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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
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RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image generated by Microsoft Bing
"AN amber necklace will bring you luck!"
Who had said that? She knitted her brows, staring at the amber neck-lace lying on the black velvet cushion in the window of the curio shop, trying to remember. It had not been there yesterday when she had passed by for she would have noticed it. But who and when had someone I spoken to her of amber?
"An amber necklace..."
Why, of course! Like a flash the memory came to her. It had been that gypsy woman who had told her fortune When she was a child. She remembered her father's hearty laugh as he flung the woman a shilling and dismissed her.
"Do you hear that, Anne? One of these days I will buy you an amber necklace, and we will see what happens."
But he had died before he could carry out his promise, and she I had forgotten. Now here was the necklace! She stood entranced, gazing at it with charmed eyes. It was the first time she had seen amber, or, at least, real amber, for instinctively she knew this to be real. It was the colour of pale honey, or golden sunlight. The lovely, glowing thing seemed to call to her. She wanted to run it through her fingers and press it against her cheek; to hold it tight within her hand. Not for what the gypsy woman had said, but for its own sake, she must have It.
Mentally she counted her resources. It was near the end of the week, and she had already spent most of her salary—not that there was ever much to spend after she had sent the usual weekly sum to her mother in the country to help things along there and paid her ordinary living expenses and fares—but today it happened she had five pounds in her possession. With this she had intended buying a winter coat and a pair of shoes. But she could go without and make her old coat do. Also she could have her shoes mended again instead of buying new ones. She had rather set her heart on a coat. There was one in a shop window which would just fit her, and it would be worth the sacrifice if only she could buy the amber. But would five pounds be sufficient?
She had a vague idea that amber was very expensive. Terrible if she could not afford to buy it! Still, she could ask the price. Fortunately she knew the owner of the shop, and he might perhaps keep it for her if she hadn't enough. He had told her to come in whenever she wished, and seemed to like showing his treasures to her. Most of the things were beyond her pocket, but on several occasions she had been able to buy something; a book now and again; a Chinese ginger jar, which looked exquisite on her dressing table filled with poppies, and a blue Nanking bowl for fruit. But these cost only a few shillings... mere trifles... the amber was a different matter. It was rapidly getting dark, and the interior of the shop was obscured in shadow, but through the gloom she could vaguely see a couple of figures and the small bent form of the proprietor himself. He was busy, so she would wait. She didn't like to disturb him when he had other people in the shop.
Two women jostled her at the window, and she moved away. She stood dreaming, while the home-going crowd surged around her, a trim little figure with a curiously wistful expression; tawny hair curling up beneath the small hat; and hazel-flecked eyes. Her thoughts drifted away. The amber necklace would look exquisite with that pale yellow evening frock which Hugh Julian had admired so much. She had not worn it since that night he took her to the theatre and made the half declaration which afterwards he regretted. Hugh Julian...
Why was she thinking of him? It was six months since she had seen him, and she had forgotten. Yes—forgotten. There was nothing else to do but forget, to show herself as indifferent as he had been. When he did not come or write, she had moved to another suburb, even taken another position so that she would run no risk of seeing him. It was mere sentimental folly not to wear the frock, she told herself angrily, ridiculous to keep it folded up in tissue paper like the wedding dress of Miss Susan in "Quality Street," until it fell to pieces. When she had bought the amber necklace she would put it on again.
Jim Harris had asked her to go to a dance with him, and she would accept. She liked him, perhaps might marry him, but there was plenty of time to think of that. If she tried, she might even come to feel for him what she had felt for Hugh. And one could depend on Jim. He would never treat her as Hugh had done.
The lights in the shop were flashed on suddenly, and she turned quickly. Then her heart missed a heat. The necklace had been taken from the window. There must be a mistake! So certain had she felt that the necklace would be hers, that for a moment she refused to believe it was gone. She closed her eyes, then looked again, but the black velvet cushion was still empty.
So it was true! By hesitating she had lost it. Standing on tip-toe, she peered into the interior of the shop. Inside she could see a woman; tail, dark, exquisitely dressed, and she held the necklace in her hand. She would buy it—Anne knew she would buy it. Surely no woman could resist that lovely thing, and she looked rich, as though money were no object to her. She would not have to go without a winter coat to buy it.
Anne felt bitter as she watched her. Hanging against the wall was a gilt mirror decorated with fat smiling cupids and true lovers' knots in bas relief. Slipping the necklace around her throat, the woman turned to this, moving her head so that the light caught the amber, and she could study the effect. Anne could see her reflection plainly, and she stepped back a little in case the other should catch a glimpse of her. Suddenly the woman smiled, shook her head definitely, and took off the necklace. The next moment it was back in the window again. It was a reprieve, but it could only be for a time. At any moment another purchaser might appear and snatch the precious thing from her.
The world seemed full of acquisitive women, all with a hungry eye on her necklace. She determined to hesitate no longer, but to secure it at once if it were possible. The door bell clanged as she entered the shop. Dent, the proprietor, who became, Anne thought, more like one of his own antiques every day, greeted her with a smile. The dark woman looked round, then gathered up her things preparatory to going.
"I'm sorry," Anne heard her say. "It's an absolute bargain, but it's no use to me. Why, it made me look positively ugly."
"I could have told her that before she put It on," remarked the old man after she had gone. "But a woman is never satisfied until she sees for herself. She, was too dark. To my mind only a fair woman should wear amber. That necklace would suit you, Miss Nicholls. Did you happen to notice it in the window?"
Did she notice it? Anne smiled.
"That's what brought me in tonight," she said. "What's the price?"
He looked at her reflectively. "Well, to you, Miss Nicholls, I would make it ten pounds, To tell the truth," he lowered his voice, "I asked that other lady fifteen pounds, and it was cheap at that."
"Ten pounds! Oh!" She calculated quickly. That meant another five pounds. In a month's time she might be able to scrape it up, had she had a birthday next week. There was a chance that someone might be moved to give her a pound or two as a gift. She had an uncle who occasionally remembered her. Perhaps if she dropped him a note it would serve to jog his memory. But, in the meantime, would Dent keep the necklace for her? She would pay five pounds now, and the balance as soon as possible.
Breathlessly she waited for his answer. She need not have feared, for he agreed at once. Rapturously she gave him the notes. They represented her winter coat and new shoes, but that did not matter. He put them in the till, then leant over to take the necklace from the window.
As he did so a loud crash resounded from the small room at the back of the shop where the second-hand books were kept, accompanied by a muttered exclamation.
"Oh, dear," sighed the little man as he turned round, the necklace in his hand. "There's that shelf of books down again. I've a new customer in there, and I forgot to warn him about it. That's the third time it's happened today. I must really get it fixed. Excuse me, please."
He gave her the necklace and hobbled away. Anne took it almost reverently, and turning to the mirror, put it on. As it slipped around her throat—soft as silk against her skin, and warm, as though it were a sentient thing—she felt a thrill of almost sensuous delight. Against her white throat it glowed with a sort of subdued radiance. She sighed with sheer pleasure, feeling all the joy of possession. This lovely thing was hers—or would be, she corrected herself, in a month's time; perhaps less if Uncle Henry remembered his clear and bounden duty. She must really drop that note to him.
Her reflection smiled back at her from the mirror. There was no doubt the amber suited her. She would have been blind if she had not seen that. It brightened... yes, brightened her— that was I he word. It seemed to make her skin look fairer and brought out all the tawny lights in her eyes and hair. Worn with that yellow frock, she would positively shine at the dance. Jim would be proud of her. Jim....
She felt a sudden pang of sick distaste. No: she could never wear that yellow frock for him. Dear, honest, blundering Jim. She had been so sure that she was safe, and now in a moment her treacherous heart had betrayed her. How galling to know that she still loved a man who had no use for her. It cut deep into her pride. She could have torn the necklace from her throat. It was this thing that had made her realise Hugh again, realise him so vividly that she could almost see his dark smiling face and hear his soft, rather drawling voice.
"I'll come tomorrow, Anne, and you'll let me say what I want to?"
How glad he must have been after wards that she hadn't given him an opportunity that night. For some unaccountable reason she had stopped him; to prolong the delicious suspense probably. She remembered how she had lain Awake all that night, too happy to sleep. Tomorrow he was coming.
Well, he hadn't come. Put baldly like that it didn't seem much, but how she had suffered!
She shivered, biting her lip till the blood came. He had known, of course he had known, that she would have married him If he had asked her. If only she had not given her self away so completely! She felt if she ever chanced to see him again her pride would simply shrivel up and die.
Voices coming from the room at the back disturbed her, and she turned hastily away. Dent, followed by a young man carrying a number of books in his hand, came into the shop. She glanced at the latter casually, then her heart stood still.
His eyes were fixed on the books and he did not see her at once. She thanked God for that—that first, breathless second gave her time to recover her poise. If he had come on her unawares she might have betrayed herself.
Hugh! No wonder she had been thinking of him. The thing she had dreaded more than anything else was upon her. There was no time to escape; somehow she had to go through with it. Now that she was faced with him at last, she could at least show how little she had cared.
"I'll take this lot," she heard him say eagerly. She trembled a little; she knew so well that quick, eager note in his voice when he was excited or moved.
"And if you come across any first editions you might keep them for me. I'll give you my card." Then he looked up and saw her. The books fell with a crash to the floor.
"Dear, dear," sighed the little man as he stooped to pick them up. "That was very careless, very careless indeed."
Hugh made a motion with his hand. He stared at Anne as though he were Incapable of speech. She noticed in a queer, detached way that he had gone very pale and little beads of perspiration stood out on his fore head. But there was an expression in his eyes that puzzled her; not shame, not even embarrassment; though it could not be pleasant for a man to have to face a girl he had practically jilted. As for herself, she felt nothing, now that her first momentary weakness had gone, but a sense of icy composure.
Through the tumult of her thoughts she was aware that old Dent was speaking to her. He had placed the books on the counter and was peering at her from under his bushy eye brows. He was acute enough, she knew, to notice the sense of strain in the atmosphere, but he ignored it.
"I was right," she heard him say. "It does take a fair woman to wear amber."
The necklace! For the moment she had forgotten. She raised her arm to take it off, when he checked her.
"No, no. Take it with you and we can fix up that little matter later. It would be a crime to remove it now. What's your opinion, young man?"
"Worn with a yellow frock," said Hugh, slowly, his eyes on hers "I could imagine nothing more beautiful." She flashed him a glance of bitter reproach, then turned decisively away.
"I would prefer to leave it, Mr Dent," she said coldly.
Was it her imagination, or did she intercept a sign between the two men? He waved her aside.
"Keep it on, my dear young lady. The necklace is yours. I'll give you a receipt for the money you paid me if you'll wait a moment."
Though she knew he kept his receipt book behind the counter, he left the shop. Her lip curled scornfully. The device was too obvious. Hugh must have signed to him to leave them alone and he had obeyed. Well, she had nothing to say to Hugh.
"I won't wait," she said abruptly. She turned to go, but Hugh was before her. He stood with his back against the door so that she could not pass. Disdaining argument, she moved away a little, and waited with downcast eyes.
"Anne," he said softly, "what is the matter? Why did you look at me as though I had done you an injury? Can't we be friends?"
Friends! She raised her eyes a moment. Was it possible he meant it?
"Was it necessary to run away?" he went on. "The woman at the house told me you had gone without leaving an address. That hurt—to deliberately cut yourself off from me like that. I couldn't understand It."
"So you did call again?" she said slowly.
"Yes, about a month after that night. I was so sure that you cared for me and that you wanted me to come, that it was rather a blow when you wouldn't see me."
"Wouldn't see you!" she repeated dazedly. "Would you say that again, please."
"Anne!" he cried sharply. "You don't mean—"
"Please!" she interrupted him. "Tell me this. Did you come that night?"
"Of course I did. What sort of a cad do you take me for? I came and the woman gave me a message from you. The girl was out and she answered the door herself. She said that you could not see me. I wouldn't believe it at first. Then she went upstairs and came down with the same message."
The woman at the house—that awful boarding house where she had lived for a time when she first came to town. How she must have hated her to do this thing! A horrible woman, furtive, secret, given to sudden moods of brooding silence. A sandy-haired creature with pale eyes and a sickly odour of cloves emanating from her.
She shuddered at the memory, for nearly a year she had lived in that house because, it was cheap, quite unconscious of the woman's enmity, and all that time she must have been waiting for a chance to injured her. The thing was inexplicable. No wonder she had always felt uneasy there, but she had put that down to the Influence of her surroundings. To have lived side by side with that secret hatred!
"I waited for you to come," she said simply. "The woman lied."
"But why?" he asked helplessly.
"I don't know. Pure malice, I suppose. There's no other reason." She realised suddenly they were standing in the full view of the street, and drew him aside.
"It's all coming back now," she went on. "Do you remember that night when we were standing at the door I fancied I heard a noise? Her room opened on to the verandah. When I went inside I noticed that her door was open and I thought I saw a movement inside. Of course, that struck me as nothing unusual at the time—but now—she must have been listening. How she must have hated me! I wonder why?"
"Because you were young and sweet," he cried hotly, "and she—"
"Ah, well." She smiled into his eyes. "We can forgive her now, poor thing."
"Anne—there's no one else?"
For a fleeting moment her mind rested on Jim, but her conscience was clear. She shook her head.
When the old man entered the shop again he found his two customers standing behind a tall screen, apparently studying an old engraving. He thought the young lady looked very starry-eyed, and the young man very flushed, but he made no comment.
"Your receipt, young lady, and your books, sir," With an air of great gravity he bowed them out.
Anne looked back and caught a glimmer of a smile on his lined old face. Instinctively her fingers touched the amber necklace. Luck... the gypsy woman had said it bring her luck. With a sigh of content she slipped her hand under Hugh's arm.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.