The next day was cold, but bright and sunny. From ten o'clock in the
morning until _dejeuner_ at twelve o'clock, Ethel McMahon endeavoured to
instil some rudimentary knowledge of English into the minds of the
fifteen-year-old daughters of prosperous tradesmen of the Luxembourg
district at the academy for young ladies of the Demoiselles de
Custine-Seraphin, two elderly ladies in whom parsimony and the
proprieties struggled for mastery.
With many a sigh and shrug of disgust her demure charges had struggled
with the intricacies of our language, had conjugated the verb "to love"
in unexpected fashions, had laboriously assimilated the information that
"ze weadder is going to be ver' fin to-day," and so forth.
At twelve, together with her fellow-teachers, Mademoiselle Marie and
Mademoiselle Augustine de Custine-Seraphin, Ethel had taken the second
breakfast of thin soup, pallid mutton, and stale _tartines au
confiture_. At one she was free--free till nine o'clock in the evening.
And as she came downstairs from her room dressed to go out, her face was
so radiant and changed in expression that Mademoiselle Marie de
Custine-Seraphin tossed her head as the girl passed, and gave it as her
undoubted opinion to her sister that _la jeune anglaise_ was certainly
going to do more than spend a quiet afternoon and evening with her
invalid mother.
"Figure to yourself, Augustine; her face was of the most beaming, her
eye had sparkle, her cheeks were colour of rose. _Ca fait un amant,
n'est-ce pas?_"
"_A la jeunesse, comme a la jeunesse,_" her sister replied with a shrug,
and went on making up the account of Mademoiselle Hortense Dubois, the
well-to-do butcher's daughter who was leaving school that quarter.
Ethel McMahon hurried out of the quiet street in which the school was
situated, walking towards the Luxembourg.
She was a typically Irish girl in feature, with those dark-blue eyes,
like hot Venetian water, that hair black as a bog-oak root, that
complexion of cream and roses that is hardly seen anywhere outside the
Isle of Unrest. She was tall and walked with a swing, as she threaded
her way among the _chic_ and mincing Parisiennes towards her mother's
tiny flat in the Rue Paczensky.
Dull as the girl's life was, hard as she worked all day, her youth and
vitality were stronger than the power of circumstances. Vivid and
impulsive in all she did, a constant spring of hope welled up within
her, and she was certain that sooner or later--she believed very
soon--everything in her life would come right. Dear Basil would get some
lucrative appointment, the great invention would be financed by some
kindly millionaire who would appear in the nick of time. They would get
married, her mother would be able to live in the far healthier air of
the Alps, as the doctor had ordered. Day in and day out Ethel was
convinced that all would be well, and whenever she saw her lover she
comforted and inspirited him as if they were indeed husband and wife.
Mrs. McMahon's flat of two rooms and a kitchen was high up in the great
drab block of buildings, and, small as it was, the rent, as is the case
with all flats in Paris, was proportionately high.
As she entered the hallway Ethel was handed a bundle of letters by the
concierge. She did not examine them at the moment, but ran lightly up
the stairs to the flat.
Mrs. McMahon was seated by the window of the sitting-room. A lace pillow
with its pins and reels of thread was upon the table before her, and her
thin hands were moving quickly and deftly over it hither and thither.
It was Mrs. McMahon's specialty to copy old Valenciennes lace, which she
did for a firm in the Rue de Rivoli. The labour was intense, the process
wearingly long, but the few hundred francs earned during the year by
this means helped to pay the rent.
She was a tall, faded woman. The hair, which had once been as black as
her daughter's, was now scanty and iron-grey. All the light had faded
from the blue eyes, and she was painfully thin. She returned her
daughter's caresses without much animation, and sat back in her
old-fashioned chair with her hands lying idly in her lap, gazing at the
girl in a lack-lustre way as she moved quickly about the room, taking
off her hat and stole of cheap fur, giving a touch to the furniture here
and there, and putting a little bunch of dark-red asters, which she had
bought, into a vase upon the dining-table.
"Well, Ethel, I suppose you have no news? I hope those old cats"--Mrs.
McMahon was accustomed to refer to the Demoiselles de Custine-Seraphin
in this way--"I hope those old cats have been behaving themselves
better. I cannot think why you stay with them. Surely a girl with your
knowledge of French as well as English, and with your appearance, could
get something better to do. The salary they pay you is disgraceful."
Ethel shook her head brightly; this was an old ground of debate between
herself and the querulous invalid. "My dear mother," she said, "I really
cannot afford to wait for anything better to turn up. If I could,
possibly I might get something better to do, but that would mean coming
home for perhaps three or four months, and you know we cannot possibly
afford that. While I am at the school, of course, I cannot go looking
after another post. So I must make the best of it, that's all."
Mrs. McMahon coughed fretfully. "How horrified your poor dear father
would have been," she said, "at the life you are leading now! It is my
one consolation that Providence has spared him that!"
Ethel said nothing in answer, though she had her doubts upon the
subject. The late Captain McMahon had retired from the Irish Guards soon
after getting his company and marrying pretty Miss Persse of county
Galway. There were not wanting those who said that his retirement was
more or less compulsory owing to rather too pronounced successes while
holding the bank at baccarat or chemin de fer. Be that as it may,
Ethel's memory of her childhood in various more or less shady
Continental resorts was by no means a pleasant one. Captain McMahon had
been one of those people whose whole philosophy is summed up in the
expression, "Hang it, the luck _must_ turn!" He had wooed fortune
wherever a casino or gambling hell was to be found upon the Continent
of Europe; he had wooed her in vain; the luck never did turn.
However, it was doubtless owing to this persistent optimism inculcated
by her father that Ethel herself was enabled to bear up against the drab
monotony of her life. She also felt instinctively that "the luck must
turn." As for Mrs. McMahon herself, while she affected a consistent
despair and the gloomiest outlook upon the future, she secretly
nourished the most extravagant hopes, and was as much a gambler in
temperament as her husband had been in action. Only the most limited
opportunities of exercising her passion were given her, but of these she
took advantage to the full.
"I cannot think," the elder lady went on, "what that lover of yours can
be about. Oh, I have nothing to say against Basil," she said hurriedly,
as she saw Ethel's colour begin to rise, and her mouth to harden into
mutiny. "Basil is a good fellow enough, and, of course, I know he is
very clever at his electricity, and so on. He and that young Frenchman,
Monsieur Deschamps, have no doubt got a fortune in their heads, as you
are always telling me. All that I can say is that it seems likely to
stay there. With your blood Ethel, for both the Persses and the McMahons
rode straight for anything they wanted, I wonder at your choosing a boy
like Basil, who seems to have no initiative, no dash. Ah, well! I
suppose there are no soldiers of fortune nowadays. But, still, with your
name and your appearance, I think you might have done better for
yourself."
Ethel knew it was useless to answer anything to this. She let her mother
run on until she was tired, and then began to make tea, with a little
spirit kettle.
As she was doing this, she noticed the little pile of letters that the
concierge had handed to her. The top one had not come by post, and was
unstamped. Ethel knew the writing very well. It was that of the clerk
who sent out demands and receipts for the rent at the office.
"Ah!" she said; "here is the receipt for the quarter's rent." She had
given her mother the money to pay it some time ago, and without thinking
what she was doing, she opened the envelope.
Mrs. McMahon rose from her seat in considerable agitation. Her hands
trembled a little, and a bright colour came into her wan face.
"Why, mother," Ethel said in alarm, "this is not a receipt at all! This
is a letter from the office saying that the rent is much overdue, and
pressing for immediate payment. I gave you the money!" The words died
away from her lips as she saw the old lady, a picture of embarrassment,
standing before her.
"My dear," said Mrs. McMahon, in a shaking voice, "you really must allow
me to manage the household finances in my own way. I am older and more
experienced in life than you. I have temporarily--er--well, _invested_
the rent money in the hopes, in the almost certainty, that in a day or
so I shall be repaid a hundred-fold."
Ethel sat down at the table with a deep sigh. "Oh, mother!" she said in
a pleading voice, "how could you, how could you really? I suppose that
it is one of those wretched lotteries again. I should not like to think
how many precious francs have been simply thrown away in the last year
or two. Hundreds and hundreds. It is simply madness to spend two or
three hundred francs on a ticket for one of the wretched things when we
have hardly money for the necessaries of life."
The old lady began to cry weakly. "I did it for the best, Ethel," she
said. "I am sure I thought that my bad luck could not go on much longer.
I had such hopes this time."
Ethel saw her opportunity. While her mother was in this state of
penitence she might perhaps make a lasting impression.
"Mother," she said, earnestly, "gambling nearly ruined my grandfather;
it quite ruined father. We could not be much worse off than we are, but
don't throw away the last thing that keeps us from absolute starvation.
Do not destroy the roof over our heads! If there were only something in
it, I should not so much mind. To win anything in these affairs robs
nobody. But there never _is_ anything in it, worse luck. From us, at any
rate, the spirit of Chance has turned her head; gambling of any sort is
ruin."
"It is--it is," the old lady sobbed, now thoroughly broken down. "Oh,
that I had never been drawn into it, had never had the poison instilled
into my blood! But this is the last time, Ethel, dear; it is the last
time, I promise you. And how to pay the rent I do not know."
Ethel sighed heavily. The rent could be paid this time, she knew. She
had been fortunate in securing some extra English lessons during the
last quarter--lessons which were given privately to a girl of about her
own age, and which had brought her in a few louis; but she had wanted
this money so badly for clothes. It was dreadful to go out with Basil on
their rather rare holidays and to look dowdy and shabby, as she was only
too conscious of being. She knew--what pretty girl does not?--how
important decent clothes are, and she longed that her lover should see
her dressed like other maidens in the restaurants and minor places of
amusement where he was able to take her. And now--that was another
little dream gone. The old brown coat and skirt and the imitation
astrachan muff and stole would have to do for the rest of the winter;
there was bitterness in the thought which no man can fathom.
"Oh, well," she said in a dull voice, "I have saved up a little, and I
suppose it will be enough for the rent. But, oh, mother, how could you
do it!"
"Never again! never again!" wailed the old lady, and with a dull pain at
her heart Ethel left the room and went into the little kitchen to fetch
the tea things.
She was a little longer in the kitchen than she had anticipated. Tears
were in her eyes also, and it required all her resolution and
self-control to keep them back, and to preserve her ordinary composure.
At last, with a heavy sigh and trying to twist her face into the
semblance of a smile, she took up the tray and went back into the
sitting-room, resolved to comfort her mother as well as she could.
Mrs. McMahon, to her daughter's immense surprise, was standing by the
window, very erect, with all traces of recent tears and penitence
absolutely gone from her face. There was a superior and almost haughty
smile upon the old lady's lips.
Ethel stared in wild astonishment at this transformation.
"Put the things down, my dear," said Mrs. McMahon, in a calm and
patronising voice. "Perhaps when you have heard what I have got to say,
you will realise the wisdom of trusting to older and more experienced
people. I do not blame you, Ethel; you are but a child after all and can
know nothing of the world. But I do ask you to trust to the wisdom and
judgment of your elders in future. If you do so, and allow yourself to
be guided by me in everything, then we shall very soon be relieved from
our present position, and be able to return to that place in society
which our birth and connections warrant."
Ethel dropped the tray some inches upon the table with a crash. Her
lower lip dropped. Her eyes were wide.
Mrs. McMahon looked down upon her daughter--she was slightly taller than
Ethel when she stood erect--with a kindly and compassionate smile, as
one looks at a beloved but tiresome and fretful child.
"I suppose," she said, "that a little sum of two thousand five hundred
francs would be sufficient to pay the rent?"
Ethel gasped.
"I suppose," Mrs. McMahon continued, "that you would regard a return of
a hundred pounds for an investment of ten fairly remunerative?"
Ethel murmured something or other, she hardly knew what.
Then Mrs. McMahon condescended to explain. Her eagerness burst through,
her high comedy manner vanished.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she cried, "the luck has turned at last! After
all these years! Look! look!"
With shaking hands she held out some papers to Ethel. A typewritten
sheet was headed, "Koeniglich-Preussiche-Klassen-Lotterie," and stated in
French that Mrs. McMahon, who had purchased the eighth of a ticket in
the famous Berlin lottery, had thereby won a sum of 2,000 Marks German,
or--was added in parentheses--2,500 francs. A pink draft upon the Credit
Lyonnais was enclosed for the sum.
"Oh, mother!" Ethel gasped, in the sudden shock, "two thousand five
hundred francs! A hundred pounds!" And, quite forgetful of her former
strictures, she hugged the trembling old lady again and again. "We are
rich! we are rich!" she cried, and a vision crossed her mind of an
inexpensive hat she had but lately seen in the Rue de Rivoli--a perfect
duck of a hat!
They sat down to tea, and never was there a happier meal. Ethel was to
meet Basil at six, and he was to take her out to dinner.
"Oh, mother," she said, "how delighted Basil will be to hear the news! I
am so sorry I spoke as I did, but it all seemed so hopeless. I see now
that I was wrong."
Mrs. McMahon smiled. "My dear," she said, "remember that it is a rule in
life that nothing venture, nothing have. This money seems a great deal,
no doubt, and it certainly more than repays all that I have spent to get
it, so that we are on the right side, after all, as your poor dear
father used to say. But it is a principle in these affairs--and you will
admit now that I know something about them--always to follow up your
luck. It is the people who do not do that who never deserve to have
any, and very rarely do have any."
Ethel did not quite understand what the elder lady meant, but she
nodded. "Go on, mother dear," she answered.
Mrs. McMahon, who for the last two or three minutes had been sitting
lost in thought, turned to her daughter. Her face was grave, but it
showed a strangely suppressed excitement, and there was an odd glimmer
in her eyes. "First of all, dear," she said, "we must pay the rent. Your
little savings will not be required, after all. You can renovate your
wardrobe, and I will add something to help you. More especially, you
will have to get a really good evening gown, and a smart hat to wear
with it."
Ethel stared. "But, mother," she said, "surely that is an extravagance?
I never go anywhere where a smart evening gown is wanted. And you know
what such things cost."
"A smart evening gown," Mrs. McMahon went on, almost as if she were
talking to herself. "We must spend as little as possible upon it, but it
must be decent. For myself, I have something that will do--that is, in
the first instance."
"What are you talking about, mother dear?" Ethel asked.
"Now listen, Ethel," her mother replied. "A chance has come to us. It
may well be our one and only chance. We must grasp it, or let it go by
for ever. Fortune always turns her face away from those who refuse to
follow when she beckons. I have a plan. We must take Fortune at the
flood, as I said. To begin with, we must tell Basil Gregory nothing
whatever of this little bit of good fortune which has befallen us. You
must not say a word to him about it, or even hint at it."
"Oh, but mother, he would be so delighted to know. I always share
everything with Basil."
"No doubt," said Mrs. McMahon, "but in this case I want you to do
nothing of the sort. You will know why in a moment. Basil, dear fellow
as he is--I am sorry I made some petulant remarks about your engagement
a few minutes ago--is an Englishman. Apart from his high scientific
attainments, which have yet to be proved, by the way, Basil has all the
Englishman's solidity and caution. He is not imaginative. He is not a
man to risk anything upon a supreme chance. Now, regard the situation in
which we are."
"We are free from all debt, at any rate," Ethel answered wonderingly;
"and we shall have a nice little surplus in hand."
"You must look farther than that, my dear," said her mother, with the
odd brightness in her eyes growing more marked than ever. "A hundred
pounds is all very well. We may buy shares in other lottery tickets. We
may even buy a whole ticket, but that is a single chance, and means a
great deal of waiting. Since Fortune is smiling upon us there is another
and surer way to court her favours. I have been thinking quickly, as I
generally do when there is something important to be decided. With this
money"--she began to speak slowly and impressively--"you and I can go to
Monte Carlo. We can go by the slow train, third class. It will take us
twenty-four hours, and not be very comfortable. But that I can endure,
and if I can, then so can you. I know the Principality of Monaco very
well. At Monte Carlo itself all the hotels and places are terribly
expensive, and far beyond our means, but only a quarter of a mile away,
in that part known as the Condamine, there are lots of quite inexpensive
_pensions_ which would serve our purpose very well."
"But what on earth are we to do in Monte Carlo? and how can I leave the
school?"
"The school, my dear Ethel, is of minor importance. Nothing venture,
nothing have. What we are to do at Monte Carlo is to turn what will
remain of our hundred pounds into such a sum as will make us independent
for the rest of our lives--a sum that will allow me to go to
Switzerland, as the doctor ordered, that will start you comfortably in
your married life with Basil Gregory."
The last shot told, and set the girl's pulses throbbing furiously.
"Oh, mother," she said, "if it were only possible!"
"It is perfectly possible, my dear Ethel," Mrs. McMahon returned, and
there was such calm certainty in her tone that the eager girl, carried
off her feet by the arrival of the lottery cheque, and the brilliant
vista which was beginning to unveil itself, hardly questioned her
mother's wisdom at all.
"I know Monte Carlo very well," said the old lady. "I was there often
enough with your poor dear father. On one occasion he lost every penny
he had at the tables there, and we were compelled to apply to the
Administration for what they call the _viatique_--that is, a sufficient
sum to pay our expenses back to Paris, from whence we had come. It is
never refused. But, on looking back, I see how foolish both your father
and I were. We played recklessly. We ignored the most elementary rules
of chance. We were rightly punished. For many months now I have been
dreaming of just such a chance as has come to us at last. I have been
studying the new book written by a professor, who won large sums of
money at Monte Carlo, in the interests of mathematics, on the Theory of
Probabilities. I have gained much knowledge from it. I propose to
utilise that knowledge very shortly."
"Then you have definite plans?" Ethel asked.
"Perfectly definite, my dear. I have only been waiting to put them into
execution. The time has now arrived. We will get the necessary
clothes--for in order to obtain the entree to the Casino, one must be
decently dressed--and we will go to Monte Carlo at once. Three days'
careful play at roulette--for I do not intend to go near the
_trente-et-quarante_ tables--will either see us with a sufficient
fortune for our needs or take all we have got. Even if it does, we shall
be little worse off than we are at present. Nothing can take my hundred
a year from me, and you will easily find another post. It may even be
that you can obtain a week's leave of absence from those old cats. It is
worth while trying, at any rate. If not, you must resign the whole
thing. For my part, I feel fully confident that you will never have to
go back to such dreary drudgery."
Confidence expressed in an authoritative tone by an elder is infectious.
Confidence already backed up by an initial proof is more infectious
still. Ethel McMahon's scruples, doubts and hesitations vanished
utterly, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into her mother's scheme.