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MRS. KEITH’S CRIME
CHAPTER III
THE morning
light has brought me to my senses. Last night I thought we had no money beyond
what I have stated; this morning, with the sunshine coming into my room, and
Molly asleep beside me, like a flash of lightning the remembrance of the
hundred a year Uncle Clement left us came to me. It is in the hands of trustees;
but of course they will advance sufficient to take Molly abroad when they are
told that it is a matter of life and death; it is only what Uncle Clement would
have wished. We shall be able to repay what we borrow; and as I am making more
every year, the debt will not make much difference in our income. We shall not
want a very large sum. Four or five hundred would be absurd; but perhaps we had
better have two hundred, as there will be four of us, including nurse. We can
bring back what we do not spend. Then, if this house does not let, we shall be
safe; but the house must be let somehow. I turn and look at Molly. Her face is
very thin, but in the sunshine I feel so strong myself it seems as if my
strength is enough to save her, and in the south she will be able to run about
all day, or to lie still in the sweet soft air and watch Jack. She is certain
to get well; she must, she shall. Perhaps Dr. Finch took an overgloomy view of
things. He is a rather gloomy man.
This very morning I will go to the
trustees, and then that matter will be settled. After wondering whether it
would be better to go to Mr. Beccles or to Colonel Anson, I decide upon the
former. So I get ready quickly, and half and hour after breakfast sally forth.
It is a long way from St. John’s Wood to Chancery Lane, but I walk more than
half the distance considering what to say. My heart sins a little as at last I
mount the stairs leading to the lawyer’s office; my voice trembles when I ask
for Mr. Beccles.
‘He is out of town till to-morrow
night,’ the clerk tells me. ‘He will be here again on Thursday,’ and to-day is
Tuesday.
‘I will come again on Thursday
morning,’ I say, and turn wearily homewards.
It is twelve o’clock when I get
back, perhaps later. The house is all in a commotion. Two hours ago nurse was
sent for by her married daughter at Kingsland. She is very ill. They are afraid
that it is scarlet fever, and nurse went off in a great state of mind. Poor
nurse! it will worry her sadly, for this is her only daughter, and all her sons
are away in Germany. Nurse is a good, kind, rather stupid old soul; but I have
kept her because she is so fond of us all. She has spoilt the children, and she
is not a good nurse or very careful in some ways, but that has not mattered,
for I look after the children so much myself, and she is so very kind to them
that it has been easy to forgive her shortcomings.
But if her daughter really has
scarlet fever, of course nurse will be able to go with us, and so a new
difficulty may arise. I cannot go alone with two children, for one may possible
want all my time, and it will be vexing to take a stranger. But, after all,
this is a minor trouble, and will arrange itself, no doubt. There is the money
to get, and packing to do, and getting ready in all ways to flit for six
months. It is no good to sit and dream.
In the afternoon I go upstairs, and
begin turning out. Poor old nurse, who no doubt is anxious enough, will
probably want some of her clothes. I will pack them, and send them to her if
she is not back by seven to-night; for if it is safe to come, she will
certainly be here in time to put the children to bed. Suddenly it strikes me
that there are some things in the cupboard that might be useful to her, for the
daughter is very poor. In the medicine cupboard too, there is some
eau-de-cologne. I get out the eau-de-cologne and look in at my little store of
odds and ends. Some of these simple drugs must go to the south with us, and
this bottle of chloroform for my neuralgia. Sometimes, when the pain is very
worrying, I use a little of it until, dazed and stupid, I drop off to sleep;
but I have had to be careful lately, for I fancied it affected my heart. I must
get some more medicines to take aboard, foreign drugs are seldom good. So many
things there are to buy, and Molly shall have a little travelling-cloak, and a
hood for her golden head; and Jack, too must be made smart. They are pretty
children; people are sure to admire them. I have found all the things nurse may
want, and will pack them. Then my eye catches the bottle of chloroform again.
It must on no account be left behind. There is always a difficulty in buying
it, and something, I do not know what, makes me treasure up this bottle, in the
olive wood case, very carefully.
That dear little rascal Jack is singing
at the top of his voice; but what is Molly doing? I go into the nursery, and
find him on the rocking-horse, his head thrown back, his face aglow with
excitement, shouting with all his might—
‘A
ship, a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea,
And
it is deeply laden with pretty things for me.’
Molly is sitting
in the armchair, watching her brother with the deepest admiration. She is
always content to watch Jack, and to listen while he sings, but she never
offers to join in any game. She is too glad to rest is little Molly.
‘Don’t make so much noise, my
sonnie,’ I say; ‘you will give Molly a headache.’
‘Oh, no, mother,’ Molly says, with a
long drawn-out sigh of satisfaction. ‘I do so like to hear him. Go on, Jack;’
and seeing that they were happy together, I leave them, while my bonnie boy’s
voice rights out joyfully—
‘The
four-and-twenty sailors who walk about the decks
Are
four-and-twenty white mice with chains around their necks.
And while I am
busy in my own room, the door open, and there is nurse.
‘Nurse!’ I exclaim. ‘I am so glad to
see you. Is your daughter well, then?’
The poor soul’s eye’s fill with
tears. ‘No, ma’am; she is very bad,’ she answers.
Then a terror seizes me; for do we
not all think of our own?
‘Nurse,’ I say, ‘is it safe to come
here? Are you sure she has not scarlet fever?’
‘Yes, ma’am; it is quite safe,’ she
says, in surprise. ‘I have not been in the room where she is for two hours. But
I don’t know what to do, ma’am; for they think she has got the fever, and I do
want to be with her, ma’am, and I don’t know what you’ll do without your old
nurse.’
‘Oh, nurse, go!’ I cry, ‘and don’t
come here again until I give you leave. If you gave the children scarlet fever,
you would never forgive yourself.’
‘I am sure, ma’am, I can’t,’ she
urges, in her broken English. ‘My daughter is only just beginning, and perhaps
it isn’t scarlet fever, after all.’
‘Nurse, pray go away,’ I cry in
despair. ‘I know you love the children.’
‘Yes ma’am; that’s why I am come,
and for my things. I know you would not like me to stay away from my daughter
when she is ill—’
‘I am packing you clothes. Go
outside and get into a cab; but no, you mustn’t do that, or you will give it to
some one else, perhaps. Go outside and wait, dear nurse. I will send your
clothes out to you or bring them. I am so sorry for you, but you must not enter
the house again until I give you leave—’
Suddenly hearing her voice, Jack
runs out, and throws his round her neck.
‘Nursee!’ he exclaims. ‘Hulloa, old
nursee.’
‘Go away!’ I cry, trying to drag the
child from her.
But he clings to her, and manages to
climb on to her back, and, with a shout of laughter, puts his arms tighter
round her neck and his little bare legs round her waist, and suddenly that
awful pain comes, and my strength fails, but only for a moment. With great
effort I force the pain back, and nurse and the child apart.
‘Go away, mine dear,’ she says;
‘I’ll be back soon again. I am sure, ma’am, it is safe. Won’t you let me see
Miss Molly again?’ The woman must be mad, I think. She is a sturdy,
kind-hearted German woman, who have never been ill and seldom out of temper in
her life, and infection is a thing she looks upon as a popular delusion. ‘I
wouldn’t do her any harm for the world,’ she pleads; ‘you know I wouldn’t,
ma’am.’
‘Yes, I know you wouldn’t,’ I say;
‘but for goodness’ sake, dear nurse, go away!’
At last she leaves the house; and
when her things are sent out to her, I rush upstairs and put Jack into a bath,
and resolve that nurse shall never come back again. She is good and
kind-hearted, and would give her life for the children; but she is careless,
and has lived her life free of aches and pains, and is a little sceptical of
danger for others.
When Jack is rubbed and scrubbed and
in fresh clothes, I laugh at my own fears and violence, for he must be safe
now, and I go downstairs exhausted. and life still upon the sofa for a little
while. And then a bruise, which is oddly painful and was done by a pole when we
were getting the studio ready for my ‘at home,’ sets me suddenly thinking of
some absurd troubles of my childhood. There was a little boy who used to come
and stay next door to my father’s house when I was a child, and he and I were
playfellows. We were fond of each other, but we had terrible quarrels, and my
arms were black and blue with pinches he gave me, for my skin easily
discolours. Then, when he found that the marks of his cruelty showed, he took
to pinching me legs, so that I bitterly regretted having arrived at the age of
stockings. Never did any one or anything pinch as he did, and yet we liked each
other; and when at last he went away, I got up at six in the morning to say
good-bye to him, and clambered up on the fence so that he might lean over and
give me a parting kiss. I have seen Ralph Bicknell since that chilly grey
morning, but I have never forgotten his pinches.
No; it will never do to have nurse
back, but some one else must be found at once to take her place. I will write
to Mrs. Marshall, and ask if she knows of any one likely to do. On ‘Show
Sunday’ I heard her talking to a friend about some girl in whom she was
interested. It vexed me at the time, for she seemed to care more for the girl
than for the pictures, she hardly looked at the latter, and forgot to say
anything about them. That is a long while ago, but still she may know of some
one. We must have a new nurse at once, for Jack is brimful of mischief and must
be looked after, and there are many things to do. So the note is written and
sent off at once.