She thought about him, she thought of what had concerned him so much, and of his audacious interference. She thought of what she was doing, holding a dying man in her arms, and she thought of another man who had suffered death.
Clarence Guest. Clarence had been a worldly man, with a sophisticated wit and charm. A broker making his fortune in Shanghai, he became a close friend of her parents, and a welcome contributor to the mission house funds. His smile and his worldliness fascinated her, and quite endeared him to her mother, still a very attractive woman at thirty-nine. She herself was just twenty, and Clarence declared her far too delicious to be a missionary’s daughter. She was depriving the world of her sweetness by devoting herself to Chinese orphans, he said. She was meant to grace the ballrooms of London and Paris. He called often, and sometimes stayed at weekends. He expressed amazement at her father’s interest in snakes, and in the fact that the conservatory was actually used for housing many different specimens, its temperature always kept at tropical level throughout the year. Cho Ling, the family’s most trusted servant, looked after the snake-house and its serpentine inmates.
Clarence was going on for thirty, but still engaged himself enthusiastically with her, declaring himself smitten. However, after five months, her father wished her to know he considered Clarence unsuitable for her, and therefore, if she was favourably disposed towards him, to cure herself of her feelings. A devoted daughter, she began to exercise self-restraint in her relationship with Clarence. She did not question her father’s advice. But her mother continued to invite Clarence, and to take a special interest in him. He was a man, of course, who was like a breath of fresh air in the cloistered atmosphere of the mission. The snakes fascinated both her mother and Clarence, and they were often in the conservatory together. It was a huge place, and the snakes were restricted by glass surrounds.
The memory of a horrifying moment still caused her pain. Coming back to the mission from a shopping expedition in Shanghai one day, she showered the Chinese orphans with little presents she had bought out of her own hard-won savings, then went up to show her mother a new dress. Cho Ling appeared on the wide landing. Seeing her, his usual placid Oriental countenance took on a look of dismay. She asked him if anything was wrong. He shook his head and hastened away. She walked along a corridor and entered her mother’s room. Her mother liked to take a rest at this time of the day. She could not believe what leapt to her eye. Clarence, who had arrived for the weekend that morning, was on her mother’s bed, with her mother. What they were doing she had never given name to. Neither of them saw her, neither knew she was at the open door. She wanted to die of shock and shame, and she even wanted to kill Clarence. She retreated in horror, and when she found herself in her own room she could not remember if she had closed the door on the infamous spectacle. Her father was away in Canton.
She did not know how she got through the rest of the day, how it was that she managed to survive the evening meal with her mother and Clarence, or how she got through the table conversation. She escaped as soon as she could. Out on the verandah, the sultry air of the hot evening felt suffocating. Cho Ling, passing by, stopped to look up at her from the ground. He pressed his hands toether, put them to his lips and gave her a little bow to signal devotion.
She hardly slept that night. When morning came a servant found Clarence dead in his bed, body contorted and twisted. And lying in the bed, close to his body, was a venomous viper. She and her mother were brought by the servant to the scene of dreadful death. Cho Ling had also been summoned. He seized the viper by its neck, just below its head, and carried it out. As he passed her, his expression was quite inscrutable. Her mother dropped in a faint.
Clarence’s sister and her husband, George Lockheart, were in Shanghai at the time, and they were called to the mission. And the Reverend Pilgrim was summoned by telegraph from Canton.
Mrs Lockheart had hysterics, and her husband voiced suspicions, but the inquest returned a verdict of death by misadventure, especially as a broken glass surround was discovered in the snakehouse.
But Miss Pilgrim had always known who had carried the viper to Clarence’s bed. Cho Ling. It was an act of revenge for the dishonouring of the family he served. She knew it, and had said nothing, either then or at any time. After the war, after the death of her husband, Mrs Lockheart suffered a mental breakdown and was eventually admitted to an asylum.
She was back there now, having been quietly apprehended and re-admitted.
Jim shuddered in Miss Pilgrim’s arms, and she thought it was the shudder preceding death. She had been there in the bed with him how long? An hour, a full hour, holding him close to her body, trying to give him heat and life. Now he was going. The unfairness of Providence shattered her.
Downstairs was a young woman, a young woman healthy, vigorous and affectionate, and willing, she was sure, to make his life complete for him, to be his wife and to be a mother to Horace and Ethel. But his body was failing him. He was losing the battle. He shuddered again.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she whispered in anguish, ‘fight, fight.’
Something was wrong, something had drastically changed. Wrong? Wrong? Her blouse was soaking, his pyjamas drenched. His tortured breathing was evening out. She freed her aching right arm and put her hand to his face, and his face was drenched with perspiration.
Dear God, he had not lost, after all. He had won. The raging fever had broken.
But his soaking pyjamas.
She slipped in a rush from the bed. The door opened and by the light of the candle on the little bedside table, she saw Horace.
‘I woke up, Miss Pilgrim, I—’
‘Horace, oh, my dear boy, you are just the one I want. Bring me clean pyjamas. His. Quickly. Then we shall save him.’
‘They’re in ’ere,’ said Orrice, and pulled open the middle section of the chest of drawers. He snatched up the fresh pyjamas, and watched staring-eyed as Miss Pilgrim pulled every covering down to the foot of the bed. His Uncle Jim lay there, and Orrice saw his perspiration like a shining wetness on his face. And Miss Pilgrim, she showed perspiration too, her blouse was wet and clinging.
‘Horace, help me. We must get his pyjamas off. They’re soaked. His fever’s broken, you see, and he’s lying in a pool of perspiration. I must get a mackintosh and a dry blanket.’
‘I’ll get him undressed, Miss Pilgrim, you get the things.’
‘Cover him with these blankets I’ve pulled off from the top.’
Orrice was already at work. Miss Pilgrim hastened downstairs. Orrice stripped Jim. He saw his left arm, it finished at the elbow, and the elbow was a stump. His body was flooding with sweat. Orrice flung the blankets over him. Miss Pilgrim came back, and Molly was with her. They stripped the bottom sheet from under Jim, working fast. They placed the mackintosh under him, Orrice helping to lift him. They slid in a clean sheet and blanket, the blanket next to the mackintosh.
Orrice said, a little embarrassedly, ‘I best put his clean pyjamas on, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Towel him down first,’ said Molly, and passed a towel to the boy. She and Miss Pilgrim lifted the coverings, and Orrice applied the towel swiftly and vigorously. Then he put the pyjamas on his guardian, who lay heavily but with no shivers.
‘Horace, how very good of you,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and she and Molly remade the bed at speed, discarding the wet top sheet and using a fresh one. They stood beside the bed, the three of them, looking down at Jim. He was breathing very evenly, and the sweat was lessening.
‘Is he goin’ to be all right now?’ asked Orrice.
‘Yes, Horace, I think so,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘I think he’s fought the good fight.’
Orrice looked up at her tall figure. He had never seen her looking so dishevelled, her hair loose, her blouse shapeless, her skirt creased. Her face was pale, her eyes dark.
‘Yer an angel, Miss Pilgrim,’ he said.
‘Yes, she is, Horace,’ said Molly. ‘Yes, you are, Miss Pilgrim.’
�
��So much nonsense from everybody,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and uttered a long, weary sigh.
‘Go to bed,’ said Molly, ‘I’ll sit with him for the rest of the night.’
‘I’ll stay with yer, Miss Keatin’,’ said Orrice, ‘I’ll bring me blanket and sleep on the floor. Then if you want me to do anything or get something, you can just wake me up.’
‘Yes, that sounds lovely, old chap,’ said Molly.
Miss Pilgrim fell into her bed fifteen minutes later. Exhausted, she slept, her mind full of dreams both sad and triumphant.
Jim opened his eyes. The morning light, bright with the crisp sunshine of a cold December day, flooded the bedroom. He looked at the mantelpiece clock. A quarter past twelve. He heard noises downstairs. He heard the sound of climbing footsteps. He heard them travelling over the landing. The door slowly opened and Effel put a cautious head around the door.
‘Hello, monkey,’ said Jim. He felt weak but clear-headed. He also felt he needed a shave. Effel stared at him. ‘Come in, Ethel, there’s no charge,’ he said.
She came in, advancing slowly.
‘Are you better, please?’ she asked.
‘Much. Twice the man I was. Ask Horace if there’s any food.’
‘Yes, a’ right.’ Effel hung her head. ‘Orrice an’ me—’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t mind you’re not me dad. Orrice don’t mind, neiver. We fink it’s nice you’re better. We like – we—’ Effel rushed to the door. ‘We like yer lookin’ after us.’ She disappeared, scampering down the stairs. Orrice came up.
‘I think I’ve just been approved by Ethel,’ said Jim.
‘Crikey, yer talkin’,’ said Orrice, ‘yer talkin’, Uncle Jim.’ Jim sat up, easing his shoulders above the pillow. ‘Hold on, though, I don’t know Miss Pilgrim wants yer sittin’ up yet.’
Jim put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and squeezed.
‘You’ll do, old chap, we’ll make a go of things together, you and Effel and me.’
‘You betcher,’ said Orrice. ‘The doctor came early this morning, before we went to school—’
‘The doctor?’ said Jim.
‘Miss Pilgrim sent me to fetch ’im yesterday morning, Uncle, made me run all the way. He told Miss Pilgrim this morning that what you ’ad must’ve been in a terrible ’urry, ’cos it galloped up on you and then galloped away. He told ’er she was the one who’d sent it packin’. Uncle Jim, Miss Pilgrim, well, we got to buy her a present or something. She sat with yer an’ looked after yer all day and all night. Well, nearly all night. Miss Keatin’ come too last night, and she sat with yer after you was better.’
‘Was I as bad as that, Horace?’
‘I don’t think you was too good, Uncle. Effel and me’s just come home for our dinner, and Effel’s just told Miss Pilgrim you’d woke up and was askin’ for food. I think she’s goin’ to bring you something up. I best go down and ’ave me dinner, Miss Pilgrim said nobody was to rush up and down and not get on with their dinners. I best go, Uncle.’
‘Good luck, laddie.’
Orrice left. A few minutes later Miss Pilgrim came up. She entered looking as composed as always. She was refreshed, and in her dark blue dress with its little touch of white at the neck, she was a tall arresting figure fully in control of herself and the moment. Her hair was smooth and ordered, her blue eyes clear and searching.
‘Good morning, Mr Cooper.’
Jim, his eyes dark and a little hollow, said, ‘Good morning, Rebecca.’
She frowned at the familiarity.
‘You aren’t going to be nonsensical, I hope,’ she said. ‘What a disgraceful man you are, giving the children such a fright. And look at you. Untidy hair, unshaven chin and hollow eyes. You aren’t even washed. I’ll bring you a bowl of hot water, soap and a towel, and your shaving things. First, though, I’ve put some soup on for you, and will let you have it in a few minutes with some thick bread and butter. Dr McManus has been and expressed himself satisfied with your recovery—’
‘What did he say about you?’
‘He was not invited to say anything about me. I hope you never catch such feverish flu again. You must stay in bed for the rest of this week. Your close and affectionate friend, Miss Keating, is going to call each evening to see you, and I hope you’ll perceive what is obvious. The children need a mother, Ethel particularly so. You need a wife. It’s quite wrong for a man like you, with two wards, not to have a wife who will help you bring them up. I’m positive Miss Keating will look very sympathetically at a proposal—’
‘Hold on, not so fast,’ said Jim.
‘I’m not suggesting you should decide immediately,’ said Miss Pilgrim understandingly, ‘and if you think I’m interfering in your affairs in a way inconsistent with my objections to your interference in mine, please put it down to my concern for the children and their future. All children should have two parents, or the equivalent of two parents, and a house rather than lodgings. I’ll go and get your soup ready now.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jim, ‘that’ll give me time to work out how I can get a word in edgeways.’
‘I should hope, Mr Cooper, I’m not the kind of person to monopolize a discussion.’
‘No, you’re not, usually,’ said Jim, at which she gave him one of her doubting looks before returning to her kitchen. He lay back and thought about her. She was back after five minutes with a tray containing a bowl of soup, hot and steaming, and two thick slices of bread and butter. He sat up again, and she placed the tray on his lap. ‘That smells good,’ he said.
‘It’s lentil soup,’ she said, ‘and if you do it justice I’ll prepare a satisfying supper for you this evening.’
He had a peculiar feeling she was perfectly at home as nurse and provider, that she was enjoying her role.
‘I’m not going to be able to thank you enough for everything,’ he said.
‘One doesn’t need thanks for exercising a Christian duty, Mr Cooper. When you’ve finished the soup and the bread, I’ll bring your washing and shaving things. I really don’t like a lodger of mine looking like a tramp.’
‘You demon,’ said Jim.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t go for a moment,’ said Jim. ‘I once told you I was no catch, and I’m still not much of a one. So you’ll probably think I’ve a colossal nerve to ask—’ He checked. Miss Pilgrim was viewing him in forbidding fashion. He cleared his throat. He looked at the steaming soup. ‘No, never mind,’ he said, picking up the soup spoon, ‘but I do thank you for everything, for all you did for me. Horace made me aware of how much I owe you.’
She shook her head at him.
‘Mr Cooper, if you were going to ask me to carry your proposal of marriage to Miss Keating for you, I shouldn’t call it a colossal nerve but an act of cowardice. I can hardly believe that of a man like you, nor would Miss Keating think very much of it herself. You must not be so diffident, you must put the question to the lady herself.’
‘That’s done it,’ said Jim. ‘All right, I’ll get on with it, I’ll put it direct. To you, Rebecca, which I should, because I love you. Will you do me the considerable pleasure of marrying me? I know I look like an old tramp at the moment—’
‘Mr Cooper, what are you saying?’ Miss Pilgrim spoke in utter astonishment.
‘Molly’s a good friend, and always will be, I hope,’ said Jim, a little discouraged by his landlady’s reaction. It had taken all his courage to make the proposal. ‘But I’ve never thought about marrying her, and I don’t think she’s ever had that in mind herself. Never mind, I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you.’ He looked up and gave her a smile.
Miss Pilgrim seemed to be having difficulty in drawing breath. It induced her to leave the bedroom without a word and to go down to her kitchen, where Orrice and Effel had just finished their generous helpings of rich lamb stew. She gave them their afters, a creamy rice pudding, but without saying anything. Orrice thought she looked a bit flushed, a bit upset. Effel eyed her hesitantly.
‘Please, Miss Pilgrim, ain’t ’e very well again?’
‘Pardon?’ Miss Pilgrim came to. ‘Dear child, yes, he’s very well. One can hardly believe how well. There, eat your rice pudding while it’s hot, and excuse me for a moment.’ She went to her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face felt hot, and she could not think straight. The words he had spoken, the smile he had given her. For years after the horror of that dreadful day and night at the mission house, the smile of any man brought back to her a memory of the fascinating charm of Clarence Guest and what lay beneath his winning worldliness. For many months after his death she had been unable to look at her mother without feeling shame and shock. Then one day she heard her father say, ‘Maud, no more penitence, I beg you. You are forgiven. We’ve all sinned, every one of us.’ That made things a little better for her, and when her mother developed malaria immediately on their return to England, and became a semi-invalid at times, Rebecca Pilgrim turned into a devoted daughter again, although there were always dark images lodged in the deeper recesses of her mind.
Mr Cooper loved her? He had asked to marry her? Mr Cooper? What had got into him? Dear heaven, had he known, then, that she had been in his bed with him and held his racked, aching body close to hers for an hour and more? Did he think she had compromised herself? No, no, he was far too sensible to think that. Nor could she believe he had been consciously aware of anything outside of his disordered mind.
Two for Three Farthings Page 31