MADAME DE MARKE.
The room in which Jane Kelly found herself was almost in darkness. Some
smouldering embers sent faint red gleams from an open fireplace, over
which a strip of coarse bagging had been nailed to keep in the smoke,
and by this she could only discover that a poverty-stricken look
pervaded everything around her. A small weird-like woman stood but half
revealed by the light, gazing sharply upon her. Spite of the darkness,
she felt that two keen black eyes were piercing her through and through.
All at once the woman stooped, and taking a handful of shavings from an
old candle-box that stood on the hearth, flung them upon the embers.
A burst of light revealed a smoke-begrimed room, a tattered old bed,
some broken chairs tied together with coarse twine, and a rickety table.
The sudden light was greeted by a hoarse croaking which came from the
direction of the bed; but the flash was so transient that these things
left little impression on the girl’s mind, which fastened entirely on
the woman herself. Lean, spare, pinched in all her features, grim,
unwashed, witch-like, the owner of that room stood in its midst, with
the sudden radiance full upon her one minute, and the next she was lost
in shadows—all but the eyes, which were still peering into Jane Kelly’s
face.
“Holy mother! I shall have to light the candle, after all. Waste, waste,
nothing but waste. Stand still while I get at a coal of fire. Don’t
move, or you might tread on the cat, and she won’t like it.”
Here the woman went rattling among some loose articles of crockery on
the table, and falling upon her knees before the fireplace, ignited a
tallow candle with much puffing and blowing. Then she stood up, held the
candle over her head, and searched her visitor from head to foot.
“There, there, sit down,” cried the woman, sweeping a lean, gray cat
from the rush-bottom of an old chair with one broken arm, and presenting
it to her guest in a quick, eager way.
“Any news?—anything to tell? Why should you come so late? Why don’t you
speak?”
“Yes, I’ve got news. It’s all over——”
“What? Dead? Really dead? But which of ’em? Not both? That would be too
good luck! Not both, eh?”
“No, madame, that isn’t just true yet. But to-morrow will tell the
story. If it hadn’t been for a woman in the ward, who _would_ give the
medicine after I’d forgot it agin and agin, you might have saved the
expense of two graves. Something interesting, you know, in burying a
baby on its mother’s bosom.
“‘We laid you down to sleep, Mary,
With your baby on your breast.’
“Sweet song, isn’t it, ma’am? that is what I call touching.”
“What are you talking about touching? Poetry! froth and nonsense! I
thought you came here on business—to tell me something.”
“So I did; haven’t I told you that the baby was dead?”
“But she! how about her?”
“She was just agoing, when the doctor——” Jane Kelly broke off suddenly,
for Madame De Marke sprang to her feet and caught her by the dress. Jane
understood this sort of thing and flung her off rudely enough.
“Then she isn’t dead?” cried the woman, working the long, sharp nails of
her right hand fiercely against the palm. “But the child? Is that dead
and buried?”
“Oh! I saw that nicely stowed away among a heap of little coffins, on a
wheelbarrow, and ready to be bundled off to the dead-house. All right
with the baby!”
“You’re sure there’s no mistake?”
“Sure? Didn’t I put on its cotton shroud myself,—a mighty scant thing,
only just wide enough to wrap around its little limbs without a fold? I
marked the coffin, too, with my own hands, letter L, with chalk. If you
want to be satisfied, it’s easily found, and can be kept till the mother
is ready. It’ll save expense, besides being so interesting.”
“Expense!” cried the occupant of the room, with a look of sharp anxiety.
“Expense! I thought the city bore that. Do they charge for putting a
miserable baby into Potter’s Field?”
“No, but then most people like a single grave, you know; it only costs a
dollar.”
“Only costs a dollar! as if dollars were made to fling into Potter’s
Field. Why, woman, do you know how much a dollar is worth? How much
interest it will bring, how many years it will take a dollar to double?
A dollar for a dead baby! If I’d spent dollars so extravagantly, do you
think I should ‘a’ been rolling in gold now, rolling, rolling in it—do
you hear?”
Jane Kelly cast a rather scornful glance around the miserable chamber,
with its naked floor, single bed, and coarse wooden chairs. This did not
look much like rolling in gold.
“You don’t believe me? you think I lie. Very well, very well. You fear
that I cannot pay up; very well again; we shall see to that!”
“It’s no joke,” said Jane Kelly, who really did begin to fear for the
safety of her bribe, after discovering the nakedness of the land. “It’s
no joke to do what I’ve done; and a poor body like me might be a trifle
anxious about the pay, without blame, let me tell you, ma’am.”
“Did you kill the baby?” inquired Madame De Marke, in a low, cunning
whisper. “Because if you did, of course that makes a difference. Did you
kill it?”
Jane sat silent, tempted to assent; for the woman’s words seemed to
promise a heavier reward, if crime had really been committed; and her
rapacity overcame her prudence.
“Did you kill it?” eagerly repeated the woman.
“Don’t ask me!” answered the nurse, drawing down her veil as with a
spasm of remorse, “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Then you did kill it!” cried the woman, and her little, black eyes
twinkled with mingled cupidity and malice.
“The price ought to be doubled, ma’am. One’s conscience is worth
something.”
“Double! oh, ho! Double, is it?” cried Madame De Marke, rubbing her
long, thin hands together with malicious glee. “Why, woman, it’s you
that should give me money for keeping your wicked secret, Mary Mother
forgive me.”
Madame reached forth her hands, and took a golden crucifix, with a piece
of twine attached, from a ridge over the fireplace which marked the line
where a mantelpiece had been, and kissed it reverently.
The sight of this crucifix, which was of pure gold and exquisitely
wrought, gave Jane Kelly renewed confidence in the ability of her
employer to reward the service she had rendered. Though a poor match for
the shrewd and singular woman with whom she had to deal, Jane was
quick-witted enough to see her mistake. But she allowed Madame De Marke
to go on, while her own thoughts were taking form.
“You see,” whispered madame, fixing her sharp eyes on the nurse, “you
see it is dangerous keeping a secret of this kind for any one. Then your
coming here to-night, people might suspect me of having some interest in
the matter, and that would never do. Still, for a trifle, say two or
three months’ wages, I will keep silent about it.”
“Two or three months’ wages from me to you!” cried the nurse, astounded,
“from me to you!”
“Why, murder! you know, my dear, murder! you don’t seem to appreciate
the nature of a secret like that.”
“But I have committed no murder. The baby died naturally. Who talks of
murder? _I only let it alone._ Where is the law agin that, I’d like to
know.”
“You didn’t kill it!” cried madame, with a grim smile, and still rubbing
her hands; “didn’t kill it?”
“‘Masterly inactivity,’ as the papers say, nothing more,” answered the
nurse, gathering self-possession as she remarked the rather crestfallen
looks of her companion.
“Well, then, if the creature died naturally, what more can be said about
it? Of course, you don’t want money for a baby that died of its own
accord.”
“But I do want money, all you promised, and I will have it, too.”
“All I promised? how much was that?”
“Two hundred dollars for the baby; four, if both went together,”
answered Jane, resolutely.
“Two hundred dollars!” cried madame, lifting up both hands, with the
long, claw-like nails, like a bird ready to pounce on his prey. “Two
hundred dollars! Is the woman crazy? Why, it was _two dollars_; a
handsome little fee to the nurse, for kindness and care of a poor girl
that once lived with me. Two hundred dollars!”
“The poor young mother isn’t dead; and good nursing may save her. _I_ am
a good nurse, when I fancy the patient, Madame De Marke.”