The Annam Jewel (23 page)

“See here,” he said; “you're all worked up, and you had me so that I was pretty near being worked up myself. Now, that ain't business. This is a business deal. You go right home and think over what I've said. You can take an hour. When you've thought it out, ring me. Mind you, I came near to losing my temper; but I meant what I said. You'll do as you're told, or you'll stand in the dock for stealing Anita's diamonds. Just go right along home and think about the headlines in the Society papers, and what being in prison will be like. They'll cut your hair, you know, and you'll not see a looking-glass for five years or so. You go along and think it out.”

CHAPTER XXVII

Sylvia went home shaken by fear and anger. Hendebakker terrified her; not his threat only, but the man himself—his cold eyes, his ugly temper, his brute strength, his self-control. The last was what frightened her most. To see him smile in a pleasant, friendly fashion when, not a minute before, she had had a glimpse of the wild beast behind bars—this set her shaking.

Her thoughts turned to Peter. She had flirted with Peter, but she was really fond of him, and the idea of getting behind Peter, of getting him to stand between herself and Hendebakker, grew and took definite shape. She might do worse than marry Peter Waring. Of course, he would have to give up the idea of burying her in the country on that ridiculous horse farm of his. If they could get a substantial sum out of Hendebakker, they could live in Town. Peter could keep his interest in the farm if he liked, and run down occasionally—it was quite a good plan for a man to have something to do. Yes, she might do worse than marry Peter—if he really had the Jewel and they could make decent terms with Hendebakker.

She came face to face with Peter half a dozen yards from the entrance to her flats.

“Oh, I'm so glad to see you,” she said.

Peter, turning in with her, explained that he had been busy with his uncle's solicitor all the afternoon, and had just been told that she was out.

His uncle's solicitor—had he given him the Jewel? The thought passed quickly through her mind as she laughed and said:

“Well, I'm in now, and quite specially pleased to see you, because—oh, Peter, I've got such a lot to talk to you about.”

Peter followed her into the drawing-room, and thought, not for the first time, that if Sylvia was as extravagant about other things as she was about flowers, it was no wonder that she got into debt. There were sprays of orchids like white butterflies in a very old cloisonné jar of the colour of faded turquoise; where the fire had burned a few nights ago was a bank of blue delphinium; the Ming vase held yellow roses; not a flower in the room but was out of season.

“Peter, did you see my father?” said Sylvia eagerly. “I've been longing to see you, because I've had a letter from him, and—now, what did I do with it? No, it doesn't really matter, but, tell me, did you see him?”

“Yes,” said Peter, “I saw him.”

Sylvia stopped turning over the papers on her writing-table, and came to him with her hands out.

“You know, he misjudged me quite dreadfully the other night, and—and I'm afraid you did too—and I was so upset that I couldn't explain properly. I can't bear to have you think badly of me, Peter; and I want you to know just how it happened. I don't know what you thought, but it was quite simple really.

“I was dining with the Hendebakkers, and we were talking about the Jewel—Anita had it on as usual—and Mr. Hendebakker said that my father had a copy of it, and that it would be interesting to see them side by side. He said the copy was really wonderful, and offered to bet that it would take us in. We all got quite excited about it, and Mr. Hendebakker said what a pity it was that he and my father had quarrelled years ago. He said he couldn't ask him to let us see the copy because of the quarrel. You see how simple it was really, dont't you? I dare say it was stupid of me, but I said I'd borrow the copy and bring it to The Luxe for them to see; and that's just what I did. I never thought my father would know—and he wouldn't have known if I'd had a scrap of luck. When I saw him come into the lounge at The Luxe I thought I should have died of fright. I don't know what made me give you the Jewel. I was simply too frightened to think.”

She paused, and looked at him with depths of appeal in her blue eyes. “Peter, you
do
see how it was, don't you?”

“It was the Annam Jewel that you gave me,” said Peter, “it wasn't a copy.”

“I
know
. I know now, but I didn't then. Mr. Hendebakker deceived me. I believe he really meant to change the stones—at least, I'm afraid that's what he meant to do. Is it very uncharitable of me to think so?”

“I don't think I should bother about that,” said Peter.

“No, but I do bother about my father. Oh, do you know, I never thought he would go without saying good-bye like that. It—it hurts rather. Has he really gone, Peter?”

“Yes, he's really gone,” said Peter.

“Peter, you're being maddening. Do talk to me. Do tell me about it. Can't you see how much I want to know?”

“Well,” said Peter soberly, “what do you want to know, Sylvia?”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Why, the whole thing, of course—why you went there; how you got on; what you talked about. And—oh, Peter,
did
he give you the Jewel?”

Peter laughed.

“How can I keep my head when you ask me umpteen questions at once?” he said. “I went down there because he asked me to. We got on very well. We talked about China, and the United States.” He laughed again.

Sylvia shook his arm.

“You don't tell me the only thing I want to know,” she said.
“Did he give you the Jewel?”

“Why should he?” said Peter innocently.

Sylvia stamped her foot.

“You're being horrible,” she said. “After all, I am his daughter. I don't think you need be so secretive. He told me in his letter that he wasn't taking the Jewel with him, and
naturally
I thought—”

“Yes, you thought—”

“I thought you might have it. Oh, Peter, have you—have you got it?”

Peter hesitated for just the fraction of a second. Then he said:

“No, I haven't got it.”

“But he gave it you—I know he gave it you.”

He hesitated again.

“I don't think I want to talk about the Jewel,” he said at last.

“But I do, Peter. It's important, it really is. You see, I happen to know that Mr. Hendebakker would give a really fabulous sum for it. And if we could make a bargain with him …”

She broke off because of what she saw in Peter's face. He turned very white, and said in a carefully restrained voice:

“Hendebakker will never have the Jewel. We won't discuss it, if you don't mind.”

Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed, and fell back a pace.

“Good gracious, how
ridiculous
you all are about the thing!” she said. “You're as bad as my father; he wouldn't discuss it either. Anyone would think—” she laughed a pretty little ringing laugh—“Peter, you look like thunder, and it's not a bit becoming to you.”

She laughed again, kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and went across the room to where the butterfly orchids hovered above their turquoise jar. She pulled out one of the sprays and came back, a teasing smile on her face, sharp offence and determined curiosity in her mind.

“Do you like orchids?” She touched his hand with the spray.

“I don't know,” said Peter. “Not very much. I like primroses better.”

He thought of the beech-wood; last year's leaves with the primroses breaking through them; Rose Ellen with the tears raining down her face. Sylvia and her orchids seemed very remote.

“I adore them,” said Sylvia. “I like expensive things, you know. I'm a wicked, extravagant woman; I like things that other people haven't got. That's why I want the Jewel.”

Peter began to frown, but changed his mind. Instead, he looked into Sylvia's blue eyes and laughed frankly.

“Pax,” he said. “I'm sorry I was cross just now. I felt cross. I really won't talk about the Jewel—anything else you like, but not the Jewel.”

Sylvia curled herself up in a chair.

“Well, what shall we talk about?” she said. “It's rather like a game, isn't it? The forbidden word. Isn't it a funny thing that as soon as you're told you may talk about anything you like, you don't want to talk about anything at all? I think you can do the talking. You haven't really told me what you did whilst you were out of Town. By the way, weren't you going to see the Gaisfords?”

“Yes, I lunched there,” said Peter.

“All that way for lunch?”

“I wanted to see Rose Ellen,” said Peter simply.

Sylvia looked at him over her spray of orchids. Her eyes narrowed a little, her lips smiled.

“She isn't really related to you at all, is she?” she said.

“No.”

Peter had one elbow on the mantelshelf. He was not looking at Sylvia or thinking of Sylvia. He was thinking about Rose Ellen, who was really no relation. With his left hand he picked up a little jade fish, balancing it precariously upon two fingers. It was made of white mutton-fat jade, its eyes bulged, and it had three tails. Peter bent a gaze of frowning intensity upon the fish, and went on thinking about Rose Ellen.

“It was an odd thing, your mother adopting her like that.” Sylvia's tone was a meditative one. “I suppose she never found out who her people were or anything?”

“No,” said Peter. She was his Rose Ellen, only his.

“It must be so strange not to have any relations,” said Sylvia, “especially for a girl. You see, it's really bound to stand in the way of her marrying—I mean supposing some really dreadful relations were to turn up—one never knows, does one? You know, I thought of that the day you brought her here; and I felt sorry for her. She's pretty too—I think she's
quite
pretty. Don't you?”

Peter dropped the jade fish into the bank of blue delphiniums which filled the hearth. He said, “Yes,” rather shortly as he stooped to pick it up.

Sylvia's temper had been rising steadily. An odd antagonism seemed to be growing between them. She began to break the white butterflies from her spray, but still she smiled.

“Peter, how monosyllabic you are. You forget you were to do the talking.”

Peter put the jade fish back upon its carved ebony stand.

“I didn't like what you were saying very much,” he said bluntly.

“My dear Peter, what was I saying? Anyone would think you were in love with the girl.”

Peter looked her full in the face, and said:

“I am.” Then he went on speaking quickly and with great simplicity. “That's why I didn't like what you said—about her getting married, and not having any real relations. You see, it doesn't matter at all—it simply doesn't matter.”

“You're in love with her,” said Sylvia. She spoke mechanically. She was suddenly so angry that she repeated her last words, hardly knowing what she said. How dared Peter Waring stand there and tell her he was in love with another woman? She stripped the orchid spray of its last blossom, and let it drop.

“Yes,” said Peter. “I wanted to tell you, Sylvia, because we've been pretty good friends. I think I've always cared for Rose Ellen; but I only knew it yesterday. It's odd how those things happen, isn't it?”

“Very odd,” said Sylvia. She got up as she spoke. “Very odd indeed. No wonder you didn't want to talk about the Jewel.” She laughed—it is easy to laugh if you're angry. “A man in love has only one topic of conversation. What a good thing I happened to strike it!”

Peter looked rather puzzled.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm afraid I'm boring you. I thought you would be interested.”

Her smile flashed out, her brilliant, elusive smile.

“But of course I'm interested,” she said.

CHAPTER XXVIII

“I do not like Sylvia Moreland so well as I did, Virgilio,” said Anita Hendebakker.

She stood in the middle of the room, looking at her husband's back as he sat bent forward over a writing-table. She threw him a glance, half pettish, half startled.

Hendebakker grunted. After a moment he swung round in his chair, pen in hand.

“I didn't just get that,” he said.

Anita tapped with her foot. She wore an odd, sheath-like garment of heavy gold tissue embroidered in a design of black lilies. A rope of pearls fell to her knee.

“I say, Virgilio, that I do not any more like Sylvia Moreland as once I thought I did.”

“Well,” said Hendebakker, “that's bad news for Sylvia, I guess.”

The carnation deepened in Anita's cheeks.

“It is bad news for me,” she said, “and you know, very well you know, Virgilio, why it is that I like her not any more. It is because I think—yes,
well
, I think that it is you who like her too much.”

“And what makes you think that?” said Hendebakker, smiling pleasantly.

Anita retreated a step or two.

“It is no use you to look at me like that. When I am angry I am not frightened; no, not even when you smile.” Her bosom heaved, her colour came and went, her eyes confessed the fear that she denied. “It is too much Sylvia with you, I tell you. You go out, and I do not know where you go; but I suspect. She comes here, and you send me from the room that you may talk with her. She calls you on the telephone, and, if I answer, it is you she asks for; and while you speak to her, again I am sent away. I say, Virgilio, that I bear it no longer.”

Hendebakker got up. As he came across the room towards her she retreated until at last she could go no farther. She stood against the wall, her head thrown back, her eyes wide and dark. He spoke gently.