The Chinese Jewel/Chapter 11

LOWLY Marvella's hand fell away from the blood-red jewel, leaving it gleaming upon her white forehead. For Marvella must have known that it was not chance which had brought King Reagan quietly into the room at so inopportune a moment, just when the door had closed upon the departure of Stephen Carrington. Marvella must have realized that Reagan, choosing this instant for his own entrance, had watched for her meeting with the young millionaire and had seen all that had occurred.

Reagan came on into the room now. Marvella, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, tried to smile her old bright smile. Yet in Reagan's ominously stern presence she was not unlike some lovely white dove under the eye of a hawk.

“What I have to say,” said Reagan, “must be spoken quickly, before he returns.” His utterance was calm enough and it was obvious that he mastered himself and summoned that calmness only by a huge effort of an indomitable will. His face was scarcely less white than hers. “We'll not split hairs. Later we will go into details. Now the one and only one supreme fact in all the world is that I love you. I, Tom Reagan, whom men call King Reagan, I, who have never in my life looked twice at a woman; I, who am no callow boy, but a man full grown with an undivided mind; I, who have always stood alone, solitary and master of my own destiny—I love you.”

The color came back into Marvella's cheeks now slowly, warmly, like a pinking sky in the dawn. Here, it seemed to her, was the old, familiar weapon thrust into her hands, even without her seeking. When a man gave into her keeping his heart he set his neck under her cruel little heels. She parted her lips, but Reagan, lifting his hand, commanded her silence, and spoke on:

“Listen! Have I not said that details must wait? I love you, Marvella Nevil. I want you. What I have wanted, all my life I have had! Wait, please. You were made for me; you are the consort King Reagan would have. Don't say to me, as you have said to that young boy, that we have known each other so short a time. For I have already made it my business to know a very great deal about you!”

The tone of the voice, the look accompanying the words, meant more to Marvella than the mere words themselves. Despite her cool command of herself, her slight start was beyond her control, as was a brief, flashing look of consternation in her eyes. Yet she held herself proudly, and halfway between defiance and indifference murmured interrogatively:

“Yes?”

“Yes.” His admiration of her mounted higher. “I know, for instance, that you had planned the easiest way to get Carrington's millions, that is by marrying them. You do not love him; you couldn't! I know that you are going to drop that plan since I will show you a means more to your liking to come to the same result in the end. And—I must go before he returns, but remember, Marvella,” again he was stern and his warning unmistakable, “what I say to you is in confidence. You must not speak of it.”

“You know some very astonishing things! You interrupted yourself as you were about to mention another?”

“I simply saved it for the last; to emphasize it, to have it dwell in your mind. Think it over. It is this: I know where you got that ruby; I know what your fears are; I know where Kwang-kung is this minute!”

Marvella whipped back as though from a slap in the face. She was deadly white, her eyes unnaturally large and staring. She put a hand to her throat as though she choked.

Again Reagan's words were not all. In attitude and mien he asserted mastery of himself, of the situation, of her.

They heard Stephen's guarded but hastening steps.

“It would be wisest to have a good talk with me before you do any talking with any one else,” he urged. Then, just before Carrington entered, Reagan withdrew noiselessly.

Carrington came on, hurrying to Marvella's side. In his hands were two small black leather cases, flat, with steel clasps and locks. Halfway across the room, he came to an abrupt halt as though powerless to move.

“Marvella!” he ejaculated. “What is it? What has happened?”

Never would Marvella have gained the reputation which was hers in three continents and countless cities had she not been capable of rising swiftly above difficult situations. Long ago, and with her big, innocent-looking blue eyes wide open, she had devoted herself to a career fraught with risks. Tense moments made an integral part of her life. Now, though she knew that Reagan, who had listened before, would still be listening, she became again a girlish, insouciant creature, light and bright and merry.

“You were so long,” she said, smiling. “And, since the others have crept off to bed, I suppose you and I are tired, too? And that we haven't had discernment to know it.”

Carrington, reassured, laughed with her.

“How could I feel tired on a night like this?” he demanded. But Marvella pretended not to comprehend.

“You have brought them?” With every word, every gesture, she was more sure of herself, more in command of the moment, and more confident. Reagan had for the moment disturbed her very greatly; that was patent. But Reagan, so far as Marvella knew him, was but a mere man and in love at that. Her fear vanished as quickly as it had engulfed her. She even shrugged her white shoulders, her thoughts still lingering more with Reagan than with Carrington. He knew of Kwang-kung Well, perhaps, Kwang-kung would have vastly less terror for her were the Beauty of Burma sold by her to Carrington. Then, if anything happened to the jewel—or to Carrington himself, for that matter—after they were safely and securely married

All this raced through her mind while Stephen, at her request, was opening the clasps of the twin cases, with the counter-balancing thought that it would do no harm to hear King Reagan out before she went too far, and that it would do him no harm to be jealous in the meantime.

Opened on the table before them, the two cases exposed an array of jewels which would have brought a cry of amazement from many a man to whom diamonds and rubies, pearls and emeralds were a part of the day's work. Every stone was a perfect specimen of its kind.

“There are thousands and thousands of dollars there!” whispered Marvella, her fingers tense on the boy's arm.

He nodded. He set his finger, almost at random, at one stone.

“There are ten thousand dollars locked in the glowing breast of that little fellow alone,” he said. Marvella looked over her shoulder toward a certain closed door. Then she loosened the Beauty of Burma from its place and laid it beside the most splendid ruby in Carrington's collection. By comparison the fire and warmth and rich, lustrous red of his gem seemed to fade and sicken,

“This should belong to you! It would be wrong of me to keep it from you, who have gathered all those others.”

His eyes gleamed.

“You will name your price!” He was exultant, as though already it was his. “I will write the check. Now!”

“No. To-morrow, my friend. And, in the meantime”—she caught up the gem and dropped it into his case—“you will keep it for me? And, when you have had it in your possession a whole night, I think that even if the price I name be high still you will pay it gladly.”

“You trust me with it?”

“I trust you. If anything happened to it—if you were to lose it—you would make good its loss, wouldn't you?”

“Of course. But you mustn't speak like that. Nothing will happen to it!”

“Of course not. And But now it is growing late. And”

“Marvella! Wait. You have not yet answered me. I love you.”

“To-morrow!” she cried, drawing away, tantalizing him with her eyes and yet never forgetting the door just yonder.

“Marvella—please!” He pleaded where Reagan had commanded.

She flitted away to the hallway.

“To-morrow!” she laughed at him. “At least I am leaving a token with you.”

With which he must be content. He gathered up his cases, locked them, thrust them under his coat, and went to his own room. Marvella, pretending to run up the stairs, had come back to the door. She knew that Reagan would return, and, being Marvella and her nerve cool and steady again, was ready for him and whatever he might have to say. Marvella's way, she had managed so that two paths were still open to her—Carrington's way or Reagan's.