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.