Part 4 (1/2)

”No. I don't mind,” she answered, and her heart gave a great pump of relief.

”It'll be more comfortable at night, too,” said Mrs. Palmer. ”That makes the four rooms full, now, and I'll see that your room gets done up every day with the others. I presume we'll hear from her soon.”

The next day she approached Miss Mary with an open letter in her hand.

”Mrs. Meeker's to live with her brother, now, he's paralysed,” she announced. ”She's sent me a check for the rent and you've paid twenty-four dollars, I see. I'm going over to pack up her stuff and she'll sell me the rest reasonable enough. I'm going to take her house, too. There's a new roomer comes to-day--I think I'll put him in her old room. Or if you,” with a shrewd glance at Miss Mary, ”wanted to economise at all. I'd rent you hers for four dollars and give this gentleman yours. And I'm usually paid in advance, so if you could make it convenient----”

”I'll attend to it,” said Miss Mary, ”but I'll keep the room, I think.

I don't like change.”

She went up to her room, and Dr. Jarvyse would have been amazed at the easy quickness of her gait. She had it all planned, now--the diamonds should go first, and then she would buy some fruit and a plant for her room. She liked her room very much; she did as she pleased in it and no one spied on her or suggested ways of pa.s.sing the time. Was it some faint memory of her room as a girl, before her brother made his great fortune, that found this dull, half-worn chamber so home-like and soothing? Every afternoon she dusted it, as the chambermaid suggested most ladies expected to, and once she had turned the mattress and made the bed, when the girl felt ill. It gave her a sense of competence and executive ability.

Now she went to the little chamois skin roll, unpicked the tight knots carefully, opened it--and dropped on her knees. The roll was empty.

On the compartment where the diamond cross had fitted, stretched a soiled, streaked thumb mark; mechanically she sniffed it--it smelled of tar. The dirty fellow with the bundle who had followed her down the elevated steps had smelled of tar, too, had Miss Mary remembered it.

Well, it was over. She never had a moment's doubt. She had no means, she could not starve, n.o.body would keep her, and she must go back to Dr. Jarvyse. She groaned in anguish as she looked about her dear, safe room and thought of the horrible luxury of that guarded prison, the birds and the flowers and cruel kindness of those strangers who knew every corner of her bureau, every word of her letters. Still, it must be. The Allens would never take her back, and after this, she would be watched as never before. It must be.

She met Mrs. Palmer on the threshold of what she had begun to call her home. Mrs. Palmer looked worried and spoke sharply to the untidy cleaning-woman behind her.

”Now, I do hope I can trust you,” she said, ”for I can't stay here to watch. Three new gentlemen for meals, and I have no table for them!

And this whole house to be cleaned! And not a girl to be hired in the town! I wish I had another room--I could rent it this afternoon.”

”You can have mine,” said Miss Mary quietly. ”I have no money and I must go.”

Mrs. Palmer looked shrewdly at her.

”What made you think you had, before?” she said.

”I had some valuable jewelry--I expected to sell it. It must have been stolen before I got here. I have nothing here to pay with, but I can send it back to you from New York.”

”Folks rich?” asked Mrs. Palmer.

Miss Mary nodded carelessly. That people should be rich was nothing to her, and the practiced landlady saw this in a twinkling: no protestations could have proved so much.

”But you don't get on well, I s'pose,” she suggested.

”No. We don't get on well,” Miss Mary repeated dully.

”I guess it's often so,” said the other. Her placid acceptance of these facts was very comforting to Miss Mary. She did not realise how different she herself was from the vague, scared woman of a week ago; nor how her quiet, well-dressed taciturnity impressed Mrs. Palmer.

”You find this agrees with you here, don't you?” the landlady asked, tapping her teeth with a key, thoughtfully.

”Oh, yes, I like it here. I would have liked to stay.”

”Well, Miss Merry, how'd you like to stay and help me?” said the landlady. ”To tell the truth, I've bit off more than I can chew, as they say. I never had such a run of boarders, and it's all the girl can do to look after the other house. What keeps my people is the cooking, you see, and that I do mostly myself. I'm not fit to talk to the ladies and gentlemen, with my hair all stringy, and smelling of cooking. I know it well enough. I had some thought of asking Mrs.

Meeker to go in with me and look after this house and take the head of the table, and keep the books. But you could do it, if you wanted, and you'd look more--more--not that Mrs. Meeker wasn't a lady, of course, but--well, some people look the part better than others.”

Miss Mary's brain whirled. The head of the table! The books! It was impossible. Why, the woman didn't realise that she was talking to a--a--Patient, then! (They were never called anything but Patients at Dr. Jarvyse's.)

”I--I'm afraid I haven't the experience,” she began tremulously.