CHAPTER X
Jeanne's packing was after all a very small matter. She ignored thecupboards full of gowns, nor did she open one of the drawers of herwardrobe. She simply filled her dressing-case with a few necessariesand hid it under the table. At eight o'clock one of the servantsbrought her dinner on a tray. Jeanne saw with relief that it was one ofthe younger parlour maids, and not the Princess' own maid.
"Mary," Jeanne said, taking a gold bracelet from her wrist and holdingit out to her, "I am going to give you this bracelet if you will dojust a very simple thing for me."
The girl looked at Jeanne and looked at the bracelet. She was tooamazed for speech.
"I want you," Jeanne said, "when you go out to leave the door unlocked.That is all. It will not make any difference to you so far as yourposition here is concerned, because your mistress is sending you allaway in a few days."
The girl looked at the bracelet and did not hesitate for a moment.
"I would do it for you without anything, Miss Jeanne," she said. "Thebracelet is too good for me."
Jeanne laughed, and pushed it across the table to her.
"Run along," she said. "If you want to do something else, open the backdoor for me. I am coming downstairs."
The girl looked a little perplexed. The bracelet which she was holdingstill engrossed most of her thoughts.
"You are not doing anything rash, Miss Jeanne, I hope?" she askedtimidly.
Jeanne shook her head.
"What I am doing is not rash at all," she said softly. "It isnecessary."
Five minutes later Jeanne walked unnoticed down the back stairs of thehouse, and out into the street. She turned into Piccadilly and entereda bus.
"Where to, miss?" the man asked, as he came for his fare.
"I do not know," Jeanne said. "I will tell you presently."
The man stared at her and passed on. Jeanne had spoken the truth. Shehad no idea where she was going. Her one idea was to get away fromevery one whom she knew, or who had known her, as the Princess' wardand a great heiress. She sat in a corner of the bus, and she watchedthe stream of people pass by. Even there she shrank from any face orfigure which seemed to her familiar. She almost forgot that she, too,had been a victim of her stepmother's deception. She remembered onlythat she had been the principal figure in it, and that to the wholeworld she must seem an object for derision and contempt. It was not herfault that she had played a false part in life. But nevertheless shehad played it, and it was not likely that many would believe herinnocent. The thought of appealing to the Duke, or to Andrew de laBorne, for help, made her cheeks burn with shame. In any ordinarytrouble she would have gone to them. This, however, was something toohumiliating, too impossible. She felt that it was a blow which shecould ask no one to share.
The omnibus rolled on eastwards and reached Liverpool Street. A suddenoverwhelming impulse decided Jeanne as to her destination. Sheremembered that peculiar sense of freedom, that first escape from hercramped surroundings, which had come to her walking upon the marshes ofSalthouse. She would go there again, if it was only for a day or two;find rooms somewhere in the village, and write to Monsieur Laplanchefrom there. Visitors she knew were not uncommon in the little seasidevillage, and she would easily be able to keep out of the way of Cecil,if he were still there. The idea seemed to her like an inspiration. Shewent up to the ticket-office and asked for a ticket for Salthouse. Theman stared at her.
"Never heard of the place, miss," he said. "It's not on our line."
"It is near Wells on the east coast," she said. "Now I think of it, Iremember one has to drive from Wells. Can I have a ticket to there?"
He glanced at the clock.
"The train goes in ten minutes, miss," he said.
Jeanne travelled first, because she had never thought of travelling anyother way. She sat in the corner of an empty carriage, looking steadilyout of the window, and seeing nothing but the fragments of her littlelife. Now that she was detached from it, she seemed to realize howlittle real pleasure she had found in the life which the Princess hadinsisted upon dragging her into. She remembered how every man whom shehad met addressed her with the same EMPRESSEMENT, how their eyes seemedto have followed her about almost covetously, how the girls had openlyenvied her, how the court of the men had been so monotonous and sounreal. She drew a little breath, almost of relief. When she was usedto the idea she might even be glad that this great fortune had taken toitself wings and flitted away. She was no longer the heiress of untoldwealth. She was simply a girl, standing on the threshold of life, andlooking forward to the happiness which at that age seems almost anatural heritage.
The sense of freedom grew on her next morning, as she walked once moreupon the marshes, listened to the larks, now in full song, and felt thetouch of the salt wind upon her cheeks. She had found rooms veryeasily, and no one had seemed to treat her coming as anything but amatter of course. One old fisherman of whom she asked questions, toldher many queer stories about the Red Hall and its occupants.
"As restless young men as them two as is there now," he admitted, "Mr.Cecil and his friend, I never did see. Fust one of them one day goes toLondon, back he comes on the next day, and away goes the other. Whythey don't go both together the Lord only knows, but that is so for afact, miss, and you can take it from me. Every week of God's year, oneof them goes to London, and directly he comes back the other goes."
"And Mr. Andrew de la Borne?" she asked. "Has he gone back there yet?"
"He have not," the man answered, "but I doubt he'll be back again oneday 'fore long. Sure he need be. They're beginning to talk about theshuttered windows at the Red Hall."
The girl turned and looked toward the house, bleak and desolate-lookingenough now that the few encircling trees were shorn of their leaves.
"I shouldn't care to live there all the year round," she remarked.
"I've heerd others say the same thing," he answered, "and yet inSalthouse village we're moderate well satisfied with life. It's them ashave too much," he continued, "who rush about trying to make more. Asimple life and a simple lot is what's best in this world."
"Things were livelier up there," Jeanne remarked, seating herself onthe edge of his boat, "when the smugglers used to bring in their goods."
The old man smiled.
"Why that's so, lady," he admitted. "Lord! When I was a boy I mind somegreat doings. One night there was a great fight. I mind it now. Fifteenof the King's men were lying hidden close to the cove there, and itlooked for all the world as though the boats which were being rowedashore must fall right into their hands. They were watching from theHall, though, and the Squire's new alarm was set going. It were a crylike a siren, rising and falling like. The boats heerd it and turnedback, but three of the Squire's men were set on, and a rare fight therewas that night. There was broken heads to be mended, and no mistake.Mat Knowles here, the father of him who keeps the public now, he rightforgot to shut his inn, and there it was open two hours past the lawfultime, and all were drinking as though it were a great day of rejoicing,instead of being one of sorrow for the De la Bornes. I mind you werehere a few weeks ago, miss. You know the two Mr. De la Bornes?"
"Yes!" Jeanne admitted. "I know them slightly."
"Mr. Andrew, he be one of the best," the man declared, "but Mr. Cecilwe none of us can understand, him nor his friends. What he is doing upthere now with this man what's staying with him, there's none can tell.Maybe they gamble at cards, maybe they just sit and look at oneanother, but 'tis a strange sort of life anyhow."
"I think it is a very interesting place to live in," Jeanne said. "Whatbecame of the siren which warned the smugglers?"
"There's no one here as can tell that, miss," the man answered, "Thereare them as have fancied on windy nights as they've heerd it, but fancyit have been, in my opinion. Five and twenty years have gone since I'veheerd it mysen, and there's few 'as better ears."
"Mr. Andrew de la Borne is not here now, is he?" she asked.
The fisherman shook
his head.
"Mr. Andrew," he said, "is mortal afraid of strangers and such like,and there's photographers and newspaper men round in these parts justnow, by reason of the disappearance of this young lord that you heerdtell on. Some say he was drowned, and I have heerd folk whisper about aduel with the gentleman as is with Mr. Cecil now. Anyway, it was herethat he disappeared from, and though I've not seen it in print, I'veheerd as his brother is offering a reward of a thousand pounds to anyas might find him. It's a power of money that, miss."
"It is a great deal of money," Jeanne admitted. "I wonder if LordRonald was worth it."
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