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!_