Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (27 page)

 
          
 
Then, on impulse, she picked up the jade
pendant which lay upon the dressing table, even as it had when she had first
discovered it. She slipped its silken cord over her head. But this time she
made no attempt to hide it from sight under her bodice.

 
          
 
Against the dead black of her mourning, the
white gem appeared to glow. She wore it for no reason of ornament, but because
she had an odd feeling that it, too, would add strength to her determination to
face the world in her own defense, and in Damaris' behalf.

 
          
 
Saranna gathered up her small silken reticule,
her black bordered handkerchief, made a last careful survey of her person as a
soldier might check his arms and equipment just before going into battle. The
door key she slid into the purse.

 
          
 
"Miss Saranna," Millie stood
round-eyed by the door, "you—you look like you
be
a Queen! That there little old cap, it could be like a crown, it do look one,
it sure do!" She seemed astounded by the change.

 
          
 
Saranna held her shoulders straight. That
Millie's tribute was unrehearsed, she knew. And along with the verdict of the
mirror, the maid's words added a further steeling of her purpose. Millie
fumbled with the door knob, and opened that portal for her mistress to sail
through.

 
          
 
Out in the hall, Saranna did not hesitate,
going directly to the top of the stairs. She might well have tested the key on
the lock of Damaris' prison. But for the moment, she did not wish to try fate
too high. Now it must depend largely on the results of her confrontation with
Honora what further steps she would take to aid the younger girl.

 
          
 
Below she heard a murmur of voices in the
breakfast room. And one was deeper—Mr. Fowke! Then he had come to Honora's
summons. She must not allow that to make any difference in her attitude.
Saranna must present the picture of serene outward normality.

 
          
 
With her head high, she entered the room.
Honora's back was toward her, and her flow of rippling speech was in full
force. But Mr. Fowke glanced up at Saranna's quiet but determined entrance.

 
          
 
She saw his eyes widen. An odd expression she
could not identify flitted across his weathered features. Then he arose from
his chair and, napkin in hand, awaited beside the seat on his right. Honora
swung halfway around, her astonishment was plain only for a moment. Then she
recovered with that rapidity which was part of her own armament.

 
          
 
"Saranna, dear!
But I thought that you said your headache was far too bad for you to join
us."

 
          
 
"I have suffiiciently recovered, thank
you, Honora," Saranna replied, holding fast to her courage. For what
Honora's narrowed,
angry eyes told her was
far
different from the tinkle of her words.

 
          
 
Composedly the girl seated herself in the
chair Mr. Fowke had drawn out for her, thanking him with a murmur. John
appeared in the doorway, took in the situation, and a moment or so later Rose
hurried in with an extra setting for the table.

 
          
 
"Do not let me interrupt you."
Saranna somehow was able to preserve her outward calm, so that her words
sounded reasonably prosaic in her own ears. "I know you have affairs of
moment to discuss—“

 
          
 
She did not glance directly at Honora as she
said that. But she felt the atmosphere about Jethro's daughter, as if the
other's very rage gave off a fire's heat. Yet Honora's reception of Saranna
suggested that Mr. Fowke was not to know of the situation at Tiensin.
Which told the girl that she was a measure right in her trust.
If Honora did not wish hun to learn of the outburst which had greeted Damaris
and Saranna on their return to the house, the reason must be that she herself
feared some opposition to her handling of her stepdaughter.

 
          
 
It was the first time Saranna had ever eaten
in a room so full of hostility aimed at her. But she did so with deliberation,
as if nothing mattered but the food on her plate, chewing and swallowing bites
of what might be dry and stale bread for
all the
real
flavor the dishes held for her.

 
          
 
"It is a beautiful day," Mr. Fowke
remarked into the silence which ensued upon
Saranna's being
served. "Perhaps I can persuade you ladies, and Miss Damaris, to ride to
Queen's Pleasure."

 
          
 
Now Saranna dared raise her eyes and stare
directly at Honora. How was Honora going to answer that? Two headaches might be
a little difficult for Mr. Fowke to believe.

 
          
 
She saw that Honora's face was grave, her eyes
avoided meeting Saranna's.

 
          
 
"Gerrad, I am so worried about Damaris.
Her grandfather's preoccupation with those Eastern things has filled her mind
to the point it has become an obsession. In fact, I have asked Dr. Meade to
come for a consultation. It might be far better for the child to be out of
these surroundings until she puts
less store
in this
'treasure' of hers. Dr. Meade has spoken of an excellent school for such
children—very well managed and with the latest methods of handling hysterical
cases. My father does not really understand what a problem Damaris has become.
She has not been well supervised, instead given freedoms which have done her
great harm. Dr. Meade will see her and then we can decide what is best for
her—"

 
          
 
"Are you sure all has been going well
here, Honora?" Mr. Fowke asked. "I know you have had trouble with
governesses in the past. But from my observation, Miss Stowell has an excellent
effect on Miss Damaris, and the child seems to be much happier and more
cheerful."

 
          
 
"Damaris," Saranna spoke for the
first time, "is very intelligent for her age. Her knowledge has quite
amazed me—"

 
          
 
"What do you know?" Honora flashed
out as if she could no longer restrain the temper boiling in her. "My late
father-in-law filled her young mind with all kinds of heathen notions. And
because she parrots what he taught her, everyone gets the false impression that
Damaris is very learned. There is no truth in that, as you can judge when you
have known her longer. She is highly excitable and can be easily influenced
into rash acts. But this time she has gone too far—"

 
          
 
"Too far?" repeated Mr. Fowke.

 
          
 
"Yes!" Honora tossed her napkin onto
the table. "If you do not believe me—come and see!"

 
          
 
Her skirts rustled as she arose so hurriedly
from her chair that it rocked and nearly overbalanced. Saranna stood up in turn
as Mr. Fowke pushed past her to where Honora was already going out the door.

 
          
 
Honora led the way to the library which was
the nearest of the two rooms Saranna and Damaris had plundered in the night.
She flung open that door with an extravagant gesture. "Look! Everything
has gone!"

 
          
 
Mr. Fowke did indeed look, and his face
expressed his amazement.

 
          
 
"But, Honora—where are—?" he did not
try to finish that question. Instead, he stared intently at first one and then
another bare shelf, table edge—all the places which had been so filled the day
before.

 
          
 
"Where has she put them?" Honora
cried out.

 
          
 
Mr. Fowke turned to her, his face grave.
"Honora, what you have just implied is impossible! No child could have
looted this place. This is the work of men. Have you sent for the
constable?"

 
          
 
"She did not do it alone." Honora
pointed at Saranna who had followed her into the room. "This—this
young—" Then she actually choked upon her anger. A phenomenon of which
Saranna had heard but which she had never seen before.

 
          
 
"Nonsense!"
Mr. Fowke was now a little aroused in turn. "You know very well such an
act by two young girls is utterly physically impossible!
Unless
they had help."

 
          
 
"Perhaps they did!" Honora had lost
more than a little of her fine coloring, her face looked near to haggard.
"Perhaps they had
help
from—" She stopped
short then.

 
          
 
"From the
servants?"
Mr. Fowke prompted when she did not continue.

 
          
 
"There is not one of the slaves who would
dare," Honora replied impatiently. "But they did it—the two of them.
Damaris as good as admitted it—"

 
          
 
"In jest perhaps, or because she was
angry," Mr. Fowke said quietly. "Remember, I have seen the collection
many times and—"

 
          
 
"It is all gone!" Honora interrupted
him.
"All but the screen, a carved table or such, and,
of course, those pieces in Damaris' old room.
Search if you will. We
have, the Partons and
I
, and there is not so much as
the smallest carving left. Except—" she turned quickly once more to
Saranna "—that bribe she wears like the brazen little hussy that she is.
Damaris gave her that for her help. There was no place else she could have
gotten it—"

 
          
 
"I—" Saranna began indignantly, when
Mr. Fowke raised his hand m a signal for silence.

 
          
 
"Honora, Saranna has already assured me
that
is
no part of the Captain's treasure—"

 
          
 
For a moment Saranna did not catch her name,
but Honora was quicker.

 
          
 
"So you call her 'Saranna,’ not 'Miss
Stowell' any longer? She has been busier even than I have believed. And, of
course, it is part of the collection no matter how much she has tried to
convince you otherwise."

 
          
 
There was very little expression on Mr.
Fowke's face now and what there was Saranna could not read. But when he
answered Honora he again used the "Captain" voice which had reduced
Rufus in the garden.

 
          
 
"I believe there is in existence a
catalogue of the collection. Maybe Damaris can give it to us. Then we shall
know the truth about this pendant."

 
          
 
Perhaps Honora might have
refused,
her mouth was set enough to utter some mutinous word. Then she beckoned
imperiously toward the door of the library where John now hovered.

 
          
 
"In my room," she spoke tersely.
"I want the book bound in gold brocade—at once!"

 
          
 
John disappeared. So Damaris had been right.
Honora had taken the book. Honora walked over to the desk, leaned one hand on
its polished surface.

 
          
 
"Mr. Walsworth, and his friend, John
Sheers—they will be here next week. They could not believe, even when they saw
the pieces described. We have to find them—"

 
          
 
"You would have done better,
Honora," Gerrad Fowke remarked in a level tone, "to have sent for me,
and for the sheriff, the minute you discovered the robbery. Two young females
have not the strength to carry any of the collection had it been carefully
packed—"