Matthew Waring drummed on the table, and said in rather a loud voice:
“Peter, did your mother ever speak to you about the Annam Jewel?”
Peter stopped looking at his piece of string—he stopped in the very middle of a knot—and looked at his relations instead. His Cousin Charlotte had a very flushed face. She was saying:
“Poor Olivia had a secretive nature, she never would tell me a word about it, though we were like sisters. Not a word, I do assure you, Miss Waring, though I implored her to give me her confidence. I felt—Ruth and I both felt—that it was only right for someone on her own side of the family to know the facts, but not a word could I get out of her. Now I only ask you, is it likely that she would tell that boy what she wouldn’t tell me?”
Miles Banham’s eyes twinkled. Matthew Waring continued to drum on the table, and said dryly:
“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Oakley. Peter, however, can tell us Come, Peter, did your mother ever speak to you of the Annam Jewel?”
Peter frowned. His eyes went from one face to another. Cousin Ruth Spottiswoode was wiping her eyes. Uncle Matthew had a red face and grey hair. He didn’t like Aunt Emily—he felt sure that he would never like Aunt Emily. Uncle Miles was the best of the lot; he didn’t jaw, and he didn’t say, “Poor Olivia!”
Miles Banham put out a sunburnt hand to him. “Come on, Peter,” he said; “did you ever hear of the Annam Jewel?”
Uncle Miles had eyes like a monkey, little, and bright, and brown. Peter met them full, and said gruffly:
“Perhaps.”
“No manners at all,” said Charlotte Oakley quite audibly.
But with that one word Peter had gained the respect of his Uncle Matthew and the affection of his Uncle Miles.
Miles Banham laughed.
“Won’t be pumped, eh? Quite right, too. Better take him into your business, Waring. Soul of discretion, eh? Well, look here, Peter, you won’t be pumped, but will you do a swap? All on the level, and between gentlemen. You tell us what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know. I do know something,” he added, with a nod that included everyone at the table. “Well, is it a bargain?”
Peter had dropped his piece of string. He dived into his right-hand pocket, rejected a slate-pencil, a stick of sealing-wax, and an apple, and produced about a yard of crumpled pink ribbon. He nodded at Miles Banham and began to make knots in the ribbon.
“She did tell him something, then,” said Emily Waring in a sharp whisper, every word of which reached Peter’s ears.
“I was quite sure of it.” Miles Banham’s tone was curt. “Well now, Peter—”
“You first,” said Peter, struggling with his knot.
“What nonsense!” said Emily Waring. “Peter, if your mother ever told you anything, it’s your absolute duty to let us know what it was. It’s most important. A little boy like you cannot possibly understand how important it is, but you can understand that it is your duty to tell us everything that you know at once. And do, for goodness’ sake, stop fiddling with that horrible piece of pink ribbon,” she ended sharply.
“Peter, come here,” said Miles Banham. His voice sounded cool and easy after Emily Waring’s rasp.
Peter came nearer warily. He hated being touched; but Miles Banham merely twinkled at him and said:
“So you want to hear me first? And after that you’ll tell us what you know? Honour bright? All right. I don’t mind.”
He was sitting with one elbow on the table, leaning hard against the arm of his chair, which he had pushed askew. His little brown face was covered with fine lines. He was clean-shaven, and had lost two of his front teeth.
“Well, here’s my yarn,” he said.
Miss Oakley leaned forward. Mrs. Spottiswoode let her handkerchief fall into her lap. The scent of heliotrope hung in the air.
“The story begins with your Uncle James.” He coughed slightly, threw a whimsical glance over his shoulder at Matthew and Emily, and again addressed Peter. “He—er, was what is called wild; rather like myself, in fact; didn’t pass his exams; didn’t get into a profession; didn’t write home very regularly; in fact—er, all that sort of thing. Well, twelve years ago your Uncle James was in Annam—don’t ask me how he got there, or what he was doing, because it’s a case of least said soonest mended—but he was there, for some weeks at any rate. We know that for certain, and we also know, or I should say believe, that whilst he was there he came into possession of a very remarkable stone, known as the Annam Jewel. We don’t know that for certain, but the evidence is tolerably convincing. We don’t even know for a fact that there is or ever was, such a stone. I’ve heard rumours of it for twenty years; and I’ve met old men who had heard the same stories when they were young, but I’ve never met anyone who had actually seen it.
Peter had dropped the pink ribbon. His deep-set eyes were fixed on Miles Banham’s face, his grubby hand pressed against Miles Banham’s knee.
“What is it?” he said. “The Jewel?”
“No one knows,” said Miles Banham in his quick, cool voice. “No one knows, because no one has seen it. They call it the Annam Jewel; and Annam means ‘The Hidden Way’. It was a hidden thing, a sacred jewel, kept in a most secret place. I believe James Waring had it in his possession. He is known to have gone inland. He had two companions, a man called Henderson, and a man who went by the name of Dale—it wasn’t his real name, I believe. They quarrelled and parted.
“Now we come to another part of the story. Your father, Henry Waring, was at that time a captain in the Gunners at Hong Kong. He and your mother had been married about six months. He had no idea of his brother James’ whereabouts until he got a cable from him. It was in a cipher which they had made up and used when they were schoolboys. It told him to come at once to Tourane, which is one of the ports of Annam. It said that he had secured a great treasure, but had no money and could not get it away alone. It besought Henry to come without delay. Your mother didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want him to go at all, but he overbore her and went. They were very hard up, and he wanted to make money for her. She hated the East, and he wanted to get her out of it. He wanted to settle at home in the country with a bit of land, and horses, and dogs; and the idea of the treasure got hold of him.
“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:
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.”
The Annam Jewel Page 2