Chapter XXVII: The Old Chest of Drawers

“Mary Nicholson!”

Mrs. Nicholson came out of her little bedroom, looking very much frightened. “Did you speak to me, Mrs. Frost?”

The old lady did not answer promptly, for she was busy counting some change in the palm of her hand with great eagerness, as the increased vibrations of her head testified.

“Ten, eleven, twelve—one shilling—three cents. Why, Mary Nicholson! Mary Nicholson! what does this mean! You’ve tampered with the change. I’ve suspected it for some time, now it’s clear. Mary Nicholson, what have you done with three cents that ought to be here and isn’t?”

“Three cents!” faltered Mrs. Nicholson. “It’s there, I—I’m sure. It’s all right, ma’am.”

Again the old woman counted the money in her hand, nodding, nodding, nodding over it with terrible eagerness.

“No, Mary Nicholson, it isn’t right. I sent you to market, believing that you could be trusted with untold gold. I gave you twenty-five cents to buy marketing with: according to orders you bring half a pound of liver, with a trifle thrown in for the cat, which I’m sure the man ought to give, considering he has all our custom; now the liver cost just five cents; there was a cent’s worth of parsley, and—and——”

“Horseradish, ma’am; you forgot the horseradish!”

“Horseradish, one cent.”

“Two!” said Mrs. Nicholson, desperately, “two!”

“No, one. I say one cent for horseradish; one for parsley; five for liver—seven in all. Now, Mary Nicholson, don’t be afraid; I don’t mean to go to the extremity of the law with you; I’m willing to consider your youth and inexperience, but where are those three cents?”

Mrs. Nicholson was about to speak, and, we grieve to say, about to insist on the horseradish, but Mrs. Frost went off like a pendulum, and began nodding so vehemently that the culprit broke down, and penitently confessed that she had spent three cents for a little bunch of garden flowers to put in Mr. Hurst’s room: she thought perhaps they might entice him to come home earlier.

Mrs. Frost reached forth her hand and took her staff from the corner. It was impossible to support the weight of her indignation without help.

“And you have done this—you spend my money to entice young men into noticing you! Mary Nicholson! Mary Nicholson! flighty as you are, I wouldn’t have believed this of you. It goes beyond any thing. But this isn’t the first time: it’s three weeks since I saw you take that wineglass with the gold-sprig on it out of the cupboard. I suppose you’ve been robbing me and buying flowers ever since.”

“No, ma’am, no. I changed the water twice a day and cut off the stems to freshen ’em: one little bunch lasted two days, sometimes three.”

“Three times seven are twenty-one—say once in three days: I don’t want to be too severe on you, Mary Nicholson; but I say once in three days; the third of three weeks is seven, and three times seven are twenty-one. Look, Mary Nicholson, if your flighty young mind can be brought to reflect—see of how much you have robbed me in three weeks; twenty-one cents. Why, that ought to buy our marketing three days. What can I do about it? if you had any wages I’d stop it out of them.”

“But I haven’t, or you might and welcome,” said Mrs. Nicholson, despondingly.

“No, there’s the trouble. What am I to demand, then? You haven’t got but that one dress that I know of.”

“No, I haven’t had a change this ten months. Don’t you remember scolding about the noise I made washing it out after you went to bed?”

“Remember! I should think so: always at some flighty thing or another. But there’s your shawl—but I haven’t seen it this ever so long—that is, perhaps, worth the money you have stolen.”

“Stolen! I didn’t think of stealing. It’s a hard word to give to a women of my age, and I won’t bear it from you or anybody else.”

“Hoity, toity! so the young blood’s up when one mentions a bit of finery; rather go to prison than part with that, I suppose. Very well.”

“I—I haven’t got the shawl, or you might take it and welcome,” said the poor old lady, trembling at the name of a prison.

“Haven’t got the shawl?” cried Mrs. Frost, and her head took a new leave of motion. “Not got your shawl?”

“No, it was getting warm weather, so I put it in pawn.”

“Put it in pawn! What, a respectable member of my family running about and pawning things! But what did you do with the money?”

“You can have the ticket if you like,” cried the poor creature, making a desperate effort to evade the question, “it’s good security.”

“But what did you do with the money? I want to know that, Mary Nicholson!”

“I—I bought a—a strip of carpeting.”

“Carpeting for what?”

“To put down before Mr. Hurst’s bed. He’s so delicate, you know, and I was sure the floor would be cold for his bare feet when he got up in the morning.”

Mrs. Frost sat down, bowed both hands on the top of her cane, and laughed till you could see the single tooth in her under-jaw, like a stump in a ploughed field.

“Mary Nicholson, I believe you’re nothing worse than a fool all the time. Now just bring that strip of carpeting down and put it before my bed, and I’ll overlook this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Nicholson, meekly, “I’ll go at once.”

She came down directly with a strip of bright new carpeting in her hand, submissive, but with tears in her eyes.

Mrs. Frost carried the fragment into her own bedroom, and spread it upon the faded carpet there, chuckling over her triumph. Then she came back to the sitting-room, planted the staff before her, and gave the poor culprit, who sat crying in a corner, the sediments of her wrath.

“Now, Mary Nicholson, I’ve got one thing to tell you. If I catch you setting your cap for Michael again in this scandalous way, trying to delude him with flower traps and carpet traps, I won’t answer for what I will do. I’d send you adrift this minute, but that I’m sure you’d get into mischief without me to take care of you. But, remember, if I forgive this, it’s out of pure kindness.”

“I know it is, and I’m grateful—only somehow my wicked heart won’t feel kindness as it ought to. But one thing is certain, Mrs. Frost, if I did get these things for Mr. Hurst, it wasn’t with any idea but of making him a little comfortable—I’m an old woman, you know, upward of seventy.”

Here Mrs. Frost broke into a fit of sudden indignation, which set her head off in an effort at perpetual motion again with a vengeance.

“An old woman, and only seventy! What do you mean by that, you affected thing? I’m above ninety and not old yet, and shan’t be these fifteen years to come. Do you mean to insult me by calling yourself old?”

“No, I didn’t think of you—only of myself. It seems to me as if I wasn’t so young as I was, especially on washing-days, and when there is a good deal of going up and down stairs to do. But maybe it’s only a fancy. I won’t mention the thing again if you don’t like it.”

“Well, I don’t, so there’s an end on’t. Now go down and cook the liver, and don’t forget the cat; you’ve neglected her since Michael came home. There he is now, going up-stairs: run and see what he wants.”

Mrs. Nicholson went up-stairs with a sinking heart. She dreaded that Hurst would miss the carpet and question her about it; almost hoped that he might see her flowers and forget the rest.

But Hurst passed by the glass full of humble blossoms without a glance, and tramped over the naked floor with equal indifference. His face was white with internal rage, his eyes smouldering over some evil purpose. They flashed eagerly when Mrs. Nicholson came in. He turned from an old “chest of drawers,” before which he was standing, and demanded of her, in a hoarse whisper, if she had any knowledge where the keys of that old rattle-trap were kept.

Yes, Mrs. Nicholson knew where the keys were kept, for they had grown rusty since she came to the house in an old-fashioned jar which stood on the sitting-room mantle-piece, but for the world she would not touch them. Besides, there was nothing in the “chest of drawers” but the minister’s old papers—she had heard Mrs. Frost say so a thousand times.

“Oh, is that all?” said Hurst, turning away; “not worth thinking about. I thought all the old papers were kept in the open garret. What is the use of lumbering up this room with them?”

“Oh, don’t speak a word about it to Mrs. Frost, I beg of you; she’s like a child when any one mentions the minister. I don’t suppose she ever really loved any thing else in her life. It is quite heart-breaking to hear her talk of him sometimes. If he’d lived, maybe her old age would have been pleasanter to herself and everybody else.”

“Heaven knows it’s crabbed enough now!” said Hurst, rudely. “I wonder she has not starved you into the grave long ago; but you are a fool to let her: she’s got hoards of money somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

“No, no. I don’t believe it, for she told me once that if it hadn’t been for a sum of money placed out at interest by some one who had been under great obligations to her husband, she would have been left with nothing but the house to support herself with. I don’t think she really can afford to live better than we do.”

Here a quivering scream from the stairs made the gossiping old woman start for the door.

“Mary Nicholson! I say, Mary Nicholson, what keeps you talking so long? Don’t you know it’s almost dinner time?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m coming right off,” and away she hurried, while Mrs. Frost again called out,

“Michael! was it you that came in, Michael?”

“Yes, grandmother,” said the young man, appearing at the top of the stairs. “I thought you did not look quite well this morning, and so came in to inquire about you. Mrs. Nicholson says you are better, so I will come down and have a little chat with you before dinner.”

The old woman smiled grimly and turned into her little parlor, looking back to see if Hurst was following.

He came down directly, with a smile on his mouth, but the same smouldering look about the eyes. The old lady was in her easy-chair near the fire-place; and he stood by her, leaning one elbow on the mantle-piece, on which stood the old china jar mentioned by Mrs. Nicholson. A slight noise disturbed the old lady.

“Take care, you will knock off my china jar with your arm,” she said. “I heard the buttons on your sleeves jingle against it. Do come away. That jar was his first present. I can’t bear any one to touch it.”

“It’s nothing,” he answered, promptly, dropping one hand softly to his pocket, as he sauntered round her chair to the other side of the hearth. “I only like to get near you, grandmother, especially when anxious about your health.”

“My health! why I’m well enough,” cried the old woman, testily. “What on earth has set you thinking about my health, Michael?”

“Oh, you are getting ill-tempered with me now, and all because love makes me over anxious. I will go away.”

“No, no, Michael.”

“Yes, if my over-anxiety offends you, it is better that I should go.”

“But you will be home this evening?”

“Of course, but not to intrude on you. Unless you come to my room I shall not think myself wanted.”

“Why, Michael, you know well enough I cannot go up and down stairs like a girl. It’s five years since I’ve been up those stairs.”

“Indeed, I did not know that. Well, I will come back early and read to you a while.”

When the old woman turned her head to express the pleasure she felt, Hurst was gone.

The young man kept his word. Early in the evening he came in and read to the old woman till she grew sleepy and went to her room. It was yet very early in the evening, and Mrs. Nicholson seemed disposed to have a little social chat, but a peremptory voice from within ordered her to bed, and she went off reluctantly; while Hurst went to the outer door and placed it ajar, in case he should wish to go out again in the night, no unusual thing with him.

Then he mounted the stairs and went to his own chamber, secure of being uninterrupted.

With a light in his hand, he tried the keys which he took from his pocket in the locks of the old chest of drawers, and with difficulty shot the rusty bolts. A mass of papers met his search, nicely arranged and most of them labelled. These he turned over eagerly till he came to a parcel of letters folded up more carefully than the others, which he sat down to read.

It was impossible to guess what those letters contained by the man’s face, which was clouded when he sat down, fierce when he got up. He twisted the black ribbon which had bound the package around it again, and thrust the letters in his bosom. Then he hurriedly tossed over the contents of one of the drawers, as if searching for something which he had cast aside; and after a little, he found a parcel of printed blanks yellow from age, which he secured together with a package of letters which the good clergyman had written to his wife.

With these he sat down at a table, studied the letters and blanks closely, and began to write.