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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER XX

 

CHRISTMAS is over. The blossom is coming out here and there on the orange trees still heavy with fruit, the violets and primroses are thick, there are wild flowers everywhere, and at night the nightingales are singing loud. Mrs. Greenside has been gone three weeks, and we have seen and heard nothing of Mr. Josephs and his daughters. Now the Vincents talk of going. Mr. Vincent is tired of Zahra, he has heard of an old friend at Gibraltar, and wants to go there for a bit before returning to England. With the Vincents, of course, Ralph would go and then, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Walters, we should be the only English people left in the hotel.

            Mr. and Mrs. Walters are nice young people, and have been married two years. He is an American, and paints pictures, but not very successfully as yet; he tells us quite frankly that he lives on his wife’s relations. She is English, devoted to her husband, and all the time he is working sits by his side, stitching at delicate muslin garments for the little child they have left at home. The quietness at Zahra seems to astonish them.

            ‘ How you have all lived here on a piano at a café, and a noisy omnibus in the street, with no other excitement, all the winter, I can’t understand,’ says he.

            ‘ The climate is lovely, and the place is very picturesque,’ I answer. ‘ You ought to be content, with so much material ready to hand.’

            ‘ The professional side of me is exceedingly well satisfied,’ he answers, ‘ but the other side hankers after a little more dissipation. Now, if the gitanas were more plentiful—’

            ‘ Joe!’ his wife exclaims.

            ‘ If gitanas were more plentiful, the place would be more interesting, from the purely picturesque point of view, of course; however, we must make the best of it. My wife’s aunt managed this little trip for us. We wanted to see Spain, so we persuaded her that it was the great unpainted country of the world; and all we have to do is to take home so much canvas, with colour well arranged on it, and we shall be sent somewhere else next six months. Canvas with colour on it you’ll find just about describes what I do.’

            ‘ What nonsense, Joe. Your pictures are lovely; every one says so,’ his wife declares.

            ‘ Well, my dear, I have your word for it, but you are the only means through which people express themselves; still, I would not doubt you for the world. By the way, Mrs. Keith, have you done any business since you started? Come across any big buyers?’

            ‘ I never thought of it. Lord Bexley bought some sketches of me.’

            ‘ Well, it’s a pity I wasn’t in the way then. Mr. Vincent tells me you has some rich Jews here lately, so I’ve missed them too, it appears.’

            ‘ Two of them talked of coming back. We expected them a fortnight ago.’

            ‘ I hope they will come, for their own sakes. It isn’t often that the chance of getting a good thing occurs, and they will miss a great deal if they stay away.’

            This talk is in the patio. We are all waiting to start for the doctor’s. He has invited us to afternoon tea, and is coming back from Malaga on purpose. It is quite a dissipation for us, used as we are now to the quiet of this little inn.

            ‘ No doubt a great lover of sunshine could be content here for any length of time,’ Mr. Vincent sighs, as we turn the corner of the street on our way. ‘ There is nothing but the sunshine—I found Christmas a great relief. Ah, you ought to have been at Malaga with us, Mrs. Keith; such a fuss and hurry as there was the day we went over. The bare-legged boys, minding the noisy turkeys packed on donkeys’ backs; the piles of fruit and the black-eyed women, tambourines and beggars—such a jumble and confusion as there was with a bright sky overhead, it was a sight worth seeing. I am glad we went. You ought to have been with us.’

            ‘ Mrs. Vincent did ask me to go, but I was so tired,’ I answer, anxious to forget all about the dreary festival and the long hours at the window.

            Ralph always begins to protest when Mr. Vincent finds fault with Zahra.

            ‘ A blue sky and a shining sun, a lovely open sea and a vega thick and bright with colour, a place with a past and possibly a future, and a hundred things to think about,’ he says. ‘ What more do you want?’ He opens the doctor’s garden gate as he speaks, and looks round at the orange trees golden with fruit, at the great bananas, at the pepper trees, on which the pink bloom is fading, and the ferdinandias, white with large trumpet-flowers. The whole scene appears to satisfy him. ‘ I could live here for ever,’ he says, as we walk up to the house.

            ‘ No doubt you could; no doubt,’ Mr. Vincent says. ‘ But I dare say you would be meddling in Spanish politics and plotting with Castelar before six months were over you head, so the world would not gain much by your seclusion.’

            Philip, the rough old serving-man, comes to meet us with the air of a grandee in his castle. ‘ The señor was seen returning to Zahra, and just now was sent for; but it is only to one who is sick close at hand; he will not be many minutes gone. Perhaps meanwhile we will enter and consider that the house with all that it contains is our own; and, if we will allow him, he will have the honour of showing us what there is to see.’ So we are taken through several bare, comfortless-looking rooms, and one that is made cozy, with books and curiosities; we are shown some bad copies of Murillo and a model of one of Charles V.’s clocks—the clocks that it was the plague of his life to keep in order; and at last we rest in the patio, a grander one far than that at the Fonda de Madrid, with a fountain in the middle and seats covered with Eastern rugs. Over our heads are the orange trees again, but there are great palms at the back, and beyond are the small-leaved myrtles that the Moors loved and planted in all their Spanish kingdoms—the same myrtles of which Charles V. made his labyrinth at Seville. Molly listens to the splashing fountain—three slim dolphins, fat cupid, and a broken-nosed, legendary beast in each corner—and looks up at the thick trees and the sunshine coming through them.

            ‘ Oh, it is so nice,’ she says.

            ‘ She is quite right. She has healthy instincts, as yet unspoilt. I could live for ever in a place like this, away from cities and towns, if I had nothing to do,’ Ralph exclaims.

            ‘ May likes the country,’ I say; but he does not answer for a minute. Sometimes I think that already there are little clouds between them again, though they were laughing and talking this morning. It is only that they never seem to believe in a future together, to be wholly sure that they will risk it. After all, marriage will be the wisest thing for them, and I hear that it is to take place as soon as they get back. ‘ Unless we both change our minds,’ Ralph told me one day. ‘ I am not sure that May will care to settle down into the kind of life that I like, or that I am cut out for domestic joys. I am so used to absolute freedom, and my strongest instincts will always be out-of-doors.’ But it will all come right, I think with a sigh, as Philip enters and presents us with flowers; and May, putting a bright bunch in her waistband, and thanking Philip with smiles and broken Spanish, sits down by Molly, and begins a whispered conversation that absorbs them both. Mr. Vincent and the American have been walking about the garden, so I ask Ralph about his politics, but he laughs and shirks questions.

            ‘ Don’t talk about them,’ he laughs. ‘ Whatever they are, they are better than Mr. Vincent’s. He has simply none.’

            ‘ I didn’t suspect you of Radicalism,’ I say, ‘ because you are so absolute about women—how shall I express it?—you seem to think that they ought not to do as they like.’

            ‘ Presently,’ he says; ‘ I think they should do as they are told. My Radicalism, if I have any, does not take kindly to self-willed young women who want to go their own way.’ Whereupon May laughs, and says he is born to be a tyrant, but I ask him to tell me about Mr. Vincent’s politics. ‘ He simply hasn’t any,’ he repeats. ‘ He is the only man I ever met with who lives absolutely outside them. He never reads a newspaper, except for news, or an article for fear of being influenced. It is one reason why I like being with him; it is a great rest. He is willing to talk of books and painting and history, or anything you please except the forbidden subject. I don’t believe he would remember the name of the prime minister himself if he were not a great man apart from his politics, and if he had not an old man’s old-fashioned reverence for people in high places.’

            ‘ Ralph is talking treason about you, papa,’ May says, as her father enters with Dr. George and Mr. Walters. The doctor apologises for his absence, shakes hands all round, kisses Molly, and hopes Philip has taken care of us; then tea is brought in dainty china cups—pale Indian tea, that makes us all feel still more as if we were sitting inside an Eastern story.

            ‘ Let us make “tertulia” and be cozy,’ our host says; so we gather round in what we hope is Spanish fashion, and talk and laughs, while Philip brings iced water and feathery azucarillos and snow-white meringues, and hands them round with a majestic pride of place that makes it impossible to refuse them.

            ‘ Well, Mrs. Keith, and what treason was Ralph talking to you?’ Mr. Vincent asks.

            ‘ It was only political, not domestic treason, so perhaps you won’t mind,’ I say.

            ‘ Ah, you mustn’t listen to him. He is one of your gentlemanlike Radicals who are going to put us all right, and die of brain fever. It will be their own doing, and no one else to blame—no one else at all.’  

            ‘ But why should they die of brain fever, Mr. Vincent?’ Dr. George asks.

            ‘ Over-work, over-excitement, over-pressure, over-hurry in politics as in everything else—that is the general tendency among all the clever people, and their brains won’t stand it long; they’ll die off, mark my words, they’ll die off, and leave the world to the idlers who knew better than to throw themselves away.’

            ‘ But I think,’ Dr. George says, as if he were merely vaguely repeating a rumour he had heard, and did not think himself at all in the position of one who might offer an opinion—‘ I think there have been some clever men who have escaped brain fever; even Castelar, with whom our friend here is to plot, hasn’t yet died of it.’

            ‘ Well, well, I dare say not,’ Mr. Vincent says, as if he really didn’t know whether Castelar were alive or dead; ‘ but still, at the same time, I believe that all this over-work is a great mistake—for the next few generations, at any rate. When people have been accustomed to better education, they may bear greater intellectual pressure; just at present it is a most dangerous thing. The Jews are the only people as yet who can bear it safely; they have always been a better-educated people than ourselves, and the result is that they can do more head-work and live longer than others—’

            ‘ This comes of talk with Mr. Josephs,’ May says saucily; but he takes no notice of her.

            ‘ Gradually,’ he goes on, ‘ as education becomes more general, and a few generations have accustomed the majority to it, mental strain will come easier.’

            ‘ Meanwhile I believe you are a Radical at heart, Mr. Vincent,’ I say, just to tease him.

            ‘ No, no,’ he exclaims emphatically; ‘ Conservative, Liberal, Radical, I wouldn’t be one of them for the world. Once have a political creed and you are lost. No, I am a free man, and have no politics of any kind. I have generally found the laws of the country answer exceedingly well when they were properly applied, and as long as my tenants are content, and landlords are not shot in England, and there is no threat of taking my land from me, I am content, and shall leave politics alone.’

            ‘ May I ask you, sir,’ Mr. Walters says, ‘ what you do with any votes you may have? To which side do you give them?’

            ‘ That entirely depends. I read carefully what they all have to say; it is the only time I trouble myself about what they do say. But I don’t wish to shirk my duties, though I avoid creating new ones, so I go and hear them, and vote for that man whom I take to be the best fellow all round; for, no matter to what party he belongs, I feel he’ll be the greatest credit to his country, so that in voting for him I’m doing my duty as an Englishman, and whether I’m doing it as a politician never troubles me.’

            ‘ It is quite a pity that Mrs. Greenside is not here to make an appropriate remark about the survival of the fittest, and to compliment you on carrying out your Darwinism in politics,’ Ralph says.

            ‘ May I ask you, sir,’ puts in Mr. Walters, with a slight American twang, which I think he occasionally does on purpose, ‘ in what way you think politicians are over-working themselves? It never strikes us, when we read your debates, that they are in any particular hurry.’

            ‘ Well, perhaps not. But see, for one thing, how they stump the country and talk—one side as much as the other.’

            ‘ And how would you alter that?’

            ‘ I have not thought it over; but there are many ways in which it might be done. The talking might all take place in particular centers, or, better still, in London, and the voters be brought up in special trains.’

            Mr. Vincent always breaks down when he comes to a practical point.

            ‘ Well, that would be a bad state of things for London,’ Mr. Walters says. ‘ And now, Miss Vincent,’ he asks, turning to May, ‘ may I ask what you are in politics?’

            ‘ I? Oh, I have none. What am I, Ralph?’

            ‘ A goose, I should say,’ he whispers, so that only May and I can hear him.

            ‘ I shall be curious to see what you are in ten years, Miss May,’ her father says,

‘ and whether the craze for whirl will bite you too.’

            ‘ Oh, can you doubt it?’ she cries. ‘ Would I go in a slow train when I can get a wild express, or a jogging cart when there is a swift hansom? Besides, if we don’t make haste and work to get the world as good and as beautiful as it can be made, we shall all die, or the world come to an end before we have done any living in it at its best at all.’

            ‘ She talks as if she were going to live for centuries,’ Mrs. Vincent says.

            ‘ So I am; at least, not I, but the like of me, dear mother; it is all the same, and it is more exciting to work for others than for one’s actual self, don’t you think so?’ she says, turning to me.

            ‘ Yes,’ I answer; ‘ besides, the past and future always seem as if they must be a part of our own lives, only we can but remember a bit that comes between and is our present selves.’

            ‘ Since when did you take to thinking, May?’ Mr. Vincent asks.

            ‘ Dear father,’ she answers saucily, ‘ I only felt and spoke. I never think; I never shall, for fear of dying from over-pressure.’

            Ralph looks at her and laughs. ‘ Couldn’t we all go and wander about in the garden, doctor?’ he asks.

            The talk comes to an end. Ralph and May disappear down a quaint cypress avenue, but the sky at the end of it shows that the sun is sinking, and Molly must go home. I pull myself up from the low, soft seat, and think of the journey home, a hundred yards off only, with something like dismay.

            ‘ Let me come with you,’ Dr. George says. ‘ I will carry Molly;’ and Molly, putting her arms up to his neck, settles this for me.

            So we go back to the Fonda de Madrid. Mr. and Mrs. Walters have turned toward the sea, to stroll till it is dinner-time, and only the Vincents return with us.

            ‘ We have had a nice afternoon, doctor. You have a charming place,’ Mr. Vincent says, evidently thinking that the occasion calls for some remark; ‘ no doubt you will thoroughly enjoy it as the spring comes on, and everything bursts into full bloom.’

            ‘ I fear I shall hardly be here,’ Dr. George answers. ‘ My brother is coming back much sooner than he expected, and he wants me to return to England.’

            My selfish heart stands still, for I dread to think of Dr. Murray, with his cold, formal manner.

            ‘ And you will go?’ I say mechanically.

            ‘ Yes, I suppose so; I believe I ought.’

            ‘ I don’t want you to go,’ Molly whispers; ‘ I want you to stay.’

            ‘ I want to stay, my pet,’ he whispers back, and kisses her.

            I look at her proudly. My sweet! with the wonderful eyes and the strange message in them,—will you never be able to tell it? And my heart, will it ever be able to hear it?

            ‘ When will your brother come?’ I ask.

            But before he can reply we are at the hotel, and there, in the doorway, watching for us, is a tall figure. I know it well enough, only I can hardly believe my senses.

            ‘ Mr. Cohen!’ I exclaim.

            ‘ Yes,’ nods the sardine, as calmly as if he has seen me the day before yesterday at latest. ‘ Thought I’d just come and look you up. How are you getting on?’ He offers to take Molly from the doctor, but Molly looks at him doubtfully. ‘ Not forgotten me already, have you?’ he says to her. ‘ Though you were hardly old enough for that kind of thing yet.’

            Molly looks at him again, and gradually remembers. She kisses Dr. George, and goes to the sardine.

            ‘ I don’t mind coming to you,’ she says slowly; he carries her into the patio, and we are alone for a few minutes.

            ‘ Well, how is Molly getting on?’ the sardine asks; and I tell him that she is not worse, that this has at any rate held a spell of hope, that the sunshine has been a blessed thing, that people have been good and kind to us, that perhaps by the time we return she will be stronger, and that that is all there is to tell about her; then he looks at me. ‘ You don’t look up to much—to less than ever, in fact,’ he says. ‘ Mind, you mustn’t chump up, or Molly will have to go away all alone next winter. But, I say, you didn’t expect to see me, did you now? Thought I wouldn’t write, but just give you a little cheerful surprise.’

            ‘ That’s right,’ I laugh. It is so nice to hear him talk again; it makes everything feel like home. ‘ It is a very cheerful surprise, Mr. Cohen.’

            ‘ And what did you think of Mrs. Greenside? She seems to have been in great force. Bexley told me all about her, so I dropped him a line, and told him if he would undertake to get her comfortably out of the way for me this time, I’d do the same for him some day; so that little plan all arranged.’

            ‘ Then they took her on purpose?’

            ‘ Of course they did. Told him just how it was, and was starting off here when Bexley sent me a telegram that Josephs had gone to Granada, so I turned up there quite by accident, been with them ever since, and brought them back here just now.’

            ‘ And how have you been getting on?’

            ‘ Pretty well. Nellie’s so much taken up with her father that she doesn’t seem to contemplate matrimony, as far as I can make out. However, I’m not in a hurry as to time, and if she doesn’t see it, it can’t be helped.’

            ‘ I don’t believe you have made the most of your chances. Granada must have been a charming place to make love in.’

            ‘ Yes; but, you see, she’s romantic and that sort of thing, in fact was rather more taken up with the romance than with me;—wanted to walk about the Alhambra and talk of the heroes, or to be silent and look up at the sky, to walk about the garden of the Adarves by moonlight—deep feeling, too deep for words, sighs, and all that. I felt rather out of it; just as I was beginning to get into it we came away.’

            ‘ That was provoking.’

            ‘ Very provoking. But women are provoking; rather life them for it myself. Here she comes, so we’ll finish our talk another time.’

            Then the others come up to us, and somehow it falls to me to introduce Mr. Walters to Mr. Josephs. With a twinkle in his dark eyes, the Yankee says, in the tone of one who has achieved the desire of his life—

            ‘ I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir. I have heard a great deal about you, and feel that it is an honour to meet you.’

            ‘ Thank you,’ Mr. Joseph says; and his face also says. ‘ Why?’ So, with the twang in his voice, Mr. Walters adds—

            ‘ Our country knows the names of most Englishmen who have distinguished themselves, and one great reason we go over to England is just that we may see them.’

            ‘ Well, well, well,’ Mr. Vincent says, aside to me, ‘ it will be a curious thing to watch them—a Jew and a Yankee. It is pull devil, pull baker. By the way, I never knew what that saying meant, did you.’

 

 

 

 

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