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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER XXI

 

I HAVE not seen the sardine since the say he arrived, more than a week ago. May Vincent and Nellie Josephs have been in and out for a few minutes at a time, and would have stayed longer but that I wanted to be alone, and— Oh! but I must speak of what is in my heart.

            Molly has been ill—is ill now. Perhaps she caught cold that afternoon at the doctor’s, perhaps it is the inevitable end that has only been disguised, and not stopped in its coming. I do not know, but she is ill. She has been terribly ill, and the days and nights have been spent in watching her. Perhaps because of the sweet hope that came, because of the light that was in her eyes and the calm on her face, it has taken me by surprise: for I feel as if I cannot face it, as if I dare not see it.

            A great terror seizes me when I think that she will die. I cannot look at her face without my heart growing sick, and my limbs trembling for dread of what is written there. Molly, who is all the world to me; whose life I have hoped for so, whose life the sunshine has seemed to promise me. I have been lulled and stupefied with hope till this sudden awakening came. It is not that I want to keep her from mere selfishness, just because she is all that I have left,— because I love her so, my own little child, and want her in my sight. It is not that only, for I would lay my own life down gladly and thankfully this very minute if it would be giving life to her. I could get up and walk out of that door yonder, down the cold steps, out into the night, and wander on never to return, if I might know that it would buy health for her.

            To think of Molly dying! A little child, you say. Ah yes, just that little child lying there with the quick breathing and the fever burning on he cheeks—to think of her dying, it is like feeling the wide world and all the sunlight in it swept away, leaving me behind in chaos and darkness. Oh, forgive me; forgive this wild outburst. I have been calm enough through the days and nights, sitting and watching; but at last a moment comes in which I must speak, in which I cannot bear it longer, and must wring the madness from my soul with passionate words and tears, or I must die. Molly, my child, my sweetest and best that lives, my all-that-has-been, speak of me. I cannot bear it; I shall die. But it is not that I dread, for I would die and think it sweet, and in death should forget that even you had gone, my own. But it is your life in the world I want—your dear voice, making all who hear it blessed—your eyes, out of which some strange infinite is looking; your life, my sweet, your life to make the world happier and to bless it.— Ah no, selfish woman that I am; I long for it because I love you so. I call it fine names, and find a thousand reasons for your living; but oh, my dear, my dear, it is because I love you so, Molly—Molly, and far worse than death would be life in a world in which you were not.

 

            ‘ Is she better?’ I ask Dr. George—‘ is she better?’

            He answers, ‘ Yes, a little.’

            ‘ Will she get well?’ But he does not speak. ‘ Will she die? Oh, Dr. George, will she die?’ And then, before he can answer, I stop my ears. ‘ Don’t tell me,’ I say—‘ don’t tell me; I cannot face it. I must not know it, if she cannot live. Don’t tell me till the last hour comes, or I can’t go on. Oh, Dr. George, she is going to die, and I know it.’

            ‘ But, Mrs. Keith,’ he says, in dismay, ‘ why have you broken down so? You have been so calm all this time that I have almost wondered at you. What does it mean? My dear friend, you are ill and worn out.’

            And then I am ashamed. ‘ Oh, forgive me,’ I say—‘ forgive me, and I will be calm again. I shall be better soon. But tell me, is she better? No; don’t tell me if she is going to die, for I cannot bear it yet.’

            ‘ Yes, she is better,’ he says; ‘ for the time, at any rate, she is certainly better; let that console you. Get her up, and make a pile of cushions by the open window in the sunshine; let her sit there all day long and drink in the air. Have courage, dear Mrs. Keith. Remember, all the heroism in the world is summed up in the one word “courage.”’

            ‘ Yes, doctor; I will have courage.’

            ‘ Tell me how you are yourself,’ he asks. ‘ Why are you so weak, and what is it that is making you ill?’

            ‘ Don’t talk of it; it only worries and distresses me. Make Molly well, and I shall be well; but if she dies, then—then I shall die too.’

            ‘ You wouldn’t—’ and he stops. How little men know women!

            ‘ I wouldn’t cut my throat? No; I am not that kind of coward, Dr. George, and shall leave my dying-time to Death’s own arranging. I shall go back to see my home again. There is a picture there—it is on an easel—and I want to see it again. Not go home? Ah, but you never saw Jack, doctor; there is a little bit of grass that I must crouch down by and put my face against once more before I can die. I shall go home; but oh, the going—the going.’ And then the bitter tears come—the tears that soothe and calm me; I ask him to forgive me, and am ashamed of my own anguish.

 

            She is better; slowly, with many rests between, she is dressed at last, and carried to the next room, and put down on the cushions by the open window. So an hour passes, and when she sleeps I am worn out, my head falls back, a little sleep overtakes me too, and the sunshine strengthens us both.

 

            Miss Josephs comes in when we awake, and then, for the first time since she returned to Zahra, I begin to get back to the outer world again, and ask if she had been glad to see Mr. Cohen at Granada.

            ‘ Yes,’ she answers; ‘ it was company for papa.’

            It is not a very satisfactory way of putting it, but I cannot remember anything to say, and am silent. Then she tells me that May and her stepmother have driven over to Malaga, and that Mr. Walters and Mr. Cohen are both anxious to pay me a visit as soon as Molly is better, if I would care to see them. I do not understand why the former wants to see me; but I suppose it is merely kindness and I send word that I will see them in the afternoon, if Molly is not worse. Perhaps it will be better to meet people. Anything is better than brooding over the fear that almost takes away my senses. I try to rouse myself a little, and ask Nellie about the Alhambra.

            ‘ It is very lovely,’ she answers. ‘ Perhaps, only it does seem so unkind to say it, Mr. Cohen spoilt it for me just a little bit. He is very practical, you know, dear Mrs. Keith.’ She laughs a little at the remembrance.

            ‘ Yes, but he is very good, dear.’

            ‘ Oh, I know,’ she says, as if goodness were quite a secondary consideration. ‘ I think he liked pottering about in the curiosity shop at the foot of the hill far better than the Alhambra. He liked driving bargains.’

            A rumbling fly goes by towards the sea; two lazy Spaniards lean back in it, smoking. They have the air of fastness that so easily sits on two men in an open carriage. One of them turns and throws a cigarette to the beggar against the church wall. It falls to the ground, and the beggar is too lazy to pick it up, or his dignity will not permit him to do so; while we are still wondering what he will do, the sardine passes and sees us. He lifts his hat, and says something which we cannot hear. I beckon to him to come up. It seems unkind not to let him do so; but before he comes, I ask Nellie to take him away after a minute or two. He is soon in the room.

            ‘ Well,’ he says, ‘ is Molly better again? Poor little thing, are you better?’ But Molly only stares at him, and says nothing. ‘ So this is your crib, Mrs. Keith. You have made it pretty and cozy. Nice little portrait of Molly. You ought to get Mrs. Keith to paint you,’ he says to Nellie.

            ‘ She was going to paint me for aunt, but somehow it was not done.’

            ‘ I see. Unlucky that; kind of bad luck that would overtake Mrs. Greenside, poor dear.’ There is something in his voice when he says the last words that, ill and worn out as I am, makes me laugh a little.

            Nellie looks puzzled. ‘ I did not know you liked aunt so much, Mr. Cohen,’ she says.

            ‘ You see, I have a large heart; takes in a good lot of people—quite a family party, in fact. What were you two talking about before I came up? I went by twice over the way before you saw me.’

            ‘ We were talking about the Alhambra.’

            ‘ Tell me what it is like,’ I say. ‘ I have often longed to see it.’

            ‘ It is very wonderful. It is far more beautiful than anything else I ever saw,’ she says. ‘ It seems like the expression of a people who thought a great deal and were very silent. I never imagined there could be so beautiful an expression of silence. I used to think sometimes—it looked so dreamy—that, though they had vanished from the daylight, yet perhaps the Moors came back in the night, and walked about in their palace, leaving their dreams behind.’

            ‘ Sounds like Little Bo-peep.’ Remarks the sardine.

            The colour comes to her face; she bites her lip and looks ashamed.

            ‘ I forgot you were here, Mr. Cohen. I won’t be romantic any more.’

            ‘ Take him away, dear. He is too atrocious. Come and see me to-morrow,’ I say to the sardine. ‘ To-day Molly and I must be quiet.’ For, struggle against it as I will, the sight of people and the sound of voice are not to be borne yet.

 

            This morning May comes in quite early, to tell me of a maid she heard of yesterday at Malaga. She is English, and was left behind by some English people after a quarrel. It did not strike the Vincents at the time how useful she might be to me, but they have since thought that perhaps I might like to have her. I catch at the idea, for I get so tired; but with some one to wait on me I could do all that Molly wants. There is no one to be had here; I could not trust any Spanish woman that I have seen. I think of Manuela, the landlady, with a shudder; and there is no woman-servant in the house. The rough little woman who used to come in the morning went away some time ago to get a place in Madrid, together with her husband.

            ‘ Why don’t you drive over to Malaga?’ Dr. George says, when he hears of it.

‘ Molly is better to-day; she is really better—for the time,’ he adds again, as he did yesterday, for he sees me watching him, and he does not wish to tell more than I would know; and yet I know all. ‘ It would do you a world of good—you want a change; and I know Mrs. Vincent, or her daughter, or Mrs. Walters, or any of them, would take charge of Molly.’

            I consider for a few minutes, and something makes me long to go, to get away from every one and everything, even from Molly, just for one or two hours—to be alone and to think apart from all surroundings that affect me.

            So it is arranged that I am to go to-morrow morning. The doctor offers to take me, but he starts too soon; besides, I want to be alone.

 

            It seems so strange, when May comes in the morning, to look at her face, and to think of the hope in her heart and of the cold dread in mine. She is to stay with Molly while I go to Malaga. It seems as if some strange power were driving me out of Zahra. I am eager to go, even though it means leaving Molly for a few hours. But she will be safe with May; they are always happy together. I hear them talking as I get ready.

            ‘ Dear little sweetheart,’ May says, ‘ how many things we will talk about while mother is away. We have always so much to say and so little time together.’

            ‘ Why don’t you come oftener?’ Molly asks.

            ‘ I have so many things to do. You see, you have just mother to love; but I have my father and mother who are here, and my brothers and sisters, and—and many others.’

             ‘ Who are the others?’ asks Molly.

            ‘ I cannot remember them all now, but I love you, dear, and your mother, then there is Ralph—’

            ‘ Do you love him?’

            ‘ Yes, darling; I love him. See how many I have to love.’

            ‘ And I have mother and you: and I love Dr. George, I think—’

            ‘ And Ralph?’

            ‘ Yes; but only a little bit, because I do not know him very well, and—Then there’s Jack. Of course, I love Jack next to mother. I never saw dear father,’ she adds gently; ‘ but I think of him sometimes, and I love him too, only I love him when I am all by myself and do not want any one to know.’

            ‘ Those are the people we love best, dear, the people we love when we are all alone and whom we do not want to talk about.’

            Molly gives a long sigh. ‘ Did you have many dolls when you were a little girl?’ she asks, after a minute or two.

            ‘ Oh yes, a great many. There was one just like that one over there in the armchair; perhaps they are related. Yes, and I know a great many dolls now, dear Molly; they are all at home.’

            And so I leave them to their talk, and wait in the patio, while José goes to tell Don Carlos to send one of his tumble-down flies to take me to Malaga.

            Mr. Vincent sees me, and asks for Molly. ‘ I am very sorry she has been so ill,’ he says—‘ very sorry for you, my dear lady; but the spring will make her all right, you’ll see—the spring will make her all right. Has May told you that we are going away in about a week’s time?’

            ‘ No; I hoped you were going to stay longer.’

            ‘ It’s a great pity, but it can’t be helped,’ he answers, as if he had nothing to do with it. ‘ We ought to be moving on, and we must go. Well, here’s your carriage, thoroughly Spanish it is, as Josephs would say—thoroughly Spanish. Are you sure that you are wise to go alone?’

            ‘ Oh, quite; indeed, I long to be alone,’ I say, hardly knowing what I am about.

            ‘ I dare say. There is nothing like being alone when you want to pull yourself together. You are quite right, quite right.’ And so, with Mr. Vincent’s approval, I drive away.

            It is a long, lonely road; but for the blue sky and the sunshine, it would be dreary enough. There is little vegetation as soon as we have left Zahra; scarcely a dwelling or any sign of life to be seen on the way; only a sprawling figure or a crouching beggar reminds one that there is any population at all in the land. Here and there a tuft of green and a little mass of bright flowers show how grateful the soil would be for any sort of cultivation. The road itself is full of ruts and cavities and heaps of rubbish; it seems a mere accident, as we go jolting and lumbering on, that we are not at any moment thrown out. But all this I see only in the half-dazed fashion of one whose brain is busy with other things. Here in the bright light and the fresh air, with the glimpse of the sea beyond, I sit and reproach myself for the anguish of yesterday. To have broken down so, to have let go the tight rein and given way! I will not again; despair is only for empty space and silent graves. For life, and life that waits upon one’s love, it is weakness and cowardice. I must bear my griefs as others do. After all, it is only the common lot. Other women have loved and lost, other mothers have seen their dear ones die. Oh, the shallowness of the consolation. What does it help, in the keenest moments of life, to know that bitterest sorrow and briefest joy are the lot of most of us? It does not soften one single pang to the individual to know that the whole race suffers. The sorrow that may come to each separate one of us—the sorrow we must all bear alone and in silence, it makes one, looking back, stand aghast, wondering if the thing is true. Since Arthur went down to the sea that day, since Jack died, since Molly has been ill, I have looked so sadly at people, feeling for them a tenderness, a yearning, and compassion I cannot describe, remembering how much anguish it is possible to bear and yet to live. It is like a terrible secret only known to the like of me, and that only experience can tell. Two of the saddest things in the world, I think as I go slowly on towards Malaga, are the griefs that come unawares on some of us, seeming to sweep away our very lives, or to leave behind but a dull, half-scared remembrance of them; and the happiness that is within the reach of others, and yet they will not grasp it, and yet they let it slip, or some silly anger or pride or cowardice comes between, and one day they sit sorrowing all their lives for that which came and waited and then passed by, because they had not strength to hold it fast, and mere longing would not avail.

            The hotel at Malaga looks just as it did the day we arrived. The same beggars are round the door, the same boy peeps in and asks for cuartos. I enter, and see the same little room and dusty passengers; the same advertisement of a ship sailing to various ports seems to be on the walls. The man with the red moustache and mock gold watch-chain comes forward. He remembers me, and asks if I will go up to the salon; but I refuse, and sit down on a seat in the entrance-hall, beside some luggage which is about to be taken away. I ask for the maid, and am told that a lady engaged her this morning, that she is already on her way to Madrid. So this journey has been useless. I rest for a few minutes, and then rise to go back to the fly.

            Suddenly the name on the luggage before me catches my eye. I know it well. It fascinates me,—a wild suggestion rises up within my heart. I stand hesitating and afraid.

            ‘ Can I do anything for you, madam?’ the interpreter asks. But I do not answer; only stand hesitating and afraid.

            ‘ Can I do anything for you, madam?’ the interpreter asks. But I do not answer; only stand staring at the name on the luggage.

            The master of the hotel sees me, and comes forward. ‘ Señora, are you waiting?’ he asks. ‘ Is there anything I may have the honour of doing for you?’

            ‘ The gentleman to whom that luggage belongs, is he here?’ I ask.

            ‘ He is there, señora—now coming down the stairs. In half and hour he starts for England.’

            I look up and see a tall, thoughtful-looking man. By his side there is a woman—his wife, I suppose. They are coming down the stairs together. I go up to them and speak. He hesitates, but I entreat; at last they turn back, and I follow them slowly up the stairs I know so well.

 

.         .         .         .         .         .         .

            An hour later and still I sit upstairs in the salon, thinking. The fly is waiting. The people in the Alameda walk up and down and sit beneath the trees. How strange it seems. They live in another world from the world I am in. Just now I crossed the bridge that divides them from me.

 

            Dr. George has professional rooms in Malaga. He may not be there, but if I could see him it would help me.

            It is like a dream, the coming downstairs, the getting into the fly, and the little drive through the Malaga streets. I watch the people as they pass—the young, who are waiting for what is to come: the old, who are thinking of what is gone. Ah, poor souls, have you all tasted sorrow? Do any of you know happiness? And the great lull in my heart, is it in any of yours too?

            Yes, Dr. George is in his consulting-room. He has just come in, and is sitting by a table, writing.

            ‘ Mrs. Keith!’ he exclaims. So odd the sound of my own name is, like a sound heard in one’s dreaming. ‘ Is there anything I can do for you? Is it anything about the maid?’ he asks.

            ‘ No, it is nothing about the maid. She is gone; it does not matter. Dr. George, the other night I was worn out and broken down. It was like a storm, and shook me; but I am better. Will you tell me—for I can bear it now—is Molly going to die?’

            He starts at the suddenness of the question. He looks at me, as if he wondered at my manner and at my voice, which is low and steady, but which betrays the great change that has swept over me.

            ‘ Don’t ask me,’ he says; ‘ it is better not to know;—I cannot bear to tell you.’ Every word seems wrung from him; he gets up and looks at me almost in dismay.

            ‘ Yes, please tell me. I must know, and I can hear it calmly now. Is Molly going to die?’

            ‘ She is very, very ill. She may get a little better, but—’

            ‘ But tell me. I must know,’ I say gently. ‘ Is she going to die?’

            ‘ I cannot tell you,’ he whispers, almost to himself.

            ‘ Yes, Dr. George, you must tell me,’ I say entreatingly; ‘ I can bear it. Is she going to die?’

            He gets up and puts his hands over his eyes for a moment. ‘ Oh, I cannot tell you,’ he says, ‘ but it is—it is hopeless.’

            I draw a long breath and wait—my own little child. ‘ And tell me,’ I ask, holding my breath, ‘ will—will she be long?’

            He understands. ‘ It cannot be long,’ he answers slowly, ‘ but how long no human being can say—not yet, I think; but I cannot tell you.’

            We stand silently together. There is a long silence, and then I speak again.

            ‘ I want you to do one thing for me, Dr. George.’

            ‘ I will anything—anything in the world.’

            ‘ Don’t tell any one; don’t let any one know,’ I plead. ‘ Let me bear it alone. I cannot if they all know; I could not bear them to look at her, and be sorry, and wonder if I shall live through it. Don’t let them know. Promise me you will not tell any one that—that she is going to die.’

            ‘ I will do anything you wish, but—’

            ‘ It is best,’ I answer. ‘ We all know our own strength and weakness. Let me bear it alone and in silence. Don’t speak to me about it again, unless it is necessary, and tell no one. Please do as I ask, doctor; it is the best thing you can do for me. Will you promise?’

            ‘ I promise you, if you wish it.’

            ‘ That is all. Dear Dr. George, I will never forget your kindness.’

            He puts out his hand. Something makes me hold it for a moment—just for one moment to hold on to a good man’s strength; it may strengthen me. It drops from my hands, and I turn to go, for Molly will be waiting. My little child—my own little child—I can bear it now;—I can bear it and be silent—for in my heart there is a secret.

            Half-dazed I drive back to Zahra, with strange eyes that see all things differently, with ears that hear all things in another tone;--drive back with a strange heart to the people who in a single hour have been put a whole world off, but still I shall see and hear and be with them. How altered it all is. Molly, my dear—my dear, whom I have loved so—I can bear it now.

            The fly stops at last, I cross the silent patio, and step by step climb the stairs to the sitting-room. May comes to meet me.

            ‘ Molly is asleep,’ she says. ‘ Did you see the maid?’

            I look at her for a moment, half-dazed, and then remember.

            ‘ No, I did not see the maid,’ I say. ‘ Will you go away, dear?’ I ask gently. ‘ I want to be alone with Molly. You won’t mind; I am very tired.’

            And then I go into the next room and kneel beside her, and put my face down into my hands and think it over.

            My little child, my dickie-bird. She seems to know that I am here, she opens her eyes and stretches out her arms. I take her in mine and hold her fast while we kiss each other with a long, long kiss—we two, who are alone in the world together. My little child, my little child—but I can bear it.

            We will not speak of this again. I have done with passionate tears and wild lamentations. It is coming; but it is not yet, and there are days to live—days in which we shall not be apart. We shall never be apart for a single hour again—never while she lives, never any more. There are kind people here who have been good to us—who do not know, and must not know. There are other lives than ours, and we may live a little bit in theirs before Molly goes—before the world ends, and Molly goes. Oh, my little one, my little one, the great storm is stilled, and I can bear it. I will say no word more about it—no word more, for I can bear it, my little child;—I can bear it.

 

 

 

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