The Jewelled Snuff Box

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  He hesitated. “It is infamous that you should have to wait on me!”

  Jane smiled. “Think no more of it. I am quite used to be busy, and am only too glad if I may be of assistance.”

  “You are an angel!” he said impetuously.

  She coloured, and whisked quickly from the room.

  For some little time now, she had heard vague sounds of activity about the inn, and guessed that the household was astir. She found the landlady in the kitchen, busy rating the kitchenmaid for not pulling the fire up faster. Jane earned the girl’s gratitude by interrupting her mistress’s homily to inquire if the unknown gentleman could be served with breakfast in the parlour. She explained that he was feeling much better this morning, but that his head ached vilely, and he preferred to take his meal alone.

  “Did he say who he was, ma’am?” asked the woman sharply.

  “I did not make it my business to inquire,” replied Jane coldly, for she found the woman impertinent and disobliging.

  “Oh, well, if it’s breakfast in the parlour ’e wants, ’e must be Quality, and can pay for it,” retorted the landlady, and she promised to see to the matter at once.

  Jane then left the kitchen to seek the bedchamber where the women of the party had slept, in order to make her toilet. Here she was bombarded with questions concerning the unknown man. How did he do this morning? What had befallen him to bring him to the plight in which he had been found yesterday? Who was he? To all of these she replied patiently that the gentleman was not yet quite himself, still a little confused, and that the kindest thing would be not to tease him with inquiries. She repeated these answers presently to the male passengers whom she encountered on her way downstairs again to the parlour.

  She entered the room to find a cheerful fire burning and a cloth spread on the round polished table, laid with everything needful for a hearty breakfast. Her companion being absent, she did not immediately sit down, but went over to the window and stood looking out. The snow was fast deteriorating into slush, and the dripping trees and hedges presented a forlorn appearance. Still, no doubt it would be possible to continue on their journey, even though the going would be sufficiently difficult for the horses, and very dirty.

  The door opened, and the man entered, looking more at ease than formerly. He was freshly shaven, and had made shift to brush his thick dark hair and his clothes, so that his appearance was now more that of a gentleman of fashion. He greeted Jane with a smile, begging her to be seated; and after having in vain tried to persuade her to partake of a slice of beef, fell to with a hearty appetite, leaving her to the rolls and coffee which she evidently preferred.

  For some time, conversation languished. At last, the man pushed away his plate.

  “I must confess to feeling much more myself,” he said, smiling. “But it perplexes me to know how I am to pay for all this.”

  “It is a difficult business,” agreed Jane. “You still cannot recall, then, what happened, or who you are?”

  He shook his head despondently. “If I could give myself a name, no doubt mine host would be content to leave the reckoning to my own good time. But who in his senses would allow credit to a nameless man?”

  All the cheerfulness which Jane had noted with pleasure before the meal, seemed to have deserted him now. It crossed her mind that these alternating moods of hope and despair, combined with his loss of memory, were signs that he was not as perfectly in health as he thought himself. There could be no doubt that he ought to see a doctor. She said as much to him.

  “I tell you that I feel quite myself,” he answered vigorously. “But you must surely see that when a fellow can’t remember his own name, he is bound to feel a trifle hipped! I want no medico mauling me about, cupping me and Lord knows what besides! No, I am of your opinion when you say that everything will come back to me in time. But, Good God, I haven’t much time!”

  Jane knew better than to argue with a man whom she was convinced was sick, no matter what he himself might say. She did wish, though, that there was some way of helping him to recover his memory. She suddenly bethought her of the snuff box, and produced it from her reticule with an excited little exclamation.

  “There is this, sir; I found it lying by your side in the ditch.”

  He took it eagerly, and flicked open the lid. He evidently did not find what he sought there, however, for his face dropped. He turned the box over in his hand dispiritedly.

  “It tells me nothing. One would imagine that it might touch off some spring of memory, but no!”

  He put it down on the table with a dejected air.

  “And there is not even an initial on the thing to aid me!”

  He had plunged once again into melancholy. Jane, too, felt disappointed, but she smiled reassuringly.

  “I am convinced that you will remember in time,” she said. “Meanwhile, might you not persuade the landlord to accept this box as surety for your debt?”

  His face lit up. “Yes, of course! How clever of you!”

  Then he grew downcast as suddenly.

  “But what am I to do then, without a penny in my pocket! I cannot remain here indefinitely, waiting for my memory to return. Even though the box might be valuable enough to cover a protracted stay, the inactivity would drive me mad! I must set about doing something to find out who I am!”

  Jane could sympathise with these feelings. She remained silent for a moment, puzzling her wits for a way out of his difficulty.

  “I have it!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Why do you not come with me to London to see my lawyer? I had the intention of paying him a visit, and moreover there is a vacant seat in the coach.”

  “A lawyer,” he said, consideringly. “Yes, he might indeed be able to assist me to discover my identity. But there is my shot here at the inn, the coach fare and the lawyer’s fee — how in the name of thunder can I raise the wind? I might perhaps be able to borrow something on this box at a pawn shop,” he concluded, lifting the box from the table and inspecting it once more.

  “You would not be paid a quarter of its value!” declared Jane vigorously. “And, for all you may know, it may be the one thing you would be most reluctant to part with. No, I have another idea — though I do not know —”

  Here she paused, and looked uncomfortable. She was silent for so long that at last he burst out impatiently, “Do you not mean to tell me what it is?”

  “It is this,” she said, slowly and with some diffidence; “that you should allow me to be your banker. I fear I have not a great deal about me —” she coloured at this point, for she felt all the impropriety of discussing her finances with a stranger — “but I have sufficient to settle your small affairs; and you can easily reimburse me when you have control of your own means.”

  He burst out indignantly at this, horrified at the notion of being in debt to a woman, and to one, moreover, who obviously was not too affluent. For the first time, he studied her closely, noting the shabby garments, the many little things that told of straitened means. He observed too, the serious grey eyes, the richly coloured hair that was too severely dressed. She was evidently a gentlewoman, but it was equally plain to see that she had come down in the world. And yet she was prepared to share the little she had with a man of whom she knew nothing. His glance softened.

  “You are too generous, Miss Spencer,” he said. “For all you can know, I may be a thief, or — or a murderer.”

  “I think better of my judgement of human nature sir,” she returned, with a smile that transformed the serious face. “But are we agreed?”

  He hesitated.

  “How do we know that I am in a position to repay you?” he asked gloomily.

  “Oh, come!” said Jane, in a rallying tone. “You should have heard the coachman and the guard yesterday evening on that subject.”

  She gave a spirited rendering of the remarks that had been passed concerning the unknown’s garments. She had quite a turn for mimicry, and managed to raise a laugh from her companion.


  “So you see, it is quite settled that you are a gentleman of fortune, sir; that being so, I shall be obliged to charge interest.”

  This time he laughed heartily.

  “Usurer! Who would think, to look at you, that you were possessed of such a grasping nature? But I agree to your plan on one condition only.”

  “And that is? —”

  “That you accept this box as surety for my debts. No, do not refuse me —” as she shook her head, and pushed the box away “— I am adamant on this point. If you won’t accept my terms, I shall refuse your offer, and raise what I can on the box in the nearest pawn shop.”

  “That would be a pity,” said Jane, with a smile. “You force me to accept.”

  “Excellent. Let us shake hands on our bargain.”

  He extended a hand, and after a second’s hesitation, she placed hers within it. Swiftly, he carried it to his lips.

  “I am your debtor, Miss Spencer, in every way.”

  She coloured a little at the unaccustomed salute. He was faintly amused. It crossed his mind that the women he was used to meet were not always as modest as this young lady. He liked her the better for it. He gently released her hand.

  Jane involuntarily placed her fingers over the spot where his lips had rested. The movement brought her hands into contact with the snuff box. To cover her confusion, she picked it up, and made some affair of placing it safely in her reticule.

  She was still at this task when the serving-maid came to clear away the dishes. The girl’s presence put an end to further conversation, and Jane quickly excused herself, quitting the room with the ostensible reason of inquiring as to the likelihood of the stage coach continuing on its way to London; but in reality so that she might cool her cheeks.

  Left to himself, the man rose from his chair with a quick, impatient movement, and stood before the fire, gazing into its red heart with brooding, perplexed eyes.

  Chapter IV. The History Of Jane Spencer

  BY THE time they left Dartford, they had the inside of the coach to themselves. Jane’s companion had maintained a brooding silence for the greater part of the journey, answering the curious inquiries of his fellow passengers as briefly as the barest civility would allow. When the last of them had descended outside the Red Lion, and the coach once more rattled over the cobbles on its way to London, he heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Thank Heavens they have gone!” he exclaimed, turning to Jane. “Another few miles of their questioning, and I believe I should have assaulted one of them!”

  She laughed, and he noticed how much younger she appeared when her face was animated. That bonnet she was wearing was a sorry mistake; her whole appearance was too subdued for a female of her years. Pinched in the pocket, obviously, he thought, covertly studying the shabby pelisse; but surely he was right in thinking that she made a deliberate effort to submerge her looks and personality? Most women sought to enhance such looks as they had; why was this one set on another course? For the first time, he forgot his own weighty problem in curiosity concerning this girl who had proved such a friend in need.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he urged.

  Jane looked surprised. It was an odd request for a comparative stranger to make, but then everything connected with her present adventure was unusual. And was he so much of a stranger, after all? She felt as if she had known him all her life. She laughed a trifle self-consciously.

  “There is nothing worth the telling, sir.”

  “That I do not believe. But I see that I must cross-question you; you are evidently incurably modest.”

  He saw that she looked a little uncomfortable, and was instantly contrite.

  “I beg your pardon: no doubt you think me impertinent.”

  “No, I assure you,” protested Jane.

  “Our association has been so very unusual that I am forgetting the usual rules of conduct. I was thinking — selfishly — that if you were to tell me something of your own life, it would prevent me from brooding over my lack of ability to recall mine.”

  She realised that, and decided to humour him.

  “What shall I tell you?” she asked, smiling.

  “About your family, where you live, your opinions on the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe, the voice of Mrs. Billington, and the present peace with Boney — oh, everything and anything! I feel I want to know you through and through — that there is something stable in my world!”

  He said this half lightly, half wildly, so that she was puzzled to interpret his mood aright. One thing caught her attention, however.

  “Your recollection of the events in the world about you seems to be sufficiently sound, sir,” she remarked.

  “By Jove, so it does!”

  His manner brightened at once. He paused to consider. At length, he shook his head.

  “I find I can name you all the foremost statesmen of the day, without being able to say whether any one of them is a personal friend. My own name remains as much a mystery to me as before. But still, there must be hope, if recollection can go as far as this!”

  “Have I not been telling you so since early this morning?” said Jane, with a teasing smile.

  “So at least you are like other women in that!” he retorted.

  “In what, sir?”

  “The sex as a whole cannot refrain from saying ‘I told you so’. You spoke very much as a sister would.”

  “You would appear to be very knowledgeable,” replied Jane demurely; then, her expression altering, “Have you a sister?”

  The animation left his face. “I do not know,” he said, in a hopeless tone.

  “Then we will speak of my affairs,” said Jane, firmly. She was determined that he should not be allowed to brood. “What did you ask me? Oh, yes, I recollect! What do I think of the present peace — well, sir, I fear that I’m convinced it cannot last. My father once said that there could be no peace with Napoleon, that he was possessed of a thirst for power that could never be assuaged; our only hope lay in opposing him to the utmost.”

  “I am of a like mind,” he replied, rousing a little. “Addington and his followers are mutton-heads! But you mentioned your father —”

  He broke off, not caring to ask a direct question.

  “My father is dead,” replied Jane quietly. “He was a Naval man, and was killed in the action off Cape St. Vincent five years ago.”

  There was no self-pity in her even tone, yet in some indefinable way the man realised the depth of her grief.

  “I am sorry.”

  It was an inadequate remark, he knew; but there was nothing he could find to say that would in any way convey his very real sense of sharing in the sorrows of this girl whom he had known only a few hours.

  “And your mother?” he asked gently, after a pause.

  “She died when I was but a baby. I do not remember her.”

  He was silent, trying to put himself in her place. What must it be like, he wondered, to be a female with no home, no family, obliged to support oneself? Not, he thought grimly, a desirable situation; yet this girl seemed to have made a go of it. She was a little slip of a thing, too, who looked as though a puff of wind might blow her over; yet there was a firmness about the chin which promised strength of will, and already he knew something of her resourcefulness.

  “Tell me about your home,” he urged.

  “I have no settled home,” she replied. “When I was small, my father used to leave me in the care of one of his sisters when he joined his ship. Afterwards, as I grew older, he placed me in a young ladies’ seminary in Kensington. He used to come there for me whenever he was ashore and carry me off to some cottage or other on the coast. He could never for long be far from the sight and sound of the sea; he used to say that the nocturnal quiet of an inland village kept him awake at nights — he slept better with the sound of the waves in his ears.”

  “I suppose he had been at sea since he was a boy?” asked the man.

  She nodded. He could see from the expression of her eyes that
her thoughts were far away.

  “He joined the Navy as a midshipman, and had risen to the rank of Captain when —”

  She broke off, and looked away out of the window. The trees and hedges dripped incessantly, mournfully. Great pools, half snow, half water, lay over the fields, and the coach wheels threw up fountains of grey slush which spattered the windows.

  After a while, she turned to him again, tilting her chin in a courageous gesture which to the man seemed infinitely pathetic.

  “It was the life he loved and the end he would have chosen,” she said. “I should not mourn for him.”

  The man’s eyes softened. Here was a loyal heart, for one who could deserve it.

  “He meant a great deal to you.”

  “He was all I had,” she answered simply.

  A silence fell between them. He stared out of the window in his turn. It was not far now to London: once there, what would happen to him? Would this lawyer fellow be able to help him? Or was he doomed to wander for ever in a twilight world of ignorance? Impatiently, he pushed these disturbing thoughts away, breaking the silence.

  “And after —” he paused, not wishing to refer again to her father’s death — “after you left school, where did you make your home?”

  “I became a governess. There was insufficient for me to subsist upon — my father was of an optimistic turn of mind, and prize money is variable, you know. I have a little income, but not nearly enough for my needs.”

  “But have you no relatives who would have made themselves responsible for you?” he asked, indignantly. “You spoke of an aunt —”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied quietly. “My father’s relatives offered — but they are not wealthy people, and I couldn’t bring myself to impose upon them.”

  “And your mother’s?”

  She hesitated. “We have never had anything to do with my mother’s family: indeed, I was never told their name. She — she married to disoblige them, as the saying is, and they never communicated with her afterwards.”