Books: Jeanne Of The Marshes
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E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Jeanne Of The Marshes
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"If you try it on I shoot!" she exclaimed. "You know what that
means, Cecil. A pistol isn't a plaything with me."
Cecil looked no more toward the door. He came instead a little
farther into the room.
"My dear Kate," he said, "we are willing to admit, Forrest and I,
that we are beaten. You can do exactly what you like with us except
leave us here. Our little joke with Engleton is at an end. Perhaps
we carried it too far. If so, we must face the penalty. Take him
away if you like. Personally I do not find this place attractive."
Kate lowered her revolver and turned to Engleton.
"Come over to my side," she said. "We are going to leave this
place."
Engleton staggered towards her. He had always been thin, but he
seemed to have lost more flesh in the last few days.
"For God's sake let's get out!" he said. "If I don't breathe some
fresh air soon, it will be the end of me."
"In any order you please," Cecil de la Borne said smiling. "The only
condition I make is that before you leave the place altogether,
Kate, I have a few minutes' conversation with you. You can hold your
pistol to my temple, if you like, while I talk, but there are a few
things I must say."
"Afterwards, then," she answered. "We are going first out of the
place. We shall turn seawards and wait for you. When you have come
out, you will hand us your electric torches and go on in front."
"You are quite a strategist," Forrest remarked grimly. "Do as she
says, Cecil. The sooner we are out of this, the better."
Kate passed her hand through Engleton's arm.
"Come along," she said. "Lean on me if you are not feeling well. Do
not be afraid. They will not dare to touch us."
Engleton laughed weakly, but with the remains of the contempt with
which he had always treated his jailers.
"Afraid of them!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "I fancy the boot has
been on the other leg. Who you are, my dear young lady, I do not
know, but upon my word you are the most welcome companion a man ever
had."
The pair moved toward the doorway. Neither Forrest nor Cecil de la
Borne made any effort to prevent their passing out. Kate turned a
little to the right, and then stood with the revolver clasped in her
hand.
"Please come out now," she said. "You will give your electric torch
to him."
She indicated Engleton, who stretched out his hand. Cecil and
Forrest obeyed her command to the letter. Engleton held the torch,
and they all four made their way along the noisome passage. Forrest
turned his head once cautiously toward his companion's, but Cecil
shook his head.
"Wait," he whispered softly.
The thunder of the sea grew less and less distinct. Before them
shone a faint glimmer of light. Soon they reached the three steps
which led up into the gun-room. Cecil and Forrest climbed up. Kate
and Engleton followed. Cecil carefully closed the door behind them.
"You see," he remarked, "we are reconciled to our defeat. Let us sit
down for a moment and talk."
"Open the window and give me some brandy," Engleton said.
Kate felt him suddenly grow heavy upon her arm.
"Bring a chair quick," she ordered. "He is going to faint."
She bent over him, alarmed at the sudden change in his face. Her
attention for one moment was relaxed. Then she felt her wrist seized
in a grip of iron. The revolver, which she was still holding, fell
to the ground, and Cecil calmly picked it up and thrust it into his
pocket.
"You have played the game very well, Kate," he said. "Now I think it
is our turn."
She looked at him indignantly, but without any trace of fear.
"You brute!" she exclaimed. "Can't you see that he has fainted? Do
you want him to die here?"
"Not in the least," Cecil answered. "Here, Forrest, you take care of
this," he added, passing the revolver over to him. "I'll look after
Engleton."
He led him to an easy-chair close to the window. He opened it a few
inches, and a current of strong fresh air came sweeping in. Then he
poured some brandy into a glass and gave it to Kate.
"Let him sip this," he said. "Keep his head back. That's right. We
will call a truce for a few moments. I am going to talk with my
friend."
He turned away, and Kate, with a sudden movement, sprang toward the
fireplace and pulled the bell. Cecil looked around and smiled
contemptuously.
"It is well thought of," he remarked, "but unfortunately there is
not a servant in the house. Go on ringing it, if you like. All that
it can awake are the echoes."
Kate dropped the rope and turned back towards Engleton. The colour
was coming slowly back to his cheeks. With an effort he kept from
altogether losing consciousness.
"I am not going to faint," he said in a low tone. "I will not. Tell
me, they have the pistol?"
"Yes," Kate answered, "but don't be afraid. I am not going back
there again, nor shall they take you."
He pressed her hand.
"You are a plucky girl," he muttered. "Stick to me now and I'll
never forget it. I've held out so long that I'm d--d if I let them
off their punishment now."
Cecil came slowly across the room.
"Feeling better, Engleton?" he asked.
Engleton turned his head.
"Yes," he answered, "I am well enough. What of it?"
"We'd better have an understanding," Cecil said.
"Have it, then, and be d----d to you!" Engleton answered. "You won't
get me alive down into that place again. If you are going to try,
try."
"Come," Cecil said, "there is no need to talk like that. Why not
pass your word to treat this little matter as a joke? It's the
simplest way. Go up to your room, change your clothes and shave,
have a drink with us, and take the morning train to town. It's not
worth while risking your life for the sake of a little bit of
revenge on us for having gone too far. I admit that we were wrong in
keeping you here. You terrified us. Forrest has more enemies than
friends and I am unknown in London. If you went to the club with
your story, people would believe it. We shouldn't have a chance.
That is why we were afraid to let you go back. Forget the last few
days and cry quits."
"I'll see you d----d first," Engleton answered.
Cecil's face changed a little.
"Well," he said, "I have made you a fair offer. If you refuse, I
shall leave it to my friend Forrest to deal with you. You may not
find him so easy, as I have been."
Kate stepped for a moment forward, and laid her hand on Cecil's
shoulder.
"Mr. De la Borne," she said, "we don't want to have anything to say
to your friend. We trust him less than you. Open the door and let us
out."
"Where are you going to?" Cecil asked. "Engleton is not fit to walk
anywhere."
"I am going to take him back home with me," Kate answered. "Oh, I
can get him there all right. I am not afraid of that. He will have
plenty of strength to walk away from this place."
"It is impossible, my dear Kate," Cecil answered. "Take my advice.
Leave him to us. We will deal with him reasonably enough. Kate,
listen."
He passed his arm through hers and drew her a little on one side.
"Kate," he said, "I'm afraid I haven't behaved exactly well to you.
I got up in London amongst a lot of people who seemed to look at
things so differently, and there were distractions, and I'm afraid
that I forgot some of my promises. But I have never forgotten you.
Why do you take the part of that miserable creature over there? He
is just a young simpleton, who, because he was half drunk, dared to
accuse us of cheating. We were obliged to keep him shut up until he
took it back. Leave him to us. He shall come to no harm. I give you
my word, and I will never forget it."
Kate looked at him a little curiously.
"Will you keep your promise?" she asked curiously.
Cecil hesitated, but only for a minute.
"Yes," he said, "I will even do that."
She withdrew her arm firmly, but without haste.
"Is that all you have to say?" she asked.
"I offer you my promise," he answered. "Isn't that worth something?"
"Something," she answered, "not much. I want no more to do with you,
Mr. Cecil de la Borne. Don't think you can make terms with me for
you can't. I only hope that you get punished for what you have
done."
Cecil raised his hand as though about to strike her.
"You little cat!" he exclaimed. "We'll see the thing through, then.
You are prisoners here just as much as though you were in the
vault."
Forrest, who had spoken very little, came suddenly forward.
"We have talked too much," he said, "and wasted too much time. Let
us have the issue before us in black and white. Engleton, are you
well enough to understand what I say?"
"Perfectly," Engleton answered. "Go on."
"Will you sign a retraction of your charges against us, and pledge
your word of honour never to repeat them, or to make any complaint,
formal or otherwise, as to your detention here."
"I'm d----d if I will!" Engleton answered.
"Consider what your refusal means first," Forrest said. "Open the
passage door, Cecil."
Cecil pushed it back, and a little breath of the noxious odour stole
into the room.
"You either make us that promise, Engleton," he said, "or as sure as
I'm standing here, we'll drag you both down that passage, right to
the end, and throw you into the sea."
"And hang for it afterwards," Engleton said, with a sneer.
"Not we," Forrest declared. "The currents down there are strange
ones, and it would be many weeks before your bodies were recovered.
Your character in London is pretty well known, and Kate here has
been seen often enough on her way up to the Hall. People will soon
put two and two together. There are a dozen places in the Spinney
where one could slip off into the sea. Besides we shall have a
little evidence to offer. Oh, there is nothing for us to fear, I can
assure you. Now then. I can see it's no use arguing with you any
longer."
"One moment," Kate said. "What about the young lady I left outside?"
Cecil turned upon her swiftly.
"Don't tell lies, Kate," he said. "It's a poor sort of tale that."
"At any rate it's no lie," Kate answered. "When I came to your front
door, I left the young lady who was staying here only a few weeks
ago, Miss Le Mesurier you called her, sitting in the barn waiting."
Cecil laughed scornfully.
"Did she drop from the clouds?" he asked.
"She has been staying at the farm," Kate answered, "for days. I
brought her with me to-night because I thought that she might know
something about Lord Ronald's disappearance. She is there waiting.
If I do not return by daylight, she will go to the police."
"I think," Forrest remarked ironically, "that we will risk the young
lady outside. Your story, my dear, is ingenious, but scarcely
plausible. If you are ready, Cecil--"
The four of them were suddenly stupefied into a dead silence. Their
eyes were riveted upon the door which led to the underground
passage. Cecil's face was almost grotesque with the terrible writing
of fear. Distinctly they could all hear footsteps stumbling along
the uneven way. Forrest was first to recover the power of speech. He
called out to Cecil from the other end of the room.
"Shut the door! Shut it, I say!"
Cecil took a quick step forward. Before he could reach the door,
however, the girl had thrown her arms round his waist.
"You shall not close it," she cried.
"Who is it coming?" Cecil cried panting.
"God knows!" she answered. "They say the ghosts walk here."
He strove to loosen himself from her grasp, but he was powerless.
Nevertheless he got a little nearer to the door. Forrest came
swiftly across the room. Engleton struck at him with a chair, but
the blow was harmless.
"Stand aside, Cecil," Forrest said. "I'll close it."
"I'm hanged if you will," was the sudden reply.
Andrew de la Borne stepped out of the darkness and stood upright,
blinking and looking around in amazement.
CHAPTER XVII
Jeanne was sitting in the garden of the Caynsard farm. The
excitement of the last twenty-four hours had left her languid. For
once she lay and watched with idle, almost with indifferent eyes,
the great stretch of marshes riven with the incoming sea. She saw
the fishing boats that a few hours ago were dead inert things upon a
bed of mud, come gliding up the tortuous water-ways. On the horizon
was the sea bank, with its long line of poles, and the wires
connecting the coastguard stations. They stood like silent
sentinels, clean and distinct against the empty background. Jeanne
sighed as she watched, and the thoughts came crowding into her head.
It was a restful country this, a country of timeworn, mouldering
grey churches, and of immemorial landmarks, a country where
everything seemed fixed and restful, everything except the sea. A
wave of self pity swept over her. After all she had lived a very
little time to know so much unhappiness. Worse than all, this
morning she was filled with apprehensions. She feared something. She
scarcely knew what, or from what direction it might come. The song
of the larks brought her no comfort. The familiar and beautiful
places upon which she looked pleased her no more. She was glad when
Kate Caynsard came out of the house and moved slowly towards her.
Kate, too, showed some of the signs of the recent excitement. There
were black lines under her wonderful eyes, and she walked
hesitatingly, without any of the firm splendid grace which made her
movements a delight to watch. Jeanne was afraid at first that she
was going to turn away, and called to her.
"Kate," she exclaimed, "I want you. Come here and talk to me."
Kate threw herself on to the ground by Jeanne's side.
"All the talking in the world," she murmured, "will not change the
things that happened last night. They will not even smooth away the
evil memories."
Jeanne was silent. There was a thought in her head which had been
there twisting and biting its way in her brain through the silent
hours of the night and again in her waking moments. She looked down
towards her companion stretched at her feet.
"Kate," she said, "how did Mr. Andrew get the message that brought
him to the Red Hall last night?"
"I sent it," Kate answered. "I sent him word that there were things
going on at the Red Hall which I could not understand. I told him
that I thought it would be well if he came."
"You knew his address?" Jeanne asked, a little coldly.
"Yes!" Kate answered.
"You have written him before, perhaps?" Jeanne asked.
"Yes!" the girl answered absently.
There was a short silence. Each of the two seemed occupied in her
own thoughts. When Jeanne spoke again her manner was changed. The
other girl noticed it, without being conscious of the reason.
"What has happened this morning, do you know?" Jeanne asked.
"They are all at the Red Hall still," Kate answered. "Major Forrest
tried to leave this morning, but Mr. Andrew would not let him. He
will not let either of them go away until Lord Ronald is well enough
to say what shall be done."
"I wonder," Jeanne said, "what would have happened if Mr. Andrew had
not arrived last night."
"God knows!" Kate answered. "He is a wily brute, the man Forrest.
How was it that you," she added, "found Mr. Andrew?"
"I waited on the mound in the plantation," Jeanne said, "with my ear
to the ground, and presently I heard a pistol shot and then a
scuffle, and afterwards silence. I was frightened, and I made my way
to the road and hurried along toward the village. Then I saw a cart
and I stopped it, and inside was Mr. Andrew, on his way from Wells.
I told him something of what was happening, and he put me in the
cart and sent me back. Then he went on to the Red Hall."
Kate nodded slowly.
"I am glad that I sent for him," she said. "I am afraid that last
night there would have been bloodshed if he had not come. When he
was there there was not one who dared speak or move any more, except
as he directed. He is very strong, and he was made, I think, to
command men."
Jeanne's lips quivered for a moment. Her eyes were fixed upon the
distant figure, motionless now, upon the raised sandbanks. Kate had
turned her head toward the Red Hall, and was looking at one of the
windows there as though her eyes would pierce the distance.
"Tell me," Jeanne asked. "I have seen you once with Mr. De la Borne.
He is a great friend of yours?"
"He was," the girl at her feet whispered.
Jeanne found herself shaking. She stooped down.
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
Kate looked up from the ground. She raised herself a little. For a
moment her eyes flashed.
"I mean," she said, "that before you came he was more than a friend.
It was you who drove his thoughts of me away. You with your great
fortune, and your childish, foreign ways. Oh, I talk like a fool, I
know!" she said, springing up, "but I am not a fool. I do not hate
you. I have never tried to do you any harm. It is not your fault. It
is what one calls fate. Once," she cried, "we Caynsards lived along
the coast there in a house greater than the Red Hall, and our lands
were richer. Generation after generation of us have been pushed by
fortune downwards and downwards. The men lose lands and money, and
the women disgrace themselves, or creep into some corner to die with
a broken heart. I talk to you as one of the villagers here. I know
very well that I speak the dialect of the peasants, and that my
words are ill-chosen. How can I help it? We are all paupers, every
one of us. That is why sometimes I feel that I cannot breathe. That
is why I do mad things, and people believe that I am indeed out of
my mind."
She sprang to her feet. Jeanne tried to detain her.
"Let me talk to you for a little time, Kate," she begged. "You are
none of the things you fancy, and I am very sure that Mr. De la
Borne does not care for me, or for my fortune. Stay just for a
minute."
But Kate was already gone. Jeanne could see her speeding down to the
harbour, and a few minutes later gliding down the creek in her
little catboat.
The Count de Brensault was angry, and he had not sufficient dignity
to hide it. The Princess, in whose boudoir he was, regarded him from
her sofa as one might look at some strange animal.
"My dear Count," she said, "it is not reasonable that you should be
angry with me. Is it my fault that I am plagued with a stepdaughter
of so extraordinary a temperament? She will return directly, or we
shall find her. I am sure of it. The wedding can be arranged then as
speedily as you wish. I give her to you. I consent to your marriage.
What could woman do more?"
"That is all very well," the Count said, "all very well indeed, but
I do not understand how it is that a young lady could disappear from
her home like this, and that her guardian should know nothing about
it. Where could she have gone to? You say that she had very little
money. Why should she go? Who was unkind to her?"
"All that I did," the Princess answered, "was to tell her that she
must marry you."
The Count twirled his moustache.
"Is it likely," he demanded, "that that should drive her away from
her home? The idea of marriage, it may terrify these young misses at
the first thought, but in their hearts they are very, very glad.
Ah!" he added softly, "I have had some experience. I am not a boy."
The Princess looked at him. Whatever her thoughts may have been, her
face remained inscrutable.
"No!" the Count continued, drawing his chair a little nearer to the
Princess' couch, and leaning towards her, "I do not believe that it
was the fear of marriage which drove little Jeanne to disappear."
"Then what do you believe, my dear Count?" the Princess asked.
His eyes seemed to narrow.
"Perhaps," he said significantly, "you may have thought that with
her great fortune, and seeing me a little foolish for her, that you
had not driven quite a good enough bargain, eh?"
"You insulting beast!" the Princess remarked.
The Count grinned. He was in no way annoyed.
"Ah!" he said. "I am a man whom it is not easy to deceive. I have
seen very much of the world, and I know the ways of women. A woman
who wants money, my dear Princess, is very, very clever, and not too
honest."
"Your experiences, Count," the Princess said, "may be interesting,
but I do not see how they concern me."
"But they might concern you," the Count said, "if I were to speak
plainly; if, for instance, I were to double that little amount we
spoke of."
"Do you mean to insinuate," the Princess remarked, "that I know
where Jeanne is now? That it is I who have put her out of the way
for a little time, in order to make a better bargain with you?"
The Count bowed his head.
"A very clever scheme," he declared, "a very clever scheme indeed."
The Princess drew a little breath. Then she looked at the Count and
suddenly laughed. After all, it was not worth while to be angry with
such a creature. Besides, if Jeanne should turn up, she might as
well have the extra money.
"You give me credit, I fear," she said, "for being a cleverer woman
than I am, but as a matter of curiosity, supposing I am able to hand
you over Jeanne very shortly, would you agree to double the little
amount we have spoken of?"
"I will double it," the Count declared solemnly. "You see when I
wish for a thing I am generous. I can only hope," he added, with a
peculiar smile, "Miss Jeanne may soon make her reappearance." There
was a knock at the door. The Princess looked up, frowning. Her maid
put her head cautiously in.
"I am sorry to disturb you, madam, against your orders," she said,
"but Miss Jeanne has just arrived."
CHAPTER XVIII
The Count opened his mouth. It was his way of expressing supreme
astonishment. The Princess sat bolt upright on her couch and gazed
at Jeanne with wide-open and dilated eyes. Curiously enough it was
the Count who first recovered himself.
"Is it a game, this?" he asked softly. "You press the button and the
little girl appears. That means that I increase the stakes and the
prize pops up."
The Princess rose to her feet. She crossed the room to meet Jeanne
with outstretched arms.
"Shut up, you fool!" she said to the Count in passing. "Jeanne my
child," she added, "is it really you?"
Jeanne accepted the proffered embrace, without enthusiasm. She
recognized the Count, however, with a little wave of colour.
"Yes," she said quietly, "I have come back. I am sorry I went away.
It was a mistake, a great mistake."
"You have driven us nearly wild with anxiety," the Princess
declared. "Where have you been to?"
"Yes!" the Count echoed, fixing his eyes upon her, "where have you
been to?"
Jeanne behaved with a composure which astonished them both. She
calmly unbuttoned her gloves and seated herself in the easy-chair.
"I have been to Salthouse," she said.
"What! back to the Red Hall?" the Princess exclaimed.
Jeanne shook her head.
"No!" she said, "I have been in rooms at a farmhouse there,
Caynsard's farm. I went away because I did not like the life here,
and because my stepmother," she continued, turning toward the Count,
"seemed determined that I should marry you. I thought that I would
go away into the country, somewhere where I could think quietly. I
went to Salthouse because it was the only place I knew."
"You are the maddest child!" the Princess exclaimed.
Jeanne smiled, a little wearily.
"If I have been mad," she said, "I have come to my senses again."
The Count leaned toward her eagerly.
"I trust," he said, "that that means that you are ready now to obey
your stepmother, and to make me very, very happy."
Jeanne looked at him deliberately.
"It depends," she said, "upon circumstances."
"Tell me what they are quickly," the Count declared. "I am
impatient. I cannot bear that you keep me waiting. Let me know of my
happiness."
The Princess was suddenly uneasy. There was one weak point in her
schemes, a weakness of her own creating. Ever since she had told
Jeanne the truth about her lack of fortune, she had felt that it was
a mistake. Suppose she should be idiot enough to give the thing
away! The Princess felt her heart beat fast at the mere supposition.
There was something about Jeanne's delicate oval face, her straight
mouth and level eyebrows, which somehow suggested that gift which to
the Princess was so incomprehensible in her sex, the gift of
honesty. Suppose Jeanne were to tell the Count the truth!
"First of all, then," Jeanne said, "I must ask you whether my
stepmother has told the truth about myself and my fortune."
The Princess knew then that the game was up. She sank back upon the
sofa, and at that moment she would have declared that there was
nothing in the world more terrible than an ungrateful and
inconsiderate child.
"The truth?" the Count remarked, a little puzzled. "I know only what
the world knows, that you are the daughter of Carl le Mesurier, and
that he left you the residue of one of the greatest fortunes in
Europe."
Jeanne drew a letter from her pocket.
"The Princess," she remarked, "must have forgotten to tell you. This
great fortune that all the world has spoken of, and that seems to
have made me so famous, has been all the time something of a myth.
It has existed only in the imaginations of my kind friends. A few
days ago my stepmother here told me of this. I wrote at once to
Monsieur Laplanche, my trustee. She would not let me send the
letter. When I was at Salthouse, however, I wrote again, and this
time I had a reply. It is here. There is a statement," she
continued, "which covers many pages, and which shows exactly how my
father's fortune was exaggerated, how securities have dwindled, and
how my stepmother's insisting upon a very large allowance during my
school-days, has eaten up so much of the residue. There is left to
me, it appears, a sum of fourteen thousand pounds. That is a very
small fortune, is it not?" she asked calmly.
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