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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII

 

DR. MURRAY has come back. He arrived last night; and this morning Dr. George brings him to see Molly. My heart sinks a little as he enters; and, in spite of an evident desire to show some kind of sympathy, his manner is even colder than on the day we first met him. Still, as I felt then, he produces a confidence in his power that is perhaps an unwilling one, but that never wavers. Probably it is because you feel that he is a man to be carried away by no enthusiasms, to be governed by no emotions; but who stands hard and fast by his principles and the letter of his duty, who takes any amount of trouble to arrive at his conclusions, and makes no statement that he is not prepared to back with all his professional reputation. It is a different kind of skill from his brother’s—a skill that has little perception in it, but almost mathematical accuracy. There is no comfort to be had from him; but a single word from him, good or bad, would be heavily weighed with hope or fear, for it would not be uttered without almost absolute certainly behind it. It is good for me to be under his eye, for he controls me. I should never break down before him, or dream that compassion had softened anything he might conceive it to be his duty to tell me. Moreover, there would be no disputing his authority, no chance of escape from his strong will. I have a vague fear of him as of one who may some day conceive it to be his duty to do some fearful thing, against which there will be no appeal; but I face him calmly, and speak of Molly’s condition without a quiver in my voice. He looks at her carefully with keen, professional eyes. There is no need to ask what he thinks; it is evident that he agrees entirely with what his brother has told him about her. He looks at me questioningly. I almost shrink from his gaze, but my voice does not betray my fear of him.

            ‘ My brother tells me you have fretted a great deal about your child,’ he says.

            ‘ It has not been possible to help it.’

            He is silent for a minute, as if considering what to say. ‘ There is one thing in which I always think we may imitate the Spaniards with advantage—the dignity with which they accept the inevitable.’

            ‘ I know; I shall not fret any more; it is over, and I can bear it.’

            ‘ Have you always been delicate?’ he asks.

            ‘ No. I am only worn out; but I shall be better soon—when my thoughts are accustomed to what is coming.’

            ‘ I expect you are too much in this room. You must get out into the sunshine; at any rate you can get down to the patio and sit there.’ Then I remember to tell him that the piano has been a great comfort; he looks pleased, and hopes I will go on thing I can do for you,’ he adds. ‘ My brother will probably go to England almost immediately. He is very anxious to stay here, but there is an excellent post waiting for him at home.’

            ‘ I shall be so sorry—’

            ‘ I think I shall stay at Zahra,’ Dr. George interrupts, as if he did not wish his prospects to be discussed.

            They insist on seeing us safe in the patio before they go, so Molly is carried downstairs, and in a few minutes we are beneath the orange trees and palms. Every one is out apparently, for we have the place to ourselves. Dr. Murray was right about the change, we are much better down here.

            Mr. Walters finds us presently, and shows some disappointment. He wanted to finish his beggars upstairs, but refuses to do so while we are here.

            ‘ I’ll do something else this morning,’ he says; ‘ it’s not likely those gentlemen opposite will inherit large fortunes and disappear from that portico just yet. I’m glad to find you downstairs, Mrs. Keith; you will have the place to yourself, for all the visitors are scattered about. I saw Mr. Cohen and Miss Josephs on one of the seats on the promenade just now, and by the look of them I should say they would not be back again just yet. Their conversation appeared to be very interesting to themselves, but whether it would be so to other people I did not get near enough to judge.’

            Perhaps the sardine is having his ‘shy’ at the little Jewess, I think, and I fear lest his suit should not prosper. An hour later, when he enters, his expression shows that I have guessed rightly. He tries hard to put a brave face on it, but he cannot hide his soreness.

            ‘ I am glad to find you alone, ‘ he says. ‘ It is the only bit of good luck I have had to-day.’

            ‘ Well, is it all over?’

            He gives a little nod. ‘ I got through pretty well, on the whole,’ he says. ‘ She’s a nice little thing, good little girl down to the ground—just what I have always thought her. She’s much too good for me, and that’s the long and the short of it.’

            ‘ What did she say?’

            ‘ Said she’d no idea of it. That lovely relation of hers, in fact, had told her I liked someone else, so the little girl hadn’t even thought of me for herself. Like my impudence to think of her; she’s much too for me. The tears came into her eyes when she shook her head. She has such pretty eyes. Ever look at them?’

            ‘ Cheer up. Perhaps she’ll say “Yes” next time, now that you have suggested the thing to her mind.’

            But the sardine shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘ Don’t believe I shall ever ask her again. Could feel that I wasn’t half good enough for her the moment I began.’

            ‘ I think you are quite good enough; quite—quite.’

            ‘ Oh no;’ and he shakes his head again. ‘ You have no idea what a nice little girl she is. I wonder what sort of a fellow she’ll marry? I hope he’ll be the right sort.’

            ‘ She’ll marry you,’ I say.

            ‘ Oh no,’ he says again, more sorrowfully than ever. ‘ She won’t have anything to say to me. I am just wasting my time.’

            ‘ I am so sorry.’

            ‘ It is a bore, isn’t it? Think I rather mulled things at the Alhambra. I got so mixed up about the Moors, didn’t care a bit for them, and she was rather disgusted.’

            ‘ I don’t suppose it is that.’

            ‘ It is a pity, for she wouldn’t have a bad time; I would have taken care of that. Such lots of things we might have done, and had no end of fun.’

            ‘ I suppose you ought to be getting back to England soon? You have business that will want your attention.’

            ‘ Oh, confound the business; it may do the best it can. Most important business of my life is here, if I had a chance.’

            ‘ You are quite right; it is.’

            ‘ Lots of beggars are so stupid in that way,’ he goes on, glad that I agree with him.

‘ They’ll work and worry their lives out to get an extra hundred a year, but only just give the odds and ends of their time to winning the woman they life, and are rather ashamed of giving them. Can’t think how it is they don’t see that getting a woman they want to spend all their days with is an important bit of business. Well, Molly!’ he exclaims, as with a sudden determination to change the subject, ‘ are you better?’ and he puts his finger under her chin just as he did in the railway carriage the day we left England.

            Molly looks up at him with wonder look in her eyes. ‘ I am so sleepy,’ she says, drawing back into my arms. I loosen my shawl to make a soft place among its folds for her head, and in a moment or two she has dozed off again.

            ‘ Is she any better?’ he asks.

            I try to answer, but my lops tremble, and no sound comes from them. I shake my head, and the tears are in my eyes before I manage to speak. ‘ No, she’s not better—not yet.’ I couldn’t bear to tell him.

            The sardine’s face grows soft and tender, as if with one pure strong love understanding of other loves had come more clearly.

            ‘ Don’t give in,’ he says, almost affectionately, holding out his hand to me. ‘ You have got along so far, don’t give in now. Perhaps she’ll get all right again when the spring comes. There’s never any knowing;’ and he grasps my hand and gives it a long, kindly shake. ‘ I shan’t believe in things any more if she—doesn’t get well after we have tried so hard to set her on her feet. But don’t be down-hearted; she’ll pick up again all right—’

            A door at the side of the patio opens, and Helen Josephs stands hesitating, with a book in her hand. The sardine jumps up when he sees her, and his face turns scarlet.

            ‘ Oh—I heard you were here alone, Mrs. Keith, so I thought I would bring my book and come and keep you company,’ she says awkwardly.

            ‘ All right, do come,’ the sardine says; ‘ I am going away. I thought you had gone out again,’ he adds, turning to Helen. ‘ Saw you setting out about half an hour ago.’

            ‘ I know; but a horrid little boy at the corner threw stones at me, and it made me so cross that I came back.’

            ‘ Little beast!’ exclaims the sardine, shaking his hand with an imaginary stick in it. ‘ Should like to catch old of him. Well, I suppose you ladies want to talk,’ he adds reluctantly.

‘ Got a nice book? After all, he cannot resist hanging about her while he can make an excuse to do so.

            ‘ Mr. Bicknell lent it to me. It is Spanish, and I wanted to try and learn a little; it is a very easy language.’

            He takes the book and looks at it. ‘ Lope de Vega’s “La Corona Tragica.” Well, that’s what I call giving a good bold jump into the middle of a literature, if you don’t know the language. Much too difficult. You ought to get something easy and let me help you a bit.’ The sardine is an excellent linguist, so he is not boasting. ‘ Wonder where he got this from? it’s not a lively work, or particularly new.’

            ‘ It was down here; he found it in one of the corners.’

            ‘ Perhaps some Spanish beggars left it behind. It’s the sort of thing they’d like,’ he says to me. ‘ All about Mary Queen of Scots, and how Queen Elizabeth let out at the Protestants. Just the sort of thing the Spaniards would pick out to read, though Lope de Vega wrote lots of other things, you know, with no swearing at Protestants in them at all.’

            ‘ I didn’t think you would know all about Lope de Vega, Mr. Cohen,’ she says, in surprise.

            ‘ I don’t,’ he answers eagerly, anxious not to get more credit than he deserves. ‘ I only know, of course, that he was a great swell and wrote all manner of things in an hour or two—two thousand comedies or something, didn’t he?—and that among other little rewards he was made Familiar of the Inquisition? A nice kind of reward that; shows the sort of thing these Spaniards love by way of amusement.’

            ‘ Yes, but that is more that two hundred years ago,’ she says, with a shudder.

            ‘ You see,’ he says, turning to me, ‘ we were one of the main props of the Inquisition, so we have an affectionate regard for its memory as an institution.’

            ‘ Have you read any other Spanish poets, Mr. Cohen?’

            ‘ No, I think not. A little bit of Calderon, I suppose. Oh yes, and there was another old gentleman, good deal older than Lope de Veda, who wrote a long poem about his young woman, who was dead. He carried about a lock of her hair, counted the hairs in it every day, wept over it and hung it up to dry.’

            ‘ Nonsense,’ she laughs.

            ‘ He did indeed, or he wrote a poem about someone who did. I’ll tell you his name in a moment;—it’s Garcilaso de la Vega. That’s all the Spanish literature I know,’ concludes the sardine, with great contentment; ‘ but I’ll learn some more, if you like, and give you lessons in Spanish. We might read some stories now, modern ones, much easier than that stuff—more lively;’ and he points to her book with easy contempt.

            ‘ Are you fond of reading?’ she asks.

            ‘ No; I rather hate it,’ he answers. ‘ But one must do a little sometimes.’

            ‘ Why do you hate it?’

            ‘ Always seems rather like waste of time,’ he answers; ‘ much better do your thinking for yourself than get it second-hand from books. Just as many things in the world to think about as ever there were, and a good many more. Too much reading only spoils one’s originality.’

            ‘ But so many wise men have thought things that have been of help and comfort.’

            ‘ Ah, that’s another matter. Better get help and comfort anywhere they turn up, no matter where it is; then of course there’s a good deal of—’ he looks at me and hesitates—‘ history and that sort of thing must be read up.’

            ‘ But poetry and all that—don’t you think it helps us to shape our lives?’

            ‘ A good healthy set of instincts does that, and you can adapt your instincts to the latest fashion of living, more than you can the poetry.’

            ‘ Why did you learn so many languages, if you don’t care for books?’

            ‘ Wanted to talk. It would be a bore to be in a country and have to hold your tongue because you had been too lazy to learn the language. Besides, I like to understand people and have dealings with them.’

            ‘ Mr. Bicknell is always reading,’ Miss Josephs remarks.

            ‘ Oh yes, I know; he’s that kind of beggar.’

            ‘ He’s very nice.’

            ‘ Yes.’

            ‘ And so kind. He took a great deal of trouble about my Spanish this morning.’

            The sardine flushes again, and makes a dash. ‘ So will I, if you like,’ he says. ‘ I didn’t know you cared about it.’

            ‘ I shouldn’t like to take up your time, Mr. Cohen,’ she answers demurely; ‘ and then, you don’t care for reading.’

            ‘ I’ll care for anything you like,’ he says. ‘ I’ll look about and see if I can pick up some novels.’

            ‘ But it’s so much trouble.’

            ‘ It’s no trouble at all, unless you would rather go on with Bicknell.’

            ‘ Oh no,’ she says, and looks a little awkward, evidently remembering that it is not two hours since she refused him. ‘ If you really don’t mind—’ she begins.

            ‘ I don’t mind anything; you know that,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘ I am afraid I have spoilt your chat with Mrs. Keith,’ he goes on, remembering me. ‘ I’ll get out of the way now.’

            She looks at me doubtfully when he is gone, as if wondering how much I know, and I am in doubt what to do. Nothing is so uncertain as a love-affair; abuse will sometimes do more than praise, silence than words. Almost without meaning it, I rush into the midst of things.

            ‘ Why did you refuse him?’ I ask her straight.

            She starts, and looks almost frightened. ‘ Did he come and tell you, Mrs. Keith?’

            ‘ Yes. He is a great friend of mine.’

            ‘ I know’ she answers quickly.

            ‘ You do not know what a good fellow he is, and what a true heart he has. Oh, my dear, I wish you could love him.’

            ‘ I never thought about him, Mrs. Keith; I was so astonished when he suddenly asked m to marry him.’

            ‘ He half expected—nay, quite expected—to be refused, I tell her; ‘ but he wanted you to know that he loved you. He has done so for a long time. He told me of it months ago now.’

            ‘ Oh no,’ she says, ‘ that can’t be—’

            I try to get up with the child in my arms, meaning to lay her where she can sleep more comfortably, but I stagger and almost fall back. Nellie comes quickly forward, and taking Molly gently from me puts her down on one of the low divans, covering her with a wrap, and putting some cushions round to keep her safe and cosy. She looks almost maternal as she does it, and yet she is very simple and girlish. Perhaps it is her womanliness and gentleness that have caught the sardine. ‘ It must be such a wonderful thing to have a little child of one’s own,’ she says. It is rather an odd remark for a girl to make, and the moment she has made it the blood rushes to her face, as if she had felt its oddness.

            ‘ Tell me why you refuse him,’ I say, as she comes back and sits down by me. ‘ He is such a good fellow.’

            ‘ I know he is good, but I never dreamt of him He never seemed like a man to fall in love with; he is too practical, and he looks rather old.’

            ‘ He is not more than two or three and thirty; but he does look a good deal older. And you, dear?’

            ‘ I am twenty-two.’

            ‘ And you look younger; you might be eighteen. I wonder you are not married already.’

            ‘ I was so much with my mother. She was ill for years, and we were never apart; till after she died I never saw any one but my father. When he was not yachting he was thinking of politics, or something in which he was particularly interested.’

            ‘ And that has been your life?’

            ‘ Yes, till last year. Last season I went about a good deal with aunt. My father wished me to go out, and to learn to receive people for him at home. You must come and see us when we are all back in London. You will, won’t you, dear Mrs. Keith?’

            ‘ Yes,’ I answer; ‘ when we are all back in London I will go to see you. But tell me about Mr. Cohen.’

            ‘ You seem so anxious about him, Mrs. Keith.’

            ‘ Yes, dear, I am; I will tell you why.’ For I do not see why she should not know how good the sardine has been to us. It may help to make matters right; I turn round and look at her face to see if she will understand, and am satisfied. ‘ I will tell you all about him,’ I say—‘ how good he has been to us, and how he first told me about you.’

            So I tell her of Molly’s illness, and the money troubles, the visit to Mr. Beecles, and Alice Grey; of my sending the telegram to the sardine; of his coming as fast as he could in a hansom, and of how that same afternoon he told me of his liking for her. She puts her hand softly into mine when I have finished.

            ‘ I did not think he was so tender-hearted,’ she says. ‘ Aunt used to say that he was slangy and vulgar, but I shall always think of that story, and look up to him a little bit in future.’ She stands hesitating, as if still thinking it over. ‘ I wish he didn’t look so lanky and so satisfied about things,’ she says with a sigh.

            ‘ I fear he is not very satisfied about things just now,’ I answer. ‘ But I suppose looks make a great difference to a young girl.’

            ‘ Unless she is very matter-of-fact.’

            ‘ Or a great idealist.’

            ‘ Oh, Mrs. Keith,’ she exclaims, ‘ don’t you think that the idealist above all people worships beauty, or, at any rate, wants something that can be idealised into beauty? I always think that if ever I marry I should like my husband to look like a hero as well as to act like one.’

            ‘ Just a young girl’s fancy,’ I answer. ‘ The matter-of-fact people, I suppose, merely want a certain number of qualities that will bear wear and tear to mate with, and, seeing that they get them, are satisfied.’

            ‘ And the idealist?’ she asks eagerly, so that I, remembering the yearning sound that are in her playing, wonder whether it is, after all, her own voice that unconsciously cries out in them, and not, as I have imagined, some strange one held prisoner in the music, just for a few moments finding expression.

            ‘ To the idealist, it does not matter, for he gives his love to the highest beauty—that beauty that raises all physical things to its own height.’

            ‘ But mere goodness is not beauty,’ she says. ‘ And oh! Mrs. Keith, what little things can master us.’

            I look up in surprise; I do not understand her. In this little girl there is something more than simplicity. I am silent, feeling that what the sardine’s chances are I cannot even guess, and that Fate is too big a thing to try to coax or play with.

            When she is gone, I sit and think it all over again. After all, perhaps, one chance is set on the way this afternoon. Say what she will, there is a beauty in goodness that speaks to the idealist’s heart, even when it is the longing heart of a girl; a beauty that, once recognised, will grow in the seer’s sight quietly and almost unsuspected, till nothing else is satisfying; and physical beauty, and scholarly lore, and all things stand aside and make way for their master.

 

 

 

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