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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV

 

 

IT is ungrateful and unnatural, but I am longing sadly for every one to go and leave me alone with Molly. The strain of seeing all these people, of talking and hearing them talk, or hearing them laugh and plan for future days, is sometimes more than I can bear. If they would only be happy and go away. Grateful? Yes, indeed, I am very grateful for all their kindness; but oh, if they would go. They do not any of them know how hopeless it is; they think she has had a bad attack, but is slowly recovering. ‘ The world is full of people who have been delicate children,’ Mr. Vincent remarked yesterday. They are sorry enough for her, but do not see, as my eyes do, the little change day by day, and all the signs that tell that the end is coming and is not very far away. If they would only go, if I might be alone, with only Dr. Murray’s keen eyes to watch, then I could bear it and be calm.

            But my wish will soon be accomplished; the ‘ Flying Dutchman’ is to be ready next week, and the day after to-morrow the Vincents go. It is hard to think of saying good-bye to May—to May, whose bright living presence comforts me more than I can say, and whose sympathy would be sweet enough had I the heart to ask it. But I would not tell her how things are for all the world, to dim her happiness even for an hour. It has been a comfort that we fell among these kind people; the few months have had both hope and happiness in them, but now I am longing for every one to go. I wan to be alone with Molly; to see no face and hear no voice but hers; to live each moment with never a thought or sign or sound of others to come between—that is the one desire of my heart.

            Meanwhile she is better, and a breath of comfort comes, and every time she is the least shade brighter, almost unknown to myself a ray of hope comes too, and lights up every moment till she is worse again. To-day she seems stronger and sits among the cushions, looking out of window, so I breathe gain and begin to think of May, and wonder why it is I have seen but little of May, and wonder why it is I have seen but little of her these last two or three days. Perhaps she is busy or taken up with Ralph, or thinks I have visitors enough. But her absence makes me uneasy, because of a word the sardine let drop yesterday; it strikes me that something may be wrong between her and Ralph. ‘ They cannot be so foolish,’ I think; ‘ and yet until they are safely married they will never be out of danger.’ At last, seeing that Molly is comfortable, I leave her for a moment, meaning to slip downstairs and see if May is in the patio, to bring her back for a while. Just as I open the door there is the sardine. I can send the message by him.

            ‘ Oh yes,’ he says, ‘ I’ll tell her. Should say she is sure to be somewhere about, if she isn’t ill, for she has given up going out with Bicknell this last day or two. Well, Molly?’ and he comes in, ‘ how are you, little one?’

            ‘ I am quite well,’ Molly answers, looking out of window.

            ‘ That’s right,’ he says heartily. ‘ I’ll buy you a big doll next time I see one.’

            ‘ May knows about the dolls,’ she answers.

            ‘ Is anything the matter with May?’ something makes me ask. ‘ You speak as if she had not been out lately.’

            ‘ She says she has headaches, and that sort of thing.’

            ‘ You are not very sympathetic, Mr. Cohen,’ I say, half amused at his manner.

            ‘ Oh yes, I am, only it always seems such a pity that women fritter away their constitutions in headaches and neuralgia, and all the rest of it, which, after all, don’t count for much. Be far wiser to have a good round illness with a fund-sounding name, and have don with it, as a man does when he’s about it—something really to be ill for, and to boast of when you are better.’

            ‘ But one can’t choose these things.’

            ‘ No, I suppose not; though there’s never any knowing what a woman can choose, or what she can’t choose, or anything else. I must go, Mrs. Keith. I’ll tell Miss Vincent you want her. Good-bye, Molly.’ A few minutes later May enters.

            I see in a moment that something has happened. She looks quite different; the happy light has gone from eyes, and something defiant has taken its place; there is an expression that is almost hard round her mouth, though it softens when she stoops to take up Molly.

            ‘ You thought I had forgotten you, dear Mrs. Keith, I know; but I had not, and was just coming to you when your message reached me.’

            ‘ I saw Mr. Cohen on the stairs just as I was going to you myself. He said you had had a headache.’

            ‘ Oh, it was nothing. Mr. Cohen is a wonderful person; he is always walking up and down stairs, or restlessly wandering about outside. Just now I believe he is cross because Nellie has been talking to Ralph.’

            ‘ Come and talk to me,’ Molly says, feeling that she is being neglected.

            ‘ Yes, I will, dear, for I must tell you something,’ she says, sitting down with Molly on her lap. ‘ Molly, this is nearly the last time I shall see you; only to-morrow and the day after to-morrow, then the great ship will com, we shall go away—right away, dear—but we shall see each other again in England.’

            ‘ But why are you going?’ asks Molly.

            ‘ Because my father and mother are going,’ she answers. ‘ I cannot stay behind, can I? You could not stay behind and let mother go, could you?’

            ‘ No, I never could,’ Molly says, shaking her head.

            ‘ And that is how it is with me,’ she answers—‘ that  is just how it is, Molly; but I shall write to you. I shall write you a long letter, to tell you all about my brothers and sisters, how the dolls are, and if the dolls’ house is still there on the top of the cupboard.’

            ‘ Why don’t the dolls live in the house?’ Molly asks.

            ‘ Because the house is too small and the dolls are too large, and so the poor house has no people to live in it, and the poor dolls have no house to live in.’

            ‘ Yes; do o on,’ Molly says eagerly.

            May hesitates for a moment, as if wondering what to say next; trying hard not to show that anything is the matter, she goes on. ‘ And the worst of it is,’ she says, ‘ the worst of it is, dear Molly, that the dolls will never grow any smaller and the house will never grow any larger, so that the dolls will always stay outside, and the house will never have any one inside; but when I write I will tell you some more.’

            ‘ Have you been crying?’ Molly asks suddenly, in the direct manner in which children go at things.

            ‘ Crying?’ she says, colouring; ‘ why should I cry?’

            ‘ I thought perhaps you had been crying because you were going away.’

            ‘ Perhaps I have,’ May answers. ‘ I am very sorry to go. It is  dear little place. Oh, Mrs. Keith!’ she exclaims, looking round at me, ‘ I shall be so sorry to go. I have been so happy here. Shall you cry when you go, Molly?’

            ‘ I don’t know,’ Molly answers vaguely; ‘ perhaps I shall if mother does.’

            ‘ You dear little thing, and do you always cry when mother does?’

            ‘ No, not always; but I always want to,’ Molly answers. ‘ What else shall you tell me about when you write?’ she asks.

            ‘ I’ll tell you about the woods and the primroses and the violets; they will all be blooming when we go home, and the daffodils—’

            ‘ And the snowdrops?’ asks Molly. ‘ We had some snowdrops in our garden once, but they died.’

            ‘ There will be no snowdrops when we go back,’ May sighs; ‘ they will all be over.’

            ‘ Poor snowdrops. There are tears in your eyes; are you crying for the snowdrops?’

            ‘ No, darling, not for the snowdrops;’ then she suddenly bursts into tears. ‘ I don’t want to go, Molly,’ she sobs. ‘ I have been so happy here with you and mother and every one; I don’t want to go and leave you all.’ She puts Molly down by the window again and comes over to me. ‘ Oh, Mrs. Keith!’ she exclaims, sitting down at my feet, ‘ I have so wanted to come to you these last few days, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to tell you about Ralph.’

            ‘ What about him, dear?’

            ‘ It’s all off—all off and ended for ever, and it will never come right again.’

            ‘ But why, and how?’

            ‘ Don’t ask me too much about it; I feel as if I can’t get over it. He doesn’t care for me—he doesn’t really. I ought to have felt and seen that long ago, only I have so trusted his few spoken words; I would have staked my life on them—I did,’ she cries passionately. ‘ But he doesn’t care; I think for one reason because he doesn’t choose to care; it is all over, and it will never, never come right again. See!—and she holds up her hand to show me that the ring is gone from her finger—‘ I gave it him back.’

            ‘ And he took it?’

            ‘ Yes. He had been quite different for day, perhaps it made me different to him. It seemed as if he was trying to show me that he didn’t care, and at last my pride took fire. Yesterday it came to a quarrel, and he said it was always the way, that we were not in the least suited to each other, and he thought it was a great pity that we did not recognise the fact. I thought he wanted to end it, so I took off my ring and threw it over, saying, “Perhaps you would like to have this back?” He said, “Thank you,” picked it up, put it into his pocket, and walked away; and since we have been just polite and formal, nothing more.’ She stops and looks at her finger. ‘ Oh, my dear ring, if I only had it back!’ she exclaims, kissing the place where it has been. ‘ I will never forgive him; it is all over, Mrs. Keith, but I shall never care for any one else—never while I live.’

            ‘ Why do you like him? I cannot understand why you care for him so much.’

            She considers for a minute or two, and when she looks up, her mouth is hard, but there are tears in her eyes again. She is an odd contradiction; and how pretty she looks, and how loveable.

            ‘ He has been all my life,’ she says, ‘ It is too late now to consider why it is—it is too late; but this is the end of it all.’

            ‘ Do you think he really cared for you all these years?’

            ‘ He told me so,’ she answers, ‘ I never dreamt of doubting him. He is a truthful man. Why should I? He must be weak and wavering, he cannot know his own mind,’ she says scornfully, ‘ and he may go. It all seems so foolish when I think of it that I hate myself for caring for him. But this is the end. I have made up many quarrels, but this one I will not make up.’

            ‘ But he will?’

            ‘ No, he will not,’ she says, and light seems to shoot from her eyes. ‘ He hasn’t it in him. I don’t believe he has the courage that is needed to take the first step. He would call it pride to himself,’ she adds scornfully; ‘ he would call it pride that makes him hold aloof. Let him call it what he likes. A man who loves a woman thinks nothing  too much to do for her, but he—Let him keep his pride, since he likes it best—he may go. He does not satisfy me any more; he is not good enough. I want something better to give my best love to. Oh, it is too humiliating to remember all the thing that I have said to him’—and she clasps her hands—‘ I meant them too, I meant them all. I thought there was no one like him on earth, but I shall never think it any more; I never can.’ She stops for a minute. ‘ Don’t let us talk of it,’ she says.

            ‘ But you are going the day after to-morrow; and he?’ I ask, thinking that she must love or hate him very much to be so scornful.

            ‘ He is going to stay here a week or two longer.’ She gets up suddenly. ‘ There, it is all over. Dear little Molly, I shall come and see you again to-night, perhaps, or to-morrow;’ with her head erect she turns to go, but in a moment she hesitates. ‘ Mrs. Keith,’ she says gently, ‘ I don’t think me unkind to Ralph, or unforgiving. I am not indeed. I have loved him all my life, just Ralph and no one else, and I shall never love any one else while I live; but I know now that he does not care for me, and I will never be anything to him again. While he cared I could have borne anything; but he does not, and I will bear nothing.’

            When she is gone I sit down by the window in dismay, wondering if anything can be done, and how it will end.

            Why is it that sane men and women will sometimes play so recklessly with their own and each other’s happiness? So few chances of happiness come to any of us. I do not think Ralph and May are of the type to whom many chances comes; they do not take things easily enough for that. Why will they let their little feelings govern them? And how will it end if they do not make up their quarrel? As far May, she will marry—she is not the sort of woman to remain single; but the world will never be the same for her if she misses the man of her heart; it is never the same again for any woman. She may marry from ambition, or from gratitude, perhaps, some good man who loves her over-well; or from the aching desire to make someone happy, to be of use in the world, to be the centre of a home in which all things shall be as bright and happy as hands and heart can make them; from a dozen other reasons, but for love—no! That chance comes but once to the woman who love best, if it ever comes at all. So much good love as there is in the world, given away, wasted, lived over in silence and in secret, and never a sign made and never a word spoken; good love and true that is a little shadow on all the bright days, that is an aching sorrow through all the long dark hours of sickness, till death comes and takes the unsatisfied life to itself. A terrible wealth of love has Death. Why will our foolishness so often grudge a fuller measure to life?

            Sometimes I think that Ralph is disappointed in life; that h is half ashamed to drain dry the commonplace joys and sorrows of every day. He seems to think that nothing he has yet discovered is important enough for so great a place as the world, for so wonderful a thing as his own consciousness. I watched him one day when we were all in the patio downstairs, reading the English papers. We could see into the room where the visitors sometimes sit. Mr. and Mrs. Walters were there, she working, as usual, at the delicate muslin, he trying to draw a portrait of her. Ralph looked at them anxiously from behind his paper. There was a certain dull disappointment written on his face, a dim conviction of the monotony of the ordinary lives of fairly well-to-do, well-educated people of the class to which he belonged. Was this all that life gave or promised to the majority, this pleasant even way, the smiles and tears and little cooings and petty vexations and illnesses, or the meeting and partings, which were all that he could imagine he future holding for these two people? Was this all that life had to give, or the splendid world to offer? Was it for them and the like of them with their little joys and sorrows that the world had gone on for so long, was going on for perhaps centuries and centuries yet? There were heights and depths, no doubt, great men and great deeds, but these did not make up the world; for all that they visibly affected the great majority, they might never exist at all. For ordinary folk there were the great plains and the straight paths, with sunshine here and shadow there, from birth to death. What was the good of it all, or worth to the individual to live? It seemed almost insulting that a man should be expected to accept life with these conditions. But there was no probability of Fate making an exception in her dull routine for him; the monotony, the even-going life, the quiet death, the well-regulated mourning, the certain forgetfulness—these were all that it would give him, all that it gave others. He was impatient with those others for being content with so little. It was odd how plainly all these thoughts seemed written on his face.

            I think now he is vexed with May for taking what seem to him but trifling things so seriously; he is vexed because she is so happy, so cast down, so piqued. He looks on at other people’s lives in a philosophic vein enough, and thinks that there is nothing worth stirring their pulses about. There is a certain narrowness about him, too. He is one of those men who do not understand natures different form their own, still less does he sympathise with them, and he has contemplated things so long from an outside point of view that few things touch him nearly; even his own vexations, after the first few moments, cease to make him smart; he contemplates them, too, from the point of view of an interested spectator. With all this, I believe that he loves May as much as he is capable of loving any one, but he has old-fashioned notions concerning women; he thinks that they should be submissive, not merely towards their husbands, but towards all men. He is not sure that they are not an inferior race—a race to be made much of in certain ways, and provided for and looked after, but at the same time distinctly a race to be controlled him, even tough they are in the right; he likes them to look up to him and obey him, not merely from affection or as a concession, but because he is a man, and therefore a superior authority. What was the good of it all, or worth to the individual to live? It seemed almost insulting that a man should be expected to accept life with these conditions. But there was no probability of Fate making an exception in her dull routine for him; the monotony, the even-going life, the quiet death, the well-regulated mourning, the certain forgetfulness—these were all that it would give him, all that it gave others. He was impatient with those others for being content with so little. It was odd how plainly all these thoughts seemed written on his face.

            I think now he is vexed with May for taking what seem to him but trifling things so seriously; he is vexed because she is so happy, so cast down, so piqued. He looks on at other people’s lives in a philosophic vein enough, and thinks that there is nothing worth stirring their pulses about. There is a certain narrowness about him, too. He is one of those men who do not understand natures different from their own, still less does he sympathise with them, and he has contemplated things so long from an outside point of view that few things touch him nearly; even his own vexations, after the first few moments, cease to make him smart; he contemplates them, too, from the point of view of an interested spectator. With all this, I believe that he loves May as much as he is capable of loving any one, but he has old-fashioned notions concerning women; he thinks that they should e submissive, not merely towards their husbands, but towards all men. He is not sure that they are not an inferior race—a race to be made much of in certain ways, and provided for and looked after, but at the same time distinctly a race to be controlled by the stronger one. He dislikes women who contradict him, even though they are in the right; he likes them to look up to him and obey him, not merely from affection or as a concession, but because he is a man, and therefore a superior authority.

            I have watched Ralph so many times these last few weeks, and wondered why May, with her bright nature and high spirit, loved him so much. And yet I do not wonder. There is about him a certain dogged uprightness, a stubborn truthfulness, a courage of many kinds, though in some of the finer intricate kinds he is deficient—a something that makes it easy to understand a woman loving him with all her heart. Perhaps his very faults make the love all the easier; no woman yet has loved a man right well who has not, almost unknown to herself, loved him all the better for finding that he was not perfect. The very uncertainty of his temper, of his ways, of his words, have made him all the more loveable to May perhaps, as they would to many others of her sex. The thing we cannot lose is seldom the thing we love best of all, and seldom will be while the world is full of tender, wayward women.

            If May were only a different type of woman I should be less sorry for her; if she were likely to grieve and forget, and to give her heart elsewhere. But this will never be. Mrs. Vincent was right in saying that only a great love satisfied would prevent her life from becoming tragic. The great love has been given in her case, and the end of the story is doubtful. She has been humble enough to him, right or wrong, a hundred times I know, for she has told me so; but a limit comes to all things, and it has come to her humility. She will not give in this time; there was something written on her face this morning which showed that. Men often think they  know women; yet so little they sometimes understand that, if at last she is roused, a woman can be cold and bitter and scornful, even while she loves best. The love is like a prisoner in a cell, seeing the things that are done outside it, but powerless to interfere.

            ‘ There is Mr. Bicknell, mummy dear,’ Molly says; and, looking up, I see Mr. Josephs and his daughter slowly pass the church opposite, talking to Ralph, who is with them. He sees us, waves his hand to Molly, and passes on.

 

 

 

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