CHAPTER XXXIII

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.