The Jewelled Snuff Box

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Jane turned this over in her mind. It seemed reasonable enough, and yet — “But do you think that — that he would go without first telling me? After all that we have shared —” she broke off, blushing.

  “At first sight, it may appear as an ungrateful action,” replied the lawyer. “But examine it closely, and you will decide that it is only a natural one. The man suddenly remembers who he is and where he lives, and his first thought is to reach home without delay. Later, no doubt, he will seek you out and thank you for your assistance.”

  “I want no thanks!” said Jane quickly. “It was not that, but — well, I had come to think of him as a friend.”

  The lawyer gave her a shrewd glance, but held his tongue.

  “I was going to help him discover his identity,” continued Jane. “In a way, it was exciting — a kind of adventure; and now it has ended so tamely!”

  Mr. Sharratt nodded sympathetically. His own thought was that this fellow had taken himself off in the nick of time. The odds were that he was some undesirable or other, and, had he stayed, complications must have ensued. Evidently there was no point in putting his thoughts into words, however. His client was a woman, therefore impressionable. Too marked an opposition on his part could serve only to strengthen the fancy which had seized her for this unknown man; it must be left to time to eradicate the unfortunate impression.

  “There is the snuff box!” exclaimed Jane, suddenly. “What should I do about that, sir?”

  “May I see it?” he asked.

  She opened her reticule, and placed the box on the table. He picked it up, and examined it minutely. It was a square box of gold, rather deep, and ornamented with an enamelled likeness of a grape-vine, set in rubies and emeralds. On the underside of the box was a single cluster of grapes. Mr. Sharratt flicked open the lid, but shook his head in disappointment.

  “There’s nothing here to guide us to the owner.”

  “I know. He had the same idea himself,” Jane replied.

  The lawyer closed the lid again, and revolved the box thoughtfully in his hands.

  “It is rather deeper than most trinkets of the kind,” he said, musingly. “I do believe —”

  He broke off, and examined once more the base of the box.

  “Look, Miss Jane, here is a groove! The bottom of the box slides off!”

  He suited the action to the word, placing the thin gold lid on the table and revealing a small compartment in the base of the snuff box. In it rested a single sheet of flimsy folded paper.

  He looked hesitantly at Jane. “I feel that, in the circumstances, perhaps —”

  “Yes, yes!” she cried, impatiently. “You must open it, of course! It may lead us to the owner!”

  Her face was flushed with excitement. He took the paper out, unfolded it, and read. Jane peered eagerly over his shoulder as he did so.

  There was no address at the head of the paper, which was written in an obviously feminine hand.

  “Beloved” it began:

  “I can wait no longer to throw myself into your arms. F. is to be absent from home tonight and tomorrow. If you will come to me after midnight, my maid will be waiting, as I shall, my own life. C.”

  A long silence fell in the room. Jane remained motionless, her head bowed over the paper, her hands tightly clenched together in her lap. Mr. Sharratt glanced quickly at her, then turned his attention once more to the letter. He cleared his throat uneasily.

  “H’m. It seems we have stumbled upon a private matter which does not, in any case, lead us to our objective. There is no saying who the lady is, but it sounds very much as though F would prove to be a deceived husband. However, we need not concern ourselves with a document we ought never to have seen in the first place. If I might venture to advise you in this, Miss Jane, I think it would be as well to banish all thoughts of this unknown man. He may return to render his thanks to you for your service, and to reclaim his property. Perhaps you would like me to take charge of it for you, and then you can simply refer him to me.”

  She raised her eyes, and he saw the pain in them.

  “Yes,” she replied, in a low tone. “Yes, perhaps that would be best.”

  Her eyes strayed back to the letter. He took it up quickly and replaced it in the box, a grim expression round his mouth. It was a thousand pities that this girl, of all women, should have run across such a scoundrel. Here, he knew, was a loyal, affectionate heart; and, since her father’s death, there had been no one on whom she could fix it. Such a girl, lonely, homeless, friendly and loving, was fair prey for every unscrupulous monster who crossed her path: so thought Mr. Sharratt.

  Jane’s thoughts were of quite another kind; indeed, she was so confused that she could not then have analysed them. She watched dumbly while the lawyer went to a safe and locked away the snuff box; and when he returned to the table, placing some banknotes before her, she had not moved.

  “There was a matter of some new clothes, was there not?” he asked, in an endeavour to rouse her from her abstraction.

  She started as though rudely awakened from a deep sleep.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. There was a pause: then, speaking with more animation in her voice — “What time do you desire my return here, sir?”

  “My time is at your disposal,” replied the lawyer. “How long do such commissions generally take?”

  Jane consulted the clock which stood over the fireplace. It showed half past one.

  “I will be here again before five o’clock,” she promised.

  Her manner was now almost as it had been during their earlier conversation. Mr. Sharratt nodded approvingly. She could not know that his approval was for her self-control.

  Chapter VI. My Lady Bordesley

  AT A LITTLE after ten o’clock on the following morning, my Lady Bordesley was alone in her boudoir. The handsome apartment was furnished in a style calculated to induce tranquillity, from the soft tones of the pink puckered satin wallpaper to the thick carpet which muffled all harsh sound: yet my lady fidgeted from one seat to another, now choosing the striped silk sofa, now perching on a stool reluctantly embroidered by her own hand to while away the tedium of evenings spent in Bordesley’s company. Even when seated, she could not be still; for her small foot in its pink satin slipper tapped restlessly, and her white hand plucked nervously at the ribands and lace adorning her peignoir.

  She was a beautiful creature, fashionably dark, with blue-glinting curls which clung softly to a white neck, and an oval face of perfect features. At one time, her charms had been renowned in that kind of verse which it pleased the gentlemen of fashion to write; for, until her marriage to Bordesley, she had been one of the Toasts of the Town. Her large, innocent-seeming blue eyes had then been the cause of many a broken friendship, and even of duels. In vain, however; after many inconsistencies of affection, the Incomparable Celia had finally given her hand into the safe keeping of a nobleman thirty years her senior.

  My Lord Bordesley was a man who knew how to guard his own. In a short space, his jealousy had driven to a discreet distance even the most daring of the young bucks who had previously formed his wife’s court. This, perhaps, came as a surprise to that young woman herself. When she had wed my lord, she had not for one moment imagined that matrimony would seriously interfere with her diversions. The façade which Bordesley showed to the world was one of cultured indolence, and she had believed herself capable of twisting him around her little finger — a favorite occupation of hers with the opposite sex. Time had shown her the error of this belief: behind my lord’s mask lay a strength of feeling hitherto unsuspected.

  Being above all things a practical young woman, for some time after her marriage, she had been content to cut her gown according to her cloth. She had decided, with a shrug, that the loss of her following was one of the prices to be paid for the acquiring of a title and fortune. But a year or so of being the object of only one man’s attentions was more than enough for her: and rumour had it that, for some whil
e now, my lady Bordesley had been amusing herself at her lord’s expense.

  This morning the beauty of her face was somewhat marred by a petulant expression, and her blue eyes reflected the uneasiness that plagued her mind. When could she expect to hear — today? Just possibly today, she mused, but far more likely tomorrow. Tomorrow! It was a thousand ages until then! Another sleepless night loomed before her. Why, oh, why had she ever been such a fool in the first place as to put herself in his power? Her mind conjured up the image of his careless laughing eyes, and mocking smile. He was possessed of something of the quality that she herself had, she acknowledged grudgingly: it was difficult to be level-headed where he was concerned.

  Her thoughts turned briefly to the other man. She smiled contemptuously. Poor Richard! She remembered his white set face when he had confronted her with the notice of her engagement in the Gazette, four years since. He seemed to have believed then that he was the one she had intended to marry. She had carried that interview off well, she told herself complacently, managing at one and the same time to convince the young man of her firmness of purpose to wed Bordesley, and of her undying, though purely sisterly, affection for himself. She had brought him to see that any other notions he might have been harbouring were quite mistaken. He had quitted her resigned to his fate, believing she had chosen the better man. He seemed more deeply in love than ever, and had sworn that, if ever he could serve her, he would come from the ends of the earth to do so.

  Highly satisfactory, thought my lady; and yet … There had been a difference in him two nights ago, when he had stood here in the boudoir beside her. Until that moment, they had not met for four years, except briefly in full company at some fashionable gathering or other. The impetuous, idealistic boy had vanished; in his place was a man, sardonic, cynical even. Yet she knew that her influence over him was not quite lost; there had been a moment, when she had dropped her handkerchief, and their hands had touched … She smiled to herself like a cat that has got at the cream.

  With a swirl of her soft draperies, she moved gracefully to the bell-rope. An abigail entered the room.

  “You rang, m’lady?”

  “Yes, Betty. Find me the Lady’s Magazine. I left it — I know not where, but find it. And quickly, mistress! None of your dawdling, or I’ll make your ears sing for you!”

  The girl bobbed, and lowered her eyes to hide the hate that flooded them. If the fates had so willed it, she, Betty, might now have been calling the tune for my fine lady to dance. Well, that fool Perkins had bungled things, thrown away the chance of a lifetime, and lost a good job into the bargain. Now there was little likelihood of their being able to marry, and of her escaping from the slavery of my lady’s service.

  She hurried from the room, mindful of the lady’s threat. As her hand turned the doorknob, her eye fell upon the shrivelled skin of the burn across her fingers. That had been caused last week by my lady pettishly thrusting aside the curling irons. There was many a score to be paid off in that quarter, she thought viciously as she hurriedly searched the drawing room for the book. Thanks to Perkins, this time she had missed her opportunity of achieving this end; but one day, she promised herself, the debt should be paid in full.

  The Lady’s Magazine was found behind the curtains in one of the window-seats. Betty hurried with it to her mistress, fearful of being punished for having been too long about her task; but my lady said nothing, merely snatching the book, and dismissing the abigail.

  The mistress seated herself on the sofa, riffling idly through the pages of the book. Anything was better than having one’s mind going round in circles. She turned to the new season’s fashions. Classic simplicity was the prevailing note of the present mode, with skirts falling in soft folds from a waistline situated just under the bosom. Simplicity did not appeal overmuch to Lady Bordesley: still, one had to be in the fashion. Perhaps such a gown as this might not look so very demure if one damped it slightly to make it cling to the figure, as was the custom in France? Yes, that might answer. This particular gown, now, in green or lavender, should be most becoming to her with her white skin and glossy dark hair.

  But no, she was forgetting! She must still wear the drab colours of mourning, for Francis was a stickler for the conventions, and his father not yet six weeks dead. It was absurd, for what had she cared for the grim, bitter old man whose death had elevated her to the rank of Countess? In her opinion, this was the only thing of interest that he had ever done. She decided that she would be hanged if she would wear black any more; she meant to tell Francis so, though not perhaps just in that downright way. That would not answer with Bordesley. There were ways, however, of cajoling him.

  Suddenly it came to her that life was inexpressibly tedious: always so much scheming to get one’s own way. With an exasperated exclamation, she flung the magazine from her across the room.

  It took the Earl squarely between the eyes as he entered. He betrayed no sign of surprise beyond a lifted eyebrow, and coolly stooped to retrieve the book, tossing it on to a low table.

  “A fit of the sullens, my life?”

  There was something in his tone that made her uneasy. She could handle Francis when he was madly in love or jealous, for drama was the element in which she moved most gracefully. Sarcasm or amusement put her sadly out of step, however. She set herself to charm him into a more propitious mood.

  “I am so happy now that you are come!” she exclaimed, running towards him and throwing her arms around his neck in a pretty gesture. “Did I hurt your poor head?”

  She rubbed the spot where the book had landed with a soft hand, murmuring endearments the while. The Earl’s expression changed, and for a time it looked as though Celia’s intention of charming him had succeeded too well for her purpose. She was skillful enough at steering through these deep waters, however, and presently judged that she might safely broach the subject on her mind.

  “Francis, you do like to see me looking pretty, do you not?”

  He assented, attempting to draw her close again.

  “No, no, you are naughty! But, Francis, how can I look my best in this hideous black? There are some quite delightful gowns in the Lady’s Magazine, and it is too depressing to think that I may not order any of them in a more becoming shade!”

  He frowned. “It is barely six weeks since my father’s death,” he reminded her.

  Celia pouted. “Oh, yes, I know, but what purpose can be served by my going in dark colours for ever? I long for something bright, something gay — coquelicot ribands, emerald green silk — even white muslin would be preferable to this eternal black!”

  “A pretty shade of grey, perhaps?” suggested the Earl. “Anything else would cause comment, I imagine.”

  “Oh, fustian! If one is to take account of gossiping, one would do nothing! I may not go to balls and assemblies while we are in mourning; that is hardship enough, surely! It makes life insupportably dull!”

  The Earl regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa, placing his finger tips together with a judicial air.

  “That aspect of the situation had occurred to me already, Celia. I would not wish you to lack company at this — or, indeed, at any other time; and so I hit upon a plan.”

  Celia gave him a suspicious look.

  “A plan?”

  “I do make them sometimes, my fairest life,” replied her husband, drily. “I am aware that you consider me to be the most indolent of fellows — not, I fear, without cause; but in this instance, you will be obliged to allow me credit for some exertion. I propose to enliven the tedium of your remaining months of mourning —” he paused, and regarded his finger nails with interest “— with the society of a hired companion.”

  “You? — ”

  It could never be said that my lady Bordesley ever did anything so unfeminine as to gasp; nevertheless, she came very close to it now. She collapsed on to the nearest chair, and stared at her husband incredulously. He put up one hand to smooth his greying, once au
burn, hair, and returned her look equably.

  “A companion, my love. Someone to bear you company during your hours of enforced segregation from the crowds of which you are so enamoured.”

  There was a faint tinge of bitterness in his tone. Celia let it pass, too taken up with the content of his speech.

  “A companion!” she repeated, in horror. “A dreary, dowdy, elderly female to hang around me with an everlasting piece of embroidery, driving me slowly mad! Oh, no, no, no!”

  She jumped up, stamping her foot. It only added to her irritation to find that the thickness of the carpet rendered this gesture ineffective.

  The Earl smiled maddeningly.

  “Dowdy, perhaps,” he said, consideringly. “Dreary, elderly, addicted solely to needlework — no, I don’t think so.”

  “You sound as though you had already fixed upon someone,” said Celia, in alarm.

  “Yes, my dear, I have. I interviewed a young woman for the post at Rochester, some weeks back. She satisfied my requirements, but was unable to come here immediately. I received a note from her by this morning’s post, however, and she is to present herself here at eleven o’clock. I feel sure you will find her agreeable company.”

  “Well!”

  Amazement and indignation wrestled for control of Celia’s countenance. It was some time before she could say more.

  “May I know,” she managed at last acidly, “why a step which concerns me so nearly was taken without my knowledge or consent?”

  “It is as I told you, my love,” replied the Earl, gently. “I would not wish you to be lonely.”

  “That is rubbish, Francis, and you know it! I may still see my friends, and attend small private parties, and so I do! Why, only tomorrow I am bid to join Selina and her sister at the play, and the day after that I am to go to a musical party! I need never be alone, as you well know!”

  The Earl once more regarded his finger nails. A fire had crept into his green eyes.