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MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER VI

 

IT is late in the afternoon when Mr. Cohen comes. I hear him drive up in a hansom, and my pulse beats quicker as he knocks at the street door. He looks particularly good-tempered and pleased as he enters; his manner is a little eager, as if he had unexpectedly gained a difficult point.

            ‘How do you do?’ he says, in his most cheerful voice. ‘Had your telegram all right, you see, and am very sorry I couldn’t get away before. Dreadful thing to be in the city, you know. Keeps one busy just when one wants some time to oneself.’

            ‘It is very good of you to come at all,’ I say. ‘It was very cool to telegraph for you in that way.’

            ‘It was quite right. Well?’

            ‘Well?’ I echo, for I can’t speak of what I sent to tell him.

            ‘Is it all right?’

            ‘Is what all right?’

            ‘Going to be sensible?’ he asks, in a kind, manly fashion that reassures me and sets all my doubts at rest. I answer with a little nod, for words fail me.

            He takes my hand and gives it a good shake. ‘That’s the best way. I knew you were a wise little woman, or I shouldn’t have said anything about it. I am only treating you as I should one of my own sisters, so don’t go having any more scruples, and that sort of thing. How shall we manage it? Look here, I’ll pay it into your bankers if you’ll tell me where. They’ll think it’s a commission, and the price of pictures gone up.’

            Then I find a voice, and tell him of my visit to Mr. Beccles. It rather amuses him.

            ‘Of course he couldn’t advance you any money, if it is tied up on the boy,’ he says; ‘it would be a felony, or something. Fancy trying to incite a respectable lawyer to commit a felony, and get himself put into prison!’

            ‘Then I wondered if I were to sell the things here, to help, at any rate, towards expenses,—’ I begin.

            ‘Get nothing for them, and have to start again when you come back.’

            Then I explain that I am only going to borrow two hundred, and shall repay that out of the hundred a year, fifty pounds a year at least, until it is paid off; and that I am going to make a will to try to secure the money to him as far as I can in case of my death. He laughs and seems to be vastly amused.

            ‘All right,’ he says; ‘but we’ll make it four hundred, and then I shall be able to dun you a little longer. You really can’t do it for less; couldn’t do it myself on that, and you’ll have the children and maid and people.’

            ‘I don’t travel with a regular suite.’

            ‘Don’t you?’ he laughs. ‘Well, we’ll make it four hundred. I like having my way, so that’s settled. Don’t let’s talk of it any more. Money affairs are always awkward, you know. Are you going to give me some tea again?’

            The things have been brought in, but I had forgotten all about making it.

            ‘I am so stupid to-day,’ I apologize.

            ‘Never mind,’ he says consolingly. ‘Had any more faints since I was here?’

            ‘No,’ I answer, trying to laugh; for the sardine generally looks bored if one is not a little bit lively. Besides, it is a great relief to know that the money is settled. I had not realised what a load it was on my mind till my friend came and lifted it. It will not be difficult to pay it off.

            ‘Is the young’un getting on?’ he asks.

            I shake my head, and he avoids the subject.

            ‘Made up your mind where to go?’

            ‘We are going to Malaga.’

            ‘That’s a pretty good journey. Why, it’s an awful way. What are you going to Malaga for?’

            ‘The climate is said to be good. There is a clever English doctor; and some friends of my cousin’s, Mrs. Grey, are wintering there, we may possibly know them. It will be interesting to see Spain too. I have always longed to go there.

            ‘Lots of beggars.’

            ‘And grandees.’

            ‘I never saw any grandees, and don’t believe they’ve got any left. If they have, they keep them done up in dirty cotton-wool.’

            ‘Why dirty cotton-wool?’ I ask, in surprise.

            ‘They have nothing clean in that country,’ he says sadly, shaking his head.

            ‘You don’t seem to admire the Spaniards.’

            ‘No, I don’t. We have had some business dealings with them, and know a good deal about them. They really have got a decent climate, though—dry as a bone; for they cut down all the trees, and do away with the rainfall. You see, they don’t want water in that country; they drink wine, and never wash themselves. Water is quite useless, so they have abolished it.’

            ‘But the ground, at any rate, wants watering.’

            ‘Not a bit of it. They don’t grow anything except prickly pears. Nothing there but acres and acres of barren land. It never wants watering any more than the people.’

            ‘It does not sound as if it will be a good place for us,’ I say, in surprise.

            ‘Oh yes, it will; it has a wonderful climate,’ he remarks, drinking his tea. ‘Much better than the Rivera, or any of those places. There’s never any telling at what moment a wind may turn up on the Rivera and nip the life out of you. Spain is the best place this side of the Mediterranean. I dare say you’ll be able to do some painting there. Plenty of English— By the way, how are you going to get there?’

            ‘I don’t know. It has only just been settled that we are to go. I have not thought about routes yet.’

            ‘It’s an awfully long journey by rail.’

            ‘Well, we can’t go by sea.’

            ‘It would be a bore; but an idea has just struck me. You might get through very comfortable to Marseille, and go on from there by sea. Very short journey; much easier than going by rail. There are some English boats from Marseille that call at Malaga on their way home. They stop there once a week, and I could write to our people, and tell them to look after you.’

            ‘I don’t understand;’ but I remember that the sardine is a merchant, and has dealings with foreign countries; the boats have probably something to do with his business. He explains.

            ‘You see, we have branch places out in the East, and so have a considerable interest in some boats that do our fetching and carrying between Bordeaux and places farther off. They are very comfortable, used to passengers, generally have a good many. Went in one of them myself once, so know all about it. I’ll write them a line to Marseille, to say they are to look after you and take you on to Malaga—charge you nothing, of course. A clear saving that, and pleasant way of getting there.’

            ‘It would be very nice,’ I say gratefully. ‘You have been a good friend to us, Mr. Cohen. What should we have done without you? I should have died, I think.’

            ‘Well, dying wouldn’t have helped much; rather the other way, in fact,’ he answers. ‘It’s lucky I met Mrs. Marshall that day, or I shouldn’t have known anything about it. That would have been very bad luck.’

            ‘For me, yes, indeed,’ I answer; for I have put all my scruples away, and, more thankful than words can tell for the sardine’s generosity, give myself up to such comfort in it as I may find.

            ‘I meant for me; wasn’t thinking of you just then,’ he laughs.

            ‘Very, very much worse luck for me,’ I say gaily, doing my best to be lively.

            ‘Well, we won’t nag at each other about it,’ he answers.

            ‘It seems such an amazing thing— Oh, but I was going to say a very rude thing indeed.’

            ‘What was it?’ Rather like rude things.’

            ‘I was going to say that one does not expect a Jew to be so generous as you have been to me. He has the reputation of taking care of himself and his own people, but of being, in regard to others, very—very—’

            But the sardine, who is never offended at plain speaking, answers quickly, with a certain pride of race in his voice.

            ‘If a Jew considers himself really to be your friend and you his, then he thinks himself bound to do anything he can for you; that is, if your are up a real tree, and don’t make too much fuss. If you are merely in a bush, and could get out again if you liked and really tried, and are merely crying out to amuse yourself, then the Jew passes on, and thinks time and money too valuable to waste on you.’

            ‘I quite understand. It is a right principle.’

            ‘And then,’ the sardine continues, ‘a Jew always considers himself bound to look after women and children as far as he can; that is, his own womenfolk, or the womenfolk of his friends.’

            ‘It is a great comfort for the women. It just occurs to me that I never heard of a Jewess going in for woman’s rights.’

            ‘Oh no,’ he says, shaking his head; ‘our women never do that kind of thing. ‘They are too well educated and taken care of, and they know when they are well off.’

            ‘And so they want “rights”?’

            ‘Oh no,’ he answers solemnly. ‘They are very well off as they are, and they know it. We never expect our women to be dummies, and we know they are not fools, and we always consult them about things that concern them; that’s all they want, you know.’

            ‘And then, you are proud of them. I have so often noticed that.’

            ‘Of course we are proud of them. We ought to be; for you can’t match them. That’s why we like taking them about with us, instead of leaving them at home; besides, we think women have as much right to enjoy themselves and go about as men. That’s what your people don’t seem to see, and then the women cry out. You don’t understand that a woman likes being treated properly and yet taken care of at the same time.’

            ‘And you do understand it,’ I say.

            ‘Yes, we do; and we know that we can do with fewer things than women can, and we take care that they get more accordingly. On the whole, our women have a very good time.’

            ‘And don’t you think our have?’

            ‘Some of you; some of you haven’t;’ and he gets up and walks about the room, looking at the things again. He stops before the picture on the easel. ‘I don’t think anything of that picture,’ he says; ‘don’t believe any dealer in London would give you ten pounds for it.’

            ‘Don’t abuse it. It was so kind of him to give it to me.’

            ‘I like this little thing much better,’ he says going up to Edith Clark’s little painting.

            Suddenly an idea strikes me. ‘Let me give it to you,’ I say eagerly. ‘I should so like you to have it; do take it;’ and I try to put it into his hands but he pushes it away.

            ‘Oh no; wouldn’t take it for the world. Why, you refused twenty pounds for it.’

            ‘I know, but I should so like to give it to you.’

            ‘Can’t be done,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It looks so well where it is. You mustn’t go wanting to give away your valuables like that.’

            ‘Oh, but to so good a friend as you are. It would please me so if you would have it, Mr. Cohen.’ But he shakes his head again.

            ‘You shall leave it to me in that wonderful will you are going to make,’ he says; ‘then, when you are about to chump up, it will be a comfort to you to know that I am going to get it.’

            ‘I’ll give it to you for a wedding gift when you marry.’

            ‘Very well. You’ll have to wait a good while first.’

            ‘I am sorry for that,’ I say.

            He looks quite pleased. ‘Oh, come, now, don’t begin about that. Every one is always at me. You women are never content unless you are match-making.’

            ‘I think you ought to be married,’ I say, with all my heart. ‘You would be so good to your wife, and she would be very proud of you.’

            ‘Don’t see what she would have to be proud of,’ he says; but there is something in his voice that almost tells one that he is thinking of his balance at his banker’s with satisfaction, and reflecting that it isn’t such a bad thing to be proud of, after all.

            ‘But, really,’ I say earnestly, for I know that he likes to be asked about it, ‘why don’t you marry?’

            ‘Never see any one I care quite enough about. There was a little girl once who might have done; but she didn’t seem to see it, so I cleared off.’

            ‘Why didn’t she see it?’

            ‘I don’t know; I thought she did at first. She had an unfortunate relation in the shape of an aunt who objected to me—had larger views, I think, so I left her to contemplate them. That aunt was too much of a millstone for any girl’s neck. She was a nice little girl’—and he almost sighs—‘nice, gentle little thing; would have suited em down to the ground.’

            ‘Perhaps it will all come right yet.’

            ‘Oh no; just as well it shouldn’t. After all, you know, it’s a fearful business getting married.’

            ‘Yes, it is; but there’s nothing in this wide world like it if you get the wrong one,’ he laughs. ‘I must go Mrs. Keith. You won’t start for another week or two, I expect. I am going to Scotland for ten days or so, but I shall come and see you before you start. I am very glad we have made up our little differences. I’ll make it all right now—about that.’ He shrinks from even naming the money, the good, kind sardine, though he has written down the name of the bank in his pocket-book. ‘I’ll write to Marseille, and tell them they are to look after my aunt and her family when they turn up, and take them on to Malaga.’

            ‘Your aunt?’

            ‘Yes; my aunt or cousins or something like that, you know. There’s nothing like a capacity for lying to a moderate extent—so useful. Let me see, now; any other business? Oh, I’ll find out what day the boat get there, and drop you a line; then you can start accordingly. It would be a great bore for you to be staying too long at Marseille.’

            ‘Why, Mr. Cohen, you seem to have adopted us. I wish I understood business as well as you do, and could arrange things.’ I sigh. I am getting very tired, and long to be with my little child again.

            ‘A good thing you can’t,’ he says fervently. ‘I hate business women myself, and always leave them to care of themselves. I like women to be clever and suggestive and full of resources, and plucky, and a trifle helpless;’ and having explained his views regarding women to his own satisfaction, the sardine departs, and as the door closes I fly up the nursery stairs, and taking Molly in my arms, walk up and down the room with her. It is very quiet without Jack. He has been gone these two days, and all the house seems to be aching for a sight of him.

            What a comfort it is to sit down and think over the sardine’s kindness! I have no longer any feeling about borrowing the money, except that of being very grateful to him, and a sense of safety at knowing that I have a friend in the world so staunch and generous. I like to think of his manner to-day, of the happiness it gave him to help us of the delicacy with which he avoided talking of it more than he could help, and how he seemed to shrink from even mentioning the word ‘money.’ At heart he is just a perfect gentleman, whatever he may choose to make his manner; I am glad to have taken his help, and am proud of it.

            After Molly is in bed I pack up a little parcel for nurse, and write and implore the dear old careless soul not to come until she has leave. Then I sit down with a drawerful of children’s clothes before me, and begin to look over and mend them before packing them into a travelling-case. Now that nurse has gone there are so many extra things to do. It is rather nice to mend Jack’s clothes, the bonnie, sturdy little sonnie; all his pockets are torn. I long to see his face again; perhaps I shall get another little note from Mrs. Marshall presently, though one came this morning, full of praise and little anecdotes about him. Just these few hours since the money business has been settled there has been a little lull in the storm, as if, with the means of trying the one thing that would do Molly good, a half-promise from some strange power had come that she should get well. It is very odd, but it seems lately as if with Molly’s illness more strength had come to me, so that I can see and hear and feel more acutely, and my hands long to touch the brushes again. Perhaps out of one strong feeling another is growing, and in the future my hands will do better work than they have yet done. A thousand things suggest themselves all at once, and I long to be at work, and feel that I could work well. The thought of the sardine goodness will help me; the debt shall soon be paid: and yet I shall be almost sorry when it is; it is nice to have so generous a creditor.

            There is a double knock at the street door. The sound half amuses me. It is a shy, almost frightened knock; probably a nurse applying for the place, for I do not know any one likely to come at this hour of the evening. I think quickly of Molly sleeping above, and hastily kiss the hole in Jack’s sleeve, and go to the room door and listen. There is some one speaking in a low voice.

            ‘No, I will not come in,’ I hear, as with a heart that suddenly stands still I recognise the hard but broken tones; ‘ask Mrs. Keith if she will come out and speak to me.’ It is Mrs. Marshall. Oh, what does it mean! Jack—

 

 

 

 

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