Jeanne of the MarshesOppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
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Jeanne of the Marshes
Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
Detective and mystery stories; English fiction -- 20th century
"Ena," he said, "I suppose that you trust Cecil de la Borne? You
haven't any fear about him, eh?"
The Princess shrugged her shoulders.
"No!" she answered. "He is a coward at heart, but he has enough vanity,
I believe, to keep him from doing anything foolish. All the same, I
think it is wiser not to leave him alone here."
"He would not stay," Forrest remarked. "He told me so only this
morning."
"You suggested leaving?" the Princess asked.
Forrest nodded.
"I couldn't help it," he said, a little sullenly. "There is something
about these great empty rooms, and the silence of the place, that's
getting on my nerves. I start every time that great front-door bell
clangs, or I hear an unfamiliar footstep in the hall. God! What fools
we have been," he added, with a sudden bitter strength. "I couldn't
have believed that I could ever have done anything so clumsy. Fancy
giving ourselves away to a fool like Engleton, a self-opinionated young
cub scarcely out of his cradle."
He felt his damp forehead. The Princess was watching him curiously.
"Don't be a fool, Nigel," she said. "We underrated Engleton, that was
all. If ever a man looked an idiot, he did, and you must remember that
we were in a corner. Yet," she added, leaning a little forward in her
chair and gazing with hard, set face into the fire, "it was foolish of
me. With Jeanne to play with, I ought to have had no such difficulties.
I never counted upon the tradespeople being so unreasonable. If they
had let me finish the season it would have been all right."
Forrest walked restlessly across the room, and stood for a moment
looking out of the window. Outside, the wind had suddenly changed. The
sunshine had departed, and a grey fog was blowing in from the sea. He
turned away with a shiver.
"What a cursed place this is!" he muttered. "I've half a mind even now
to turn my back upon it and to run."
The Princess watched his pale face scornfully.
"I thought, Nigel," she said, "that you were a more reasonable person.
Remember that if we show the white feather now, it is the end of
everything--the Colonies, if you like, or a little cheap watering-place
at the best. As for me, I might have a better chance of brazening it
out, but remember that I could never afford to be seen in the company
of a suspected person."
"It was the fear of losing you," he muttered, "which made me so rash."
The Princess laughed very softly.
"My dear friend," she said, "I do not believe you. I may seem to you
sometimes very foolish, but at least I understand this. Life with you
is self, self, self, and nothing more. You have scarcely a generous
instinct, scarcely a spark of real affection left in you."
"And yet--" he began quietly.
"And yet," she whispered, repulsing him with a little gesture, but with
a suddenly altered look in her face, "and yet we women are fools!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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