Twenty-Seven
The widow Scott opened her eyes in the chill hour of dawn. Indirect sunlight filtered through the high window, silhouetting the statued form of her niece, who stood in silence before it. At her side the girl held something metal that gleamed dully. Her eyes looked out unseeing.
“Mary? What’s that in your hand?”
Slowly, as from a distance. “I’ve got to kill him.”
Once more Anne Scott felt herself in the presence of a will, a force that was beyond swaying. But she knew that she too had a part in the unfolding drama, and she would not watch idly as her niece destroyed herself.
“Because of your mother? You think that you must follow her down the bitter road---”
“You speak of what you cannot imagine.”
There was no answering obsession. The woman did not try. “How will you do it?” she asked simply.
“They did not think to search us.” Mary held up the slender blade that the witch had sewn into a fold of her dress, then forgotten.
“Surely that, of itself, would not kill a man.”
“Human excrement makes a very effective blood poison.” All said evenly, without emotion or remorse, without living movement of any kind.
... “Mary. Your mother left something for you.” At this she turned, like a sleepwalker disturbed by the calling of her true name. “Stephen brought me this note. Her dying words.”
“A forgery,” she stammered, “meant to dissuade me.”
“No,” said Anne Scott firmly. “After twenty-nine years, I ought to know my sister’s hand.”
“Don’t come any closer.” She raised the knife halfheartedly. “I don’t want to see it.” But Anne Scott continued forward, held out the folded sheet.
Mary’s left hand could not stop the right. She took the page and held it open against the angled sill. She read.
A single tear escaped her, then another, till at last she dropped the blade and leaned heavily back against the stone. The tortured grip had managed but five words, the last broken and trailing, but undeniable.
Mary,
I love you. Forgive
Anne Scott moved closer, and took the forlorn head to her shoulder. Mary did not resist. She only wept, unable for a time to speak.
“But, if I do not avenge her. . .then her story is truly ended. She lived, and died, for nothing. Oh, it is too terrible.”
“No, Mary. Her life, and broken love, brought about your life, and a love that is real. You must never forget that.” The widow paused, understanding at last.
“Listen to me, girl. You carry a part of her in yourself: in your flesh, and in your seed. The story never ends, it only changes characters. And those who have left something beautiful behind them, never die. They live on in the thoughts, the hearts, the very lives of those who loved them.” And the woman found that she too was crying, the most profound tears of her life. For in this, most unlikely of moments, she had seen beyond the grave, and touched the face of God.
“When you bear a child of your own, you will understand just how very much that means. For now, my sad Mary, just cry. Cry, and love her.”
“Oh, Anne, I’m so cold.” And she began to shiver, her trembling flesh once more asserting its will to live. Anne Scott took their two blankets, joined them together, and sat with her closely huddled in the straw. Both wept, and held each other, knowing fully and without illusion, what it was to be a woman.