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MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIII

 

 

MOLLY is worse; I can see that plainly. She does not talk much or laugh any more, but quietly sleeps her time away, while I sit still beside her and doze too.

            The Vincents have been gone a week. Nellie Josephs and Mrs. Walters have been very kind to us, but to-morrow they too will be gone. The American came to finish his picture yesterday, and Mr. Josephs and his daughter, from sheer loneliness, asked if they might come and watch him paint. The sardine of course followed them. I thought the sound of their talking would drive me mad; it would if it had gone on much longer. I was so tired of seeing the group of beggars painted, so tired of all the talk about me, so tired of the abuse of this poor land. After all, the sun shines, and the orange trees are here, and the Moors have left compensation behind them for many things one has to undergo in the country for which they did so much. I have grown fond of the place, and the constant abuse of it fret and worries me.

            ‘ It is a strange thing,’ Mr. Walters said, as he put the finishing touches to his picture,

‘ but if you were to turn everything out of Spain but the things that have been brought into it by foreigners, you would find nothing left but the beggars’

            ‘ And the memory of the Inquisition,’ said Mr. Josephs.

            ‘ The Spaniards built the cathedrals, did they not?’ Mrs. Walters asked.

            ‘ The best ones are the mosques done up to order, and the others are imitated from the Italian,’ the sardine informed her, triumphantly.

‘ Did you enjoy the pictures at Madrid, Mr. Walters?’ Nellie asked. ‘ They must

have compensated you for many things.’

            ‘ Well, I was disappointed. Velasquez was not bad as a portrait painter; still, I was disappointed. As for Murillo, I never want to see any more of him while I live. He has painted enough Madonnas with babies in their laps to set up every country in the world with a Christianity of its own. I am of opinion that, as a rule, the work of the old masters is overrated.’

            Oh, if they would only leave off talking and go away, I thought. I sat and listened to them till I was dazed with it and foolish, till I could have cried. It was not the sardine who worried me, or quiet little Nellie; it was Mr. Josephs, in black clothes, with his rather corpulent body, his air of prosperity, his satisfied face, with the dark, short-cut whiskers and slightly bald head, and the big diamond badly set in yellow gold on his little finger. I can’t tell why it was that he worried me so, but he did, and Mr. Walters too; I counted the minutes to the finishing of that picture. Even the little click of his wife’s needle worried me. I wanted to be alone with my child—alone—alone; I must and will be alone.

            Mr. Josephs and Nellie went downstairs at last, and Mr. Walters began talking to the sardine.

            ‘ I am very sorry to part so soon, Mr. Cohen,’ he said. ‘ Meeting you and your friends here has been a privilege I shall remember for a long time. If you should visit our country, I hope we shall come across each other again: there are many things in which we sympathize.’

            ‘ Thank you. Pretty sure to go to America some day. Shall look you up. By the way, there was that little picture of yours; am sorry we couldn’t agree about it, but I can’t afford works of art. It’s a nice little picture, quite worth thirty pounds, and I am glad you didn’t take the twenty. I don’t mean to give over ten pounds for anything at all for the next few years. It is a nice little thing, and you will get a good price for it at home.’

            Mr. Walters went on with his work in silence for a few minutes. ‘ Well, I know it’s nice,’ he said slowly. ‘ I am sorry it is not going to you. The money doesn’t matter. I’m pretty lucky about selling, and there’s a dealer who’s ready to sweep off all I have not time to get rid of myself; but I should have liked to think that you hadn’t missed it.’

            ‘ Yes, I am sorry,’ the sardine said; ‘ but it does not do to let your feelings carry you away. Make a point of checking my feelings.’

            Mr. Walters went on painting in silence again; when he looked up there was a twinkle in his eye.

            ‘ I’ll tell you what, Mr. Cohen—I should be sorry for you not to have it. I couldn’t have taken twenty pounds; it wouldn’t have been fair to the picture, and I make a point of treating good honest work with consideration, no matter whether it is my own or another person’s. But I have thought of a way in which we can tide over this difficulty with satisfaction to us both. If you’ll accept it as a present from me I shall be proud, and you can hand over that ten pounds to my wife as a present to our baby at home. I shall like to think that you have the painting, and my wife, she will like to know that the baby has such a handsome present as ten pounds, and that will settle it comfortably all round.’

            ‘ All right,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘ I saw the picture in the patio, so I’ll carry it off. May as well settle up at once, and then it will be done with.’ He pulled out a pocket-book, and handed a note to Mr. Walters. ‘ Tell the baby to have a good time with it,’ he said. ‘ I must go and look after the others now; they’ll want a walk or something,’ and the sardine went off, looking as if he were not in the best of humours.

            ‘ Well, that was a lesson for you and me, Mrs. Keith,’ Mr. Walter said. ‘ If I had closed in with the transaction first offered, I should have been ten pounds better off. I ought to have remembered with whom I was dealing. There’s a proverb in Malta, I’ve heard, to the effect that the Jew can’t live there because the Maltee is too much for him, but it strikes me that it’s about the only place in the world where he doesn’t get the best of it.’

.         .         .         .         .         .         .

            This morning Mr. and Mrs. Walters went away. They lingered round Mr. Josephs to the last moment, hoping to b offered a passage in the Flying Dutchman, but the hope was vain. Mr. Josephs heard all their compliments, listened to all their longings, agreed that they were quite right to like journeying by sea better than by land; but the invitation went to the sardine, not to the artist. So Mr. and Mrs. Walters regretfully enough started by the rattling omnibus to Malaga. I watched them pass the corner of the street, and thought, as I saw the piled-up baggage, of all the little worries before them.

            This afternoon Mr. Josephs, his daughter, and the sardine ride to Malaga on the bony backs they have ridden every day since they came. At Malaga the Flying Dutchman awaits them Perhaps it will all come right for the sardine. I do not know; I cannot trouble more about any one save Molly, not even about the friend who has been so good to us.

.         .         .         .         .         .         .

            I have had so good a sleep that it has made me feel half strong again; and Molly too is better, but she shakes her head when I ask her to get up.

            ‘ I want to lie still, dear mummy,’ she says. ‘ When is Mr. Cohen going to tell me about the king and the oranges?’

            ‘ I do not think he will be able to tell you about them, my darling. He is going away to-day, but I will tell you anything you like.’

            ‘ Dear mummy,’ and she doses off again.

            The sardine comes in to spend his last half-hour at Zahra with me. I pull myself together, and, reproaching myself for the apathy that has overtaken me lately, try hard to be bright and lively for this last little talk with him. To the sardine, I remember again, liveliness is the first of all virtues.

            He has done his packing; he wears his travelling clothes, and they have the effect of making him look taller than ever. He is very confident and pleased.

            ‘ Things have improved lately,’ he says. ‘ I think on the whole they are going pretty well. The Spanish was an excellent move—gave us so many excuses for being together. She’s a dear little thing. I really think she’s coming on a bit.’

            ‘ Yes, I think she is too,’ I say, and realise that there are few things left in the world that have power to please me so much as the thought that he will be happy.

            ‘ Very glad you think so. I believe you have put in a good word for me and now and then. Something she said let it out. Very good of you.’

            ‘ It wasn’t at all good.’

            ‘ Oh, yes, it was,’ he contradicts. ‘ After all, I don’t think I shall be a bad sort to her.’ The sardine is always a little vain and satisfied when he sees his way to the prosperous side of things. ‘ She shall have everything she wants, do just as she likes—that is, as far as possible, you know. She’s a nice little girl; just do for me all round.’

            ‘ I think Mr. Josephs likes you,’ I say.

            ‘ Think he does. He’s not a bad sort either.’

            ‘ Of course he knows what may happen if he takes an eligible young man for a voyage with his daughter on board.’

            ‘ Oh, he’s all right,’ the sardine says quickly.

            ‘ Have you said anything to him?’

            ‘ Yes, I have,’ he answers, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘ I couldn’t go sailing under false colours, so I told him just how it was.’

            ‘ You didn’t tell him that she had refused you?’

            ‘ Yes,  I did;’ he nods, but his colour comes. ‘ You see, I don’t believe in caring for a woman round a corner. If you’re ashamed of it, better leave it alone; if you are not, what is the good of making secrets, unless, of course, it’s going to help? I asked the old fellow not to tell Nellie he knew, because girls have to be managed, and all that, and they don’t like to think that their relatives are plotting and planning and approving before they are asked. But that’s all. I am not ashamed of loving her; it’s the best thing I ever did in my life.’

            ‘ I think she ought to be very proud of you,’ I can’t help saying.

            ‘ Oh, that’s all nonsense. Perhaps she will be though,’ he adds, on second thoughts. After all, he is only vain of himself in a manly fashion that does not offend one much. ‘ But I’m prouder of loving her than of anything else, and don’t care who knows it, as far as knowing it doesn’t mull matters. If she won’t have me, that’s my bad luck, and I must wait till  find some one else as good, or put up with some one else worse, and not make a fuss.’

            ‘ I think she will have you.’

            ‘ You can never be sure,’ he says, some doubts suddenly overtaking him; ‘ you can never be sure of a woman. I thought I was getting along all right yesterday, so tried on a little bit of nonsense, and got back for my pains. However, I’ll do my best. I told her all about the little place in Wales this morning. That seemed to fetch her a bit.’

            ‘ Have you got a place?’ I ask.

            ‘ Oh yes. Jolly little place, with a queer little tower in which the bees swarm every summer, and sting you if you don’t look out. It is ten miles from everything; lots of ground, flowers, grow our own cows—’

            ‘ But is it not very quiet for you, Mr. Cohen?’

            ‘ No; rather like it, for a bit. It’s a fishing-box. There’s a lake at the end of garden; but I never fish—too fiddling for my taste.’

            ‘ What is the good of the lake if you never fish?’

            ‘ Does for a morning dip. Then there are two or three boats; if we get a lot of people down we can go on the water all day.’

            ‘ It sounds very nice.’

            ‘ Do you like punting, Mrs. Keith?’

            ‘ I never did any. Is it very pleasant?’

            ‘ Very—excellent exercise—I mean to do some this years; have a punt on purpose. You shall come and stay with us if we’re married, and we’ll go mooning about all day long.’           

            ‘ Yes, we will,’ I answer doubtfully; and he goes on, pleased enough, as usual, to state his views.

            ‘ I like to see a punt—nice little woman at one end, white frock, straw hat, blue ribbon round it, open book on her knees;  big man at the other end, walking up and down like a lunatic, sticking his long pole in, pulling it up again, making the punt bound along like anything; cows in the meadows looking on with admiration. That’s the programme. I wish you were coming back with us; I do indeed.’

            ‘ It’s too soon.’

            ‘ You’ll follow us up before long, though, I hop,’ he answers.

            ‘ Yes, perhaps.’

            ‘ And don’t give in. There’s no use in giving in. She’ll get better; she doesn’t look well just now, I know, but she’ll get better,’ he says kindly. ‘ Don’t be downhearted; I can’t bear to think of you fretting and making yourself miserable.’

            ‘ Don’t think of it, then,’ I say, trying to laugh. ‘ I want to be brace; to be a credit to you—’

            ‘ All right,’ he interrupts; ‘ you mustn’t ever think of that,’ for he knows what I mean.

‘ She’s such a nice little chick,’ he adds; ‘ can’t I have a look at her, and say good-bye? I won’t disturb her.’

            He walks into the next room, and stands by the bedside silently looking at her; then he stoops and kisses her little hands. ‘ Do you think it will wake her?’ he whispers, and I shake my head. She opens her eyes, looks up at him with a smile, but she does not offer to move. He stoops and kisses her tenderly, and when he lifts his head there are tears in his eyes. I know what he is thinking, and what he has seen written in Molly’s face. He follows me back into the sitting-room.

            ‘ I would give ten-thousand pounds to save her,’ he says. ‘ But cheer-up—don’t give in yet; there’s never any knowing.’ He hesitates for a few moments, as if he could not bring himself to take leave. ‘ Nellie’s coming to say good-bye,’ he says; ‘ you must think of us sometimes, and wish me good luck.’

            ‘ And good luck to her too, for it will be good lick to get you, dear Mr. Cohen,’ I say, and so it will.

            ‘ Oh no,’ he answers, shaking his head; ‘ but she shall have a good time if it all comes right—I’ll take care of that. I say, can’t you come down to the door and see us off? then we needn’t say good-bye now,’ he asks, as if anxious to put off saying the last word.

            ‘ Yes, I will.’

            ‘ That’s right. I’ll go and look after my traps. We shan’t get another word together, but I’ll drop you a line if things go all right. I wish we were not going to look out for the amiable relation, Mrs. Greenside, at Bordeaux. However, I shall have had my innings before then, if I am ever to have any luck at all.’

 

 

            Nellie Josephs looks fair and pretty in her riding-habit.

             ‘ I am going to see you start,’ I tell her, ‘ so we will put off our good-bye.’

            ‘ Yes,’ she answers, ‘ but I should like to see Molly.’ She and Molly whisper and talk together, and when they have finished she puts he arms round my neck; ‘ dear Mrs. Keith, I shall long to see you again,’ she says. ‘ You have been so good to me, I owe you more than you think.’

            ‘ What shall you say to him?’ I ask.

            She looks away from me, a little half-frightened smile hove about her mouth, but for answer she only puts up her pretty hands to caress my untidy hair; and I wisely ask no more questions. We go down the dusty stairs, and wait beneath the palms while Mr. Josephs gives directions and lingers about, like the rich man, confident of having paid well for all he wants to be done, and determined that it shall be done or he’ll know the reason why.

            ‘ Nellie,’ he says, as if he wanted them out of the way, ‘ you and Cohen had better go on ahead; I’ll soon overtake you.’

            The sardine gives a business-like assent, helps Nellie into her saddle, and slips on to his own horse in a second. He looks back at the street and over at the café. I know that he remembers the piano we have all mechanically listened to so often. He looks up at the hotel, which he will never forget, for much of his own history is bound up with it. He calls out to this future father-in-law, ‘ All right, you’ll overtake us; here we go,’ and wrings my hand. ‘ Keep up your courage; she’ll get well, and when you come back we’ll go punting in Wales,’ are his last words to me. Nellie cries, ‘ Good-bye again, Mrs. Keith; kiss Molly once more for me,’ and then they start. I shade my eyes with my hand and watch them. Farther and farther they go long the roadway, between the hedges of prickly pears and esparto grass and sugar-cane; their horses swerve apart, and then draw close together. They stop and look round; I go out into the road. I think they recognise me, for they wave their handkerchiefs. I wave mine back, and happily they cannot see the tears that are on my face. They go on quickly, the next moment a bend in the road and some rising ground have hidden them from sight. They are gone. Oh, good friend and brave heart that helped me and cheered me in my sore distress, my tender manly Jew, he is gone. I see the omnibus from Malaga coming round the curve, the straggling, bony horses trying to hurry forward. They have seen my friends since I saw them, and I look at them longingly. A water-carrier draws up on the other side of the way, and arranges the green boughs about his water-cask; he does not know or care that they are gone. Oh, what a world it is, deaf here and blind there; but may the sunshine be beyond for you, my dears, and all the days be bright.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

 

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