Florine Dabol had promised heartless Louise Barry that she would poison
the hapless creature before her; but, as she gazed at the lovely
sleeping face, so like that of a grieved child that has sobbed itself
to sleep, a twinge of keen remorse tore her heart.
She was crafty and deceitful and fond of intrigues, like all French
maids; but she had never committed a crime in her life, and she began
to tremble now at the enormity of what she had promised to do.
Vain and pretty, fond of finery, ease, and pleasure, Florine’s god was
money; and upon her avarice Louise had cleverly worked, dazzling her
with the promise of five hundred dollars in gold when she should come
and tell her that deed of crime was accomplished and Cecil Laurens’
young wife dead.
In Florine’s pocket was the tiny powder that, placed in Molly’s glass,
was to accomplish the deed; and Louise, with the powder, had given the
maid a note that was such a perfect copy of Molly’s writing that, when
found in her room next morning, it would be enough to convince every
one that Molly had committed suicide.
It was a clever plan, and there was nothing to prevent its being
carried out successfully. Molly lay there, weak and helpless, in her
enemy’s power.
Yet in that very helplessness lay her defense against the powers of
evil.
For Florine Dabol, as she stood there fingering the poison in her
pocket and gazing at the lovely, sorrowful face, felt moved and
troubled, and her feeling of her mistress’ helplessness found
expression in an exclamation of profound remorse and pity:
“Poor baby!”
For Molly, in her youth, innocence, and grief, seemed like an infant,
in the eyes of the maturer maid, and an intense repugnance to her
contemplated horrible deed rushed over her soul.
She turned away and went into the dressing-room, dropping softly into a
chair, that she might not awake the sleeper.
“I can’t--I can’t do it! I must find some other way to earn the money.
I can’t have that poor thing’s blood on my soul! She would haunt me,
and I should get no rest from those hollow black eyes!” she muttered,
fearfully.
Evidently Florine’s good angel was pleading with her, for she sat
there wrapped in thought while in the next room Molly slept sweetly,
unconscious of the danger hovering near her in such deadly form.
An hour passed and Florine still sat in her chair, and now and then
muttered words escaped her lips.
“She is so good and sweet and patient. She has never given me a cross
word for all the dreadful lies I’ve told her about her splendid
husband. How can I kill the gentle creature?”
She thought, suddenly:
“If I could only tell her something very dreadful, that would make her
go away from The Acacias forever, it would be the same as killing her.”
Poor Molly! Yes, it would be the same, for to that devoted heart life
without her husband would be death far worse than death.
Florine rose up and went noisily into the next room.
Molly started, broad awake, and sat up looking in alarm at the maid.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Laurens. I’m afraid I disturbed you talking
to myself in such a loud voice. I was so angry I couldn’t help it,
madame,” said Florine.
“What has made you angry, Florine?” asked the sad, gentle voice.
“Oh, madame, I oughtn’t to tell you on no account; but it’s a shame
their goings-on, and you sick and not able to help yourself.”
“Florine, I don’t understand you,” wistfully.
“Maybe it’s best you don’t, madame, for if you did you wouldn’t stay
with such a shameless man, planning a second marriage while you’re
alive, and likely to be for many years, not but that _her_ will’s good
to poison you if she had a fair chance.”
Molly sat upright with frightened eyes.
“Yes, Florine, I know Miss Barry hates me,” she shuddered.
“But--but--you _are_ my friend, aren’t you? Don’t, oh, don’t let her
kill me, please!”
“Not if I can help it, madame, never!” cried the maid. “But what can I
do? When she bribes me to poison you and I refuse she’s going to manage
it some other way, certainly. You’re in _her_ way and _his_--don’t you
know that, my poor young lady?--and,” dropping her voice to a warning
whisper, “your life is more and more in danger every hour you stay in
this house.”
She watched the beautiful face closely. It could scarcely grow more
pale, but it was wild and startled.
“Florine, don’t let her kill me. I--I--will win my husband’s love back
some day,” she moaned, holding out her trembling little hands.
Florine tossed her head.
“Never, never!” she exclaimed.
“Hush, Florine!” sternly.
“Very well, madame,” resignedly.
She sat quiet a few moments until Molly’s jealous love conquered her
pride.
“Florine Dabol, why do you say such things to me? Do you believe that
Louise has won my husband’s love from me?” she demanded.
“It is plain to be seen, madame. Such goings-on!” Florine tossed her
head and shrugged her shoulders in a way that expressed volumes.
Molly gazed at her with eyes full of pain, and Florine said to herself
that she was making good progress indeed.
“Madame, you are too good, you are indeed. I would not live with a man
that hated me openly, and spent all his time with another woman. It is
cruel, it is shameful!” warmly.
Not a word came from Molly’s blanched, writhing lips, but she watched
Florine’s face with burning eyes.
The maid continued:
“Madame, where are all your friends and relations? Why do you not write
to them to come to your aid, and make your husband treat you with
common respect. If he will not do that let them take you away from him,
for this life of loneliness and neglect is killing you by inches.”
“That is true,” Molly gasped with white lips.
“I would bear it no longer, madame. I would go away out of his life
forever since they both wish for it and pray for it.”
“Oh, Florine, you are mistaken. He is angry with me, but if I am only
patient he will pity and forgive me soon, I hope. And--and--he is
going to take me home next week that--our child may be born at his old
ancestral home,” Molly cried, piteously.
Florine gazed at her in expressive silence a moment.
“You see he does not hate me as bad as you think,” Molly cried eagerly,
and Florine sighed aloud.
Then she asked gravely:
“My poor young lady, who told you he was going to take you home?”
Molly answered: “Mrs. Laurens, his mother.”
“Oh, how cruel!” the maid cried warmly. “They have deceived you,
madame. I have taken pains to find out their plans and now I will give
them to you. It is not Mr. Cecil who will take you home. You are to
go with the old folks and the daughters. He--your husband--remains
behind with the Barrys, and they all three go immediately to Paris. Ah,
madame, Paris is so wicked! And the aunt, the chaperone, she is so old,
blind, deaf, she will see but little of the goings-on!”
Florine’s shrugs and glances conveyed even more evil than her words.
“Florine, are you sure, quite sure, of all you have told me?” Molly
asked in a dejected voice.
“Madame, I am willing to take an oath,” Florine replied glibly, and
for a moment there was a deep silence. The maid was afraid that her
mistress was going to faint, but Molly sat upright as a statue.
Presently she spoke.
“No one could blame me if I went away to my own friends and left him
forever, could they, Florine?”
“No one, madame, for you have had provocation enough to drive you
desperate; but your friends, where are they?” curiously.
“No matter. I am not utterly friendless, Florine, and since they are
trying to drive me desperate, why should I go back to America to please
them?” angrily. “Why not stay here with my kindred and spare myself the
torture of trying to win back a heart that has passed from my keeping
forever?”
She spoke rather to herself than to the maid, but Florine said eagerly:
“Ah, madame, you begin to talk sensibly now, for I tell you plainly
that if you stay here much longer, Miss Barry will find means to remove
you from her path. Oh, I am so sorry for you, my sweet young mistress,
or I would not tell you this. But I am frightened for you, madame, and
I know when you go back to America, where I can not go with you, you
will have no one to watch over you like your poor Florine!”
It was all very genuine, all very eloquent, as Florine poured it out,
and Molly’s heart warmed to the maid whom she had once distrusted.
“Florine, you are very good to me,” she exclaimed, gratefully. She
pulled a pretty ruby ring from her finger, and holding it out to her,
said, in a voice choked with misery: “Take this to remember me when I
am gone.”
The treacherous woman took the gift with profuse thanks and inward joy,
for Molly’s last words had assured her that her scheme had succeeded.
She would go away--poor, desolate Molly--and she, Florine would be
spared the taking of human life.
“Madame, let me go with you and care for you,” she said, curious to
know where she would go.
But Molly shook her head.
“No, no, Florine; I shall go alone,” she said, hopelessly; but the maid
said to herself:
“I shall be sure to find you out, any way, for I want to keep track of
you.”
She saw Molly looking at the pretty clock on the mantel, and thought,
exultantly:
“She will go tonight, and tomorrow Miss Barry shall pay me the money,
for this is just as good as if I had killed her,” she decided.
“You may go now, Florine; it is past my usual bed-time, but I shall sit
up awhile,” said Molly.
The maid withdrew with a respectful good-night. She knew well that she
had been dismissed because her young mistress desired to make secret
preparations for flight.
She was right in her conjecture, for in less than half an hour the
despairing wife stole away from The Acacias and took her solitary way
through the London streets in the moonless darkness of the summer
night.