The Jewelled Snuff Box

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “I believe I shall not swoon,” answered Jane, with dignity. “And I must say that I have as little disposition to be nursed by you as you have for performing that office. I shall be perfectly myself again once we are in the fresh air.”

  At any other time, Celia might have taken up this speech; but she scarcely seemed to have heard it, having fallen into a fit of abstraction. In comparative silence, the two returned to Grosvenor Square.

  Jane, too, had plenty to occupy her mind. For the rest of the day, she was hard put to it to keep her thoughts off the subject of the morning’s encounter. As luck would have it, she was seldom alone; for once, Celia had no visitors or engagements, and Jane was constantly in attendance on her. It was a relief when at last she could shut her door of her bedchamber that night, and be alone to ponder the affair uninterrupted.

  So the stranger she had met on the Dartford road was Sir Richard Carisbrooke, Letty’s brother. And the letter which she and Mr. Sharratt had discovered in the snuff box, the letter signed with the initial “C”, had obviously come from Celia. Jane recalled the wording of the letter — “F will be absent.”

  She gripped her hands tightly together. She had realised, of course, there in Mr. Sharratt’s office, that the stranger she had met was in all probability conducting an illicit affaire with a married woman; but until now, she had not ceased to hope that there might be some possibility of error. She admitted this to herself at last, with a sense of loss such as she had not known since her father’s death. She had agreed with her lawyer that it was best to forget, but all the time she had been building castles in the air. She had told herself that perhaps the liaison was an affair of the past, at present over and forgotten. Failing that, possibly the lady in the case was the victim of unhappy circumstances, a forlorn beauty in distress, tied to a coarse, brutal man.

  An inward laugh of bitterness shook her at this recollection. Celia and the Earl of Bordesley? Such a description did not fit them! And how could she have been so foolish as to suppose that the man would save a letter to remind him of an affaire that was over? It was not a rational action: no, there could be no doubt that the man whom she had felt instinctively she could trust, to whom she had been so strangely, quickly drawn, was conducting a dishonourable affaire with my lady Bordesley. His meeting with her this morning, arranged so secretly, was the final proof.

  She conjured up again, with some emotion, that same interview. She had not been close enough to hear anything of what passed, even if she had wished to do so; but every look, every gesture remained in her memory, and seemed in retrospect to speak of desire. At one point in the conversation, Celia had placed her hand upon Sir Richard’s arm, and he had covered it with his; at another, they had shared a long, silent regard. His face had been turned in Jane’s direction, though partly shielded from her view by Celia, so that she had been able to catch glimpses of his expression. It had been by turns grim, contemptuous and unhappy; very much as she remembered it on the journey in the stage coach to London, though now with the vagueness gone from the eyes.

  It was plain to see that the connection with Celia had brought him nothing but unhappiness, as Letty had said.

  A tumult of feeling rose within Jane. She longed passionately for the right to comfort him, shying away from the implications of her desire. She had not yet asked herself why she felt so strongly drawn towards this man; she only knew that she would have given all she possessed, little as it was, to see him safe from the torture that Celia evidently had the power to inflict on him. Her emotion at last overcame her, and she threw herself on to the bed, giving way to a torrent of weeping.

  After a while, her sobs ceased, and she rose to bathe her eyes. She felt calm again; the tears, unusual with her, had acted as a safety valve for feelings which had been pent up for too long. Her reason once more took charge, and she asked herself what was to be done about the snuff box. Sir Richard ought to have it back; but how was this to be achieved without forcing herself on his notice? She inwardly flinched from the notion of explaining how she came by it; for it was evident that, with the recovery of his memory, he had lost all recollection of those hours with her in the inn and on the journey to London. It would be degrading, she thought, to accept his gratitude to a stranger, when she felt so much nearer to him than that.

  No, she decided, she could not do it; not yet, at least. She would abide by Mr. Sharratt’s advice, and leave the box where it was for the present. After all, it was perfectly safe. A little time might show her an easy solution to the problem. In the meantime, she must strive to banish its owner from her thoughts.

  Chapter X. Sir Richard Turns Burglar

  WHEN SIR Richard Carisbrooke returned home from the Circulating Library, he found his sister sitting in one of the small salons, reading. She looked up as he entered, evidently pleased at the prospect of company, and threw down her book.

  “I am glad you are come, Richard; I was longing for someone to talk to. How do you do this morning? You do not look at all the thing, let me tell you; your face is still as white as paper, and your eyes so dark, you would not believe!”

  “I am well enough,” he answered, impatiently. “What are you reading?”

  He picked up the discarded book, hoping to turn the subject. Letty continued to speak of his health for some minutes, however, until he interrupted her with a question which she could not ignore.

  “Did you not mention something the other day of a friend of yours in reduced circumstances who is acting as a hired companion to Celia Bordesley?”

  “Oh, you mean Jane Tarrant?”

  “Was that the name? I saw her this morning — although it has only just occurred to me who she must be.”

  “But how would you know her — oh, I suppose you mean to say that you saw her with Celia?”

  He nodded.

  A shadow crossed Letty’s face.

  “Richard, I do hope — you had that letter from Celia, and you went out directly — Riccy, she is not worth bothering your head about, really she is not, and I only hope you may not be such a gudgeon as to fall under her spell again!”

  He eyed her warningly.

  “You are a good creature, Letty, but you must allow me to manage my own affairs. This Miss Tarrant — is she as sweet as her countenance promises? She is a dainty little thing, is she not?”

  “She not uncommon small,” replied his sister, judicially. “But she is the dearest, sweetest girl in the world! I’ll tell you something, Riccy, that I’ve not told to anyone save Mama. When I first went to school, I was feeling lonely and homesick — I dare say you know how it is, and I was not much above eleven, when all is said — anyway, I began to cry a little when I was left all alone with the others. One or two of them jeered at me for a cry-baby — your precious Celia amongst them — but Jane turned on them, and put a stop to it. Then, later, when we were all abed, and Miss Leasowe had put out the candles, I was sobbing quietly in my pillow, for I missed Mama and my own dear Nurse — you must know how it is, Riccy!”

  He nodded gently. Such feelings were not confined to small girls, after all.

  “Well, all at once, a hand crept into mine, and a voice whispered words of comfort in my ear. It was Jane; she must have stayed there until I slept, at the risk of a scolding if she had been caught, for the last thing I remembered in the morning was the warmth of her hand. After that, nothing seemed quite so bad; and of course, in a week or two, I was perfectly happy there. But I shall never forget that first night, and how Jane helped me to bear it.”

  “No,” he answered gravely. “One could not forget a service of the kind.”

  He reflected for a moment, then asked, “What is her history?”

  “I mentioned something of it the other day,” said Letty, reproachfully. “However, I suppose you did not attend to me. Jane’s father was a Captain in the Navy — a most handsome, dashing gentleman, who put all our hearts in a whirl whenever he came for her to Miss Leasowe’s! He was killed in action, and she was left pennil
ess, or as near to it as makes no matter. She disappeared abruptly from the Seminary, and no one ever heard from her again. Imagine my surprise when she called here with that letter from Celia! It seems that she has been earning her living as a governess ever since she vanished, and took this post with Celia because no others offered. Poor Jane! How uncomfortable a situation it must be for her!”

  He frowned, and stood motionless, deep in thought.

  “Yes, I suppose you must have told me, because now I recollect the story vaguely. Are there no relatives to care for her?”

  “Oh, yes, she has relatives, but I believe they are not wealthy. And if you knew Jane, you would realise how difficult it is to do anything to assist her. She is beyond all reason independent!”

  “It does her credit,” he replied absently.

  He was silent awhile, then asked abruptly. “When you told me this story before, did you make any remark concerning her hair?”

  Letty gazed at him in astonishment, weakly repeating his words.

  He frowned again. “I only thought — there is something in my mind connected with such a comment — however, I may be mistaken. You chatter so much, my dear Letty, small wonder if sometimes I collect only a garbled version!”

  This provocative speech could not be allowed to pass, and in the interchange which followed, Jane Tarrant’s affairs were forgotten.

  Darkness enshrouded the quiet Square. A pale, watery moon was veiled intermittently by grey clouds which scudded before the keen wind; the lights had been extinguished in the tall houses. A shadow deeper than the other shadows moved against the railings of one of the houses, and began to glide down the area steps. It halted before a small window which looked out on to the area. An interval passed.

  The Watch, coming by that spot in his routine walk, paused and set down his lantern in order to adjust his muffler more securely against the wind. This accomplished to his satisfaction, he raised the lantern once more, and a chance ray discovered the man crouching at the window.

  “Hey, there, what’s toward?”

  The Watch strode valiantly forward, cudgel raised.

  The man at the window turned, revealing by the lantern’s light the unmistakable countenance and apparel of a gentleman. He appeared quite unperturbed by the appearance of this custodian of the peace.

  “Ah, perhaps you can assist me, officer! I find that I have left my key at home, and consequently cannot let myself in. My servants are all abed by my orders, and they must be astir early. It seems a pity on such a cold night to fetch them out. I thought it might be possible to get in by this window, but the sash-cord is gone; try as I will, I cannot make it stay open sufficiently to admit me. Now if you will have the infinite goodness to hold the thing up —”

  There was a persuasive quality about the gentleman, and it was not such an unlikely tale. The Watch was perfectly ready to credit it, being familiar with the antics of the Quality in the small hours. He set down the lantern and cudgel, and obligingly held up the window frame. After much thrusting and squeezing, and a muttered oath at the sound of material being rent, the gentleman finally arrived at the inside. A hand came through the aperture with a clink of coin, and thanks were expressed in a low tone.

  “Thankee, y’r honour!” replied the Watch, taking up his burdens of office and passing on his way. He reflected as he did so that it would be no bad thing if all the Quality were as thoughtful of their servants as this one.

  Meanwhile, the gentleman groped his way through the room in total darkness, until he at last came to the door. Opening it, he found himself in a passage which he judged should run to the back of the house. In that quarter, if he was not mistaken, he should find a kitchen where a fire would still be burning, carefully damped down to last through the night.

  It was as he supposed: he located the kitchen, and lit at the smouldering fire a portion of candle which he drew from the pocket of his breeches. Aided by the light of this, he began a cautious ascent of the stair.

  He was by no means sure where to begin looking for what he sought, but the library seemed a more likely place than many. He found the room upon the ground floor at the back of the house. A three-branched candlestand stood upon the round mahogany table which was set in the centre of the room. He applied a light to the candles, and extinguished the one he was carrying, setting it down.

  His eyes travelled round the room. Three of the walls were completely covered by bookshelves; the remaining wall was shared by a Gothic type bookcase with drawers beneath the glass-fronted cupboards, and a small rosewood bureau. With an air of satisfaction, he approached the latter, and hastily pulled down the top.

  A jumble of papers met his gaze. He hesitated, as one who has no liking for his task; then squared his shoulders decisively, and lifted out a handful. He carried them over to the light, and began to flick impatiently through them.

  ‘To 2 prs. Hessian boots with gold tassels —’

  ‘To 6 dz. bottles Madeira —’

  ‘To one coat in blue Superfine —’

  He flung them down, taking another handful. These were couched in similar terms.

  “Good God!” he muttered despairingly. “Does the fellow never pay any of his bills?”

  He swept the papers impatiently aside, and delved into the pigeon-holes of the desk. Here he met with no better success. The entire bureau appeared to be given over to bills. He passed a hand distractedly through his thick, dark hair.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he turned his attention to the bookcase. Perhaps he would have better luck there. He pulled out the top drawer hurriedly, to be confronted once more with a miscellany of papers. He groaned, and bent over to examine them more closely.

  At that moment, he heard the sound of the doorknob turning. He swung round quickly.

  A man came into the room. He was clad in a handsome dressing gown of blue and gold brocade, and carried a lighted candle in his hand. This he proceeded to place upon the table in an unhurried manner.

  “Good evening, Carisbrooke. I didn’t apprehend that I was to have the pleasure of entertaining you, or you would have found me dressed. You must forgive me.”

  Sir Richard moved towards the table. He too, seemed quite unruffled.

  “You must know why I am here,” he said.

  Julian Summers raised one eyebrow.

  “You flatter my understanding, my dear fellow. You are badly dipped, perhaps, and thought to recoup some of your losses? Believe me, you’ve chosen the wrong place.”

  Sir Richard laughed shortly. “I came to recover my own property. Now that you are present, you can save me the search. Be good enough to hand me my wallet, watch and snuff box.”

  “Your — ? My dear fellow, are you mad? But, of course, it is after two in the morning, when all is said; go home, my dear boy, and sleep it off.”

  Sir Richard’s dark brows came down.

  “I don’t leave without my property, Summers.”

  The other man sighed.

  “I see that this must be looked into,” he said, but his eyes were wary, in spite of the weariness of his tone. “Will you take a glass of wine, Carisbrooke?”

  “I want nothing, I thank you, but what I came for.”

  “Now I wonder why you should imagine that I have your — let me see, what was it? — ah, yes, your wallet, watch and snuff box, I believe. Do you seriously suppose, my dear chap —” he seated himself in an armchair, and indicated that his unexpected guest should do likewise “— that I have turned to petty larceny?”

  “Oh, no,” replied Sir Richard grimly, ignoring the invitation. “I do suppose, however, that you wished to retrieve Lady Bordesley’s note.”

  “Ah, the fair Celia! So she comes into this. Perhaps you would not object to make things a little clearer, dear boy.”

  “I shall be happy,” Sir Richard’s mouth twisted ironically. “You may recall my recent visit to Kent, and the purpose for which I came?”

  The other nodded, his light blue eyes fixed on his visito
r’s face.

  “On my way home, I was robbed of all my possessions, including that note of Celia’s. I believe, Summers, that it was one of your henchmen who did it, and at your instigation.”

  “Really?” Summers sounded amused. “But don’t you know who did it, my dear fellow?”

  A shadow crossed Sir Richard’s face; Summers was quick to perceive it.

  “I didn’t see the fellow. But it’s of no use to try and bluff me, Summers. You have that letter.”

  “And if I assure you that I have not?”

  “What value is there in your assurance?” asked Sir Richard, scornfully.

  The other shrugged. “As you please; nevertheless, it is a fact that I do not happen to be in possession of any of the missing articles.”

  For a moment, Sir Richard’s resolution wavered. He had acted only on surmise in coming here to look for his property: what if Summers should be speaking the truth?

  “Well, if you haven’t got them, who the devil has? God knows where that note of Celia’s may be at present!”

  “Any ordinary pickpocket would make nothing of it,” said Summers, consolingly.

  “I felt convinced — what a damned blackguard you are, Summers, to put Celia in this coil!”

  “She has put herself in it, has she not?” asked Summers, cooly.

  “Damn you!” Sir Richard clenched his fists, and moved threateningly towards the other man, who raised one arm protectively, and laughed.

  “No, no, Carisbrooke, my dear fellow, everyone will tell you that I never fight. I do not pass my time, as you do, in sparring with members of the Fancy!”

  “It might be better for everyone concerned if you did,” replied Sir Richard, contemptuously. He stood looking down at Summers with eyes that smouldered, then suddenly shrugged, and cast himself into a chair.

  “Come,” said Summers, with a change of tone, “let us forget our differences for a time, and see if we can discover what all this is about. Where did you say you were set upon?”