MRS

MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

CHAPTER XXIX

DR. MURRAY told me to-day that it was a fortnight since the sardine and all of them went. I did not know. The days and nights slip and slip away, as the long miles slip away and cannot be counted when the weary traveller walk across the long moor, with only the darkness and the mist around, and no sign of light far on ahead to cheer and give him courage. These days that I have longed for—the days when we should be so thankful to be together and alone that we forget to-morrow—are going, and I can scarcely realize them, scarcely separate day from night, or the sunshine from the darkness.

I do not think she is worse; I cannot tell. She sleeps most of her time away—sleeps and dozes hour after hour, while the water-carriages drive by, and the bell rings out, clang,—clang,—clang.

Sometimes she is able to get up, and I dress her, with fingers sensitive enough still to the comfort of touching each thing that is hers. But when it is done, I have to call José, the old serving man, to lift her to the cushions in the next room; for I shall never carry her more—never more walk up and down the room with her, never again feel her head falling over my shoulder, or know that she is watching her own little face in the glass as we go to and fro. It is all over, over and finished,—there is only the end to wait for, and then for me there is the going home. I think sometimes of how my heart will stand still at the foot of the stairs, and my lagging feet half refuse to take me up to the nursery. The rocking-horse is in the nursery; I hear it sometimes when I doze and dream, and awake with a start to listen—swing, swing, swing, and then the little thud of the nursery floor.

It is strange, but the loneliness in this Spanish place—though I so longed for it—almost frightens me, now that it has come. I did not realize how complete it would be—the only woman in the house save Manuela, the only Englishwoman in Zahra, and in all Zahra there seem to be few women of any sort. Sometimes when I think of it it appals me, and yet why should it? I have Molly, and while she is here, what else matters? But it is like being in a whole world, or on a great sea alone, with a little child clasped in my arms. Is it only because I am ill and worn that I quake and tremble so?

No; there is another reason too. I am no weak and superstitious woman, and I have tried to shake it off and to be brave, but something terrible—something I do not know what and cannot define—seems to be overtaking me. My heart sinks at the silence, and yet the sound of my own footsteps makes me start and listen and stand still, afraid to move even from one room into the other. Some awful shadow is dogging me, some darkness is before me, some horrible dread, besides that which has now been mine for weeks past, wraps me round and chills and stifles me. And thus from day I reach the night, afraid of what the darkness may bring; and from night the day, afraid of what the light may tell. Yet I dare not falter or break down, for my blessed one is with me still, and I must go on—

‘ Like one that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread;

And, having once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head.’

Oh, my God! what does it mean? Am I going mad, or what does it mean?

The sardine and Nellie Josephs are engaged. The news gives me a sense of rest and comfort, and so it should; to know that my friend is happy, and that the gentle little Jewess will be well cared for all her life, it is something to be thankful for indeed. He sent me a telegram. It came to-day, when Molly and I had been sleeping; we were both refreshed and better, and, in spite of all my sorrow, the message made me laugh. This was it:

‘ Nellie caved in yesterday. Very happy. Mrs. Greenside rampant. Miss Martin having bad time. Our love to you and Molly.’

Oh, my dear sardine! But I could see you writing those words, and I cannot think of poor Mrs. Greenside defeat without a little leaven of the old wickedness rising within me. This merry message from the outer world seemed to brighten up all the day for us. It was so good to think of their happiness. Ralph too, has thought of us. I have his letter somewhere; it is here:

‘ MY DEAR MAGGIE,— We are just leaving Gibraltar, and hope soon to be in England; when we arrive May will write to you. I have thought a good dear about you since our last talk together, and have hoped many times that you and Molly are better, and that your fears made you exaggerate her danger. If I could think that any words of mine would comfort or cheer you I would try to say them, but I know how impossible it is that anything I can do will help you. May is very well; I have not told her of Molly’s condition, for she is very fond of you both, it would only make her unhappy, and, as you said, there is no reason to do that too soon. She is very happy now—most unreasonably so, seeing that she is going to marry so great a bear as I have been to her. I shall never forget how much I owe to you; May is the only woman in the world I have desired to make my wife, and but for you we should now have been apart. I am not good at making protestations, but she shall be happy if I can make her so. It is probable, and indeed most likely, for reasons I need not enter upon now, that we shall be married immediately after we get back to England; but May will write and tell you all about this when it is finally settled.

‘ I shall look forward to seeing you again, and in spite of all you said, I cannot help hoping that you will bring Molly with you. Keep up your spirit, and, when you can, send a line to say how you are.

‘ Yours affectionately,

‘ R.B.’

. . . . . . .

Dr. Murray is very good to us, but he is more concerned about me than about Molly, and that is absurd. I am better; it is only this strange weakness and the drowsiness that prostrate me and deaden all my powers so that I cannot even feel as keenly as I did. I cannot read or think of work, or think even of Molly very much. It seems as if I have reached a certain point at which many things finish—finish and are with for ever. I try to look well when the doctor comes, but sometimes forget that he is here, the drowsiness masters me so, and I sit half stupefied till, with gasp, I remember his presence and try to rouse myself. He is a strange, strong-willed man, with a power to rule others whether they will or not. Yesterday he would insist on writing to Alice Grey. I told him it would be useless, but he insisted, and so I let him have his way; it does not matter. I sit and wait for him in the morning, and so that he does not say the end will be to-day, I go on drowsily, dreamily waiting. the sense of being with her is sufficient, and we see and hear many things as we sit here, my Molly and I.

If only the bell would stop. The cries of the water-carriers, the sound of voices, the hurry feet, the faint drone of the gipsy chant—all these are human sounds. But that bell ringing out as though it would awake the dead, what has that to go with the sky and the sea and the healthy thoughts of men? It rang out in ages past, perhaps, when the martyrs went by to the stake, and its iron tongue gave the executioners courage....sometimes in my thoughts I enter the church, but it is always dark and close, and among the dusky figures I cannot breathe. Surely religion is not there? That is outside, among the great mountains, or in the ever-restless sea, or the soft changing of the clouds above, or far away at home where the woods are green and the birds sing out in the fresh young spring.

Once long ago, in Kensington Gardens, I heard a thrush. It was in January, I think. Above, the trees were bare and brown; beneath, the sodden grass was scarcely green; far away through the palings I could see the carriages and the people passing, and all the sings of busy life. The little bird began to sing, and the tears came into my eyes as I stood listening, and putting my hands over my face I saw the world to which the thrush was singing. And I prayed with my whole heart that I might know that sweet world too, and be its citizen, so as to be worthy of all the happiness that was mine then. But the church with its darkness and incense would never awaken this longing, and yet as I lie here listening to the bell I can feel in my own heart all the weariness of every soul that steals in there to rest,— and to come out a little lulled and stupefied and yet no better. It is the song of a little thrush that speaks to one’s heart, the memory of a beautiful life that makes one bow one’s head in reverence and long to be worthy to live in the same world that held it. There is no beauty on earth like that of a beautiful life, no power so great and so far-reaching; have not all the centuries borne witness to this since Christ was a babe at Bethlehem?...but I want to think of Molly; why do all these thoughts comes into my head?

. . . . . . . .

To-day I finish my letters to Mrs. Marshall and nurse. There is nothing more to do except to wait on Molly.

I wonder why it is that in my ears so often lately I have heard my father’s step coming up the lane at Minehead? My dear father! we used to be so happy together. I am always thinking now of the days when I was a little girl, and he holding my hand told me stories as we went along...all the fields are before my eyes—the fields in which we gathered flowers. I used to carry home the buttercups and meadowsweet in my apron. I wish I had taken Molly to Minehead once; she will never see it now. As if it were but yesterday, I can see the huntsmen come across the hill, and feel my heart beat quick with fright as they ride on to Minehead; I sit in dread and terror for the poor red deer, praying that they might escape....All down our copse the raspberries grew wild. I can almost fancy that my fingers touch the soft red fruit beneath the straggling boughs. If Molly had only seen it once; she’ll never see it now...I will sit by her and tell her about the huntsmen, and the raspberries in the summer-time, and the foxglove—do you remember how the foxglove drooped and died?—poor foxglove, that had reared its head so proudly; and how the bell heather came looking out from all the chinks and crannies?...I never think of Ralph and May making up their foolish quarrel in this room the night they went away but my thoughts go back to the copse beyond our field, and a walk we had, Arthur and I, just half a year before we married. The schoolmaster’s wife was angry that he ha not been to see her....but I forget how it was—only I know that by a word I had vexed him, and waited in silence, half afraid and breathless, till he turned round and all my fears vanished when I saw his face. What a happy night it was! I can hear the rustle of the leaves overhead as we walk through the copse again, and the briars catch my dress as we pass by. I feel them sometimes in these hours when the terror is on me, holding me back as though they longed to keep me in that sweet world that forever is buried in the long, long years ago.

And still the days go by, I do not know how many, for I can keep no count. It is the twilight before the night falls, and one does not think of the minutes. Time measures out no more the things that shall be done and left undone, the things one shall begin or finish.

‘ Mummy dear,’ Molly says, ‘ I wish I could have one of those oranges on the trees downstairs. I do so long for one.’

‘ Then you shall have one, my darling,’ I say; ‘ I will go down to the patio and pick one for you,’ and creep towards the door. I wait a minute or two to without, then I steal out towards the stairs. Oh, but there are so many cold, white stairs....I cannot go any farther, the ceiling above my head is so high,—and the stairs lead to a great depth—and they are no longer separate,—I am falling—falling—falling. Oh, Molly—Molly—

. . . . . . .

‘ Yes, doctor, oh yes, I am better; I am quite well. Do not think of me; it is Molly who is ill. Where is she? I heard the rocking-horse just now.’

‘ Mrs. Keith, do you know me?’

‘ Yes, of course I know you. You are Dr. Murray, and Dr. George is gone back to England.’

‘ Do you know where you are?’

‘ Yes; I am here by the window. That bell, doctor; oh, that bell. Molly is asleep, but I want to look at her. There is a cold wind at my throat.’

‘ You were choking, and I undid your dress,’ he answers; as I hear him my shattered senses gather themselves together; I look up at him and am afraid.

‘ Do you know how ill you are?’ he asks. ‘ Do you know what is the matter?’

‘ Oh yes, doctor; I have known since the day I went to Malaga.’

‘ You must have known long before that,’ he answers; ‘ you must have suffered terribly.’

‘ I knew I was ill, but I did not suspect what it was for a long time—not till after Christmas.’

‘ But why didn’t you speak to my brother?’

‘ I could not—I can’t tell why, but I could not.’

‘ But for your child’s sake you should have done so.’

‘ It was for her sake that I was silent. I thought I was ill because she was ill, and I bore it. I did not mind that sort of pain. I thought I should get well in time, and then—and then I suspected and dreaded—’ I pause and gasp.

‘ Well?’

‘ One day I went to Malaga; in the hall of the hotel I saw some luggage, and on it the name of a great doctor, and to him I found sudden courage to speak. He told me what was the matter, that it was too late to do anything, and that I could not live—’

‘ Poor soul,’ he says, and I go on, still speaking under my breath.

‘ Afterwards I went to Dr. George—that same hour—it was then he told me that Molly would die, but I did not care so much any more. I could not have borne to see her die and know that I must live. Now, when she is gone I may live long enough to creep home, and that is all that I desire. I shall be so glad to rest.’

He gets up and stands by the window. Why does he not speak? Has he nothing to say? He comes back suddenly, and sits down facing me.

‘ You should have told me,’ he says.

‘ What good would it have done? When the child is gone—’

He puts in his hand on the arm of my chair, he looks me through and through, and then turns away.

‘ You are a brave woman,’ he says slowly, after a pause, ‘ and it is better that you should know the truth, for there may be things you have to do and arrange. I do not think you will live to see your child die.’

‘ Not live!’

‘ No,’ he answers, sadly but firmly; ‘ you will not live for that.’

‘ Not live!’ I cry. ‘ I will—I will.’

‘ I fear you cannot,’ he says gently, but there is a certainly in his voice, that goes to my heart like a stab.

‘ I cannot die,’ I gasp, holding on to the chair—‘ I cannot. Die and leave Molly! no—no—no. I am stronger than you think.’

Oh, have all the flames with which they burnt the martyrs blazed into life again to burn me? My heart withers up with agony, and I cannot speak.

He sits and watches me, till once again I find a voice. ‘ Doctor, doctor,’ I cry, ‘ how long have I? I am not dying—I am not dying?’

The words seemed to be dragged from him as he answers, ‘ You are indeed.’

‘ Dying—dying now?’

‘ You may live some day—not many I think,— I cannot tell. I am cruel to tell you,’ he says, with a shudder, ‘ but it is a duty, and it is due to your courage.’

His voice is gentle enough, and yet I feel that while he speaks and while he longs to be kind to me, he does not understand the torture that is in my heart; he cannot, he will never understand any woman’s heart—never; kind and just, yes, but understand? never;—and oh the bitter loneliness and helplessness for me. And yet I cry out to him—

‘ Oh, doctor, help me, help me!’

‘ Let me telegraph to Mrs. Grey,’ he says. ‘ She will have had my letter; let me telegraph and ask her to come.’

‘ Oh yes, telegraph—pray,’ I cry, catching at even that straw, and swift I think of May and Ralph, and of the sardine and Nellie; but they could not come—besides, I do not think they are in England yet, for they were going home by roundabout ways. ‘ Telegraph at once,’ I say;

‘ tell her that I am dying, and beseech her to come; and, doctor, tell me this—are you sure that Molly will die?’

He gives for answer just one word, ‘ Yes’; it is a certain one, but again I ask—

‘ You are quite sure?’ and again he answers—

‘ I am quite sure.’

‘ And can nothing be done to keep me alive till she goes?’ I ask entreatingly.

‘ It is too late,’ he says gently. ‘ I am cruel to tell you so, but I know you have courage and wish to know the truth.’

Then at length the tears come, and I sit and sob. Oh, if Molly would die; oh, if death would come and take her....I can stay here no longer. let me go to her....She is sleeping, but I will not disturb her; I will kneel here, and—no, but I cannot. Lift me up beside her—lift me up and let me be. Oh, Molly, my own, my own, if death would but come to you, my sweet! Oh to see you die! For there is none to leave you to; none can even get tidings and be here in time. Oh to see you die, Molly—oh to see you die! But you are better; you breathe softly and sleep soundly, and I am longing to see you die.

He has gone for a little while, and I am alone wit her, alone with this dread agony. Molly, Molly, am I to leave you, to let pain conquer me;— I who would bear any torture for you sake and think it sweet; I to let my hands fall helpless while they might still help you? It cannot be—but, oh to see you die, Molly—oh to see you die!

. . . . . . .

‘ Is that an answer from Alice Grey, doctor?’ for he comes with a telegram in his hand.

‘ Yes, here is one,’ he answers, ‘ also a letter which was waiting for you downstairs.’

‘ Open it—open and see;’ and slowly he opens it, while it flashes through my mind that perhaps she is sorry and is coming. Has she not little children of her own?

‘ So very, very grieved. Cannot possibly come.’

I knew, I knew. There is no one in the world who can come....

‘ Shall I open the letter?’ he asks.

‘ Yes,’ I say; ‘ open it.’

He looks at it again. ‘ Why, it is for Molly,’ he says; and Molly, hearing her name, turns round.

‘ It’s May,’ she says; ‘ she has written to tell me about the dolls. Please read it, dear mother.’

‘ I cannot, darling; I cannot.’

‘ Oh, mummy, I do so want to hear about the dolls,’ she says beseechingly.

‘ Shall I read it, Mrs. Keith?’ Dr. Murray asks.

‘ I nod my head, and he begins; but there is a ring of happiness in the first words that sets me sobbing, and he stops. It is like a message from another world; like the sound of soft music played to one who is on the rack. I cannot bear it. Oh, selfish and coward that I am, for I can bear nothing! Am I not glad that she is happy, poor May? But how can I lie still and listen to the sound of your laughter when I am clasping my hands and praying that Molly may die?

‘ Shall I put it by for another time?’ the doctor asks; but I catch Molly’s longing face.

‘ No, no; go on. I want to hear about her,’ I answer; and so he begins again and reads, while Molly watches him eagerly, and looks pleased, and I too for a moment lose sight of all else while I listen to that happy letter:

‘ MY SWEET LITTLE MOLLY,— I shall write to you to-day, and not to mother; next time I shall write to mother, and not to you. And the reason I write to you now is, that I don’t feel quite old enough to write to mother, for I have grown younger, dear Molly, and am not a bit older than you to-day, and my heart is like a feather. Oh, little Molly, I wish I were with you, or rather I wish that you were here and quite, quite well. We would dance all round and round the room; we should not fall, we should not break anything, we should not disturb dear mother if she were painting, and yet we would go round and round like two fairies a little bit crazy. I wonder how you are, my dear, and if you forget me, and if you have plenty of flowers, and if the church bell is ringing, and if the piano is going?— but I don’t believe it ever stops. Only think, little Molly, I saw some gipsies at Gibraltar; I do not know if they were real gipsies, but there was a little brown-eyed girl, just about as big as you; she had a red handkerchief on her head and a necklace of gold coins round her throat, and she played her castanets and danced. She made me think of Zahra, and of you and mother, and I blew you both some kisses. Did they come? They were big kisses and ought to have known their way about, just as big people do.

‘ But I have not told you yet why I am so happy; I am telling it now to you and mother just as if I were sitting by her nursing you and looking out at the beggars over the way. Well, Molly, little Molly, I am going to be married in six days’ time; only think of that. And whom do you think I am going to marry, and who do you think is going to marry me? Ralph! Ralph, with the soft brown eyes, which, I think now, he stole from the gipsies. Ralph, who used to nurse you and pet you, and who knew dear mother when she was a little girl, before she had any little Molly of her own. He and I are going to be married, just as your dear father and mother were married long ago. We shall be so happy together, for we love each other dearly; and about arm-in-arm, and I shall wear a wedding-ring. That is why I am so happy, dear Molly, for I know that there is no on in the world like him, and I love him dearly, more even than you love mother, and I am going to be with him all the days of my life. You must think of me on Wednesday, just at about eleven o’clock, when I shall be dressed in a long white satin gown, and wear a wreath of flowers, like the grandest doll of all upstairs. I shall drive away in a carriage like Cinderella to the ball, and when I come back Ralph will be with me, and we shall have been married; then we shall sit down in front of a large white cake, and feel like king and queen. Don’t you think it is like a fairy story? I do, only it is much nicer and truer, and it will never come to and end while we live; for being always with any one you love very very much is like living inside a fairy story that never leaves off, and that’s why it is better.

‘ The dolls’ house is upstairs on the top of the cupboard still, the dolls are quite well and all of them longing for you. Kiss your mother for me, little Molly, and tell her to kiss you. And now good-bye; get well and bring the swallows here. All the spring flowers are out, the woods are green, the thrushes are singing, and the skylarks flying high; they are all looking out for Molly and mother and the swallows. Good-bye once more, little Molly.

‘ MAY.’

On Wednesday? But that is to-day. Molly, they are being married to-day—to-day; thank Heaven for that. If he only lets himself love her enough, how happy they will be. Ah, poor May, how thankful I am that your happiness has not slipped by and left you behind. Molly, let us stop and forget all things besides for a little while, for this is May’s wedding day. Turn to me, my sweet; oh, my dear, how I love you.

. . . . . . .

Another long night, and I am living still; another morning has come, and life is here; the pain is going, and Molly is asleep—an uneasy, restless sleep, but there is a smile on her face, as though she dreamt of green fields and merry playmates....Hark! it is so strange, but I am not dreaming now, and I can hear him coming down the lane again;...there beyond is the buttercup field, and the garden, a trim garden where Ralph and I played together when we were children....It is only half a mile to the inn; Arthur gave the landlady a little picture once, in memory of all the happy days; she had it framed in a heavy black frame, and it hangs in her best room. Has he gone? He is by the sea, painting in the corner by the rocks. Oh, come back! come back! you do not know.

. . . . . . .

The doctor again. It seems as if he is always here, and yet there is some illness raging at Malaga. Why does he come so often to us? He sits down by my beside, and for a minute looks at me in silence. There is a strange expression on his face. As if with some dim presentiment of what is coming, my heart throbs with fear, for in his voice there is something kind and yet unflinching. He looks across at Molly, and asks in a low tone if she is sleeping. I nod an affirmative; he is silent for a whole minute perhaps before he speaks, and when he does he looks half afraid and his words come slowly.

‘ Mrs. Keith,’—he says, ‘ do you think—you could let Molly go?’

‘ Go! Go where?’

‘ Into the next room. I would see that it was made ready myself, and Manuela will be kind to her, I will speak to her—’

‘ I cannot;’ my heart stands still, and a cold wind sweeps over my face.

‘ I am afraid it must be,’ he says gently. ‘ You must nerve yourself to give her up. It will be best for her.’

I shake my head; my lips tremble and will not speak. I stretch out my hand to touch her and protect her—my hand that has hardly strength even to clasp Molly.

‘ Why?’ I gasp at last. ‘ I can’t, I can’t, and I am better. I have suffered no pain since yesterday.’

‘ It is the weakness of—the end,’ he says slowly. ‘ You would not like your child to see you die? Poor little thing, it would be too terrible.’

‘ Oh, what shall I do?’ I gasp.

‘ Let her go,’ he says; ‘ remember she will be left behind even if you do not give her up now. Philip will come in often, and I will—there is so much sickness just now, or I would come oftener—but I have spoken to Manuela, and she will do her best—’

‘ How long shall I live?’ I whisper, but even while I speak a dull, sinking pain steals over me. I can hardly breathe, and I know that the parting is near.

‘ I do not know; it may be eight-and-forty hours,’ he answers, ‘ it may by twenty-four, or—less. But be brave, do what is best for your child and let her go. She shall have every kindness. She will not miss you after the first day or two, and Manuela is a good-natured woman—’

‘ I cannot do it,’ I cry in my bitter agony.

‘ You must,’ he entreats, ‘ for her sake. I have left it to the last; the little room next to this was made ready yesterday—’

‘ I cannot do it,’ I cry again; ‘ I will not.’

‘ You would not die beside her? you cannot take her with you;— you will have to leave her. Besides, it is doing her harm to be here. I will come back in a hour; be brave—’

‘ Is there no hope that she will live, doctor?’ and suddenly there flashes on me the meaning of the terror that has been dogging me. ‘ Must I leave her in any case? Is there no hope?’

‘ None,’ he answers solemnly. ‘ There is no hope; perhaps it comforts you now to know that there is none.’

With a shudder I look round at the familiar objects, and hurriedly at one corner of the room. For one second I look down at Molly’s face, then with a wild throb of agony and despair I shrink and turn away, for I know the awful thought that is taking possession of my soul.

‘ She must die?’ I ask calmly, and he nods for answer. I lift my head, and meet his eyes fearingly, dreading lest he should divine the awful thing that is in my mind. ‘ Be merciful to me,’ I whisper, ‘ and let me keep her this one day and night more.’

‘ It is cruel—’

‘ No, no,’ I go on, putting up my hand to keep him, for he has risen to go. ‘ Let me have her this one day and night. She will not know if I die in the night—they can lift her away. In the morning, if I live I will submit.’

He is relenting. ‘ You will really give her up in the morning?’

‘ Yes; in the morning she shall go into the next room, and you and Manuela and Philip shall be there,’ I say bitterly. He is silent, and I go on eagerly. ‘ I will lie so still beside her all day; in the morning I may be so weak that I may not know when she goes.’

He hesitates; and at last gives way. ‘ Very well, it shall be so,’ he says. ‘ I will come again in the evening. I cannot well come before.’ He is going out of the door, but I call him back.

‘ Tell me again that she must die,’ I beseech—‘ tell me again that she must die;’ and he answers me pityingly.

‘ She must die,’ he says gently. ‘ She will not miss you long.’

He goes, and I dare not move, or, above all things, look at Molly, for I know well what it is that I am going to do. Let that cruel woman tend her, let strange hands smooth her pillow, and cold hearts watch her die? Oh no,—no,—no, I cannot, and it shall not be, for to-night, when they leave us alone, I will kill her.

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