He stared at her for some moments in a way that quite frightened her.
“Yes, I see,” he said slowly, abstractedly.
He began to pace about the room. She watched him in silence, uncertain whether or not to go.
“Will there be anything more, y’r honour?” she ventured, at last.
“What? Oh, no: that is all — but stay — this lady — I accompanied her on the stage coach to London, you say?”
The woman assented, eyeing him strangely: and, her husband arriving at that moment with the wine that had been ordered, she quickly took the opportunity of leaving her disturbing guest. To be sure, it was a dreadful thing that such a fine-looking young man should hit the bottle to the extent that he could not afterwards recollect what he had done! But there was no gainsaying the wildness of some members of the Quality!
When at last he was left completely alone in the parlour, Sir Richard seated himself upon the sofa, and thoughtfully raised his glass to the light. As he gazed at the red wine it held, seeing yet unseeing, he suddenly knew that once before he had sat here in this very room and looked into the red depths of — something, but what? Not a glass of wine, he felt sure.
He meditated a while, twirling the stem of the glass absently in his fingers. His glance turned from the direction of the small latticed window of the room, and fixed itself on the fire. An awareness crept over him, a strong recollection of a mood rather than an incident: he had sat here once before, gazing into the fire, hopeless, dejected, awaiting someone who to him meant hope and courage.
Who could it have been? He strove to remember, but memory would not be forced. By the landlady’s account, it must have been this girl, the supposed governess. He tried to recall her face, but in vain; even the remembered mood was vanishing now, as though he were awaking from a dream. Yet somewhere in the back of his consciousness he knew the landlady’s account to be the truth. Why, then, would it not come back to him sharp and clear, as much more distant events in his life would do? The pictures were there, he felt convinced, but they would not swim into focus; they were as reflections on the water with rippling edges not clearly defined, scarce recognisable for the things they were.
He drained his glass suddenly at a gulp, and pushed it away from him, rising impatiently to his feet. He would go out and walk for a while, try to straighten his thoughts. Here in this inn, memories pressed too closely upon him for recognition. With a quick stride, he passed from the room, down the passage, and out into the road.
It was some two hours later when Letty and Jane arrived at the inn. The journey had been accomplished without incident, and almost without conversation; for Letty was deep in hatching schemes for an outcome of this affair that would be to her liking, while Jane’s thoughts were equally absorbing. Daylight was beginning to fade as they arrived; birds were singing their last throaty calls, and a little chill had crept into the air.
Jane shook herself out of her abstraction as they passed through the door of the inn into the hall. The landlady was waiting there, and, for a moment, Jane wondered if the woman would recognise her. She gave no sign of doing so, and this Jane attributed to the dim light indoors, for the lamps were not yet kindled. She could not realise how greatly she was changed from the shabby, severe-looking governess who had last passed that way.
Letty inquired for her brother, and Jane’s heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. In a moment, she would be face to face with Sir Richard. She knew a sudden onset of panic. Why, oh, why had she allowed Letty to persuade her to come? What was she to say to him, how to act?
She heard the landlady replying that Sir Richard was not at present within; her fears subsided like an outgoing tide.
“My brother out?” Letty was asking, incredulously.
“Yes, ma’am. Been gone nigh on two hours, he has, and his dinner spoiling in the oven. But if you please to come in and wait, ma’am, I’ll wager he’ll soon be back, for hunger brings a man home sooner than anything else I know of. I’ll show you to the parlour, ma’am. Will you be wanting dinner, too?”
“Oh, yes, if you please,” replied Letty. “But we will wait in here — it affords a view of the road.”
She pushed open the door of the coffee-room as she spoke, and she and Jane entered. As soon as they were alone, she turned an anxious face towards her friend.
“Two hours, Jane, did you hear what she said? Can you imagine where he could go that would detain him all that time? Do you suppose he may have gone to Farrowdene? But why? Mr. Summers is not in residence, and besides, he can hope to learn nothing new there, for he told me that he could remember perfectly all that part of his journey. It was what passed after he had left the house that he could not recollect. Whatever can have become of him, Jane?”
“He is probably trying to retrace the way he took on that previous occasion,” said Jane. “In any event, I should not worry. He will return presently, I am sure.”
“But I must worry,” insisted Letty, fidgetting with her bonnet strings as she peered out of the window. “When one recalls what happened to him before, one cannot but feel anxious!”
“Such a thing couldn’t possibly happen again,” replied Jane. “It would be stretching coincidence too far.”
Her thoughts were not as easy as her words. She was remembering the last time that Sir Richard had vanished from the place where she had expected him to be. On that occasion, the events of the preceding hours had been erased from his memory. Had a similar calamity befallen him again?
Was he perhaps wandering about helplessly at this very moment, not knowing who he was nor whence he came?
She did her best to push such thoughts away. On no account must she allow Letty to guess at them. Her friend was already sufficiently perturbed in imagining her brother to have been set upon again. That was extremely unlikely; but this other hazard was much more probable, and what would her friend’s state of mind be if it once occurred to her?
The minutes passed slowly. Some attempts were made at conversation, but these were merely desultory remarks thrown into the void of silence to stop the ever quickening flow of alarming thought and surmise. Letty sat on the window seat, staring out into the road through the gathering dusk, tying and untying her bonnet strings ceaselessly with trembling fingers. Jane stood motionless beside her, outwardly as controlled as ever.
Twenty minutes or more must have gone by in this way, when suddenly Letty started and jumped to her feet. A figure had just come into view, striding up the road in the direction of the inn, with the gait of a healthy, able-bodied man. She knew him instantly; and, with a glad little cry, she rushed from the room, and out into the road towards him, leaving the door of the coffee-room open in her haste.
Relief flooded over Jane, and was instantly replaced by a wild confusion. He was here, and safe, and in a moment would be in the room, speaking to her. She could not move, and stood fixed to the spot, staring from the window at the meeting of brother and sister. She saw the joyful look on Letty’s face, and the astonishment of his. They stood there for a while, deep in conversation; and then they started towards the inn. They passed close to the window, but did not notice Jane standing there; presently she heard their steps in the passage, and their voices floated in to her through the open door.
“But who is with you child?” Jane heard him ask. “Not, I hope, Mama?”
“Goodness, no, Riccy, how can you think of such a thing? I would not trouble Mama! No, Jane is with me — Miss Tarrant, you know.”
“Miss Tarrant!”
Jane heard the dismay in his voice, and clenched her hands tightly together. He evidently did not wish to see her, was regretting already the impulsive offer he had made to her this morning. Well, he had nothing to fear, she would not remind him of it. Only she wished that she had a little more time to collect herself; she could not face him immediately — just a few more moments …
She heard them enter the room, heard the man’s swift intake of breath, and startled exclamation as he perceiv
ed her standing there at the window in the gathering dusk.
“Good God! The dream!”
She could not understand his words, but believed that she must not have heard them aright. In the present tumult of her feelings, anything was possible. She forced herself to turn, and gave a formal curtsey: words would not come.
“Miss Tarrant!” he said, in tones of deep disappointment. “No, it can’t be!”
Under his fixed, perplexed gaze her eyes dropped. No one moved or spoke for what seemed an eternity.
“That figure at the window,” he muttered, as though talking to himself; “I could not be deceived. I have seen it too often in my dreams for that. No, it was the same — and yet —”
The room was silent, pressing in upon them. At last, he turned to his sister.
“I have remembered everything,” he said. “While I was out walking, bit by bit it all fell into place. I was found unconscious close to this inn by a party of stage travellers; there was a governess among them who tended me. When I discovered that I’d lost my memory, she helped me to get to Town to see her lawyer; but I never saw him, after all, for I recovered my memory while I was waiting alone outside his chambers. In remembering who I was, I forgot again the incidents through which I had recently passed, only to recover them today. I forgot, too, what was most valuable to me to remember — the governess, her name, her face.”
He stopped abruptly, and looked from his sister to Jane, who still stood motionless before the window.
“Only that dream was left as a reminder of her,” he said, slowly, “though at the time, I could not read its message. But now, today, as I entered this room, the dream came suddenly to life, and there she was, standing at the window. And yet — and yet — I must be wrong —”
Letty and Jane said nothing. He stared at the latter with an intense gaze, as though he would penetrate her very soul.
“Her name,” he said, in a puzzled voice, “was Jane Spencer.”
Letty moved towards him, and placed her hand on his arm to claim his attention.
“That is Jane’s name,” she said, softly. “Jane Spencer Tarrant.”
A long silence fell over the room. Jane was certain that the others must hear the tumultuous beating of her heart. Letty looked from one to the other for a moment, then slipped quietly from the room, closing the door firmly behind her. She was not needed there; they did not even notice her going.
“So you are Jane Spencer,” said Sir Richard, in a wondering tone, and he moved closer to Jane so that he might better see her face in the fading light. She nodded, and the flickering firelight momentarily caught the burnished gleam of her hair. He reached out, and took one of the bright ringlets in his fingers, twining it as though absently.
“But your hair is different.”
She managed to find her voice at that. “You didn’t like my hair as it was; I thought perhaps you were right. I — I changed it.
“Did you then care for my opinion?”
Jane could find no ready answer to this. He looked into her face again, releasing the curl reluctantly.
“The eyes are the same — yes, I distinctly remember them.”
They lowered before his gaze, and a blush came to Jane’s cheek. She hoped that it might escape his notice in the dim light of the room, and sought to provide a distraction.
“You may remember that I have some property of yours.”
With unsteady fingers, she took the snuff box from her reticule, and held it out to him. He took it, and laid it carelessly on the window seat, his eyes still on her face.
“I remember also that I am in your debt,” he answered, his voice deep.
“That is nothing — do not let us speak of it,” she said, uncertainly.
“Presently, perhaps. First there is something I would like you to tell me.”
His tone was more assured now; he was rapidly becoming master of the situation, while Jane felt it to be slipping more and more from her grasp. What would he ask her? There were so many awkward questions he might put.
“Why did you not return the snuff box to me before this, I wonder?”
Here it was, the one question she had feared. She answered warily.
“You did not appear to remember me,” she said. “At first, the notion crossed my mind that you might not wish to continue the acquaintance.”
He started at this, and a look of reproach came into his eyes. Jane’s conscience pricked her; what she had said was not strictly true, but somehow she must stop him from guessing at her real reason for failing to return the box. She hurried on with her explanation.
“Later,” she said, “when I realised the truth, I was uncertain what was best to be done. It seemed better to wait and see if you would recover your memory, and so I left the box with my lawyer.”
He was silent for some minutes after this, and Jane felt that he was weighing the adequacy of her reply. Her uneasiness increased.
“So at first you believed me an ingrate,” he said, drily. “I thank you.”
“How could I know what to think?” asked Jane, a hint of pleading in her tone. “Your sudden disappearance in Chancery Lane upset all my previous notions — and, besides, Mr. Sharratt and I found the letter in the snuff box. We read it, not realising the nature of it until it was too late. We had hoped thereby to trace you.”
“You read Celia’s note?” he asked, in alarm.
She nodded. not knowing what to say.
His face darkened. “Small wonder, then, that you should have been so contemptuous towards me this morning. I knew, of course, that you were bound to suspect, from the evidence — but the note would clinch the business for you; naturally, you believed it to have been written to me.”
“What else could I think? And yet —”
“A fine opinion you have been holding of me!” he said, bitterly. “An ingrate, and a backstairs lover!”
“Oh, no!”
Jane started forward a step, impulsively. All at once, she felt that it mattered no longer if he should suspect her feelings; the only thing that counted was to remove all traces of the hurt which she saw in his eyes.
“I could never really bring myself to believe either charge,” she said, her own eyes soft. “When I thought of your clandestine meetings with Celia, the note — it seemed impossible not to believe the worst: but when I thought of you as I had known you here, for those few short hours —”
He moved towards her, and she hastily drew back a pace.
“Yes, Jane?” he asked, eagerly. “When you thought of that —?”
“I — I could not believe you so base,” she murmured, haltingly.
It seemed he had expected another answer, for his disappointment was evident.
“You now know the truth of those meetings with Celia, of course? Letty will have made all clear to you?”
“Yes. I am sorry to have been the unwitting cause of so much trouble. I could not realise how anxiously both you and Celia were seeking the letter. However, she has it safe at last. I delivered it to her myself before Letty and I set out.”
She did not mention the scene that had ensued on that occasion, nor her discovery that the Earl of Bordesley was her uncle. Somehow these things seemed to matter very little at present.
“You did?” he exclaimed in relief. “Then the whole wretched business is done with, praise be! When I think of the trouble that accursed letter has caused —”
He broke off, and moved closer to her. It was almost dark now in the room, and his eyes were two deep shadows in his face.
“But I must not curse it too much, after all,” he continued, softly, “for without it, I should never have met you.”
Jane’s bosom rose and fell quickly. Only a step now separated them: suppose she were to sway forward, as she felt that at any minute she must?
“When I asked you to marry me, this morning,” said Sir Richard, his tone low and deep, “you told me that there were reasons why such a marriage would be distasteful to you. I want yo
u to tell me what those reasons are.”
There was a quiet masterfulness about his manner that would not be denied; his dark eyes compelled hers.
She shook her head, trying to avoid his glance.
“You seemed quite certain that there was no one else,” he went on, in a lighter tone. “Have you then decided to take the veil?”
“Richard!” She looked up, in laughing protest. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!”
“There is no need for you to beg my pardon,” he answered. “By all means, Richard — I hope to hear you say the name often hereafter. Very well, then, Jane, since you are not destined for a nunnery, what are these reasons of which you spoke?”
His smile was mocking, but Jane could feel the intensity that lay under it, and she shivered a little with emotion. There could be only one outcome now of this interview, she knew, yet, perversely, she sought to delay it.
“I will not be bullied, sir,” she said, rallying her forces to speak lightly. “You could hardly expect me to welcome a marriage of convenience.”
“But if it were not convenience,” he said quickly, taking her hands in his. “If I were to say to you, as I do now — Jane Tarrant, I love you; I loved you when we were here in this inn before; I loved you when we met in Town, though I did not then know it; I loved you even in my dreams, and shall continue to love you for the rest of my life — how if I should say that, Jane?”
Her hands trembled in his. His dark eyes sought hers, but still she kept her head bent.
“What have you to say to that, my lovely Jane?” he insisted. “Could it be possible that this might alter your decision — that you might find it in your heart to love me a little in return?”
The Jewelled Snuff Box Page 19