Sham and deceit. Well, the pretence must go on for the time being; there was no other way out. Unless Dan Massington called today as arranged. Then it would be all over. She would face it – almost with relief. Cordelia the straightforward, the honest. If things had gone right she would by this time be an hour gone on her journey to London.
She picked up the paper to fold it, and as she did so she glanced down the column of names of those who were dead. Unbelieving, she saw: ‘D. Massington, Esq., The Dower House, Alderley Edge.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mr Ferguson had come back a little irritated at the recall. It showed in every mannerism, in every impatient breath he breathed. But having seen Brook and Robert Birch, his attitude changed, and there was just the faintest flicker of uneasiness at the back of his self-opinionated grey eyes.
Nevertheless he was determined to have as much say in the matter as possible. Birch was sent off in the Ferguson carriage to call on Mr Plimley of St Ann’s Square. Mr Plimley, the lung specialist, came and saw, and his report was bad. Lobar pneumonia, well advanced, as Dr Birch had said.
‘I won’t say that the position is by any means hopeless, Mr Ferguson, but I should be wrong to encourage you by over-optimism. Your son’s heart is very flabby and there will be a great strain put upon it in the next few days. By the way, don’t on any account let him be given any more of that patent cough medicine stuff. It will ease the cough, which will be fatal, for if there is to be a salvation it must come through the cough, distressing though that is. Dr Birch was quite right to prescribe an expectorant. I think I can perhaps let you have something a little more efficient. For the rest – well, it depends very much on the patient. And it depends on the nursing.’ He smiled gravely at Cordelia. ‘It is a great help to a patient to know that one of his loved ones is near.’
After the specialist had gone, Mr Ferguson came back into the drawing-room and stood breathing before the fire. Cordelia had not risen from her chair.
‘I partly blame myself for this,’ he said heavily. ‘Brook has had the chill on him for some days. He would have come home earlier if I had allowed him.’
‘I expect he was well looked after in London, wasn’t he?’
‘Not like home, as you must know.’ One hoped to comfort and earned a reproof.
She got up. ‘ I must see if he wants anything.’
‘Nurse Charters is here, isn’t she?’
‘Well, she’s new, and I thought–’
‘What sleep did you have last night?’
‘I don’t remember.’ I can’t be praised for my devotion already.
‘Well, if you’ll take my advice, go and get the blue-room bed made up and sleep in there. You’ll need all your strength for tonight.’
‘Very well.’ But first I must write to Stephen. Just a note to the infirmary. ‘Stephen, dear Stephen, I can’t go yet. Brook is dangerously ill, and with Dan Massington being – now he cannot come. I am so very concerned about your injury, please write to me at once and tell me how you are. I will be round as soon as ever I can …’
‘Is everything satisfactory at the works?’
‘It was yesterday morning.’ She went into details.
‘Good. I’m glad you did that. It’s a great pity that your first period of responsibility should end this way.’
As she got to the door something made her say: ‘I see Dan Massington’s dead.’
He looked up keenly, his brows knit. ‘Massington? I didn’t know he was ill.’
‘No … He – it’s in the papers this morning.’ She haltingly explained.
‘At the Variety? There was a headline in the London paper. That’s Crossley’s music hall, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t have time to read it all.’
‘Fortunate it was not a Saturday or Mr Slaney-Smith would have been there. Well, I think that will finish the Crossleys in our city.’
His complacency provoked her. ‘I’m sorry for their misfortune,’ she said hotly. ‘I’m sure they’d be sorry to know of ours.’
But it was useless. ‘As for Massington,’ he went on, not listening, ‘it is not our place as Christians to condemn. Naturally I wished him no harm, but I won’t pretend that his death will be any loss to us. He was very little comfort to his sister while she was alive, but when she died he made as much fuss as if we had forced her to take her own life.’
And didn’t you? she thought, going out and closing the door. No, common sense said, not Mr Ferguson, the owner of Grove Hall, the councillor, the dyer and printer and mill owner, the sturdy Christian.
Sunday saw little change, but by the evening Brook’s temperature was up to 104 degrees, and he was delirious on and off all through the night. She nursed him devotedly.
Towards the morning he came to himself but was plainly weaker. The heavy loose cough shook his thin body again and again. After only two days his frame was wasted and there seemed no bulk at all under the bedclothes. Now that he was rational there was no time or thought for ordinary conversation; his whole being was absorbed in the struggle for survival. His eyes followed her but he seldom spoke.
After a particularly bad bout of coughing he said: ‘Suppose you gave me – a dose of that – Walker’s Cough Syrup.’
‘I couldn’t do that. Robert said not.’
‘Well, his stuff – doesn’t seem to soothe – at all.’
‘No, dear. They said it was necessary; it seems hard but they say the coughing helps to clear the congestion.’
He said, rustling deep in his breathing. ‘I can feel it coming now. Give me one dose. No one will ever know.’
No one will ever know. ‘I can’t, Brook. I daren’t.’
‘I don’t believe – you want me – to get better.’
‘It’s because you must get better that you mustn’t go against what the doctor says.’
She was relieved and exhausted when Nurse Charters came. She slept for two hours and then was up for Mr Plimley’s visit.
Mr Plimley did not expect Brook to live through the day, but he did not put it in so many words.
When he had gone, Mr Ferguson said: ‘I think I shall not go down to the works today. I will – send word.’ He looked at Cordelia from under lowered brows. ‘Don’t despair, my dear child. While there’s life there’s hope. We are doing all we can. The rest is in God’s hands. I – lost two of my children. We had great hopes for them. Great hopes. They were fine fellows, vigorous, intelligent, had never ailed until then. It was a terrible blow. I trust that this final loss – will be spared me. I think I will summon the servants and say a brief prayer. When two or three are gathered together …’
By the afternoon’s post came an ill-written letter from Stephen:
MY DEAREST.
Bless you for your note. I am very sorry to hear of Brook. I had pictured you in London by this time away from it all. Go soon, please. It was terrible when I got back to the theatre, like a shambles on the stairs. They wouldn’t let me in at first, but later I got past them and found the fire brigade still pumping water into the theatre just as if they’d lost their witless heads. The fire was out; I swear it would have gone out on its own. Everything was deep in water and I could smell gas, so I went up to the stage. But the great swill of water that had been draining down towards the stage had weakened the supports, and, as soon as I went blundering on in the dark, part of it gave way – and me with it. So I am here for a week or so, bad luck on it.
Do not admit to having been at the theatre on Friday, there is no reason why you should be in it. I told Dad this morning that we were going to leave M/c together. He didn’t much like it. But I have talked him round and he’ll give me a management in London, where, as I pointed out, the breath of scandal need hardly reach us.
He is of course all of a work about Friday; that’s another reason why I think you should not be in it at all. I have told him a long story about how the trouble began. Dan Massington, at least, will not contradict me.
Oh, my s
weet, I’m so longing to see you again.
S TEPHEN
Brook lived through the day. He was terrible to watch, for he was never still except during one or two periods of drugged sleep. For the rest he was twisting and turning and pushing away the bedclothes and trying to get out and wanting to be lifted farther up the bed and complaining of the pillows, all the time conscious but not quite rational. One wondered constantly at the reserves of energy in a man who normally was so lacking in vitality. It was as if all the old hidden stores in him had been set alight and were burning up the accumulation of years in a day.
Towards evening his father took a turn at nursing him, but Brook did not seem to like him there. He kept sitting up and peering into the darker corners of the room and asking for Margaret. It was only when Cordelia came in again that he sank back reassured, as if he knew then the difference between nightmare and reality.
At midnight they gave him another tablet and he slept a while. When he woke he stared at Cordelia with great earnestness, following her movements and allowing himself to be given a sip of brandy.
Then he gave a nervous titter and said: ‘When I marry again? If I marry again, you mean. I don’t see the hurry.’ A pause. He stared at Cordelia, frowning patiently. ‘Who? The Blakes! What! Rather a change from the Massingtons of Alderley Edge, isn’t it?’
‘Hush, dear, don’t talk any more now. Just lie back and rest.’
‘But I must talk, Cordelia. What’s Mr Slaney-Smith to do with it? No, we don’t want another sickly woman about the house … Oh, I’m tired of lying in bed. Give me a drink, will you?’
He had just had one, but she gave him another. Anything to stop him talking. He turned over restlessly, terribly hot in his woollen jacket, wasted and weak. Then he began to cough. She had to hold him up and thought he was going to die. When it was over he said:
‘Put – the cough syrup – on the table. If I need it – I’ll take it.’
‘I’ve told you, Brook. It will stop the congestion from clearing. You mustn’t take it.’
To divert his mind she began to talk to him, empty stuff about the house and the garden. It helped to divert her own mind too. One had the most fantastic thoughts, coming unbidden: a flock of vultures scared away but quickly returning. Whether you admit it or not, Brook is the obstacle to happiness; if he goes, Stephen and I; gone his father’s objections, the need for flight, the scandal, the disgrace. Brook never loved me; it was an arrangement of the old man’s to gain his own ends. No doubt they looked into my family’s health and history. Not like Margaret – no more sickly women – someone young and healthy, it didn’t matter much who.
She’d been the victim of an arrangement which didn’t take her own happiness into account. If she now sought that happiness in her own way the world would do its utmost to crush her. Her place was not here but by Stephen’s side wherever he might go. One flickering life …
‘Oh, God!’ she said aloud, breaking off from what she was saying and getting up. She left him there and stirred the fire.
There was no real temptation in it. It was not that there could be any real impulse to act but that the thoughts would not let her alone. Supposing that a woman lay helpless here, a dark-haired, thin-faced, complaining woman, disliked in this house and disliking, supposing that Brook stood by the bed and that the woman barred the way to his freedom …
A slight sound drew her attention and she turned her head and saw Brook out of bed and tottering to the table where the cough medicine stood. How he had the strength … Like a wraith he moved, a fine cord of obstinacy leading him on.
She jumped to her feet, ran across the bedroom. Catch his arm at the table. ‘My dear …’
‘Leave me – alone–’ Voice a breath of wind, puff and I’m gone.
‘Please, Brook …’ He was collapsing on her arm even while he tried to fend her off. He put out a quivering hand for the bottle, and to humour him she put the bottle into his hand, turned to lead him back to the bed. It needed all her strength to support him back. When one was so low one was scarcely human. He collapsed on the bed, shivering, his purpose forgotten, allowed her to take the bottle away, to lift in his legs and cover them. He lay back among the pillows, the spark still there but only just there. He struggled to speak.
‘They’re – going to – publish – my poems,’ he got out in a whisper.
‘I’m so glad, Brook. I’m sure everyone will like them.’
‘Bend down, I–’ She bent over him. The words came. ‘I’m sorry – to be so much – trouble, dear. This fog – very bad.’
‘Yes. Very bad.’
‘I never made – a will, Delia. I somehow – didn’t like to. But Father – will see you’re all right.’
‘Yes, dear. But you must get better.’
‘It’s too late. I’m so tired. You and Father get on – well together – don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Cordelia.
‘Very glad. Different from Margaret. Margaret – wouldn’t make any effort to – understand Father. He’s – very kind man if – you make an effort to understand.’
‘Yes, dear, but don’t talk now.’
‘Must talk now. I love you, Delia – want you to be happy. When I’m gone. I shan’t see – another morning.’
‘It’ll be light in two or three hours, Brook,’ she said.
‘Don’t cry, dear. I shall – be all right. I dreamt last night I was – having tea in the garden – with Mother. She looked so young, as if she was only– She said, ‘‘ Well, Brook, you’ve come at last. I’ve been waiting.”’
He was silent for a time then, holding her hand. His last grasp of life. At times the grip tightened convulsively as if to reassure him that it still held.
At length he said: ‘Kiss me, Delia.’
She bent over him and kissed him.
‘You’re – sweet girl,’ he said. ‘Too good for me. Perhaps some day you’ll – marry again – have children, be really – happy. I don’t mind.’
‘Shall I fetch your father?’ she whispered.
‘No. I’d rather – like this. Quietly – just with you. Hold my hand, Cordelia – I’m– Oh, Heavenly Father, receive Thy servant– It isn’t bad. I’m going …’
The grip on her hand relaxed and he fell into a quiet sleep. The greasy perspiration on his face slowly dried. His mouth fell open. She sat by his bed and watched. The breathing could hardly be perceived.
When Mr Plimley came in the morning he said that the patient’s temperature was coming down by lysis and that there was now an improved hope of recovery.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For five days more it was touch and go. Having with curious tenacity overcome the greatest obstacle, Brook’s strength was not enough to go any farther. It flickered weakly and preserved itself at something just above extinction.
With the devotion of an unquiet conscience she nursed him as if her own life hung on it. She wrote to Stephen again, and he replied that he was in good health and spirits and was only waiting for his leg to mend. The full inquest had been adjourned until he could attend.
By the following Monday Brook’s temperature had been sub-normal for three days and he was taking milk foods. She decided that today she must make an effort to see Stephen. All the time at the back of her mind was the niggling anxiety that he had been minimizing his injuries to save her worry. Mr Ferguson was at the works, and she took their own carriage to Piccadilly and dismissed it there and walked across to the Infirmary. At the door she was told that Mr Crossley had left yesterday.
Taken aback, the tense expectancy going out of her, she said:
‘Did he leave any address?’
‘Yes, ma’am. He’s gone home. We have the address here …’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, thank you. I know the house.’
Out on the pavement again. Would it be unwise to call? His father might be there. But his father knew all about her, might be less prejudiced against her if they met. And soon the news woul
d be public property anyway.
She had difficulty in finding a cab and it was nearly four before she reached his house. She must be back before Mr Ferguson.
The girl who opened the door looked at her blankly.
‘Is Mr Crossley in, please?’
‘Yes’m. What name shall I say?’
She waited a few moments in the drawing-room, then went upstairs behind the maid. Her heart was thumping with the excitement of seeing him again.
Stephen in bed. He flushed to the temples at sight of her; she’d never seen him do that before. For a moment they were formal while the maid withdrew, Stephen even looked alarmed. Then in each other’s arms.
‘My dearest!’
‘Delia! I never expected! Who told you I was–’
‘Stephen, I went to the hospital.’ She explained. Something in his voice. She found herself explaining more than she need. He had all the good looks, the attraction Brook lacked. Not sick, only hurt, all the difference.
‘I came home yesterday; but, Delia, it was a bit rash coming here. I’ve written to you.’
‘Does it matter?’ she said, surprised. ‘Is your father here?’
‘Why, no. But he may be. Perhaps we can talk quickly for a few minutes. How’s Brook?’
‘A little better. No, don’t pull a face.’
‘I can’t help it – why be a hypocrite? I’ll swear your nursing would bring a man out of the grave.’
‘I’ve only done what anyone else … But it’s been a terrible week.’
He put his warm, long-fingered hand over hers.
‘Horrible for you. Poor sweetheart–’
‘But don’t let’s talk about it. I’ve been so worried because I was afraid you were badly hurt.’
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