The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jewel sowers, by Edith Allonby This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Jewel sowers a novel Author: Edith Allonby Release Date: January 06, 2021 [eBook #64223] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWEL SOWERS *** JEWEL SOWERS GREENING & CO.’S POPULAR NOVELS When it was Dark. 3rd Edition. By Guy Thorne. 6s. The Oven. By Guy Thorne. 3s. 6d. The Serf. 3rd Edition. By C. Ranger-Gull. 6s. His Grace’s Grace. By C Ranger-Gull. 6s. Mr. Topham: Comedian. By C. Ranger-Gull. 3s. 6d. Back to Lilac-Land. 2nd Edition. By C. Ranger-Gull. 6s. The Hypocrite. 8th Edition. By C. Ranger-Gull. 6s. Miss Malevolent. 2nd Edition. By C. Ranger-Gull. 3s. 6d. The Steeple. By Reginald Turner. 6s. The Comedy of Progress. By Reginald Turner. 6s. Cynthia’s Damages. By Reginald Turner. 6s. The Danger of Innocence. 2nd Edition. By Cosmo Hamilton. 6s. The Love Thirst of Elaine. By S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald. 6s. Fame the Fiddler. By S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald. 2s. 6d. Mrs. Evelyn’s Husbands. By The Comtesse de Bremont. 6s. Daughters of Pleasure. By The Comtesse de Bremont. 6s. Mr. Incoul’s Misadventure. By Edgar Saltus. 3s. 6d. Mary of Magdala. By Edgar Saltus. 3s. 6d. The Day of Prosperity. By Paul Devinne. 6s. A Dead Woman’s Wish. By Emile Zola. 3s. 6d. Two in One. By T. W. Speight. 3s. 6d. Mora: One Woman’s Story. By T. W. Speight. 6s. Compromised. By Gertrude Warden. 6s. A Tragic Contract. By Mount Houmas. 6s. JEWEL SOWERS A Novel LONDON GREENING & CO., LTD. 20, CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 1903 CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. AN INTRODUCTION TO LUCIFRAM 9 II. FRIEND AND EXECUTOR 13 III. ROSALIE 21 IV. THE GOLDEN SERPENT 28 V. THE MASTER 42 VI. NEW EXPERIENCES 52 VII. A DEBT OF GRATITUDE 57 VIII. A BOOK OF INSPIRATION 64 IX. MARIANA 77 X. A CONVERSATION IN SHADOWS 85 XI. GARDEN AND HOUSE OF SHADOWS 92 XII. AN ACT OF DISOBEDIENCE 101 XIII. THE FOLLY OF SIMPLICITY 119 XIV. BROKEN SPIRITS 131 XV. A WAYSIDE HOUSE AND GLOOMY CELL 139 XVI. THE GOVERNOR 154 XVII. A PLANTATION 166 XVIII. SEEDS GROWING CONTRARIWISE 174 XIX. A HUMBLE CRUCIFIXION 190 XX. A SIMPLE CONVERSATION 202 XXI. A MAN WHO STOOD ON HIS HEAD, ACCORDING TO LUCIFRAM 209 XXII. A LEASE OF LIFE 216 XXIII. THE SCANDAL OF THE TEMPLE 222 XXIV. AT THE SEBBERENS’ 232 XXV. THE GOLDEN PRIEST 245 XXVI. CONVERSATION AND A LITTLE PIG-STUFF 254 XXVII. AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES 264 XXVIII. REVENGE IS SWEET 277 XXIX. A CONFESSION 286 vii viii XXX. FESTIVAL 293 XXXI. MYSTERIES IN MARBLE HOUSE 303 XXXII. DIPLOMACY 313 XXXIII. THE WORTH OF A JEWEL 319 XXXIV. “A GIFT, A FRIEND, A FOE, A BEAU, A JOURNEY TO GO” 326 XXXV. THE SUN RISES ON THE YEAR 334 JEWEL SOWERS CHAPTER I AN INTRODUCTION TO LUCIFRAM In the little planet Lucifram, that spun a brilliant and solitary course among the stars, exchanging annual salutations with them as the waxing and waning of the solar laws brought them out of the void and within hail, the people each and all walked upside down. The trees were upside down, the houses, the churches with their steeples, the palaces, the oceans, rivers, lakes, mountains, animals, and fishes, each and all, reversed our own conception of mundane propriety. Cultivate a patience with the seeming strangeness of this extraordinary planet, even to the reading of this simple book, and let that virtue lead you nearer to another sphere, more to your liking. There were a few, indeed, upon this sphere who did their best to stand upon their feet. Sometimes they succeeded; but others were bowled down in the struggle and ended by standing once again upon their heads, or lying crushed, paying the debt they owed to Outraged Custom. The circumference of this sphere was something like two thousand miles. It bulged out towards the north and south, with giant hollows to the east and west. And because everything that existed was contrary to our idea of things, all things looked normal. When Nature and architecture combine to alter things, making them contrariwise, as people call it, what wonder if morality and all ethics blend with the custom? To begin with governments and kingships. Unlike those upon a two-legged basis, a king was never chosen for his worth, but for his frailties. He was chosen to strew the path of his subjects with flowers which all might pick like little children out at play, and then would quarrel over. Alas! To be a king in the planet Lucifram! That little planet topsy-turvy. Here, though a ruler might have the will of a Hercules to turn a somersalt and land upon his feet, some diviner instinct calling him to that, the pigmies around him pinned him with millions of tiny threads, an anchorage whereby to hold his head safe to the ground. Threads worked in gold! Held for the wonder of the multitude. So for the kings. The Gods of all the stars looked down on them. They heard those faint sighs of weakness—those breathings after higher things—and pitied some, and smiled at others. And though in the topsy-turvy synagogues and churches the people prayed for them, no prayers reached heaven except those simple few the kings themselves breathed in solitude. Prayers that must travel very, very far, as all prayers must, and which needed the giant strength of great simplicity to bring them to the end of their weary journey. So for the kings and princes. An arduous task is theirs—bound thus with chains—God only knows how hard! As each insidious little link might whisper, telling its own small share in the universal tale. In our world we always speak of “Church and State”—a correct and steady way of speaking—but in Lucifram ’tis always “State and Church,” and that is why the palaces and kings claimed our attention first. The Church, composed of temples, synagogues, and priests, jumbled together in luxurious profusion, was dressed and bedecked so finely that the God the people worshipped fell almost out of sight. In their chief temple, in the greatest city, was a three-tailed golden Serpent, coiled around a golden pole above a table decked in red, and set with incense vessels. Dim and mysterious was that holy place, where priests, all flowing and bedecked in golden garments, came each day to bow before the Snake. Its three tails, the gold of them burnished like fire, spread out like fans on high, against a background of mosaic. Below, resting on the altar, was the great head, lying quite still; the genius of ages worked in its cruel fangs and awful eyes. Eyes never closing, jewel-glinting, green and fiery, all-surveying, all-watching. Those terrible eyes lit up the gloom, and compelled men to stand upon their heads as it itself was forced to do. For by the grim and dreadful fascination of those never-closing eyes, unconsciously the worshippers changed to position like to it, tails up, heads down, blinded by their religion. In this temple the people sat in the big gloomy aisles, each on a little chair with a ledge in front for kneeling, and heard the priest from the pulpit, and the reader from his desk. Awed by the grandeur and the solemn dimness, they bowed and salaamed before the triune tails, hidden from the vulgar gaze by a red silk curtain blazoned in gold. And when the mighty organ rolled and rumbled, and the angel voices of the choir boys rang through the gold-washed rafters, their senses were stirred by some far hidden mystery, and their eyes would dim or kindle as they felt it; only the gleaming eyes within the veil remained unchanged. Now it was customary for the priests who waited on the Serpent to fast a day each month and marry only once. A layman in Lucifram might wed twice. No priests could marry under forty. For laymen, the age was twenty-five for the first attempt, and forty for the second; that is, for the few who preferred company in their latter years to peace. But though the women, by Act of Parliament, enjoyed the privilege of marrying twice, just as the men did, there were certain things clearly beyond them, they being in Lucifram, as here, the weaker vessels. On those great days whereon the priest drew back the 9 10 11 12 silken curtain and displayed the Serpent, all women were debarred from entering the temple. And so enough for an explanation and a prologue. Take my hand, descend, and tread on Lucifram! CHAPTER II FRIEND AND EXECUTOR In the capital of Lucifram there is a great park—a city park—planted with trees sown centuries since by the restless winds, when all was peaceful country. To the right stretches the city—work and pleasure, laughter and tears, and perpetual hurry-scurry. All round the park sounds and sights of human life, condensed within a curiously small circle, were in evidence. Silent streets, tall and shadowy, lit by occasional gas lamps, fringed on a brilliant thoroughfare, with omnibuses, cabs, and people hurrying everywhere. Most spacious squares, with fountains and statues, backed by huge buildings, erected both for grace and durability, lay on all sides. The mansions on this side of the park were in many cases of plain exterior. This gave the lie to the magnificence within. On the right side of the park, facing it and running along its entire length, was built the famous Greensward Avenue. In the centre of the avenue, standing back under the shadow of the high walls of two palace gardens rising on either side, stood a large square house built of black marble. It was built in black, and the blinds were of deep red, the only colour to relieve it. Those were not visible till night came. Thirteen imposing- looking steps lead up to an imposing door, in black polished oak, rarely carved. Two narrow windows in the wall reached down on each side of it. The house consisted of three storeys and a basement, and to the back were pretty and extensive gardens protected by high walls. The owner of this house was a certain Camille Barringcourt, who had but lately come there, within the last three years. With the exception of servants, he lived quite alone—a bachelor in the land of double marriages. Now the house in which he lived was very appropriately called “Marble House.” It had been built by a millionaire quite recently, despite its old appearance. The reason why it had such an appearance of age was because it had been erected from a spoiled cathedral in the remotest corner of Lucifram, where instead of worshipping the Serpent they worshipped the Toad. It had cost a vast amount of money to cart the marble and oak right over from east to west, but it was done right royally, and the house itself, from this point of view at least, was very interesting. No sooner was the great mansion completed, and royalty entertained on one single occasion, than the millionaire died. Men and women agreed on this, that his death was at least mysterious. He was found dead in bed. So far as the doctors could tell he suffered from nothing, and had come by no foul play. He had died painlessly, in the big plain bed- chamber containing little else but the desecrated altar of the Toad, with a fac-simile of the Serpent rising above it—a shrine which all good people in Lucifram kept in their private rooms. And so he was buried, and the ladies mourned. He had been generous. And then his will was read. All his vast wealth was given to charities; all went to charity except the house. That was left “To my friend, Camille Barringcourt, as a slight token of esteem, and in remembrance of the past.” That was all. No one had ever heard or seen anything of this friend, and no one knew anything of the past. But lawyers, like detectives, have a way of hunting people up. In a little time it was spread abroad that Camille Barringcourt lived in Fairysky, or at least was staying there, a country which much resembled Italy on the Earth. It may also be mentioned here that Camille Barringcourt and the lawyer were left executors of those vast charities. The first thing about the new-comer’s arrival that excited general interest was the advent of six horses. All were black as night, with long tails, fiery eyes, shining coats, and tossing, untamed heads. Nearly all the little boys in that aristocratic neighbourhood were late for school that morning; or better, never went. Accustomed as they were to beautiful horses, they had never even in their experience seen anything to equal these. The six black horses travelled through the crowded thoroughfares singly led, each by a groom. Their trappings were of a deep red, and no unnecessary weight was placed upon them. The men who led the animals were men who understood their business, and had great patience with their coquettish, curvetting ways. Just as the journey was drawing to a close the traffic in the streets was for the minute stopped. Five of the six horses had passed the crossing, and the last was drawn up close to Lady Flamington’s carriage. Whether it was her ladyship’s hat (she was one of the best dressed and most beautiful women of the day), or whether her two thoroughbreds were ready to enter into the fun of the thing, and dance a lively impromptu pirouette with the new arrival, it would be hard to say. However, the black steed began a dance, anything but safe in the state of the crowded thoroughfare, and the bays in harness did their best to follow suit. It was a spirited attempt; then the groom for once lost his temper. “Get up, you devil!” said he. The horse took him literally and reared up, despite his efforts to keep it down, dragging him with it, in its wild, untamable fury. The trampling forepaws struck on the cushions of my lady’s brougham. What might have been the result it is impossible to say, for her escape on the other side was cut off by a huge lorry drawn up against her like a wall, but just at that moment a voice fell on the hubbub and the consternation, and the “voice that breathed o’er Eden” on the day of her marriage had never been so welcome to Lady Flamington as that one now. At the same time a hand, the whitest, the most beautiful she had ever seen (so she told her friends after), grasped at the bridle. “Waugh-o, Starlight—Starlight! Come, then.” The words, the tone, the caressing hand on one side, the firm hand on the bridle, were too much for the four-legged beauty. Won over by more words, more pressure on the hateful bit (even though silver), and more caressing patting on her glossy neck, she came gracefully down to earth once more. It seemed to Lady Flamington that the stranger had sprung up from nowhere. As a matter of fact, he 13 14 15 16 17 had sprung from the hansom behind, in which he was following, at almost walking pace, these six prancing treasures. Then just as the traffic was starting again he looked across at her. “You are not hurt,” said he. “I should have been bitterly sorry if that had happened.” For once her ladyship could find no words. She bowed, he raised his hat, the procession moved along. Then she knitted her brows thoughtfully. “He should have been sorry in either case,” she thought, and fell to studying his face in her memory. Meanwhile the six black horses had turned into Greensward Avenue, where likewise at a quicker rate her ladyship’s carriage was progressing. All the way to the spacious private stables at the rear of the private grounds, Mr. Barringcourt, for it was he, led that most spoiled of all spoilt animals, Starlight. The little boys followed admiringly, till the big doors of the stable-yard closed cruelly upon them. “That looks like a dook turned undertaker,” said one. Rumour had spread a report that Camille Barringcourt was a twice married gentleman, with a large family. “How unlike poor Geoffrey Todbrook,” said the ladies, and sighed. But rumour for once was entirely wrong. One bachelor was dead; another succeeded him. The new arrival settled quickly into his new home. Seeing it was already furnished, that was but natural. His servants were all foreigners, dark, tall, all very unlike the people on this side of Lucifram. Yet there was an inexpressible charm, dignity, and quiet repose about them that delighted and mystified everyone. Among them were some women, parlourmaids, sewing-maids, and housemaids apparently. Each one of these servants, men and women, dressed in black, faced with deep red. It was a kind of uniform. Now, a few words are needed as to the personal appearance of the Master himself. In figure he was tall, athletic, graceful, broad-shouldered. His hair was black and short, crisp at the ends, as Lady Flamington noticed when he removed his hat. People called his face “odd.” It was dark and swarthy, with a strong forehead, and black eyes which were gloomy and deeply set. The nose was straight, bearing in its lines more sensitive refinement than any other feature of his face. When he smiled he showed, though not obtrusively, a sparkle of white and even teeth. When Lady Flamington admired the beauty of his hands she was within the right. For strength and suppleness they would be hard to beat, and for whiteness also. This then, in short, was the figure of Camille Barringcourt, come to dispense the charity of his friend of the past; come to settle in Marble House, of Greensward Avenue. Lady Flamington, some dozen houses off, persuaded her first and only husband to call there, soon after the arrival. He did so, hoping to see the fine black horses she had spoken of. Horseflesh was his hobby. He saw the gentleman, but nothing else in the way of interest, took a sudden fancy to him, and invited him over to dinner on Friday night. The invitation was as suddenly accepted. Sir James went home with some misgivings. He didn’t know whether his wife liked swarthy men; she was fastidious. His wife had no objection to them. She was delighted to welcome any of his friends, except turf acquaintances and bookmakers. On Friday night Mr. Barringcourt came. It was a little formal affair, one or two of the family circle and an intimate friend. The stranger sat beside his hostess for dinner, and they talked commonplaces. At last she turned to him with a pretty grace. “You have not yet demanded my thanks,” said she. “For what?” he asked. “You know for what.” “Your thanks would necessitate my apologies.” “I am surprised you never offered them.” “It was unnecessary.” “There I must confess to some curiosity. Do you remember you said to me, ‘You are not hurt.’” “Well?” said he, and smiled—a smile all the more charming as he bent his head to hers. “Well!” she retorted. “I was hurt; your horse frightened me. To be frightened is to be hurt. Can you dispute it?” “I never saw anyone stand pain better. Your face was a vision of—of—” “Of what?” she asked. “I do not understand your language very well, as yet. I shall improve in it; you must be patient. In a week or two I shall have found the word I need.” “And till then?” “Learn to be gracious to a poor speaker.” “Ah! But I do not intend to let you off so easily. After telling me I was not hurt, you next proceeded to say, ‘In that case you would have been deeply sorry’—you see my memory is good. Now, am I to understand that under the circumstances you felt no sorrow?” “Most certainly.” “Now we shall quarrel, unless you can explain yourself.” “Is it necessary?” “You shall discover how much so if you do not explain your meaning instantly.” 18 19 20 “Then do not blame me if I sink still deeper into the mire. Under the circumstances, I was not sorry. I had been told on coming to this country I should find all the women forward—most of them ugly—the remainder plain. After three days’ looking round me I had come to the same conclusion. Suddenly by the merest chance my eyes lighted on you. Can you wonder I should feel no sorrow?” She frowned, then laughed, and looked at him. “Where did you learn this grossest form of flattery?” “I see your ladyship has no education to appreciate the truth.” “Talk to my husband about horses. I have no more to say to you.” “Is he a lover of horses?” “Yes. He attends every Race Meet in the county.” Mr. Barringcourt smiled. “That speaks for itself,” he said. CHAPTER III ROSALIE Let us pay a call on Cinderella. Alas! not a Cinderella with a prince and gorgeous clothing, but one without a tongue, or rather, tongue- tied. Rosalie Paleaf, for that was her name, lived alone with an aunt and uncle. Both her parents were dead. She was pretty, of that fair delicate type called “picturesque.” Her hair was of a palish yellow tint, glossy, but straight; her skin was fair and delicate. The eyes were grey, with dark curling lashes, and delicately marked brows. Her nose turned up just the least little bit, the most charming upward, delicate little curve in the wrong direction it would be possible to meet. The corners of her mouth, however, turned down with the saddest, most wistful droop imaginable. In fact, there was only one feature in her face that kept it from becoming most woefully pathetic, and that was the little, inquisitive, life-enjoying nose. To come back to her eyes for finishing touches. Their greyness was very pale. The pupils generally were large, with an equally black rim along the edge of the iris. Inside this rim the colour gradually paled to the pupil, which gave her eyes a curiously bright appearance. And then being tongue-tied! She had nothing she could talk with but her eyes, and so she used them. Uncle and aunt were very kind to her. Who indeed could help being that? She was the gentlest, kindest creature, harmless and very helpless, with the sweetest face, the happiest manner, and sunniest smile upon occasions. They were people of moderate circumstances in a very quiet way, and if Rosalie had not the hardest work of the house to do, it was because her aunt always insisted on doing it, with the help of an occasional charwoman. And so, when very young, she learnt to hem, and dust, and do the toasting. Later she got promoted to wiping tea-things, then dinner dishes, and ended as a fully-fledged young housekeeper, ready to bake and cook, darn, and make and mend, to sweep and dust, and do all work that is useful. Beyond this her education had not progressed. She could read and write, ’tis certain, but very little more. Accomplishments were beyond the means of her relations, and had they not been it would never have struck them a child apparently quite dumb should need such things. So she stayed at home and was happy, except in the company of strangers, when her sad defect made itself felt under their pitying glances of surprise, however well they might try to conceal them. But a child’s happiness often constitutes a woman’s misery. As the years passed by Rosalie began to feel her loneliness, her utter incapacity for the work of the world. She felt also something deeper, stronger, more unwordable. It was more real than anything else in her life, yet, because unseen, it was unsympathised with as having no existence. And so, although her happiness was gradually becoming overshadowed, she never fully recognised it till one October evening when she had turned twenty. To look at Rosalie the spectator would never have taken her for that age. All her life had been spent in one long silent dream—the privilege of childhood. It was the kind of autumn evening made for thought and sadness. The sky was very clear, with a suspicion of purple in it, and the gold of ages was in the west. As she stood by her bedroom window looking out at it, there came that terrible foreboding of sadness and sorrow that seems to do its best to crush young hearts, though perhaps it only moulds them. And along with it came a longing for expansion, a weariness of the endless routine, the companionless silence and that nameless thirst after something, she knew not what. How could Rosalie, walking in the mist, having no speech or utterance, explain it even to herself? She wanted something, the purple of the sky suggested something—suggested, nothing more. And from that day forward the nameless longing grew, settling itself within her heart, finding no happier outside quarters. I do not know that she looked thinner or more frail, her physical strength was too great for that. No one beyond herself knew of the longing, and she attributed it all to discontent, and tried to stifle it. At last one evening she understood. The inordinate longing for speech rushed over her. But how to manage it? It is all very well to find out what you want to do—but how to do it? There was only one way—only one way, at any rate, that suggested itself to her, and that way was prayer. Now, her religious education had not been exactly neglected, but Rosalie was one of those heedless creatures who hear a little and invent a great deal. She had been told with great piety by her aunt of the great golden Serpent, its wonderful power, its relentless cruelty to those who crossed or vexed it, its generosity to those who did as they were told, and from those few rudimentary remarks she had built up a little golden temple of her own, quite an unseen spiritual affair, in which to worship the Supreme Being of Lucifram. She certainly gave to the gorgeous Serpent many qualifications she had never been told it possessed, but what of that? She was but a poor, helpless creature at best. But with a reverent, far-away love she had always worshipped the Serpent, although as a sex she had been given to understand he reckoned her somewhat inferior. But now, sitting up in bed, there came to her one of those terrible convictions, never to be misplaced, that are in themselves the sheerest madness or the sheerest sanity, that she must get her tongue untied. And the Serpent, being the strongest of all powers on Lucifram, was the likeliest to do it. Next afternoon at five o’clock saw Rosalie kneeling in the famous temple, her head buried in her hands, praying in the silence as only sincerity and helplessness can pray. “Oh, Serpent, give me my tongue! Let me talk,” said she, a most natural request when coming from a woman. 21 22 23 24