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MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

WE have just finished breakfast. Mrs. Marshall only had my note last night, but she has come already, and is waiting in the drawing-room to see me. Probable she knows of some likely to do as a nurse.

            ‘I have had your note, and thought I had better come and see what could be done.’

            She says it grimly, as if she had resented my writing to her, but thought it her duty to help me. Her eyes look very round, her nose is very pointed, and she has brushed her grey hair back so tightly that her face looks harder than ever; her manner is cold, as it always is. I feel half afraid of her as she sits staring me in the face.

            ‘It was a great shame to trouble you—’

            ‘Not at all. Only, unluckily, I do not know of any one just now, but I will inquire.’ There is a silence for a minute, and then she goes on—‘I came to see if you would trust the children to me in the daytime, as the nurse is gone. You must have a great deal to do.’

            ‘To do?’ I say, half bewildered.

            ‘I am very fond of children.’ She says it so harshly, and looks at me with her eyes so wide open, that I am as much frightened as astonished, and forget to answer at all. ‘It is a great trouble to me that I have none of my own,’ she adds hurriedly; and the tears come suddenly into her eyes and trickle down her cheeks, but she does not seem to be conscious of her own distress. Hardly knowing what to do, I go a step nearer. As if she did not know it, she puts out her hand to push me back. She is a woman whom caresses rather annoy. I wonder what to say, and am afraid of saying anything.

            ‘It is very kind—’ I begin,

            ‘Perhaps they would not like to come to me,’ she says sharply; and I fear that this is the truth.

            It would be a great comfort to have a free time in which to pack and get ready, but Molly will certainly never consent to go, even for a few hours. Perhaps Jack would, and Molly is always content to lie on a sofa, or to be propped up in the corner of one, and look at a picture-book.

            ‘The children are shy,’ I say hesitatingly.

            ‘You would not be afraid to trust them to me?’ she asks suspiciously.

            ‘Oh no, no, indeed,’ I answer quickly, and this is true enough. Somehow  I feel, too, that if she were alone with the children she would not be ashamed of being a little tender with them. Perhaps she is only hard and cold to grown-up folk, or chooses to pretend to be so. If we could look into people’s hearts there would be a vast number of surprises for us.

            ‘Perhaps you do not like to be without them?’ she remarks, in a polite and frigid manner. ‘But it might be more comfortable for them if they came to me while you are busy, and I would try to find them some amusement.’

            ‘Oh no, no,’ I answered quickly, feeling as if I had been reproved. All the time I am quite aware that I hate the thought of Molly being away all day.

            ‘I would bring them back by four in the afternoon, and I could fetch them every morning.’

            ‘It is very kind of you,’ I begin once more, but she looks so hard I have not the courage to go on, or to say that I fear she will frighten them out of their wits. I remember Jack asking me once why she had such round eyes.

            ‘Suppose we see what the children say to the idea?’ she suggests; and they are sent for.

            Molly runs up to me instantly. Jack hesitates for a moment, and then, in a business-like way, follows his sister to my side.

            ‘Would you like to go home with me?’ Mrs. Marshall asks. ‘I would take you back in the carriage, and on the way we would stop and buy some toys.’

            Jack is interested, but does not move. Molly shrinks from the idea, and creeps up closer and hold me tight.

            ‘There is a snow-white kitten at my house; don’t you think you would like to come and play with it?’ she adds.

            ‘Wouldn’t you, Molly darling?’ I whisper; but she only shudders and clings closer.

            ‘Oh no,’ she says, shaking her head; ‘can’t leave mummy.’

            ‘But Mrs. Marshall will bring you back this afternoon, my pet,’ I say, meanly thankful in my heart that she will not go, for it is evident that nothing will tempt her away from me.

            ‘Want to stay with you,’ she whispers, and there is no moving her.

            Jack, however, is evidently wavering; Mrs. Marshall’s gravity impresses him, he feels that what she says may be depended on. He rubs his round, rosy cheek against mine, and says condescendingly—

            ‘I don’t mind going for a little while, but I shall want to come back to mother soon.’

            It is a great relief. It had seemed so ungracious to refuse her kindness altogether. Mrs. Marshall tries to follow up her advantage.

            ‘And won’t you come too, if Jack does?’ she asks Molly. But Molly only shakes her head again, and stands by me stoutly. ‘Perhaps Jack would like to go to the Zoo, then, if Molly won’t come. It would have fatigued her too much.’

            ‘I should like to go to the Zoo,’ Jack says, the delights of dissipation opening out before him.

            ‘Perhaps he will stay a few days and be content,’ Mrs. Marshall suggests, when Jack has gone to be made ready. ‘There is a little room he can sleep in next to mine. I will telegraph if he is quite happy at the thought of staying. In two or three days you may have found a nurse.

            So Jack goes off with Mrs. Marshall. He looks so pretty as he starts. He wears his little velvet suit, and, fearing lest he should feel chilly in an open carriage, Mrs. Marshall ties a blue silk handkerchief round his throat. ‘I brought it for Molly, thinking it would suit her,’ she says, in an apologetic voice. It suits Jack too, and my heart swells with pride as I look at him. He throws his arms round my neck, and then round Molly’s, who has been watching him with admiration, not unmixed with awe, and then he runs gaily down the steps. He turns and shouts to me—

            ‘Mummy dear, let Molly have my best paint-box, if she likes. She won’t hurt it. Give her a good big painting rag, and tell her to wash the brushes well.’

            Unselfish little Jack, with the dash of practical common sense in him! Mrs. Marshall gets into the carriage after him, and waves her hand to me. There is a smile upon her face; she looks almost happy.

            ‘Ah, poor dear,’ I think, as I watch them out of sight; ‘there was a mother’s love in your heart, and never a little one came to fetch it.’

            Then I go into the house and shut the door. It is very quiet without Jack. I realise that instantly, thought Jack is not always in the house, nor always making a noise. How odd and still the place seems; Molly and I look at each other, and I know that we both feel lonely.

            ‘Come and kiss me, mother,’ she says, and she clings to me, whispering, ‘You’ll let me be with you all day, won’t you?’

            I take her in my arms and sit down with her, trying to clear my head of cobwebs, and to think over an idea that came to me this morning. When I said that we had no relations I meant that we had no near or intimate ones. We have some cousins, but, with one exception, I do not even know their addresses, and have never beheld them. The exception lives in London; she is married and well off. We used to know each other a little years ago; she sometimes went to see my father, but after he died we ceased to meet. She seemed to resent my marriage, because it was not a good one from a worldly point of view. The idea that has presented itself is that, after all, I will tell Alice Grey (what a pretty name it is) of the trouble that has come upon me. She is my cousin; why should I feel so certain of her want of sympathy?’

            ‘Molly, would you like to go out with mother?’ I ask. She brightens at the words; so half an hour later we are looking our best, as folk who go to see their grand relations should; and drive in a hansom to Harley Street. Mrs. Grey is at home; we are shown into the drawing-room, and sit waiting for her, trying to forget that we are uncertain of our welcome. Oh dear, I think, as I look round at all the handsome things in the room, if these things were only ours, or even half of them were ours, I would sell them; then there would be no more difficulty about the money, and we would start on our journey south to-morrow.

            ‘How do you do, Margaret?’ Mrs. Grey says, and shakes hands, and very formally kisses me. ‘How do you do, dear?’ to Molly, and she pats her cheek and sits down. We talk a little formal talk, and a quarter of an hour passes, and Mrs. Grey looks a little bored. I ask to see her children, and two pretty, well-behaved mites are brought in. As they leave the room, I ask if Molly may go back to the nursery for ten minutes. It is odd that she has not noticed that Molly looks ill. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘Molly shall go to the nursery for ten minutes; and then I must send you away,’ she adds, ‘for I have some people coming to luncheon.’

            ‘Oh yes, we must go,’ I answer. ‘I have a great deal to do. I came to tell you,’ I say, when Molly has gone, ‘that Dr. Finch says Molly must winter abroad. She is very delicate—very; she is threatened with—with what killed dear mother.’ It is said calmly, thank goodness.

            ‘How very trying,’ she says.

            ‘Yes, it is very trying,’ I say drearily.

            ‘I am sure it is,’ she answers.

            ‘If Arthur had been alive—’ I begin vaguely, not knowing how to go on.

            ‘It was a pity that your marriage turned out so badly,’ she says, in a sympathetic voice.

            ‘It did not turn out badly,’ I say, lifting up my head. ‘If Arthur had lived he would have been a great artist; there was the making of one in him.’

            ‘And of course you would have been very badly off if you had remained single, for poor Uncle Robert’s pension died with him.’

            ‘I had other offers besides dear Arthur’s,’ I say rather indignantly, and not from any wish to boast, but because it seems rather insulting to Arthur to suppose that he married a girl no one else could have cared about, and to me to suppose that I married him for any reason except the right one. ‘I married him because we loved each other, and money isn’t everything.’ I am getting incoherent, but it does not matter.

            ‘What I mean is, that I always think it is a pity to marry a man who has nothing to settle on you,’ she explains, as if she were in the habit of marrying at least once a year herself, and knew all about it. ‘Then, too,’ she continues, ‘I think it is a pity to marry a man who has no relations. If anything happens they are bound to look after you, to a certain extent.’

            ‘Not more than one’s own relations, surely?’ I say, rather astonished at the business-like eyes with which she looks at marriage all round.

            ‘Oh yes, dear,’ she answers sweetly and softly. ‘When a woman marries, she belongs to her husband and to his people a great deal more than to any one else. I always feel that; indeed, I feel it so strongly that I consider myself bound to do a great deal more for my husband’s family than for any member of my own. But tell me, where are you going?’ she says suddenly, thinking, perhaps, that she has given me a hint that may prevent possible trouble for the future.

            ‘I don’t know,’ I answer; ‘it is not settled.’

            ‘Of course, most people go to the Riviera; but it is fashionable and expensive.’

            ‘And we should be out of place among fashionable people.’

            ‘Yes, dear,’ she says compassionately, as if we were beggars,  and went about in rags and tags, with packs on our backs. For some unknown reason, Alice Grey is making me angry.

            ‘Malaga is a good place, I am told,’ she says, much more pleasantly, as if to make amends. ‘The Vincents are going to winter there this year. Some friends of their rave about it, and say it is the best climate in Europe. That might do for you, Margaret; Spain would be an interesting country to see.’

            ‘It is a long way off.’

            ‘And for that reason it may be cheap.’

            There is something in that, and I should like to see Spain.

            ‘I wonder if many English go there?’

            ‘It is a health-place, so probably they do.’

            ‘I want to paint some portraits, if possible, while we are away; it would help with expenses. I fear I should not get much to do at Malaga.’

            ‘It is impossible to say, of course;’ and her voice is a shade more distant. I understand why: she is determined to have nothing to do with our arrangements. Perhaps she is afraid of my trying to borrow, so I promptly relieve her mind.

            ‘It is a great comfort that Uncle Clement left us some money, or wintering abroad would have been impossible.’

            ‘Of course it would,’ she answers cordially. She is evidently a good deal relieved. ‘Perhaps,’ she adds graciously, ‘if you do go to Malaga, you might like to know the Vincents. They are very pleasant people. And, by the way, I think you used to know Ralph Bicknell very well. You and he were children together, were you not?’

            ‘Oh yes, we knew each other very well,’ I answer, and straightway think of his pinches. ‘What about him?’

            ‘He is always supposed to be sweet on May Vincent, if he is ever sweet on any one except himself; but, as it has been going on for a long time, and nothing has come of it yet, it is probably all nonsense.’

            ‘What is he like?’ I ask.

            ‘Oh, he is rather good-looking, and—and—’

            ‘Conceited?’ I suggested, thinking of her previous remark.

            ‘No, not exactly; but he rather gives himself airs, as if he though himself an important person, and he is very fond of snubbing people.’

            The description makes me laugh. It is just what Ralph used to be, and yet there was a fascination about him. I wonder if it exists still.

            ‘I should like to see him again,’ I say curiously. ‘It is so odd to hear of him after all these years.’

            ‘Well, probably you will see him if you go to Malaga, for I heard that he was going there with the Vincents. I suppose they like him. I think he is a very disagreeable person myself, and I believe he dislikes me. Luckily, tastes differ. But I am afraid I must send you away, Margaret,’ she says, in an apologetic tone, and looking at her watch. ‘If you do go to Malaga, and come across the Vicents, remember me to them. Good-bye, dear.’ She kisses Molly, who has been sent for, and kisses me, and forgets to say that she hopes it will do Molly good to winter south—forgets everything, except that she is very anxious to get rid of us.

 

 

 

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