The Annam Jewel (3 page)

“Well, he went off, and your mother had letters from him. I don't know what was in them, for she wouldn't tell me. You see, I'm being quite frank with you, Peter. From first to last she only told me two things. The first was that your Uncle James was dead or dying when Henry got there; and the other was that Henry had had an accident and was coming back. Well, he came back, and you were born; and he lived six months after that. He was utterly changed, and very bitter. I saw him several times—I was coming and going round Hong Kong at the time—but he never told me anything, and Olivia never told me anything either. Once he said something about enemies following him, and several times he began talking as if he expected to be very rich. The last time I saw him he said: ‘Peter will have it, but not till he's twenty-five. I'm done for.' That's all I know.”

Peter drew a very long breath.

Ruth Spottiswoode took up her handkerchief again.

“Now, Peter, it's your turn,” said Miles Banham. “You've had my yarn. Now let's have yours. What did your mother tell you about the Annam Jewel? Out with it!”

“She said—she said …” Peter went back a pace, shoved both hands into his pockets, and faced his relations. “She only said never to have anything to do with it.”

CHAPTER II

There was a moment's silence. Then Miles Banham gave his knee a loud, resounding slap.

“Spoofed, by gum!” he said, and broke into his funny cackling laugh.

The other relations did not laugh. Charlotte Oakley exclaimed, “Nonsense!” Emily Waring coughed; and her brother Matthew said, frowning, “Tell us just exactly what she said.”

“That's what she said,” said Peter.

“Yes, yes, quite so. But how did she come to speak of it at all? What introduced the subject? I mean, how did it all begin?”

Peter went back another step.

“I was reading,” he said. “She said, ‘Put down your book.' I put it down. She said, ‘The Annam Jewel,' and asked me if I could remember the name. I said I could. I asked her what it was. She said, ‘Never mind, you'll know when you're twenty-five—you'll have to know then.' Then she said, ‘Don't have anything to do with it ever.' She asked me to promise.”

“And did you?” Miles Banham put in the question, speaking very quickly.

Peter shook his head. His thick, fair eyebrows drew together in a frown that was almost a scowl.

“Why not?”

Peter shook his head again. He had told what he had covenanted to tell. He had no intention of explaining to uncles, and cousins, and aunts that you couldn't promise things when you didn't know what you were promising. They wouldn't understand Even his mother hadn't understood quite. She had most dreadfully wanted him to promise, but of course he couldn't.

“Well well,” said Miles Banham, “if you won't say, you won't. A close tongue's not a bad thing, when all's said and done.” He looked at the watch on his bony wrist, and jumped up. “By gum it's late. I'll have to hurry for my train. I've a man to see at the other end. So long, everyone. Here, Peter, I never can keep these things, so you might as well have one of them.”

He pressed a pound note into Peter's grubby hand, opened the door briskly, and turned on the threshold to say a last malicious word.

“About those holidays—why not share him between you? Turn and turn about, you know—and it's all fair play.” He sang the last words in a cracked falsetto, slammed the door, and was gone.

“Of all the preposterous—” began Emily Waring, but Matthew was too quick for her.

“Well, that's reasonable enough,” he said. “Half the time with us, and half with you. Shall we settle it that way, Mrs. Spottiswoode?”

Peter heard his Cousin Ruth say: “Yes, oh yes, I suppose so. Yes, indeed; I'm sure that's reasonable enough, isn't it, Charlotte?” to which Charlotte responded gloomily that she did not consider it in the least reasonable, but that she supposed it would have to be. And immediately upon that Emily Waring was telling him that they did not expect gratitude, but she considered that it was his duty at least to thank his uncle and his cousins for all their kindness.

Peter had turned very pale. The fact that his relations did not in the least desire his presence either in the holidays or at any other time was not hidden from him. His Aunt Emily had taken care of that. He disliked his Aunt Emily more than words could say. She had eyes like marbles and a mouth like a trap. She had called him a little boy. He disliked her dreadfully. He therefore said nothing at all, and, getting hold of the door handle, began to twist it backwards and forwards. His one overpowering desire was to get out of the room. And then suddenly a new idea tumbled helter-skelter into his mind. All this talk of school and holidays—it had all been about him, Peter. No one had so much as mentioned Rose Ellen. What about Rose Ellen? He turned from the door, and shot the question at the relations.

“What about Rose Ellen?”

Matthew Waring cleared his throat. His sister Emily leaned across him.

“That reminds me, Miss Oakley,” she said, “the institution you wrote to me about. I have three votes, and my friend Lady Cracknell has four. The Vicar also has four, and really, with one thing and another, I think we may make sure of getting her in at the next election. A really admirable place—such good discipline and everything run on the most practical lines.”

“What about Rose Ellen?” said Peter.

“Emily, this discussion—defer it, please.” Matthew Waring's tone was curt. He turned to Peter:

“My boy—er, we are in a somewhat difficult position. You know, of course, that the little girl is not really related in any way to—er, any of us. Your mother—”

“Most injudiciously,” said Emily Waring.

“I was going to say that your mother adopted her, but that does not exactly describe the position. There were no formalities of any kind. Your mother was very kind-hearted. I understand that the little girl had been deserted by her own parents, and your mother, I fear unwisely, allowed herself to be burdened with a charge which she could ill afford.”

“What about Rose Ellen?” said Peter for the third time.

A little while ago he had been most dreadfully afraid that he might disgrace himself by bursting into angry tears, but now something stubborn in him was taking away the desire to cry. He was pleased to see how very uncomfortable all the relations looked. He meant to go on asking “What about Rose Ellen?” until he got an answer.

Miss Oakley supplied the answer. Her tone was rather defiant. Ruth was soft-hearted enough for anything, and she had to protect her, she really had to.

“Your Aunt Emily has found a very nice home for Rose Ellen,” she said, “where she will be taught to read, and write, and sew, and—er, all sorts of things.”

“Is it a school?” said Peter, fastening a direct and frowning gaze upon her face.

Charlotte Oakley hesitated, and was lost. For neither the first nor the last time in her dealings with Peter there came into her mind the sinful thought that life would be easier if one had not been brought up always to tell the truth.

Peter turned away from her.

“Is it a school, Aunt Emily?” he said.

Emily Waring had no hesitations.

“It's an orphanage,” she said. “One of the best-managed institutions I know. Rose Ellen will receive a thorough training, and I hope she will be grateful to Miss Oakley and to myself for placing her there.”

Peter dragged the door open violently, plunged blindly out, and slammed it to with a bang that made the windows rattle.

Upstairs in the nursery it was getting dark. The room was cold and untidily desolate. Amongst the strewn bricks and fallen books Rose Ellen sat rigidly still. She held the doll Augustabel very tightly in her arms; her chin rested upon its mop of gold-brown hair; and, very steadily, the tears kept running down her cheeks and dropping into her lap. She did not attempt to wipe them away. She heard the furious bang of the door downstairs and Peter's noisy, stumbling ascent, and still cried on, softly and steadily.

Then, with another wild bang, Peter was in the room, a Peter who neither looked at her nor saw her. He flung himself down on the old nursery sofa, and lay there, torn with dry sobs that were horrible to hear. Rose Ellen cried on. Her world had fallen into pieces, and Peter was in one of his rages. It was the worst rage ever, it was part of the dreadfulness of everything. She cried on. Augustabel's frock was quite wet. And then suddenly Peter's nearness and the sound of his sobbing were too much for her. She gave a little, terrified cry, and called his name. Peter stopped sobbing at once, propped himself on one elbow, and said very gruffly:

“What is it?”

She dropped Augustabel, scrambled up, and ran to him.

“Peter de—ah, oh, Peter de—ah.”

Panic had her, and she clung to him, trembling so violently that he could scarcely hold her; but by and by he managed to lift her on to his knees, and sat rocking her to and fro until her sobs died down and she put up a timid hand and touched his cheek.

“You're crying, Peter.”

“I'm not.”

“Oh, Peter de—ah, why are you crying?”

“I tell you I'm not, Rose Ellen.”

“Nor I wasn't, really,” said Rose Ellen, trembling and sniffing. “'Cos only babies cry, and I'm half grown up. But 'Gustabel couldn't help crying, she couldn't really, Peter dear.”

This was a convention to which Peter was accustomed. He asked:

“Why did Augustabel cry?”

With both arms clasped tightly round Peter's neck, Rose Ellen's sense of being lost in the dark had gone. She rubbed the top of her head against Peter's chin, and said:

“It was because of the dreadful thing that Jane said—Augustabel couldn't help crying when she heard it.”

Peter continued to rock her. His rage was yet in him, but he held it back from touching Rose Ellen. He rocked gently.

“What did Jane say?” he inquired, and felt Rose Ellen's little body quiver in his arms.

“Peter de—ah, I can't say it—Augustabel would cry again if I did, I know she would.”

“Not if I hold you tight, she won't. See, like this. Now whisper it.”

Rose Ellen put soft little lips to Peter's ear. A belated tear went trickling down his neck.

“She said they were going to send you away—an' me away—an' you into a school—an' me into a home—an' she didn't hold with homes—she said they broke you in—an' she said they was cold like charity—an' she said we shouldn't see each other any more—an' she said it was a cruel shame.” The words came in little gasps, and with the last one Rose Ellen began to shake again dreadfully. Peter spoke in a loud, commanding voice:

“Rose Ellen, you're to stop! You're not to cry another single tear, and Augustabel isn't to cry one either! There's nothing to cry about, and you're not to cry!”

“Isn't it true, Peter?” said Rose Ellen.

Peter hugged her very tight.

“Rose Ellen, you're a big girl,” he said, still in that loud voice. “You've got to be sensible. I've got to go to school, and you've got to go to school.”

“She said it wasn't a school. Oh, Peter de—ah, she said it.”

“I don't care what she said. I've got to go to school, and you've got to go to school. No, listen, Rose Ellen, you're not to cry, you're to listen. We've both got to go to school, and at the end of the first term I shall come and see you, and, if you're not happy, I shall take you away.”

Rose Ellen made a little joyful sound between a laugh and a sob.

“Peter, really?” She paused, sobbed again, and added, “Truly?”

“Word of honour,” said Peter, “and really and truly. And, oh, Rose Ellen, what a silly little goose of a thing you are to cry yourself into a jelly about going to school! Everybody must go to school.”

“Augustabel too?”

“Of course.”

“And you'll come, you'll promise to come?”

“I swear it with a deadly oath,” said Peter.

CHAPTER III

Three months later the second week of Peter's Easter holidays was drawing to a close. He had gone straight from school to Mrs. Spottiswoode's house at Wimbledon, and after ten days there was about to depart on a visit to Matthew Waring at Ledlington.

He sat in the window seat of Ruth Spottiswoode's pleasant, conventional drawing-room, industriously whittling a penholder into a sharp-pointed dart—it was one of Ruth Spottiswoode's penholders. As he whittled he could hear his Cousin Charlotte speaking in her most decided manner. She and Cousin Ruth were in the hall, and the door into the drawing-room was open.

“My dear Ruth, you're like butter with him,
melted
butter. You make yourself absolutely ridiculous. It's a mercy that he goes tomorrow. Emily Waring'll wheel him into line.”

“You're very unfair, Charlotte. I told you I'd speak to him, and I will. He—he probably forgot.”

Charlotte laughed derisively.

“You can't forget what you never remember,” she said, and went out, shutting the hall door sharply behind her.

Ruth Spottiswoode came back into the drawing-room. She straightened the sofa cushions, poked the fire which was burning brightly and needed no attention, and then, crossing over to a small ornamental writing-table, she began to fidget with the things upon it. Peter went on whittling. Ruth Spottiswoode picked up a stick of sky-blue sealing-wax, looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then laid it down again upon the little silver tray which it shared with three more sticks of ornamental wax and a rose-coloured candle.

“Peter,” she said.

“'M,” said Peter.

“Did you forget to wash your hands for lunch?”

Peter shook his head.

“Cousin Charlotte thought you did, dear. She—she noticed them. She said … oh, Peter, you
must
have forgotten, for they're dreadfully black now.”