by M. M. Kaye
She recalled the first occasion on which she had passed under those carved dolphins with Fattûma: shrouded in the stifling black street-garb of an Arab woman and convinced that she was entirely in the right It seemed a very long time ago. Almost as if it were in some other life and had involved another woman and not Hero Hollis at all.
So much had happened since then to alter and separate her from the person she had once been, that she seemed to have no affinity with that egotistical, self-righteous girl who had intended to set Zanzibar to rights, clean up the streets, change the succession and put an end to slavery, and been entirely confident of her ability to do so. Or with the puritanical young woman who had been so inexpressibly horrified to find that a lawless ne’er-do-well, who had inadvertently rescued her from drowning, kept a coloured mistress and had fathered a bastard child. She had run from the house as though it had been infected by a far worse plague than typhoid or cholera, and scrubbed herself with carbolic soap in a foolish attempt to cleanse herself from moral contamination. Yet now she knelt by that same child’s bed, holding a hot little hand in hers and careless of the fact that by doing so she exposed herself to a physical infection that might do considerably more damage to her bodily health than the other had done to her susceptibilities.
The room where Amrah lay was one that had been Zorah’s, and it should have been quiet and comparatively cool, for it looked out into the garden and the sea, and faced the prevailing breeze. But the windows were shut fast and it was full of mirrors and draperies, cushioned divans and a clutter of ornamental bric-a-brac, and far too many people: the fat little negress, Ifabi, wringing her hands and making low moaning noises; Amrah’s nurse, Dahili, clucking like an anxious hen in an attempt to induce the sick child to swallow a cooling drink, and at least half-a-dozen other women proffering advice or crouching by the child’s bed to fan her with palmetto fans.
“I can’t keep’ em out, miss,” confessed Batty, his whiskered face grey with weariness and anxiety: “They’ve looked after ‘er since she was born, and you can’t expect ‘em to leave ‘er be when she’s took sick.”
The women stood back reluctantly to allow Dr Kealey to approach, surveying him with wary, anxious faces and a mixture of hope and suspicion, but he was surprised to note that they accepted Hero’s presence not only with relief, but with a lack of surprise that suggested she was no stranger in that house. Which was a preposterous idea, and he dismissed it instantly, concentrating his attention upon the child while Hero murmured soothing endearments and Batty and the women watched him with held breath.
“I am very much afraid that it is typhoid,” said Dr Kealey, confirming their worst fears. And he had attempted to send Hero away, saying that it was dangerous for her to stay, and that there was nothing she could do that the women of the household could not do as well.
“You know very well that isn’t so,” reproved Hero, not moving. “I’m not properly trained, but I do know something about nursing. And if it is typhoid she is going to need that. I can nurse her if you will tell me what must be done, but none of these women will be any use, because they will only cry over her and fuss her and not use the least firmness—besides being quite capable of giving her horrible brews or trying the effect of some dreadful charm.”
Dr Kealey was in entire agreement with her, but since the child was clearly too ill to be moved, there was nothing for it but to leave her in their charge and hope that Mr Potter would be able to restrain them from trying any unorthodox remedies. But he had forgotten how stubborn Miss Hollis could be.
Hero had no intention of leaving, and any suggestion of removing her by force was out of the question, for though Batty Potter might be disposed of easily enough, Ralub would not stand idly by. And neither would the rest of Rory Frost’s rascally crew. Dr Kealey was compelled to accept her decision, and he knew that from the child’s point of view it was the right one, for although lost in a fog of weakness and fever, Amrah had still known her, and had held out dry, burning little hands with a croak of joy, clutching at her as though afraid to let her go:
“You’ve did come back! Dahili said you wouldn’t, but I knewed you would ‘cos you promised, and you ain’t a n’angel. Unker Batty says Mama can’t never come back ‘cos she’s a n’angel now and God wants her. I want ‘er too! but Unker Batty says…You won’t go, will you?”
“No honey, of course I won’t. Hush now, and if you’re a good girl and lie quiet, I’ll tell you a story about a mermaid: Once upon a time…”
Listening to her, Dr Kealey wondered yet again how on earth Miss Hollis had come to know of the child’s existence, let alone make friends with it, and what connection she could possibly have with Frost or his house or his crew? But that was a mystery that would have to keep, for what was of more importance at the moment was the undoubted fact that Miss Hollis would be invaluable in a sickroom. She not only had some experience of nursing, but her hands were firm and cool, her voice quiet and confident, and her very presence reassuring. There was, thought Dr Kealey, something indestructible about that classic beauty of feature and the tall, lovely body that was so young and strong: an enduring quality that seemed to deny the very existence of defeat or death, and that was in itself a source of refreshment and a negation of despair.
He did not think it odd that she should trouble to interest herself in the welfare of this small half-caste child, for he was an uncomplicated man who liked to believe that all normal women dote upon children. And if he gave Rory Frost a second thought, it was only to be thankful that he was safely in jail and therefore unable to subject Miss Hollis to the indignity of meeting such a person. He imagined that some servant in her uncle’s house must have told her that a child whose father was white and in jail was seriously ill, and that womanly compassion had done the rest. She was known to be charitably disposed. All the same, her relatives were not going to like this! He did not like it much himself, though it comforted him somewhat to remember that working in a Charity Hospital could not have been easy or pleasant, and she had survived that.
He left a few instructions, and promising to return within a matter of hours, departed reluctantly; faced with the unwelcome task of informing the American Consul that his niece intended to spend the next few days in the house of the Dolphins, nursing a serious case of typhoid fever…
The resulting uproar had been every bit as unpleasant as he had imagined it would be: the girl’s betrothed asserting furiously that he had no right to let her accompany him to such a house, and Mr Hollis roundly declaring that he was out of patience with Hero! she had been nothing but a constant source of trouble since her own stubborn folly had led her to being swept overboard on the outward voyage, and the sooner they packed her back to Boston the better. It was outrageous, said Uncle Nat, that the accredited representative of a powerful Democracy should be compelled to present himself at the house of a jailed slaver in order to command the return of a spoilt, headstrong and conceited chit who not only needed her bottom smacked, but was quite capable of refusing to accompany him, and thereby putting him to the shameful necessity of removing her by force.
“I hardly like to say so,” ventured Dr Kealey with some diffidence, “but I do not think you would be able to do that. I am very much afraid that Frost’s men, and indeed the entire household, would not permit it.”
“I cannot believe—” began the Consul angrily, and stopped, because he could. He could believe anything of Rory Frost’s men. And almost anything of Hero Athena Hollis!
He scowled at the luckless Dr Kealey, whom he was inclined to blame for the whole outrageous situation (Clay was quite right, the man should never have allowed Hero to accompany him), and turned to look at Dan, who was fully occupied with comforting Cressy. The sight did nothing to soothe his acerbated feelings, since it not only reminded him that this was his prospective son-in-law, but that it was Dan who had rashly informed Hero that Frost’s child was sick, and then done nothing whatever to stop her rushing out of the house, or made
any attempt to pursue her.
He said tartly: “In that case I suggest the Lieutenant sends an armed detachment of his seamen to escort my niece back home. I reckon that now Frost’s in jail and his crew only here on sufferance, they won’t come up against any serious opposition. And it’ll certainly look a heap better than either myself or my step-son being obliged to call at that house, and maybe getting handed a jugful of insolence!”
Dan hastily pocketed the handkerchief with which he had been drying Cressy’s tears and said a little confusedly: “Yes, of course, sir. I mean, it seems an excellent idea. I’m sure Miss Hollis will see reason and agree to return without putting you to any further inconvenience.”
But Miss Hollis had not agreed to return and appeared incapable of seeing reason, and it was Dan who had suffered defeat He had gone to The Dolphins’ House with Dr Kealey, feeling irritated and impatient, and accompanied by half-a-dozen armed bluejackets who had remained in the courtyard while he and the doctor had been ushered upstairs to the room that had once been Zorah’s.
It had undergone a startling transformation in the last hour, for it had been stripped of all the rugs, draperies and knick-knacks that had so recently furnished it, and now contained only the child’s small bed, a couch, a bedside table and a single chair. Half-closed wooden shutters excluded the harsh sunlight but allowed the sea wind to blow through the room and cool it pleasantly, and the walls and floor showed signs of being freshly scrubbed.
Dr Kealey observed these details with deep approval and once again found himself thinking that Miss Hollis, whatever her uncle might say, was really a most sensible young woman. He wondered what magic she had used to induce the disreputable Mr Potter, the two devoted negresses and the various other household retainers to retreat from the sickroom and wait patiently—and silently!—in the verandah outside, and noted with approval that she had removed her hoops and managed to turn up the skirt of her plain grey poplin dress so that it did not trail upon the floor. She looked, he thought, as clean and cool and uncluttered as the room, and refreshingly free from megrims and nonsense.
The child had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and Hero, who had been sitting beside her keeping the flies from her face with a small palm-leaf fan, rose immediately and came quietly to the door, beckoning Batty Potter to take her place. She did not look at Dan; and Dr Kealey, forgetful of their mission, said approvingly: “You have worked wonders my dear, I congratulate you. She will do a deal better now. How long has she been sleeping?”
He spoke in the unhurried undertone of one who is accustomed to talk in the presence of sleepers, and Hero answered him in the same quiet tone, giving him details that he listened to with attention, frowning or nodding in agreement, while Batty watched in silence and Dan stood back, realizing that it was not going to be as simple as he had supposed to take Miss Hollis away with him and restore her to her relatives, and that he had misjudged both her and the situation.
Earlier that day he had thought her poor-spirited and hysterical, and later, while admitting his mistake, had regarded her behaviour with an exasperation that equalled her uncle’s—as if they had not got enough troubles already without that damned girl adding to them! In the heat of that moment he had very nearly refused to retrieve Mr Hollis’s errant niece for him, on the grounds that it was no part of the duties of Her Majesty’s Navy to invite further uproar by ordering an American citizen out of an English slaver’s house, thereby risking violent opposition from the Arab and African members of that household, all of whom were well aware that he, Dan, had been largely responsible for throwing the owner into jail!
That he had not refused had been solely due to the fact that he could not bring himself to add to his Cressida’s anxieties by refusing to rescue her tiresome cousin from the scrape into which her own rashness had landed her, and he had arrived at The Dolphins’ House in no good humour and prepared to carry out the task with a high hand. But now, looking about him, he found himself once again, and with reluctance, being compelled to revise his views; for having had occasion to visit the place frequently of late, the fact that Hero Hollis had been able, in a mere matter of hours, to bring order out of chaos and exert her authority over Frost’s polyglot household, shed an entirely new light on her character and capabilities.
He knew that she must, of necessity, be tolerably well acquainted with the Virago’s crew. But being unaware that she had twice visited this house, he was startled to find her so much at home in it and so completely in control. And so well aware of what she was doing, that when the doctor turned to look at his patient and she had leisure to notice Dan Larrimore’s presence, she waved him back from the door, and following him into the verandah outside said: “Please don’t go in there. Dr Kealey says that she has typhoid fever, and you mustn’t risk taking the infection back to Cressy.”
It was a point that had hitherto escaped Dan and could not not fail to have its effect, and Hero saw the sudden startled look in his eyes and followed up her advantage ruthlessly:
I’m not sure that you could, but it’s better to be on the safe side; because Cressy’s constitution is not nearly as strong as mine. So will you please tell my aunt that I think it would be better if I did not go back to the house at all just now. And do see that she does not worry about me, for there is not the least necessity to do so: Dr Kealey will be calling frequently, and she knows that I never get ill! And you may tell her too that there are dozens of women to look after me, and that I shall take the greatest care to see that all the drinking water is boiled and the drains kept clean, and that they do not leave food uncovered where it can attract flies. So there is really nothing for her to worry about except to see that Cressy does not go into the town, for Batty tells me that a cholera epidemic has broken out and…But I suppose you know that?”
“Yes,” said Dan, speaking for the first time.
He did not add anything to that brief affirmative, and Hero said: “Oh, and there is another thing: I shall need some clothes and my nightwear. Please tell Aunt Abby, ‘not too much and nothing frilly.’ And perhaps you would be so kind as to send one of your men with them, because I would rather Uncle Nat’s people did not come here; and certainly not Aunt Abby or Cressy though I know they will wish to. We cannot risk either of them contracting the fever, and with the streets in such a deplorable state, and cholera in the city, they are safer at home.”
“Yes,” said Dan again, slowly. He looked at Hero with a new respect and was silent because all the things he had meant to say seemed trivial and unnecessary.
A weak, fretful whimper made her turn swiftly and leave him, and a moment later he heard her speaking lovingly and reassuringly in the shadowed room: “I’m here, honey. It’s all right; I’m here.”
“You make ‘im…please make ‘im!” sobbed a small voice, so weak from fever that it was barely audible: “You can, can’t you? ‘Cos you k’n do anyfing…”
“Make who do what, sugar?”
“God. Make ‘im let Mama come back…jus’ for a little. Tell ‘im I only want to see her. You k’n tell ‘im…”
“I can ask Him, honey. I promise I’ll ask Him—we’ll both ask Him. Now be a good girl and don’t cry any more. Try to go to sleep, Am?”
“I will if you sing me. Sing me ‘bout Ejerlan…”
Dan, listening, heard Hero’s warm contralto, low-pitched and soothing, singing the song of a captive people to the little daughter of a slave trader and the slave whom he had bought for a few shillings and a bolt of cheap cloth—“‘Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land, and tell ole Pharaoh, to let my people go…’”
Dr Kealey, joining the Lieutenant in the verandah a few minutes later, looked an enquiry and was answered by a shake of the head and a brief negative gesture that needed no interpretation.
“I agree,” said Dr Kealey, relieved. And added uneasily: “The Hollises are not going to like it. They will certainly object.”
“Yes,” agreed Dan; but not as though it mattered.
/> “There is of course always the risk that she may take the infection, “persisted the doctor, arguing with himself rather than Dan as they walked together towards the stone staircase and the courtyard: “But apart from that I cannot believe that she will come to any harm here; and she may do much good, for that child is seriously ill, and left to those serving women would not stand a chance. They have no understanding of the value of cleanliness and quiet in such cases, and most of then—remedies are worse than useless. Far worse! But Miss Hollis has a great deal of sense, and can be trusted to carry out instructions. And after all, she is of age and her own mistress.”
“Yes,” concurred Dan; aware that some answer was expected of him, and continuing to confine himself to that useful monosyllable. He collected his men from the courtyard with a curt jerk of the head, and walked back through the hot, crowded streets to face a difficult half-hour with his prospective father-in-law.
It had not been a pleasant interview and he was relieved when it was over. But there had, of course been nothing anyone could do about Hero, since as Dr Kealey had already pointed out, she was of age and her own mistress; and her aunt, though deeply concerned on her behalf, was even more concerned on Cressida’s. That ominous word “typhoid’, had been enough to send Abigail into a maternal panic, and she had immediately sided with Dan and agreed that it would be better if Hero kept away from the Consulate while there was any danger of her bringing the infection with her.
As for Clayton, there were several good reasons why he would have preferred to keep well clear of The Dolphins’ House, but when Dan’s mission proved abortive, he had gone there himself, and succeeded in gaining an interview with his betrothed. But it had proved as unsatisfactory, and quite as distasteful, as the one Dan had endured at the Consulate.