The Jewelled Snuff Box

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Once arrived in Chancery Lane, the interview with Mr. Sharratt was as brief as civility would allow. Jane explained the errand on which she and Letty were bound, and her friend’s desire for haste. On learning the identity of the mysterious owner of the snuff box, the laywer’s relief was evident: he no longer seemed perturbed by Jane’s interest in the gentleman. He handed the box over to her keeping, and Jane went on to tell him her news.

  His congratulations were warm and heartfelt. She had been a favourite with him since infancy, and he had long grieved over his inability to procure for her what was her right.

  “But what I cannot understand, sir,” said Jane, after she had thanked him for his kind wishes, “is why you never told me that the Earl was my uncle — for I know that you were aware of it.”

  “I thought I saw the hand of Providence in the affair,” he confessed. “I knew that the Earl must come to value you in time if you were both under the same roof; and it seemed to me that, after a proper interval, I might have discovered your identity to him with some hope of interesting him in your welfare. Had I informed you of the relationship, however, I knew that you would in all probability refuse to go to his house, thus foiling my plan. Did I not judge you aright?”

  Jane had to acknowledge the truth of this.

  “Man proposes,” replied the lawyer, “but other hands than mine had your affairs in their direction. Such a reflection must make us humble. However, my dear, I must not detain you now; I will wait on your uncle later in the day, as you tell me that is his desire.”

  Jane rose to go, and mentioned the matter of her proposed visit. In his dry way, the lawyer was delighted. He felt all the honour of being singled out by the Earl of Bordesley’s niece, who might so easily have forgotten her old friends in the heady excitement of being elevated to a new way of life. He assured her of his wife’s equal delight in the scheme, and it was arranged that Jane should come to them as soon as she returned from her expedition into Kent.

  It only remained for Jane to collect Letty from the clerk’s office, where she had waited during this interview, charming even that unimpressionable little man with her blue eyes and merry smile. Once back in the carriage, Letty was all for returnirig immediately to Brook St., so that they might get started without delay, but Jane demurred.

  “I feel that I must first return to my uncle’s house, Letty. It is only right that I should inform him of my change of plan. There is another matter, too, which I’ve been turning over in my mind — don’t you think that I perhaps ought to return this letter to Celia? Heaven knows I have no wish ever to set eyes on her again, but the note belongs to her, and will have to be given back eventually. Only imagine her state of mind while she has not known where it may be!”

  “Don’t expect me to feel sympathy for Celia,” said Letty, with a grimace. “However, I dare say you are right, and to confess the truth, I would rather that Richard should not be obliged to see her again to hand it to her. But could we not more simply give it to one of your uncle’s servants to deliver?”

  Jane shook her head. “I had thought of that, but there is too much risk of it coming to my uncle’s hand. I will not have his peace of mind disturbed. No, Letty, I must deliver it in person.”

  Letty saw that her friend was adamant, and conceded the point, arranging to call later for Jane at the Earl’s residence. She was set down in Brook St., and Jane continued on her way alone.

  Arrived at the house, her enquiries for her uncle were met with the information that his lordship was out; but my lady was above-stairs, the servant stated, with a look full of some significance that escaped Jane’s comprehension. She left a hastily scribbled note for the Earl with the man, and started upstairs to Celia’s room.

  No answer came to her first hesitant tap upon the door. She waited a moment, then tapped a second time, more loudly. There was still no answer. She fretted a little, mindful of her promise to Letty not to be long about her task. After another purposeful knock, she ventured to open the door, and walk in. As she closed the door behind her, she stood stock still, her glance travelling round the room in horror.

  The handsome apartment had been ravaged as though by a horde of vandals. The muslin draperies were torn from the windows, and lay in trailing pink clouds across the carpet. Chairs were overturned, and the striped satin sofa rent from end to end, as though by the fierce claws of a tiger. Scattered all about the room, the torn silk cushions oozed their contents forlornly. Jane raised startled eyes to the overmantel surmounting the fireplace; the glass was splintered, and in the hearth were the shattered fragments of a Dresden shepherdess and a pair of handsome Sèvres vases. Wherever she turned her gaze was ruin and destruction. The boudoir, once a lovely setting for the Incomparable Celia, was now a shambles. Of its occupant, there was no sign.

  Fear clutched suddenly at Jane’s heart. Her uncle — had he committed some frightful act in one of his fits of jealousy? Had he perhaps discovered that last night’s story was false, and that Sir Richard had been with Celia, not herself? Her quick imagination conjured up visions of terror, painting them in lurid colours. Her breath came unsteadily as she hastened towards the door of the bedchamber opening off the boudoir.

  It opened as she approached, and Celia came out. Her hair was in some disorder, and her low-cut gown was torn, revealing her white bosom. Relief surged over Jane as a quick glance assured her that Celia was unhurt.

  On seeing Jane, she halted, and her face contorted.

  “You!” Her tone was low, venomous. “Get out of my sight, you vile bitch!”

  Jane stiffened, her alarm giving place to anger. Whatever had befallen Celia, it was obvious that she needed neither help nor pity. For the first time, it occurred to Jane that Celia herself might be responsible for the chaotic state of the room.

  “I came to bring you this,” she said, coldly, holding out the letter.

  “What is it?”

  Celia put out her hand gropingly for the paper, and unfolded it. Jane intended to go then, but some impulse in which curiosity had a part, kept her there. Celia stared at the note in a dazed way for some moments, as though unable to understand what it was. At last, she let it drop from her hand to the floor, and broke into peal after peal of high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

  “So you bring me the letter — you, of all people!” she shrieked, a horrible laugh punctuating her utterance. “The letter for which I risked so much — the letter which Francis mustn’t see — the letter — the letter —”

  Her words were lost in a cacophony of wild sounds.

  Jane had instinctively stepped back a pace at the onset of this outburst, but now, fearing that Celia might go into a fit, she nerved herself to move towards my lady, and slap her sharply across her cheek.

  Celia choked on a laughing shriek. For several moments, she stood staring at Jane with vacant eyes; then suddenly she collapsed in a heap on to the floor, shaking with sobs.

  “Celia — for Heaven’s sake, what has happened?” cried Jane, thoroughly alarmed.

  “Happened?” sobbed Celia, incoherently. “What has happened? My ruin has happened, that’s what!”

  She raised a ravaged face to Jane, and went on in a high, fierce tone, but more intelligibly than before.

  “My precious Francis has turned me off like any servant — to be sure, he is to pay me a handsome allowance, but what’s that to being a Countess, and having all the Bordesley fortune at my command: And I may not live in Town any longer, not that I would wish to, for none would receive me now! The letter — I thought that if only I could keep the letter from Francis, I might be safe, fool that I was! I had everything so nicely planned — you, Richard, Julian, Francis, all were pawns in my game — but I reckoned without that foul slut, Betty!”

  Hereupon, she let out such a horrible string of abuse that Jane turned hastily to leave.

  “Ay, go!” shrieked Celia, hurling after her one of the torn cushions, there being no more lethal weapon to hand. “Go, and may you rot in h
ell!”

  Jane ran from the room, and shut the door thankfully behind her. Once outside, she could go no farther for a moment, and stood still, one hand leaning upon the doorknob. She was trembling from head to foot, and her knees felt ready to give under her. It had been startling to witness the ruin of that once immaculate room; but the change in its owner had shocked her profoundly.

  Unsteadily, she made her way downstairs. The servant glanced sharply at her face, and asked if he should summon an abigail to her assistance. Jane shook her head.

  “No, thank you,” she answered, weakly. “I am going out again immediately. You will not forget my note for his lordship?”

  The man promised, and opened the door for her to pass out into the street. She was slowly descending the steps just as the Carisbrooke carriage drew up outside the house.

  Letty exclaimed in alarm at sight of her friend’s pale face, and quickly drew her into the coach. Jane succumbed gratefully to the warm arms, and burst into helpless tears.

  “Why, what can be amiss, Jane? Dear Jane, do but tell me!”

  Incoherently, Jane repeated the tale.

  “But I don’t altogether understand — do you weep for Celia? Upon my word, it does you credit if you can feel sympathy for her, for I must confess that, for my part, I am monstrous glad! She deserves it all, as you would think had you seen how she made my brother suffer!”

  Jane dried her eyes, a little ashamed now of her outburst.

  “No, Letty, it isn’t that.”

  She paused for a minute, to collect herself, then went on; “As you say, one cannot feel sorry for Celia; she has done too much harm. But somehow, I grieve for what she might have been — I never could bear to see the destruction of a lovely thing, and Celia was a lovely woman, who might have brought so much happiness to others, to my uncle — perhaps, once, to your brother. Do you remember how, when we were children, Letty, we believed utterly that goodness must lie behind a lovely face? It must be many years since we realised the folly of such a belief, yet even now, one cannot help hoping — she was so beautiful — surely she must have been created for something better than this?”

  Letty nodded sympathetically, for once allowing her friend to run on uninterrupted. Jane was normally so reserved, yet Letty knew her feelings to be perhaps deeper than most: it would be better for her this time to speak freely of them. It had not escaped Letty’s notice that Jane spoke of Celia in the past, almost as though she were dead. This was well; it promised that presently Jane might be able to forget my lady Bordesley’s part in her own life for ever.

  Chapter XXI. The Awakening

  IT WAS something before four o’clock in the afternoon when Sir Richard arrived at The Three Tuns Inn in Kent. As the curricle drew up in the yard, an ostler came lounging forward, a straw dangling loosely from his mouth. At sight of the sporting equipage and high-bred team, he threw the straw aside, and quickened his pace to a run.

  Sir Richard leapt lightly down, gave a few terse instructions to his groom, and directed his steps to the front entrance of the inn. Here he was met by the landlord, who asked how he might be of service to his visitor.

  “I shall be staying there for a few days,” replied Sir Richard, looking about him without enthusiasm. The place wore that air of clean cheerlessness which is so often the hallmark of an acid housewife. “I take it that you have a vacant bedchamber and a private parlour for my use?”

  The landlord replied hastily that he had, and offered to show the rooms to his guest.

  “I’ll take the bedchamber on trust,” said Sir Richard, waving the offer aside, “so long as the sheets be aired. However, you may show me the parlour, and bring a bottle of claret.”

  The landlord assented, and led the way down a short passage covered with a strip of almost threadbare carpeting, until he arrived at the entrance to the parlour. Here he stood aside for his guest to enter the room.

  Sir Richard, however, paused on the threshold, his eyes slowly travelling round the apartment. His glance lingered for some moments on a glass case containing a stuffed fish, which hung over the mantelshelf; then it passed on to the chintz-covered sofa before the fire. He frowned heavily.

  The landlord surveyed him anxiously.

  “Bain’t it to your honour’s liking? To be sure, yon fish’ve happen been ’anging there a few years too many, but my Granfer caught ’un, and we didn’t care to get rid o’ ’un on that account. Still, if y’r honour’ve taken the thing in dislike —”

  “No, no,” disclaimed Sir Richard, passing a hand across his brow with a weary gesture. “I was thinking of something else; it’s a very fine fish, I’m sure; leave it be.”

  He crossed over to the sofa, and began slowly to draw off his gloves. The landlord prepared to depart; but before he could reach the door, Sir Richard detained him with a gesture.

  “One of my reasons for coming here,” he said, “is to recover a mare of mine which was left in your stables some weeks since, until I should collect her. I take it that you have her safe?”

  The landlord’s broad face clouded with consternation, and his reply was long in coming.

  “Why, yes, y’r honour, there is a horse — leastways, there is and there isn’t — but I’ll fetch my missus, she knows all about it, and I’ll bring y’r honour’s wine at the same time.”

  He vanished from the room with commendable speed.

  Sir Richard frowned, and once more slowly glanced round the parlour with a perplexed air. To his knowledge, he had never before been in this place, and yet — His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord’s wife, a woman of vinegary aspect, which was not relieved by the ingratiating smile she at present wore.

  “My husband says you’ve come for the mare, your honour. To be sure, I won’t need to keep you waiting for long — she should be back in an hour or so.”

  “Back?” queried Sir Richard.

  “Well, y’r honour, ’tis a long time we’ve kept her here, and his saying she would be called for in a day or two, and leaving only enough money for that length of time; and so, not knowing as how y’r honour would be calling for her today — and I’m sure if you’d have sent us a line, we’d have managed things very differentlyn— I made so bold as to lend her to him for an hour or so, she being in need of exercise, and him paying well.”

  “What’s all this?” asked Sir Richard, puzzled by the too frequent use of pronouns in her speech. “Do I understand you to say that you’ve hired my horse out to someone else?”

  The woman nodded. “That’s it, y’r honour. A gennelman as lives close by, and has promised faithful to deliver her up by five o’clock. So, if you’ll have the goodness to wait a little, and perhaps partake of some refreshment —”

  “You took too much upon yourself,” he began; then paused, recollecting that, after all, the mare had been there some time, and perhaps these people had despaired of ever seeing her claimed.

  “Very well,” he continued, cutting short the landlady’s abject apologies. “You may bring me something to eat.”

  She turned to obey, thankful to have got over the matter so lightly; but before she reached the door, he addressed her again.

  “Stay; there is another matter I would like to question you upon.”

  She halted, her thin lips fixed in an ingratiating smile. Sir Richard paused, and seemed uncertain whether to continue.

  “Have you perchance heard anything of a trinket being picked up hereabouts?” he asked, at last. “A gold snuff box, ornamented with jewels?”

  The landlady started, and turning, stared hard at him for a time. Recognition came into her glance.

  “Well, I never!” she declared in surprise. “I do believe as you are the very gennelman as was picked up by the roadside unconscious that very same day as the man brought your horse here!”

  “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “Found unconscious, you say? By whom?”

  “Lord, sir, y’r honour must surely remember! A party of people trav
elling in a stage were stranded here, and they found you and brought you in. There was a snuff box, too — yes, I remember it clearly — sort of tree on it, there was, with fruit all done in rubies and emeralds — the female showed it to me.”

  “That’s the one,” he said, quickly. “But what female?”

  “Dear, oh, dear, y’r honour can’t have forgotten! The female who bathed your head, and took breakfeast with you the next morning! And afterwards you travelled up to Lunnon with her and the rest of ’em in the stage.”

  Sir Richard passed his hand across his head; something was stirring in his brain.

  “What was she like, this lady?” he asked, slowly.

  “Land sakes!” The landlady seemed overpowered by his lack of recollection. Most likely he had been drunk, after all, she told herself.

  “Why, she was a very ordinary female of about two and twenty, p’raps older, I’m sure! Mind you, I think she was Quality, by the airs she gave herself, but a most ordinary, shabby creature, I assure your honour, not a penny to her name, I don’t doubt, and of no account soever! Very like a governess, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  “You talk too much,” he said sternly. “Mind your tongue when you speak of your betters.”

  “Betters, indeed!” She tossed her head. “That shabby creature wasn’t my betters, not though she did scorn to share a bed with two other females, pretending she must sleep downstairs for fear y’r honour should need nursing, says she, though I’m sure I would have worked my fingers to the bone for y’r honour’s comfort, and didn’t need the likes of her to tell me —”

  “That will do,” he said, curtly. “What of the snuff box?”

  “Why, she offered it to me in payment for your lodging,” said the landlady, giving a carefully expurgated version of the event. She resented his reprimand, but had no intention of doing anything to offend what now appeared to be a good customer. “In course, I didn’t take it, and afterwards they must have found some money on y’r honour, though, at first, they said there wasn’t a penny piece. I remember Molly the kitchenmaid telling me afterwards that she saw you giving the box to the fem — the lady — next morning, when you was having breakfast together, and she had gone in to clear the table. I suppose only she knows what happened to it after that,” she finished, with a malicious sniff.