The Guinea Stamp

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “That bench can afford you little comfort,” he said, suddenly, moving over to a corner where a dark travelling coat lay discarded in a heap. “Allow me to place this upon it for you.”

  She rose to her feet, and he folded the garment and laid it along the bench.

  “There, that is better! Try if it is not.”

  She sat down again. He hesitated for a moment, then placed himself at her side.

  “What on earth can you have been doing out of doors at this hour of night and in this season?” he asked, curiously.

  She smiled wryly. “I see you are to answer my question by asking one of your own—a method common in Scotland, so I understand. It is no doubt very clever, sir, but it will not do. I was the first to ask, and am awaiting a reply.”

  “I must take you back to the house,” he said, rising. “It is altogether undesirable that you should remain here.”

  “You fear to compromise me?” she asked, mockingly.

  He studied her for a moment in silence. She could not see his face clearly, but she could tell that its expression was grave.

  “If you truly thought of me as an equal, you would not ask that question, even in jest,” he said at last. It was her turn to be silent.

  “I am sorry,” she answered, after a pause. “I know you to be—sufficient of a gentleman—not to harm me in any way.”

  “Sufficient of a gentleman!” he repeated, ironically. “You do not grant me the full title, then, madam?”

  “How can I?” she asked, in surprise.

  “How indeed? I suppose you will argue that gentlemen do not demean themselves by participating in smuggling, spying, or other such low activities; I imagine that they would scorn to appear in such attire as this”—here he indicated with a gesture the fisherman’s garb which he was wearing—“or speak, as I do, in the homely tones of Devon! Is that what you mean, Miss Feniton?”

  “Perhaps it is.” She faced him squarely, a candid light in her hazel eyes. “Since you prefer plain speaking, Captain Jackson, let me say that you have given me no choice but to believe that you and I belong to two totally different spheres of life. You have consistently refused even to tell me your real name.”

  “I know. There is something in what you say.” He knitted his brows in thought. “The devil’s in it, but I must not,” he added, quickly. “I’m afraid the little I’ve been able to tell you of myself must suffice: you will have to take me on trust.”

  “But I observe that you are not to repose a like confidence in me,” she retorted. “You do not mean to trust me at all with your secrets!”

  “You little know,” he said, earnestly, leaning a little towards her, “how greatly I have already shown my trust in you. Only consider for a moment, Miss Feniton! Do you seriously suppose that in the ordinary way I would be likely to confide in anyone to the extent that I have done in yourself? On such a short acquaintance, too! Can you imagine that I would have lasted a day in this dangerous game, had I been in the habit of making such revelations? Why, even my nearest relations have no notion—”

  He broke off abruptly.

  “Your nearest relations,” repeated Joanna, thoughtfully. “Can you not at least tell me who they are?”

  He shook his head. “It is difficult to make you understand. Already I am suspected by the French of playing a double game; it becomes increasingly important that I should preserve my anonymity. That is my one sure defence. In these times, it is impossible for a man to know himself just who are his friends and who his enemies: how should you with less experience in such matters than I, be able to tell who is or is not to be trusted? If you were to know more of me, a chance word of yours—a look, even—might give the clue to one of these hidden watchers.”

  “Surely you do not mean to suggest—” she began, then broke off, frowning.

  “At least there is one thing you can tell me,” she continued, eagerly. “Someone came from the house to meet you tonight, I know—I saw a light being carried across the hall in the direction of the side door, and when I examined the door, it had been left unfastened. I could not see who it was, but you did have another man with you when—when I arrived on the scene, though you sent him away almost at once. Who was it—who is your confederate in Shalbeare House?”

  He shook his head, frowning.

  “Was it one of the servants?” insisted Joanna. “Is it possible that any of the domestic staff who came here with Sir George Lodge are connected with your smuggling gang?”

  “Believe me when I say that it is wiser if you remain in complete ignorance of the whole business,” he said, firmly. “But tell me, was it this which brought you out here tonight—did you follow this person? How comes it then that you were not abed?”

  “You are much better at asking questions than at answering them,” she pointed out, with a flash of her green eyes. “However, I will give you a lesson in openness. I was unable to sleep, and had got up again, with some idea of finding a way of employing the time until I should feel more like settling down, when I heard a noise outside my room. I looked out after a moment, and saw the light. I followed it to this spot—and you know the rest, I fancy!”

  “But why on earth should you do such a”—he fumbled for words—“such a foolhardy thing? Why did you not rouse the house—though I must say that I am thankful you did not,” he added, in heartfelt tones.

  “Perhaps for the same reason that I did not rouse the house when I discovered you that night,” she said mischievously. “I am a woman, and have my full share of feminine curiosity, after all.”

  “You have an uncommon share of courage,” he said, warmly. “But you mustn’t do such things, indeed you must not! There is no saying what dangers you may be led into!”

  “Into such hazards as this, no doubt?” she asked, with a little crooked smile.

  He looked into her face. The hazy light of the lantern threw an enchantment about her, a suggestion of mystery that was heightened by the silence and darkness of the world outside their small shelter. Her eyes were soft and mellow in the white oval of her face. He felt a quickness in his blood, a disturbing sense of her femininity. He drew a little away from her, until the heady feeling should have passed.

  “I must take you home,” he said, without any real conviction.

  “You are very anxious to be rid of me; am I such poor company?” she asked, mockingly.

  “Quite the reverse,” he said abruptly. He was still feeling the challenge of her presence.

  Almost as though she sensed this, some impulse moved Joanna to be provocative. She turned towards him, so that what little light there was fell upon her face.

  She was smiling, with a whimsical twist of her red lips; twin devils of light danced in the green flecked eyes. He caught his breath.

  “You do not sound very convincing,” she accused, softly.

  Something flamed within him. He leapt to his feet, drawing her to him, crushing her body relentlessly in his strong embrace. Before she could prevent it, his lips had found and held hers in passionate demand.

  For a moment only, she lay inert in his arms. Then she tore herself away, and dealt him a stinging slap across his cheek.

  “How—how dare you!” she stormed, the hazel eyes flashing with fury. “How dare you!”

  “I dare do all that may become a man’,” he quoted, quietly.

  “No gentleman,” said Joanna, in biting accents, “would dream of behaving so to a lady situated as I am at present!”

  “Evidently you know little of the sex, madam,” he replied, dryly. “But I accept your reproof: perhaps I did in some sort take advantage of your situation. If it eases your mind at all, I am willing to beg your pardon.”

  “Willing!” repeated Joanna, in fury. “Let me tell you, sir, you beg like a very tyrant! If I had anyone to avenge me, you should not go unscathed for this!”

  His lips twisted ironically. “Do not concern yourself, Miss Feniton. A sharper sword has entered my heart than any a champion of yours mig
ht produce!”

  “Do not be flowery,” she said, scathingly, subsiding a little. “I have warned you before that it is not in my style.”

  He shrugged. “That can scarcely matter.”

  She stared, uncertain whether to be affronted or not at the bitterness of his tone.

  “Not matter? Upon my word, you are a very strange man, allow me to tell you! I suppose you think it no great matter, then, that you have just offered me an insult?”

  His expression hardened. “Do you take an honest man’s love for an insult, Miss Feniton?” he asked, in a brittle voice.

  “Love!” she effected a scornful laugh. “I can think of another word for it!”

  “Then you would be wrong,” he said, quietly. “This is no moment to be making you a declaration, I realize, but I am scarcely in a position to stand upon form. I do in truth love you, Miss Feniton. The conviction has been growing upon me ever since our first meeting.”

  “Pray continue!” she goaded him, mockingly. “You should now offer me your heart and hand!”

  “That I cannot do at present, as you very well know.”

  “Upon my word!” she exclaimed, tartly. “This is a vastly fine declaration, to be sure! What answer do you expect me to make to such a piece of effrontery, I wonder?”

  “Effrontery?” He considered her for a moment in silence. Her manner was quieter now; the first fury had vanished, leaving only a trace in her slightly flushed cheeks. She had become the Miss Feniton of their first meeting, the cold, disdainful young lady whom nothing could touch.

  “It may perhaps appear so to you,” he said, in a voice charged with feeling. “You do not think me your equal in rank and fortune, and what right has an ordinary man to the affection of one such as Miss Feniton of Shalbeare House?”

  “It is not altogether that,” she said, defensively, discarding her mocking tone. “Leaving aside such matters, you surely cannot expect that I would form an attachment to you after the very few meetings we have had together—more particularly when you consider the nature of those meetings!”

  “Few or many, what does it signify?” he asked, with a touch of scorn. “Do you feel that love comes only after a proper interval, and solely to those who have been properly presented to each other in some ballroom or other public place? I had thought that Joanna Feniton had a soul above the conventions!”

  “Conventions are very necessary, and a woman flouts them at her peril,” replied Joanna, in a practical tone. “We cannot all fling our bonnets over the windmill.”

  He stepped forward impetuously, and took her hands in his.

  “But you can, Joanna! Think of the bonnet which you flung into the river Teign! I still have it, you know, though I was obliged to burn the scarf with which you bandaged my arm.”

  “You kept my bonnet?” she exclaimed, for the moment so diverted by the idea that she forgot to withdraw her hands from his.

  He nodded, looking into her eyes.

  “That poor bedraggled wreck of velvet and satin ribbons was all I had as a reminder of you,” he said, softly.

  She returned his gaze for a moment, the hazel eyes widening. A faint blush came to her cheek; then she pulled her hands impatiently from his grasp.

  “Then you had much better burn it!” she said, with a snap. “And I advise you to put these foolish thoughts of me out of your head! I must tell you that I am already as good as affianced to another.”

  These words did not produce quite the effect that she had hoped for: it crossed her mind that perhaps he had learnt as much already from one of those mysterious sources of information which he appeared to have at his command.

  “May I inquire who the man is?” he asked, in even tones.

  “It is no business of yours, of course,” she pointed out, coldly. “Still, I see no harm in telling you. His name is Cholcombe—he is the son of a nobleman.”

  “Algernon Cholcombe!” he repeated, scornfully. “You know him?” she asked, quickly.

  “Let us say rather that I know of him.”

  “You seem to have a knowledge of everyone in these parts,” she said, musingly. “Though I recollect that you did not know Kitty Lodge by sight, for you took me for her.”

  “It is my business to know such things,” he replied, shortly. “What did you mean when you said that you were ‘as good as affianced’ to this man?”

  She looked away, unable for some reason to meet his eyes.

  “He has not spoken as yet,” she said, in an uncertain tone. “It is—a family arrangement.”

  “A marriage of convenience!” he exclaimed, scathingly.

  “If you like to call it so.”

  “And you would be content to enter into such a contract?” he asked, incredulously. “You, who have the spirit for high adventure, the courage to flout those conventions which you affect to prize! I tell you it is—it is”—he struggled for a word, and brought it out at last, vehemently—“prostitution!”

  “If you are to use such unsuitable language,” she said, coldly, advancing towards the exit, “I think it high time for me to go. I wish you good night, Captain Jackson.”

  “No, wait!” In two strides he was before her, blocking the way. “I am sorry if you should mislike my choice of words, but someone must tell you the truth! Cozened by that old battle axe of a grandmother of yours, you may slip into a marriage which can only be a source of disgust to one of your disposition! My lovely Joanna—”

  She made a gesture of distaste at these words.

  “Very well,” he said, in a quieter tone. “I promise I will not be flowery! But ask yourself if you can honestly give any better word to a marriage such as you contemplate at this moment! Do you truly consider it worthy of your highest ideals?”

  “I have had little to do with such matters,” said Miss Feniton, sensibly. “It seems to me that a suitable match is capable of yielding as much happiness as one between two people in the throes of a violent passion, who may be as incompatible as—as night and day!”

  “May I ask what you consider a suitable match?” he asked, gravely.

  “One where rank and fortune are nearly equal, and there is not too much difference in age,” she answered, unconsciously quoting her grandmother. “Both parties, of course, should be of good character,” she added, on her own account. “And if the families are known to each other, so much the better.”

  “A very sensible arrangement,” he approved, mockingly. “I think it provides for everything. Choosing a husband, then, partakes of something of the same nature as choosing a new bonnet? The colours and materials must tone with the rest of one’s wardrobe, and it must have just the right number of ribbons and fal-lals!”

  “Captain Jackson,” said Miss Feniton, wearily. “This conversation is not leading us anywhere. I am very tired, and would like above all to return to the house. Will you kindly allow me to pass?”

  He stood aside at once.

  “I am sorry,” he said, contritely. “Of course, you must be dead tired. I will escort you back to the house—and promise to plague you with no more questions or homilies.”

  She protested a little, insisting that she could go alone. He was not to be moved this time, however, and she was not altogether sorry. The prospect of the long walk back alone in the dark was not a pleasant one in her present state of mind.

  He picked up his coat and placed it about her shoulders, paying no heed to her protests. He took the lantern in one hand, and offered her his other arm. She was about to refuse, but thought better of it, and placed her hand upon his sleeve.

  They made the long walk back in silence, both wrapped in thoughts which apparently could not be shared. As they stood in the shadows close to the side door of the house, he released her arm, and, taking her hand, carried it gently to his lips. She permitted the gesture, but unresponsively. She felt unutterably weary.

  She slipped the coat from about her shoulders, and handed it to him.

  “I must go in. Thank you for accompanying me.
Good night,” she whispered.

  He watched her while she softly opened the door, and stepped into the passage. She turned for a second, smiled, then closed the door upon him.

  He heard the bolts being gently eased into place, but it was some time before he turned to go.

  THIRTEEN - The Trap

  The grey day was not far advanced when Captain Jackson beached his boat on the thin strip of sand which had been exposed by the outgoing tide. There was no beauty here in Kerswell Cove on this cold morning of December; even the tawny Devon sand seemed drained of colour. He made towards the low, dark cave in the cliffs, and, flinging himself down on hands and knees, crawled laboriously into its depths. After a short distance, he was able to stand upright.

  The interior of the cave was pitch black, but he could find his way comfortably along its narrow, winding ways with the aid of a small lantern which he carried attached to his belt. He had not far to go. The first bend in the path brought him to a wider section of the cave. Here he paused, turning towards the wall on his left hand. With the ease born of long practice, he reached up to a natural shelving of the rock, his hands closing around a small wooden box which rested there.

  He lifted down the box, and fitted into the miniature lock a key which he drew from the pocket of his sea-stained breeches. He raised the lid, and inspected the contents of the box by the light of his lamp.

  He saw at once that there were no dispatches inside. This did not surprise him, for it was understood that he would not be making the voyage to France for another few months, unless in case of urgent need. It was customary for him to remain in England until the contraband which he had lately brought over the water should have been disposed of, and the money for it collected. Only then would he set out for the shores of France once more.

  There was, however, a thin strip of folded paper lying in the box. This could only be one of the orders for which he had of late looked in vain. His pulse quickened a little; did this mean that he was not suspect, after all? But perhaps it was not for him. He picked it up, and saw the letter “J” marked plainly on the cover.