White Jade

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Patricia Moreland has always longed to go China, to experience at first hand the exotic, mysterious Orient. When her old friend Sheila Mason suggests that she accompany her on a trip to Shang Tao, Pat is delighted. Little does she suspect what China has in store for her. Within days of her arrival Pat spots Gavin Stewart, one of the many men who had wanted to marry her - and whom she had treated so heartlessly - back in England. To Pat's dismay Gavin refuses to acknowledge her. Yet this rebuff is as nothing compared to the dangerous lasciviousness of Chai Yin, a man who will stip at nothing to gain possession of the beautiful English girl.

Release date: April 24, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

In Shang Tao the morning was blazing hot.

Shang Tao, brooding, mysterious city of the yellow men in civilised China. Patricia Moreland, who had only arrived in Shang Tao yesterday—her first trip to the Orient—thought it the most wonderful city in the world.

She sat on the verandah of the biggest European hotel in the concession—the Imperial—sipping her orange-squash through a straw, and looking at the narrow street before her. The heat did not affect her unpleasantly. Clad in the thinnest of white dresses, a white hat on her fair head; the striped awning over the verandah and many electric fans helping to cool her; she was content. She scarcely spoke a word to the tall man in the white drill suit who drank a gin and lime beside her. He was Sir Eric Hughes—Inspector-General of Customs at Shang Tao; and he was madly in love with her. But Patricia had eyes only for the cosmopolitan crowd passing to and fro the entrance of the Imperial.

Tourists with sun-spectacles and topees, with their Tartar guides; Chinese, some with pigtails, in blue cotton baggy trousers, hands folded in their wide sleeves; Chinese ladies with painted faces, slanting eyes, and embroidered jackets; the richer yellow men in their rickshaws, drawn by barelegged coolies. Up and down the street they passed; under a sky of intense blue; under a sun of molten gold. And the morning seemed to be brilliantly alive—alive with colour; with the romance of the Orient; with strange harsh cries and the mysterious pad of footsteps; the strong, subtle perfume of China.

Sir Eric Hughes looked at the perfect profile of the girl; at her white, delicate skin, with just the pretty pink of healthy youth on her cheeks; at the pale gold of her hair, and the rose pink of her lips—and he had no interest whatsoever in China.

‘Pat,’ he said huskily, ‘why won’t you love me?’

She turned to him as though dragged from her dreams. Her eyes—blue as the sky, under beautiful long lashes—met his gloomy ones, and then she finished her orange-squash with a little laugh.

‘Oh, Eric, don’t let’s go all over that again.’

‘But I love you—I’m mad about you, Pat, and——’

‘Eric, don’t—please. I don’t care for you in that way. I told you that on the boat coming over.’

He set his teeth.

‘I almost wish you hadn’t come,’ he said. ‘I can’t be content with your friendship and not have your love. It maddens me!’

She turned her eyes to the noisy, jostling crowd in the street again. She sighed. Eric was such a dear … if only he would not make love to her. She half wished she could return his affection. But it was impossible. She had come out to China with Mrs. Mason, his widowed sister, for a six months’ stay in Shang Tao just for pure love of the East. It had always been her desire to see China. Her father had lived in Peking for many years, and had told her, when she was a child, of the beauty and magic of that imperial city. Now Mr. Moreland was dead; Patricia had no other living relatives, and had found herself, at the age of twenty-three, with a small private income and nothing to do.

When Sonia Mason, an old school-friend, had told her that she was returning to Shang Tao with Sir Eric, her brother, and had invited Pat to go with them, she had been immensely thrilled with the thought and had accepted at once.

The one thing that had spoiled the trip so far had been Sir Eric’s disastrous passion for her which she could not return.

‘I believe you’re in love with some other fellow,’ Sir Eric said to her moodily. ‘You’re so lovely, my dear, so sweet—you’re made for love. There must be some man in your life.’

She turned to him again. She was flushing now.

‘Perhaps there was—once. There isn’t now.’

‘You mean you’ve had an unhappy affair? But is there a man on earth who would not return your love, Pat?’

Patricia was crimson now. She looked down at her hands half nervously.

‘No—I—don’t ask me about it—please. But I—oh, I suppose I’ve been very heartless and proud. I never wanted to marry and I—there was one man who cared for me, and I … treated him rather badly. I—was sorry after. Then it was too late. That’s all.’

Silence. Patricia turned to the street; watched two Chinamen meet, kow-tow to each other ceremoniously; stand and chat; their hands folded in their sleeves; thin flat yellow faces bland and inscrutable. The Orient thrilled her … the yellow men intrigued her. It was all queer, exciting; sometimes terrifying in this subtle country. She could not help remembering Garvin Stewart, the man of whom she had been speaking to Eric … remembering how he had loved China. Once he had lived in Shanghai, and the mystery and ancient splendour of China had gripped him; held him in its eternal thrall.

Why was it she had treated Garvin so badly? In her fashion she had loved him. Three years ago she had met him in London, just after he had come back from Shanghai, to study medicine at Bart’s. She recalled him; tall, lithe, undeniably good-looking, with a boyish charm that had always attracted women. He had loved her passionately … oh, so much more madly than any man had loved her before or since. And once or twice she had almost fallen under his spell.

Used to the admiration of men, spoiled and petted, a darling of the gods, she had used him just as she had used others; to amuse her. Her love of freedom and independence always conquered the romantic side. She had—she frankly, shame-facedly admitted it now—led Garvin Stewart on; then told him she would not marry him.

Sitting here this morning in Shang Tao with Sir Eric Hughes, Patricia found herself only too vividly recalling her last scene with Garvin. How horror-stricken he had been when she had turned him down; how scornful his boyish face had grown; how white and hard. He had said:

‘Pat, you are the most beautiful woman in the world; up till now I’ve worshipped you; made a goddess of you; dreamed of doing great things for you. But now I know you have a mean, selfish, callous nature. One day, Pat, you will be punished for the way you’ve played with me. I almost wish I could punish you myself. But I don’t suppose I shall ever look into your lovely, treacherous eyes again. Good-bye.’

She shivered at the remembrance of that bitter speech. Garvin had been a soft, adoring lover. But Garvin could be a bitter, implacable enemy. She had not seen him from that day to this. It had all happened three years ago. And she had never forgotten; had felt remorse gnawing at her on many occasions. She did not know where he had gone or what he was doing. She only knew he had left Bart’s, ended his career as a medical student. He had had a little money of his own. Perhaps he had come back to China. Perhaps she was nearer to him to-day than she had been for three years.

She suddenly rose to her feet.

‘It’s rather hot, Eric. I think I’ll get back to Sonia. She’s waiting for me at the bungalow. I——’

She paused in the middle of her speech. She went white to the lips; clutched the back of the basket chair in which she had just been sitting. Her eyes focused on the tall figure of an Englishman in khaki-coloured drill suit, with a topee in his hand. He was just coming through the swing-doors of the Imperial on to the verandah. A huge Chinaman in European clothes, carrying a parasol and wearing spectacles, was beside him.

The Englishman came nearer Patricia. He had not seen her. She heard him talking to his companion, and his voice was painfully familiar.

‘Very well, Mr. Chai, we will meet to-night at the Blue Moon. I shall be delighted.’

‘Your honourable presence, Mr. Stewart, will graciously brighten an unworthy meeting-place,’ the Chinaman replied in a bland oily voice.

Patricia’s heart beat violently. She took an instinctive step forward.

‘Garvin——’ she faltered.

The young Englishman in the khaki suit started and looked up. For an instant he stared at the slender, white-clad figure of the golden-haired girl. Then he stiffened. His sun-bronzed face seemed to grow set and hard.

He deliberately ignored Pat and turned to Chai Yin.

‘Did you enjoy your recent trip to Hankow?’ he asked casually.

He passed on, down the steps of the hotel into the sunlight beside the Chinaman.

Patricia swallowed hard. She was white and shaken. She had seen Garvin … and Garvin had seen her. He had cut her dead. And once he had kissed her feet.

‘Anything wrong, my dear?’ Sir Eric Hughes asked, anxiously regarding her sudden pallor.

She pulled herself together.

‘No—nothing,’ she said, with a hard little laugh. ‘Order the car, will you, Eric?’

Garvin Stewart walked down the street as far as the corner with his Chinese friend. He conversed with him casually. But inwardly he was in a tumult. The sight of Patricia Moreland had upset his equilibrium much more than he would have cared to confess.

How beautiful she looked; lovelier than ever. And how terribly he had cared for her. His handsome eyes became bitter and hard. She had been just a heartless flirt; a coquette. Three years ago he had imagined she had broken his heart. He had come back to China not caring whether he lived or died. But that feeling had passed. In its place had come a terrible desire to punish her; to make her repent her coquetry. No woman had a right to lead a man on; take all he had to give; then send him away. The burning passion he had had for her seemed to die down to a colder flame; an almost cruel thirst to take and break her; to see her at his feet, begging him for mercy.

Garvin knew and understood the East. He spoke Chinese. He was a born diplomat and adored an adventure. Already he and his colleagues had been able to impart some very valuable information to the Foreign Office at home. China was restless; there were murmurs of dissatisfaction with the white man which Garvin knew full well would rise to a dangerous crescendo very shortly. Long before Europe heard of it, Garvin knew of the spark which was to burst into flame first at Hankow and Canton; then Shanghai.

His friendship with Mr. Chai Yin had started a year ago and had been of immense value to Garvin. Chai Yin was an important man in Shang Tao; a wealthy merchant with considerable knowledge of the network of intrigue and the vast country of the yellow man, and an English public school training behind him.

On the little finger of his left hand, Garvin wore a strange ring; a green stone engraved with the secret sign of Mazdaism, which was the ancient worship of the God of Fire. This ring had been handed down to Garvin from his father, who had discovered it many years ago in China whilst excavating for curios. Garvin had found it of great value to him. It was regarded by many sects in China as a sacred symbol. The wearer of it would never be touched.

Chai Yin stood in awe of that ring. But just how far his friendliness to Garvin went, the Englishman was not to know. It is impossible to gauge the sincerity of the Oriental. Garvin, at any rate, suspected the knife of hostility always behind the bland oily flattery of the big Chinaman.

He parted with Mr. Chai Yin at the corner of the street, then turned and walked to the Shang Tao Club, where he ‘roomed’ with William Trensham (more commonly known as Bill), who had been an old college friend of his.

He found Bill in his bedroom; the floor strewn with clothes, and Bill—who was a tall, fair-haired fellow with a pair of humorous blue eyes—sitting on top of a trunk, smoking.

‘Lor’ love us, Bill!’ ejaculated Garvin, hands in his trouser pockets, staring at his friend. ‘Packing already?’

‘Well, we start at dawn, don’t we, Garvin?’

‘I suppose we do,’ said Garvin.

Bill pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and looked up at the older man.

‘What’s up, old chap? Don’t you want to do this trip to the desert?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘It’ll be a marvellous adventure, and we might come back with a fortune,’ said Bill enthusiastically. ‘The Nobi Desert is supposed to be rich in minerals.’

‘And full of the bones of the men who’ve tried to cross it,’ said Garvin.

‘You’re cheery,’ said Bill, grimacing. ‘What’s bitten you, Garvin?’

Garvin flung himself down on the bed and stuck a pipe between his teeth.

‘I’ve seen Patricia Moreland at the Imperial with Hughes, the Customs fellow,’ he blurted out.

‘Have you, by Jove!’ said Trensham.

And Bill knew, then, why Garvin was wrapped in gloom. He had heard all about Patricia Moreland. He despised her. Any woman who could lead old Garvin on and turn him down … it was rotten … a splendid chap like Garvin. Bill literally adored his friend. There was no man more courageous, more quick-witted, and, at the same time, more sweet-tempered and lovable than Garvin Stewart.

Patricia Moreland … bah! Bill did not see why Garvin should worry about the meeting.

‘Don’t imagine I’m miserable about it,’ said Garvin, clenching his teeth on the stem of his pipe. ‘I’m not. But when I saw her there—looking so fair, so delicate, so beautiful—and I remembered her rotten treatment of me—I felt I’d like to get my own back, Bill. Not a very worthy thought.’

‘I hope you do get your own back one day,’ said Bill bluntly. ‘But I shouldn’t trouble about her.’

Garvin shut his eyes. Trouble about her! God! The bitter thing to him was his inability to forget her or put any other woman in her place. He wanted to hurt her … hurt her … in order to assuage his own long pain.

Roughly he said:

‘Well, we’ll be out of Shang Tao this time to-morrow. I’m meeting Chai Yin and Ming Ho at the Blue Moon to-night. When Chai Yin gets a bit drowsy over his poppy-pipe I may get a bit of information out of him. I think there will be trouble in China by the next full moon. By that time we’ll be back from our desert trip. Now just let’s get the map, Bill, and work out our line of action.’

Trensham imagined Garvin had put Patricia Moreland out of his mind. He fetched a map and eagerly pored over it with his friend. Bill was keen to cross the Nobi Desert with Garvin. They had planned it all a fortnight ago. They were taking two Tartar guides and two Chinese boys, two camels and some baggage-ponies. They intended to cross the great Nobi Desert in the direction of the Ki-Shan Mountains, where they would prospect for aluminium.

The disadvantages of the climate and insects in the Nobi Desert were terrific. But that very knowledge made Garvin Stewart all the more eager to try his luck. Life to Garvin was a thrilling adventure. He had juggled with death before now, and he was too energetic to wish to remain in Shang Tao doing nothing.

When they had made their final plans, Bill Trensham stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

‘Well, I’m for my cold tub and a change of kit. What about coming down to the Ki-Shoon Café tonight, Garvin? There’s a peach of a girl there—and——’

‘No thanks, old chap,’ broke in Garvin shortly. ‘You go and find your peach of a girl. Women don’t interest me, as you know.’

But he was extraordinarily interested in the thought of Patricia Moreland that night. He was haunted by the memory of her; the delicate, proud face with the deep blue eyes and fair head. How startled, almost afraid she had been when she had seen him.

Garvin’s strong brown hand clenched.

‘One day you and I will meet again, Patricia,’ he said to himself. ‘And then, who knows——?’

In the spacious and luxurious house of Chai Yin, the merchant, Mr. Chai sat cross-legged on a satin cushion beside a little lacquered table, drinking samshu, which had just been served to him hot in a small bowl by a waiting woman. Samshu is a strong spirit distilled from rice, and a favourite drink of the Chinese. Opposite Chai Yin stood a very small thin yellow man in black cotton trousers and coat. He was hideously ugly. He squinted; his nose was broad and flat; two teeth in the front of his mouth were missing. But he was Ming Ho, favourite, confidential servant to Chai Yin; a sinister and cunning figure of immense use to the fat, prosperous merchant.

Mr. Chai Yin had changed from his European clothes into a rich, embroidered robe, and looked more like his honourable ancestors whose paintings adorned the walls.

‘I have special work for you to do, Ming Ho,’ he said in his native tongue. ‘Listen well.’

‘I listen and learn, O Master,’ said Ming Ho, kow-towing.

‘On the verandah of the Hotel Imperial this morning there I saw a goddess,’ said Chai Yin softly. ‘A white goddess, Ming Ho, seated beside the English toad, Sir Eric Hughes of the Customs. I would know more about this white goddess; who she is; where she lives; what her movements are. I would see her again.’

‘Your wishes shall be obeyed, O Gracious Master.’

‘So beautiful,’ said Chai Yin, rocking himself to and fro and speaking in a dreamy voice. His black, slanting eyes were pin-pricks in his yellow face. ‘Slender as the young tree; white as ivory; with hair of gold; as golden as the heart of the lotus; with lips redder than the poppy—she was more exquisite than words can describe, than brush could paint.’

Ming Ho bowed low, hands hidden in his sleev. . .