by Fergus Hume
“What a liar that valet is!” thought Hagar, as she tied the letters up again. “This casket was left to him as a legacy, was it? As if a man would entrust such compromising letters to the discretion of a scoundrel like Peters! No, no; I am sure he doesn’t know of this secret place, or of the existence of these letters. He stole this casket from his master, and did not know that it was used to hide these epistles from a married woman. I’ll keep the casket safely, and see what comes of it when Mr. Peters returns.”
But she did not put the letters back in their secret recess. It might be that the valet would return before the conclusion of the month; and if she were out of the shop at the time, her assistant would give back the casket. Hagar felt that it would be wrong to let the letters get into the hands of so unscrupulous a scoundrel as she believed Peters to be. Did he find out the secret of the hiding-place, and the letters were within, he was quite capable of making capital out of them at the expense of the unhappy woman or his own master. He had the face of a blackmailer; so Hagar reclosed the casket, and put away the letters in the big safe in the parlor.
“She is a light woman—a bad woman,” she thought, thinking of that Beatrice who had written those glowing letters—“and deserves punishment for having deceived her husband. But I won’t give her into the power of that reptile; he would only fatten on her agony. If he comes back for the casket, he shall have it, but without those letters.”
Hagar did not think for a moment that Peters knew of the existence of these epistles, else in place of pawning the box he would have levied blackmail on the wretched Beatrice or her lover. But when in two weeks—long before the conclusion of the month—the valet again appeared, he showed Hagar very plainly that he had learnt the secret in the meantime. How and from whom he had learnt it Hagar forced him to explain. She was able to do this, as he wanted back the casket, yet had not the money to redeem it. This circumstance gave her a power over the man which she exercised mercilessly: and for some time—playing with him in cat-and-mouse fashion—she pretended to misunderstand his errand. But at first sight she saw from his greedy eyes and the triumphant look on his face that he was bent on some knavery.
“I wish to look at my box, if you please, miss,” said he, on first entering the shop. “I cannot redeem it as yet, but if you would permit me to examine it I ——”
“Certainly!” said Hagar, cutting him short; she had no patience with his flowery periods. “Here is the box. Look at it as long as you please.”
Peters seized the casket eagerly, opened it, and looked into the empty space within; then he shook it, and turned it upside down, as though he expected the inner box to fall out. In a moment Hagar guessed that he had become aware, since pawning the casket, that it contained a secret receptacle, and was looking for the same. With an ironic smile she watched him fingering the delicate carvings with his clumsy hands, and saw that with such coarse handling the casket would never yield up its secret. She therefore revealed it to him, not for his satisfaction, but because she wanted to know the history of the love-letters. For these, without doubt, the creature was looking, and Hagar congratulated herself that she had obeyed her instinct, and had placed the letters beyond his reach.
“You can’t find it, I see,” she observed, as Peters put down the casket in disgust.
“Find what?” he asked, with a certain challenge in his regard.
“The secret drawer for which you are looking.”
How do you know that I look for a secret drawer, miss?”
“I can guess as much from the persistent way in which you press the sides of that box. Your late master, who left you the casket as a legacy, evidently did not explain its secrets. But if you wish to know, look here?” Hagar picked up the box deftly, touched the altar rose with a light finger, and revealed to Mr. Peters the secret recess. His face fell, as she knew it would, at the sight of the vacant space.
“Why, it’s empty!” he said aloud in a chagrined tone. “I thought— I thought ——”
“That you would find some letters within,” interrupted Hagar, smartly. “No doubt; but you see, Mr. Peters—if that is your name—I happen to have anticipated you.”
“What? You have found the letters?”
“Yes; a neat little bundle of them, which lies in my safe.”
“Please give them to me,” said the man, with tremulous eagerness.
“Give them to you!” repeated Hagar, contemptuously. “Not I; it is not my business to encourage blackmailing.”
“But they are my letters!” cried Peters getting red, but not denying the imputation of blackmailing. “You cannot keep my letters!”
“Yes, I can,” retorted Hagar, putting the box on the shelf behind her; “in the same way that I can keep this casket if I so choose.”
“How dare you!” said the man, losing all his suavity. “The box is mine!”
“It is your master’s, you mean; and the letters also. You stole the casket to get money, and now you would steal the letters, if you could, to extort money from a woman. Do you know what you are, Mr. Peters? You are a scoundrel.”
Peters could hardly speak for rage; but when he did find his voice, it was to threaten Hagar with the police. At this she laughed contemptuously.
“The police!” she echoed. “Are you out of your mind? Call a policeman if you dare, and I give you in charge for thieving that box.”
“You cannot; you do not know my master’s name.”
“Do I not?” retorted Hagar, playing a game of bluff. “You forget that the name and address of your master are in those letters.”
Seeing that he was baffled in this direction, the man changed his high tone for one of diplomacy. He became cringing and wheedling, and infinitely more obnoxious than before. Hagar could hardly listen to his vile propositions with calmness; but she did so advisedly, as she wished to know the story of the letters, the name of the woman who had written them, and that of the man—Peter’s master—to whom they had been sent. But the task was disagreeable, and required a great deal of self-restraint.
“Why not share the money with me?” said Peters, in silky tones; “those letters are worth a great deal. If you let me have them, I can sell them at a high price either to my master or to the lady who wrote them.”
“No doubt,” replied Hagar, with apparent acquiescence; “but before I agree to your proposal I must know the story.”
“Certainly, miss. I shall tell it to you. I ——”
“One moment,” interrupted Hagar. “Is Peters your real name?”
“Yes, miss; but the address I gave was false; also the Christian name I gave you. I am John Peters, of Duke Street, St. James’s, in the employment of Lord Averley.”
“You are his valet?”
“Yes; I have been with him for a long time; but I lost some money at cards a week or two ago, so I—I ——”
“So you stole this casket,” finished Hagar, sharply.
“No miss, I didn’t,” replied Peters, with great dignity. “I borrowed it from my lord’s room for a few weeks to get money on it. I intended to redeem and replace it within the month. I shall certainly do so, if our scheme with these letters turns out successful.”
Hagar could scarcely restrain herself from an outbreak when she heard this wretch so coolly discuss the use he intended to make of the profits to be derived from his villainy. However, she kept herself calm, and proceeded to ask further questions with a view to gaining his entire confidence.
“Well, Mr. Peters, we will say you borrowed it,” she remarked, ironically; “but don’t you think that was rather a dangerous proceeding?”
“I didn’t at the time,” said Peters, ruefully, “as I didn’t know my lord kept letters in it. I did not fancy he would ask after it. However, he did ask two days ago, and found that it was lost.”
“Did he think you had taken it?”
“Lor’ bless you, no!” grinned the valet. “I ain’t quite such a fool as to be caught like that. My lord’s rooms have been
done up lately, so he thought as perhaps the paper-hangers or some of that low lot stole the box.”
“In that case you are safe enough,” said Hagar, enraged at the ingenious villainy of the creature. “But how did you come to learn that there were letters hidden in this box? You didn’t know of them when you pawned it.”
“No, miss, I didn’t,” confessed Peters, regretfully; “but yesterday I heard my lord say to a friend of his that there were letters to him from a married lady in the secret place of the box, so I thought ——”
“That you would find the secret place, and use the letters to get money out of the married lady.”
“Yes, I did. That’s what we are going to do, ain’t it?”
“Is the married lady rich?” asked Hagar, answering the question by asking another.
“Lor’, miss, her husband, Mr. Delamere, has no end of money! She’d give anything to get those letters back. Why, if her husband saw them he would divorce her for sure! He’s a proud man, is Delamere.”
“Has he any suspicion of an intrigue between his wife and Lord Averley?”
“Not he, miss; he’d stop it if he had. Oh, you may be sure she’ll give a long price for those letters.”
“No doubt,” assented Hagar. “Well, Mr. Peters, as I am your partner in this very admirable scheme, you had better let me see Mrs. Delamere. I’ll get more out of her than you would.”
“I daresay, miss. You’re a sharp one, you are! But you’ll go shares fair?”
“Oh, yes; if I get a good sum, you shall have half,” replied Hagar, ambiguously. “But where does Mrs. Delamere live?”
“In Curzon Street, miss; the house painted a light red You’ll always find her in now about seven. Squeeze her for all she is worth, miss. We’ve got a good thing on in this business.”
“It would seem so,” replied Hagar, coolly. “But if I were you, Mr. Peters, I would redeem this casket as soon as I could. You may get into trouble else.”
“I’ll take the money out of my share of the cash,” said the scoundrel. “Don’t you take less than five hundred, miss; those letters are worth it.”
“Be content; I’ll see to all that. To-morrow I shall interview Mrs. Delamere; so if you come and see me the day after, I will tell you the result of my visit.”
“Oh, there can only be one result with a sharp one like you,” grinned Peters. “You squeeze Mrs. Delamere like an orange, miss. Say you’ll tell her husband, and she’ll pay anything. Good day, miss. My stars, you’re a sharp girl! Good day.”
Mr. Peters departed with this compliment, just in time to stop Hagar from an unholy desire to throw the casket at his head. The man was a greater scoundrel even than she had thought; and she trembled to think of how he would have extorted money from Mrs. Delamere had he obtained the letters. Luckily for that lady, her foolish epistles were in the hands of a woman far more honorable than herself.
Although untitled, Mrs. Delamere was a very great lady. Certainly she was a beautiful one, and many years younger than her lord and master. Mr. Delamere was a wealthy commoner, with a long pedigree, and an over-weening pride. Immersed in politics and Blue-books, he permitted his frivolous and youthful wife to do as she pleased, provided she did not drag his name in the mud. He would have forgiven her anything but that. She could be as extravagant as she pleased; gratify all her costly whims; and flirt—if she so chose, and she did choose—with fifty men; but if once the name of Delamere was whispered about in connection with a scandal, she knew well that her husband would seek either a separation or a divorce. Yet, with all this knowledge, pretty, silly Mrs. Delamere was foolish enough to intrigue with Lord Averley, and to write him compromising letters.
She never thought of danger. Averley was a gentleman, a man of honor, and he had told her a dozen times that he always burnt the letters she wrote him. It was therefore a matter of amazement to Mrs. Delamere when a gipsy-like girl called to see her with a sealed envelope, and mentioned that such envelope contained her letters to Averley.
“Letters! letters!” said Mrs. Delamere, brushing her fluffy yellow curls off her forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that your letters to Lord Averley are in this envelope,” replied Hagar, looking coldly at the dainty doll before her. “I mean also that did your husband see them he would divorce you!”
Mrs. Delamere turned pale under her rouge. “Who are you?” she gasped, her blue eyes dilating with terror.
“My name is Hagar Stanley. I am a gipsy girl, and I keep a pawn-shop in Lambeth.’
“A pawn-shop! How—how did you get my—my letters?”
“The valet of Lord Averley pawned a silver box in which they were concealed,” explained Hagar. “He intended to use them as a means to extort money from you. However, I obtained the letters before he did, and I came instead of him.”
“To extort money also, I suppose?”
For the life of her, Mrs. Delamere could not help making the remark. She knew that she was speaking falsely; that this girl with the grave, dark, poetic face was not the kind of woman to blackmail an erring sister. Still, the guilty little creature saw that Hagar—this girl from a pawnshop of the slums—was sitting in judgment upon her, and already, in her own mind, condemned her frivolous conduct. Proud and haughty Mrs. Delamere writhed at the look on the face of her visitor, and terrified as she was at the abyss which she saw opening at her feet, she could not help making a slighting remark to gall the woman who came to save her. She said it on the impulse of the moment; and impulse had cost her dearly many a time. But that Hagar was a noble woman it would have cost the frivolous beauty dearly now.
“No, Mrs. Delamere,” replied Hagar, keeping her temper—for really this weak little creature was not worth anger—“I do not wish for money. I came to return you these letters, and I should advise you to destroy them.”
“I shall certainly do that!” said the fashionable lady, seizing the envelope held out to her; “but you must let me reward you.”
“As you would reward any one who returned you a lost jewel!” retorted the gipsy, with curling lip. “No, thank you; what I have done for you, Mrs. Delamere, is above any reward.”
“Above any reward!” stammered the other wondering if she heard aright.
“I think so,” responded Hagar, gravely. “I have saved your honor.”
“Saved my honor!” cried Mrs. Delamere, furiously. “How dare you! How dare you!”
“I dare, because I happen to have read one of those letters; I read only one, but I have no doubt that it is a sample of the others. If Mr. Delamere read what I did, I am afraid you would have to go through the Divorce Court with Lord Averley as co-respondent.”
“You—you are mistaken,” stammered Mrs. Delamere, drawn into defending herself. “There is nothing wrong between us, I—I swear.”
“It is no use to lie to me,” said Hagar, curtly. “I have seen what you said to the man; that is enough. However, I have no call to judge you. I came to give you the letters; you hold them in your hand; so I go.”
“Wait! wait! You have been very good. Surely a little money ——”
“I am no blackmailer!” cried Hagar, wrathfully; “but I have saved you from one. Had Lord Averley’s valet become possessed of those letters, you would have had to pay thousands of pounds for them.”
“I know, I know,” whimpered the foolish little woman. “You have been good and kind; you have saved me. Take this ring as ——”
“No, I want no gifts from you,” said Hagar, going to the door.
“Why not—why not?”
Hagar looked back with a glance of immeasurable contempt. “I take nothing from a woman who betrays her husband,” she said, tranquilly. “Good-night, Mrs. Delamere—and be careful how you write letters to your next lover. He may have a valet also,” and Hagar left the magnificent room, with Mrs. Delamere standing in it, white with rage and terror and humiliation. In those few contemptuous words of the poor gipsy girl, her sin had come home to her.
&
nbsp; Hagar had come to the West-end to see the woman who had written the letters; now she walked back to her Lambeth pawn-shop to interview the man to whom they had been sent. She was not a girl who did things by halves; and, bent upon thwarting in every way the scoundrelism of John Peters, she had sent a message to his master. In reply Lord Averley had informed her that he would call on her at the time and place mentioned in her letter. The time was nine o’clock; the place, the dingy parlor of the pawn-shop; and here Hagar intended to inform Lord Averley of the way in which she had saved Mrs. Delamere from the greed of the valet. Also, she intended to make him take back the casket and repay the money lent on it. In all her dabblings in romance, Hagar never forgot that she was a woman of business, and was bound to get as much money as possible for the heir of the old miser who had fed and sheltered her when she had come a fugitive to London. Hagar’s ethics would have been quite incomprehensible to the majority of mankind.
True to the hour, Lord Averley made his appearance in Carby’s Crescent, and was admitted by Hagar to the back parlor. He was a tall slender, fair man, no longer in his first youth, with a colorless face, which was marked by a somewhat tired expression. He looked a trifle surprised at the sight of Hagar’s rich beauty, having expected to find an old hag in charge of a pawn-shop. However, he made no comment but bowed gravely to the girl, and took the seat she offered to him. In the light of the lamp Hagar looked long and earnestly at his handsome face. There was a look of intellect on it which made her wonder how he could have found satisfaction in the love of a frivolous doll like Mrs. Delamere. But Hagar quite forgot for the moment that the fullest delight of life lies in contrast.