It was the seventh day before she saw and recognized him. He had come in from the parlour and found her propped against Sykes' arm swallowing some beef-broth, languidly and without interest. He had a blanket flung over his shoulders and now he knelt beside the trundle to watch her.
She seemed to sense him there and her head turned slowly. For a long moment she looked at him, and then at last she whispered softly: "Bruce?"
He took her hand in both of his. "Yes, darling. I'm here."
She forced a little smile to her face and started to speak again, but the words would not come, and he moved away to save her the effort. But the next morning, early, while Sykes was combing out her hair she spoke to him again, though her voice was so thin and weak that he had to lean close to hear it
"How long've I been here?"
"This is the eighth day, Amber."
"Aren't you well yet?"
"Almost. In a few days I'll be able to take care of you."
She closed her eyes then and breathed a long tired sigh. Her head rolled over sideways on the pillow. Her hair, lank and oily with most of the curl gone, lay in thick skeins about her head. Her collar-bones showed sharply beneath the taut-stretched skin, and it was possible to see her ribs.
That same day Mrs. Sykes fell sick, and though she protested for several hours that it was nothing at all, merely a slight indisposition from something she had eaten, Bruce knew better. He did not want her taking care of Amber and suggested that she lie down in the nursery and rest, which she did immediately. Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he went out to the kitchen.
Sykes had had neither the time nor the inclination and probably not even the knowledge for good housekeeping and all the rooms were littered and untidy. Puffs of dust moved about on the floors, the furniture was thickly coated, stubs of burnt-down candles lay wherever she had tossed them. In the kitchen there were stacks of dirty pans and plates, great pails full of soaking bloody rags or towels, and the food had not been put away but left out on the table or even set on the floor.
Everything spoiled rapidly in the heat and she had been negligent about reordering from the guard; so he found that the butter had turned rancid, the milk was beginning to sour, and some of the eggs stank when opened. He ladled out a bowl of soup—Sykes' concoction and by no means so palatable as Amber's had been—and ate it himself, and then he took the best of what he could find in on a tray to Amber.
As he was feeding her, slowly, spoonful by spoonful, Sykes suddenly began to rave and scream in delirium. Amber grabbed his wrist, her eyes full of terror.
"What's that!"
"It's nothing, darling. Someone in the street. Here—that's enough for now. You must lie down again."
She did so but her eyes watched him as he went to the nursery door, turned the key in the lock and taking it out tossed it upon the table.
"There's someone in there," she said softly. "Someone who's sick."
He came back and sat beside her again. "It's the nurse— but she can't get out. You're safe here, darling, and you must go back to sleep again—"
"But what if she dies, Bruce—how'll you get her out of the house?" The expression in her eyes showed what she was thinking: of Spong, of dragging her down the stairs, of the dead-cart.
"Don't worry about it. Don't even think about it. I'll do it someway. Now you must sleep, darling—sleep and get well."
For two or three hours Sykes continued to rave intermittently. She beat on the door, shrieking at him to let her out, demanding the money he had promised her, but he made no answer at all. The windows in the nursery overlooked the courtyard and the back alley and sometime in the middle of the night he heard her smashing them and screaming wildly. And then he heard a yowl as she leaped out and went crashing down two stories below. When the dead-cart came by he opened the window to tell the guard where they would find her.
It was almost noon the next day before another nurse arrived.
He was lying flat on his back, half dozing, worn out by the effort of getting up to bring Amber some food, to change her bandage and bathe her hands and face. And then, slowly, he opened his eyes and found an old woman standing beside the bed, watching him with a curious, speculative look. He scowled, wondering why she had come in so silently, distrustful immediately of her manner and appearance.
She was old and filthy in her dress, her face was deeply lined and her breath stank foully. But he noticed that she wore a pair of diamond earrings that looked real and several rings on her fingers which were also of obvious value. She was either a thief or a ghoul or both.
"Good-day, sir. The parish-clerk sent me here. I'm Mrs. Maggot."
"I'm almost well," said Bruce, staring at her intently, hoping to make her think that he was stronger than he was. "But my wife still needs a great deal of care. I got her one meal this morning, but it's time for another now. The last nurse left the kitchen in a mess and there's no food, but you can send the guard for some."
As he spoke her eyes were going over the furnishings of the room: the cloth-of-silver covering the bedstead and chairs, the marble-topped tables, the row of exquisite vases across the mantelpiece.
"Where's the money?" she asked, not looking at him.
"There are four shillings on that table. That should buy whatever we need—the guard always takes a fee for himself."
She got the coin and tossed it out the window, telling the guard to bring some food, already prepared, from a cook-shop. Obviously she did not intend to do anything herself. And later in the day when he asked her to change the bandages she refused, saying that every nurse she knew who had dressed an ulcer was dead now but that she intended to die another way.
Bruce was furious, but he answered her quietly. "Then, if you won't help, you may as well go."
She gave him an insolent grin and he was afraid that she had guessed already he was far less strong than he pretended to be. "No, m'lord. I was sent by the parish. If I don't stay I won't get my fee."
For a moment they stared at each other, and then he flung the blanket about himself and got out of bed. She stood there, watching him closely as he knelt on one knee beside Amber, measuring his strength, and at last he turned with a flare of exasperated anger.
"Get out! Go in the other room!"
She grinned again but went, and closed the door. He called out to her to leave it open but she ignored him. Swearing beneath his breath he finished dressing the wound and then got back into bed to rest. There was no sound at all from the parlour. It was half-an-hour before he could get up again and then he crossed the room, opened the door quietly and found her going through the drawer of a table. There were articles scattered everywhere and she had evidently been searching methodically through each piece of furniture for secret drawers and hiding places, which were almost always built in.
"Mrs. Maggot."
She looked up and met his stare coolly. "Sir?"
"You'll find nothing of value hidden away. Whatever you may care to steal is in plain sight. We have no money in the house beyond a few coins for food."
She made no reply but, after a moment, turned and went into the dining-room. Bruce found that he was sweating with rage and nervousness, for he did not doubt the old woman would murder them both without an instant's hesitation if she learned that there was almost seventy pounds in the house. He knew that the nurses were drawn from the lowest social classes: life-long paupers, uncaught criminals, and—in plague-time— from women like Sykes who had been forced into it through necessity and misfortune.
He did not sleep well that night, aware of her in the parlour, for when she had found evidences of Sykes' illness she had refused to go into the nursery. And when he heard her get up, two or three times, and move about he lay tense and apprehensive. If she decides to kill us, he thought, I'll try to strangle her. But he clenched and unclenched his fists with despair, for the fingers had but little of their usual strength.
The next morning, just before daylight, he fell deeply asleep and when
he woke she was bending over him, her arm thrust beneath the mattress on which he lay. As his eyes opened she straightened slowly, unalarmed. He could not tell, by her expression, whether she had discovered the bagful of coins and jewels.
"Just smoothin' your bed, sir."
"I'll take care of that myself."
"You said yesterday, sir, that I might go. If you'll give me fifty pound now, I will."
He looked at her shrewdly, aware that she had made the offer to find out whether or not he would admit to having that much money in the house. "I told you, Maggot—I have only a few shillings here."
"How now, sir? Only a few shillin's—a lord, and livin' in lodgings like this?"
"We put our money with a goldsmith. Is there any food left from yesterday?"
"No, sir. The guard stole most of it. We'll have to send again."
Throughout the day, whenever he got out of bed, he could feel her watching him, even though most of the time she was not in the room. She knows there's money here, he thought, and tonight she'll try to get it. But if there had been not a farthing in cash the furnishings alone were worth what would be a fortune to her—even if she sold them to a broker-of-the-dead.
He spent the day thinking and planning, aware that if he was to save either of their lives he must be ready for her, no matter what she might try to do. And while he lay there the dead-carts came by three times; there were now too many deaths to bury the bodies at night.
He considered every possibility.
If he asked the guard for help she would overhear him, and he had no reason to think the guard could be trusted. There seemed no choice; he must try to handle the situation himself. She would not be likely, he thought, to use a knife, for that would leave tell-tale wounds. Strangulation with a length of cord or rope should be easy with both of them as weak as they were and she would try to kill him first, for Amber could make no more resistance than a kitten. But having thought that far he found himself confronted by problems that, in his state of weakness, seemed insoluble. If he closed the door and waited behind it she would know he was there, and he could not outwit her. If he locked it she could force her way in, and in any open battle he was no match for her, for though his strength might be greater he was unable to move about quickly and would soon be exhausted.
At last he decided to make a bundle of blankets in the bed and wait there next to it, concealed behind the window hangings. If she came near he could strike her over the head with a heavy pewter candlestick. But the plan was spoiled, for she refused to close the door. When he asked her to do so, just as it was growing dark, she obeyed, but a few minutes later he heard it opening, very slowly. It remained ajar just an inch or so for more than an hour, and then he called out to her again.
"Maggot! Close the door—all the way."
She did not answer but closed it. The room grew darker as twilight settled into night. For half-an-hour he waited and then, slowly, cautiously, he got out of bed, keeping a watch on the door as he began to move about, making the bundle of bedding. It was almost done when he heard a creaking sound— and saw the door begin to swing open.
Exasperated and thoroughly worried he snapped out her name. "Mrs. Maggot!" She made no reply but he could feel her there, watching, for though no candles had been lighted there was a moon and it shone at his back. He could not see her, but she could see him. He got back into the bed and lay down, sweating with nervous rage to think that after surviving the plague itself they might both die now at the hands of a filthy greedy old woman.
But, by Jesus, we won't! I won't let her kill us! He felt a responsibility for Amber's life more violent and determined even than his own will to live.
The hours went past.
Several times he heard the dead-cart, and the passing-bell tolled at least twenty separate times. Against his will he listened for the tone and counted the number of times they were struck —twelve women, eight men, had died in the parish so far tonight. He had a horror of falling asleep—for drowsiness swept over him in waves—and forced himself to recite silently every poem he had ever memorized, every song he had ever sung. He made a mental list of the books he had read, the women he had made love to, the towns he had visited. It kept him awake.
Then at last she entered the room.
He saw the door swing slowly open and after a moment he heard the creaking of a floor board. The moon was gone now and there was absolute darkness. His heart began to beat heavily and all his being was abnormally alert, his eyes straining into the black that surrounded him, his ears listening until he felt sure that he could hear the coursing of his own blood.
She approached slowly. Each time he heard a board creak there followed what seemed an interminable period of absolute silence, until he could no longer tell from where the sound had come. The suspense was an agony but he forced himself to lie motionless, breathing deeply and naturally. His nerves were raw and trembling and he had a violent impulse to leap up and try to grab her. He dared not, though, for she might get away and then they would be left helpless. He had a desperate fear that his strength would not last under such tension. It seemed to be draining away, and the muscles of his legs and arms ached painfully.
And then, almost unexpectedly, he caught the smell of her breath and knew that she was there, beside him. His eyes were wide open, but he could see nothing. For an instant he hesitated. Then, with a swiftness and strength that caught him off guard, she dropped a noose down over his head and jerked it tight. His arm shot out and seized hold of her, brought her sprawling across him and in that moment he thrust his fingers into the noose, tore it from about his own head and forced it down over hers. He pulled on it with both his hands and all the strength he had. She clawed and struggled furiously, gagging, while he yanked at it again and again, and when at last after many minutes he knew that she was dead he let her slide to the floor and fell back upon the bed himself, almost unconscious. Amber was still asleep.
Chapter Thirty-eight
When he dragged Mrs. Maggot down the stairs to leave her for the dead-cart he gave the guard five guineas not to make a report to the parish-clerk; he wanted no more nurses in the house. For now he was well enough to take care of Amber himself, though it might be difficult for several more days.
The next morning he found that Mrs. Maggot had left the kitchen in even worse condition than Sykes. It stank with the spoilage of rotten fruit and vegetables, the meat was a mass of weaving worms, and the bread was covered with green mould. There was nothing there which was edible and since he was not yet able to clean up the mess or cook anything himself, he sent the guard to a tavern for a prepared meal.
But as the days went by he grew gradually stronger and though at first he had to rest after each small task he finally got all the rooms cleaned again. And one day while Amber was sleeping he moved her into the freshly-made bed and from then on occupied the trundle himself. Both of them joked about his housekeeping and cooking—which he did as soon as he was well enough—and the first time she laughed was when she woke up one morning to see him, naked but for a towel tied about his waist, sweeping the floor. She told him that she must have his recipes to give her next cook and asked him what method he used to get the sheets so white, saying that her laundress sometimes brought them back in worse condition than they were sent.
Soon he began going out to buy the food himself—for the guards had been withdrawn as useless—and found the streets almost empty.
The people were dying at the rate of 10,000 a week or more —it was a frightening insidious fact that of those who died a great percentage were never reported or even counted. Dead-carts came by at all hours, but in spite of that hundreds of bodies lay in the streets or were piled in the public squares, sometimes for days, while the rats swarmed over them. Many were half-gnawed away before they were taken up for burial. The red cross was no longer chalked on the doors, but large printed posters were nailed up instead. Grass grew between the cobble-stones; thousands of houses were deserted and whole stre
ets were barricaded and closed off, all their inhabitants having died or fled. Even the bells ceased tolling. The city lay perfectly still, hot and stinking.
Bruce talked to the shop-keepers, many of whom, like others who had remained behind, had shrugged off their earlier terrors. Death had become so common that a kind of scorn had replaced fear. The timid ones were shut tight in their houses and never ventured abroad. Others who went on with daily work and habits acquired a fatalism which sometimes was tempered by caution, but which more often was deliberately reckless. Mourning was now almost never seen, though at the end of the first week in September 2,000 were dying each day and almost every family had lost someone.
There were innumerable grotesque and terrible stories, heard on every hand, but none more terrible than what was actually happening. Instances of premature burial were widely known— partly because of the death-like coma which made the mistake natural, partly because nurses often took advantage of it to get the patient out of the way and plunder the house. There was the story of the butcher who was laid outside in his shroud for the dead-cart, which neglected to carry him off, and who regained consciousness the following morning. He was said to be alive and almost well again. One man escaped from his house, raving mad, and jumped into the Thames, swam across it, and recovered. Another man, left alone, knocked over a candle and burned himself to death in his bed. A young woman discovered a plague-spot on her baby, dashed out its brains against the wall of a house and ran along the street, shrieking.
The first day that Bruce was able to go out he walked the half-mile or so to Almsbury House, let himself in with his key, and went up to the apartments he had always occupied to get some fresh clothing. What he had on he took off and burned. There were a couple of servants who had been left as caretakers—for many of the great empty houses were now being entered and robbed by thieves and beggars—and they had been shut in there for more than two months. They refused to come near him but shouted out questions, and were much relieved when he left.
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