THE WORTH OF A JEWEL
The next morning, rather earlier than usual, Mr. Barringcourt called to
see Miss Crokerly. He saw her alone; but as he was crossing the hall on
going away, he was stopped by hearing Rosalie’s voice from the
staircase, and by seeing her coming toward him.
“I have been waiting for you,” said she, raising her finger as if in
warning as she came nearer, and speaking very softly. “The dragon is
sleeping, completely under the influence of a powerful drug. In the
interim I’ve brought you this. The thing you asked for last night.” And
she held toward him a tiny jewel-case.
He took it slowly, looking at her, and then at it. Then the contents
dawned upon him, and he looked at her again and laughed, though his eyes
had a piercing keenness in them that took away the effect of the
laughter.
Then her manner changed, and she too laughed. She raised her lips to his
ear and whispered:
“I drugged the dragon with _Reason_, think what you will,” and still
laughing, would have moved away.
Now it just chanced (for those who find no excuse for what followed)
that there hung just above them a bunch of misletoe. Miss Crokerly was a
great advocate of Christmas parties for children, had had three such
since December began, and holly and other Christmas decorations were
much in evidence. But neither person concerned was at the moment
cognisant of this fact. One was looking down, and one was looking up,
but not at the ceiling.
But all the same, in opposition to the laws of etiquette, yet quite in
accordance with those of nature, Mr. Barringcourt suddenly stooped and
took her hands and kissed her. It wasn’t a bit like the ordinary kiss a
man would give a woman. It fell as softly on her lips as a breath of
snow—nothing of fire—so that she laughed again, and shook her hands
free, and saying “Thank you,” ran away again.
After that Mr. Barringcourt went away, looking as thoughtful and
preoccupied as if he had never been frivolous in his life.
He went home, and passed at once to his own private laboratory and
study. He took with him the tiny jewel-case, and going up to one of the
big windows facing the front of the house, took out the stone and looked
at it. He looked at it so long that a bystander would have grown
impatient. Then he went to the other side of the room, and opened what
seemed to be a cupboard, but was really a set of shutters opening upon a
window looking on the garden at the back. The light from this window
showed the jewel differently.
Before it had been softest green and pink; now a constant red ray
gleamed from the centre. He noted it, and turned it many ways. The light
still remained—no passing brilliancy or change of colour. Then he went
into the inner room, and noted the different blendings and the texture
by placing it beneath a glass, there to examine it minutely. Finally he
poured out from an old flagon, worked and chased in a substance like
polished silver, a liquid that flamed up in the crucible like
white-flamed fire, intense and beautiful. And into this he threw a stone
that matched in some respects the one he carried in his hand. Under this
great strength of heat it disappeared; no tiny fragment of lustre or of
substance now remained. And quite remorseless to its fate, he next flung
in the stone that Rosalie had given him, and bent forward eagerly to
notice the effect.
No change! A glimmering blend of colour on the surface of the flame.
Then with his fingers, as if the leaping tongues had been but water, he
took the jewel out, and dashed the sprays of fire away like drops of
water.
A smile, incredulous and all surprised, at first played on his lips and
in his eyes as he looked at the jewel. Then after some deep thought, he
started as one from a dream, the light of sudden understanding in his
eyes. He placed the stone once more within its case, and put it in an
inner pocket, then left the room and locked the door again.
Leaving the wing, he went out into the central hall, and passed across
it to the eastern side, with its brilliant door and exterior brightness,
all so false to the sordid truth behind. But there he paused, and called
across the high, empty, echoing space:
“Everard, what is Mariana’s number? I forget.”
“Thirteen.” The answer was simple and distinct.
“That’s a lucky number, isn’t it?”
“I believe it’s a significant one. Unlucky, some say.”
“We go by the rule of contrary. I think myself it must be lucky.” And he
laughed and flung open the great doors and passed inside. They swung to
after him.
Then at the door he sought for he stopped, and with the same quick
movement threw it open.
Inside, the miserable cell, the scanty furniture, the covered table, the
cobwebs, the thick dust, the cloud of hovering moths, the stiff and
rigid figure; but to his eyes on entering, not the central figure of
attraction. For there upon the table, standing daintily upon the
covering cloth, he saw the little satin clogs, with their golden strings
and skate-like edges, that turned up daintily, bearing an almost
laughable resemblance to someone’s pretty nose. For in the same way that
many persons’ clothes on wearing them become a part of them and look
like them, so these, scarce worn, became and looked a part of Rosalie.
And in the midst of all this mildew, and decay, and icy lifelessness,
they stood a thing of life—an open protest against everything
surrounding them.
Without looking toward Mariana, he went and took them in his hand. They
were not soiled. They had only danced one short delightful dance, and
stood demurely side by side, longing to start again. The moths had never
touched them; they were invulnerable. Then placing them once more upon
the sheet, he leaned his hand upon the table and looked at Mariana.
Neither pity, distress, cruelty, nor any other emotion played on his
face. He stood and looked at her, as deep in thought as if his mind was
occupied with pages of a book, a long, long time. Then throwing back the
covering from the table, he revealed the thick piles of satin that she
had worked at in the three years passed long since. So this was the
dress that Rosalie coveted; well, it was worth asking for, or would be
when finished.
For the first time on Lucifram, and here in one of its most dismal
cells, a smile free from artifice, from cynicism, from pride, from
cruelty or contempt, ran on his lips and centred in his eyes.
But the machine? and how to set it working? Only one way. He crossed to
Mariana, laid one hand upon her head, the other in her hands, and
stooping, kissed her lips.
Then very silently, as some passing from life to death have done, she,
with a sigh that trembled gently into every limb, swayed back to life.
And on the second breath that stirred her bosom, looked up, and her eyes
came to the face of Mr. Barringcourt.
“You’ve slept long enough,” said he. “You can’t complain now of being
overworked. A long spell of rest, and now comes a short one of work. Are
you ready for it?”
“Yes.”
She rose from the chair, no stiffness, the old slow, easy motion born of
coldness; itself born, who could tell of what.
“Six days to finish this—and alone. Can you accomplish it?”
“For whom?”
“Rosalie.”
“Has she asked for it?”
“Yes.”
She stretched her arms, then drew them in.
“It’s well, because I fitted it for her, having no other model.”
“You are to make it especially beautiful.”
“It is not necessary to tell me so.”
“And jewels? Everard will bring them to you.”
Now she raised her eyebrows slightly and looked at him, and a faint
smile came to her lips.
“Is Rosalie then so strong to bear so heavy a burden of sorrows as this
house affords?”
“Search all you can find from the dust hidden in this room, and he will
bring the rest. Did Rosalie appear to you so weak?”
“I loved her on that account I think.”
“Part of a cause that changes weakness into strength. You feel yourself
strong, Mariana?”
“Oh, no! But cold. The strength of ice, not iron.”
“Rosalie has suffered from your complaint, I think. But she’s cured.”
Her eyes rested on his. There was a thoughtful expression in them, and
she said:
“Cured? Then the ice was frozen less deeply.”
“Or maybe the fire was stronger. There’s something in that, you know.”
“Yes,” said she; then suddenly: “These moths are a great hindrance. I
have no time to spend in sighs if I must work hard and finish in six
days.”
“Then I’ll remove them for six days. After that they’ll come back again,
but you’ll have finished.”
“Yes. For Rosalie. And when to wear it?”
“New Year’s Eve.”
“Thank you. Now you had better leave me. What of these slippers?”
“Sew them with jewels.”
“And make her tired feet? Is it some practice of cruelty?”
“No. A whim of mine. To show honour to an escaped prisoner.”
“I must wake. Six days to make a dress, and it is rumoured that one of
the planets was made in that time! I must hasten.”
So then he left her, and she worked alone. And hour by hour some fresh
seam in the design became completed, and on the third day Everard came.
He carried a large sack, and it was full of jewels of every known
description, small and large. Standing there, he said suddenly:
“Can I help you with these? Sorting or stringing?”
“But surely it’s against the rules.”
“It is advisable to break them in emergency. And I doubt if this be not
finished, some great calamity will rise. The Master is away. The work is
out of all proportion to the time. For his sake, for yours, and for
hers, I wish to help you, for this day, at least.”
So Mariana gave way, and one little flame of heat passed over the icy
barrier almost unconsciously. The cell, being less lonely now, lost its
ghastliness.
Thus the time passed away until completion, the last day of the old
year, the eve of the new.
And on that afternoon at four o’clock Mariana heaved a sigh of apparent
contentment, for all was now in readiness. And Everard, having done his
full share in the arrangement of jewels, and whatever else was needed,
returned to the door in order to welcome Mr. Barringcourt, who just then
returned.