The Guinea Stamp

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Oh, yes, to be sure. By all means, Cholcombe, I shall be happy to show it to you. Do you choose to go now?” he added, trying vainly to conceal his eagerness for a legitimate excuse to set foot again in his library.

  Lady Feniton opened her mouth to say how little the scheme commended itself to her, but was forestalled by her guest’s ready assent. She said nothing, therefore, not being minded to cross the young man in any way at present.

  The rest of the company chimed in with assertions of interest, with the result that Sir Walter, somewhat to his disgust, found himself conducting a large party, instead of only his godson, to his holy of holies.

  Once inside the room, the party spread out a little so that everyone might enjoy an equally good view of the painting. Every eye was turned studiously upon it, save only those of Lady Feniton and her granddaughter. Lady Feniton was regarding a candlestand which had been imperfectly dusted, and making a mental note to give a good set-down to the housemaid whose responsibility it was to do this room; while Joanna was studying the faces of the rest of the party. The picture had made a powerful impact upon herself when she had first seen it, and she wished to observe its effect upon others.

  Her eyes went first to Mr. Cholcombe’s face. He put up his quizzing glass, studied it for a moment with an inscrutable expression, then said, “Remarkable! Quite remarkable!”

  Disappointed, she switched her gaze to the faces of those nearest to him, Captain Masterman and Guy Dorlais. The Captain was frowning, as though there were something about the picture that he could not understand: but she was just in time to catch Dorlais give a hastily repressed start, and thereafter maintain a fixed stare. She had seen, too, the flash of illumination which came all at once into his dark eyes.

  At the time, she did not quite know what to make of this; but thinking it over afterwards, she decided that it was thus a man might look when he was familiar with the scene represented in the painting, yet did not wish anyone present to suspect the fact.

  ELEVEN - The Building of a Ship

  More than a week passed away, and the visitors to Shalbeare House had settled themselves in tolerably comfortably. Between Kitty and Guy the estrangement still persisted, in spite of a determined effort to dissipate it which was made on at least one occasion by the gentleman. A neighbouring family had been dining at the house on that particular evening, and dancing had been proposed. Neither party to the quarrel—if such it could truly be called—had any desire to parade it in the open: so Kitty did what was expected of her, and stood up with Mr. Dorlais for the first dance. He caught her hand, and squeezed it expressively as they came together after one of the brief separations which were part of the movements of the dance. She looked up at him, and could not entirely fail to react to the eloquent message of his dark eyes.

  “Kit, my love!” he whispered, as they went down the dance in close proximity. “Put an end to my suffering, and let us be friends.”

  She turned towards him, her heart in her look, at that moment entirely ready for reconciliation.

  But as ill luck would have it, Georgina Masterman, who was in front of them in the formation, chose that very moment to turn back and make some jesting, trivial remark to Guy. It might not have been entirely luck, at that, for she had been quietly observing the pair during their recent brief interchange: however it was, it had the result of breaking the spell for Kitty, at least. Guy Dorlais was obliged by the rules of civility to make some answer, though noticeably curt. After that, they were again separated by the movements of the dance, and did not come together again until the music ended in a noisy scrape of fiddles and a round of hearty applause.

  Try as he would, Dorlais could find no other opportunity, and was left to reflect uselessly that, if it had only been summer time, and the doors to the garden thrown open, he would have known how to contrive a tête-à-tête with his recalcitrant lady under a friendly moon.

  The Honourable Algernon Cholcombe and Miss Feniton seemed to have established a footing of easy raillery which so far did not appear to be leading in the direction of the altar. Lady Feniton knew not what to think; nightly she poured her doubts into Sir Walter’s unwilling—and frequently inattentive—ears.

  “A jest is all very well,” she remarked, coming into the library one evening after everyone else had retired except the three younger gentlemen, who were still engaged in playing a game of billiards elsewhere in the house, “but they will not come together by that road!”

  “I am sure you are right, my love,” he answered, looking up briefly from the book he was reading.

  “Of course I’m right!” she said, somewhat snappishly. “When I warned her not to be too stiff with him, I never dreamed that it would ever come to my being sorry to see them on such easy terms together!”

  “No, of course not,” he agreed, absently.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what to do, Feniton,” she went on, walking uneasily about the room.

  “Don’t you, my love? To be sure, that is an unusual quandary for you to be in.”

  “If only you could think of something!” she exclaimed, in near despair. “But there, you were never any help to me in a crisis!”

  “A crisis, Augusta?” The one word seemed at last to penetrate his absence of mind.

  “Yes, a crisis!” she repeated. “What else do you call this—this stalemate?”

  He looked up at that, puzzled.

  “I was not aware—surely, Augusta, you cannot be speaking of—chess? No”—This hastily, as he saw the look she turned on him—“No, of course not; how absurd of me!”

  Her brow contracted in anger. “I do not believe that you’ve heard one word I’ve been saying, Feniton!” she accused.

  “Oh, yes, I have, my dear,” he replied, hastily. “Indeed, you misjudge me!”

  “Do I, now?” Her accents were ominous. “Then perhaps you will have the goodness to inform me what I was speaking of.”

  “Certainly. You were saying that—you do not quite know what to do, that they are upon too easy terms for your liking. In short—there appears to be a crisis.”

  He repeated the words glibly, parrot-fashion: it was evident that he had no idea whatever of their significance.

  She made a gesture of impatience. “It is just as I supposed, Feniton, you have not been attending to me! Oh, yes, I am aware that you are able to repeat my words, but you have no more notion of their meaning than a Chinaman might have, I imagine! It is a great deal too bad of you—but only what I would have expected!”

  “In that case, my dear, you cannot be disappointed, can you? Will you please close the door quietly as you go out?”

  He added this as he saw her preparing to storm from the room. She made an exclamation of impatience. He looked at her wistfully.

  “I’m sorry, Augusta, but it seems I am doomed to be a source of irritation to your nerves. Never mind, my dear; whatever it is that you’re fretting over will most likely sort itself out in the end.”

  With this she had to be content. A day or so later, her alarms broke out with renewed vigour, however, when Mr. Cholcombe suddenly announced his intention of making a journey into Exeter for the sole purpose of getting his hair cut.

  “Exeter! You surely will not travel all that way simply to have your hair dressed! I cannot believe, Algernon, that you could be such a frippery fellow!”

  He smiled deprecatingly. “Ah, but I am ma’am; there is no gainsaying it.”

  “But you will be gone at least a whole day—and on such an errand,” protested Lady Feniton.

  He raised one eyebrow in languid surprise.

  “I scarce think that one day will suffice,” he answered, good humouredly. “However, I should not be absent longer than three days, I dare say. Let us hope not.”

  “Three days!” she was at once surprised and alarmed. “But—but surely there is no occasion to put yourself to so much trouble in the business? Cannot your man contrive to do it for you?”

  “Fenchurch?” Mr. Cholcombe l
ifted his hands in horror. “I only wish you may suggest such a thing to him, ma’am, for I have not the temerity to do so!”

  “But that is absurd!” replied his hostess, firmly. “Servants should be kept in their place; I have no notion of allowing mine to tell me what they will and will not do!”

  “I congratulate you, milady. Evidently you are not so poor spirited as to be dependent upon your servants, but I must confess that to me life without Fenchurch would be a barren desert! He has a way with my boots that no valet of my acquaintance can equal; while in the matter of tying a cravat—!”

  He made an expansive gesture of his hands to indicate the impossibility of finding words to do justice to his subject.

  “Now that you mention boots,” interposed Guy Dorlais, laughing, “I perfectly understand! It is evidently a matter of extreme delicacy, Lady Feniton, and not to be meddled with!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dorlais,” she said, repressively. “I believe I am the best judge of that!”

  Then, turning to Algernon Cholcombe, she said: “Boots and cravats, indeed! But you are in jest—I know you are! There is a very good man who comes once a month to attend to Sir Walter’s hair—otherwise, I assure you, nothing whatever would be done about it. If your host had to go all the way to Exeter for a haircut, he would rather adopt an old-fashioned pigtail!—however, this man Barlow is very good, and knows all the latest styles. I will send a groom over to ask him to call here this very day—or tomorrow, if you should prefer it.”

  Joanna, who was standing by listening with deepening amusement to this conversation, here mentally chalked up a point to her grandmother. So far, the honours lay fairly evenly between the two verbal combatants; but how was Mr. Cholcombe to answer this, she wondered?

  “You are very good, ma’am,” he replied, without a trace of irritation in his manner, “but I believe I must not put you to so much trouble.”

  “Trouble! Nonsense! I do not stand upon ceremony with you, Algernon!”

  “I am very glad of that,” he said, smoothly, “as it makes it easier for me to do something which I dislike—namely, to refuse a lady’s request. However, in this instance, I regret infinitely that I have no choice in the matter. Vanity, my dear Lady Feniton”—he sighed heavily—“is a hard taskmaster! And now, if you will excuse me, I’ll step round to the stables myself, and see about my horses.”

  A graceful little bow, and he had quitted the room before Lady Feniton could think of anything further to say. Captain Masterman and Guy Dorlais exchanged glances. Joanna could not look at Kitty, for fear that they should both burst into laughter. It was rarely that anyone succeeded in getting the better of Lady Feniton: it must be confessed that, to most of those present, it was not a disagreeable sight.

  A thin, grey mist was swirling in from the sea as Captain Jackson threaded his way through the narrow, cobbled lanes of the little fishing town. Here and there, the feeble rays of a lamp or rushlight burning within the cottages imparted a pale glow to the as yet unshuttered windows. The winding lanes themselves boasted no light, but Jackson stepped along smartly, as one who knew his way.

  He halted at last before a mean and dingy alehouse, frowning a little. After a second’s pause, he pushed open the door, which stood slightly ajar. A wave of warm air greeted him, made less acceptable by the stale odour of tobacco and unwashed human bodies.

  The scene which met his gaze inside the tavern was ordinary enough. On either side of a generous log fire set in the hearth of a wide, open chimney, were placed high-backed wooden settles. Some half dozen or so fishermen lolled in these, very much at their ease. A few were indulging in the luxury of a whiff from a clay pipe, while some, with mugs of ale in their fists, were carrying on a desultory conversation. One, at least, was unashamedly asleep.

  In the centre of the small room stood a narrow trestle table, evidently a stranger to the scrubbing brush, for it bore the old marks of countless wet tankards upon its grimy surface. A few rickety chairs were disposed around it, but these appeared to be out of favour, for only one man was seated there. He looked up at Jackson’s entrance, and gave an almost imperceptible sign of welcome. After a quick, careful scrutiny, under lazy eyelids, of the others present, the Captain went and sat beside him, facing the door, and with his back to the rest of the company. The man nodded, and gave him good evening as one does to a casual acquaintance. After that, there was a moment’s silence.

  “You’ll take something?” asked the first man, in a guarded tone.

  The Captain grimaced, “I suppose so,” he conceded, reluctantly, and rose to go into the tap.

  He returned without delay, bearing a brimming mug of ale, and seated himself again at the other man’s side.

  “I have a room in a cottage not far from here,” mouthed the other, draining his mug and setting it down noisily on the table. “To the left as you go out, four doors down the street. I’ll wait for you there.”

  The Captain nodded, his face hidden by his raised tankard. To an onlooker, it must have appeared as though he bade the other a casual good night.

  The first man rose, spat carefully on the sawdust which covered the floor, nodded to the men around the fire, and went out into the mist.

  The Captain lingered a while longer. It would not do to follow the other too soon. Presently, he too, rose and repeated the performance.

  The damp, clammy air caught at his throat as he pushed through the doorway into the street; but it was a welcome change from the foetid atmosphere of the tavern. He shivered a little, rubbing his hands to warm them as he moved briskly in the direction indicated by his confederate. When he reached the fourth house along, a figure stepped out of the gathering shadows.

  Jackson’s right hand went swiftly to the leather belt which secured his breeches: it closed around the ebony haft of a knife.

  “No need for that,” a low voice warned him.

  He let his hand drop to his side again, and followed his former companion into the house.

  The door opened straight into a room that was poky and cheerless. A meagre fire dragged on a feeble existence in the grate, the floor was stone-flagged and uncovered, the furniture consisted solely of two battered chairs and a crooked deal table. On this stood an oil lamp, turned down low. The window of the room was fast shuttered.

  Jackson’s companion turned up the lamp, and secured both entrances to the room. Then he motioned to his friend to take one of the chairs.

  “You’re sure we can trust ‘em?” asked the Captain, as he did so. “ ‘Pon my word, we were almost better off in the alehouse!”

  The other shrugged. “Needs must,” he answered, succinctly.

  “At least we’re in no danger of being overheard, here.”

  Captain Jackson nodded. “I’ve yet to find a suitable rendezvous in this place,” he said. “The alehouse is splendid for meeting people, but impossible for conversation.”

  “Just so: we manage, though. Well, I think I’ve some news for you this time, Captain—but trust you can make more sense of it than I can. Maybe we’re on the wrong track, though.”

  “Let’s hear it, Number Three. Two heads are better than one, y’know.”

  “Three heads have had a go at this already, and it’s all Dutch to us! However, here’s the strength of it, Captain.”

  He leaned forward so that the rickety chair wobbled dangerously.

  “It has come to our notice that there’s a boat being built in a disused shipyard somewhere down by the quay. Nothing out of the way in that, perhaps you’ll say; but these people are mighty private about the whole business. That was what first attracted Number Four’s notice. He decided to investigate. It proved quite a long and ticklish business—they don’t mean to be observed, I can tell you! Anyway, with the help of Number Two and myself, we evolved a plan. I won’t weary you with the details; suffice it to say that we eventually managed to get a look at this vessel—and a reasonably good look, too.”

  He stopped. Jackson, too, was now leaning forward
eagerly in his chair.

  “Yes?” he asked, impatiently.

  “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen afloat,” said Number Three, emphatically. “More like a damned birdcage than a fishing vessel! They’d almost completed it, by what I could tell, too.”

  “Describe it,” commanded Jackson tersely.

  “About twenty-one feet long, I should say—nothing extraordinary in size. Fore and aft, however, was a superstructure of ribs, over which was set tarred canvas, I tell you, the whole thing resembled nothing so much as a tunnel—the crew, presumably, must grope about in the dark on their hands and knees! In the centre of the contraption was set an odd sort of tower, with a hatchway at the top—”

  Here Captain Jackson let out a startled exclamation.

  “What is it?” asked the other, arrested in his train of thought. “Do you see a ray of light somewhere? Damned if I do!”

  “I believe so—but go on.”

  “That’s about all I have to tell. Except for the mast of this weird structure, which was collapsible, so that it could be used or shipped away at will. Though how far they can hope to go without even a mast, Heaven only knows! Either those who are building this ship must be stark raving mad, or else it isn’t a ship at all! I suppose,” he added, thoughtfully, “that there is just one other possibility, but that’s too fantastic to utter—”

  He stopped.

  “Suppose you let me hear it, just the same,” encouraged the Captain.

  “Well, I just wondered—can they possibly have discovered some new method of propulsion?” queried the other, in a puzzled tone.

  “In a sense, yes, that is the answer,” replied Jackson, slowly. “Not propulsion, though—that is the only thing lacking from their point of view. What they have discovered is a new means of transport. Have you ever heard of Robert Fulton, Number Three?”

  His companion started. “Good God, yes! What a fool I’ve been not to see that for myself! That ship of his—what did he call it?”

  “The Nautilus,” supplied Jackson. “Yes, my dear chap, that—or its counterpart, rather—is what is taking shape in this disused shipyard you speak of. The question is”—he hesitated, and drummed a rhythm with his finger tips on the bare table top—“the question is, why?”