Mary Reilly

by Valerie Martin

  I tapped at the door with my foot, as my hands was not free, and Master called out, “Come in,” so I pushed the door open feeling now everything is right again.

  Master was sunk in his pillows but his eyes was open and he smiled at me saying, “Ah, Mary. Here you are.” I brought the tray around the bed and set it across him while he helped a bit, pulling himself up and setting the legs in place so it would be steady. “I’m so cold,” he said. “Please bring me the lap robe.”

  It was a wonder to me for the room was that close I felt I could scarce find my breath, but I did as Master bid me and slipped the blanket up under the tray so that he was covered down to his feet. He watched me, seeming dazed. “Should you be doing something for your poor ankle, sir?” I said, for I was arranging the blanket so that it would not rest too heavily on his foot. “Perhaps a soak in hot water?”

  “No, Mary,” he said, so weak-sounding that I looked up to see he’d dropped his head back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

  “Should I pour your tea, sir?” I said.

  “Please,” was all he said and that without opening his eyes.

  It was awkward to bend over him and pour the tea but I did it, then stood back for him to take up the cup. He looked at me as if he understood what to do but could not do it. “My hands,” he said.

  “What is it, sir?” I said. “What am I to do?” He lifted one hand to me, speaking all the while. “I’ve no feeling in my hands, Mary. They are so cold.” So I took his hand in my own and felt a shudder, for it was like taking up a block of ice. “Lord, sir,” I said, and chafed his hand in my own as best I could. I did one, then the other, and he seemed to revive a little. “We must get some heat into you,” I said. Master raised himself on the pillow then and I brought the teacup to his lips. He took a swallow, then another. “Very good,” he said. “This is what I need.”

  So I got one cup of tea down him, then I broke up the toast and stirred it into the eggs and fed him a bit of that. I told him to put his hands around the teapot, which he did, getting warmth from that, and I spooned some of the hot broth up for him as well. He took everything very grateful and seemed to want to do as I said. After a bit he took the spoon from me and finished up the broth, while I stood by waiting to see what I could do. He was slow, moving most careful as if it hurt him to lift the spoon, and he did not speak except to sigh as he set the spoon on the tray and said, “That’s enough.”

  “Won’t you try your strawberries, sir?” I said. “Cook said they was your favourites.”

  “No,” he said. “Ask her to save them for me. I have one matter to finish and then I must sleep.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and took up the tray.

  “When you’re done with that, Mary,” he said, “I want you to bring me my cheque-book from the drawing room. I believe I may have left it out on the desk.”

  This gave me a jolt, as if Master’s cold hand had closed around my heart, but I didn’t let it show on my face. I said, “I found it out when I went in this morning, sir, so I put it away.” Then I felt we was both of us thinking that we both knew he hadn’t left the book out, as he wasn’t in the house to do it. So he seemed to me a little nervous when he said, “Yes, well bring it here, as I can’t go there. I believe I made an entry that is not complete.”

  I felt a great confusion, as a buzzing in my head, and I knew part of it was sadness that Master should lie to me and I to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say I had gone down in the night. So I stood holding the tray, frozen there, and I looked at Master with all my feelings in my face. His eyes met mine, but only an instant, for the lie stood between us and he could not look at me. I turned away and took the tray down to the kitchen where Cook poked into each dish to see what was eaten. “He’s so weak I had to feed him with a spoon,” I said, and Cook shook her head over it all, saying, “This is the worst he has ever been.”

  I went to the drawing room, took out the cheque-book and filled the pen. There was the ink spot on the blotter to remind me that I had not been dreaming; it was not Master who used this book last. But, I thought, Mr. Edward Hyde might write as much as he liked, Master’s cheque was no good without his signature, so perhaps that was what Master meant when he said he’d made an entry that was not complete. It made my hands tremble; I longed to open the book and see for myself what was there, but I hadn’t the nerve. I could have done it last night, but then I hadn’t the wits.

  A sound at the window startled me—a pigeon, I saw at once, flying up to the eaves. Then I felt a movement behind and turned to see it was my own reflection in the bull’s-eye glass over the desk. “You’re as nervous as a cat,” I said to myself. It seemed the room glowered and listened to me, and that a shadow was over everything so I could not see. The big vase of roses, the little statue of a man holding up a ball, the green-and-gold angel in the fanlight over the window, all the things I usually find so friendly and comforting seemed to brood upon me and wish me ill. I hurried away, clutching the leather book that, I told myself, was really none of my concern, and ran up the stairs to Master’s room. I tapped at the door, received no answer and pushed it open slowly, for Master had bid me come back, to find him—asleep. He lay flat on his back with his hands folded over the lap robe, his bare feet sticking out at the end. I crept in a little, not certain what to do, but then, as I could see he was sleeping very sound and it would be a pity to wake him, I made up my mind to cross the carpet quietly and leave the book on his bedside table where he would find it when he awoke.

  So I did and could not leave without taking a long look at my sleeping Master, for he was much altered and in such a way as to touch my heart. His mouth was open, and though he did not snore, his breath seemed to come and go with a catch at the throat. Awake, Master’s face is filled with intelligence and kindness, but asleep he seemed to me melancholy, his brow furrowed with some private worry, though perhaps this was only my fancy. It shocked me to see too that he looks old, though the bones in his face are so sharp and elegant, age only makes him the more distinguished and respectable-looking. One lock of silver hair had strayed over his brow and it was all I could do to keep from pushing it back, wanting to arrange him, I thought, as if he was dead.

  Then, at the thought of Master gone forever, my heart grew heavy and I turned away. If he keeps on as he has, I thought, that day may come too soon for me to bear.

  Master is on his feet but it has been a struggle for us all. For a few days he was too sick to do much but sleep, then for another day he was patient, for he knows as well as any the danger of thinking he must be well because he has tired of being ill. Cook and I kept ourselves busy thinking of ways to make him feel he has no need to be up and about, Cook sending up little dishes to eat at all hours to tempt his appetite, and indeed she had great success, for even in his blackest mood Master brightens at a custard or a plate of toast with marmalade, and I by changing things about in his room, bringing fresh flowers, some coming from our own garden, trying to keep the room aired (though Master do have a horror of an open window and a cold grate) and running about the house for books, papers or journals. Mr. Bradshaw, who is so clever with things, come up with a way to adjust Master’s bed tray so that it tilts and makes a writing table, which pleased Master, for he has a great correspondence, fallen behind of late, and so he could attend to his good works without leaving his bed.

  But of course after a week his patience was worn thin and he would be up hobbling about, though mindful of his ankle this time so he would ring or call out to be helped up and down the stairs. He received a few guests, Mr. Utterson and Mr. Littleton, who only makes Master angry so I do not like to see him come in, and Mr. Zeal, his wine merchant, who makes Mr. Bradshaw amused by his name and manner, which he says is all one, and so we mun hear about the zeal of Mr. Zeal and how all his customers has zeal for Mr. Zeal, which makes poor Annie laugh until she is near sick. Then Master spent two long days and into the nights in his library, trimming the lamps down to nothing, and I kn
ew that he would soon be back in his laboratory. His ankle at least is healed and he seems to walk upon it with ease and there is some colour to his face. This morning, just as I expected, he took his breakfast early in the library and by ten, as I was hanging out the table linen in the yard, I saw him come out the kitchen door and stroll across to his laboratory, looking cheerful, for it was a gorgeous morning, with a nip of autumn in the air but the sun pouring down from a blue sky, such a day as we rarely see, which was why I had done as much washing as I could find. He stopped at our garden and looked over it smiling. Then I came out from behind a cloth and wished him a good morning. He greeted me, saying it was a fine morning and what a wonder our garden was to see on such a day and how it had altered the whole aspect of the yard, which had once been so dingy he would never have thought to pause in it.

  I thanked him, thinking he would go on, but he bid me come and talk to him on the subject of our plants. I left my cloth in the basket and crossed over to stand beside him. “I don’t know the names of all these flowers,” he said, “though I know that is digitalis, for its use as a medicine.” He pointed to the foxglove, which is the tallest of our plants.

  “I only know the common names, sir,” I said. “That’s foxglove to me. And lavender next it. In that circle is lovage, and those tall pink ones is angelica.”

  “You have laid it all out so pleasantly,” he said.

  “That was Cook’s doing, sir,” I said. “I only followed her instructions. She planned it after a garden she saw in H____________”

  “Ah, she could plan it, Mary,” Master said. “But she could not have planted it without you. The energy is yours and we all profit by it.”

  I could think of no response as Master’s compliments do always make me come over so shy, and also it is not my place ever to contradict him in this or any matter, so I stood silent looking at the garden and I felt a swelling of pride, for it is truly a pleasure to the eyes and nose of anyone as passes. But when I looked up at Master, I saw his thoughts was already somewhere else, for he was gazing at the door of his laboratory with a look almost of worry, so I thought he has some problem not yet solved and has only stopped at the garden for a distraction. And indeed one hand had already strayed to his pocket for the key, which he drew out and looked upon as if it was a surprise to him to find it there. So I looked on it too and without thinking I made a sound of impatience, just a rush of air through my nose, but in the quiet it seemed very loud, as if I had spoken’ my feelings about where that key must take him.

  “No, Mary,” Master said. “My work doesn’t have such pleasing results as yours. It may finally be of benefit to no one. It may only make the world more strange than it is already, and more frightening to those who haven’t the courage to know the worst.”

  Still I did not speak, for I could hardly understand what Master might mean, so, as is my habit, I was trying to memorize it to put down later and I think I have got it as he said it. Then he said, “Yet I must do it,” closed his fingers over the key, crossed the yard to the theatre and in a moment he had disappeared inside.

  Mr. Poole has seen him.

  I went to K____________ to get a fish for Cook this afternoon and while I was out he came to the front door. He addressed Mr. Poole very bold and when he was told that Master was not to home, he said he knew it because Master had sent him to the house on purpose to take a book from the library.

  Now this made no sense to Mr. Poole, nor does it to me, for Master was at work in his laboratory and if he wanted a book, why wouldn’t he have sent his assistant across the yard to the kitchen door? But Mr. Poole said later he thought it was the proper course to send him round the corner, as we might be taken aback to see a stranger come in at the kitchen, and Mr. Poole says he does not doubt that in the future he mayn’t come and go in that way. I thought, but he comes and goes that way already, only in the dead of night.

  So Mr. Poole thought there was nothing for it but to let him in and he went ahead opening the library door. Mr. Poole told Mr. Bradshaw he thought the errand would only take a moment and so he stood at the door to wait. Mr. Hyde went in and Mr. Poole said he had an air of being too pleased to be in the room and too comfortable, for he looked all about, rubbing his hands together with a kind of glee, then running his fingers over the big medical dictionary that sits out on the stand. He turned to Mr. Poole and said there was no need to attend him, he’d find his own way out. But Mr. Poole didn’t like that idea at all, so he stood there as if he hadn’t understood. Mr. Hyde looked him up and down until, he told Mr. Bradshaw, he felt his skin begin to crawl, but he stood his ground, even when the man came towards him and, without another word, closed the door in his face.

  When Cook told me this I confess it struck me so I laughed and Annie, who was next to me, hung her head forward and said, “Noooo,” for we could all of us imagine the look on Mr. Poole’s face as he stood there.

  Then Mr. Hyde stayed in the room for a quarter of an hour while Mr. Poole paced about in the front hall, being sure Mr. Hyde would not go out without being seen again. At last he appeared, clutching a book to his coat and seeming annoyed to find Mr. Poole waiting on him. He asked if Master had not spoken to the staff about him and Mr. Poole said, yes he had; we all understood that Mr. Hyde was to have perfect liberty in the house. At this Mr. Poole said the little man (for he is very small) laughed and looked about the hall as if looking for something to smash, to show Mr. Poole what liberty meant to him. Mr. Poole told Mr. Bradshaw he has a wolfish way about him and seems to hang his head as if he expects to have blows hail down upon him. “You needn’t look after me, then, Poole,” he said. “I’m not likely to take anything that isn’t mine.”

  Mr. Poole recovered to his own satisfaction by saying, “I only want to be of what service I can, sir, should you require any assistance,” but Mr. Hyde replied, “For the moment the only assistance I require is that you open the door and stand aside, rather than standing between it and my speedy departure,” or some such rude remark that shocked Mr. Poole into doing just as he was told, and in a moment Mr. Hyde was out of the house.

  I got this all from Cook, who had it from Mr. Bradshaw, who came upon Mr. Poole immediately after Mr. Hyde’s departure, when he was in such a state that he dropped his usual caution and poured out the whole story. I asked Cook what else Mr. Poole had said about Master’s assistant. She puzzled a minute and put down her spoon, as if she could not stir and recall at once.

  “Well,” she said, “he says he is very young, that his voice is coarse though he speaks well enough and must have got some education somewhere, and that his clothes is well made, of good quality, even to his boots, which was made by Master’s own bootmaker. He is small, and, as I said, has a deal of dark hair, dark eyes, and is clean-shaven.” Cook paused and then added, as if to put the finishing touch on her picture of Mr. Edward Hyde, “Mr. Poole said that he may dress and speak as well as he likes, and give orders in this house until his breath runs out, but his beginnings is stamped on his features and no one will ever mistake him for a gentleman.”

  Then we spoke no more on the subject and Mr. Poole was silent on the matter at tea, nor did any of us have the nerve to question him upon it, though I could feel the name of Mr. Edward Hyde hanging over the table like a cloud. In the evening Master came in at a decent hour and had his dinner in the dining room, joined by his solicitor Mr. Utterson. They sat over their port so late that Mr. Poole come in and bid me go stir up the fire as it had burned very low, and after that he said Annie and I could be off to bed. So I went upstairs. Along the hall I could hear their voices and it seemed to me they was not in agreement. I tapped at the door and Master called out for me to come in. As I did I heard him say, “I’ll say no more about it, Gabriel. You must trust me in this matter,” and I saw Mr. Utterson shake his head, his lips pressed tight together, as if to shake off what Master had said to him.

  “I’ve come to do the fire, sir,” I said. Master gave me a long look that seemed to fasten
me in my place and then he said, “That won’t be necessary, Mary. Mr. Utterson is just leaving.”

  Mr. Utterson seemed startled, but only for a moment. Then he was gathering himself up saying, “It’s true. It is very late and I must be in Chancery Lane early tomorrow.”

  So I went out. As I walked along the hall I thought, they was arguing about this Mr. Hyde and Mr. Utterson likes it no more than do we, so perhaps he has met the young man or knows about his situation and is worried for Master’s welfare. How I knew this, I can’t say, but I think I was right. Then I thought of what Mr. Poole told Mr. Bradshaw, that Master’s assistant had his beginnings stamped on his face, and that he is no gentleman.

  What is he, then? A young man from Master’s school? Has Master taken him on as a sort of experiment, or just out of curiosity? Is he looking into his life with the same sympathy and interest he has shown in looking into my own?

  The answer to this question come to me quick and it was this: with more interest than that, for he has set Mr. Hyde no limits and taken him as his companion in those long hours when he works in his laboratory towards some frightening end he has told me himself takes all his courage to pursue.

  This morning was cold and damp, and the air so full of dust we could hardly breathe. My hands was both of them numb when I woke so I could not move my fingers and the scars in my neck was throbbing so I thought they must be standing out, but when I looked in the hall mirror I saw I look as always. In the kitchen I filled a bowl with hot water and thrust my poor hands in to get some feeling. Cook was muttering over her pots, seeming in an ill humour, but when she saw me soaking my hands she said, “It’s in your hands as you feel it Mary, but with me it is my sore old knees,” and I said, “I suppose we are in for some bad weather, by the look of us.” She said, “You may say so.” Then I thought, Cook knows of the trouble with my hands and has surely seen enough of them to notice the scars, but she has never asked how they come to be so. But servants’ ways is not to speak on such things, out of courtesy, for no one could imagine that there was anything but bad recollections attached to such hands as these, so why speak of past sadness.