The Jewelled Snuff Box (12 page)

Chapter XIII. Without Rhyme Or Reason

JANE LINGERED before the fire in her bedchamber, unwilling to begin preparations for bed. Sleep could not be wooed with an unquiet mind, and her mood at present was very far from tranquil. She rested her chin in her hands, and idly watched the reflection of the leaping flames in the smooth polished surface of the bed-post.

It began to look as though she could no longer stay in this house. She had feared from the first that it might be so, but for the wrong reasons. The disadvantages which she had foreseen paled before those which had come unexpectedly upon her. The fact that she disliked Celia, the occasional outbursts of spite which the other showed to her, were things tolerably easy to endure: she had met such difficulties before, and found that they yielded to a cheerful disposition. But the Earl’s apparently growing interest in her was quite another matter. Her experience had taught her that in affairs of that kind the best course to pursue was to go before it was too late. A girl with neither fortune nor connections could not hope to preserve her good name if she remained in the house of a wealthy nobleman who had taken a fancy to her.

She sighed: the one great difficulty of her situation was that she had nowhere to go. This obstacle was always present, the necessity of finding a fresh post before she could quit the old one. She had that morning called at the employment agency, only to be told that there was nothing available at the moment. They had promised to inform her when a suitable post offered. There was nothing more she could do. She must remain here for a time, at any rate; if the situation became too desperate, she could always go to the Sharratt’s. It was a measure she did not care to adopt unless no other possible course was open to her, but at least it was there, a final refuge.

She frowned a little as she recalled that Mr. Sharrat had shown some doubt when he had learned the name of her new employer. What exactly was it that he had said? Could he have had any suspicion, have heard any rumour concerning the Earl’s reputation? The lawyer was not the man to take alarm without sound reason, Jane knew.

And even this was not the worst. If she remained here, she must risk the chance of encountering Sir Richard Carisbrooke. Her friendship with his sister must inevitably lead her into this hazard, even if he came no more to see Celia. Jane confessed to herself that she could not continue to meet him with equanimity. She had succeeded tolerably well so far in putting him out of her thoughts. The encounter of yesterday morning had again overset her feelings for a time. It would not do: it would be best to go away, go to some place where their paths would never again cross.

She rose impatiently, unwilling to pursue her thoughts further. She determined to read for a while; had it been daytime, a walk would no doubt have helped to shake off her introspection. At this hour, a book offered her only hope of escape from her own concerns.

She rose, and crossed over to the table at her bedside, taking up the book which lay there. As she did so, she realised with annoyance that she had already finished it. She paused irresolutely for a moment. There would probably be something or other suitable downstairs in the library. Was it worth the trouble of the journey?

Eventually, she decided that it was; sleep seemed as far away as ever. She took up the candle from her table, and lit it at the fire.

She passed quietly from her bedchamber, so as not to disturb Celia. There was no sound from the other’s room, and the house seemed deserted. Most likely the servants were already abed. Her light slippers made no noise as she glided quickly down the staircase, the flame of the candle dipping with the draught of her movement. The large hall with its chequer-board floor was cold and dark. She shivered as she crossed it, and came at last to the library.

She entered, closing the door silently after her. There were a number of candelabra set about the room at intervals, and she lit one or two of these from her candle. The room wore a gloomy, musty aspect, as though it were not much used. She had never been here before, and decided that, when next she came, it would be in daylight. The place looked singularly uninviting by night.

She conquered her feelings, setting down her candle and beginning her search. She soon despaired of finding a novel; no wonder Celia preferred the Circulating Library. Here were volumes of sermons, the Greek and Latin poets, and heavy tomes which would have been an encumbrance to convey upstairs. Her eye lighted upon two such volumes, entitled “Animated Nature”. Curiosity impelled her to pull one of them forth from its place on the shelf. She saw that the work was written by Oliver Goldsmith, and had been well-thumbed. She placed the heavy book upon the table, and idly flicked over the leaves.

It was such a book as might appeal to a child, dealing as it did with animals. Her quick imagination conjured up the image of a child standing here as she was doing, turning these pages with fingers that were not always, as the evidence suggested, quite clean. She smiled at her fancy, and turned another page. As she did so, a paper fluttered to the floor.

She bent to retrieve it, and was about to place it once more in the book, when she saw that it was the likeness of a young girl. She brought her candle nearer, and inspected the drawing closely. The colours had faded a little with age, but the unknown artist had caught something of the spirit of his subject, for the face seemed to live. It was pointed, elfin, surrounded by auburn curls; the green eyes danced and laughed, as though their owner found life a merry business.

Jane frowned; surely that face was familiar to her? Then she noticed the name painted in at the foot of the drawing — Arabella Bordesley. So that was the explanation; this was a relative of the Earl’s, his sister or his mother. Judging by the style of the gown, Jane thought it more likely to be his sister.

She gazed with a new interest. Evidently the young Arabella had been a lively, merry girl, with more than her share of good looks. Jane wondered idly what differences time might have wrought in her. Strange that this sketch, which surely must have been accounted good by even the most partial of observers, should have been allowed to lie forgotten in a book. One would have expected to see it hanging on a wall in one of the principal rooms. Now that she came to consider it, Jane did not recollect having seen any other pictures of the lady about the house. Was this deliberate, she wondered, and if so, was it the Earl’s doing, or Celia’s?

Unaccountably, she shivered. She told herself that it was cold here in this large fireless room. She gave one last look at the portrait, then replaced it in the book with gentle fingers, as though she laid a child to sleep. Impatient now to be gone, she hurriedly replaced the book on its shelf, and seized the first slim volume which came to hand, an edition of Cowper’s poems. Taking up her candle, she extinguished the others, and quitted the room.

She was halfway up the staircase on her return journey to her bedchamber, when she fancied she heard a sound. She stood still, listening. The eerie quiet of a house at night, when everyone is abed, closed all around her, seeming to press on her ears. Only the loud beating of her heart broke the silence.

Stay, there it was again; a muffled, regular sound overhead, of footsteps stealthily approaching from the other side of the house, in the direction of the servant’s staircase. For a moment, she was unable to move.

She told herself impatiently that she must not be nonsensical. No doubt it was one of the servants still astir, creeping about quietly to avoid rousing the rest of the household. She forced herself to continue on her way, climbing the rest of the stairs with slow, reluctant steps. As she mounted higher, the mysterious footsteps drew nearer to the landing which was also her objective. There could now be no doubt that when she reached the head of the staircase, she would encounter someone.

She squared her shoulders: she must not give way to idle fancies. It would be only one of the servants.

Her foot was on the topmost stair, when she perceived two forms approaching her from the passage on her left. Relief flooded over her as she recognised the one carrying the candle. It was Betty, Celia’s abigail. Her companion was a man, but she could not determine his identity, as his face was in shadow. She waited uncertainly for them to come up to her.

All at once, she dropped her candlestick with a clatter. Vaguely, she felt the hot wax run over her hand, as the candle extinguished itself in the fall.

The man at Betty’s side was Sir Richard Carisbrooke.

He looked in quick surprise at her white, strained face.

“Miss Tarrant!” he exclaimed, in a low tone, and stood quite motionless for a moment, regarding her in dismay. Then recollecting himself: — “I have given you a shock, madam, I fear; no wonder. Seeing me approach thus quietly, you must have thought me an intruder. I beg your pardon.”

He stooped to pick up the fallen candlestick, and placed it into Jane’s nerveless hand. He turned to the abigail.

“Betty, see Miss Tarrant to her room. I will find my own way.”

“Will you bring all the house about us, y’r honour?” asked Betty, in a furious whisper.

“I have no need of assistance, I thank you, sir,” replied Jane, still pale, but now composed. “It was just that I was not expecting to meet anyone here and at this hour.”

For a moment longer, he stood looking at her as though lost to all sense of urgency; then he seemed to collect himself, and a shade of embarrassment crept into his manner.

“If you are quite sure —”

“Perfectly, I thank you. Goodnight,” answered Jane, shortly.

Still he lingered irresolutely, until an impatient movement from Betty recalled him to the purpose of his presence there. Reluctantly, he accepted his dismissal.

“Goodnight, Miss Tarrant.”

He and the abigail continued on their way, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jane followed them. It was an unlucky chance that her room should be next to Celia’s, that she should be obliged to watch this man going to his mistress. Her heart swelled, and a burning anger seized her. She hated Sir Richard Carisbrooke — hated him! Had he not spoken yesterday as though he despised Celia? Yet here he was, going to her room when her husband was from home, creeping furtively by way of the servants’ staircase to keep a dishonourable appointment! And this was the man —
Her train of thought broke off, shattered by the words she had been about to use. A flood of illumination swept over her. At last she knew the truth. She did not hate Sir Richard: this was the man she loved.

She closed the door of her bedchamber, and stood motionless behind it. This could not be true, there must be some mistake. Her imagination — she had always been possessed of a lively imagination, she knew — must have misled her. Jane had thought sometimes of love, as what girl does not? Love for her was to be a slow, ripening process, the fruit of many meetings and mutual interests. She had never believed in love at first sight. That surely, she told herself, was an invention of novelists, whose business it was to make everything slightly larger than life. Her reason strove against her conviction, but in vain. However unreasonable, almost impossible, it might be, the fact was that she did love Sir Richard.

She pressed her hands to her breast, as though by that means she could still the tumultuous beating of her heart. What was to be done? Her case was hopeless; he felt nothing for her but a kindly interest, no doubt aroused by Letty’s reminiscences of their schooldays. It was Celia who filled his thoughts, Celia, who at this very minute, doubtless, was clasped to his heart.

If only Celia had cared for him! It would still have been wrong, a betrayal of the Earl, but at least it would have been understandable. But by her own avowal, made this very evening, she sought only to amuse herself in making a conquest of him.

She must not, shall not succeed, thought Jane desperately; somehow, a way must be found to prevent her. But how? Celia had everything to aid her purpose, beauty, wealth, and a supreme indifference to the feelings of others. What weapons had Jane Tarrant with which to fight her?

What weapons? Why, there was the letter. The thought came to her with a suddenness that made her catch her breath. If she were to take the letter to the Earl, that would put an end to Celia’s amorous exploits. He would most likely divorce her, at the very least curtail her liberty. In either event, she would be too taken up with her own concerns to bother about the conquest of one to whom she was in reality indifferent. Sir Richard would be safe from her.

But no! He could no more be safe than she, Jane, could be safe from a hopeless love. Whether or not Celia wanted or encouraged him, he would still love her because he must. In love there was neither rhyme nor reason, as Jane had good cause to know.

Her honesty compelled her to examine again her motive for considering such a course as taking the letter to my lord. Had she really thought that she could thus save Sir Richard from his entanglement?

She shook her head sadly. No; another motive lay hidden behind this urge. The unpalatable truth was — she faced it squarely — that she sought revenge on the woman who had killed all hope of her ever possessing the man she loved.

The acknowledgement of this did much to restore her calm. An instinct for revenge might be one of the most natural of human emotions, but Jane was not the person to indulge it. Nevertheless, she had to struggle against the temptation, and, in overthrowing it, she also got the better of the wave of intense feeling which had tormented her for the past ten minutes.