# The Green Jacket/Chapter 21
### XXI

When Mrs. Mason returned a little before luncheon she was accompanied by a young girl who seemed to be very much at home, and very happy in the place. As she stepped from the car she glanced about her with a wonted look, and on the steps of the terrace she stopped to gather a rose from beside the steps. She held it in her hand as they came toward the house.
In the hallway, Milly saw her turn toward the room on the left, as if she were accustomed to the house, and Mrs. Mason, with a word and a little smile to her, passed directly up the stairs.
A little later, Stephen Mason came quickly down and entered the room on the left. There was a sound of laughing greeting, with murmured words; and a little later, their low voices in earnest conversation.
Milly laid aside her work and went into the hall and toward the rooms at the back of the house. She had not been in this part of the house before, and she opened doors at random. Through one she saw Batson's shirt-sleeves engaged on some intent task, and through another Katie filling a tray with glasses and silver. At the farther door, which proved to be the kitchen, the cook, engrossed in the last details of luncheon, gave her only a hurried glance and returned to her stove. Milly passed her—so close that she could have reached out her hand and touched her. But Ellen Batson, who had never seen the detective who "had made a woman" of her Sadie, saw only the gray sewing-woman and resented, a little impatiently, the invasion of her kitchen.
In the pantry beyond the kitchen Milly found Margaret putting the last touches to a dessert, her stout shoulders and broad hips filling most of the available space between the shelves and shutting out the light from the window. She gave an absent, preoccupied glance over her shoulder at Milly's step; her face lighted.
"In just a minute, Miss Brigham," she said. She slid the dessert carefully to a plate before her and placed it on the shelf at the right.
"Now I'm through!" She dusted a little flour from her fat fingers and came out, closing the door carefully behind her and following Milly through the kitchen to the outer hall.
"I've left it on the shelf to the right," she remarked as she passed the cook.
Ellen's grunt of response was curt, almost inaudible. Margaret closed the door and stood facing Milly in the narrow passage.
"Was there something you wanted, Miss Brigham? I'm through now." She puffed a little, as if the steam of concentration generated by desserts changed slowly to the relaxed breathing of common things. She looked at Milly with approval. To no one had the change in her mistress been more apparent than to Margaret; and Margaret was in a position to know who was responsible for the look of relieved and quiet happiness that was coming back to her face.
"I was just going up to Miss Annie—when I had finished," she explained. "But I can wait if you want something."
"No. I only wanted her to come to the sewing-room a minute or two before she goes to luncheon. Will you tell her? Only a minute."
The woman nodded. "I'll hurry and see if she wants any help." And her broad figure got itself under way. Milly watched it going down the hall, almost floating as it receded on its way, with a sheer momentum of weight.
She returned to the sewing-room, gathering up her work and put it one side. The sound of the Chinese gong came before she had finished, and almost at once Mrs. Mason's hurried step was at the door.
"Margaret told me. I have only a minute." She was flushed and anxious.
"It was Miss Marshall who came with you, wasn't it?"
"Elise—yes." A happy look came to her face. "She has come to luncheon—and to spend the afternoon."
Milly nodded. "I want a chance to see her—not for long. Just to see her. Can you arrange it?"
The little light left the woman's face and she drew back a step. But Milly put out a hand.
"No, you must not distrust or fear anything. I only want to see this young woman when she does not know she is being ob served—only a few minutes, and if possible with your son. Could you have tea served out here on the terrace where we had it the other day? Then, sitting here with my work, I can easily see you all."
Mrs. Mason assented with a quick smile.
"I shall ask you to come out and join us!" she said.
"Very well. That will be better yet."
Her companion nodded. "It will be almost like old times!" she said softly. "A party on the terrace. . . . And there will be another guest—a friend of Stephen's who is coming out from town—a Mr. Sargent—Alan Sargent!"
She did not see the little start of surprise the other gave at the name. She was absorbed in her own emotion and thought and was moving toward her impulsively, her hands outstretched.
"I cannot tell you what your being here does for me!" she said quickly. "Even if we never find anything—even if we never know, you have helped me!"
"Oh, but we shall know!" said Milly confidently. "Every hour that I am here I feel more sure of it and more thankful that I came to you. We shall let a flood of light in on this house."
The woman turned away. "I must hurry!" she said. The voices had come into the front hall, and Milly, returning to her seat at the table, saw Mr. Mason descending the stair. He took the young girl's hand in his and bent above it, with an air of almost courtly devotion. He placed it in his arm playfully, as if the little attention were a form of comradeship, and led her toward the dining-room. Milly saw the mother join the son, and they passed out of sight in the wake of the others.
When she had finished luncheon she went up to her room for a little rest. She must make herself presentable if she were to be asked to join the party on the terrace. She had no other gown except the gray one she was wearing. But when she had rearranged her hair and tucked a bit of white mull into the open neck of the gray gown, she had a sense, as she turned away from the mirror, that there was something almost festive about her. It might be the little touch of color in her cheeks. She turned again doubtfully to the mirror and surveyed the color, and brushed the powder-puff across it, and drew her hair into more discreet lines, and nodded to the gray figure. She had subdued every thing except a little light in the eyes whose clear fire seemed to shine from some hidden source within the grayness.
When she reached the sewing-room the others were already assembled on the terrace by her window, laughing and talking; and Batson, moving with discreet, happy steps about the table, was arranging the kettle to his mistress's hand and giving a last, sharp scrutiny to the wick. He adjusted the windshield to guard the flame, and withdrew on important feet.
The party about the table gathered closer, talking gayly and helping each other with the familiar happiness of friends who have been long separated. If any memory of the girl who had once been the merriest of the party came to them, no sign of it touched the laughing group. Each one gave without stint—and if the giving urged itself a little beyond the note of spontaneous happiness—for the sake of the rest—perhaps no one but the quiet woman in the room beyond the open window noted or felt it.
The hostess glanced about her with contented, happy look. "Is every one served?" she asked.
She beckoned to her son.
"Ask Miss Brigham to come out," she said in a low voice, glancing at the open window near by. "It is lonely for her here."
He moved toward the window and she turned the lowered voice to the young man sitting beside her. "I have a delightful seamstress!" she said. "It is a shame to keep her shut up in there, such a beautiful day!"
The gray figure had appeared in the window, and the young man whose head was bent carelessly to his hostess's murmured words looked up, and sprang to his feet with a little exclamation of pleasure.
He came toward her with outstretched hand. "Why, Miss——"
"Brigham," she finished quietly, nodding with a little smile. "You did not expect to meet Miss Brigham here, did you?"
"I certainly did not!" he said slowly. The look of stupefaction in his face gave way.
"But I'm mighty glad to see you!" He led her to a chair that stood a little apart from the others and made her comfortable, looking still slightly dazed and uncertain, but with beaming face.
"So you know Miss Brigham?" said his hostess with a quick look at him, as he returned to take the cup of tea she poured. Her voice had a questioning note under its quiet composure, but her smile was undisturbed. She glanced up at him. "I did not suppose any one here would know her," she said. He took the cup from her, smiling.
"I ought to know her," he said with a boyish laugh. "I've been seeing her at least once a week—for over a year now!" There was almost a ring of challenge in the laughing words, and Milly accepted it with a quiet smile.
"Yes, Mr. Sargent and I are old friends," she said, taking the cup of tea he handed her. He returned to his hostess's side and Milly passed out of the focus of attention.
Her eyes followed the laughing group with friendly interest. They had given her the moment's courteous welcome and turned again to each other and their mutual affairs, oblivious to the gray presence that reached out and surrounded them, little guessing that they were living more vividly in its searching consciousness than they had ever lived in their own experience.
The seamstress finished her tea and set down the cup and drew her knitting from its bag, and passed into complete obscurity. Only now and then she lifted her glance to the young girl who sat a little distance from her, leaning back in her chair and talking with Stephen Mason. . . . To her surprise the girl was not frivolous, or petty; there was a poise about her that Milly had not been prepared for—and when Stephen Mason moved to the table and the girl's eyes followed him a minute, a sudden flash of understanding came to the seamstress over her needles. The girl was not only in love with him—that had been obvious to her from the first—but she was infinitely sorry for the man whom her eyes followed with a look of deep pity. The girl knew everything! Milly's needles passed with swift stitches through the green wool, drawing it up, transforming it into shape and comeliness. Almost of themselves the needles were weaving for her a story that stretched away to the future—for the man and girl. . . . With his mother's cordial aid and the look in the girl's eyes, one did not need to guess what time would bring to Stephen Mason. She drew out her needle a little impatiently, and readjusted it with almost regretful touch. . . . Suppose the search were to lead her— She thrust it back and looked up.
Alan Sargent had detached himself from his hostess and was standing in front of her, looking down with a little admiration and amusement.
"May I get you another cup of tea?" he asked, motioning to the empty cup on the stand beside her.
"Yes, please."
He brought it, and she sent him for a plate of cakes; and when she had taken one, with a Word of thanks, he stood balancing the plate a little awkwardly and looking down at her whimsically.
"How long are you going to be here?" he asked.
Her hand touched the knitting in her lap. "Till I finish this." The words carried a little smile, and he recognized her meaning with a start.
He gave a quick glance from the knitting to her face—and then to the group near the table. A little low whistle broke from his lips—so low that it might have been only fancy that the lips shaped it—before they returned to the whimsical smile. . . . Alan Sargent was himself the proud possessor of a sweater—made of heavy wool, dark gray in color, and man's size. It had been presented to him on the day of its completion—the day he made his first visit to Milly's office—nearly a year ago.
He regarded the green jacket respectfully and turned and glanced again at the happy group about the table.
"Is it nearly done?" he asked soberly.
"You never can tell," replied Milly. "I hope so."
He set the plate of cakes on a little table at hand and thrust his hands into his pockets—and stared down at her, and glanced almost imperceptibly at Stephen Mason, who was chatting with the girl beside him, a carefree look in his face. He glanced back to the gray figure drinking its tea.
"Who is going to have it—when it is done?" he asked.
She handed him her cup and took up the work from her lap. She lifted her eye and ran it over the group about the table—the young man and the girl chatting happily, the woman leaning back in her chair and looking at them with rested eyes, and the tall, distinguished man who had risen from his place and was speaking to her as he turned away. . . .
Milly's eyes returned to her needles. "I think I shall keep it myself," she said quietly.
"That means you will fail!" said the man. He gave a quick look at her.
"No, I shall not fail." Her eye was on the older man, who was stopping for a minute to speak to Elise.
"I shall not fail—but I think I shall keep the jacket for myself. . . . Aren't you neglecting Miss Marshall?" she inquired politely.
He smiled, with a nod of assent, and reached for the plate of cakes. He was used to being managed by Milly.
The older man had left the others as Sargent crossed to them, and was approaching the seamstress with a glance of kindly regard.
"You are always busy!" He motioned to the work in her hands.
"I have to be," she said with a little smile. "A woman's work is never done, you know." She was having a moment of quick satisfaction in the approach of this man. . . . She had almost fancied he resented her presence in the house—and surely in this friendly group. But nothing could have been kinder than the glance he bent on her; and the gray eyes smiled at her without pretense—only with sadness far back in them, it seemed to her, that did not change. He took the chair beside her and they sat a moment in companionable silence. He glanced at her.
"I want to thank you for what you have done for my wife," he said courteously. "I have not seen her so happy in a long time." He looked across to his wife as he spoke. She was sitting looking down at the hands in her lap, a little smile on her lips, and there was something singularly beautiful in the smile and in the downcast face with its almost angular outline.
"You have done her a world of good!" he said in a low voice. She was almost startled at the intensity of the tone and its friendliness.
"Mrs. Mason is glad to have her son at home," she responded quickly.
"It is more than that!" he rejoined. There was a puzzled note in the words. He seemed to dismiss it with a little sigh, and glanced again at her work.
"When you are not sewing, you knit, and when you are not knitting, you sew!" he said lightly.
"Yes." The needles went quietly on.
"Have you always been a seamstress?" he asked after a minute.
"That depends on what you mean by always," she parried. "I learned the trade when I was eighteen."
"Not so long ago," he returned politely.
"Fourteen years," she replied.
He sat a few minutes longer chatting with her, and then, with a word to his wife, he excused himself from the group, only turning back at the door to speak again to the young girl by the table.
"We will drive you home, Elise, when you are ready. We will all go!" He made a little gesture that included the group, and looked at them inquiringly. "That will be pleasant? Yes. And just back in time for dinner. You will stay Alan?" He glanced toward the young man, who took out his watch with an inquiring glance, and replaced it almost impatiently, it seemed.
"Thank you—I will see—" His voice hesitated. His glance had rested for a flitting moment on the gray figure absorbed in its work.
Mr. Mason nodded cordially. "Better stay," he urged. He entered the house and the two young men resumed their talk with the girl.
Milly watching the byplay with absorbed, inattentive eyes, over the mazes of her knit ting, was making sure of two things—the girl was not vain; she had no overweening vanity that would lead her to covet the possessions of others—not even beautiful jewels. She was plainly dressed, with a quiet charm that seemed the note of her personality. No, she was not vain—and she was not a flirt. She played off the attention of the two men with a grace of social attractiveness, but with no trace of coquetry.
She got up after a few minutes and came over to her hostess, and bent to her with a little smile of affection. "I really must go!" she said. "I've had a wonderful day!"
The woman reached up a hand and touched the cheek that was near her own, almost wistfully. "Thank you, dear! We will go with you," Mr. Mason said. "Come and get your things."
A little later Milly saw them cross the terrace to the car that waited below.
The girl, glancing at the solitary figure, detached herself from the group and came to her and held out her hand in a pretty gesture that had neither affectation nor condescension in its kindness.
"Good-by," she said. "I am sorry I did not see more of you." Then she hurried after the others, and Milly saw Alan Sargent, who had waited to place her in the car, close the door upon them.
He stood shaking his head and smiling at objections from within the car as it started slowly off. He turned and came quickly up the steps and crossed to her side.
The car was out of sight.
"Well!" he said.
"Very well!" she responded.
"Don't fence!" he replied quickly. "What is it? Who is it? Why are you here?"
"Sit down," said Milly. She pointed to a chair.
He drew it up reluctantly.
"I am glad you stayed," she said.
He laughed shortly. "Nothing could have dragged me away! You could not have pried me off. Is it something wrong—with Stephen?" he asked quickly.
She looked down at the green jacket and then up at the questioner. "I don't think you have quite the right to ask that, have you?"
"These people are my friends! Stephen Mason is the best friend I have in the world."
"And I am his friend, too, I hope—and yours."
"Mine!" he said swiftly. "You are more than a friend to me, Milly!"
She gave him a startled glance and held up her work, warding something off. But he would not be stopped.
He was speaking swiftly. "I told you I was coming to see you—to ask you something, didn't I? I cannot wait. . . . Will you marry me? I love you—" The words swept at her with a rush. But the knitting went quietly on. Her head was bent to it and the eyes were on the swift stitches.
"Will you?" he urged. "I can't get along without you, Milly. I found that out when you told me it was the last time!" He bent toward her.
The head above the stitches shook itself gently. "You're all wrong," said Milly. She drew out the needle and held it, and looked up at him. "You think so because you see me here with other people now. But you would be sorry."
He looked at her intently.
"Why do you say that?"
She still held the needle and regarded him reflectively, her eyes full of the friendliest, kindest feeling.
He leaned forward. "You do love me!" he said swiftly.
"Not in the least!" she replied promptly. "Not in the way you mean."
"But you're fond of me."
"Very!" She said it incisively, with a little laugh.
"Then why—" A look came to his face. "Is there some one else?" He wheeled on her, searching the look in her face.
She inserted the needles and bent to them. The slightest possible flush came to her face—and receded swiftly.
He watched it with jealous eye.
"Is it Stephen?" he said incredulously. "Stephen Mason!"
She laughed out. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Sargent!"
"Alan," he corrected.
"Alan," she assented easily.
"There's nothing foolish about marrying Stephen Mason!" he recurred. "He's a fine fellow!"
"You trust him, do you?" She lifted a quiet glance, and something keen waited behind the questioning look.
"Trust him! I'd trust Stephen Mason sooner than I'd trust myself!"
A look of relief crossed the waiting glance. "I hoped you would say that."
"So you are thinking——"
"I'm thinking of nothing—that you are thinking of!" she said decisively. She gave a swift glance. "Have I given you good advice this last year or so?"
"You have saved me—body and soul—and such as it is, I am offering it to you. Will you take it?"
There was a little, humorous smile in the face that turned to her, and she surveyed him with quiet eyes—the strong, eager face with the little smile on it, the vigorous figure and well-fitting clothes. And she shook her head.
"I only asked that because I want you to understand that what I am going to say is true." She surveyed him again.
"You are too good for me!" she said softly.
He sat up swiftly.
"I say——"
She held up a hand. The knitting had dropped to her lap. "I'm trying to be quite honest with you, Alan, because we have always been honest with each other."
He nodded in quick assent.
"You do not need a woman like me——"
"After what you have done for me!"
"Wait—that was my part. But when you marry, it will be some less tyrannical person."
He smiled, watching her gray softness.
"Some one who will look up to you and worship you."
"That sounds fine!" His shoulders straightened with a humorous shrug.
She nodded. "You are going to be strong—a leader among men. You will not slip again."
He was watching her curiously.
"And the strange thing," said Milly thoughtfully, "is that you will be hard on all wrong-doers."
The curious look in his face deepened, as if searching itself.
"You will be hard on your sons," she went on softly, "if they are the least bit wild. You will want to save them from what you have been through. . . . You will never quite understand." She looked at him thoughtfully again. "You will never quite understand that whom the Lord loveth, he lets slip!" She smiled a little to his quick look. "You will be everything that is strong and good, and I want you for a friend always, but not for a husband." She held out her hand with a gentle laugh.
He took it slowly. "You're a brick, Milly!"
"And you mustn't marry a brick!" she responded.
The curious look in his eyes still regarded her. "So you want to marry some one who isn't as good as I am?" he said a little cynically.
"Who is not as strong," corrected Milly. "Some one that blunders"—he hesitated—"and who needs me—and doesn't know it, perhaps."
"Well"—he got up slowly—"it will not be hard to find a man like that—the woods are full of 'em." He looked down at her quickly. "I won't pretend to say I am broken-hearted. I admire you more than any woman I've ever known. So much"—he laughed shortly—"that when you tell me it is not wise to marry you, I believe you!"
He held out his hand.
"Good-by."
She took it and held it—as a man might.
"It is good-by for to-day. I shall see you in town."
He nodded and turned away. "You won't get rid of me merely by refusing to marry me!"
"Have you called a cab?" She was practical and friendly.
"I'm going to walk. I often walk over to catch the six-ten." He lifted his hat and turned away.
And Milly, her knitting in her lap and her hands folded on it, watched the strong, well-knit figure striding swiftly across the fields, receding in the distance till it became a mere speck and vanished, and she knew that part of her own life went with it—a power that she had given freely when it was needed—a power she would give again and again to her chosen work when it called her.