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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII

 

WE are all at Zahra, Mrs. Greenside and Miss Martin, Molly and I.

            ' Let us go at once, my dear Mrs. Keith,' Mrs. Greenside said, directly she was told of the place. It was odd how she fastened herself on to us at Malaga, as if she almost felt us to be some help and protection. She is a nervous, clinging woman, and evidently must lean on some one; it makes me think how terrible her widowhood must be to her. Yet it is strange that she, so many years  older and so much richer than I, and not alone here as I am, for Miss Martin is with her, should find it any comfort to lean on a broken reed like myself. Poor thing! But I am glad to be of any comfort, even though it is ever so little, to some one in the world.

            ' Would it not be very dull for you at this little place?' I ask ; ' and what would you do about your brother?'

            ' He would come to me at Zahra.' she answered, with her little confident smile, while her diamond rings flashed in the sunshine.  ' He would come to me anywhere.'

            ' And your niece--would it not be dull for her? The doctor said it was a very quiet place.'

            ' But he said there were some English at the hotel. They are sure to be pleasant people.'

            It was evident that the people at the hotel had a great deal to do with Mrs. Greenside's longing to go to Zahra. I confess that they had with mine also, chiefly because I was anxious to see my old playfellow again, and he was perhaps with the Vincents, I though ; even if he was not, it would be interesting to see the girl he was possibly in love with, for I remember what Alice Grey had said about Miss Vincent. I told Mrs. Greenside that some friends of my cousin's were at Zahra, and that the doctor had mentioned that Lord and Lady Bexley were there also, and then she became still more eager to leave Malaga with delay.

            ' It will be such a good thing for you to be in the same house with some friends, Mrs. Keith,' she said, in her slow, eager voice, though I felt that it was not for me, but rather for herself, that she was urging it. ' Lord and Lady Bexley will be interesting people to meet. He wrote a most delightful book of travels in Italy ; I remember seeing it at the hotel at Genoa last year. Let us go at once, Mrs. Keith,' she repeated. ' It will be much better than this place for your sweet little child.'

            ' I must wait until Dr. Murray and his brother have seen her,' I said.  ' But don't let us keep you, Mrs. Greenside ; we will come on to-morrow or the next day,' I added, thinking that there was no reason why she should wait for me.

            ' Oh no ; I am too tired,' she answered. ' I ought to rest to-day ; besides, I am so anxious to hear what they say about your little girl.'

            Presently, almost against my will, and in spite of myself, I found that we were driving round Malaga, ' just to see what it was like,' she said. Somehow, she impressed me with the idea, as we drove along, that she was merely looking at the place with the eye of a person who would at some future time desire to talk about it if the opportunity offered, but from no other point of view, and with no other desire. That drive confirmed all that we had both previously thought of Malaga. The streets were as ugly as they had looked the day before ; the only drive the man seemed to know was along the dried-up bed of a river. We jolted on in the sand, and over the stones at the foot of barren ranges, past prickly pears and straggling, neglected sugar-canes, in sight of grand outlines of forlon-looking brown mountains, until our hearts grew heavy and our spirits sank.

            ' Oh, let us go back,' Mrs. Greenside said, and there was a sudden air of authority about her, in spite of her clinging manner ; ' we will go back at once, Mrs. Keith.'

            Without waiting for an answer, she told the driver to turn back. She insisted on paying for the carriage ; I did not know why, but she did it as a matter of course, and when I offered her any share she pushed me away almost rudely. Taking no notice of the driver's attempts at extortion, she walked into the hotel with a languid air of suffering and determination, mingled with a visible satisfaction at not having been cheated as much as might have been expected, that was both curious and amusing.

            ' Take my things upstairs, Miss Martin,' she said, and went slowly up to her room, while the companion followed.

            Molly and I followed too, and as we stopped at our own door Mrs. Greenside turned.

            ' Now, do go and get some rest, dear Mrs. Keith,' she said. ' I am sure you want it after that terrible drive, and let me know what the doctors sat to your child. I shall be so anxious to hear. To-morrow we will go to Zahra ; I dare say Dr. Murray would secure rooms for us.'

            When we had meekly entered and shut the door, but not till then, she turned away from us.

            While Molly rested on the green sofa, and I was impatiently waiting for the doctor and his brother, I wrote to the sardine, giving him various details of our journey, and, to amuse him, described Mrs. Greenside, and told him how I had found out that she was a Jewess, but thought she was ashamed of it--for I knew that would make laugh ; and then I put aside my letter, in orer to add a postscript after the doctor and his brother had been.

            They came quite punctually. They examined Molly carefully, and consulted together, and then they came back to me, after I had carried Molly into Mrs. Greenside's room, so as to be alone to hear their verdict.

            ' Well?' I asked anxiously.

            ' Well,' Dr. George, as I call him, to distinguish him from his brother, said, ' you must cheer up, Mrs. Keith. The child is very delicate, but we cannot see why, with care and in time, she should not grow strong.'    

            They seemed such blessed words. I looked round, at the two little beds in the alcove, at the faded sofa, at the tops of the dusty trees that I could see out of the window, and wondered why the whole world had altered so suddenly, for nothing looked ugly or dreary now.

            ' You think she won't die?' I gasped. ' You think she may really live?'

            They seemed half to repent their good words.

            ' We can't be certain, Mrs. Keith,' Dr. George said gently. ' We only say that she may outgrow her weakness ; ' and then he added, ' We are anxious about you ; we think you look so delicate. Have you any friends likely to come out to you here?'

            ' No, none,' I answered ; ' but that doesn't matter. I shall get quite well if Molly does. I have only been over-worried.'

            Dr. Murray was looking at me critically. ' I think she would be better at Zahra,' he said to his brother.

            ' We are going there if we may and can get rooms,' I tell them.

            ' I will go and look after them. At Zahra you will be near me, and  can take care of you,' Dr. George said, with a helpful look in his kind eyes. ' There are plnety of books in my brother's house, and Molly can come and gather oranges in the garden.'

            Thus it was that we came to Zahra. We all came together--Mrs. Greenside, Miss Martin, Molly and I. We were quite right to come, we saw that directly ; it is a great improvement on Malaga. It is a very little struggle of its own to get into fashion. The Spaniards like it, and come in the summer to bathe--not many, but quite enough to suggest a future to any one with ambition or energy, though in this country it is doubtful if such an one is to be found anywhere. There is a beach, and a shady promenade above it ; a wide street, a few narrow ones, two or three smart cafés, and an inn. The last is in the wide street, opposite the chief café ; it is not large, but clean and simple, and comfortable in spite of its bareness. There are three floors of rooms built after the Moorish plan round a patio, or covered courtyard. There are great palms growing in the patio ; and beneath them, in the shade, are wicker chairs and divans. Our rooms are on the second floor and at the side, overlooking a narrow street. Opposite our windows is a church. The church is open all day long, and the bell, which has a slightly cracked sound that is not unpleasant, seems to ring at no stated times, but just when the fancy takes it.

            An hour after our arrival, while I am still unpacking and worn out with fatigue, Miss Martin comes with a message from Mrs. Greenside. ' She is quite sure that I am tired, and will I bring Molly to afternoon tea in her rooms ;' we are both glad enough, and accept gratefully. So we cross over to her rooms on the right-hand side of the house, and find that she has very large and comfortable ones, looking toward the sea. They must cost a good deal more than ours, I think to myself ; but many things have made it evident that she is rich. There are all manner of pretty things and luxuries about--a brass kettle is over a spirit-lamp, and a teapot and a dainty afternoon service are put ready ; they have all evidently come out of the red plush-lined case standing near. The silver-gilt fittings of her dressing-case are lying about, and as I look at them I think that it is a good thing to be a Jew or a gipsy. They are the two races that somehow inherit the world. I have heard that the one is but the outcome of the other. I do not know how this may be, but it always seems that to the Jew belongs the inside of the world--the gold and jewels and stuffs, the gorgeous rooms and piled up coffers ; and to the gipsy belongs the outside--the sky and the sunshine, the tent on the grass, the merry road, and all the secrets of happy nature.

            ' Come, Mrs. Keith,' Mrs. Greenside says, in the rather protecting manner she is gradually putting on, for that of the drooping traveller is fast vanishing. ' I am sure you must want some tea. Now, you must sit in this chair. Miss Martin, put my two square down pillows behind Mrs. Keith's back.' It is no good protesting ; besides, it is very nice to be made much of, and I, little used to it, find the strange sensation too pleasant to resist. ' I have seen your friends Mr. and Mrs. Vincent, Mrs. Keith.'

            ' But they are not my friends,' I interrupt ; ' they are merely friends of a cousin of mine.'

            ' Oh, but people so soon make up an intimacy abroad,' she answered earnestly ; and I find myself noticing that the odd thing about Mrs. Greenside is that she seldom smiles and never laughs. Life seems to her a grave and important business, in which there is no time for frivolity, or for anything that is in a sense unworldly. ' They have a charming daughter ; she has quite a beautiful walk. I am very glad I have come here ; Malaga all but made me ill again, did it not, Miss Martin?'

            ' Yes, Mrs. Greenside ; it did,' Miss Martin answers.

            ' And now, Mrs. Keith, tell me all about yourself,' Mrs. Greenside says, putting down her cup, and looking me full in the face, with the air of a sympathetic person who has a right to know all one's personal history, and will not be denied.

            I tell her what there is to tell : that we are alone, that I worked, that Jack died, and why we have come abroad--all as briefly as possible, and then she is satisfied. I could almost fancy that, knowing all there is to know about us, we lose some of our interest for her, as a book that is read, or a piece of yesterday's news. I am very ungrateful, and I hate myself for not liking Mrs. Greenside more, and for not trusting her, for she is vey kind to me.

            Suddenly the man, the useful man who does all manner of things in the hotel, enters and hands me two letters. Doctor George has sent them to me from Malaga. He had promised to inquire if there were any, for the office opened at such uncertain hours that it seemed useless to try and get them myself ; besides, I hardly expected any. The man who brought them in asks if we would like to see some lace ; a woman from the town beyond Zahra has brought some to sell.

            While Mrs. Greenside and Miss Martin baragin, I read my letters. They are from our two good friends ; there is no one else to send us any. Mrs. Marshall writes a kind, cold letter, which is characteristic of her. She is going to Australia with her husband, on a visit to some of his relations, and does not expect to be back until the middle of next year, and she asks me to write to her at Melbourne and tell her how Molly is. The sardine sends a short note, but a kind one ; it is characteristic also. He has had my letter from Marseille, and writes at once, for he knows ' how slow those Spanish beggars are, and letters take best part of a week to get anywhere in that lovely country.' He is glad we are getting along all right. He is pretty well, thanks ; rather down in the mouth, but that doesn't matter. By the wat, some friends of his are yachting somewhere about the Mediterranean. He doesn't knwo where they are likely to put in, but on a beggarly little sea like that they may turn up anywhere ; so, if we should come across them, I can let him know. Then there is a postscript.  ' Josephs is the name ; you needn't say I told you to let me know. By the way I am going to Paris next month, so, if you want anything, only tell me, and I will start if from there.' So from this I gather that the friends who are yachting are interesting to the sardine, and I remember the remark about the little girl who ' did not seem to see it,' and wonder if she is on board.

            ' Surely it is the wrong time of year for yachting in the Mediterranean?' I say, as I watch Miss Martin fold up the lace they have bought and put it carefully away.

            Mrs. Greenside is a little flattered, thinking that I am alluding to her brother, and she answers with apologetic pride, ' Oh, but they have a very large steam yacht, and my brother is so accustomed to her, he goes about in any weather.'

            Suddenly an idea strikes me. ' What is your brother's name?' I ask.

            ' Josephs,' she answers, rather coldly.

            ' Is he the member for--?' I ask. It is strange how useful little odds and ends of memories are. I remember about three years since seeing the walls of--placarded with ' Vote for Josephs,' but never even knew whether he was returned or not, for I am not a politician. My question pleases Mrs. Greenside, and she answers--

            ' Oh yes. He is exceedingly clever,' she adds. ' He might have been anything he pleased ; but he never cared to go into Parliament till last year.'

            She speaks as if he had only had to open the door and walk in ; evidently her brother is a very remarkable man. I wonder if she knows Mr. Cohen ; but perhaps it will be  wiser not to ask. I remember the letter I posted from Malaga containing an account of Mrs. Greenside, and in it I mentioned that she expected her brother and niece. Then I do not see why I should conceal my acquaintance with the sardine ; there is always something unpleasant about secrets.

            ' Mrs. Greenside, do you know Mr. Frederic Cohen in London? ' I ask. ' He lives in Princes Gardens.'   

            ' Oh yes,' she says, in a slightly supercilious manner, and with the air of a person who knows every one, but only knows him as a matter of course. ' He was one of the young men who were in love with Helen last season.'

            ' Your niece?'

            ' Yes ; but, of course, with her prospects it was impossible for anything to  come of it.'

            ' He is very rich,' I say, thinking that money may be of some advantage in her eyes.

            ' Oh, but money really does not matter,' she answers loftily, ' for my niece will have a large fortune of her own. She is an only child, and her father is very rich. She ought to make a very brilliant match, with her accompishments and sweetness of disposition.'

            ' I though Mr. Cohen was related to some very old Jewish families?'

            ' Oh  yes,' she answers, as if she did not think much of that. ' One of the Bowerings was very much in love with Helen last season,' she adds, as if to give me an idea that by a brilliant match she did not mean marrying among her own people. ' But he was a younger son ; the eldest one is married.'

            ' And eldest sons are scarce compared to younger ones,' I remark, not quite knowing what to say.

            ' And so apt to throw themselves away,' she answers sadly.

            ' Mr. Cohen is very good and kind,' I tell her. ' He has been a staunch and genereous friend to me.'

            ' I dare say he had, dear Mrs. Keith. I can quite understand his admiring you greatly.'       

            The colour comes to my face, for there is something unpleasant in her manner.

            ' He didn't admire me ; he is very kind and good--' I begin quickly.

            ' No one could help admiring you,' she interrupts softly ; ' and then, your sweet little child--no one could help being ready to do anything in the world for her.'

 

 

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