Mary Reilly (7 page)

After I left Master last night I told myself this only pertains to some charitable work, such as is often his pleasure to do, and I will see as soon as I come to the house that it is the beacon of honest light in the darkness of poverty and filth that lies all round it. In fact I know there
is
a house on that square run in part by the church (churches as must lock their doors of an evening, such is the character of those parishioners), a house that is for homeless children where they can rest a night or two until some place can be found for them. But I know well enough that this street runs onto the square but don’t face it, so it cannot be the same place. And even if it were, why would Master have such a need for secrecy? In general he is pleased enough to have it known abroad that he is one who cares for those less fortunate.

No, everything about this letter is not what it should be, and I dread the morning I must go out and see to its delivery. Yet I do feel Master would not call upon me in such a way if it were not, as he put it, of some importance to him—of some very considerable importance, I should say—and I know also that he must set a great deal of trust in my character and the goodwill I bear him, to choose me over Mr. Poole to carry out this request.

For surely Master knows no one could be more devoted to him than Mr. Poole. So there can only be
one reason and that is this is some business he don’t want Mr. Poole to know of, which do lead again to the feeling that this is something no respectable gentleman mun engage upon.

How my heart misgives me, to be singled out, because of what Master knows about me, as the one most likely to keep whatever painful secret this is.

S
o this miserable errand is finished and I hope I may never go on another such. I felt, returning finally to my own small room at the top of this fine house, that I was coming into the fresh light of day after a trip through Hades.

I was up early and did my work in the morning and hurriedly, as I always do on my half-day so I won’t be behind the next day. I got in a great lot of coal, did all the dusting, stripped down Master’s bed and turned the mattress, swept out the carpet with tea leaves, then made up the room again, the drawing room dusted and the fender polished. I got two buckets of water and washed me in the kitchen near the stove, which I usually enjoy, and Cook sat by talking to me. But she would ask what my plan was for my day and I lied, saying I was to stop to cheapen some cloth for a new cloak, as my woollen is too warm for this time of year, and that I would go to Regent’s Park as I always do, rain or shine,
on my half-day, to see the roses and chat with the gardener there, a fine old country fellow named Mr. Tott, who always looks out for me when I go there and talks to me about the roses. My heart smote me to be lying to Cook, and thinking on where I was bound made me feel so low I could scarcely bring it off, but Cook seemed satisfied enough and wished me a good afternoon. Then I got dressed as I always do, in my good crinoline, print frock, bonnet and gloves, thinking as I put on my cloak that it was a waste to be going out in such attire, what usually makes me feel so festive and cheerful, on an errand that seemed fair to breaking my heart. I had the letter slipped in my cloak pocket that morning, so out I went wishing for all the world that it was a bit of cloth and a walk in the park I was bound for.

I took the omnibus to St. James’s Park so that I could have part of my walk coming and going through some quiet green place and so settle my resolution going in and lift my spirits coming out. The weather was grey and drizzly but not cool, and in spite of it many people were strolling about, taking such fresh air as they could find. From there I had a long walk, through thick crowds of people of all sorts out to do their shopping, and carriages surging by with the drivers shouting at anyone foolish enough to try to cross a road, the horses all in a lather, wild-eyed, unable to look right nor left for their blinkers but driven forward by the whip and the mad sound of hooves everywhere, always a sad and frightening sight to me, so I clung to the buildings,
moving along slowly and being bumped by those coming in and out of the stalls. Then, as if there was some signpost or boundary, all the noise and commerce gave out, the streets narrowed and the whole scene grew dark and mean—low doorways, lampless and dirty, many standing open and the unlucky residents lounging about on the steps or simply in the dirt itself. There were children everywhere, crouching in the doorways, collected in groups on every corner, working their ways singly or in a pair, through the grown people on the sidewalk with an eye always to pockets that might be liberal or just untended—cunning, sharp-faced, pale, starving, vicious children such as have neither homes to return to nor anyone who might care whether they are ever seen or heard from again. On one corner I passed a solemn girl sweeping the crossing and crying out in a sweet, sad voice for a penny. I dug down in my cloak pocket and came up with one, which, when we had reached the other side, I pressed into her outstretched hand. She barely glanced at me but closed her white fingers tight around the coin—the first she’d seen all day, I had no doubt—and turned back to her crossing, calling out to a loutish man who brushed past me roughly in his hurry to be about whatever bad business he had in mind. I stopped to look back at the child and saw myself in her hopeful, sad little face—only I was more fortunate than she, because Marm made such a home for me as she could and did not turn me into the streets. I had no brothers and sisters who must be fed too, and when I had the good luck to go to school, I found the strength
to wrest a little learning from my poor teachers, who was starving nearly as bad as we was.

These streets were not the ones I ran down as a child, though they might be and will be near enough to them soon, as the poor buildings give out under the burden of so many. Even as a child it seemed to me that what made such places wicked was not so much that they was dirty, crowded, ugly and falling down, but that the people who come to live in them know this is a place where no rules or manners need ever be applied and so they act exactly as they feel. Were the gentle classes put into such a place and bidden to live there, they would not know how to act.

I kept my eyes down and hurried along, feeling I was moved only by a dull tug of sadness coming out of my own childhood but now attached to this errand, which I could not think upon without a shudder. Again I told myself that doubtless this was some good thing Master had contrived, to lighten the suffering around me with a little food, a bed, or a book, but though I advised myself, I could not believe it. Here and there were housefronts of a better stamp than their neighbours—not clean by any means, nor inviting, but not in such a state of disrepair, not betraying every sign of want and despair, and at length I found myself standing before one such which bore the same number as Master had written on the letter.

There was a step to separate this doorway from the filth of the street and I lifted my skirts to perch upon it. I found no knocker nor any sign of a bell, so I pounded
the wood a few times hard with my fist, waited, hearing nothing, then pounded again. This time I heard the sound of someone moving, a rustling of skirts and a quick step. In a moment the door flew open and I was seized up by the cold, mean, hungry eyes of a woman who I could see greeted every new face as an occasion for suspicion and contempt. She was tall, not well dressed but not in the poor rags of her neighbours on the street by any means, and her hair, which was wiry, silver with age, untidy, seemed to stand out about her face in anger. Though her dress was clean it was cut too low for morning, and the bones that protruded at her throat, where some gentlewoman might place a locket on a bit of ribbon, stuck out looking raw, angry, like the rest of her. When she spoke, which she did at once, her voice was husky, her accent as rude as if she hated the words she spoke.

“Well, here’s a fine young miss at my doorstep,” she said. “Having been turned out of her position, if I don’t miss my guess, for pinching the silver, or was it the brandy, my girl.”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Farraday,” I said.

“And you’re looking
at
her, too,” was her response.

I drew the letter from my sleeve, my fingers trembling so it was all I could do to unfasten the buttons, and as I did I explained myself, wanting only for this business to be concluded and myself far away. “I’ve a letter from Dr. Jekyll,” I said. “He has bidden me deliver it to you and wait on your answer, which you may give me direct without writing,” and I pulled the letter
out. Before I could hand it to her she had snatched it from my fingers, breaking the seal eagerly. “Harry Jekyll,” she said, “and what does he want with Mrs. Farraday today?” She withdrew the page from the envelope, extracting two bank notes and slipping them into the front of her dress so quick and nimble I couldn’t make out their amounts, then stood perusing the letter with her eyebrows raised and a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. It shocked me to hear Master referred to so familiar, and I had such a feeling of revulsion for her that I drew back a little on my step and tried to occupy my thoughts with the wonder of such a woman being able to read.

“I thought it would come to something like this,” she said at length, looking me up and down as if she thought I must be an accomplice.

“I’m afraid I know nothing of it,” I said.

“Count yourself lucky, then, my girl,” she replied. “I wish I knew nothing of such a one as is here sent to me.”

I was silent and she continued her perusal of the letter, hissing over it like some snake who has come upon a mouse, and darting quick, glittering looks at me over the top of the page. “These terms is acceptable,” she said. “I’ll say that for Harry Jekyll, he knows the price o’ things.”

“Then your answer is yes,” was all I said.

She folded up the paper, stuffed it back in the envelope and sent it to lie with the bank notes in her bosom, all the while smiling at me in such a hateful,
confident way as made me shrink inside my clothes. I had a dread that she was about to touch me.

“Oh, you look innocent enough,” she said. “And you’re very cool, aren’t you. Proud too, I’ll wager, but time will take care of that.”

I said nothing, but I met her insulting eyes with my own and poured out through them such feelings as seemed fairly to sober her, for she lost interest in baiting me and said, “Tell your master it will take me a week to clear everyone out. I can’t turn out such as have already paid. Then another week to make the”—she paused over the word—“alterations he wants.”

“Very well,” I said, feeling so mystified at her response that I stood a moment turning it over in my mind. “I’ll tell him your answer is yes, in two weeks’ time.”

“You may tell him whatever you want,” she said. “And give him Mrs. Farraday’s compliments for choosing such a milk-faced, lying little la-di-dah for a messenger, and tell him next time he has business with me, he’d best come on it himself. I think he’s not above it,” and with that she closed the door hard in my face, leaving me feeling a gush of relief, for I thought now that was over and I might spend the rest of my life without standing again in such a doorway with such a woman. I turned away and hurried down the busy street, looking neither right nor left but straight ahead, only wanting to be home in my quiet room where I might best mull over what could possibly be the meaning of this unhappy business.

T
his morning I was up early—indeed I slept poorly all night, doubtless from the weight of guilt I feel about my errand yesterday, though it does seem it isn’t my own, but rather Master’s, as doing his bidding is only my duty. Still it
was
my half-day and I’d a perfect right to refuse, though such a course never come to me for a moment until after the whole thing was concluded. I dressed and went down to the kitchen, hoping to be at my work before Cook come in, but of course she was there and would ask at once how my day had gone and if I’d found the cloth for my cloak, so I had to sit over my tea and lie about going to this store or that, but nothing would do. Lying does not come easy to me, nor do I do it well. I thought Cook looked at me close, and felt myself blushing with confusion. Then Mr. Poole come in and said Master had been in his laboratory the entire night and had just come in and wanted his breakfast and fire and then to be left alone, as he intended to sleep until noon, he was that done in. Cook turned to her pans and I put on my bonnet and apron, feeling grateful to have the opportunity to deliver my message so early in the day. Mr. Bradshaw came in and he and Mr. Poole sat down at the table to wait on their own breakfast. “I’ll do the fire now,” I said and went off feeling disapproval in the air, though this was likely my own imagining as there was nothing uncommon in my actions.

I went up the stairs and knocked at Master’s door.
He called out to me, I went in and found him, as I expected, lying on his bed in his dressing gown. “I’ve come to do your fire,” I said, and he only responded, “Yes, good,” so I went straight to work, hardly having looked at him. My heart was pounding, as if I had something to fear, and I went over and over sentences that would be the answers to his questions, how I had fared on his errand, what Mrs. Farraday had said, sentences that would tell him how distrustful and sad I felt so that he would explain to me the meaning of it all and set my mind at rest.

When I stood up and turned to him I saw he was lying back on his pillows with his eyes closed, looking for all the world like a corpse, pale and drawn about the temples. My heart sank, for I knew I couldn’t speak and I stood near the foot of the bed gazing at him stupidly.

His eyelids flickered, he saw that I was there, but he seemed too weak to take me in, so he closed them again, turning his head a little away from me. I thought I should have to go away and speak to him at some later time, but just as I was making up my mind to go out he spoke, still without looking at me. “Were you able to deliver my letter for me, Mary?” he said.

“I did, sir,” I said.

“And the answer?”