousy of Mrs. Clairville, who saw that Sinclair had eyes and ears only for Mrs. Percival, and by an incident which came to her knowledge two days after the last representation of the play. Charlotte, have you put away the antique ornaments in their cases?" asked the eldest Miss Griggs, in an astringent tone. "I noticed everything came home very higgledy-piggledy from the play, including my old lace, all torn." DAY'S OUTING WITH THE KENTUCKY QUAIL.-"THANKSGIVING DAY DAWNED SLOWLY ON MY SLEEPING SENSES THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF YOUNG JIM, A LITTLE DARKY."-SEE PAGE 103. A DAY'S OUTING WITH THE KENTUCKY QUAIL.-"I FLATTERED MYSELF THAT I DID NOT CUT SO BAD AN EQUESTRIAN FIGURE AS I HAD ANTICIPATED."- SEE PAGE 103. "Well, no," said Mrs. Clairville; "I gave Mrs. Percival her jewels, and she put them in her pocket. She put mine in a deep box and handed them to me. I gave them to Marie, who tied them up and brought them home, I suppose." "Well, for a woman who has so few jewels as you have, that is rather good!" said Miss Griggs. "Marie, bring me the box." Marie brought a common pasteboard box, which, on being opened, showed cotton and paper and jewels, rather tumbled in. The earrings, the bracelets came out, but the necklace-no! "Why, how queer! How is this?" said Miss Griggs, shaking the box. "Just like you two thoughtless things! Go over at once and tell Mrs. Percival. Here, Marie! take this pasteboard thing, and bring me Mrs. Clairville's jewel-case. Lost, no doubt." Marie took up the box and the cotton and discarded papers, and walked off. As she was about throwing the box away, she saw that an envelope, neatly folded, lay at the bottom of the box, looking exactly like the lining thereof. To take it out, to feel with her long fingers the necklace within it, was her part of the performance, except that she quickly transferred it to her own pocket and placed the box ostentatiously on her bureau. When she came back, with the serenely proper air of a French chambermaid, Mrs. Clairville was writing a note, which quickly brought Mrs. Percival to her side. "The necklace missing?" said she; "how horrible! I distinctly remember taking it off my neck, and dropping it into the box. Let me see. What did I do in the greenroom? Yes, I am quite sure; I wrote two notes. I sent one with a little-yes-” Here Mrs. Percival stopped short and blushed. Sho remembered that one of them was to Jessie Jumpits with the banknote inclosed, of which the actress had spoken so warmly. "The other was to Mr. Sinclair, inclosing my part. You remember, he asked us to send up the manuscript that evening, so that no pirate should get hold of it. I am quite sure I put the necklace carefully in the bottom of the box." "No, you did not!" said Miss Griggs, fiercely, for she hated Mrs. Percival-first, for being young; second, for being beautiful; third, for being rich; and, fourth, for having played better than Mrs. Clairville. "No, you did not! for I emptied the box myself-an earring here, a bracelet there!" But the author sat, with bitterness in his soul. How poor was Jessie Jumpits, after the heroine of his heart! the woman who had revealed to him that henceforth success lay, not in the plaudits of an audience, but in one woman's. Yes; he was thinking of Mrs. Percival. However, he must go behind the scenes, thank Jessie, and accept congratulations. This success meant everything to her, and it meant money, power, fame to him. He found the hardworking actress and her maid packing up her superb stage-dress in that dismal hole which Can money replace it ?" asked Mrs. answered to the brilliant appellation "Star Dressingroom," at Ruth's Opera House. "Where is the box, Marie ?" said Mrs. Percival, turning pale. The virtuous Marie brought it. Nothing could be more empty-not even Jem Hitchcock's head. "I am very sorry. Percival. "I should think not !" said Miss Griggs. "Would you accept my diamond necklace, Charlotte ?" turning to Mrs. Clairville. "Certainly not!" said Mrs. Clairville, rising into unaccustomed dignity, and with a black cloud on her brow. "Perhaps you inclosed my necklace to Mr. Sinclair with the manuscript." "That is possible !" said Mrs. Percival, jumping to her feet. "I seem to remember putting it in an envelopethe confusion was so great, we were all so excited-and I remember seeing it lying on the top of a heap of papers. Now I shall go and search the greenroom, and write to Mr. Sinclair at once, and-" She did not finish the remark, for she meant to go at once also to the actress; but she remembered, with some confusion, that she was not now playing in New York, but at Ruth's Opera House, filling a provincial engagement. Sinclair was trying his piece on the less critical air of the rural districts. The ladies watched her, as her face bore the expression of baffled distress. "Your jewelry all reached home safely, I hope ?" said Miss Griggs, bitterly. "Oh, yes! I dare say!" said Mrs. Percival. "I think Charlotte put it in my pocket." "Why, Jessie, what have you on your neck?" he asked, as, turning to speak to him, the light revealed the necklace, which was crowded up above her high-necked silk dress. "Oh, a bit of antiquity which I found somewhere," she said, laughing lightly. "How did you like my third act ?" "Immensely, Jessie. justice. The public has like actress of the day. -looking at the necklace. Jessie Jumpits was not pleased with the playwright's enthusiasm. To ignore her, and to be so exercised over the tawdry old necklace which she had got at a pawnbroker's! What had happened to the dear Sinclair? You have done me more than indorsed you as the most ladyWhere have I seen it before ?" CHAPTER V. THE letters of Mrs. Percival to Sinclair and to Jessie brought quick returns, but not until she had sought relief from her distress of mind by going, as was her wont, to read to the one-armed tramps. Finding old Gilbert and Lukes alone, she indulged them by talking about the play, and narrated the distress "You seem to have been very much preoccupied," said she had felt at losing the necklace. Miss Griggs. "Yes! The excitement, the fatigue, the new sensation-I was absorbed in my part, and in one or two duties, so new to me, and in making up for some negligences of my own I was very much confused — but, Charlotte, I shall move heaven and earth to find your necklace. How horrible that I should have lost it!" And poor Mrs. Percival went off to write to Sinclair, to search the greenroom, to follow up Jessie Jumpits, and to have a good cry. "You may depend," said Miss Griggs, shaking her false front at Mrs. Clairville, "that she has stolen the necklace. She is a kleptomaniac; they are found in the best families, amongst the richest people. Did you see her turn red and pale?" CHAPTER IV. SINCLAIR had gone out of town. He had followed his play. Jessie Jumpits was a good actress, he knew that he could trust her, and he had been very much pleased at her readiness to help the amateur actresses. But he also knew that the amateur success told nothing as to the merits of his work. To take a back seat in the gallery at Ruth's Opera House, in a distant city, and to watch the effect on the man next to him, that was his way of thrusting a thermometer into the popular opinion. It was a success. The man next to him approved. The first act went off glibly; the second was better; the audience clamored for more in the third act; in the fourth, women stood up, and Jessie Jumpits was called before the curtain thrice, while loud cries of "Author, author!" resounded through the house. "I know where it is!" said old Gilbert, striking his knee. "It was stole, and took to a pawnbroker's named Potter. You go there, missis, and get it!" At Potter's Mrs. Percival and Sinclair found the necklace, and it lay in an envelope still, addressed to Jessie Jumpits! It could not be touched without the pawnticket, however, although they were allowed, through old Gilbert's interposition, to see it. "There are two of them, then," said he. "I have it!" said Mrs. Percival. "I remember I blotted this envelope, paused a moment, saw the necklace, did it up in the rejected envelope, and pushed it into the box. Now, whom must we follow up?” She then told Sinclair the story of her reception at Miss Griggs's, and of the woman Marie. Perhaps as a writer of plays, Sinclair had remarkable intuitions. But, at any rate, a policeman scared Mademoiselle Marie out of a pawn-ticket, which the playwright secured. All would have gone well, but that Jessie Jumpits, very much alarmed at her friend's distress and trouble, packed up the necklace which she had hired at the pawnbroker's and sent it to Mrs. Clairville, as Sinclair had foolishly advised her to do, before he had achieved the knowledge of the second necklace. It was noised all over town that Mrs. Percival had stolen Mrs. Clairville's necklace in a moment of greed and temptation, and that a story of an actress and pawnbroker had been trumped up. Miss Griggs used the word "kleptomania" many times. But Sinclair, like the dramatic genius that he was, prepared a gorgeous revenge. |