lies.”
She turned to the old woman, in her voice something of pride and joyous satisfaction.
“You hear, Mother—this cock-and-bull story?”
When they were near the end of the bed Helen blushed and turned away from them. And now and again she wanted to shout “I tore it, I tore it,” and she fancied she had said it and seen their faces, just as sometimes in bed she dreamed she had got up and dressed. But as the evening wore on she grew quite careless—glad only of one thing—people had to go to sleep at night. Viciously she stared at the sun shining through the window space and making a pattern of the curtain on the bare nursery floor. And then she looked at Rose, painting a text at the nursery table with a whole egg cup full of water to herself...
Henry visited their bedroom the last thing. She heard him come creaking into their room and hid under the bedclothes. But Rose betrayed her.
“Helen’s not asleep,” piped Rose.
Henry sat by the bedside pulling his moustache.
“If it were not Sunday, Helen, I would whip you. As it is, and I must be at the office early to-morrow, I shall give you a sound smacking after tea in the evening...Do you hear me?”
She grunted.
“You love your father and mother, don’t you?”
No answer.
Rose gave Helen a dig with her foot.
“Well,” said Henry, sighing deeply, “I suppose you love Jesus?”
“Rose has scratched my leg with her toe nail,” answered Helen.
Henry strode out of the room and flung himself on to his own bed, with his outdoor boots on the starched bolster, Anne noticed, but he was too overcome for her to venture a protest. The old woman was in the bedroom too, idly combing the hairs from Anne’s brush. Henry told them the story, and was gratified to observe Anne’s tears.
“It is Rose’s turn for her toe-nails after the bath next Saturday,” commented the old woman.
In the middle of the night Henry dug his elbow into Mrs. Carsfield.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Malcolm’s at the bottom of this.”
“No...how...why...where...bottom of what?”
“Those damned green dresses.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” she managed to articulate, thinking, “imagine his rage if I woke him up to tell him an idiotic thing like that!”
“Is Mrs. Carsfield at home,” asked Doctor Malcolm.
“No, sir, she’s out visiting,” answered the servant girl.
“Is Mr. Carsfield anywhere about?”
“Oh, no, sir, he’s never home midday.”
“Show me into the drawing-room.”
The servant girl opened the drawing-room door, cocked her eye at the doctor’s bag. She wished he would leave it in the hall—even if she could only feel the outside without opening it...But the doctor kept it in his hand.
The old woman sat in the drawing-room, a roll of knitting on her lap. Her head had fallen back—her mouth was open—she was asleep and quietly snoring. She started up at the sound of the doctor’s footsteps and straightened her cap.
“Oh, Doctor—you did, take me by surprise. I was dreaming that Henry had bought Anne five little canaries. Please sit down!”
“No, thanks. I just popped in on the chance of catching you alone...You see this bag?”
The old woman nodded.
“Now, are you any good at opening bags?”
“Well, my husband was a great traveller and once I spent a whole night in a railway train.”
“Well, have a go at opening this one.”
The old woman knelt on the floor—her fingers trembled.
“There’s nothing startling inside?” she asked.
“Well, it won’t bite exactly,” said Doctor Malcolm.
The catch sprang open—the bag yawned like a toothless mouth, and she saw, folded in its depths—green cashmere—with narrow lace on the neck and sleeves.
“Fancy that!” said the old woman mildly.
“May I take it out, Doctor?” She professed neither astonishment nor pleasure—and Malcolm felt disappointed.
“Helen’s dress,” he said, and bending towards her, raised his voice. “That young spark’s Sunday rig-out.”
“I’m not deaf, Doctor,” answered the old woman. “Yes, I thought it looked like it. I told Anne only this morning it was bound to turn up somewhere.” She shook the crumpled frock, and looked it over. “Things always do if you give them time; I’ve noticed that so often—it’s such a blessing.”
“You know Lindsay—the postman? Gastric ulcers—called there this morning...Saw this brought in by Lena, who’d got it from Helen on her way to school. Said the kid fished it out of her satchel rolled in a pinafore, and said her mother had told her to give it away because it did not fit her. When I saw the tear I understood yesterday’s ‘new leaf,’ as Mrs. Carsfield put it. Was up to the dodge in a jiffy. Got the dress—bought some stuff at Clayton’s and made my sister Bertha sew it while I had dinner. I knew what would be happening this end of the line—and I knew you’d see Helen through for the sake of getting one in at Henry.”
“How thoughtful of you, Doctor!” said the old woman. “I’ll tell Anne I found it under my dolman.”
“Yes, that’s your ticket,” said Doctor Malcolm.
“But of course Helen would have forgotten the whipping by to-morrow morning, and I’d promised her a new doll...” The old woman spoke regretfully.
Doctor Malcolm snapped his bag together.
“It’s no good talking to the old bird,” he thought, “she doesn’t take in half I say. Don’t seem to have got any forrader than doing Helen out of a doll.”
(1910)
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