But the Baron only threw back his head and laughed, and laughed. “Ha-ha, ha-ha! Twelve big and seventeen little! That is good. . . .that is very good!” To add mysteriously: “Surely this, too, is a sign. . . .this capacity for to escape!—But now come hither, my son, and let us play the little game. The bad little boy who counts the flies, so long he plays the bad piece, shall stand so, with his face to the wall. I strike the notes—so!—and he is telling me their names—if Mr. G or Mrs. A—yes? List now, if you can hear what is this.”
“Huh, that’s easy! That’s C.”
“And this fellow, so grey he?”
“A—E—B.” Cuffy liked this: it was fun.
“And now how many I strike? D, F . . . right! B, D sharp. . . .good! And here this—an ugly one, this fellow! He agree not with his neighbour.”
“That’s two together. . . .close, I mean. G and A.”
“Ach, Himmel!” cried the Baron. “The ear, it, too, is perfect.” And swiftly crossing the room, he took Cuffy’s face in his hands and turned it up. For a moment he stood looking down at it; and his brown, bearded face was very solemn. Then, stooping, he kissed the boy on the forehead. “May the good God bless you, my child, and prosper His most precious gift!”—And this, just when Cuffy (after the fly episode) had begun to think him rather a nice old man!
Then he was free to run away and play; which he did with all his might. But later in the afternoon when it was cool enough to go walking, it was Cuffy the Baron invited to accompany him. “Nay, we leave the little sisters at home with the good Mamma, and make the promenade alone, just we both!”
Cuffy remembered the flies, forgave the kiss, and off they set. They walked a long way into the bush, further than they were allowed to go with Miss Prestwick; and the Baron told him about the trees and poked among the scrub, and used a spyglass like Papa, and showed him things through it. It was fun.
Then they sat down on a log to rest. And while they were there, the Baron suddenly picked up his right hand and looked at it, as if it was funny, and turned it over to the back, and stretched out the fingers and felt the tips, and where the thumb joined on. And when he had done this he didn’t let it go, but kept hold of it; and putting his other hand on Cuffy’s shoulder said: “And now say, my little man, say me why you did weep when I have played?”
Cuffy, all boy again, blushed furiously. He didn’t like having his hand held either. So he only looked away, and kicked his heels against the tree so hard they hurt him. “I dunno.”
Mamma would have said: “Oh, yes, you do.” But the Baron wasn’t cross. He just gave the hand a little squeeze, and then he began to talk, and he talked and talked. It lasted so long that it was like being in church, and was very dull, all about things Cuffy didn’t know. So he hardly listened. He was chiefly intent on politely wriggling his hand free.
But the Baron looked so nice and kind, even when he’d done this, that he plucked up courage to ask something he wanted very much to know; once before when he had tried it everybody had laughed at him, and made fun.
“What does music say?”
But the Baron wasn’t like that. He looked as solemn as church again, and nodded his head. “Aha! It commences to stir itself. . . .the inward apperception. The music, it says what is in the heart, my little one, to each interprets the own heart. That is, as you must comprehend, if the one who is making it is the genie, and has what in his own heart to say. That bad piece you have played me have said nothing—nothing at all. . . .oh, how wise, how wise to count the little flies! But that what you have flowed tears for, my child, that were the sufferings of a so unhappy man—the fears that are coming by night to devour the peace—oh, I will not say them to one so tender!. . . .but these, so great were they, so unhappy he, that at the last his brain has burst” (There! he knew he had been going to burst) “and he have become mad. But then, see, at once I have given you the consolation. I have sung you of the nightingale, and moonshine, and first love. . . .all, all of which the youth is full. Our dear madman he has that made, too. His name was Schumann. Mark that, my little one. . . .mark it well!”
“Shooh man.—What’s mad?”
“Ach! break not the little head over such as this. Have no care. The knowledge will soon enough come of pain and suffering.”
Cuffy’s legs were getting very tired with sitting still. Sliding down from the log, he jumped and danced, feeling now somehow all glad inside. “I will say music, too, when I am big.”
“Ja ja! but so easy is it not to shake the music out of the sleeve. Man must study hard. It belongs a whole lifetime thereto. . . .and much, much courage. But this I will tell you, my little ambitious one! Here is lying”—and the Baron waved his arm all round him—“a great, new music hid. He who makes it, he will put into it the thousand feelings awoken in him by this emptiness, and space, this desolation; with always the serene blue heaven above, and these pale, sad, so grotesque trees that weep and rave. He puts the golden wattle in it when it blooms and reeks, and this melancholy bush, oh, so old, so old, and this silence as of death that nothing stirs. No birdleins will sing in his Musik. But will you be that one, my son, you must first have given up all else for it. . . .all the joys and pleasures that make the life glad. These will be for the others not for you, my dear. . . .you must only go wizout. . . .renounce. . . .look on.—But come, let us now home, and I will speak. . . .yes, I shall speak of it to the good Mamma and Papa!”
“Preposterous, I call it!” said Mary warmly and threw the letter on the table. The Baron’s departure was three days old by now, and the letter she had just read was written in his hand. “Only a man could propose such a thing. Why don’t you say something, Richard? Surely you don’t. . . .”
“No, I can see it’s out of the question.”
“I should think so! At his age!. . . .why, he’s a mere baby. How the Baron could think for a moment we should let a tot like that leave home. . . .to live among strangers—with these Hermanns or Germans or whatever he calls them—why, it’s almost too silly to discuss. As for his offer to defray all expenses out of his own pocket. . . .no doubt he means it well. . . .but it strikes me as very tactless. Does he think we can’t afford to pay for our own children?”
“I’ll warrant such an idea never entered his head. My dear, you don’t understand.”
“It’s you I don’t understand. As a rule you flare up at the mere mention of money. Yet you take this quite calmly.”
“Good Lord, Mary! the man means it for a compliment. He not only took a liking to the boy, but he’s a connoisseur in music, a thoroughly competent judge. Surely it ought to flatter you, my dear, to hear his high opinion of our child’s gift.”
“I don’t need an outsider to tell me that. If any one knows Cuffy is clever it’s me. I ought to: I’ve done everything for him.”
“This has nothing to do with cleverness.”
“Why not? What else is it?”
“It’s music, my dear!” cried Mahony, waxing impatient. “Music, and the musical faculty. . . .ear, instinct, inborn receptivity.”
“Well?”
“Good God, Mary!. . . .it sometimes seems as if we spoke a different language. The fact of the matter is, you haven’t a note of music in you.”
Mary was deeply hurt. “I, who have taught the child everything he knows? He wouldn’t even be able to read his notes yet, if it had been left to you. Haven’t I stood over him, and drummed things into him, and kept him at the piano? And all the thanks I get for it is to hear that I’m not capable of judging. . . .haven’t a note of music in me! The truth is, I’m good enough to work and slave to make ends meet. But when it comes to anything else, anything cleverer. . . .then the first outsider knows better than I do. Thank God, I’ve still got my children. They at least look up to me. And that brings me back to where I started. I’ve got them, and I mean to keep them. Nothing shall part me
from them. If Cuffy goes, I go too!”
On the verandah the three in question played a game of their own devising. They poked at each other round a corner of the house, with sticks for swords, advancing and retreating to the cry of “Shooh, man!” from the army of the twins, to which Cuffy made vigorous response: “Shooh, woman!”
And this phrase, which remained in use long after its origin was forgotten, was the sole trace left on Cuffy’s life by the Baron’s visit.
CHAPTER TEN
The almond-trees that grew in a clump at the bottom of the garden had shed their pink blossom and begun to form fruit. At first, did you slily bite one of the funny long green things in two, you came to a messy jelly. . . .bah! it was nasty. . . .you spat it out again as quick as you could. But a little later, though you could still get your teeth through the green shell, which was hairy on your tongue and sourer than ever, you found a delicious white slippery kernel inside.
Cuffy made this discovery one afternoon when Mamma had gone to the Bank to tea, and Miss Prestwick was busy writing letters. He ate freely of the delicacy; and his twin shadows demanded to eat, too. Their milk teeth being waggly, he bit the green casing through for them; and they fished out the kernels for themselves.
That night, there were loud cries for Mamma. Hurrying to them, candle in hand, Mary found the children pale and distressed, their little bodies cramped with grinding, colicky pains.
Green almonds?—“Oh, you naughty, naughty children! Haven’t I told you never to touch them? Where was Miss Prestwick?—There! I’ve always said it: she isn’t fit to have charge of them. I shall pack her off in the morning.”
Followed a time of much pain and discomfort for the almond-eaters; of worry and trouble for Mary, who for several nights was up and down. All three paid dearly for their indulgence; but recovery was not in order of merit. Cuffy, who had enjoyed the lion’s share, was the first to improve: remarkable, agreed Richard, the power of recuperation possessed by this thin, pale child. The twins, for all their sturdiness, were harder to bring round.
But at last they, too, were on their feet again, looking very white and pulled down, it was true; still, there they were, able to trot about; and their father celebrated the occasion by taking the trio for a walk by the Lagoon. The world was a new place to the little prisoners. They paused at every step to wonder and exclaim.
What happened no one knew. At the time it seemed to Mary that, for a first walk, Richard was keeping them out too long. However she said nothing; for they came back in good spirits, ate their supper of bread and milk with appetite, and went cheerily to bed.
Then, shortly after midnight, Lallie roused the house with shrill cries. Running to her, Mary found the child doubled up with pain and wet with perspiration. By morning she was as ill as before. There was nothing for it but to buckle down to a fresh bout of nursing.
Of the two lovely little blue-eyed, fair-haired girls, who were the joy of their parents’ lives as Cuffy was the pride: of these, Mahony’s early whimsy that a single soul had been parcelled out between two bodies still held good. Not an act in their six short years but had, till now, been a joint one. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, they faced their tiny experiences, turning to each other to share a titbit, a secret, a smile. But, if in such oneness there could be talk of a leader, then it was Lallie who led. A quarter of an hour older, a fraction of an inch taller, half a pound heavier, she had always been a thought bolder than her sister, a hint quicker to take the proffered lollipop, to speak out her baby thoughts. Just as Cuffy was their common model, so Lucie patterned herself on Lallie; and, without Lallie, was only half herself; even a temporary separation proving as rude a wrench as though they had been born with a fleshly bond.—And it was a real trial, in the days that followed, to hear the bereft Lucie’s plaintive wail: “Where’s Lallie? I want Lallie. . . .I want Lallie.” “Surely, Cuffy, you can manage to keep her amused? Play with her, dear. Let her do just as she likes,” said Mary—with a contorted face, in the act of wringing a flannel binder out of all but boiling water.
She spoke briskly; was cheerful, and of good heart. For, in the beginning, no suspicion of anything being seriously amiss crossed her mind. It was just a relapse, and as such needed carefullest nursing and attention. In the course of the fifth day, however, one or two little things that happened stirred a vague uneasiness in her. Or rather she saw afterwards that this had been so: at the moment she had let the uncomfortable impressions escape her with all speed. It struck her that the child’s progress was very slow. Also she noticed that Richard tried another remedy. However, this change seemed to the good; towards evening Lallie fell into a refreshing sleep. But when next morning after a broken night she drew up the blind, something in the child’s aspect brought back, with a rush and intensified, her hazy disquiets of the previous day. Lallie was oddly dull. She would not open her eyes properly or answer when spoken to; and she turned her face from the cooling drink that was held to her lips.
“She doesn’t seem so well this morning.”
Mary’s voice was steady as she uttered these words—this commonplace of the sickroom. But even as she spoke, she became aware of the cold fear that was laying itself round her heart. It seemed to sink, to grow strangely leaden, as she watched Richard make the necessary examination. . . .ever so gently. . . .she had never really known how tender his hands were, till she saw them used on the shrinking body of his own child.—“Papa’s darling. . . .Papa’s good little girl.”—But the sheet drawn up again he avoided meeting her eyes. As if that would help him! She who could read his face as if it were a book. . . .how did he hope to deceive her?—and where one of her own babies was concerned.
“Richard, what is it? Do you . . .”
“Now, my dear, don’t get alarmed. There’s bound to be a certain amount of prostration. . . .till the dysentery is checked. I shall try ipecac.”
But neither ipecacuanha nor yet a compound mixture—administered in the small doses suited to so young a patient—had any effect. The inflammation persisted, racking the child with pain, steadily draining her of strength. It was a poor limp little sweat-drenched body, with loosely bobbing head, that Mary, had she to lift it, held in her arms. Throughout this day too, the sixth, she was forced to listen, sitting helplessly by, to a sound that was half a wail and half a moan of utter lassitude. And towards evening a more distressing symptom set in, in the shape of a convulsive retching. On her knees beside the bed, her right arm beneath Lallie’s shoulders, Mary suffered, in her own vitals, the struggle that contorted the little body prior to the fit of sickness. Hers, too, the heartrending task of trying to still the child’s terror—the frightened eyes, the arms imploringly outheld, the cries of “Mamma, Mamma!” to the person who had never yet failed to help—as the spasms began anew.
“It’s all right, my darling, my precious! Mamma’s here—here, close beside you. There, there! It’ll soon be better now.”—And so it went on for the greater part of the night.
In the intervals between the attacks when the exhausted child dozed heavily, Mary, not venturing to move from her knees, laid her face down on the bed, and wrestled with the One she held responsible. “Oh, God, be merciful! She’s such a little child, God!. . . .to have to suffer so. Oh, spare her!. . . .spare my baby.”
By morning light she was horrified to find that the little tongue had turned brown. The shock of this discovery was so great that it drove over her lips a thought that had come to her in the night. . . .had haunted her. . . .only to be thrust back into the limbo where it belonged. What if Richard. . . .if perhaps some new remedy had been invented since last he was in practice, which he didn’t know of?—he had been out of the way of things so long.
Now, a wild fear for her child’s life drowned all lesser considerations. “What. . . .what about getting a second opinion?”
Mahony looked sadly at her and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Mary. . . .d
ear wife——” he began; then broke off: too well he knew the agonies of self-reproach that might await her. “Yes, you’re right. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll run up to the station and get Pendrell to telegraph to Oakworth. There’s a man there. . . .I happen to know his name.”
Never a moment’s hesitation over the expense it would put him to: never a sign of hurt at the doubt cast on his own skill. From where she sat, Mary watched him go: he took a short-cut up the back yard, past kitchen and henhouse. Oh! but he had no hat on. . . .had gone out without one. . . .had forgotten to put his hat on—he who was so afraid of the sun! As she grasped what the omission meant, at the lightning-flash it gave her into his own state of mind, she clenched her hands till her nails cut her palms.
At earliest the doctor could not arrive before five o’clock. All through the long hours of that long, hot day, she sat and waited for his coming: pinning her faith to it—as one who is whirling down a precipitous slope snatches at any frail root or blade of grass that offers to his hand. Something—some miracle would. . . .must. . . .happen—to save her child. She was quite alone. Richard had to attend his patients, and in the afternoon to drive into the bush: other people could not be put off, or neglected, because his own child lay ill. The wife of the Bank Manager, hearing of their trouble, came and took away the other children. And there Mary sat, heedless of food or rest, conscious only of the little tortured body on the bed before her; sat and fanned off the flies, and pulled up or turned down the sheet, according as fever or the rigors shook the child, noting each creeping change for the worse, snatching at fantastic changes for the better. Her lips were thin and dogged in her haggard face; her eyes burned like coals: it was as if, within her, she was engaged in concentrating a store of strength, with which to invest her child.—But on going out to the kitchen to prepare fresh rice-water, she became aware that, for all the broiling heat of the day, her hands were numb with cold.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 90