The Opal Serpent Part 48

A CRUEL WOMAN

"Jus' say your meanin', my pretty queen," said Mrs. Tawsey, as she stood at the sitting-room door, and watched Sylvia reading an ill-written letter. "It's twelve now, and I kin be back by five, arter a long, and enjiable tork with Matilder."

"You certainly must go," replied Sylvia, handing back the letter. "I am sure your sister will be glad to see you, Debby."

Deborah sniffed and scratched her elbow. "Relatives ain't friends in our family," she said, shaking her head, "whatever you may say, my deary-sweet. Father knocked mother int' lunatics arter she'd nagged 'im to drunk an' police-cells. Three brothers I 'ad, and all of 'em that 'andy with their fistises as they couldn't a-bear to live in 'armony without black eyes and swolled b.u.mps all over them. As to Matilder, she an' me never did, what you might call, hit it orf, by reason of 'er not givin' way to me, as she should ha' done, me bein' the youngest and what you might call the baby of the lot. We ain't seen each other fur years, and the meetin' will be cold. She'll not have much forgiveness fur me bein' a bride, when she's but a lone cross-patch, drat her."

"Don't quarrel with her, Debby. She has written you a very nice letter, asking you to go down to Mrs. Krill's house in Kensington, and she really wants to see you before she goes back to Christchurch to-night."

"Well, I'll go," said Deborah, suddenly; "but I don't like leavin' you all by your own very self, my sunflower."

"I'll be all right, Debby. Paul comes at four o'clock, and you'll be back at five."

"Sooner, if me an' Matilder don't hit if orf, or if we hit each other, which, knowin' 'er 'abits, I do expects. But Bart's out till six, and there won't be anyone to look arter them as washes--four of 'em," added Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose, "and as idle as porkpines."

"Mrs. Purr can look after them."

"Look arter gin more like," said Deborah, contemptuously. "She's allays suckin', sly-like, tryin' to purtend as it's water, as if the smell didn't give it away, whatever the color may be. An' here she is, idling as usual. An' may I arsk, Mrs. Purr ma'am," demanded Deborah with great politeness, "wot I pays you fur in the way of ironin'?"

But Mrs. Purr was too excited to reply. She brushed past her indignant mistress and faced Sylvia, waving a dirty piece of paper. "Lor', miss,"

she almost screamed, "you do say as you want t'know where that limb Tray 'ave got to--"

"Yes--yes," said Sylvia, rising, "he escaped from Mr. Hurd, and we want to find him very much."

"It's a letter from 'im," said Mrs. Purr, thrusting the paper into Sylvia's hand; "tho' 'ow he writes, not 'avin' bin to a board school, I dunno. He's in a ken at Lambith, and ill at that. Want's me t'go an' see 'im. But I can't leave the ironin'."

"Yuss y' can," said Deborah, suddenly; "this erringd is ness'ary, Mrs.

Purr ma'am, so jes' put on your bunnet, an' go to Mr. Hurd as 'as 'is orfice at Scotlan' Yard, and take 'im with you."

"Oh! but I couldn't--"

"You go," advised Mrs. Tawsey. "There's five pounds offered for the brat's bein' found."

"Five pun!" gasped Mrs. Purr, trembling. "Lor', and me 'avin' a chanct of gittin' it. I'll go--I'll go. I knows the Yard, 'avin' 'ad summat to do with them dirty perlice in my time. Miss Sylvia--"

"Yes, go, Mrs. Purr, and see Mr. Hurd. He'll give you the five pounds if you take him to Tray." Sylvia handed back the paper. "Tray seems to be ill."

"Ill or well, he sha'n't lose me five pun, if I 'ave to drag 'im to the lock-up m'self," said Mrs. Purr, resolutely. "Where's my bunnet--my shawl--oh lor'--five pun! Them is as good allays gits rewards," and she hurried out, hardly able to walk for excitement.

"There's a nice ole party fur you, Miss Sylvia?"

"Debby," said the girl, thoughtfully. "You take her to the Yard to see Mr. Hurd, and then go to Kensington to speak with your sister."

"Well, I'll go, as importance it is," said Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose harder than ever. "But I 'opes you won't be lone, my poppet-dovey."

"Oh, no," said Sylvia, kissing her, and pus.h.i.+ng her towards the door.

"I'll look after those four women in the wash-house, and read this new book I have. Then I must get tea ready for Paul, who comes at four. The afternoon will pa.s.s quite quickly."

"I'll be back at five if I can, and earlier if Matilder ain't what she oughter be," said Mrs. Tawsey, yielding. "So make yourself 'appy, honey, till you sees me smilin' again."

In another quarter of an hour Mrs. Tawsey, dressed in her bridal gown and bonnet so as to crush Matilda with the sight of her splendor, walked down the garden path attended by Mrs. Purr in a snuffy black shawl, and a kind of cobweb on her head which she called a "bunnet." As Deborah was tall and in white and Mrs. Purr small and in black, they looked a strange pair. Sylvia waved her hand out of the window to Debby, as that faithful creature turned her head for a final look at the young mistress she idolized. The large, rough woman was dog-like in her fidelity.

Sylvia, left alone, proceeded to arrange matters. She went to the wash-house, which was detached from the cottage, and saw that the four women, who worked under Deborah, were busy. She found them all chattering and was.h.i.+ng in a cheerful way, so, after a word or two of commendation, she returned to the sitting-room. Here she played a game of patience, arranged the tea-things although it was yet early, and finally settled down to one of Mrs. Henry Wood's interesting novels. She was quite alone and enjoyed the solitude. The wash-house was so far away, at the end of the yard, that the loud voices of the workers could not be heard. The road before Rose Cottage was not a popular thoroughfare, and it was rarely that anyone pa.s.sed. Out of the window Sylvia could see a line of raw, red-brick villas, and sometimes a spurt of steam, denoting the presence of the railway station. Also, she saw the green fields and the sere hedges with the red berries, giving promise of a hard winter. The day was sunny but cold, and there was a feeling of autumnal dampness in the air. Deborah had lighted a fire before she went, that her mistress might be comfortable, so Sylvia sat down before this and read for an hour, frequently stopping to think of Paul, and wonder if he would come at the appointed hour of four or earlier. What with the warmth, and the reading, and the dreaming, she fell into a kind of doze, from which she was awakened by a sharp and peremptory knock. Wondering if her lover had unexpectedly arrived, though she did not think he would rap in so decided a manner, Sylvia rubbed the sleep out of her pretty eyes and hurried to the door. On the step she came face to face with Miss Maud Krill.

"Do you know me, Miss Norman?" asked Maud, who was smiling and suave, though rather white in the face.

"Yes. You came with your mother to Gwynne Street," replied Sylvia, wondering why she had been honored with a visit.

"Quite so. May I have a few minutes' conversation with you?"

"Certainly." Sylvia saw no reason to deny this request, although she did not like Miss Krill. But it struck her that something might be learned from that young woman relative to the murder, and thought she would have something to tell Paul about when he arrived. "Will you walk in, please," and she threw open the sitting-room door.

"Are you quite alone?" asked Maud, entering, and seating herself in the chair near the fire.

"Quite," answered Sylvia, stiffly, and wondering why the question was asked; "that is, the four washerwomen are in the place at the back. But Mrs. Tawsey went to your house to see her sister."

"She arrived before I left," said Maud, coolly. "I saw them quarrelling in a most friendly way. Where is Mr. Beecot?"

"I expect him later."

"And Bart Tawsey who married your nurse?"

"He is absent on his rounds. May I ask why you question me in this way, Miss Krill?" asked Sylvia, coldly.

"Because I have much to say to you which no one else must hear," was the calm reply. "Dear me, how hot this fire is!" and she moved her chair so that it blocked Sylvia's way to the door. Also, Miss Krill cast a glance at the window. It was not snibbed, and she made a movement as if to go to it; but, restraining herself, she turned her calm, cold face to the girl. "I have much to say to you," she repeated.

"Indeed," replied Sylvia, politely, "I don't think you have treated me so well that you should trouble to converse with me. Will you please to be brief. Mr. Beecot is coming at four, and he will not be at all pleased to see you."

Maud glanced at the clock. "We have an hour," she said coldly; "it is just a few minutes after three. My business will not take long," she added, with an unpleasant smile.

"What is your business?" asked Sylvia, uneasily, for she did not like the smile.

"If you will sit down, I'll tell you."

Miss Norman took a chair near the wall, and as far from her visitor as was possible in so small a room. Maud took from her neck a black silk handkerchief which she wore, evidently as a protection against the cold, and folding it lengthways, laid it across her lap. Then she looked at Sylvia, in a cold, critical way. "You are very pretty, my dear," she said insolently.

"Did you come to tell me that?" asked the girl, firing up at the tone.

"No. I came to tell you that my mother was arrested last night for the murder of _our_ father."

"Oh," Sylvia gasped and lay back on her chair, "she killed him, that cruel woman."

"She did not," cried Maud, pa.s.sionately, "my mother is perfectly innocent. That blackguard Hurd arrested her wrongfully. I overheard all the conversation he had with her, and know that he told a pack of lies.

My mother did _not_ kill our father."

"My father, not yours," said Sylvia, firmly.

"How dare you. Lemuel Krill was my father."