CHAPTER V
GUILTY BONDS
July 29th
Je me trouvais une fois de plus sur le pavé.
Once again in London—in that inferno of the registry-offices.
Ah! you who are an employer—master or mistress—know nothing of the mean trickery practised there. Affreuses baraques, markets of human flesh, where half the “situations” offered are not genuine, where by the demand of constant fees the poor unfortunate female domestic is too frequently fleeced of all her small savings. If she be young, and has the misfortune of being good-looking, she will be lucky if she does not obtain a “situation” entirely different to that which she was led to believe was vacant.
Mon Dieu! Have I not myself had some strange experiences of them. They are full of trucs and of traps for the unwary. One sees the lure of London there. What cares the woman who keeps the registry office as long as she obtains her fees—high ones sometimes, when she induces a young and pretty maid to accept “a quiet respectable place.”
Ah! quel monde!
But in these my souvenirs I am not dealing with that side of the life of the femme-de-chambre. Best that I should say nothing of my experiences of the bureaux de placement of London. They may easily be imagined when I say that I had eight “situations” in three months, and that in neither of the eight did I remain more than three days. And yet each of those eight ladies who engaged me assured me that they were persons of wealth and distinction! The revelation of the truc was, however, not long in coming.
And for these eight “situations” I paid three per cent. upon my wages for eight years!
Diable! I could unfold some strange stories concerning certain of those agencies for the exploitation humaine.
Three months after the delivery of the Noah’s Ark into the hands of Monsieur Courtenay I found myself in service at a large country house called Hembury Court, not far from Totnes, in Devonshire.
Monsieur and Madame Alleyne had been married five years. A house most artistically furnished, with splendid carved overmantels, rich soft carpets, and a great white-panelled salon with pale green furniture and carpet of crushed strawberry, a beautiful lounge in pale blue, magnificent dining-room hung with old portraits, and a spacious library full of rare volumes and bric-à-brac. The personnel consisted of seven maids, six gardeners, two laundry-maids, a grave elderly butler, a footman, and Chapman the chauffeur, with his “washer.”
At first glance I knew the place would suit me. Sometimes in houses of this type the servants’ rooms are mere barely-furnished attics. Once I lived in the service of an English earl and his wife, and I had no carpet on my floor. But here all was spick and span, with a servants’ hall well furnished and comfortable—even padded wicker arm-chairs to sit in. Quel bonheur!
I love your English country—for a change. From my window I had a splendid panorama of forest and heather, for wild, picturesque Dartmoor lay in the distance, and all around the house were pretty, undulating woods, bright in their spring green, while the borders everywhere were gay with tulips and daffodils.
Madame, a tall, thin and rather graceful woman, about twenty-eight, with big blue eyes, wore short, leather-hemmed skirts à l’anglaise, and delighted in all sorts of outdoor sport. She hunted, shot, played golf, and often drove her husband’s big six-cylinder open car to the station. No form of sport came amiss to her. In the day-time, in her rough golf-coat, short skirt and nailed boots, she tramped the roads and fields, or fished for trout, while at night she wore the prettiest and sweetest gowns that could possibly be created. She loved fine delicate underwear, and about her always was that odeur de femme soignée.
Her fair hair, brushed high beneath her rough tweed country hat, gave a slightly hard look to her features; but at night, when I dressed her hair and twisted ribbon into it, and she wore her décolleté gowns, she presented quite a different picture.
She was most exacting regarding her evening toilettes, yet she was nevertheless a most kind and considerate mistress.
Monsieur Alleyne was of quite a different stamp, a pleasant, easy-going man who never exerted himself over sport, and never walked when he could ride. About forty, stout, round-faced; he spent the greater part of his time in the library in studious pursuits, his favourite attitude being to recline in a big saddle-bag chair with his legs upon another, a cigar in his mouth, and a whisky and soda—generally hidden by a couple of books—at his elbow.
From the first Monsieur was inclined to make the amoureux imbécile. Three days after I had been in Madame’s service she sent me with a message into the library, where he was seated in his usual attitude.
The atmosphere was heavy with cigar smoke.
He put down the newspaper he was reading, and having heard Madame’s message he smiled mysteriously.
“Do you know, my little Mariette,” he exclaimed, “that you are extraordinarily pretty—eh? What a little mouth—what tiny hands—ah! and what big fine eyes you’ve got! Phew! you make my heart go pit-a-pat each time you come near me!”
“Monsieur!” I exclaimed reproachfully.
“It’s the truth, Mariette,” he laughed. “It is really cruel of my wife to have such a pretty maid.”
I shrugged my shoulders, for I was in no mood for flattery from my master. Zut!
“Mariette, I—I——” and he rose to his feet.
But I gave him no further chance of speaking, for I turned abruptly and left the room. Ah! how droll the men are!
One peculiarity about the house was that no company was ever kept. Nobody was ever invited to luncheon or dinner, and there were no visitors. The reason of this was not far to seek, for quickly I discovered that while Monsieur adored every pretty face he encountered, Madame, on her part, was—well—slightly addicted to the harmful pastime of flirtation.
Chapman, the chauffeur, who was a good, honest fellow, and whom I sometimes met and accompanied on my walks, related several things which opened my eyes.
Ere I had been at Hembury Court a week several violent scenes occurred between Monsieur and Madame, so violent and so full of menace that I confess I grew frightened.
One morning, about eleven o’clock, Madame was trying on a pair of new corsets—ugh! those terribly long English corsets—and I was in the act of lacing them up, when Monsieur burst into the cabinet de toilette crimson with rage, and began to pour torrents of abuse upon his wife, declaring that she was ill-bred and ill-born, and using all sorts of vulgar epithets in English, the exact meaning of which I could only guess.
“Well?” she asked, turning upon him haughtily. “What now? Why all this? Are you quite blameless—eh? What about the Reids’ governess?”
“My affairs are no concern of yours!” he shouted. “I’ll stand these goings-on no longer—you hear?”
“Mariette, leave the room,” Madame said very severely.
And I obeyed.
Parbleu! Hardly had I closed the door when Madame uttered a shriek for help, and on turning back I found that Monsieur had gripped her by the throat and was holding a revolver at her head.
I sprang upon him, and after considerable difficulty succeeded in wresting the weapon from his hand. He seemed beside himself with anger, and his breath smelt strongly of drink. Such a brawl was outrageous in that fine house. And yet in how many such houses are there not similar scenes—scenes which, if they had occurred in the back streets of a city, would have been declared by the neighbours to be disgraceful.
C’est assez. Why need I recount the details of the daily existence of Monsieur and Madame! At one moment the pair would be sweetness itself towards each other, at another they would both be full of threats, menaces and foul expressions. Ma foi! Madame possessed a pretty full vocabulary.
Madame was absurdly jealous. She often rendered herself ridiculous in the hunting-field, or at neighbouring houses they visited. True, Monsieur was full of fun and fond of making the domestics laugh; but surely most messieurs admire a pretty face. Some women think that their husbands, on their marriage, should assume a hard austerity towards the world. Myself I have always found that the master who is full of bonhomie is the least objectionable. He may be fond of flattering, but he is devoid of cunning.
The income from the great estate of Hembury, combined with the half share which Monsieur possessed in a large factory in Plymouth, rendered them wealthy, and yet they were far from happy.
Madame was full of strange caprices, and, strictly in secret from Monsieur, resorted to morphia.
Chapman one day revealed to me that Madame was unduly friendly with a certain Major Hubert Ward, who was on a visit to the Colliers, at a neighbouring house called Cullaford Hall.
“I drove her over to Torquay this morning,” he said. “I went into the garage and waited three hours. She met the Major, and they had lunch together. They parted outside the post-office, but didn’t see me.”
I hesitated to believe him.
“Why, my dear girl, she’s constantly meeting him,” he declared. “Yesterday afternoon he was at the edge of Hepney Wood at three o’clock, awaiting her. The guv’nor had gone to Exeter.”
“Is he a new acquaintance?”
“No. She’s known him about a year, I fancy.”
“Not before her marriage?”
“Of course not,” asserted the chauffeur. “But the funny part of it is that though the guv’nor is always fussing about other men he’s never discovered the real man.”
“Not at all strange,” I replied. “Is not the husband always the last to have his eyes opened?”
“If I had a wife like her I’d wring her precious neck,” declared the good-looking young man we all called Jack.
Now I am always filled with curiosity regarding the movements of my mistresses. Perhaps because of my natural woman’s inquisitiveness, perhaps because of my solicitude for Madame’s welfare. So I kept both eyes and ears constantly open.
As a stranger hardly ever crossed the threshold the Major was, of course, never invited. Indeed, I believe Madame scarcely ever called upon the Colliers. When any one called upon Madame she was, at Monsieur’s orders, always “not at home.”
Before long, however, I was compelled to admit that what Chapman had alleged was really correct. Madame and the Major constantly met clandestinely.
I watched her meet him one evening down where the winding Dart tumbled over the rocks. They were standing together beneath a tree in the sunset.
He was a tall, dark, good-looking man in grey tweed, and wearing a green Tyrolese hat. Apparently, however, she met him against her will, for almost from the first moment he seemed to assume a commanding, even offensive, attitude.
Too far away to overhear what was said, yet by Monsieur’s demeanour I knew that his words cowed her. The woman oft-times licks the hand of the man who castigates her.
Suddenly she made a wild, frantic gesture, and clung to him beseechingly, but he shook her off roughly.
Tiens! A strange lover!
That evening Madame remained in her room, nervous, pale-faced, haggard. Monsieur was in London, therefore she did not descend to dinner. A cup of clear soup and a glass of sherry, that was all. She lay upon a couch dozing, while I sat in silence mending some torn lace upon one of her evening frocks. I pretended ignorance, yet I watched and wondered.
Extraordinaire! Every mistress has some secret from Monsieur—drink, morphia, a lover, or a poor relation. But the secret is not very long withheld from the femme-de-chambre. She is the intimate of the household.
As I sat there sewing beneath the light the stable clock chimed nine. Madame gave vent to a deep, long-drawn sigh. I glanced across, and detected tears in her eyes.
Ah, oui! Hembury Court was a splendid place, but for poor Madame it seemed but a gilded cage.
I went below to my supper, and when I returned I saw that my mistress had taken out her jewels from the safe, and having ranged them all upon her dressing-table—a splendid collection—was standing before them in admiration.
She had done this on several occasions. Her delight in pretty things was almost childlike. Any fresh article of apparel which Monsieur bought her as a surprise she would place in a prominent position, and admire it long and earnestly before wearing it.
The leather case of her beautiful diamond tiara was open, and beneath the electric light the ornament glittered and sparkled with a thousand fires. It was in the form of a garland of wheat-ears.
I had seen it on several occasions, but she had never worn it once since I had been in her service.
“Look, Mariette,” she exclaimed in a low, strained voice. “Is it not splendid? My father gave it to me on my marriage. Let me wear it for once. Let me see how it looks.”
So I dressed her hair carefully, and after much arranging placed the tiara upon it and fixed it there.
“Ah!” she sighed, as she gazed sadly at her reflection in the long cheval-glass. “Ah, yes! It is very handsome.”
“It suits Madame admirably,” I declared. “Why not wear it at the dance at Torquay on Thursday?”
“No, Mariette,” she replied simply. Then, after gazing at herself again long and earnestly, she slowly disengaged it from its position, sighed again, and ordered me to plait her long tresses for the night.
Her extreme nervousness was remarkable.
While engaged in arranging Madame’s hair the telephone-bell rang noisily in the hall, and a few moments later the footman announced that Madame was wanted urgently at the instrument. Some one in Plymouth wished to speak. So she was compelled to descend to the library, and, alone there, answered the call. I heard her voice speaking rapidly, even excitedly.
Then she replaced the receiver and returned up-stairs, walking unsteadily, her countenance white as death.
I saw that her small soft hands were trembling, and in her eyes was a strange haunted expression such as I had never seen before.
What message could she have received from Plymouth to produce such an effect upon her?
Naturally she was a woman of strong character, and not easily upset. Like all sporting women, she possessed great self-reliance. But that night, after the stormy interview with the mysterious Major Ward, she seemed utterly cowed and crushed.
She flung herself into her chaise longue, and, regardless of my presence, burst into a torrent of hot tears.
I threw myself beside her and tried to console her. But she hesitated to confide in me, and with an almost superhuman effort regained control of herself.
“Ah, Mariette!” she cried hoarsely. “If you only knew the black hopeless outlook of my life, you would pity me. You are only a maid, it is true, but I would gladly—nay, willingly, exchange my place with yours.”
“I regret that Madame is so sorely troubled,” I said. “Can I do anything?”
“Alas, nothing!” she answered in a despairing voice. “My secret must remain always a secret. I know full well that I must pay the penalty—that I must suffer.”
“I am discreet,” I said. “Madame may trust me.”
“I know, Mariette,” was her hoarse response, as she sat staring straight before her, tears still wet upon her cheeks. The corners of her mouth were twitching; she was suffering from a crisis of “nerves.”
It was eleven o’clock before she took her morphia, and then she retired to bed—to dream pleasantly and to forget.
In the servants’ hall later that night I made further inquiry of Jack regarding the mysterious Major Ward, telling him, however, nothing of what I had witnessed.
“Oh! he’s a great friend of hers! In London last season they were always together—unknown to the guv’nor, of course,” he replied. “I fancy he’s only recently got to know the Colliers. But he’s pretty hot stuff, is the Major. I’ve seen him down at Kempton and Sandown. Goes racing a lot, I fancy. I suppose he’s merely come down here to Cullaford so as to be near her.”
“You really think they are fond of each other, then?” I asked the good-looking chauffeur.
“Fond of each other?” he echoed, with a meaning smile. “Why, last winter, when the guv’nor was in Egypt, they were out every night together. I used to drive her down to Prince’s, or the Carlton or Savoy every night, and she’d dine with him. Afterwards I’d pick her up at the theatre and drive her home. I’ve said nothing, of course. The chauffeur is a wise man who keeps a still tongue,” he laughed.
“And the same applies to Madame’s maid,” I remarked. If what Jack alleged were true, then the Major and Madame had evidently quarrelled.
When I took Madame’s letters next morning she was still in bed. One she opened eagerly and read. Then, uttering a loud cry of dismay, she sat up, staring straight before her, breathless, open-mouthed.
“Madame is not well,” I exclaimed anxiously. “Can I do anything?”
“Nothing, Mariette,” she replied, and, quickly recovering her composure, she sent me down with a message to the cook.
Vraiment, those great luxuriously-furnished rooms, so silent and deserted, used to depress me. No stranger ever crossed our threshold. Madame was always “not at home.”
Chic, good-looking, of good figure, neat-waisted and graceful, she was daily killing herself with morphia. Mon Dieu! I have seen so much of the horrible effects of drugs that I have a terror of them. My poor mesdames! How many have been slaves to the little hypodermic needle—that tiny prick which brings to them all the sweet sensations of the terrestrial paradise. Ah! some of the scenes I have witnessed have, indeed, been terrible. Visions of many horrors of drink and drugs arise before my eyes. Some have had a mania for religion, devout, constant at early communion and at week-day services, honest, charitable and God-fearing, and yet possessed, alas! by one all-consuming failing—the drug habit.
It was so with Madame Alleyne.
Névrose, full of imaginary complaints, gay at one moment and triste the next, an angel of sweetness at one hour and a perfect fiend an hour later, poor Madame was indeed to be pitied.
Chapman, who seemed to hold all mistresses at very low estimation, openly condemned her, and took Monsieur’s part. But I, who knew the reason of her variable temperament, felt much sympathy for her. Monsieur was, perhaps, a little too fond of dangling beside a petticoat, but he certainly was not as black as his wife painted him.
Surely no fate is worse for a man than to marry a neurotic wife.
Madame’s own sitting-room, an exquisitely furnished little place with cosy chairs and silken hangings, was on the ground floor leading off from the dining-room, with a pretty palm-court dividing it from the great drawing-room.
One night she remained there reading unusually late. Awaiting her, I had sat up-stairs until I had dropped to sleep over my needle-work, le linge intime of Madame. When I awoke I found it already one o’clock.
The house was silent; every one had retired.
So I stole down-stairs, expecting that Madame had also fallen asleep over her book.
I listened at the door. There was a low sound of sobbing.
Quietly I opened it without knocking, and there, to my surprise, I saw Madame, white-faced and terrified, standing supporting herself by a chair, while through the door of the palm-court was disappearing the figure of a man in dark overcoat and golf-cap.
Upon the floor lay something that glittered—one of Madame’s rings. At a glance I saw that something unusual had happened.
Her white neck was scratched and was bleeding slightly—and the diamond necklet which I had clasped there earlier in the evening was missing! Her diamond bracelet, too, had gone, besides the beautiful ruby and emerald butterfly she had worn in her corsage.
Soudain I realised the truth.
She stood with closed eyes, and was fainting.
“Madame has been robbed!” I gasped; “I will ring the bells. I saw the thief!”
And I sprang to the electric button.
“No, no, Mariette!” she gasped quickly. “No! Say nothing—nothing of what you have seen. You understand—eh?”
“If Madame wishes,” was my reply. “But I saw the man.”
“Did you see his face?” she asked eagerly, endeavouring to compose herself.
“No, Madame.”
And at my reply she seemed to breathe again more freely.
True, I did not see his face, yet I felt convinced that her midnight visitor was none other than the mysterious Major.
“Lock that door,” she said hoarsely, pointing to the palm-court. “I will go to bed.”
I crossed the room to obey her when, away down in the wood, there sounded a shot. We both started and looked at each other.
Madame’s face blanched to the lips. Curieux!
“Lock the door!” she managed to gasp. “Let us go up-stairs—very quietly. Remember that nobody must know. You know nothing—absolutely nothing, Mariette!”
She was trembling in every limb as we both crept up the big oak staircase.
Diable! There was a great mystery somewhere. She seemed to know the reason of that shot in the night.
Next day passed without any tragic discovery, though Madame remained in her room.
In the servants’ hall nothing wrong was suspected. No one had apparently heard that sound in the night.
Yet two days later, while Madame was walking in the garden with her pet Pekinese, I took the key of the jewel-safe in her boudoir, which I found in a drawer in the dressing-table, and opening it had a look within.
The leather case of the tiara was there, but the contents were missing! Indeed, half Madame’s jewels had disappeared.
That same evening Monsieur returned from London in a somewhat bad humour. After dinner the usual scene occurred—Madame accusing him of flirtation with some woman whose name I had not hitherto heard mentioned. Ah, vrai! If poor Monsieur had known of that midnight visitor!
Yet before eleven that night the storm had passed, and the pair were on most affectionate terms. Now that Monsieur was home again Madame seemed more calm, more reassured.
“Mariette,” she whispered, as I brushed out her long hair that night as she sat before her mirror, “if your master is inquisitive about anything, recollect that you know nothing.”
“I have no memory where Madame’s private affairs are concerned,” I assured her.
“And if he wants the key of the jewel-safe say that I have mislaid it. Here it is. Keep it for me in your trunk.”
I took the key to my room and concealed it as she wished. The reason was plain. She intended to hide from her husband the disappearance of those splendid ornaments.
The Major must have torn her jewels off her—robbed her with violence. Tiens! A most charming lover!
About a fortnight went by uneventfully, when one day, while Monsieur was out with the Dartmoor Hounds, I handed Madame a telegram. As she read it her face changed.
For an instant she held her breath, her hand clutching her breast; then, in a low, strained voice, exclaimed—
“Mariette! I must go to London at once. Pack my small dress-case—two walking-gowns, the new blue and the grey, and my black net evening dress. Quickly. I will help you. You will go with me. We must drive into Totnes and catch the three-forty-five.”
To London! I sped away and commenced eagerly to pack, while Madame sat down to scribble a note for Monsieur.
After a scramble Chapman drove us at full speed in the car to Totnes, just in time for the train, and with an hour’s wait in Exeter we arrived at Paddington soon after ten and drove to the Carlton, where we had secured rooms by telephone before leaving home.
On the journey Madame had been très sérieux. Something serious had occurred, without a doubt. What excuse had Madame made to Monsieur, I wondered? I often pondered over that mysterious shot in the dark.
Next morning about eleven the waiter brought a card to our sitting-room, and a few moments later the Major was ushered in, tall, thin, well-dressed, with quick dark eyes, and waxed moustache. I withdrew discreetly into the adjoining room and closed the door.
Et moi, may I be forgiven if I had my ear to the key-hole!
I heard their greeting—the reverse of cordial.
“Well?” asked Madame hoarsely. “And why, pray, have you compelled me to come here?”
“Because I want to see you, my dear Ethel—to give you one last chance. Perhaps you don’t know what happened that night after I left you at Hembury. Philip, your husband, was watching down in the wood. He mistook me for his enemy Williamson, and the brute fired. Then he slipped back here to London, believing he had killed the man who knew a little too much. But, curse him! the bullet struck me in the shoulder, and I’ve had a very troublesome time with it, I assure you.”
“It was not my fault. You should have been more wary.”
“No, by Gad! it was my misfortune. I dare not reveal myself. And it was too dark down among those larches for him to see. But he was waiting there for Williamson—to murder him!”
“Ah! Then you now allege murderous intent against Philip—eh?” exclaimed Madame furiously. “What next, pray?”
“Nothing—only I must have a little money—and I will have it. You hear!”
“Ah!” cried my unhappy mistress. “Always the same tale—money—money! Think what you have already had from me within these past eighteen months—three thousand pounds in cash, and nearly all my jewellery. If Philip discovers, I’m ruined!”
“He will never know if you are only wise. I shall be discreet, depend upon it, my dear girl,” he laughed.
“But have you no mercy?” poor Madame implored. “No pity! Think how I am every day risking my reputation, my good name, everything by receiving those constant threats from you.”
“They are not idle ones,” declared the man in a low, determined tone. “I must have two thousand this week—not a penny less, or I shall come down and see Philip, and reveal the truth. He’ll believe it, because your readiness to part with your money and trinkets in itself condemns you. To me it is quite immaterial, for if you are obdurate I shall simply have my revenge.”
“You are a fiend!” she cried. “Your heart has turned to stone. I know—that woman behind you prompts you. I saw you with her at Prince’s a month ago. She hates me.”
“That is no affair of mine, ours has been simply a mere business transaction. You required my silence—and have paid for it.”
“And paid very dearly, alas! If I had gone to Philip at once, and made a clean breast of the whole affair, then I should have been spared all this. Yet, as it is, I am helpless in your hands.”
“I’m extremely glad that you at last realise that,” declared the Major, with a harsh laugh. “You have acknowledged it somewhat tardily. Now I hope you will act with discretion.”
“But I haven’t any money!” cried Madame blankly. “I can’t give you any more. I drew my last pound from the bank last week, and sent it to you.”
“Philip is rich. You can easily find some,” said the man airily.
“How? If I asked him for such an amount he would want to see my pass-book—and then he’d discover into what channel my money had gone!”
“My dear girl, it is quite immaterial to me how you get money. I want it—and I intend to have it.”
“Not from me. You really can’t,” I heard Madame declare despairingly.
“Very well,” laughed her visitor in a meaning tone. “Then you know the alternative.”
“My ruin! Yes, I know!” and she burst into bitter tears.
“Don’t be a silly fool!” he cried roughly. “I’m not here for a scene. I’m here to do business with you, in a frank and legitimate matter. Two thousand—and we’ll end the whole affair. As I told you the last time we met, for two thousand I’m ready to sign a document declaring that what I have alleged is entirely false. Fortunately nobody can prove it except me.”
“And who would believe that it was false? Certainly Philip wouldn’t. I should suffer in any case,” Madame said.
“Philip does not dream that you were ever in Cape Town. He knows nothing of me. Get me the two thousand, and I’ll go back to South Africa and you shall never hear of me again. If not—well, you will suffer. You’ve played a pretty smart game, and you must now pay—or else, Ethel, it’s the criminal’s dock.”
“No, no!” she cried in despair. “You can’t mean that! You surely would not expose me!”
“I’m in desperate straits, my girl,” he declared. “A very awkward contretemps has occurred. I’m in a corner, and I must have money to get away from England—and quickly, too. That is why I rely on you. Surely there’s no reason why we should both stand in a criminal dock—eh?”
Madame was silent. Apparently she was pondering.
“Come,” he said persuasively. “No good can come of endeavouring to evade the inevitable. Get me the money, and we will not meet again. In future you shall lead your highly respectable country life in peace.”
“What guarantee should I have of it?” inquired Madame Alleyne, still suspicious.
“I would suggest writing you a declaration, fully exonerating you from any blame, and in it I will, if you wish, admit my complicity in the Ducane affair. Then if I molest you again you can use it against me.”
Again there was a brief silence.
I could hear the frou-frou of Madame’s silken skirts as she paced nervously up and down the room.
She might enter the room wherein I was, I feared, therefore I was compelled to leave the key-hole and pass out into the corridor, lest I were suspected of eavesdropping.
For ten minutes or so I did not return. When I listened again all was silent.
“Read it,” I heard the Major say in a low voice. “Will this suit you?”
Petit silence.
Then Madame replied in the affirmative. How she had been able to raise the sum demanded in so short a time was a complete mystery.
Once more I slipped from the room, and when I returned Madame’s visitor had departed. Indeed, I passed him upon the stairs, smiling and triumphant.
She asked me where I had been, and I told her I had been down-stairs in the hall. It was no lie. I had been down—but I had reascended.
Madame’s demeanour had entirely altered. She seemed gayer and brighter and more confident than for many weeks. The reason was plain. She was released at last from the hateful thraldom of that unscrupulous blackguard.
For two days we remained in London, then we returned to Devonshire.
As Chapman drove us up through the park to the house Madame turned, and exclaimed—
“Ah! Mariette, how beautiful, how peaceful it is here after London!”
And then, in the several days which followed, Madame and Monsieur seemed happy as lovers.
On the fourth night after our return, about half-past two o’clock in the morning, the bells outside the corridor where we of the personnel slept rang violently, and, Sainte Vierge! we were all awakened with a start.
“Thieves!” shouted some one.
The girls were too frightened to speak. Lights were lit, and in a moment all became confusion. Chapman dashed along to the master’s room, and with the others I followed.
Just, however, as I gained the head of the stairs I heard a pistol shot, followed quickly by another.
Then a loud scream rent the silence. It was Madame!
Next second Monsieur shouted from the dining-room—
“Quick! Come here, somebody! The fellow shot at me, and by Heaven! I—I believe I’ve killed him!”
I dashed after Madame into the room. The electric light had been switched on, and there, upon the floor, lay the prostrate man. Ah! malheur! It was Major Ward!
He had, it appeared, broken into the house, and by means of a duplicate key mysteriously obtained had opened Monsieur’s safe in the library and abstracted a quantity of negotiable bonds, with about seven hundred pounds in notes and gold. The whole household had, however, been ignorant that upon the safe-door was an electrical alarm. Therefore Monsieur, awakened by it, had crept quietly down and caught the thief just in the act of leaving.
Madame was bending beside him.
“Hold his head, Mariette,” she said, and I obeyed.
Sacré tonnerre! As I did so his lips moved, and I heard him whisper very faintly—
“Forgive!—forgive!—no one need know—Ethel, my wife—forgive!” Then a long deep sigh, and he passed away.
Madame’s eyes met mine. How she controlled herself I can never tell.
Heureusement, no one else caught those low words save us, bending down beside him. Monsieur was too excited, for he was declaring his action to have been entirely justified.
“The Major!” whispered Chapman, as he passed me. “And the guv’nor suspects nothing!”
Encore un mot sur Madame. For nearly two years afterwards I remained in her service, for she reposed in me every confidence. Indeed, by slow degrees I learned from her a strange story, how, when only eighteen, she had gone out to the Cape to visit her uncle, a farmer, and had there met Ward, and married him. Soon, alas! she discovered, to her horror, that he was a professional card-sharper, and that for the mysterious death of a young man named Ducane—who had threatened to denounce him—he was responsible. So, casting off her wedding-ring, she left him, and returned to England. Being then only twenty, she became governess in a nobleman’s family, when Monsieur met her and married her, unsuspicious of her previous union with the man known to his intimates as “the Major.” After four years Ward discovered what had happened, that his wife had committed bigamy, and, further, that Monsieur Alleyne had also been in South Africa, and that while there had shot a man named Williamson, who had one night cheated him out of three hundred pounds at cards in Johannesburg. This Williamson had been the Major’s accomplice, therefore he had told the dead man’s brother the truth, and he had also received a considerable sum by threatening exposure. Hence, both husband and wife had been blackmailed, unknown to each other!
Chose singulière, Madame, in desperation, had handed to the scoundrelly sharper her husband’s safe key, which he had had duplicated, and then returned to her.
But, of course, Monsieur remained in complete ignorance of it all, and is still quite unsuspicious, for the police inquiries and the evidence given before the Coroner revealed nothing save that the unknown man was a burglar who had attempted murder, and who had met with his deserts.
The two years I afterwards spent chez les Alleynes were most tranquil and happy, and I only left with great regret because Monsieur, having unfortunately suffered some very severe losses on the Stock Exchange, sold Hembury and went with Madame to live in Florence—that city of the English who fall upon evil times.
Ah! quand, je pense à tout cela!