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MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

 

 

 

CHAPTER II

 

I HAVE been trying to rest a little, lying on the sofa in my own room; but it is no good, my brain is in a whirl still. The nursery tea went up just now; it must be nearly five o’clock. Even a few minutes’ sleep would help me to think better; but as it is I am dazed and useless.

            The servant enters with a card. ‘Mr. Cohen, ma’am and he hopes you’ll be able to see him.’

            I would give the world not to do so, but cannot well refuse. He is an old friend and knew my husband well, and has been good-natured, and made people send their children to have their portraits painted in the days when commissions were few and far between. So I get up and smooth my hair and look at myself in the wardrobe glass, for I am glad to do anything or think of anything save Molly, and yet she is not for a single moment out of my thoughts. And so I stand and look at myself in the glass. I was always slight and pale, but lately I have grown terribly thin and tired-looking, and there are black rings under my eyes that make me look ill. The only beauty left me is my hair. I have quantities of soft light hair. I hardly know what to do with it, and twist it round my head, and flatten it down, and vainly try to make it look prim and neat.

            As I pass the nursery door I listen for a moment to the voices within. Jack is talking, but suddenly stops—to eat bead and jam, perhaps—and then Molly says, ‘Go on, Jack; do go on,’ in an eager voice.

            ‘All right; wait a bit.’

            Molly may be too excited by Jack’s conversation to eat, I think, so I put my head in at the door, and seeing that her face is hidden in her mug of milk, am satisfied. For a moment everything swims. It is probably the worry of this strange day. And then I go downstairs to my visitor.

            Mr. Cohen is a Jew, and never hesitates to proclaim it. The Jews are the finest people in the world, he says, and the oldest. Adam was a Jew; and when you talk to him about evolution, he says that if the theory is true, then the first man worthy of the name who was evolved was a Jew, and that the last man left in possession, when all the rest have died off, will be a Jew, and a triumphant proof of the survival of the fittest. ‘It is the best thing on earth to be a Jew, and the wisest to be proud of it,’ he said once, in my hearing, to some one who was a little inclined to ‘chaff’ him. So the chaff came to an untimely end, and he remained unruffled, conscious of having the best of it. He is a tall, dark young man, not very young, but by courtesy is called so, for he goes to dances, and is unmarried. He is like a sardine to look at; so very like a sardine—long and dark, and lank and oily. I feel convinced that he sleeps in a tin box; there seems to be always a faint odour of spice about him. He is very rich, and knows it; you are constantly made aware that he knows it; yet he is good-hearted, pleased with himself and the world in general—a man who has never known worry, and never will know it. He is blessed with no strong feelings: has never been deeply in love, and never will be; thinks marriage would be a bore; and that ‘if anything does happen, and any one belonging to one chumps up, you know, why, it can’t be helped; one must just put up with it.’ ‘Chumps up’ means dies.

            I feel cold and stiff and disagreeable as I enter. Perhaps he’ll ask after Molly. I could not bear to tell him that she is ill. He would say, ‘What a bore. It’s to be hoped she won’t chump up,’ and laugh. His mother died two years ago. He told me of it, and laughed a little them. Perhaps it was only nervousness, for he had been a good kind son. If he laughed about Molly, I would never speak to him again; but I will take care not to mention the children. He comes eagerly forward to meet me as I enter, and shakes my hand quickly, as if he were in a hurry.

            ‘How do you do?’ he says. ‘Why, you don’t look up to much. Aren’t you well?’

            ‘Oh yes, thank you; I am quite well,’ I answer.

            ‘How are you?’ and I sit down, and try to look interested in what he will say; but everything seems changed, and I am consciously acting a part.

            ‘I know all about it,’ he says, as he takes the chair opposite to me. ‘You are bothered about the young’un. Been to a wedding, and met Mrs. Marshall as I was coming away, and she told me you were up a tree, so I thought I’d come round.’

            He says it in the most cheerful tone, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for one’s child to be ill, and for oneself to be up a tree, as he calls it. I am vexed with Mrs. Marshall for telling him, only I wonder that she remembered to do so, for she is childless herself, and never seems to care for children.

            ‘I am awfully sorry for you,’ the sardine goes on. I always call him the sardine in my thoughts.

            ‘I know you are, of course,’ I answer gently; ‘but don’t let us talk about it.’

            ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks, taking no notice of my request.

            ‘Going abroad.’

            ‘Awful bore that; interfere with your work, and cost a lot.’

            ‘Yes, I suppose it will,’ I answer, trying to speak cheerfully and feeling that it is a dismal failure.

            ‘But one must not think of that when one’s child is in danger.’

            ‘No, of course not,’ he says, looking vacantly into space. Evidently he is not much concerned; but why on earth should he be? We are nothing to him. ‘Been busy lately?’ he asks.

            ‘Yes, pretty well.’ I answer, supposing that he has tired of the other subjects already. ‘Tell me what you have been doing,’ I add, determined to talk of other things.

            ‘Not much,’ he says absently. ‘Nothing going on just now.’

            ‘You have been to a wedding?’ Perhaps he would like to talk about that, I think.

            ‘Yes.’ Evidently he doesn’t care about it. He is very absent to-day.

            ‘A pretty bride?’ I ask the question mechanically, just to fill up the time. If I could only get away to Molly!

            ‘Yes; nothing out of the way. Bridegroom twenty years older—selfish beggar. Never saw him before, and didn’t think much of him.’

            ‘But how do you know that he is selfish?’

            ‘Always think a man is selfish who marries any one a lot younger than himself.’

            ‘But why?’

            ‘Well, you see, he condemns the woman who cares about to certain widowhood—that is, in the natural course of things. If she doesn’t care about him, he is the means of making her look forward to a good time coming when he will be out the way and she will have the cash-box to herself, and that sort of thing spoils any woman’s nature.’

            ‘Why, of course,’ I answer, beginning to be interested. ‘But they may care for each other very much, so much that for the sake of the present happiness she is willing to risk dying first. After all, people don’t always die in the order of their ages.’

            But the sardine is a man who thinks that if he has convictions it is his duty to stand by them, so he shakes his head.

            ‘Don’t believe in it,’ he says. ‘Not  the kind of love that should be between husband and wife—can’t be read chums and companions, and that sort of thing; they are on such different platforms, you know.’

            I can hardly believe that he has been thinking this out for himself.

            ‘But surely—’ I begin, and stop with a gap, for suddenly there comes the pain that has so often worried me lately; it takes away my breath and makes me feel cold and sick for a minute or two, and then leaves a dull sense of misery and weakness behind it. ‘But surely companionship—’ and I am forced to stop again. If it get worse I must speak to a doctor; but I am always ashamed to complain of my own aches and pains, and my heart is so full of memories and the children and of work, that I forget them unless they are actually on me. I sometimes think that people who have a great deal to do, and who have known much sorrow, are just a little beyond physical pain—a little farther away from it than others, as they are form little sorrows. Given the strong motive, tell me that at the other end I should meet my dear ones once again, and I could walk through hell’s flames without flinching; nay, should almost find the burning sweet, as, let us hope, the martyrs did of old, because of the great happiness awaiting them at the end.

            ‘I say!’ the sardine exclaims. ‘You don’t look well; lips as white as chalk. What’s the matter?’

            ‘Nothing,’ I answer. ‘Go on; the wedding—’ but I feel the pain in an odd muffled way, as if it were wrapped in something, or had gone a little way off; and then I am conscious of looking at a little table opposite. ‘Go on; the wedding—’  I hear my saying as I might hear another person speak, and all things come forward and slip past me or under my feet, and something tight is round my heart—Molly...

            When I come to, Mr. Cohen is sitting by the sofa on which I am lying, a white pillow is under my head, a smelling-bottle on the little table.

            ‘What is the matter?’ I ask.

            ‘Had a faint, that’s all,’ he answers. ‘Do you often do that?’

            ‘Why, no,’ I answer, in surprise. ‘I never had one before that I remember.’

            ‘Well, you had better take care of yourself as well as the young’un, or you’ll chump up.’

            ‘That would be a bore,’ I say, getting up from the sofa and trying to answer him in his own key, for I remember everything now.

            ‘Awful bore,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Who’d look after the young’uns?’

            And then suddenly I disgrace myself, for, without any seeming rhyme or reason, I feel a choking in my throat, and the hot tears in my eyes, and before I know anything more I am crying, there straight before him. I get back my self-control in a minute or two, and manage to laugh in what I hope is a merry, careless fashion. The poor sardine is evidently sorely puzzled what to do.

            ‘I am very stupid,’ I say; ‘but indeed I can’t help it.’

            ‘Oh no, you are not stupid,’ he says, in a kind, consoling voice, as if he did not exactly think that of me. ‘But don’t cry; it’s no good crying, you know.’

            ‘Oh no, it’s no good crying,’ I echo.

            ‘Of course you are not really going to chump up.’

            ‘It would be a good thing and real economy,’ I say, ‘if every family did its dying all at once. If we three, all at the same moment, could creep into a cozy grave, I should be thankful and glad. Oh, I should be so glad that I believe I could get up and waltz with the tombstone.’

            ‘That would be a lark,’ he answers, evidently thinking of something else. Then he looks at his watch, and I wonder how long he has been here.

            ‘I am afraid my fainting has prevented you from keeping some engagement,’ I say.

            ‘Lots of time,’ he answers. ‘I have to dine out at eight. It’s not six yet; must get tot he club for half an hour, though. St. John’s Wood is rather out of the beaten track, you see.’

            I wait a minute or two, hoping that he will get up to go, but he makes no sign. Then I wonder if he would like some tea. It would prolong his visit, but this tiresome time must have fatigued him.

            ‘We might have some tea,’ I say, perhaps not too cordially and longing to be alone.

            ‘That’s an idea,’ he answers, with an air of relief; ‘I’ll ring.’

            So the tea-things are brought in, and I make an effort to be cheerful and not to think of Molly, and to take no notice of the aching that is still going on in a dull, methodical way. While I make tea the sardine walks about the room and looks at the paintings and the odds and ends of china.

            ‘That picture of Grove’s isn’t up to much,’ he says.

            ‘I like it,’ I answer.

            ‘That’s a  good thing,’ he says cheerfully, as if he had feared I did not. ‘There’s a little bit here, now, that rather takes my fancy;’ and he looks at a tiny picture—a girl making lace, with an old schoolfellow gave me as a wedding gift. ‘Pretty little thing,’ he says, as he puts its back into it place. ‘Don’t suppose it’s worth anything, but the idea’s pretty. I rather like it.’

            ‘Edith Clark gave it to me as a wedding present,’ I say. ‘It is pretty; Mr. Layton once took a great fancy to it, and offered me twenty pounds for it.’

            ‘Why ever didn’t you take it?’ he asks, astonished. ‘It isn’t worth that; it isn’t worth five, I should say.’ The sardine has an idea that he knows a good deal about pictures.

            ‘I know; but I am very fond of the girl who gave it to me. She is in India now.’

            ‘Yes, but twenty pounds. You might have give4n her half, and got her to paint another when she came back.’

            ‘She might never come back,’ I remark, as I put the water into the pot.

            ‘Then she wouldn’t know you had sold it. You’ll want a lot of money to go abroad with,’ he tells me again, as he drinks his tea.

            ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

            ‘Made up your mind where to go?’

            ‘Not yet, but south, of course,’ I answer. ‘We are to go to Dr. Finch again, and he will tell us.’

            ‘You know, a winter abroad costs an awful lot,’ he says, in the tone of a man who knows all about it; ‘and one must do things comfortably, especially with an invalid. It runs into a lot of money.’

            ‘Of course it does,’ I say cheerfully, as if I do not mind in the least.

            He gets up and walks uneasily about the room again, and suddenly sits down on a chair rather nearer to me than before, and begins in an awkward manner to hug his knee. Then he gets up and walks about again, and  notice that his face is a little flushed this last minute or two.

            ‘Look here,’ he begins, clearing his throat, ‘your mustn’t mind what I am going to say, Mrs. Keith. The fact is, I am awfully sorry for you about the young’un. It does seem hard lines when you have just got things straight a bit. It struck me that this might have come rather suddenly, and I know going away will cost a lot; it always does. I’m an old traveller and know about it, you see.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Well, you are not rich, and I am, though it doesn’t do to own it always,’ he adds cautiously; ‘but I am, and I have no one loafing about and hanging on to me, and I wish you would let me be of some service to you—’

            ‘Oh, no, no,’ I begin. There is that in his tone and manner which makes it impossible to take offence, or to be anything but very grateful to him. I look up thankfully enough at the sardine, and feel with a good fellow he is , but I am not going to take his money.

            ‘Why not?’ he pleads. ‘My sisters are rich, but I am only saying to you what I should say to them if they were not. I am so sorry for you; it is very hard lines that this should come. It would do me lots of good, and make me awfully grateful if you’d—if you’d let me pay say four or five hundred pounds into your bankers, and you’d slide through the winter all right then.’

            ‘Four or five hundred pounds!’

            ‘But, Mr. Cohen, I couldn’t—’ I begin gratefully enough; but he interrupts me, and hurries on.

            ‘I don’t mean as a loan; that would only hamper you—unless, of course, you would rather have it that way. I mean just as you accept it from your brother, or your sister, or a relation of any sort;’ and he tries to laugh. ‘I never do much good, but if I helped to get your little chick right, I should feel set up in virtue for a long time to come.’

            ‘Oh, but I can’t!’ I cry, feeling that this money must be refused, though where else it will come from I cannot tell. ‘I am very grateful and will never forget your kindness, but I cannot accept it.’

            ‘Why not?’ he asks, with a calm air of wonder, and there is an expression on his face that shows how hurt he is, and how vexed.

            ‘I don’t know,’ I falter, for it is all so sudden, and I have no reasons ready to hand. ‘I can’t tell you. I never took money from any one except Uncle Clement. It seems like a confession of failure to take it. Of course it will be very difficult to manage this going. I don’t know yet how it will be managed; but please don’t—’  My tears being to come again, and will not be stopped.

            He waits for a minute or two, then gets up. ‘Well, look here,’ he says, ‘if you will, there it is. Think it over. If you like to pay me back, or to work it off in commmissions when you come home, you can. Don’t let the young’un chump up for want of anything that’s to be had for the asking.’

            ‘Oh no; I would beg first.’

            ‘You had better come to me before begging. After all, it is nothing to make a fuss about. I shouldn’t miss it, you know; why, I should forget all about it in a fortnight.’ And he wrings my hand and in another five minutes has gone.

            The sardine’s visit leave me face to face with the money question. I stare blankly round the room, and a little shudder seems to overtake me as  I wonder what I shall do. I have refused help from the only person who is likely to give it. I have nothing in hand or to come beyond the few pounds in the house and the fifty pounds which will be due at Christmas, and out of that there are payments to make. There are a few pictures which might be sold to dealers; but they are not worth much, and they were gifts, and I should be sorry to part from them. We have no trinkets; nothing of any sort worth selling. We have no relations save a few cousins, and of these I know only one, and know her but slightly. There is no time to work before the date at which Dr. Finch says we should start, and yet we mush go; it is not a case of ‘if’ and ‘perhaps’ but one of ‘must.’ This house may let, but it is very tiny, and would only suffice for one or two people; and though it is pretty, very pretty and artistic, yet many things which we are able to do without would have to be bought for a tenant, and at best it would not let for much. Oh, Molly, I wonder how it will all end. I go and look at the picture, and wonder vaguely, as I have wondered half insanely many time before, if the people who sleep in the little churchyard sorrowed much, and if the people who are coming to the garden, the people who will gather the flowers and laugh beneath the blue sky, will be happy long. Happiness always seems to me to be like a traveller passing by, staying, perhaps, a little while here and a little while there, but having no abiding-place. Molly— But I am very tired. Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning. I will creep upstairs and have a long sleep, with my little one in my arms.

 

 

 

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