She gurgled with laughter. “You are absurd! Very well, then—ten minutes.”
He vanished through the door which led to the stairs.
She stood in thought for a moment. This time, his story had carried complete conviction, even though it was more fantastic than any he had so far produced. He has a strange man, this Captain Jackson, evidently a man of many parts: and she did not yet know who he really was.
She shook off her reverie, and began to dress. Then she sat down with a smile at her improvised dressing table, and did what she could to make her hair tidy. When she had finished, she picked up the battered bonnet which had been the cause of all the trouble. Never again, she thought, with a fastidious wrinkling of her nose, could she wear such a poor wreck as it had become. She let it drop, rose, and went to the door at the foot of the stairs He came at once when she called him, and stood for a moment looking down at her.
“You are Miss Feniton, now,” he said, involuntarily.
“And pray who was I before?” she asked, with a smile.
“You looked like a child—a small girl, uncertain of herself. But Miss Feniton is always assured, always mistress of the situation.”
“It’s well that she is,” retorted the lady. “For when you are concerned in it, the situation is apt to become a little out of hand!”
He laughed. “On that note, we part. Will you come with me, and I will put you on your way home? That is, if you are quite determined that I shall not accompany you?”
“We have already settled all that,” she said, firmly, and followed him into the back of the cottage.
He opened the door, and indicated in a few words how she could find her way by a path across the meadow to a stile which led into the lane.
“You should meet with no one,” he said, hesitantly. “But it goes against my instincts to let you go unaccompanied. Will you not change your mind?”
“Captain Jackson, you are a most persistent person!” she said. “But I am equally firm, you know!”
She looked up at him as she spoke. He drew back a little, within the shadow of the door, as though reluctant to allow her to see his face by the light of day. She could not fail to understand his action, and felt a fleeting chagrin that he should still not be prepared to trust her completely.
“I thank you for your timely hospitality,” she said, holding out her hand in farewell.
He took it in a firm grasp, and retained it for a moment, once more searching her expression.
“Au revoir, Miss Feniton. Perchance we shall meet again.”
She shook her head. “I do not think it likely. I shall shortly be leaving the Manor for my own home.”
“Shalbeare House?”
She looked at him curiously. “How do you know? But I forget—you told me once that it is your business to know such things.”
“It is, indeed. I, too, shall shortly be leaving this place. It has become a trifle warm of late, and with you gone, can have few attractions.”
She withdrew her hand from his grasp. “I must again remind you, sir, that I do not care for flattery.”
“I do not flatter, madam.”
“Then that is worse!” she retorted. “You must see that it is not proper for me to accept a compliment from a gentleman with whom I am not even acquainted!”
“Not—oh, I take your meaning. Of course, we have never been formally presented.”
“Precisely. I might waive some of the formality, however—” here she looked menacingly at him—“if I did but know your real name.”
There was silence for a long moment. At last, reluctantly, the man answered her.
“I must not tell you now; forgive me. Someday, I promise, you shall know—meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile, I am to know you only as Captain Jackson,” she stated, disappointment in her tone.
He bowed gracefully. “And as your devoted servant, Miss Feniton.”
She smiled, and inclined her dark head, then turned quickly to follow the path he had indicated.
The man stood at the door and watched until she was out of sight.
EIGHT - Miss Feniton is Introduced to a Poet
A little more than a week later, Miss Feniton left Teignton Manor for her own home. She was accompanied not only by her grandparents, but also by the Lodge family and their personal servants, the resultant cavalcade reminding Kitty (or so she said) of a Royal procession.
During the interval, Miss Feniton had made no more excursions to “The Waterman” and its environs, neither had she confided her adventures to Kitty. There was a quality about those events which rendered them unlike any others of her life, and which made her a little shamefaced when she considered them in retrospect. Had she been foolish, gullible, lacking in common sense? Or had her instincts guided her aright in thinking that she could trust the man Jackson?
No solution had offered itself to the disappearance of her letter. It remained missing: Miss Feniton’s abigail, when questioned cautiously, denied any knowledge of it with an artlessness that enforced belief. One incident only served to remind Joanna of the events of that fateful evening. This was the delivery of a parcel to her one morning by one of the maids who lived in the village.
The girl had come into Miss Feniton’s bedchamber with the usual morning cup of chocolate. She placed it on the table at the side of Joanna’s bed, and then handed her the package.
“For me?” asked Joanna, surprised. “I was not expecting anything.”
The girl made no reply, but went over to see to the fire. Miss Feniton tore the wrappings from the package with impatient fingers, and disclosed a pink muslin scarf, counterpart of the one which she had used to bind about the arm of a certain fisherman a few nights since.
She gazed at it in astonishment for a moment, then quickly began to search among the wrappings for a note of any kind. She soon saw that there was nothing enclosed.
“Where did you get this?” she asked the girl.
“ ‘Twas brought to our door by Ned Stokes, ma’am —’im that lives in the farm down by the river.”
“Was there any message?” asked Joanna.
The girl shook her head. “Only to deliver it into your own ‘ands, ma’am, when there was no one else by.”
“Thank you,” replied Miss Feniton, with a nod of dismissal. “Oh—you do not need to mention this to anyone else, Sukey.”
“I should think not, ma’am!” said the girl, emphatically. “Ned Stokes told me that, most particlar, an’ it don’t do to go agin’ ‘im!”
Miss Feniton nodded again, and the maid left the room.
Joanna sat staring for some time at the scarf, before finally pushing it to one side, and taking up her now almost cold cup of chocolate.
Shalbeare House was situated on the north shores of Torbay, quite close to the village of Tor Quay. The house had been built originally in the seventeenth century, but it had been extended and improved upon until it now presented a typical Georgian appearance with its stuccoed facing and pillared portico. Inside, however, traces of its origin still lingered; one or two of the rooms, notably the library, had some fine oak panelling. The staircase was Jacobean, and a magnificent example of the work of that period.
As soon as Lady Feniton had seen her guests established in their respective rooms and interviewed her butler and housekeeper, she went to her granddaughter. Miss Lodge and her Mama were busy superintending their unpacking, so that for the moment, Joanna had no duties to perform. She was sitting in the Chinese drawing room when Lady Feniton came upon her.
“I have just been opening the post, Joanna,” she began. “There is a positive assurance here from Algernon Cholcombe that he will be with us on Friday.”
“And Mr. Dorlais is to come tomorrow, while Captain and Miss Masterman arrive on the following day,” said Joanna, apparently unmoved by this information. “Our party will be complete by the end of the week, therefore.”
“It is perhaps a pity that Colonel Kellaway was unable to accept my invita
tion,” remarked Lady Feniton, thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I would have asked Masterman and his sister, had I not thought that the Kellaways would come, too. That Masterman girl is very pert and forward, though there can be no objection to the brother—he is everything that is agreeable and gentlemanlike. It would be a fine thing for him if he were to make a match of it with one of the Colonel’s girls—though I declare they set my teeth on edge!”
“They are very good-natured,” replied Joanna. “One cannot be surprised that the Colonel is too busy at present for visiting.”
“I thought it very good in him to allow young Masterman leave of absence—with the proviso, of course, that he should be available if necessary.”
Miss Feniton assented to this absently.
“However,” said her grandmother, suddenly. “That was not altogether what I wished to speak to you about.”
Joanna looked up inquiringly into Lady Feniton’s face. For once, the older woman showed signs of uncertainty.
“It is understood, of course,” she began, after a pause, “that young Cholcombe comes here in order to make you an offer. Nothing definite has been said on Lord Cholcombe’s side; but in a recent letter to your grandfather, he expressed a strong desire to see his heir settled, and mentioned the early understanding with our family. Algernon’s acceptance of my invitation seems to me to clinch the matter. Had his interest been fixed in any other quarter, you may depend that he would have sent a polite refusal.”
She paused, and regarded her granddaughter searchingly.
“I need not tell you how much I desire this match,” she continued. “Everything is as it should be—rank, fortune and age. I would not wish to see you married to a man much older than yourself—I have myself had sufficient opportunity to observe the adverse effects of a great disparity in age upon happiness in matrimony. However, we won’t go into that at present. Your birth is equal to his, if not your rank; the first Feniton came over with the Conqueror. You are the last of an ancient line, Joanna: the name dies when you wed. It behoves you to fuse it with one which may not disgrace your children. Such a one is the name of Cholcombe. In time, you will be a Countess; it is some recompense for ceasing to be a Feniton.”
Joanna stared thoughtfully into the fire. “And if Mr. Cholcombe does not find me to his liking?” she asked, slowly.
“You must make every endeavour to fix his interest. He comes looking to be pleased. You must be a great deal plainer than you are, or a great deal stupider, for him to take you in dislike. There is one thing I feel I ought to mention—”
She paused again, evidently uncertain how to proceed. Joanna looked at her questioningly.
“I have sometimes thought that—it occasionally appears—”
She floundered a little, then took a firm grip upon herself.
“Your address is sometimes a thought stiff,” she said, firmly. “That is only proper in most situations, considering who you are. But young men are more often caught by a lively girl—unless, of course, she should happen to be a positive beauty, in which case she may be as stupid as she chooses! Now you, my dear child, are very well-looking, as I dare say you cannot help knowing; but you cannot claim to be a second Helen of Troy.”
Joanna laughed. “Indeed, no, ma’am! Nor could I wish for a face which had the powers of destruction of that young woman!”
“Just so,” replied her grandmother, repressively. She knew very little of the history of Troy, and had no particular wish to be better informed. “You will therefore appreciate that it is all the more necessary to display to the full the charm of your character.”
“Do I understand you aright, ma’am?” asked Joanna, with a touch of height in her manner. “Are you suggesting that I should attempt to lead on Mr. Cholcombe?”
“Nothing of the sort!” protested Lady Feniton, hastily. “But a girl must meet a man half way. It don’t do at all to be too mumchance and correct!”
“If that is so,” said Joanna, her nose now alarmingly in the air, “then I scarce think it worth the trouble of changing my name at all. I shall remain Joanna Feniton, the last of an honourable line, and may be at liberty to conduct myself as I choose!”
Lady Feniton’s face and neck were suddenly suffused with a scarlet flush of anger. For a moment, it appeared as if she were about to fall into an apoplexy. Joanna steadily opposed her choleric glare with a cold, haughty gaze from her green flecked eyes. Woman and girl sat staring directly at each other for what seemed a long time. Gradually, the older woman’s eyes dropped, and her flush subsided.
“It seems you are my granddaughter, after all,” she said, forcing a laugh. “I have thought sometimes that there was too much of your mother about you for my taste. It appears I was mistaken, and that you are very well able to hold your own. I am heartily glad to see it! However, we shall not quarrel, I think, over what is a misunderstanding on your part. Possibly it was wrong in me to attempt to dictate your future conduct towards Algernon Cholcombe. You must blame my anxiety to see you affianced to him, and think no more of it. I undertake to leave the affair in your hands from now on. Let us say no more on that head.”
Joanna found it difficult to conceal her amazement. In all her life, she never remembered having heard her grandmother admit to being in the wrong. She was not completely mollified, however, and this showed in her face.
“I need detain you no longer,” said Lady Feniton, in tones of dismissal. “You will no doubt be wishing to see if Catherine has all she requires. Perhaps you will step into the library on your way, and desire your grandfather to attend me here. Remind him that he has duties to perform as a host—he is all too apt to forget everything once he sets foot in that sanctum of his.”
Joanna, with some stiffness still in her manner, undertook to execute this commission. She found her grandfather seated at his leather-topped, mahogany desk, poring over a handsomely tooled volume of Virgil. He looked up briefly on her entrance, then, seeing who it was, let his eyes drop to the book once more.
She sat down in a chair at the other side of the desk, and for a moment, there was a companionable silence. She fixed her eyes upon a painting which hung on one section of the wall which happened not to be completely covered by books. It was a seascape, depicting a small cove burnished by the rays of the setting sun. Red Devon cliffs met red-gold sand in a glory of translucent colour; the green-blue sea caught the tawny glow of the sunset, and threw its colours back reflected in white edged waves which reared and fell against the golden beach. Involuntarily, Joanna caught her breath as she gazed at the scene.
“You are looking at my picture,” said Sir Walter, putting a forefinger into his book, and glancing up at her.
She nodded. “It is—wonderful! So full of light: as if”—she paused, trying to find the words which could do justice to her sensations—“as if the artist had tried to contain the whole power and splendour of the sun on that one small canvas! When did you acquire it, grandfather? I have not noticed it before.”
He shook his head. “No: I had put it away, and forgotten it. I had it of Price Turner, the saddler, when I was last in Exeter. His nephew is a Royal Academician, you know, but the uncle seemed to have little regard for this particular work, for he was very willing to sell it to me. I am pleased that you should approve it.”
“Is it a local scene?” she asked, considering the picture carefully again.
“I believe so, though I myself do not know the place. But there must be many such small coves around this coast. If only one had the painter’s eyes, to see them all like this! What glory lies around us, my dear child, if we could but see it!”
“Grandpapa,” she said, softly, “you are very right. But my errand is to bring you back to earth, not to encourage such flights of fancy.”
“Oh.” He sighed deeply, removed his forefinger from the book, and gave her his full attention. “What must I do now?” he asked, in a tone of resignation.
“Grandmother wishes to remind you that you have duti
es to perform, and requires you to attend her in the Chinese withdrawing room.”
“Me miserum,” he said, with a mock groan. “But your grandmother is right, of course,” he added, in a brisker tone. “I fear I am an indifferent host.”
His faded blue eyes smiled into hers, then sharpened as they rested on her face.
“You appear to be somewhat put out, child,” he remarked, gently. “What’s amiss? Have you, too, been hauled over the coals?”
She nodded, laughing ruefully. “Grandmama has been reminding me that I have not the beauty of Helen.”
He raised an eyebrow, then nodded, relapsing into his former abstractedness.
“Hers is a legendary beauty—the loveliness of all women of all time embodied in one ideal woman who cannot be resisted. But you are a real woman, my dear, and therefore possessed of only a fraction of that loveliness—and of that power for evil.”
He broke off, becoming more practical. “But why should your grandmother say any such thing? I am amazed that she should know anything of Helen of Troy; it shows that marriage to me has not been quite without its uses, after all.”
“She was telling me,” explained Joanna, slowly, “that as I am not possessed of an irresistible beauty, I must make use of such other charms as I possess to ensure that—that Mr. Cholcombe shall make me an offer.”
“So!” The old man watched her with a gentle expression in his eyes. “And that is why you were put out—not at the comparison with Helen?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Do you, too, so very much desire this match, sir?”
“Do not you?” he countered, swiftly.
He was studying her now with the eyes of a scholar, giving her all the alert attention which was usually devoted only to his beloved books. She coloured faintly under the searching scrutiny.
“I believe so,” she said, striving to be completely honest with him. There was too deep an understanding between these two for any pretence. “After all, I must marry someone; and this is, as Grandmama says, a highly suitable match. Of course, I am not yet acquainted with the gentleman, but I can hardly suppose that I shall take him in violent dislike.”
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