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“‘I wish you had the help of anyone else,’ said she. ‘Babies perish in my arms and wither at my breast. I cannot touch it, much as I yearn to. But let me see its face; perhaps I can tell you what is the matter with it.’
“I showed her the baby’s face, and she bent over it, trembling very much, almost as much indeed as myself.
“‘It is very sick,’ she said, ‘but if you will use the remedies I advise, I think you can save it.’ And she told me what to do, and helped me all she could; but she did not lay a finger on the little darling, though from the way she watched it I saw that her heart was set on his getting better. And he did; in an hour he was sleeping peacefully, and the terrible weight was gone from my heart and from hers. When the storm stopped, and she could leave the house, she gave me a kiss; but the look she gave him meant more than kisses. God must have forgotten her goodness to me that night when He let her die so pitiable a death.”
At the minister’s house they were commenting upon the look of serenity observable in her dead face.
“I have known her for thirty years,” her pastor declared, “and never before have I seen her wear a look of real peace. It is wonderful, considering the circumstances. Do you think she was so weary of her life’s long struggle that she hailed any release from it, even that of violence?”
A young man, a lawyer, visiting them from New York, was the only one to answer.
“I never saw the woman you are talking about,” said he, “and know nothing of the circumstances of her death beyond what you have told me. But from the very incongruity between her expression and the violent nature of her death, I argue that there are depths to this crime which have not yet been sounded.”
“What depths? It is a simple case of murder followed by theft. To be sure we do not yet know the criminal, but money was his motive; that is clear enough.”
“Are you ready to wager that that is all there is to it?”
This was a startling proposition to the minister.
“You forget my cloth,” said he.
The young man smiled. “That is true. Pardon me. I was only anxious to show how strong my conviction was against any such easy explanation of a crime marked by such contradictory features.”
Two children on the Portchester road were exchanging boyish confidences.
“Do you know what I think about it?” asked one.
“Naw! How should I?”
“Wall, I think old Mrs. Webb got the likes of what she sent. Don’t you know she had six children once, and that she killed every one of them?”
“Killed’em — she?”
“Yes, I heard her tell granny once all about it. She said there was a blight on her house — I don’t know what that is; but I guess it’s something big and heavy — and that it fell on every one of her children, as fast as they came, and killed ’em.”
“Then I’m glad I ben’t her child.”
Very different were the recollections interchanged between two middle-aged Portchester women.
“She was drinking tea at my house when her sister Sairey came running in with the news that the baby she had left at home wasn’t quite right. That was her first child, you know.”