“You don’t mind, do you?” I said, over my shoulder, as I opened the
jewelry-box.
“Not at all, not at all,” answered the major. “Anything to oblige a
lady.”
I drew out the sack of chamois-skin. “Here it is,” I said, holding it
out to him. “You’ll find it in perfect condition and quite complete.
I’m so sorry that we couldn’t seem to locate Amelia. Not knowing the
rest of her name was rather inconvenient. There were dozens of Amelias
in the directory.”
The major took the sack, and put it in his breast-pocket.
“Dozens of Amelias,” he repeated, slapping his pocket. “Who’d have
thought it!”
“We even advertised,” I continued. “Perhaps you saw the personal; it
was in the morning _Herald_, and was very short and noncommittal, but
no one answered it.”
“We saw it,” said the major. “Yes, I recollect quite distinctly seeing
it. It--it--indicated to us--aw--aw--”
The major reddened and paused, pulling his mustache.
“That we hadn’t found Amelia and still had the present,” I answered, in
a sprightly tone. “That was just it. And so you came to get it? Very
kind of you, indeed, Major Thatcher.”
The major bowed. He was really a very fine-looking, well-mannered man.
If he only had been the honest, respectable person we first thought him
I would have liked to add him to my collection. I’m sure if you knew
him better he would have been much more interesting than the bishop and
the lords.
“The kindness is on your side,” he said. “And now, Mrs. Kennedy, I
think--I think, perhaps”--he looked at the window that gave on the
balcony--“I think I’d better--”
“You must be going!” I cried, just as I say it to the bishop when he
puts down his cup and looks at the clock. “How unfortunate! But, of
course, your other engagements--”
I checked myself, suddenly realizing that it wasn’t just the thing to
say to the major. When you’re talking to a burglar it doesn’t seem
delicate or thoughtful to allude to his “other engagements.” That I
made such a break is due to the fact that I’d never talked to a burglar
before, and was bound to be a little green.
The major did not seem to mind.
“Exactly so,” he said. “My time is just now much occupied. I--er--I--”
He looked again at the window.
“I--er--entered that way,” he said, “but perhaps--”
“I don’t think I’d go out that way if I were you,” I answered,
hurriedly, “it would look so queer if any one saw you.”
“Would the other and more usual exit be safe?” he asked. His eye, as it
met mine, was charged with a keener intelligence than I had seen in it
before.
“It would have to be,” I answered, with spirit. “What do you suppose
the servants would think if they saw you coming out of here? This,
Major Thatcher, is my room.”
“Dear me!” said the major, “I suppose it is. I never thought of that.”
“Wait here till I see if it is all right,” I said, “and then I’ll come
back and tell you.”
I went into the hall and looked over the banister. The gas was burning
faintly, and a bar of pink lamplight fell out from the half-drawn
portières of the drawing-room. There was not a sound. I knew the
servants were all in the back part of the house, quite safe till eleven
o’clock, when, if we were home, they turned out the lights and locked
up. I stole softly back into my room. The major was standing in front
of the mirror untying the handkerchief that hung round his neck.
“It’s all right,” I assured him, in an unconsciously lowered voice.
“You can go quite easily; I’ll let you out. Only you mustn’t make the
least bit of noise.”
He thrust the handkerchief in his pocket and put on his hat, pulling
the brim down over his eyes. I must confess he didn’t look half so
distinguished this way. When the handkerchief was gone, I saw he wore
a flannel shirt with a turned-down collar, and with his hat shading
his face he certainly did seem a strange sort of man for me to be
conducting down the stairs at half-past ten at night. If Perkins,
who’d come to us bristling with respectability from a distinguished,
evangelical, aristocratic family, should meet us, I would never hold up
my head again.
“Now, if you hear Perkins,” I whispered, “for heavens’ sake, hide
somewhere. Run back to my room, if you can’t go anywhere else. Perkins
_must not_ see you!”
The major growled out some reply, and we tiptoed breathlessly across
the hall to the stair-head. I was much more frightened than he was. I
know, as I stole from step to step, my heart kept beating faster and
faster. Such awful things might have happened: Perkins suddenly appear
to put out the lights; Cassius come home early from the dinner, and
open the front door just as I was about to let the major out! When we
reached the door I was quite faint, while the major seemed as cool as
if he’d been paying a call.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” he said, trying to take off his hat. “I
shan’t forget it.”
“Oh, never mind being polite,” I gasped. “You’ve got the diamonds.
That’s all that matters. Good-night. Give my regards to Mrs. Thatcher.”
And he was gone! I shut the door and crept up-stairs. First I felt
faint, and then I felt hysterical. When Cassius came home at eleven I
was lying on the sofa in tears, and all I could say to him was to sob:
“The diamonds are gone! The diamonds are gone!”
He thought I’d gone mad at first, and then when I finally made him
understand he was nearly as excited as I. He went down-stairs and
brought up a bottle of champagne, and we celebrated at midnight up in
our room. We had to tell lies to Perkins afterward to explain how we
came to be one bottle short. But what did lies matter, or even Perkins’
opinion of us? We were no longer crushed under the weight of one
hundred and sixty-two diamonds that didn’t belong to us!
That is the history of my connection with the case. From that night
I’ve never seen or heard of the stones, nor have I seen Major or
Mrs. Thatcher. The diamonds entered our possession and departed from
them exactly as I have told, and tho my statement may call for great
credulity on the part of my readers, all I can say is that I am willing
to vouch for the truth of every word of it.
Statement of Gladys, Marchioness of Castlecourt.
Statement of Gladys, Marchioness of Castlecourt.
I am sure if any one was ever punished for their misdeeds it was I. I
suppose I ought to say sins, but it is such an unpleasant word! I can
not imagine myself committing sins, and yet that is just what I seem
to have done. I couldn’t have been more astonished if some one had
told me I was going to commit a murder. One thing I have learned--you
do not know what you may do till you have been tried and tempted. And
then you do wrong before you realize it, and all of a sudden it comes
upon you that you are a criminal quite unexpectedly, and no one is more
surprised than you. I certainly know I was the most surprised person
in London when I realized that I-- But there, I am wandering all about,
and I want to tell my story simply and shortly.
Everybody knows that when I married Lord Castlecourt I was poor.
What everybody does not know is that I was a natural spend-thrift.
Extravagance was in my blood, as drinking or the love of cards is in
the blood of some men. I had never had any money at all. I used to wear
the same gloves for years, and always made my own frocks--not badly,
either. I’ve made gowns that Lady Bundy said-- But that has nothing to
do with it; I’m getting away from the point.
As I said before, I was poor. I didn’t know how extravagant I was
till I married and Lord Castlecourt gave me six hundred pounds a year
to dress on. It was a fortune to me. I’d never thought one woman
could have so much. The first two years of our married life I did not
run over it, because we lived most of the time in the country, and
I was unused to it, and spent it slowly and carefully. I was still
unaccustomed to it when, after my second boy was born, Herbert brought
me to town for my first season since our marriage.
Then I began to spend money, quantities of it, for it seemed to me that
six hundred pounds a year was absolutely inexhaustible. When I saw
anything pretty in a shop I bought it, and I generally forgot to ask
the price. The shop people were always kind and agreeable, and seemed
to have forgotten about it as completely as I.
After I had bought one thing they would urge me to look at something
else, which was put away in a drawer or laid out in a cardboard box,
and if I liked it I bought that too. If I ever paused to think that I
was buying a great deal, I contented myself with the assurance that I
had six hundred pounds a year, which was so much I would never get to
the end of it.
After that first season a great many bills came in, and I was quite
surprised to see I’d spent already, with the year hardly half gone,
more than my six hundred pounds. I could not understand how it had
happened, and I asked Herbert about it and showed him some of my
bills, and for the first time in our married life he was angry with
me. He scolded me quite sharply, and told me I must keep within
my allowance. I was hurt, and also rather muddled, with all these
different accounts--most of which I could not remember--and I made up
my mind not to consult Herbert any more, as it only vexed him and made
him cross to me, and that I can not bear. All the world must love me.
If there is a servant-maid in the house who does not like me--and I can
feel it in a minute if she doesn’t--I must make her, or she must go
away. But my husband, the best and finest man in the world, to have him
annoyed with me and scolding me over stupid bills! Never again would
that happen. I showed him no more of them; in fact, I generally tore
them up as they came in, for fear I should leave them lying about and
he would find them. If I could help it, nothing in the world was ever
going to come between Herbert and me.
I also made good resolutions to be more careful in my expenditures. And
I really tried to keep them. I don’t know how it happened that they
did not seem to get kept. But both in London and in Paris I certainly
did spend a great deal--I’m sure I don’t know how much. I did little
accounts on the back of notes, and they were so confusing, and I seemed
to have spent so much more than I thought I had, that I gave up doing
them. After I’d covered the back of two or three notes with figures, I
became so low-spirited I couldn’t enjoy anything for the rest of the
day. I did not see that that did anybody any good, so I ceased keeping
the accounts. And what was the use of keeping them? If I had not the
money to pay them with, why should I make myself miserable by thinking
about them? I thought it much more sensible to try to forget them, and
most of the time I did!
It went on that way for two years. When I got bills with things written
across the bottom in red ink I paid part of them--never all; I never
paid all of anything. Once or twice tradesmen wrote me letters, saying
they must have their money, and then I went to see them, and told
them how kind it was of them to trust me, and how I would pay them
everything soon, and they seemed quite pleased and satisfied. I always
intended doing it. I don’t know where I thought the money was coming
from, but you never can tell what may happen. Some friends of Herbert
had a place near the Scotch border, and found a coal-mine in the
forest. Herbert has no lands near Scotland, but he has in other places,
and he may find a coal-mine too. I merely cite this as an example of
the strange ways things turn out. I didn’t exactly expect that Herbert
would find a coal-mine, but I did expect that money would turn up in
some unexpected way and help me out of my difficulties.
The beginning of the series of really terrible events of which I am
writing was the purchase of a Russian sable jacket from a furrier in
Paris called Bolkonsky. It was in the early spring of last year. I had
had no dealings with Bolkonsky before. A friend told me of the jacket,
and took me there. It was a real _occasion_. I knew the moment that I
saw it that it was one of those chances with which one rarely meets.
It fitted me like a charm, and I bought it for a thousand pounds. That
miserable Bolkonsky told me the payments might be made in any way I
liked, and at “madame’s own time.” I also bought some good turquoises,
that were going for nothing, from a jeweler up-stairs somewhere near
the Rue de La Paix, who was selling out the jewels of an actress. It
was these two people who wrecked me.
Not that they were my only debtors. I knew by this time that I owed a
great deal. When I thought about it I was frightened, and so I tried
not to think. But sometimes when I was awake at night, and everything
looked dark and depressed, I wondered what I would do if something
did not happen. In these moments I thought of telling my husband,
and I buried my head in the pillow and turned cold with misery. What
would Herbert say when he found out his wife was thousands of pounds
in debt--the Marquis of Castlecourt, who had never owed a penny and
considered it a disgrace.
Perhaps he would be so horrified and disgusted he would send me away
from him--back to Ireland, or to the Continent. And what would happen
to me then?
That summer we went to Castlecourt Marsh Manor, and there my anxieties
became almost unbearable. Bolkonsky began to dun me most cruelly. Other
creditors wrote me letters, urging for payments. The jeweler from whom
I had bought the turquoises sent me a letter, telling me if I didn’t
settle his account by September he would sue me. And finally Bolkonsky
sent a man over, whom I saw in London, and who told me that unless the
sable jacket was paid for within two months he would “lay the matter
before Lord Castlecourt.”
We went across to Paris in September, and there I saw those dreadful
people. My other French and English creditors I could manage, but I
could do nothing with either Bolkonsky or the jeweler. They spoke
harshly to me--as no one has ever spoken to me before; and Bolkonsky
told me that “it was known Lord Castlecourt was honest and paid his
debts, whatever his wife was.” I prayed him for time, and finally
wept--wept to that horrible Jew; and there was another man in the
office, too, who saw me. But I was lost to all sense of pride or
reserve. I had only one feeling left in me--terror, agony, that they
would tell my husband, and he would despise me and leave me.
My misery seemed to have some effect on Bolkonsky, and he told me he
would give me a month to pay up. It was then the tenth of September.
I waited for a week in a sort of frenzy of hope that a miracle would
occur, and the money come into my hands in some unexpected way. But,
of course, nothing did occur. By the first of October the one thousand
pounds was no nearer. It was then that the desperate idea entered my
mind which has nearly ruined me, and caused me such suffering that the
memory of it will stay with me forever.
The Castlecourt diamonds, set in a necklace and valued at nine thousand
pounds, were in my possession. I often wore them, and they were carried
about by my maid--a faithful and honest creature called Sophy Jeffers.
On one of my first trips to Paris a friend of mine had taken me to the
office of a well-known dealer in precious and artificial stones who,
without its being generally known, did a sort of pawnbroking business
among the upper classes. My friend had gone there to pawn a pearl
necklace, and had told me all about it--how much she obtained on the
necklace, and how she hoped to redeem it within the year, and how she
was to have it copied in imitation pearls. The idea that came to me
was to go to this place and pawn the Castlecourt diamonds, having them
duplicated in paste.
I went there on the second day of October. How awful it was! I wore
a heavy veil, and gave a fictitious name. Several men looked at the
diamonds, and I noticed that they looked at me and whispered together.
Finally they told me they would give me four thousand pounds on them,
at some interest--I’ve forgotten what it was now--and that they
would replace them with paste, so that only an expert could tell the
difference. The next day I went back, and they gave me the money. I do
not think they had any idea who I was. At any rate, while the papers
were full of speculations about the Castlecourt diamonds, they made no
sign.
I paid off all my debts, both in Paris and London; I even paid a year’s
interest on the diamonds. For a short time I breathed again, and was
gay and light-hearted. My husband would never know that I had not paid
my bills for five years and had been threatened with a lawsuit. It was
delightful to get rid of this fear, and I was quite my old self. I
suppose I ought to have felt more guilty; but when one is relieved of
a great weight, one’s conscience is not so sensitive as it gets when
there is really nothing to be sensitive about.
It was after I had grown accustomed to feeling free and unworried
that I began to realize what I had done. I had stolen the diamonds.
I was a thief! It did not comfort me much to think that no one might
ever find it out; in fact, I do not think it comforted me at all, and
I know in the beginning I expected it would. It was what I had done
that rankled in me. I felt that I would never be peaceful again till
they were redeemed and put back in their old settings. That was what I
continually dreamed of. It seemed to me if I could see them once more
in their own case I would be happy and care free, as I had been in
those first perfect years of my married life.
The fear that at this time most haunted me and was most terrifying
was that my husband might discover what I had done. His wife, that he
had so loved and trusted, had become a thief! No one who has not gone
through it knows how I felt. I did not know any one could suffer so.
I went out constantly, to try and forget; and, when things were very
cheerful and amusing, I sometimes did. And then I remembered--I was a
thief; I had stolen my husband’s diamonds, and, if he ever found it
out, what would happen to me?
This was the position I was in when the false diamonds were taken.
It was the last thing in the world I had thought could happen. When,
that night of the Duke of Duxbury’s dinner, I saw the empty case and
Jeffers’ terrified face, the world reeled around me. I could not for
a moment take it in. Only, in my mind, the diamonds had become a sort
of nightmare; anything to do with them was a menace, and I followed an
instinct that had possession of me when I tried to hide the empty case
from my husband.
Then, when my mind had cleared and I had time to think, I saw that if
they recovered the paste necklace they might find out that it was not
real, and all would be lost. It was a horrible predicament. I really
did not know what I wanted. If the diamonds were found, and seen to be
false, it would all come out, and Herbert would know I was a thief.
When I thought of this I tried to divert the detectives from hunting
for them, and I told that silly, sheepish Mr. Brison that I did not see
how he could be so sure they were stolen, that they might have been
mislaid. Mr. Brison seemed surprised, and that made me angry, because,
after all, a diamond necklace is not the sort of thing that gets
mislaid, and I felt I had been foolish and had not gained anything by
being so.
The days passed, and nothing was heard of the necklace. I wished
desperately now that it would be found. For how, unless it was, could
I eventually redeem the real diamonds, and once more feel honest and
respectable? If I suddenly appeared with them, how could I explain it?
Everybody would say I had stolen them, unless I invented some story
about their being lost and then found, and I am not clever at inventing
stories. As to where I should get the money to redeem them, I often
thought of that; but never could think of any way that sounded possible
and reasonable. I have always waited for “things to turn up,” and they
generally did; but in this case nothing that I wanted or expected
turned up. Besides, four thousand pounds is a good deal of money to
come into one’s hands suddenly and unexpectedly. If it were a smaller
sum it might, but four thousand pounds was too much. There was nobody
to die and leave it to me, and I certainly could not steal it, or make
it myself.
So, as one may see, I was beset with troubles on all sides. The season
wore itself away, and I was glad to be done with it. For the first
time, there had been no pleasure in it. Anxieties that no one guessed
were always with me, and always I found myself surreptitiously watching
my husband to see if he suspected, to see if he showed any symptoms of
growing cold to me and being indifferent. As I drove through the Park
in the carriage these dreary thoughts were always at my heart, and it
was heavy as lead. I forgot the passers-by who were so amusing, and,
with my head hanging, looked into my lap. Suppose Herbert guessed?
Suppose Herbert found out? These were the questions that went circling
through my brain and never stopped. Sometimes, when Herbert was beside
me, I suddenly wanted to cry out:
“Herbert, _I_ took the diamonds! _I_ was the thief! I can’t hide it any
more, or live in this uncertainty. All I want to know is, do you hate
me and are you going to leave me?”
But I never did it. I looked at Herbert, and was afraid. What would I
do if he left me? Go back to Ireland and die.
We went to Castlecourt Marsh Manor in the end of June. By this time I
had begun to feel quite ill. Herbert insisted on my consulting a doctor
before I left town, and the doctor said my heart was all wrong and
something was the matter with my nerves. But it was only the sense
of guilt, that every day grew more oppressive. I thought I might feel
better in the country. I had always disliked it, and now it seemed like
a harbor of refuge, where I could be quiet with my children. I had
grown to hate London. It was London that had played upon my weaknesses
and drawn me into all my trouble. I had not run into debt in the
country, and, after all, I had never been as happy as I was the two
years after our marriage, when we had lived at Castlecourt Marsh Manor.
Those were my _beaux jours_! How bright and beautiful they seemed now,
when I looked back on them from these dark days of fear and disgrace!
It was not much better in the country. A change of scene can not make
a difference when the trouble is a dark secret. And that dark secret
kept growing darker every day. I feared to speak of the diamonds to
Herbert, and yet every letter that came for him filled me with alarm,
lest it was either to say that they were found or that they were not
found. Herbert went up to London at intervals and saw Mr. Gilsey, and
at night when he came home I trembled so that I found it difficult to
stand till he had told me all that Mr. Gilsey had said. Once when he
was beginning to tell me that Mr. Gilsey had some idea they had traced
the diamonds to Paris I fainted, and it was some time before they could
bring me back.
July was very hot, and I gave that as the cause of my changed
appearance and listless manner. I was really in wretched health, and
Herbert became exceedingly worried about me. He suggested that we
should go on the Continent for a trip, but I shrank from the thought of
it. I felt as if the sight of Paris, where the diamonds were waiting
to be redeemed, would kill me outright. I did not want to leave
Castlecourt Marsh Manor to go anywhere. I only wanted to be happy
again--to be the way I was before I had taken the diamonds.
And I knew now that this could never be till I told my husband. I knew
that to win back my peace of mind I had to confess all, and hear him
say he forgave me. I tried to several times, but it was impossible.
As the moment that I had chosen for confession approached, my heart
beat so that I could scarcely breathe, and I trembled like a person in
a chill. With Herbert looking at me so kindly, so tenderly, the words
died away on my lips, or I said something quite different to what I
had intended saying. It was useless. As the days went by I knew that I
would never dare tell, that for the rest of my life I would be crushed
under the sense of guilt that seemed too heavy to be borne.
It was late one afternoon in the middle of July that the crash came.
Never, never shall I forget that day! So dark and awful at first, and
then-- But I must follow the story just as it happened.
Herbert and I had had tea in the library. It was warm weather, and the
windows that led to the terrace were wide open. Through them I could
see the beautiful landscape--rolling hills with great trees dotted over
them, all the colors brighter and deeper than at midday, for the sun
was getting low. I was sitting by one of the windows looking out on
this, and thinking how different had been my feelings when I had come
here as a bride and loved it all, and been so full of joy. My hands
hung limp over the arms of the chair. I had no desire to move or speak.
It is so agonizing, when you are miserable, looking back on days that
were happy!
As I was sitting this way, Thomas, one of the footmen, came in with the
letters. I noticed that he had quite a packet of them. Some were mine,
and I laid them on the table at my elbow. Idly and without interest I
saw that in Herbert’s bunch there was a small box, such as jewelry is
sent about in. Thomas left the room, and I continued looking out of the
window until I suddenly heard Herbert give a suppressed exclamation. I
turned toward him, and saw that he had the open box in his hand.
“What does this mean?” he said. “What an extraordinary thing! Look
here, Gladys.”
And he came toward me, holding out the box. It was full of cotton wool,
and lying on this were a great quantity of unset diamonds of different
sizes. My heart gave a leap into my throat. I sat up, clutching the
arms of the chair.
“What are they?” I said, hearing my voice suddenly high and loud.
“Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know anything about them! It’s too odd! See what’s written on
this piece of paper that was inside the box.”
He held out a small piece of paper, on which the creases of several
folds were plainly marked. Across it, in typing, ran two sentences. I
snatched the paper and read the words:
We don’t want _your_ diamonds. You can keep them, and with them
accept our kind regards.
The paper fluttered to my feet. I knew in a moment what it all meant.
The thieves had discovered that the diamonds were paste, and had
returned them. I was conscious of Herbert’s startled face suddenly
charged with an expression of sharp anxiety as he cried:
“Why, Gladys, what is it? You’re as white as death!”
He came toward me, but I motioned him away and rose to my feet. I knew
then that the hour had come, and tho I suspect I _was_ very white, I
did not feel so frightened as I had done in the past.
“Those _are_ your diamonds, Herbert,” I said, quietly and distinctly,
“or, perhaps, I ought to say those are the substitutes for them. _Your_
diamonds are in Paris, at Barriere’s, _au quatrème_, on the Rue Croix
des Petits Champs.”
“Gladys!” he exclaimed, “what do you mean? What are you talking about?
You look so white and strange! Sit down, darling, and tell me what you
mean.”
“Oh, Herbert,” I cried, with my voice suddenly full of agony, “let me
tell you! Don’t stop me. If you’re angry with me and hate me, wait till
I’ve finished before you say so. I’ve got to confess it all. I’ve got
to, dear. You must listen to me, and not frighten me till I have done;
for if I don’t tell you now, I shall certainly die.”
And then I told--I told it all. I didn’t leave out a single thing. My
first bills, and Bolkonsky, and the jeweler, and the pawnbroking place,
and everything was in it. Once I was started, it was not so hard, and I
poured it out. I didn’t try to make it better, or ask to be forgiven.
But when it was all finished, I said, in a voice that I could hear was
suddenly husky and trembling:
“And now I suppose you’ll not like me any more. It’s quite natural that
you shouldn’t. I only ask one thing, and I know, of course, I have
no right to ask it--that is, that you won’t send me away from you. I
have been very wicked. I suppose I ought to be put in prison. But, oh,
Herbert, no matter what I’ve been, I’ve loved you! That’s something.”
I could not go any further, and there was no need; for my dear husband
did not seem angry at all. He took me, all weeping and trembling, into
his arms, and said the sweetest things to me--the sort of things one
doesn’t write down with a pen--just between him and me.
And I?--I turned my face into his shoulder and cried feebly. No
one knows how happy I felt except a person who has been completely
miserable and suddenly finds her misery ended. It is really worth being
miserable to thoroughly appreciate the joy of being happy again.
Well, that is really the end of the statement. Herbert went to Paris a
few days later and redeemed the diamonds, and they are now being set in
imitation of the old settings, which are lost. I would not go to Paris
with him. Nor will I go to London next season. Both places are too full
of horrible memories. Perhaps some day I shall feel about them as I
did before the diamonds were taken, but now I do not want to leave the
country at all. Besides, we can economize here, and the four thousand
pounds necessary to get back the stones was a good deal for Herbert to
have to pay out just now. And then it is so sweet and peaceful in the
country. Nothing troubles one. Oh, how delightful a thing it is to have
an easy conscience! One does not know how good it is till one has lost
it.
This finishes my statement. I dare say it is a very bad one, for I am
not clever at all. But it has the one merit of being entirely truthful,
and I have told everything--just how wicked I was, and just why I was
so wicked. Nothing has been held back, and nothing has been set down
falsely. It is an unprejudiced and accurate account of my share in the
Castlecourt diamond case.