JELLY'S TROUBLES.
With the same rapidity that the sickness had appeared, so did it
subside in Dallory. Mrs. Rane's was the last serious case: the last
death; the very few cases afterwards were of the mildest description;
and within a fortnight of the time that ill-fated lady was laid in the
ground, people were restoring their houses and throwing their rooms
open to the renewed air.
The inhabitants in general, rallying their courage, thought the sooner
they forgot the episode the better. Excepting perhaps by the inmates
of those houses from which some one had been taken, they did soon
forget it. It was surprising--now that fear was at an end and matters
could be summed up dispassionately--how few the losses were. With the
exception of Henry Hepburn the undertaker and Mrs. Rane, they were
entirely amongst the poor working people out on strike, and, even
here, were principally amongst the children. Mrs. Gass told men to
their faces that the fever had come of nothing but famine and poverty,
and that they had only themselves to thank for it. She was in the
habit, as the reader knows, of dealing some home truths out to them:
but she had dealt out something else during the sickness, and that was
wholesome food. She continued to do so still to those who had been
weakened by it: but she gave them due warning that it was only
temporary help, which, but for the fever, they would never have
received from her. And so the visitation grew into a thing of the
past, and Dallory was itself again.
One, there was, however, who could not forget: with whom that unhappy
past was present night and day. Jelly. That Dr. Rane had in some way
wilfully caused the death of his wife, Jelly was as sure of as though
she had seen it done. Her suspicion pointed to laudanum; or to some
equally fatal preparation. Suspicion? Nay, with her it had become a
certainty. In that last day of Bessy Rane's life, when she was
described as sleeping, sleeping, always sleeping; when her sole cry
had been--"I am easy, only let me sleep," Jelly now felt that Dr. Rane
knew she had been quietly sleeping away to death. Unerringly as though
it had been written with the pen of truth, lay the conviction upon her
heart. About that, there could be neither doubt nor hesitation: the
difficulty was--what ought to be her own course in the matter?
In all Jelly's past life she had never been actually superstitious; if
told that she was so now, she would have replied that it was because
circumstances had forced it upon her. That Mrs. Rane's spirit had
appeared to her that memorable night for one sole purpose--that she,
Jelly, should avenge her dreadful end by publicly disclosing it, Jelly
believed as implicitly as she believed in the Gospel. Not a soul in
the whole wide world but herself (saving of course Dr. Rane) had the
faintest idea that the death was not a natural one. Jelly moaned and
groaned, and thought her fate unjustly hard that _she_ should have
been signalled out by Heaven--for so she solemnly put it--for the
revelation, when there were so many others in the community of Dallory
who might have done it better than herself. Jelly had periods of
despondency, when she did not quite know whether her head was on or
off, or whether her mind wouldn't "go." Why couldn't the ghost have
appeared to some one else, she would mentally ask at these moments: to
Phillis, say; or to Dinah; or to Seeley the surgeon? Just because she
had been performing an act of charity in sitting up with Keller's sick
child, it must show itself to _her!_ And then Jelly's brain would go
off into problems, that it might have puzzled one wiser than she to
answer. Supposing she had not been at Ketler's that night, the
staircase blind would have been drawn at dusk as usual, she would have
gone to bed at her ordinary hour, have seen, nothing, and been spared
all this misery. But no. It was not to be. And although Jelly, in her
temper, might wish to throw the blame on Ketler for staying out, and
on Dinah for her negligence, she recognized the finger of Destiny in
all this, and knew she could not have turned aside from it.
What was she to do? Living in constant dread of again seeing the
apparition, feeling a certainty within herself that she should see it,
Jelly pondered the question every hour of the day. Things could not
rest as they were. On the one hand, there was her natural repugnance
to denounce Dr. Rane: just as there had been in the case of the
anonymous letter: not only because she was in the service of his
mother, but for his own sake; for Jelly, with all her faults, as to
gossip and curiosity, had by no means a bad heart. On the other hand,
there was the weighty secret revealed to her by the departed woman,
and the obligation laid upon her in consequence. Yet--how could she
speak?--when the faintest breath of such an accusation against her
son, would assuredly kill Mrs. Cumberland in her present critical
state! and to Jelly she was a good and kind mistress. No, she could
never do it. With all this conflict going on within her, no wonder
Jelly fell away: she had been thin enough before, she was like a
veritable skeleton now. As to the revelation to Mrs. Gass, Jelly might
just as well have made it to the moon. For that lady, after the first
shock had passed, absolutely refused to put any faith in the tale: and
had appeared ever since, by her manner, to ignore it as completely as
though it had never been uttered.
Gradually Jelly grew disturbed by another fear: might she not be taken
up as an accomplice after the fact? She was sure she had heard of such
cases: and she tormented Tim Wilks almost out of patience--that
gentleman having recovered from his temporary indisposition--by asking
endless questions as to what the law might do to a person who found
out that another had committed some crime, and kept back the
knowledge: say stolen a purse, for instance, and appropriated the
money.
One night, when Jelly, by some fortunate chance, had really got to
sleep early--for she more often lay awake until morning--a ring at the
door-bell suddenly roused her. Mrs. Cumberland had caused a night-bell
to be put to the door: in case of fire, she had said. It hung on this
first landing, not very far from Jelly's head, and it awoke her
instantly. Dinah, sleeping above, might have heard it just as well as
Jelly; but Dinah was a sound sleeper, and the bell, as Jelly knew,
might ring for an hour before it awoke her. However, Jelly lay still,
not caring to get up herself, hoping against hope, and wondering who
in the world could be ringing, unless it was some one mistaking their
house for Dr. Rane's. Such a thing had happened before.
Ring; ring; ring. Not a loud ring by any means; but a gentle peal, as
if the applicant did it reluctantly. Jelly lay on. She was not afraid
that it was connected with the sight she was always in dread of again
seeing, since ghosts are not in the habit of ringing to announce their
visits. In fact, surprise, and speculating as to who it could be, put
all fear for the time being out of Jelly's head.
Ring; ring; ring. Rather a louder peal this time, as if a little
impatience now mingled with the reluctance.
Flinging on a warm shawl, and putting her feet into her shoes, Jelly
proceeded to the front-room--Mrs. Cumberland's chamber when she was at
homo--threw up the window, and called to know who was there. A little
man, stepping back from the door into the bright moonlight, looked up
to answer--and Jelly recognized the form and voice of Ketler.
"It's me," said he.
"You!" interrupted Jelly, not allowing the man to continue. "What on
earth do you want here at this hour?"
"I came to tell you the news about poor Cissy. She's dead."
"Couldn't it wait?" tartly returned Jelly, overlooking the sad nature
of the tidings in her anger at having been disturbed. "Would it have
run away, that you must come and knock folks up to tell it, as if
you'd been the telegraph?"
"It was my wife made me come," spoke Ketler, with much humility.
"She's in a peck o' grief, Jelly, and nothing would do but I must come
right off and tell you; she thought, mayhap, you'd not be gone to
bed."
"Not gone to bed at midnight!" retorted Jelly. "And there it is,
striking: if you've any ears to hear. You must be a fool, Ketler."
"Well, I'm sorry to have disturbed you," said the man, with a sigh. "I
wouldn't have done it myself; but poor Susan was taking on so, I
couldn't deny her. We was all so fond of the child; and--and----"
Ketler broke down. The man had loved his child: and he was weak and
faint with hunger. It a little appeased Jelly.
"I suppose you don't expect me to dress myself and come off to Susan
at this hour?" she exclaimed, her tone, however, not quite so sharp as
it had been.
"Law, bless you, no," answered Ketler. "What good would that do? It
couldn't bring Cissy back to life again."
"Ketler, it's just this--instead of being upset with grief, you and
Susan might be thankful the child's taken out of the trouble of this
world. She won't be crying for food where she's gone, and find none."
The man's grief was renewed at the last suggestion. But Jelly had
really meant it in the light of consolation.
"She was your god-child, Jelly."
"You needn't tell me that," answered Jelly. "Could I have saved her
life at any trouble or cost, I would have done it. If I had a home of
my own I'd have taken her to it, but I'm only in service, as you know.
Ketler, it is the strike that has killed that child."
Ketler was silent.
"Cissy was a weakly child and required extra comforts; as long as you
were in work she had them, but when that dropped off, of course the
child suffered. And now she's gone. She is better off, Ketler."
"Yes," assented the man as if he were heartbroken. "If it wasn't for
the thought of the rest, I should wish it was me that was gone
instead."
"Well, give my love to Susan and say I'm sorry for it altogether, and
I'll come down some time in the morning. And, look here, Ketler--what
about the money for the burial? You've nothing towards it, I expect."
"Not a penny," moaned Ketler.
"Well, I know you wouldn't like the poor little thing to be buried by
the parish, so I'll see what's to be done, tell Susan. Goodnight."
Jelly shut down the window sharply. She really looked upon the strike
as having led to the child's death--and remotely possibly it had done
so; so what with that, and the untimely disturbance, her anger was
somewhat excusable.
In passing across the landing to her own chamber, the large window
became suddenly illuminated. Jelly stopped. Her heart, as she would
herself have expressed it, leaped into her mouth. The light came from
the outside; no doubt from Dr. Rane's. Jelly stood motionless. And
then--what desperate courage impelled her she never knew, but believed
afterwards it must have been something akin to the fascination of the
basilisk--she advanced to the window, and drew aside the white blind.
But she did not see Bessy Rane this time, as perhaps she had expected;
only her husband. Dr. Rane had a candle in his hand, and was
apparently picking up something he had dropped quite close to his own
window. In another moment he lodged the candle on a chair that stood
there, so as to have both hands at liberty. Jelly watched. What he had
dropped appeared to be several articles of his deceased wife's
clothing, some of which had unfolded in the fall. He soon had them
within his arm again, caught up the candle, and went downstairs. Jelly
saw and recognized one beautiful Indian shawl, which had been a
present from her own mistress to Bessy.
"He is going to pack them up and sell them, the wicked man!" spoke
Jelly in her conviction. And her ire grew very great against Dr. Rane.
"I'd almost rather have seen the spirit of his poor wife again than
_this_," was her comment, as she finally went into her room.
Putting aside all the solemn doubts and fears that were making havoc
with Jelly's mind, her curiosity was insatiable. Perhaps no woman in
all Dallory had so great a propensity for prying into other people's
affairs as she. Not, it must be again acknowledged, to harm them, but
simply to gratify her inquisitiveness.
On the following morning, when Jelly attired herself to go to Ketler's
after breakfast--the meal being seasoned throughout with reproaches to
Dinah for not hearing the night-bell--she bethought herself that she
would first of all step into the next door. Ostensibly with the
neighbourly object of informing Phillis of the death of the child;
really, to pick up any items of information that might be floating
about. Dr. Rane, it may be here remarked, had given Molly Green a
character to get herself another situation, preferring to retain the
elder servant, Phillis, who, however, only went to him by day. The
doctor was alone in his house at night, and Jelly believed he dared
not have even old Phillis in, knowing it was haunted. He made no
secret now of his intention of quitting Dallory. As soon as his
practice should be disposed of, and the tontine money paid over to
him, away he would go.
Jelly coolly walked out of the window of Mrs. Cumberland's
dining-room, and through that of the doctor's. She had seen him go out
some little time before. Phillis was upstairs, putting her master's
chamber to rights, and Jelly sought her there. She described the
fright Ketler had given her by coming at midnight to bring the news
about Cissy; and Phillis, whose heart was tender, dropped a tear or
two to the child's memory. Cissy had been loved by every one.
"Miss Dallory will be sorry to hear this when she comes back,"
remarked Phillis.
"I say, Phillis, what does your master mean to do with Mrs. Rane's
clothes?" abruptly asked Jelly.
Phillis, dusting the looking-glass at the moment, paused in her
occupation, as if considering.
"I'm sure I don't know, Jelly, He pointed out a few of the plain
things to me one day, and said I might divide them between myself and
Molly Green, but that he wouldn't like to see us wear them till he was
gone away. As of course we shouldn't, being in black for her."
"She had lots of beautiful clothes. I'm sure the shawls, and scarfs,
and embroidered robes, and worked petticoats, and other valuable
Indian things that my mistress was always giving her, would have set
up any lady's wardrobe. What will he do with _them?_"
Phillis shook her head, and pointed to a high chest of drawers. Her
heart was full yet when she spoke of her late mistress.
"They are all in there, Jelly."
Are they, thought Jelly. But Phillis was going down now, her
occupation ended. Jelly lingered behind, and put her black bonnet out
at the window, as if looking at something up the road. When Phillis
had descended the stairs, Jelly tried the drawers. All were locked
except one. That one, which Jelly softly drew open, was filled with
articles belonging to the late Mrs. Rane; none of them, as far as
Jelly could gather by the cursory glance, of much value.
"Yes," she said bitterly. "He keeps these open for show, but he is
sending away the best. Those other drawers, if they could be looked
into, are empty."
If ever Jelly had been startled in all her life at human footstep, it
was to hear that of Dr. Rane on the stairs. How she closed the drawer,
how she got her bonnet stretched out at the window again as far as it
would stretch, she hardly knew. The doctor came in. Jelly, bringing in
her head, apparently as much surprised as if a rhinoceros had walked
into the room, apologized and explained rather lamely. She supposed
Phillis must have gone down, she said, while she was watching that
impudent butcher's boy; she had made bold to step up to tell Phillis
about Ketler's little girl.
"Ah, she is gone," observed Dr. Rane, as Jelly was walking out. "There
has been no hope of her for some time."
"No, sir, I know there hasn't," replied Jelly, somewhat recovering her
equanimity. "I told Ketler that he may thank the strike for it."
Jelly got out with this, and was passing through the grey room, when
the doctor spoke again.
"Have you heard from your mistress this morning, Jelly?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I have. I am very much afraid that she is exceedingly ill,
Jelly?"
"Dinah had a letter from Ann a day or two ago, sir; she said that her
missis was looking worse, and seemed lower than she had ever known
her."
"Ay, I wish she would come home. Eastsea is far away, and I cannot be
running there everlastingly," added the doctor, as he closed the
chamber-door in Jelly's face.