The Malady in Maderia

by Ann Bridge

“Oh, you got away with that, did you? I can’t think how—I should have thought such a super-sleuth would have nosed that out of someone” Hartley said.

  “Julia” was Colin’s only reply to this.

  “Ah yes—no doubt! I’m longing to hear the whole story. When do you come back?”

  “Well, I was going to ask about that. I wondered if I could stay on here for a bit; my wife isn’t too well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “We hope not, but I’d sooner be on hand for the next few days.”

  “Of course. Yes, do stay—take some leave. I’ll let them know in Madrid.”

  “Thanks very much. By the way, the Super-Sleuth said they might want me to go over there presently; I gather they’re going to have a top-level conference about this business.”

  “I should damn well think they would! Our people will want to be in on that too—in fact they’re taking steps about it now. Our friends in the metropolitan capital, as you call it, may be asked some pretty awkward questions about how much longer they would have sat with their eyes shut, while you-know-who calmly did a Pueblo in their waters, aimed at us, unless you and Mrs. Philip had come along” Hartley said indignantly. “Yes, of course you can go if they want you.”

  “Thanks. And could you ask ’Henry’, as you call him, to let the Great Man know that this number is all right for me for the moment?”

  “Why didn’t you tell him that yourself?”

  “Because I didn’t know till he’d gone that our medical friend would keep me on as a patient” Colin said—“nor that you would let me stay on!”

  “O.K.—You win! Congratulations again” the Major said, and rang off.

  Colin went out onto the balcony again, and continued to think about Aglaia. Yes, he had been cowardly where she was concerned—de Carvalho was quite right. He would have to try, somehow, to be with her more, and to behave more firmly and sensibly when he was. Should he ask for a job in London?—now would seem to be a good time to ask for anything he wanted, with the Office in this receptive mood, he thought. Anyhow he had better see Ag as soon as possible—begin as you mean to go on, he told himself; he would ring Julia and find out when he would be allowed to. He got up and went in; as he entered the bedroom the telephone rang—it was Julia.

  “The Colonel gone?” she asked at once.

  “Yes—bag and baggage! He did it all very neatly.”

  “No trouble for poor Da Silva?”

  “No, except about his bill. Gosh, I hope Fernandez did remember to pay that!” Colin exclaimed.

  “Oh well, if he forgot we’ll twist it out of the Colonel” Julia said easily. “Well, that bird seems to be dead!—good-oh. Now look, could you come up here? Dr. Urquhart wants to see you.”

  “Why? Is she worse?” Colin asked anxiously.

  “Not in the least. He just wants to get an overall picture of her surroundings, I think. I’ve told him all I can; now he wants to see you.”

  “When? And where?”

  “Today, if you can. He rang up to say you’d find him at the Golf Club.”

  “All right—I’ll go right away.”

  “He’s fearfully nice, and madly sensible” Julia said.

  “There’s a Greek word for expressions like that!” Colin said, beginning to giggle.

  “Like what? Oh, madly sensible. Yes—oxy—something” Julia said, quite untroubled. “Where are you staying, by the way?”

  “Here, pro tern. Right—I’ll be on my way. I’ll look in when I’ve seen him.”

  Colin’s interview with Dr. Urquhart took place, not at the Golf Club, where the young man duly found him, but in the comfortable and very unprofessional-looking study in the doctor’s small house close by. Here too there were eucalyptus trees, and their medicinal scent, strong in the midday sun, came in through the windows—for years the smell of eucalyptus was to bring that room back to Colin.

  “I start at a disadvantage in treating your wife” the doctor began, “because I have never seen her when she was in normal health. But your cousin tells me—and I am inclined to trust her judgment—that even when she is well, Mrs. Monro is inclined to a degree of impetuosity and indiscretion that you find very inconvenient in your profession. Would you agree with that?”

  “Yes” Colin said at once. “That is so.”

  “Which do you put first, your wife or your work?” the old man asked, peering at him from under grizzled eyebrows.

  “My work” Colin said, again without hesitation. “One has to, in my job. I thought—” now he paused. “I thought I had explained that at the beginning, when I asked her to marry me; I did tell her that until I had to retire I didn’t mean to live at our place in Scotland—I was going to leave my sister and her husband to run that, because I should have to be all over the place. She seemed to understand at the time, and said she didn’t mind. But it hasn’t worked out” he ended gloomily.

  “Do you feel she has let you down?”

  “Not really, I don’t think; we were both rather young, and probably pretty silly to think it could work. I’m most to blame about that, because I am so much older—but you see I was accustomed to women who did understand about that sort of thing.”

  “Meaning your cousin?”

  “Yes—and my sister.”

  “Both very disciplined people, I imagine?”

  “Yes—and of course a good bit older than either of us.”

  “I am not sure that age per se has much to do with self-discipline—upbringing is usually more important. What sort of people were your wife’s parents?”

  “I never knew her father—he died when she was in her teens. He was Mr. Terence Armitage’s uncle. Her mother was Greek; she married again, a South American, and went to live out there

  “I only saw her when she came over for our wedding.”

  “There have of course been very high-principled Greeks; even noble” Dr. Urquhart said, reflectively.

  “Well, Aglaia’s mother wasn’t one of them” Colin stated flatly. “She ran away from Armitage with this dago, leaving the child, long before he died.”

  “Then who did bring her up?”

  “A widowed Armitage aunt, in London. I expect she was all right, only a bit dim, I thought. Aglaia went to school, of course —I don’t remember where.”

  “I see—umm. Yes, children from broken homes start with a very considerable handicap, and if you add prettiness such as hers! Unless circumstances, like great poverty, for instance, impose some sort of discipline—umm?” the doctor said again, now interrogatively. “I suppose not, since her father was an Armitage.”

  “It was worse than that—her Greek grandfather was a millionaire, and left it all to her” Colin said, dismally. “She has had a great deal against her, as far as character-forming goes. And I see now that I haven’t helped” he added, slowly.

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been cowardly where she was concerned. If she was being spoilt and tiresome, instead of reasoning with her, or putting my foot down and telling her to shut up, I just threw my hand in, and kept out of her way. That’s one reason why, on this job here, I stayed in Funchal instead of at the Quinta, and wouldn’t even let her know where I was—I felt I couldn’t work with her butting in, or asking questions, all the time.”

  “How soon will this present job be finished?—or can you not say?” Dr. Urquhart asked.

  “Oh, it’s done—all cleared up this morning, thank God.”

  “And what do you do next?”

  “That’s what I should like your advice about” Colin said. “I’ve got a bit of leave, just for the next week or two; but I don’t know what to aim at after that.”

  “How do you mean, ‘aim at’?”

  “Well, this show hasn’t gone too badly, and I think if I asked the Office now to let me have a year working at home, they would probably agree” the young man said. “Then we could settle down in London and try to—to make a fresh start.”


  “You putting into practise these fresh ideas about your own behaviour?”

  “Exactly that. What do you think?”

  Dr. Urquhart didn’t answer for a moment or two—instead he watched the handsome black-haired, white-faced young man who sat opposite, looking at him with such a humble, appealing gaze.

  “Why are you holding your left hand with your right?” he asked suddenly. Colin blushed, laughed, and removed his right hand.

  “It’s my thumb” he said. “When I’m nervous it jerks out—it’s double-jointed, you see.” And indeed his left thumb, freed, jerked backwards and outwards with the familiar small sickening sound.

  “Umm—very interesting. How long has it done that?”

  “Ever since I can remember. But it irritates people, so I try to stop it” Colin said.

  Again the doctor was silent for a little while. At last—“Go on trying to stop it” he said. “As to your question, I think it may be a very good idea. How much of a hurry is there about making your request to your Office?”

  “Oh, any time in the next week or two.”

  “Good. Well, I will talk to your wife—probably tomorrow —and then I will let you know what I think.”

  “And when can I see her?”

  “After I have talked to her” said Dr. Urquhart.

  17

  In Fact It was not till two days later that Dr. Urquhart judged Aglaia Monro fit for the conversation he proposed to have with her. He ordained that she should stay in her room, and see no one but Nannie Mack; he had a brief talk with Nannie in the day-nursery about this.

  “Just talk to her about nursery matters, or clothes, or that” he said. “If she asks any questions, say ye don’t know.” (With his fellow-countrywoman he relapsed slightly into his native idiom.) “Give her one of the wee yellow pills three times a day, after her food. Can she knit?” “Well, teach her to; or sew—let her use her hands.” “Och aye”—in reply to a question—“she can see the wee boy if he runs in; but no adults.” He gave the same instructions to her hostess—“I just want her to keep absolutely quiet for forty-eight hours. Yes, she’s doing fine so far—sleep is what she needs. Books? Well, if she wants to read, give her a good thriller; they put the mind to sleep! But give it to yon nurse to give her.”

  “It’s funny he won’t let anyone but Nannie Mack see her” Pauline Shergold said, when recounting this conversation to Mrs. Hathaway.

  “I fancy Dr. Urquhart knows what he is about” said the old lady.

  “I hope so. Anyhow Terry rang up just now to say that she can go back to the Quinta as soon as she’s well enough, so that’s one mercy. I wonder why on earth he was so keen on shipping her off here” Mrs. Shergold speculated.

  “I imagine Mr. Armitage generally has very good reasons for whatever he does” Mrs. Hathaway said blandly.

  “Yes, but why all these mysteries?” Pauline said impatiently, “and all this rushing about? Julia dashing off to stay in Funchal, and then coming back in the middle of the night!—and Ag being dumped on us at no notice! You must admit, Mrs. H., that it’s all most peculiar.”

  “You have been wonderfully kind to everyone, my dear Pauline” was all Mrs. Hathaway said.

  Dr. Urquhart looked in on Aglaia next day, and told her to be up and dressed the following morning by eleven o’clock—“I’m going to take you out for a while.” Then he went in to see Mrs. Hathaway, whose chest he pronounced to be in perfect order again. He mentioned his plan. “I want to have a good talk with that child, so I’m going to take her home with me for an hour or two; we shan’t be interrupted there.” As if to point his words, a deafening burst of mixed screams and laughter came up from the garden at that moment—Mrs. Hathaway smiled.

  “Yes, a real bear-garden is tranquillity itself” she said. “I’ve often been to the one in Berne.” Dr. Urquhart laughed, and went away.

  As he and his patient got into the car next morning—“Where are we going?” Aglaia asked rather nervously.

  “Down to my house; I have a proper consulting-room there.” In the pleasant room where he had talked with Colin he gave the girl a brief physical examination, and told her to go and put on her frock again. When she returned he told her to sit down.

  “Your body’s fine” he said. “Nothing wrong with it at all. Now, is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “I don’t think so” Aglaia said hesitantly. “Yes—there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  She was silent for a moment, scraping the carpet with the toe of her little white shoe. At last—“Can I have another baby?” she asked without looking up.

  “God bless the child!—you can have ten if you want them” the old man said. “Do you want children very much?”

  “Colin wanted a boy” she said. “The baby I lost was a boy.”

  “I know—I was very sorry to hear about that. But an only child is usually a bad plan, you know.”

  “Because it gets spoilt? Mrs. Shergold has four, and if they aren’t spoilt, I don’t know what a spoilt child is!” Aglaia said, with sudden energy. Dr. Urquhart laughed—she could be shrewd enough.

  “Mrs. Shergold has a theory about that” he said. “It’s to do with Portuguese nannies. “But you—do you, yourself, want children? Two or three, say?”

  “I shouldn’t mind, I don’t think. I don’t know if I should be much good at bringing them up, but I suppose I could manage if I had someone like Nannie Mack. Colin wouldn’t like it if they weren’t brought up well” she said, again scraping the carpet with her shoe.

  “In fact, about having children it’s more a case of your husband having what he wants, eh?”

  “Yes” she said, now looking full at him with huge brown eyes. “I’d do anything for him to have what he wants!”

  “But only about children? Not so much about his work?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, startled and nervous.

  “Simply that the way you have been behaving just lately doesn’t look as if you cared very much about the work” he said, slowly. “When your husband is in the middle of a very difficult job, and you do happen to meet him, you make a fearful fuss about not being allowed to take more part; and when you can’t get your way, you lose your temper, and lash yourself into hysterics. Can that help him? Did you really not see that it would only worry him, and distract him from doing his job well?”

  Aglaia began to cry.

  “I did want him to do it well! It was I who had him sent for. You’ve been talking to Julia!” she brought out angrily.

  “And to your husband; and to other people too. Do you know why Mr. Armitage had you sent up here?”

  “Penelope was vexed because I locked myself in my room” she said.

  “Oh no; that wasn’t the reason. At that time there was actual danger from strangers coming round the Quinta and asking questions; he could trust his farmhands, ignorant peasants and their families, to keep quiet if he told them to—but he couldn’t trust you. So he sent you away.”

  “Oh—oh— oh!” Aglaia sobbed.

  “Yes—that’s a terrible thing. But has no one ever told you that it was indiscreet, and wrong of you to talk about your husband and his affairs?”

  “Yes, Julia did, and Terence too, and I did promise her not to.”

  “Did you keep your promise?”

  “Well, partly.”

  “But not altogether? But this is very serious, Mrs. Monro. Do you know that your husband thinks he may have to resign from the Service?”

  She looked at him appalled.

  “Oh no. Oh, he mustn’t do that!”

  “I assure you, he thinks he may have to—purely because of your unreliability.”

  “Julia said that, but I thought she was just trying to frighten me” the girl said, beginning to cry again. “Oh, what shall I do?”

  “Be a good girl and stop crying; wipe your eyes, and listen to me” the doctor said. “I’ll wait awhile, till you’re quiet.”

  Aglai
a did as she was told; she even began to restore her face, using, the doctor noticed, a platinum compact with a monogram in diamonds. “Who gave you that? Your husband?” he asked.

  “Oh goodness no!—I bought it for myself. I saw one like it in Aspreys, so I had it made with my own monogram. It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she said, hopefully.

  “Very pretty. But tell me, how many girls do you suppose there are in Britain—or in Europe, for that matter—who can just go out and buy themselves a thing like that?”

  “I’ve no idea” she said, doubtfully.

  “Perhaps twenty or thirty, in Britain, out of twenty hundred thousand girls who use powder, and like pretty things” he said. As he saw her lips begin to quiver—“I’m not saying that you did wrong to buy it” he went on, “but I do want you to think very hard about one inescapable fact—that this world is a most unequal place. Will you try to do that? It’s very important that you should.”

  “Yes, I will try—but why?”

  “Because in this unequal world the only way to be either good or happy is to be content with what one has got, and do the best one can with it; but never, never to be jealous of those who are better off than oneself. You need never be jealous of anyone where money is concerned, but there are other things far more valuable, that money can’t buy. There is health, for example, and good looks; well, you are middling well off in both of those” he said, smiling. “But you aren’t very rich in some other very valuable possessions.”

  The girl looked earnestly at him.

  “Do you mean I’m not very clever?” she asked.

  “Partly—though that isn’t one of the really important things. As far as intelligence goes you have got quite enough to live on! No, where you are really badly off is in self-discipline and self-control. And in magnanimity—largeness of mind and heart. Did you ever guess that?—have any doubts about yourself?”

  “Yes, I have done sometimes; I mean I’ve felt somehow smaller than some other people” she said slowly.

  “Well, you were quite right! You are rather a small person in some ways. But small things can grow, you know” he said gently, “and even a little person can be good. How much importance do you attach to trying to be good? I get the impression that you don’t think about it very much.”