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MRS. KEITH'S CRIME

 

 

CHAPTER XXVII

 

 

I SIT by the open window—this window by which I seem to have lived many lives in many worlds—and wonder if anything can be done. The expression on May’s face still shows that no olive branch will come from her. Nevertheless her scorn is dying away, and bitter disappointment is taking its place.

            Suddenly, with a start, I remember that in a few hours the Vincents will be gone. May is in her room packing, and where is Ralph? As if to answer the question, the sardine enters. He has a knack of being in the way when he is wanted.

            ‘ Brought you some papers,’ he says. ‘ How is Molly to-night; is she all right?’

            He nods at her while he speaks. I nod back; there is nothing to say.

            ‘ Your friend Bicknell downstairs is improving the shining hour by giving Nellie a lesson in Spanish. Suppose he thinks he can do it better than I can.’

            ‘ Where are they?’

            ‘ In the patio, half-a-dozen moths buzzing and banging about the lamp like anything. They don’t seem to mind them, though—too much absorbed, I suppose.’

            ‘ Why, Mr. Cohen, are you jealous?’ I ask, half amused at his manner.

            ‘ Not a bit; don’t think enough of him for that. Besides, he’s in love with the other girl, or was. Perhaps he’s altered his mind, or thinks he’d like a change.’

            ‘ I don’t believe that.’

            ‘ No, and I don’t really. Besides, Nellie wouldn’t look at him; don’t believe she’ll look at me, much less at him. Still, I think he and the other girl have had a quarrel. The Vincents go to Gibraltar to-night, and he stays here for another week. He looks rather sulky.’

            ‘ I dare say they’ll make it up, even if they have had a quarrel,’ I say, thinking it wise not to know too much.

            ‘ Of course they will,’ he answers; ‘ a quarrel doesn’t matter a bit—rather do them good. Some people want one occasionally to keep them in full swing. Like watering flowers to make them grow.’

            ‘ Perhaps a little quarrel with Nellie would be a good thing,’ I suggest.

            ‘ Oh no; that would be quite a wrong line with her. If she doesn’t like me now, she would take good care she didn’t if I made myself disagreeable; and if she does, she would only cry and fret and frighten herself—think it wouldn’t do to marry me, for fear I should make myself disagreeable constantly, beat her every day, turn her out of doors once a week, and that kind of thing.’

            ‘ Nonsense.’

            ‘ It isn’t nonsense at all,’ he answers. ‘ The line with her is just to be as pleasant as possible. When you get her, take care of her, go on being pleasant, and she’ll be all right.’ He looks at Molly and hesitates, then pulls out his watch. ‘ Fear I haven’t time now, but I read a story of Pedro the Terrible to-day,—about the oranges; do you know it? I thought it would just do to amuse Molly. I’ll come and tell it to her to-morrow.’

            ‘ Do; but I shouldn’t think that there is any story of Pedro pleasant enough to tell a child.’

            ‘ It has that little touch of practical humour that most Spanish stories have. These Spaniards beat us hollow at making their history picturesque. Poor beggar, I am always sorry for Pedro; he had a bad time when he was young. It doesn’t do to bully children—make them vicious when they grow up; they want to take it out of other people.’

            ‘ Yes. Mr. Cohen, will you give a little note to Mr. Bicknell for me? And hastily scratching  a few lines asking Ralph to come to me now or immediately after dinner, I send the sardine away with it.

 

 

            Will he come? That is the question I sit considering for the next hour; and if he does, what shall I say to him? But as yet there is no sign of him, no footsteps, no note. The daylight fades, and I put Molly to bed. I hear the dinner-bell ring at last, and know that he cannot come for some time. My dinner is brought in presently, and on the tray is a little note: ‘ Will to-morrow do?—R. B.’ I write back, ‘ No; to-night, and soon,’ and wait again trying to sing to Molly, but my voice fails, and then…oh, but it doesn’t matter; it is only the old story…the church bell rings out; it is nine o’clock, at half-past May is coming. I go to the window and look out.  A starry sky and a still sea. Far off there is a light on the water; perhaps it is the ship that is to take the Vincents to Gibraltar. It looks like a living thing, waiting and watching for those it is to carry away. A gitana goes by; I can see through the darkness the redness of the handkerchief round her head. She is walking with some crone veiled with the old-fashioned mantilla; she looks like an evil spirit leading the girl away. But that is nonsense; probably she is only taking care of her. Young Andalusia is not slow to see the sparkle in a gitana’s eyes. There are two striplings passing now, they look like students; perhaps they have come for a little holiday. They pass by, smoking and humming cachuchas. They must be students, or they would not be so merry. Suddenly there is a voice.

            ‘ Maggie! Behind me stands Ralph, looking handsome and tall and manly. ‘ I believe you live out of window like a bird in a cage,’ he says, laughing. ‘ Well, what is it you want to see me so particularly about?’

            ‘ Ralph, the Vincents are going to-night,’ I say, speaking before I have considered how it will be best to begin.

            ‘ I know that,’ he says.

            ‘ Oh, but, Ralph, you can’t let May go like this. You cannot be so cruel.’

            ‘ What do you know about it? Has she told you?’ he asks, angry is a moment.

            ‘ She could not hide it; besides, the Vincents told me, and every one in the hotel must see that something is wrong. Mr. Cohen does, I know.’

            ‘ Well, I can’t help it; it is not my fault.’

            ‘ But, Ralph, you won’t let her go like this?’

            ‘ What nonsense!’ he exclaims. ‘ You had better leave this matter alone, Maggie. We know what is best for ourselves. The fact is, we are not suited to each other, and there’s an end of it. Please don’t let us talk about it any more. What did you send for me for?’

            ‘ I sent for you for that,’ I say. ‘ I wanted to try and set matters right. You are being very cruel to her; by-and-by you will find that you have been cruel to yourself too.’

            ‘ You must leave this matter to me,’ he says. ‘ I have made up my mind about it, and really must know best. Besides, she seems to be very content. She wished me good-bye a quarter of an hour ago without the least regret.’

            ‘ It was all put on.’

            ‘ How do you know that?’

            ‘ I do know it; every one who has been you together knows it. I think she is too good for you, Ralph,’ I say, half indignantly.

            ‘ Thank you. Then there’s nothing more to be said.’          

            ‘ And is it all over?’ I ask, feeling that I have done no good, but perhaps the contrary.

            ‘ Yes, it is all over. I would rather not talk of it any more. How is Molly?’ But I cannot answer, I am so sorely disappointed. He waits for a moment, then he asks again, turning as he speaks a little way towards the door as if to go downstairs, ‘ How is Molly?’

            Perhaps it is the excitement or the disappointment; I do not know, but I burst into tears and exclaim, ‘ Oh, Ralph, she is going to die, and it breaks my heart.’

            He comes back and looks at me, half in doubt, as if he wonders whether I know what I am saying. ‘ Die! What do you mean? Is she worse?’

            ‘ Yes. Not worse to-day, but she has been getting worst these last few weeks, and she is going to die.’

            ‘ How do you know?’

            ‘ I have known it since the day I went to Malaga, but no one else knows except the doctor and his brother. There is no hope—none—none. This is the first time I have spoken of it except with the doctor. It is this that makes me so anxious about you and May. I am so miserable; there is nothing more in this world for me, but I cannot bear to think of sorrow for others; and for May—that sweet May—’

            He walks up and down, and says nothing; then he stops in front of me, and asks, ‘ Does May know?’

            ‘ About Molly? That you are here? She does not know either. I would not tell her about Molly for the world, poor child. I made the doctor promise to tell no one. It would be doing no good to tell people, and I could not bear them to look at her and be sorry, to know that they were sorry, and all that. I should only break down.’

            ‘ Why don’t you try and get to England?’

            ‘ It is too late; I must go back alone.’

            He walks up and down for a few minutes, then he stops. There is something soft enough in his voice when he speaks. ‘ Are you quite sure, you poor thing; are you quite sure?’

            ‘ Yes, Ralph, quite.’

            He looks at me, a long look with all the memories of years in it; it tells me more than any words could tell of what is in his heart.

            ‘ Maggie,’ he says, and hesitates for a minute and looks at me again, while I know that we are both thinking of bygone days once more, of the broken fence, of the path through the copse, and the laurel bank at the end of the gate. ‘ What sorrow you have had,’ he says gently: ‘ I can hardly believe that you are the merry little girl I romped with years ago.’

            ‘ Don’t think of me,’ I say; ‘ only tell me about May.’

            He hesitates again. ‘ What do you want me to do?’ he asks slowly.

            ‘ I want you to make it up, and not to quarrel any more, if you care for her; if you don’t, then you are right to break it off, but not otherwise. Oh, dear Ralph, don’t do it—don’t play with your happiness so; it will never come again, perhaps.’

            ‘ I don’t believe she cares,’ he says.

            ‘ She does; she loves you dearly.’

            ‘ Did she tell you so?’

            ‘ Yes, she did,’ I answer, for I know that May was not ashamed of loving him, till this wretched quarrel arose.

            ‘ I am sure I love her,’ he says honestly. ‘ I never cared a straw for any other woman. I can’t think how it is we make such fools of ourselves, but we always do;’ then he begins to laugh, and he looks so manly as he speaks his words out frankly that I understand how it is he has subdued poor May so entirely. His conscience pricks him, I think, at the sound of his own laughter, for he asks me about Molly again.

            ‘ But don’t tell May,’ I say; ‘ it can do no good; it would only distress her. Don’t let her know till the end comes. I should not like her to be sorry any longer than we can help; it is no use piling up the sorrow in the world.’

            ‘ No,’ he says, ‘ it is no use. I won’t tell her; it would only distress her, as you say. But I shan’t see her again; I have said good-bye. I will write to her at Gibraltar.’

            ‘ Oh no, Ralph; make it up before she goes to-night.’

            ‘ I don’t believe she cares much, or she wouldn’t be so provoking.’

            ‘ She does,’ I say eagerly. ‘ There has never been any one else in the world for her but you—she told me so; and Mrs. Vincent said that only a great love satisfied only happiness—and there will be none for her without you—would prevent her life from being tragic.’

            ‘ It shan’t be tragic if I can help it,’ he says. ‘ Dear child, I am as fond as possible of her. Why, she’s as good as gold; it is only that she will contradict one,’ he laughs, ‘ and be obstinate and provoking.’

            ‘ But you would not like a quiet, tame woman, Ralph: any man can win a woman who never thinks, who is never self-willed and obstinate.’

            But before he can answer there is a knock. It is May, to wish me good-bye. I cry ‘ Come in,’ and without any apology fly into the next room. I watch them for a moment through the half-open door.

            She gets two steps into the room before she sees him. She is very pale, and it is evident that she has been crying. She wears her traveling dress, and carries her hat in her hand.

            ‘ I did not know you were here,’ she says gently to Ralph; ‘ I came to say good-bye to Mrs. Keith. I didn’t know you were here,’ she repeats.

            ‘ May, I have been very unkind to you, and very unjust. Will you forgive me?’ he says, going forward.

            She looks at him in surprise. She did not expect this; she can hardly believe her ears.

‘ Unkind, Ralph? no’—but she cannot tell the untruth—‘ Yes, Ralph dear, you have been unkind, but of course I forgive you,’ she answer gently; she does not look as though she meant or expected to make it up.

            ‘ And won’t you take me back? I know I have been a brute to you, but won’t you make it up? we won’t quarrel any more, dear.’

            I go and stand by Molly’s side; it would be mean to watch them longer.

            She is silent for a minute, and then she cries out passionately, ‘ Oh, you can’t care, Ralph; you can’t love me at all,’ and bursts into tears.

            There is silence for a minute, but I know somehow that he has taken her in his arms and is kissing her tears away. I kneel down thankfully to rest my face on Molly’s hand—my little sleeping Molly’s hand.

            ‘ I do care,’ he says; ‘ I care for you more than for anything else in the world. I wish I could make you understand at once and for ever, that, no matter how disagreeable I am, I love you more than anything else in the world, and that nothing will ever make me change in that.’

            ‘ You may be as disagreeable and—and as unkind too as you like, if that is only true. I want nothing else in the world.’

            ‘ You silly child! There, but I am not half good enough for you; Maggie told me that just now, and it’s quite true.’

            ‘ It’s not a bit true,’ she laughs.

            ‘ Well, we won’t begin to quarrel again,’ he answers; ‘ and now is it all made up?’

            ‘ Yes, it’s all made up!’ she cries, with a ring of happiness in her voice that brings the tears to my eyes; ‘ it’s all made up, only I can’t believe it.’

            ‘ Then we’ll call Maggie—Maggie!’

            ‘ Oh, Mrs. Keith, I believe you did it on purpose,’ May says, as I come in; and she laughs again, then putting her arm round my neck, she begins to cry.

            He looks at her, half puzzled and half ashamed, remembering how disagreeable he has been. ‘ A greater goose I never knew,’ he says, but there is a little tremble in his voice.

            ‘ I don’t care what you call me now,’ she says, beginning to laugh again.

            Then I shall call you a dear child, for you are one. And now I shall go and pack up; I can’t trust you out of my sight any more. But stay; there is José outside—he’ll do it.’ And he goes to the door. ‘ Here, José,’ he says to the lazy old man half asleep at the end of the passage, ‘ go and pack up everything in my room, get my bill, and put all my luggage with the Señor Vincent’s. There are only ten minutes, and so, perhaps,’ for he suddenly remembers the country he is in, ‘ you will do me the great favour to put your worship’s self into a hurry. Well, miss,’ he says to May, ‘ are you ready? We ought to be going.’ He looks at her hand, which is on my shoulder; she follows the direction of his eyes.

            ‘ Where is my diamond ring?’ she exclaims. ‘ Give it me back; I long for it so.’

            ‘ Your diamond ring?’ he laughs.

            ‘ Yes, my diamond ring,’ she cries. ‘ Oh, thief! where is my dear ring?’

            He laughs again, and pulls it slowly out of his pocket. ‘ You threw it back at me,’ he says.

            ‘ I know I did, but  I never will again,’ she says; and he puts it on, and she kisses it just as she kissed the place where it had been the day she showed me it was gone.

            ‘ We must go, I fear,’ he says regretfully.

            She clings to me, loth to say good-bye. ‘ My dear, my dear,’ she whispers, ‘ I shall never forget you while I live. I should have died to-night, I think, but for this;’ and with many loving words she leaves go at last. Ralph takes my hand and hesitates.

            ‘ Good-bye,’ he says; ‘ we shall meet—’ but he remembers and stops. ‘ I shall write to you,’ he says simply, and wrings my hand. ‘ God bless you, dear.’

            I can’t bear to see them go, and yet follow them to the door.

            He looks back for a minute. ‘ I shall marry her out of hand,’ he says, ‘ then I shall keep her in order properly.’

            ‘ Yes, do,’ I answer.

            ‘ But perhaps I shall object to being married out of hand,’ she laughs; ‘ and you won’t be able to keep me in order, Ralph; I am sure you won’t.’

            ‘ I’ll try,’ he says. ‘ I am afraid you’ll be a handful; but never mind.’

            And so they go downstairs together, laughing and chattering, this last night, just as they did the first night they came to see me. It is like the ending of a circle, as most things seem to be, not always at the time as this does, but in the after-days when we remember and look back.

 

 

 

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