I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  “I was asking if you were happy,” she reminded him.

  He started.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I’m getting married too,” she told him. “I shouldn’t feel free to be happy if I knew that you weren’t.”

  There was a pause, and he ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them.

  “Yes,” he said deliberately. “You can think of me as happy.”

  They did not speak again for a moment and they began to walk along slowly, side by side.

  “Did . . . did you get those letters I wrote you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “No. But I knew that you must have written. I was sure of it.”

  “I told you everything in them,” he said.

  She was frowning, puzzled.

  “What was it you told me?” she asked.

  But his face darkened and he did not answer.

  “It’s too late now,” he said. “It’s all over. It doesn’t matter.” He paused: “Are you in love with this man you are marrying?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yes,” she answered. “You can think of me as happy, too.”

  He turned on her.

  “That isn’t the same thing,” he said. “I asked if you loved him?”

  “Do you love Hesther?” she asked quietly.

  They were nearing the end of Chapel Walk by now. Its darkness and its trees came suddenly to an end in a thoroughfare along which lighted buses trundled. All privacy stopped there. He laid his hand on her arm.

  “Stop here a moment,” he said.

  He put his arm round her.

  “I love you,” he said. “You know that. I shall go on loving you for ever.”

  “I love you too,” she answered. “I can’t tell you how much.”

  He looked into her face and saw that she was crying. His heart which had become normal again now began to hammer uncontrollably once more. He could feel little frantic pulses all over him.

  “Gome away with me,” he said suddenly. “Come away before it’s too late. We’ll manage somehow. I’m strong. I can support you. Come away to-night . . .”

  But she put her hand over his mouth to stop him.

  “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Can’t you see that it’s wicked?”

  “It’s not wicked to love you,” he answered.

  She took hold of his hands and drew them away from her.

  “It is wicked,” she said. “Hesther’s your wife now. We mustn’t see each other again.”

  Her voice was calm as she spoke; so calm that he felt his desire passing out of him. Only the misery of separation remained.

  “Then kiss me,” he said. “Kiss me this last time.”

  “I hoped you’d ask that,” she said.

  They were still embracing, his lips on hers, when Mr. Tuke, the total of the collection in his bag, passed hurriedly down Chapel Walk on his way back to the Presbytery. He was frowning as he walked; he knew that lovers used these shadows and, in his mind, the street reeked of Babylon and its devices.

  But he was utterly unprepared for what he saw to-night. A chink of light penetrating between two of the trunks illuminated the figures and there was no mistaking them. For a moment this man of God thought of striding up and tearing them apart as Joshua or Isaiah would have done. But he checked himself: he was actually so dumb-founded that he could think of nothing to say. So, instead, he went on hurriedly—almost running in fact to avoid their seeing him—as though it were he who were guilty, and they who were standing in innocence beneath the trees.

  Chapter XV

  Old Mr. Morgan did not ever get so far as Swansea as he had once intended. The rooms were booked, the nurse, a grizzled-haired old veteran, was installed, and then the doctor said that things had gone too far and Mr. Morgan was not to be moved.

  In his heart Mr. Morgan knew that the doctor was right. The last three months during which he had been carefully tying up the business and putting all the ends into Mr. Hackbridge’s damp, fumbling hands, had been painful and terrifying. He was now a groaning lump of misery with a kind of octopus inside him that stretched out one of its eight legs and caught him whichever way he turned. Had he attempted the journey, indeed, he doubted whether he would ever have reached his destination; and there seemed something downright improper in a man’s meeting his Maker in a private compartment on the Great Western Railway.

  So it was arranged that the flat over the shop should be opened up again and that Mr. Morgan should stop there. The result, of course, was chaos. It was agony to the Old Gentleman to lie there in the big, brass bedstead in front of the window and know that two floors underneath him, Mr. Hackbridge was making a mess of things. The nurse, moreover, had deserted him. When she learned that he was not going to Swansea after all, she threw up the case altogether. She felt that, at her time of life, she was entitled to a little consideration, too; and she definitely preferred death at the sea-side to death anywhere else.

  The new nurse was a very different kind of citizen. She was a charmer. She was small and well-preserved and chestnut-haired. Out of an unvaryingly complexioned face, there gazed a pair of bright, china blue eyes that were as blandly innocent as a child’s. Nothing disturbed her; nothing interfered with her sleep. She was smooth and efficient and silent. The Association that had sent her, spoke of her in the highest possible terms, and she carried the references of an angel. Altogether she was a formidably presentable companion. Mr. Morgan, elderly widower as he was, used to lie on his back and wonder which side of forty she belonged to. One day he asked her, and she told him that she was thirty-five.

  And under her care, as expert and proficient as a vet’s, Mr. Morgan lingered on. Nothing fearful happened, nothing alarming. May turned to June, and June gave place to July and Mr. Morgan and Nurse Foxell were both of them still there. The Old Gentleman of course was in a daze for most of the time. The doctor had given her a bottle of Liquor Morphia to exhibit to the patient whenever the pain became too unbearable, and she administered it constantly, compassionately. The doctor was satisfied that it should be so; and so, in his wakeful moments, was Mr. Morgan.

  It was these wakeful moments which were the trouble. His anxiety about the shop returned then and he would wonder whether the windows were being looked after properly and if the corsets were being really carefully rolled up before they were put away again. Sometimes he could stand the uncertainty no longer. And there would follow the strange spectacle of a nurse in uniform, gleaming all over with chaste starch, walking through the departments on a tour of investigation. Needless to say, Mr. Hackbridge resented these tours, and tried to show his resentment by following her round on his big, spongy feet until she returned to the sick-room where she belonged.

  But Mr. Morgan already resented Mr. Hackbridge and was so sharp in his dealings with him that Mr. Hackbridge had no opportunity to complain. Every time, in fact, when Mr. Morgan saw his manager on one of the periodic visits that he insisted on he wondered if he had not blundered in his choice and should not have picked on John Marco instead. Mr. Hackbridge was such a sloppy sack of a man, and John Marco was always so ready and alert. Mr. Morgan actually spoke once or twice to Nurse Foxell about sending for John Marco and making some new arrangement: but each time Nurse Foxell dissuaded him. She said that he must forget all about the shop and simply take care of himself.

  And, what was odd, Mr. Morgan obeyed her. During the ten weeks in which she had looked after him he had come to rely on her so completely for everything that it did not occur to him to question her authority. Whenever he became in the least obstreperous she would purse up those red lips of hers and begin fumbling with the small blue bottle of Liquor Morphia. There was never any disputing that; and after he had greedily drunk from the spoon which she had held for him in cool, steady hands, he would drift gratefully off again into oblivion. Best of all, he liked those afternoons when he was no more than sensuously drowsy and could lie, propped up with pillows while Nurse Foxell sa
t beside him stitching, endlessly stitching, at some piece of everlasting needlework.

  It was on one of these occasions when he had been left alone with Mr. Tuke after tea—Mr. Tuke’s visits seemed always to synchronise with the tea-tray—that he was able to voice his feelings.

  “I’m worried,” he said faintly. “Very worried.”

  “God will take care,” Mr. Tuke assured him.

  “God doesn’t take care of retail drapery,” Mr. Morgan said peevishly.

  Mr. Tuke raised his eyebrows but did not dispute the point, and there was a brief silence.

  Then Mr. Morgan spoke again.

  “I’ve made some bad mistakes,” he said. “Some very bad ones.”

  “We all have,” Mr. Tuke replied. “We all have a load of errors with which to reproach ourselves.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of error,” Mr. Morgan replied. “I mean about Mr. Hackbridge.”

  Mr. Tuke, however, did not seem to be interested in Mr. Hackbridge: he treated the whole affair as though it were trivial. And it was not until Mr. Morgan mentioned John Marco that he showed any interest at all. Then the effect was remarkable. He bared his teeth.

  “Don’t speak of that young man,” he said. “An Elder, too.”

  From the bedclothes Mr. Morgan stared up in dismay.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Oh dear. What is it that’s wrong with Mr. Marco?”

  “Everything’s wrong with him,” Mr. Tuke answered. “He is walking in sin.”

  “But what kind of sin?” Mr. Morgan persisted. “Not thievery?”

  “Carnal,” said Mr. Tuke briefly. And having said as much he would say no more.

  But it was enough. Mr. Morgan was now thoroughly unsettled, and when Nurse Foxell came back she treated Mr. Tuke as if he had been trying to murder the Old Gentleman. She went first over to the bed, and then crossed to the table by the fireplace and came back with Mr. Tuke’s hat and gloves. The crudity of the thing appalled him. During all his years in the Ministry he did not ever remember having been treated so abruptly by a woman before. But while he was sulking on his way downstairs Nurse Foxell had quite forgotten all about him. She was already immersed in her sacred duty of healing again; with one cool hand she was smoothing the poor, tortured forehead while with the other she was loosening the stopper in the magical bottle of Liquor Morphia. In the sick room she was queen; and she knew it.

  Nor were Mr. Tuke and Mr. Hackbridge the only ones to feel aggrieved about the state of siege in which Mr. Morgan existed. The bedroom was practically barred against all visitors. And, when a sister and two cousins came up by excursion train all the way from Llanelly to catch one last glimpse of the sufferer, they were actually reduced to the humiliation of having to sit about in the drawing-room like strangers for nearly forty minutes while this auburn-haired houri flounced in and out of the sickroom in front of them.

  Even Mr. Hackbridge now gave his daily report into her hands instead of direct into Mr. Morgan’s and for all he knew Mr. Morgan might have been dead for weeks and Nurse Foxell carrying on a sinister pantomime of showing him things. Mr. Tuke was therefore not entirely unprepared (for, without listening to scandal, he picked up all that was going on in the parish) when Mr. Morgan sent for him one day because he wanted to talk privately: he arrived expectant and disapproving.

  Nurse Foxell met him at the top of the stairs and told him to mount quietly because the invalid was sleeping. Mr. Tuke said nothing to this piece of impudence; he behaved simply and with dignity, and followed her up with robust, manly footsteps that made the wood-work creak. When they reached the drawing-room Nurse Foxell allowed him to get seated properly—Mr. Tuke was always rather ponderous about sitting, it took him several minutes to get settled—and then drew up a chair opposite.

  “Mr. Morgan wanted to see you privately,” she said, not raising her eyes from the piece of needlework which she produced from behind her.

  “So I understand,” Mr. Tuke replied. “That is why I came.”

  “But he finds now that he doesn’t feel strong enough to tell you himself,” Nurse Foxell went on. “So he asked me to tell you instead.”

  “He asked you?” Mr. Tuke repeated incredulously.

  “Why not?” Nurse Foxell answered. “Why shouldn’t he? “

  Mr. Tuke was not prepared to argue.

  “Go on,” he said coldly.

  Nurse Foxell stitched the tendril of a spray of honeysuckle into the pattern of her embroidery, and gave a little sigh.

  “The fact is,” she said, “he wants to marry me.”

  Mr. Tuke kept himself rigid. He was careful to show neither resentment nor astonishment. Instead he presumed on his high position and on her lowly one.

  “You are either a very simple woman,” he said, “or else a very scheming one.”

  Nurse Foxell was naturally a little offended; but she was not abashed.

  “I don’t see why you should say that,” she replied.

  “Because Mr. Morgan is a man of nearly eighty whereas you are only on the threshold of middle-age,” Mr. Tuke answered back. “It’s not seemly.”

  “You mean you don’t approve?”

  Mr. Tuke nodded.

  “Then perhaps I’m really wasting your time,” Nurse Foxell replied. “Mr. Morgan said if you were difficult we should simply have to find someone else.”

  But Mr. Tuke was hearing no more of it. He rose to his feet and confronted her.

  “Mr. Morgan said no such thing,” he thundered. “Mr. Morgan is one of my oldest parishioners.”

  Even this, however, did not seem to dash Nurse Foxell. She went on in a different colour with the petal of a honeysuckle, and merely raised her eyebrows a little.

  “I can only suggest that you ask him yourself,” she said. “He’s probably awake by now.”

  She crossed over to the door of the bedroom as she said it, but Mr. Tuke crossed faster. His hand was on the doorknob before Nurse Foxell had got there.

  “I will see for myself,” he said.

  Mr. Morgan was awake all right. He was lying on his back staring helplessly in the direction of the little bottle which Nurse Foxell had left foolishly in full view on the mantel-shelf.

  The sight of Mr. Morgan shocked Mr. Tuke. He had seen him a week or so ago but even in that brief interval, there had been a change. He was no longer the plump Old Gentleman whom they had all known. In fact he wasn’t plump at all now: he was rapidly disappearing before their eyes. The genial curve of his cheeks had vanished already and all that was left was the grim ominous bone work of the face covered by tight, transparent-looking skin. Only the eyes remained. They were larger and more bright than ever. And as Mr. Tuke stood there they turned towards him and he could see that they were frightened eyes.

  It was Nurse Foxell’s voice that roused him. She was standing just behind Mr. Tuke and she spoke over his right shoulder.

  “It’s Mr. Tuke,” she said. “I’ve told him our news.”

  Mr. Morgan did not move at first. Then very arduously as though it were an effort too great to be attempted he removed a very pale hand from the bedclothes and beckoned Mr. Tuke to come nearer.

  “That’s right,” Nurse Foxell said from the doorway. “You two talk it over together.”

  When Nurse Foxell had left them it was Mr. Tuke who opened the conversation.

  “I don’t like what I’ve just heard,” he said. “It’s wanton.”

  “But she’s very devoted,” Mr. Morgan protested. “I’ve never been looked after like this before.”

  “That’s no reason for marrying,” Mr. Tuke replied sternly.

  “She won’t stop unless I marry her,” Mr. Morgan went on. “She told me so.”

  “Then she isn’t worthy to be a Nurse,” answered Mr. Tuke. “She should be exposed. The Association should be told of it.”

  “That wouldn’t help me,” said Mr. Morgan sadly. “I can’t get along without her.”

  Mr. Tuke pursed up his lips disapprovingly.

>   “Then you ought to be able to,” he said. “Your mind should be on other matters. You ought to be preparing yourself.”

  “I’m ready whenever He calls,” Mr. Morgan replied. “I’m the one who’s waiting.”

  There was a pause, a long heavily charged silence that was broken only by the sound of the difficult breathing from the bed. Then Mr. Tuke spoke again.

  “At your time of life, too,” he said abruptly. “You must be twice her age.”

  “She’s thirty-five and I’m seventy-two,” Mr. Morgan replied. “That’s why it can’t last very long.”

  “Why it shouldn’t ever take place you mean,” Mr. Tuke retorted.

  There was another long awkward pause after that. Mr. Tuke’s intransigence was proving too much for Mr. Morgan. In his present feeble state he did not feel equal to arguing with anyone. His eyes suddenly overflowed and large, pear-shaped tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Don’t . . . don’t you want to marry us?” he asked.

  “I do not,” Mr. Tuke replied.

  Poor Mr. Morgan gave a fresh sob at the answer.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “It’s very difficult. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’m making a big mistake. I can’t think very clearly these days.”

  At that moment the door opened again and Nurse Foxell entered. Without giving a look at the invalid she went straight up to Mr. Tuke.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought,” she said. “Coming in here and upsetting the patient like this with all your silly talk.”

  Mr. Tuke trembled with rage.

  “My talk was not silly,” he replied allowing his voice to swell suddenly to its true proportions. “It is you who should be ashamed. ...”

  But his anger apparently had no effect on Nurse Foxell: she all but ignored him.

  “Oh get along with you,” she said contemptuously. “I’ve got my work to do.”

  Mr. Tuke then left them—he left silently and in dudgeon—and Nurse Foxell came over to the bed and stood looking down at the invalid.