MRS

MRS. KEITH’S CRIME

CHAPTER XXX

NOW I understand...But it shall be so. She shall never lie with the fever burning on her face, and he light shining from her eyes, and call for mother who had gone to rest, and left her to die alone; or to die while Manuela looked on, and cold eyes wondered when she would be gone. She shall never toss and gasp, while the bell opposite rings out, and the water-carriers go by, but none come near her, none near Molly—alone—alone, and calling for mother, for mother, who could not bear her pain and died; mother, whose love was not strong enough to master her weakness, and so she went, and had not courage to take her little one with her....It shall never be, it shall never be; you shall die in mother’s arms, my sweet—in mother’s arms that love you, with your face against hers. Yes, to-night, when they leave us alone, I will kill you, I will kill you; oh, my dear, I love you enough even for that....That was why I brought it. Something has made me treasure it, and now I understand—now I know why my hands trembled as I took the bottle out of the cupboard that day when I packed the things for nurse. It was there waiting to come with us; it is in that leather case. It is waiting—O God, to-night I am going to kill her—to kill my child, my little child.

. . . . . . .

They will bury us at Malaga. We shall be together there; we shall never be separated now. I know where it is—far up on the hill, there are orange trees and lemon trees and drooping acacia trees, and we shall lie among them all....Oh, how cold it is; I am shivering, and yet the room is full of sunshine...but the sunshine is terrible; it seems to fill the room, and to touch everything save me. Is it because I am doing to kill Molly?...come nearer to me, darling... are you afraid of me? Do you think I shall live through to-day, doctor? But I must not ask him, or he’ll take Molly away. He didn’t hear me, for he is gone....Hark! There is something coming—a noise in the street coming nearer and nearer, an odd, rumbling sound. How foolish I am; it is only Malaga omnibus. The horses are thin, and so oddly harnessed, and there are little round bells that jingle on them. Do you remember how it came shambling along the road the day the sardine and Nellie went away, and the water-carrier, how he stood on the other side of the way, and did not know that they had gone?—so strange it is, the things that people do not know. They were cantering along looking at each other, half doubting, half ashamed....I remember how it was when Arthur came to Minehead: how one day when the hounds were out, some friends gave us a mount. We forgot all about the red deer, and went off along the country lanes to loiter and to talk, yet when we were alone we half feared to speak, and patted our horses’ necks and looked hurriedly behind and curiously ahead, till at last we drew a little closer and found words to say......

Dear, it is all a sad mistake; we know so little about things. It is only now that I am beginning to understand...all in circles, round and round, higher and higher, one but just touching the other; so lightly, it is only at our keenest that we know...round and round,...I am getting back now to the beginning and to Minehead...to the fields and the huntsmen and the deer...that is why I saw my father’s face the other day. ...I am getting back to Minehead, and the ends will meet tonight...I see it now, and am not afraid; one is finished, and another begins, there is no retreating, no going back; the ends meet, and all is changed, no going back; the ends meet, and all is changed all is ended and yet goes on—goes on, and is ended again...one after another, a strange wild whirl, as we get nearer to the centre from which all things will be before our eyes,...calmer and stiller out there where the circles go slower, where life is less keen, and dies and dies away; life that is not strong enough to bear the higher step, and must perforce go lower...Life—life that is keen and growing stronger and stronger as each one ends, or weaker and weaker, stretching away into the dimness, where it is lost—lost and forgotten,...lost...all that made it separate...choose, we must choose whether it shall be life or death, life or death...before we are swept on and on...from each circle in turn we see but a few things, not many, just a few, and some symbols of things that have been or are yet to come...higher and higher; oh, but reach it, the keener life and the clearer understanding. ...Could love but avail...were that but strong enough to carry me over the great tide—over the great tide with Molly, with my baby Molly, to lay her down gently in the sweet light beyond. ...Molly...Molly, but I am going to kill Molly; she will not be in this strange darkness long...to-night, when they leave us alone—I must not say it even in a whisper...I am going to kill her, my love, my sweet...yes, to kill her—kill Molly. ...I hear my father’s step again; he is coming along the green lanes to meet me. How sorry he will be when he knows! See! he stops, and looks over the hedges...it is all the same, it is all just as it used to be; even the gate is broken still...there is a walk round the cliff, among the brake and briar; how lovely it is, and oh, how green it is. I knew I should see it once again...Ah, thank Heaven for this...It was such a cold morning when Ralph went away, and I climbed up the fence; it is so odd to think of it now, but I see it all again as I get back. ...

You will be good to her, Ralph? I know how it is, dear—I know quite well. You cannot make you whole life turn on a woman’s love—you do not choose; you would despise yourself. But she—but May! it is her whole life that she stakes, for though many things are in her world, and many longing and ideals, yet they will all go if he goes, they are all staked—he is the light by which she may see her way to good deeds and noble things; but if the light goes, ah, poor May, where will she grope to in the darkness?. ...He is coming up the lane again; he does not know that it is too soon,—there is no one over the hedge, dear father, why do you stop? it is the water-carrier, dear father. ...I think my mother knows that I am coming, and is glad...it is so many years since she went, it has been a long, long parting, and I can scarce remember her, but now we shall never be parted more, for to-night—to-night—mother—mother, I am going to kill her, to kill my own little baby...oh, dear mother, but I must; I cannot leave her, you must not look at me so—I will bring her in my arms to you—you have never seen her, mother. I must do it—I must. ...Give me some water. Why do all the water-carriers go by? they do not know, they cannot know—oh, dear mother, I must—mother dear, I must; I cannot leave her. ...Molly dear, let me whisper—come closer; you are not afraid? it is because I love you, sweet—because I love you so...I will take you with me in my arms; you are not afraid?

. . . . . . .

Molly opens her eyes for a moment. ‘ Mother,’ she says, and sleeps again. Is it you, doctor? Oh no; it is Manuela. She comes to the bedside, and looks across at Molly with a smile and an odd calculating expression on her face.

‘ She won’t be long now,’ she says. ‘ I dare say it will be a relief to you,’ she adds.

‘ Yes,’ I say—‘ oh yes, it will be a great relief.’

She stands by the window and looks out. Suddenly she goes into the balcony and calls,

‘ Pedro! Pedro!’ and some one beneath answers, ‘ Si, si, señora!’ she says a great deal in Spanish, and laughs, and is amused.

I do not know what she says, except that it is something about the Dos de Mayo,— it is the name of the little posada where the omnibus stops,—and about the gipsies, I understand when she says they will be tired. They are coming form the valley of the Darro. The Darro; that is the river that runs through Granada. Are the gipsies coming—coming jus when Molly dies?

The talk at the window ceases, and I call to her—

‘ Manuela! Manuela!’ as she had called to Pedro; and she answers just as he did.

‘ Si, si, señora!’

‘ Will you bring me a box in the corner—a black leather one; it is in the corner, the little one, and the key is on the table there.’ She looks at me and hesitates; she cannot suspect! She sees it at last.

‘ Is it this one?’ she asks.

As she lifts it she touches something, and a glass falls with a crash; the sound goes through me, everything in the room seems to hear it. Molly awakes and comes closer.

‘ Poor dear mummy, are you better, dear?’ she asks.

Don’t speak to me, Molly, Molly—don’t speak to me, for this is worse than death—worse than death.—I open it at last,...my fingers touch the olivewood case of the bottle...it is under my pillow...oh, it is true—true—true; to-night I am going to kill her; it is all true—true—true.

‘ Take it away,’ I gasp. As she carries the box away she looks in it and thinks I do not see her. ...Let her. It is only a few hours too soon; to-morrow she may open all the drawers and turn out all that we possess; the large dark hands on our white clothes will not matter. We shall have a smile on our lips as we lie still; ...for to-night, when they leave us alone, I will kill her—kill Molly.— There is a knock at the door. ‘ Manuela, oh Manuela, who is it?’ It frightens and scares me. I think of the knock that comes to a prisoner’s cell on his last morning of life; of the Jews when they were burnt in this sad land, and were fetched and clothed with pictures of the flames that were soon to consume them. ...It is only a letter. No; it is a telegram. Is some one coming to Molly—some one coming to save her?

‘ Give it to me, Manuela,’ I cry, but I can hardly clutch it. I pull it open. The lines are dim; I cannot see. ‘ Hold me up, and bring a light; it is so dark.’

‘ A light, and the sun shining! It is the darkness of your eyes, señora, and not of the sky.’

She holds me up, and gradually I fix my eyes upon it.

‘ Helen Josephs and F. Cohen. Just home. Thinking of you. May Vincent, Ralph Bicknell married. Love to you and Molly.’

Did some dim knowledge that we were setting out on our strange journey float to them that they should telegraph, or was it only my good friend, kind and thoughtful to the last? He will hear soon. Dr. Murray will tell them all. ...It is the end of the story, the last scene in the play—this—this—is the end: two are married, two are waiting to marry, and two are waiting to die. Suddenly that wild bell rings out; it knows! it knows! ring the curtain down.

. . . . . . .

There is a noise outside, some one enters the next room and puts down something heavy. It is the room where they are going to put Molly. What are they taking there? There is a knock. ‘ Come in.’— They have not come for her yet!— she shall not go! she shall not!—Oh, it is Philip. ‘ Why have you come? has the doctor sent you?’ I stretch out my hand and clasp Molly. He brings in a tall white lily, holding it a little way off from him.

‘ The señor said I was to give you this, señora,’ he says kindly; the rough old man looks sorry and half afraid.

‘ Put it there—there in the tall vase, Philip—there on the table where it can face me.’

‘ The little one, is she better?’ he asks; I shake my head, and he goes on, ‘ I have put a little bedstead, such a little ones sleep in, for her in the next room, señora. It was in our house, but we never knew where it came from or who had slept in it, and to-day the señor told me to bring it over and put it there, for she will not be able to fall out of it when she is alone.’

They are considering already how they may leave her alone. If they did but know, if they did but know! but they would take her away, and shrink form me with horror and say I was a murderess—a murderess, because I was not cowardly enough to steal away into the silence alone, and leave my child to toss and call for the mother who had deserted her. Oh, what strange things go by the name of crimes! what false things are called courage! I knew a mother once who could not see her child die, and let a stranger watch by her—her love was not strong enough to carry her through that agony; and once a girl I love stole away, though I was sick and ill. She would not take leave of me because she could not bear the pain of parting, and I waited and longed to see my friend again, and have never seen her since. Oh, brave hearts, that love and bear, do not say that I have no courage when I quench the life in my sweet one’s eyes to-night. I cannot leave her here alone; I am not cold or cruel enough for that. ...But Philip is there still, and the tall white lily is on the table.

‘ It is so sweet, and oh, so white. It is very lovely.’

He stands watching it, and I look at him, the big rough man in the blue blouse. He is tender, too, in some ways, and looks at the lily as though it were a thing that he had loved.

‘ Ah, señora, wait till the summer,’ he says, ‘when there are pink Jupiters and tall tuberoses, and sweet-scented Don Pedros, and the garden is all a mass of tangled colour.’

‘ I shall not be here in the summer; I shall never see them, for I am going to die.’

He shudders as he listens. ‘ Do not talk of death, señora,’ he says. ‘ We most of us live many years, and when dying come, after all, it takes up so little time it is not worth considering much.’

‘ No, no, it is not worth considering,’ I say gratefully, and turn and sigh.

‘ You will hear the gipsies come to-night, señora,’ Philip says as he goes to the door;

‘ they are to have a merrymaking at the Dos de Mayo, and to-morrow they are going back to Granada.’

‘ Are you going to the merrymaking, Philip?’

‘ Si, si, señora. I shall look on while they dance, and Pedro, and Carlos, and Manuela, all of them will be there.’

He goes, and I look up at the lily. Dr. George used to send me flowers every day, but never before has his brother sent me even one. Perhaps he will let me keep her.

. . . . . . .

Molly is looking at me. She is better; we are both better. Oh, Molly, if after all we might yet get well.

‘ Mummy dear, are you awake?’ she whispers.

‘ Yes, darling, I am awake.’

She puts her hands into mine. ‘ Tell me a story, dear mummy,’ she says, just as she did on board ship; ‘ tell me about the white rabbit

And this last time on earth I begin—

‘ “Once upon a time there was a white rabbit, and he lived down a hole in a wood at the foot of the snow mountains. Close by the bridge there was a palace—” Oh, Molly, Molly, I can’t; my baby—my dickie-bird—my little one—my sweet.’ I break down and cry wildly, ‘ I can’t—I can’t—I can’t.’ Oh, is there no mother in all the world who will come to me and take my little one in her arms, or watch by her while she dies?

‘ Mother dear, mother dear,’ Molly cries in alarm, and stretches out her hands again.

‘ I can’t go on; I shall die—I shall die—’

‘ Oh no, mother; dear, dear mother,’ she says, ‘ take me in your arms and put your head down, there—poor—poor mummy;’ and so we are still, she closes her eyes again and sleeps while my sad tears fall over her.

There is the piano in the café opposite, they are playing the waltz, how plainly I can hear it; it seems as if the sounds hurried over and went past the window and on and on...perhaps they meet the sea-breeze and die away as they go out towards the ships. Molly, how strange it is to be here in the Spanish land, dying! Jack—but I cannot think of him or of your father; we seem to have journeyed away from them, we are nearer to Minehead—here in the Spanish land the two ends meet. ...I lie so still while Molly sleeps, and think all things over. It will be a good thing to rest. ...I am thankful to go, and thankful that my little one is going with me. It has not been a bad world, and there was no sorrow in it for me till Arthur died. All my happiness went down to the sea with him and vanished, it has only been a sad make-believe since. ...How glad I am that they were married yesterday! I think he was half ashamed at playing lover, and so they had their foolish quarrels; but he would be ashamed still more now at now being good and true to her. Perhaps they are in the country, taking long walks over the green hills and stretching moors, or looking for spring flowers in the hedgerows...they do not talk much, for they want to think; they look at each other now and then, half wondering half doubting, whether it be true that they are together at last. ...

. . . . . . .

Oh, but it sends a wild throb through me, for to-night we shall be married once more... once more, and Death shall be the high priest, and Life shall give me away...not for a few years, as Ralph and May were given to each other yesterday, but for ever, for time cannot undo the know that death has tied...it seems a foolish thing, the little union here, when I think of that long one through eternity.

The day is nearly gone, it is almost dark, but they have forgotten to bring the lamp; the piano is going opposite, the beggars have left the church door, the water-carriers are going home—there are no thirsty souls in the dark...sleep...oh, that you might die while you sleep...oh, Molly, if you might die—die before the night comes. ...She breathes quickly—oh, that she might die, that she might die...

Yes, doctor, I am much better; it is only that I am giddy and the things swim, so that I do not see. I am much better. ...What is that light? They have brought in the lamp at last, doctor; what time is it?’

‘ It is nearly seven.’ He goes round to Molly and looks at her. ‘ She is better,’ he says—

‘ she is better than she was yesterday.’ The words send a wild terror through me—words that once would have been sweetest music.

‘ And I, am I better? I feel stronger and well—nearly well; I have had no pain; tell me if I am better too.’ He does not speak. ‘ If I am better she need not go, need she? Must she go to-morrow, must she go? May I not keep her one day longer? You need not take her if I am going to live?’

‘ My poor soul,’ he says, ‘ go to sleep and think no more. I do not know if you will be here in the morning; it is not likely that you will be here many hours. Perhaps your child may mercifully go soon—’

‘ But you said she was better.’

‘ It does not mean anything.’

‘ And she must die; she can never get well? Tell me that again; it comforts me.’

‘ She must die,’ he says, ‘ if it comforts you to hear it again. She must die—no human power can save her.’ He looks at her again, and then returns to me. ‘ I do not think I can come back to-night,’ he says; ‘ there is a very urgent case that needs me—and I can do no good here.’

‘ No, no good,’ I answer.

‘ Manuela will come and sit here—I will tell her, and in the morning—’ But he sees me shudder, and stops and says good-bye.

‘ Good-bye,’ I say; ‘ and oh, I did not thank you for the lily. See, it is there where I can look at it.’

‘ You must not thank me,’ he answers: ‘ it was m brother’s. He planted those lilies, and told me to send you the first one.’

Ah, dear Dr. George, if he were only here, them I should not be afraid; I could trust Molly to him—my good, kind friend. He remembered me, yet he has hardly been in my thoughts at all lately, and to-day, this last day of all perhaps, I have not once remembered him.

‘ Give my love to him—and, doctor, I should like him to have the portrait of Molly; it is in the next room.’

He nods to show that he understands, and so he goes, and I shall never see him more...he would have no mercy if I were here to-morrow; he would take her away fro me, he would take her into the next room,...when I was gone, Philip and Manuela and all of them would come sometimes and look at her, perhaps Don Carlos would be brought in to see the little dying English child,...oh, how terrible it would be: she would open her eyes and look at them in terror, and call for me...it shall never be. ...

It is very dark; there are no sounds except the piano and the church bell now and then; there is a soft wind that brushes by the window, on its way down to the sea...Molly,...we shall never see the sea again—never watch the great ships going past in the distance...There are people in the street now—I hear them passing to and fro, and laughing; it must be getting late. ...Manuela comes in. She wears her best lace veil; it is fastened with a rose, and there are bright flowers in her bosom. She is smiling and thinking how grand she looks.

‘ Do you want anything?’ she asks. ‘ The doctor said I was to sleep here,’ she adds with a shudder, as though she were afraid of us. ‘ I shall be back by twelve; it is not ten yet.’

‘ No, I want nothing; I am much better, and going to sleep. You need not sleep here or come again; it would disturb us, and we shall both sleep well.’

‘ I do not want to come, if you are better, and one can do no good.’ She shudders again, and I know that she is afraid of the sight of death.

‘ I cannot breathe with any one in the room. I would rather you did not trouble about us, please Manuela.’

Her face shows how relieved she is. ‘ It is well, señora; I have friends too, and we are going to the Dos de Mayo to see the gipsies dance. I have never seen them, but to-day they are here. They came to meet one of their chiefs; he stole a horse last St. John’s Day at the fair at Segovia, but now he is on his way back to Granada, and they have come to meet him.’

‘ Yes, Manuela. Please go; we shall be quite safe.’

‘ José sleeps on the bench at the end of the passage; at twelve o’clock you will hear him go to it; and see, here is a bell which you can ring.’

She puts the bell down and is going round to Moll; but she stops before the glass as she passes, to arrange her flowers. She thinks of her party, smiles, and so forgets to go farther. I am thankful, for I cannot bear her bold black eyes to rest on Molly’s face.

‘ Manuela, will you get me a shawl?’ I ask, ‘ for this cold is terrible. There, in the trunk, you will find one. Wrap me round, please.’ Molly is warm, but my teeth are chattering with cold.

‘ Certainly, señora,’ she answers, eager to see inside the trunk. She lingers for a moment, looking in at the things, and I close my eyes, for a deadly pain possesses me, and I am afraid lest, thinking me worse, she should hesitate to go. A horrible throbbing is at my heart; I can feel every separate beat, and dread lest each one is the last—a strange sensation, like the loosening of bands, a leaving-go of something that holds me body and soul together, makes me numb with fear. Death is know that. ...I feel Manuela put a soft shawl round my shoulders, so soft and warm it is like a caressing human hand; and then she goes to the door. I watch her open it. She does not look back at us; she is thinking of her flowers and of the gipsies, she is glad to hurry away. ...I pull the shawl closer and closer round me, and then I remember its touch; it is the one Mrs. Greenside gave me—the one that the woman who gave it to her wore two hours before she died. Ah, poor soul, how she would shudder if she knew where it was now!....I am going to wear it while I kill Molly...for the night has come, this fearful night on which no morning must ever dawn for us. ...Oh, am I mad? but—no—no; no, I am sane enough, and know too well—too well—too well. ...It is getting late, and every minute, as it passes, leaves a terror behind it. ...Molly, let me hold you once more before the time comes...my sweet and my dickie-bird, if I could but kiss the life out of you. ...I must leave go, I must make haste, for the strange pain is coming, and I am growing cold already. ...So many die with the night, and the darkness has come to sweep me away, to take me to itself; come closer once more, for I cannot drag myself to you. Even in her sleep she knows me and kisses me, and moves uneasily, and whispers, ‘ Mother.’ Ah, God! I shall never hear her say it more. ...I feel under my pillow for the bottle,...as my finger touch it all my life flashes back and goes through me and shivers and recoils...suddenly there is a sound of merriment—of merriment! of laughter in the street and in the distance, the twanging of guitars, and the sound of the gipsy chant once more. They come and pass...the sounds of happy feet and merry voices;...it is the gipsies; they are going to the Dos de Mayo to dance, and Manuela, and Philip, and Don Carlos, and Pedro—they will all be there, making merry...while Molly is dying—dying. ...

. . . . . . .

Oh, I cannot—cannot. Oh , doctor, have mercy, have mercy; I should not die if she might stay, for love is stronger than life or death, or than all the world...my own child, oh, it is cruel to take her from me. ...

. . . . . . .

My own—I cannot...closer, closer, my babe: my life that is yours...that is going—going too, Molly...to-night, together. ....Oh, your dear hair, warm and soft. ...

So—so—die in mother’s arm, my sweet, in mother’s arms, my own—mother who loves you so—not those cold hearts, but mother’s—mother, who can do this—even this—this for love of you.

. . . . . . .

It is surely an hour...an hour that I have lain here in cold despair, holding her tight and close. ...I put my face down...but I am afraid to see her more...her face. ...there is a little chill upon it...she is dead!...she is dead—she is dead—dead. A shriek I cannot stifle escapes from me—a cry of agony and terror that comes from my lips suddenly, and seems to vanish swiftly, as if through an open door...and the stillness makes me hold my breath even while my face touches Molly—Molly who is dead...I wait and gasp and listen...and raise my head once more, and give one wild look quickly round the room. ...It is empty...and still and desolate;...something has gone out of it, something has vanished that will never come into it more. ...I am alone—alone—alone. She died in her mother’s arms, tight and close—with mother’s kisses on her hair—but I die here alone—alone in this awful stillness, while she lies dead and cold beside me. ...

. . . . . . .

Oh, Molly—Molly—you never gave me the message in your eyes, and I have dimmed that...I have dimmed that...you never gave me the message—never—never. ...Molly, I have not seen your face,...I cannot; I am afraid...afraid...dying and alone—alone—alone; no, there is a face, a white face, looking at me—there—there. ...It is the white lily, the tall white lily like an angel’s face; it looks, and is sorry... ...but oh to see you once more, dead or alive, my babe. ...I must. ...There I have pushed them back—oh, my sweet, my sweet, my dickie-bird, dead,—dead,—dead, and mother has killed you—mother! the dear face is still, the eyes look up no more, the lips can speak no more—dead—dead, and mother has done it...mother who loves you so...mother whom loves you so...mother whom you will never call mother more. Good-bye, Molly, my little one; I am here alone, saying good-bye to you who are not even her. ...It is coming...it must be the end, it must be; something is loosening, and there is no pain—just the last threads leaving go...leaving go—listen. ...Some one is here...is here...some one is standing beside me. ...You!...oh, speak to me...speak to me...but see...see! between us in this last hours yawn a chasm...wider and wider...and the darkness rises up between us. ...I cannot see your face, you are so far away...stretch out your hands, but no...but no, ...but no, the great gulf yawns wider and wider...and the darkness rises higher and higher and covers all things...oh, speak...but you cannot hear. ...There were no hands to take her when mine fell...there were none to leave her to...oh, speak...speak...turn your face...oh, have mercy!—mercy!—mercy!...though all the world shrink from me, surely you—you will understand...you who loved me so...who gave her—was she to die alone?...I give her back to you...but wider and wider yawns the gulf...higher the darkness rises...and hark! hark! is it the great sea I hear that comes...and comes...to roar through the chasm beneath?...mercy. ...No mercy from you...even from you...the gulf stretches wider and wider...and the darkness is blacker—blacker...it is nothing—nothing—only a cold wind that wandered round the empty room and swept out towards the sea...alone—the—the darkness is coming, and something sweeps me away, on and on...and on...there is something going to and fro, it makes me giddy...to and fro...to and fro.

Molly! Molly! where is she? Won’t you come to me, darling?...it is dark, and you cannot see, but don’t you hear the rocking-horse—to and fro—to and fro?...Jack, my sonnie, where is Molly?...I stretch out my hand—

‘ The four-and-twenty sailors—’

don’t you hear, my darling—Jack is singing...Molly—baby Molly...oh, gone...gone...gone—Molly.

THE END.

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