The Guinea Stamp (26 page)

“I shall do very well presently,” she continued, in failing accents. “To be sure, I am not strong, but then one must not think only of oneself—”

Before anyone could reply to this brave speech, or, indeed, before it could be completed, the door burst open, and Mr. Cholcombe strode into the room.

His entrance created a minor sensation. Lady Feniton and the gentlemen stared, Kitty exclaimed, and Lady Lodge gave another faint moan, and motioned for her smelling-bottle.

“I am aware,” said Cholcombe, quickly, after the first brief bow of greeting, “of all that is going on—I had the news as I passed through the village. I must make my apologies for arriving at such an ill-chosen time.”

“Algernon Cholcombe!” muttered Lady Feniton, under her breath. “It wanted only this to make the day complete!”

He had turned to inquire after Lady Lodge’s health, although it must have been obvious from the evidence that he could not hope for a favourable reply.

“Poor Mama is quite overset!” explained Kitty. “When she heard that dreadful explosion, she was convinced that the French had landed in Devon, and really, one cannot blame her, you know.”

“I think it very foolish and wrong of the Admiral,” complained Lady Lodge, feebly, “to permit his men to shatter the peace of a small fishing village with—with things of that nature. And merely for the sake of putting in a little practice, too! Sir George, I wish you will have a question asked in the House concerning it—such things should not be!”

“But where is Miss Feniton?” asked Cholcombe, having paid his respects to everyone else in the room. “I trust the affair has not alarmed her unduly?”

“That is just what I have been trying to ascertain,” said Lady Feniton, with a frown. “Joanna was not feeling well earlier in the day, and I sent her back to bed. When the explosion occurred I went at once to see if it had alarmed her, and found her gone.”

“Gone?” asked Cholcombe, knitting his brows.

“Gone from her room,” explained Lady Feniton. “Naturally, I supposed that she would be found in some part of the house, and sent her maid to look for her. Now I am told that she is nowhere to be found at all.”

“Perhaps Betty is mistaken, ma’am,” said Kitty, handing the vinaigrette to her mother, who was now looking much more herself. “I will go and look for her myself.”

“I don’t believe there can be any mistake,” replied Lady Feniton, with a worried air. “Betty was aided in her search by several of the other girls. Besides, Joanna would surely not remain in a room alone at such a time as this? Unless she had suddenly become much worse, and swooned, or some such thing.”

Lady Lodge shuddered. “Who could blame her, if she has?”

“I have never known Joanna to swoon in her life!” exclaimed her hostess, with a snap. “She has not been reared in such fainthearted style, I assure you!”

“Has anyone searched out of doors?” asked Mr. Cholcombe, still frowning. “Miss Feniton may have decided to take a stroll.”

“It seems unlikely, in view of all the circumstances—” began Lady Feniton, who by now was beginning to feel more than concerned. “However, no one has actually been outside to look.”

“Then I will do so now. Do you care to assist me, Dorlais? Between us, we should soon cover the likely ground—for I imagine that Miss Feniton would not venture far from the house in this weather?”

Both Lady Feniton and Kitty were in agreement with this.

“But there is no saying for certain,” finished Lady Feniton. “She was acting so very strangely today. What exactly occurred in the library, Feniton? She seemed perfectly as usual when she left the room where we were sitting, did she not, Letitia?”

Lady Lodge nodded, without any real conviction. She found nothing extraordinary in the fact that the mere mention of spies being in the neighbourhood had been enough to prostrate Joanna. She wondered now how she herself had managed to keep up her spirits so well in face of the dreadful tidings.

“She asked a question or two concerning the affair,” answered Sir Walter, with troubled eyes. “In particular, she wished to know if we were acquainted with the man’s name.”

“Were you able to answer her, sir?” asked Dorlais, sharply.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” replied Sir George. “Smythe gave me a very full account of the business—told me the fellow’s name was Jackson. No one seemed to know anything of him, though.”

“So you passed that information on to her?”

“Naturally.”

“And after that,” asked Cholcombe, breaking in upon this conversation, “Miss Feniton became unwell?”

Sir Walter directed a sharp glance at the speaker. For a moment, their eyes met in silent understanding. Then Cholcombe strode to the door.

“Are you coming, Dorlais?” he asked.

Guy Dorlais nodded, and started to follow him.

“I think we will go, too, eh, George?” said Sir Walter. “Four of us will cover the ground more quickly than two, even if you and I are not quite so active as these youngsters.”

They all quitted the room without more ado.

“Upon my word,” said Lady Feniton, roundly, “there is something going on here which I do not at all comprehend!”

Lady Lodge acquiesced weakly, and reached once more for the vinaigrette.

TWENTY - The True Identity of Captain Jackson

For some time after Captain Masterman had left, Joanna could hear no sound in the farmhouse. She had examined her prison carefully for any chance of escape, but had reluctantly been obliged to admit defeat. The small skylight was wedged so that it would not open; and even if she should succeed in breaking the glass without injury to herself, the resultant aperture would not be sufficiently large for her to pass through. She next had the notion of trying to pick the lock with a hairpin, only to give up in disgust when she had ruined all the available tools for this purpose. She searched in vain for a piece of wire which might be stronger, but at last had to give up the idea altogether, and sat down upon the hard chair which had been provided for her use with feelings very near to despair.

It was imperative that she should escape from here without delay. There was no one other than herself who could save the man Jackson from whatever punishment would fall to the lot of a supposed traitor. What a fool she had been, she thought bitterly, to allow herself to be deluded by Captain Masterman! But her suspicions of Dorlais had been so strong that she had not kept a sufficiently open mind. When Captain Masterman had questioned her about Jackson, she had jumped to the conclusion that he was Jackson’s helper: considering his words now, in the light of what she knew, she saw that he had, in reality, been as uncertain as she was of Jackson’s identity. He had quickly taken advantage of her false assumption, like the accomplished deceiver he must be. Well, there was no help now for that. Her folly had brought her into her present predicament, and she must trust that her wits could help her out of it again.

As far as she could see, there remained only one possibility; she must somehow persuade the man downstairs to help her. She searched feverishly among her belongings, and brought to light the total sum of money of which she was at present possessed. She shook her head sadly. No one would be likely to think much of a bribe of twenty-three shillings. Still, she could promise more; and there was always the inducement of a possible mitigation of punishment if he should help her. At any rate, it was her only hope, and she must try it.

She listened intently. She could hear no one moving about downstairs, but she was certain that the man was still somewhere about the place. If he had left the house, she would certainly have heard the shutting of the outer door, as she had done when Masterman had departed.

“Hullo, there!”

Her voice rang clearly through the door, as she stood with her lips to the keyhole, and shouted. The sound shattered the silence of the house, making it seem even more profound as the echoes of her call died away.

She waited a moment, hoping for a reply. None came: she called again, several times in rapid succession. At length, she heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs.

“Why is it that you make so much din?” growled a voice, in French. “It can avail you nothing! Close your trap!”

“Will you not help me?” pleaded Joanna, in the same tongue. “I have not much money about me at present, but I can promise you—”

“
Blague
! Is it likely that I shall trust your promises, woman? Anyway, I am getting to the devil out of this place, and at once,
je
vous
assure
! In a little while, you’ll have only the rats to keep you company, which is fitting!”

Joanna attempted to expostulate with him, but it was soon evident that she was wasting her breath. Even veiled threats as to what might befall him when it was realized that she was missing, and a search should be made, failed to produce any effect.

“It is partly for that reason that I go now. If I am not here, I cannot be blamed! Me, I am nothing; it’s our chief whom they require, and those about him when they find him will come in for their fair share of trouble. I do not mean to be one of them, that is all!”

So saying, he stamped downstairs again, and she heard his footsteps receding into the lower half of the house. Barely five minutes later, she heard the slam of a door. Miss Feniton was now quite alone in Randall’s Farm.

For the first time, a blind panic seized her. She caught hold of the doorknob and rattled it frantically, at the same time calling for help in wild accents. She paused at last, breathless and ashamed, her black hair tumbling in disorder over her shoulders. Her throat ached and her hands were sore. This was the worst kind of folly, she told herself sternly. She could accomplish nothing but her own discomfort by such exhibitions of emotion. All the same, she felt better for her outburst, and more able to think rationally.

Now that the Frenchman had left, gone, too, was her last hope of escape. Her eye measured once more the width of the skylight, now a dark square in the cobweb hung rafters. She shook her head; it would not serve. She stooped to turn up the lamp, and looked thoughtfully at the rickety chair on which she had been sitting.

Obviously, she could not hope to break down the door with such a feeble battering ram, but might it not have other uses? She felt a quickening of excitement in her blood, as she weighed the possibility of an attack upon Masterman with the chair as a weapon. It seemed most probable that he would return here as he had gone, alone; and there was now no one in the farmhouse to come to his aid. If she were to stand to one side of the door, with the chair at the ready, with good fortune she might have a fair chance of stunning him as he entered the room. She would be waiting for him, hearing his footstep upon the stair: but he would be all unprepared, and surprise might carry the day for her. Once she had won free of the farm, she could—
Her thoughts halted abruptly, and the flood of elation ebbed away from her, leaving her drained and empty. Even if she succeeded in escaping from the farm, how could she save Jackson, now that there was no one to aid her?

She sank back on to the chair, her tears not far away. Once more she was back at the point where she had started when she had left Shalbeare House. Meeting Captain Masterman had then seemed to be the end of her problems, for she had thought he was Jackson’s friend. Now that she was acting alone, it was impossible that she could achieve anything—and there was no time to reach those who could. It appeared, therefore, that Captain Jackson was doomed.

The realization was like an acute physical pain. Now that she would see him no more, she knew at last how much he had come to mean to her. She tried to recall his face, but could not. She had never seen him for more than a few moments in a really good light, and the features escaped her memory. Only a general impression of his expression remained, too vague for her aching heart to be satisfied. She could recall his voice, though, perfectly: the tones that were not quite those of a gentleman, with their rich, warm Devon strain. In her imagination, she could hear them now, repeating the words in which he had told her of his love.

“Can you be content with a marriage of convenience?” he had asked her. “You, who have the spirit for high adventure?”

She had answered him coldly then, she remembered with a pang, telling him that she was well content to wed Mr. Cholcombe, for whom she felt nothing but a warm friendship. If he could have asked the same question now, at this very minute, she thought, with the warm tears stinging her eyes, she would have made a very different reply.

But it was too late. She would never see him again—he could never know—

She bowed her head in her hands, and for once the indomitable Miss Feniton gave way to tears.

Presently, she roused herself, and found her handkerchief. She dried her eyes, and, rising from the chair, paced slowly about the room. She determined to keep to her original plan of campaign. Even if she could do nothing else, she might at least escape from Captain Masterman to the safety of her own home. Then she would tell the whole story to her grandfather, beg him to do something for Jackson, even if it should prove to be useless. At least he might be able to obtain permission for her to visit the prisoner in Totnes gaol. Then she could say to Jackson all the things which now burned within her: he should not go to his death without knowing that she loved him.

This brave resolution made her almost resigned to her present lot. She sat down again, and allowed her fancy to conjure up the scenes in which Jackson had played a part. Who was he, this man who had literally stumbled into her life, and obstinately refused to back out of it again? Was he indeed no more than he seemed, an adventurer, a soldier of fortune? Or was he—
She jumped violently. In the distance, the echoes of an explosion rent the silence. She leaped from her chair, her heart beating furiously. A dreadful fear assailed her—the fear that she had just heard the death signal of those men on board the ships at present anchored in Torbay. For a long time she stood rigid, waiting for any other sound which might come.

The silence was oppressive, bearing down upon her: only her thoughts were noisy, brawling inside her head. She felt for a moment that she must go mad if she could not know for certain what had happened.

She must calm herself. She lifted her trembling hands from her sides, and regarded them scornfully. She had work for them to do presently, when Masterman should return, fresh from his triumph.

And then a childish memory came to her aid. Whenever she had been in low spirits as a child, she had been wont to sing. At that period of her life, there had been occasions when she had been shut in her bedchamber as a punishment for some minor misdemeanour: she used to sing softly to herself to keep at bay her fears of loneliness and silence. She had told Mr. Cholcombe that she had no accomplishments, but it was only partly true. She was possessed of a clear singing voice that could give pleasure to others, as well as herself. Now she warmed the chill silence of the lonely house with the notes of an English folk tune, a simple air which might have been heard in many a Devon lane on a summer day.

How long she sat there singing, she could never afterwards be sure. She thought presently that she had heard a shout from downstairs, and stopped for a moment to listen. It was not repeated, and she concluded that she had imagined it. She continued with her song.

But all at once, there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps mounting the stairs.

She broke off, and, seizing the chair, trod quietly across the room. Her heart was beating as though it would choke her, but she did not falter in her purpose. She took up her station by the door, raised the chair above her head, and waited, eyes fixed upon the doorknob, for the exact moment when she must act.

The knob was seized, and rattled violently. She trembled, but stood firm.

Then she heard her name being called by two voices in unison. For a moment, she was too agitated to recognize them, although it flashed across her mind that neither spoke in the tones of Masterman.

“Are you in there, Miss Feniton? Can you unfasten the door?”

It was the voice of Guy Dorlais which she recognized first. She knew now that she had nothing to fear from him, and quickly answered.

“No, I can’t: Captain Masterman locked it, and has taken the key.”

“Stand back then: we’ll have it open in a jiffy. Keep right away, though.”

She obeyed, retreating to the far side of the room, and taking her chair with her. There followed the sound of some heavy object being dashed against the door. It held for a moment, shivered, then splintered down the middle. The gap was quickly widened, and two men thrust their way through, panting a little with their efforts. One of them was Guy Dorlais; she saw with surprise that the other was Mr. Cholcombe.

“Are you all right, Miss Feniton?” he asked, his voice sharp with anxiety as he came towards her. “They have done you no harm?”

She shook her head. “No, I am quite safe. What has happened? How did you find me? And where is—Captain Masterman? I thought—I thought that you were he—”

“You poor child!” he said, quickly. “You must have had a wretched time of it.”

He turned to Dorlais. “Will you see if there is any kind of conveyance in the stable suitable for Miss Feniton?” he asked. “We must get her home without any delay.”

Dorlais glanced at Joanna, smiled reassuringly, and left the room in obedience to Cholcombe’s request.

“Sit down, Miss Feniton,” urged Cholcombe, gently. “You will not have long to wait now.”

But she shook her head. “No, I am tired of sitting. Tell me, sir, how did you find me? And is there any likelihood that—that Captain Masterman will come upon us?”

“You have no longer anything to fear from that source,” he answered, gravely. “Masterman is dead.”

“Dead?” She caught her breath. “What—what happened?”

“You knew, of course,” he said, looking at her keenly, “that he was a traitor to his country?”

“Yes.” She breathed the word.

“He tried to destroy the British ships which are lying in Torbay—and perished in the attempt,” he said, briefly.

“I—I see. Then the explosion I heard—I feared at first that he had succeeded—it was dreadful—”

He shook his head. “No, thank God! But he and his confederates paid the penalty.”

She shivered. “He was a wicked man, I know, and yet—oh, his poor sister!”

“Yes, it is hard on her, I agree. But I fancy there was little sympathy between them—indeed, Miss Masterman seemed to me to go in fear of her brother. I imagine the affair will not be noised abroad for security reasons, so she may at least escape unpleasant repercussions of that nature.”