THE ADVENTURES OF A FAITHFUL MAID
IT was about five o'clock on Saturday afternoon. The funeral was over.
The unfortunate young Irish gentleman was now lying in the cemetery of
Auteuil in a grave purchased in perpetuity. His name, age, and rank
were duly inscribed in the registers, and the cause of his death was
vouched for by the English physician who had attended him at the
request of his family. He was accompanied, in going through the
formalities, by the respectable woman who had nursed the sick man
during his last seizure. Everything was perfectly in order. The
physician was the only mourner at the funeral. No one was curious about
the little procession. A funeral, more or less, excites no attention.
The funeral completed, the doctor gave orders for a single monument to
be put in memory of Lord Harry Norland, thus prematurely cut off. He
then returned to the cottage, paid and dismissed the nurse, taking her
address in case he should find an opportunity, as he hoped, to
recommend her among his numerous and distinguished clientele, and
proceeded to occupy himself in setting everything in order before
giving over the key to the landlord. First of all he removed the
medicine bottles from the cupboard with great care, leaving nothing.
Most of the bottles he threw outside into the dust-hole; one or two he
placed in a fire which he made for the purpose in the kitchen: they
were shortly reduced to two or three lumps of molten glass. These
contained, no doubt, the mysteries and secrets of Science. Then he went
into every room and searched in every possible place for any letters or
papers which might have been left about. Letters left about are always
indiscreet, and the consequences of an indiscretion may be far-reaching
and incalculable. Satisfied at last that the place was perfectly
cleared, he sat down in the salon and continued his business
correspondence with the noble family and the solicitors. Thus engaged,
he heard footsteps outside, footsteps on the gravel, footsteps on the
doorstop. He got up, not without the slightest show of nervousness, and
opened the door. Lord Harry was right. There stood the woman who had
been his first nurse--the woman who overheard and watched--the woman
who suspected. The suspicion and the intention of watching were legible
in her eyes still. She had come back to renew her watch.
In her hand she carried her box, which she had lugged along from the
place where the omnibus had deposited her. She made as if she were
stepping in; but the big form of the doctor barred the way.
"Oh!" he said carelessly, "it is you. Who told you to come back?"
"Is my mistress at home?"
"No; she is not." He made no movement to let her pass.
"I will come in, please, and wait for her."
He still stood in the way.
"What time will she return?"
"Have you heard from her?"
"No."
"Did she leave orders that you were to follow her?"
"No; none that I received. I thought--"
"Servants should never think. They should obey."
"I know my duty, Dr. Vimpany, without learning it from you. Will you
let me pass?"
He withdrew, and she entered.
"Come in, by all means," he said, "if you desire my society for a short
time. But you will not find your mistress here."
"Not here! Where is she, then?"
"Had you waited in London for a day or two you would, I dare say, have
been informed. As it is, you have had your journey for nothing."
"Has she not been here?"
"She has not been here."
"Dr. Vimpany," said the woman, driven to desperation, "I don't believe
you! I am certain she has been here. What have you done with her?"
"Don't you believe me? That is sad, indeed. But one cannot always help
these wanderings. You do not believe me? Melancholy, truly!"
"You may mock as much as you like. Where is she?"
"Where, indeed?"
"She left London to join his lordship. Where is he?
"I do not know. He who would answer that question would be a wise man
indeed."
"Can I see him?"
"Certainly not. He has gone away. On a long journey. By himself."
"Then I shall wait for him. Here!" she added with decision. "In this
house!"
"By all means."
She hesitated. There was an easy look about the doctor which she did
not like.
"I believe," she said, "that my mistress is in the house. She must be
in the house. What are you going to do with her? I believe you have put
her somewhere."
"Indeed!"
"You would do anything! I will go to the police."
"If you please."
"Oh! doctor, tell me where she is!"
"You are a faithful servant: it is good, in these days, to find a woman
so zealous on account of her mistress. Come in, good and faithful.
Search the house all over. Come in--what are you afraid of? Put down
your box, and go and look for your mistress." Fanny obeyed. She ran
into the house, opened the doors of the salon and the dining-room one
after the other: no one was there. She ran up the stairs and looked
into her mistress's room: nothing was there, not even a ribbon or a
hair-pin, to show the recent presence of a woman. She looked into Lord
Harry's room. Nothing was there. If a woman leaves hairpins about, a
man leaves his toothbrush: nothing at all was there. Then she threw
open the armoire in each room: nothing behind the doors. She came
downstairs slowly, wondering what it all meant.
"May I look in the spare room?" she asked, expecting to be roughly
refused.
"By all means--by all means," said the doctor, blandly. "You know your
way about. If there is anything left belonging to your mistress or to
you, pray take it."
She tried one more question.
"How is my patient? How is Mr. Oxbye?"
"He is gone."
"Gone? Where has he gone to? Gone?"
"He went away yesterday--Friday. He was a grateful creature. I wish we
had more such grateful creatures as well as more such faithful
servants. He said something about finding his way to London in order to
thank you properly. A good soul, indeed!"
"Gone?" she repeated. "Why, on Thursday morning I saw him--" She
checked herself in time.
"It was on Wednesday morning that you saw him, and he was then
recovering rapidly."
"But he was far too weak to travel."
"You may be quite certain that I should not have allowed him to go away
unless he was strong enough."
Fanny made no reply. She had seen with her own eyes the man lying still
and white, as if in death; she had seen the new nurse rushing off,
crying that he was dead. Now she was told that he was quite well, and
that he had gone away! But it was no time for thought.
She was on the point of asking where the new nurse was, but she
remembered in time that it was best for her to know nothing, and to
awaken no suspicions. She opened the door of the spare room and looked
in. Yes; the man was gone--dead or alive--and there were no traces left
of his presence. The place was cleared up; the cupboard stood with open
doors, empty; the bed was made; the curtain pushed back; the sofa was
in its place against the wall; the window stood open. Nothing in the
room at all to show that there had been an occupant only two days
before. She stared blankly. The dead man was gone, then. Had her senses
altogether deceived her? Was he not dead, but only sleeping? Was her
horror only a thing of imagination? Behind her, in the hall, stood the
doctor, smiling, cheerful.
She remembered that her first business was to find her mistress. She
was not connected with the Dane. She closed the door and returned to
the hall.
"Well," asked the doctor, "have you made any discoveries? You see that
the house is deserted. You will perhaps learn before long why. Now what
will you do? Will you go back to London?"
"I must find her ladyship."
The doctor smiled.
"Had you come here in a different spirit," he said, "I would have
spared you all this trouble. You come, however, with suspicion written
on your face. You have always been suspecting and watching. It may be
in a spirit of fidelity to your mistress; but such a spirit is not
pleasing to other people, especially when there is not a single person
who bears any resentment towards that mistress. Therefore, I have
allowed you to run over the empty house, and to satisfy your suspicious
soul. Lady Harry is not hidden here. As for Lord Harry--but you will
hear in due time no doubt. And now I don't mind telling you that I have
her ladyship's present address."
"Oh! What is it?"
"She appears to have passed through Paris on her way to Switzerland two
days ago, and has sent here her address for the next fortnight. She has
now, I suppose, arrived there. The place is Berne; the Hotel ----. But
how do I know that she wants you?"
"Of course she wants me."
"Or of course you want her? Very good. Yours is the responsibility, not
mine. Her address is the Hotel d'Angleterre. Shall I write it down for
you? There it is. 'Hotel d'Angleterre, Berne.' Now you will not forget.
She will remain there for one fortnight only. After that, I cannot say
whither she may go. And, as all her things have been sent away, and as
I am going away, I am not likely to hear."
"Oh I must go to her. I must find her!" cried the woman earnestly; "if
it is only to make sure that no evil is intended for her."
"That is your business. For my own part, I know of no one who can wish
her ladyship any evil."
"Is my lord with her?"
"I don't know whether that is your business. I have already told you
that he is gone. If you join your mistress in Berne, you will very soon
find out if he is there as well." Something in his tone made Fanny look
up quickly. But his face revealed nothing. "What shall you do then?"
asked the doctor. "You must make up your mind quickly whether you will
go back to England or whether you will go on to Switzerland. You cannot
stay here, because I am putting together the last things, and I shall
give the landlord the key of the house this evening. All the bills are
paid, and I am going to leave the place."
"I do not understand. There is the patient," she murmured vaguely.
"What does it mean? I cannot understand."
"My good creature," he replied roughly, "what the devil does it matter
to me whether you understand or whether you do not understand? Her
ladyship is, as I have told you, at Berne. If you please to follow her
there, do so. It is your own affair, not mine. If you prefer to go back
to London, do so. Still--your own affair. Is there anything else to
say?"
Nothing. Fanny took up her box--this time the doctor did not offer to
carry it for her.
"Where are you going?" he asked. "What have you decided?"
"I can get round by the Chemin de Fer de Ceinture to the Lyons station.
I shall take the first cheap train which will take me to Berne."
"Bon voyage!" said the doctor, cheerfully, and shut the door.
It is a long journey from Paris to Berne even for those who can travel
first class and express--that is, if sixteen hours can be called a long
journey. For those who have to jog along by third class, stopping at
all the little country stations, it is a long and tedious journey
indeed. The longest journey ends at last. The train rolled slowly into
the station of Berne, and Fanny descended with her box. Her wanderings
were over for the present. She would find her mistress and be at rest.
She asked to be directed to the Hotel d'Angleterre. The Swiss guardian
of the peace with the cocked hat stared at her. She repeated the
question.
"Hotel d'Angleterre?" he echoed. "There is no Hotel d'Angleterre in
Berne."
"Yes, yes; there is. I am the maid of a lady who is staying at that
hotel."
"No; there is no Hotel d'Angleterre," he reported. "There is the Hotel
Bernehof."
"No." She took out the paper and showed it to him--"Lady Harry Norland,
Hotel d'Angleterre, Berne."
"There is the Hotel de Belle Vue, the Hotel du Faucon, the Hotel
Victoria, the Hotel Schweizerhof. There is the Hotel schrodel, the
Hotel Schneider, the Pension Simkin."
Fanny as yet had no other suspicion than that the doctor had
accidentally written a wrong name. Her mistress was at Berne: she would
be in one of the hotels. Berne is not a large place. Very good; she
would go round to the hotels and inquire. She did so. There are not, in
fact, more than half a dozen hotels in Berne where an English lady
could possibly stay. Fanny went to every one of these. No one had heard
of any such lady: they showed her the lists of their visitors. She
inquired at the post-office. No lady of that name had asked for
letters. She asked if there were any pensions, and went round them
all--uselessly.
No other conclusion was possible. The doctor had deceived her wilfully.
To get her out of the way he sent her to Berne. He would have sent her
to Jericho if her purse had been long enough to pay the fare. She was
tricked.
She counted her money. There was exactly twenty-eight shillings and
tenpence in her purse.
She went back to the cheapest (and dirtiest) of the pensions she had
visited. She stated her case--she had missed milady her mistress--she
must stay until she should receive orders to go on, and money--would
they take her in until one or the other arrived? Certainly. They would
take her in, at five francs a day, payable every morning in advance.
She made a little calculation--she had twenty-eight and tenpence;
exactly thirty-five francs--enough for seven days. If she wrote to Mrs.
Vimpany at once she could get an answer in five days.
She accepted the offer, paid her five shillings, was shown into a room,
and was informed that the dinner was served at six o'clock.
Very good. Here she could rest, at any rate, and think what was to be
done. And first she wrote two letters--one to Mrs. Vimpany and one to
Mr. Mountjoy.
In both of these letters she told exactly what she had found: neither
Lord Harry nor his wife at the cottage, the place vacated, and the
doctor on the point of going away. In both letters she told how she had
been sent all the way into Switzerland on a fool's errand, and now
found herself planted there without the means of getting home. In the
letter to Mrs. Vimpany she added the remarkable detail that the man
whom she had seen on the Thursday morning apparently dead, whose actual
poisoning she thought she had witnessed, was reported on the Saturday
to have walked out of the cottage, carrying his things, if he had any,
and proposing to make his way to London in order to find out his old
nurse. "Make what you can out of that," she said. "For my own part, I
understand nothing."
In the letter which she wrote to Mr. Mountjoy she added a petition that
he would send her money to bring her home. This, she said, her mistress
she knew would willingly defray.
She posted these letters on Tuesday, and waited for the answers.
Mrs. Vimpany wrote back by return post.
"My dear Fanny," she said, "I have read your letter with the greatest
interest. I am not only afraid that some villainy is afloat, but I am
perfectly sure of it. One can only hope and pray that her ladyship may
be kept out of its influence. You will be pleased to hear that Mr.
Mountjoy is better. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to stand
the shock of violent emotion, I put Lady Harry's letter into his hands.
It was well that I had kept it from him, for he fell into such a
violence of grief and indignation that I thought he would have had a
serious relapse. 'Can any woman,' he cried, 'be justified in going back
to an utterly unworthy husband until he has proved a complete change?
What if she had received a thousand letters of penitence? Penitence
should be shown by acts, not words: she should have waited.' He wrote
her a letter, which he showed me. 'Is there,' he asked, 'anything in
the letter which could justly offend her?' I could find nothing. He
told her, but I fear too late, that she risks degradation--perhaps
worse, if there is anything worse--if she persists in returning to her
unworthy husband. If she refuses to be guided by his advice, on the
last occasion on which he would presume to offer any device, he begged
that she would not answer. Let her silence say--No. That was the
substance of his letter. Up to the present moment no answer has been
received from Lady Harry. Nor has he received so much as an
acknowledgment of the letter. What can be understood by this silence?
Clearly, refusal.
"You must return by way of Paris, though it is longer than by Basle and
Laon. Mr. Mountjoy, I know, will send you the money you want. He has
told me as much. 'I have done with Lady Harry,' he said. 'Her movements
no longer concern me, though I can never want interest in what she
does. But since the girl is right to stick to her mistress, I will send
her the money--not as a loan to be paid back by Iris, but as a gift
from myself.'
"Therefore, my dear Fanny, stop in Paris for one night at least, and
learn what has been done if you can. Find out the nurse, and ask her
what really happened. With the knowledge that you already possess, it
will be hard, indeed, if we cannot arrive at the truth. There must be
people who supplied things to the cottage--the restaurant, the
_pharmacien,_ the laundress. See them all--you know them already, and
we will put the facts together. As for finding her ladyship, that will
depend entirely upon herself. I shall expect you back in about a week.
If anything happens here I shall be able to tell you when you arrive.
"Yours affectionately,
L. Vimpany."
This letter exactly coincided with Fanny's own views. The doctor was
now gone. She was pretty certain that he was not going to remain alone
in the cottage; and the suburb of Passy, though charming in many ways,
is not exactly the place for a man of Dr. Vimpany's temperament. She
would stay a day, or even two days or more, if necessary, at Passy. She
would make those inquiries.
The second letter, which reached her the same day, was from Mr.
Mountjoy. He told her what he had told Mrs. Vimpany: he would give her
the money, because he recognised the spirit of fidelity which caused
Fanny to go first to Paris and then to Berne.
But he could not pretend to any right to interference in the affairs of
Lord and Lady Harry Norland. He enclosed a _mandat postal_ for a
hundred and twenty-five francs, which he hoped would be sufficient for
her immediate wants.
She started on her return-journey on the same day--namely, Saturday. On
Sunday evening she was in a pension at Passy, ready to make those
inquiries. The first person whom she sought out was the _rentier_--the
landlord of the cottage. He was a retired tradesman--one who had made
his modest fortune in a _charcuterie_ and had invested it in house
property. Fanny told him that she had been lady's-maid to Lady Harry
Norland, in the recent occupancy of the cottage, and that she was
anxious to know her present address.
"Merci, mon Dieu! que sais-je? What do I know about it?" he replied.
"The wife of the English milord is so much attached to her husband that
she leaves him in his long illness--"
"His long illness?"
"Certainly--Mademoiselle is not, perhaps, acquainted with the
circumstances--his long illness; and does not come even to see his dead
body after he is dead. There is a wife for you--a wife of the English
fashion!"
Fanny gasped.
"After he is dead! Is Lord Harry dead? When did he die?"
"But, assuredly, Mademoiselle has not heard? The English milord died on
Thursday morning, a week and more ago, of consumption, and was buried
in the cemetery of Auteuil last Saturday. Mademoiselle appears
astonished."
"En effet, Monsieur, I am astonished."
"Already the tombstone is erected to the memory of the unhappy young
man, who is said to belong to a most distinguished family of Ireland.
Mademoiselle can see it with her own eyes in the cemetery."
"One word more, Monsieur. If Monsieur would have the kindness to tell
her who was the nurse of milord in his last seizure?"
"But certainly. All the world knows the widow La Chaise. It was the
widow La Chaise who was called in by the doctor. Ah! there is a
man--what a man! What a miracle of science! What devotion to his
friend! What admirable sentiments! Truly, the English are great in
sentiments when their insular coldness allows them to speak. This widow
can be found--easily found."
He gave Fanny, in fact, the nurse's address. Armed with this, and
having got out of the landlord the cardinal fact of Lord Harry's
alleged death, the lady's-maid went in search of this respectable
widow.
She found her, in her own apartments, a respectable woman indeed,
perfectly ready to tell everything that she knew, and evidently quite
unsuspicious of anything wrong. She was invited to take charge of a
sick man on the morning of Thursday: she was told that he was a young
Irish lord, dangerously ill of a pulmonary disorder; the doctor, in
fact, informed her that his life hung by a thread, and might drop at
any moment, though on the other hand he had known such cases linger on
for many months. She arrived as she had been ordered, at midday: she
was taken into the sick-room by the doctor, who showed her the patient
placidly sleeping on a sofa: the bed had been slept in, and was not yet
made. After explaining the medicines which she was to administer, and
the times when they were to be given, and telling her something about
his diet, the doctor left her alone with the patient.
"He was still sleeping profoundly," said the nurse.
"You are sure that he was sleeping, and not dead?" asked Fanny,
sharply.
"Mademoiselle, I have been a nurse for many years. I know my duties.
The moment the doctor left me I verified his statements. I proved that
the patient was sleeping by feeling his pulse and observing his
breath."
Fanny made no reply. She could hardly remind this respectable person
that after the doctor left her she employed herself first in examining
the cupboards, drawers, _armoire,_ and other things; that she then
found a book with pictures, in which she read for a quarter of an hour
or so; that she then grew sleepy and dropped the book--
"I then," continued the widow, "made arrangements against his
waking--that is to say, I drew back the curtains and turned over the
sheet to air the bed"--O Madame! Madame! Surely this was
needless!--"shook up the pillows, and occupied myself in the cares of a
conscientious nurse until the time came to administer the first dose of
medicine. Then I proceeded to awaken my patient. Figure to yourself! He
whom I had left tranquilly breathing, with the regularity of a
convalescent rather than a dying man, was dead! He was dead!"
"You are sure he was dead?"
"As if I had never seen a dead body before! I called the doctor, but it
was for duty only, for I knew that he was dead."
"And then?"
"Then the doctor--who must also have known that he was dead--felt his
pulse and his heart, and looked at his eyes, and declared that he was
dead."
"And then?"
"What then? If a man is dead he is dead. You cannot restore him to
life. Yet one thing the doctor did. He brought a camera and took a
photograph of the dead man for the sake of his friends."
"Oh! he took a photograph of--of Lord Harry Norland. What did he do
that for?"
"I tell you: for the sake of his friends."
Fanny was more bewildered than ever. Why on earth should the doctor
want a photograph of the Dane Oxbye to show the friends of Lord Harry?
Could he have made a blunder as stupid as it was uncalled for? No one
could possibly mistake the dead face of that poor Dane for the dead
face of Lord Harry.
She had got all the information she wanted--all, in fact, that was of
any use to her. One thing remained. She would see the grave.
The cemetery of Auteuil is not so large as that of Pere-la-Chaise, nor
does it contain so many celebrated persons as the latter--perhaps the
greatest cemetery, as regards its illustrious dead, in the whole world.
It is the cemetery of the better class. The tombs are not those of
Immortals but of Respectables.
Among them Fanny easily found, following the directions given to her,
the tomb she was searching after.
On it was written in English, "Sacred to the Memory of Lord Harry
Norland, second son of the Marquis of Malven." Then followed the date
and the age, and nothing more.
Fanny sat down on a bench and contemplated this mendacious stone.
"The Dane Oxbye," she said, "was growing better fast when I went away.
That was the reason why I was sent away. The very next day the doctor,
thinking me far away, poisoned him. I saw him do it. The nurse was told
that he was asleep, and being left alone presently discovered that he
was dead. She has been told that the sick man is a young Irish
gentleman. He is buried under the name of Lord Harry. That is the
reason I found the doctor alone. And my lady? Where is she?"