"I can't bear to see Shirley suffer! You don't mind, I suppose."
"Shirley, Shirley! It's you I mind about, Laura-always have. Ever since you used to ride round the garden on that fairy-cycle of yours looking as solemn as a judge. You've got a capacity for suffering, and you can't minimise it as some can, by the balm of self-pity. You don't think about yourself at all."
"What do I matter? It isn't my husband who's been struck down with infantile paralysis!"
"It might be, by the way you're going on about it! Do you know what I want for you, Laura? Some good everyday happiness. A husband, some noisy, naughty children. You've always been a tragic little thing ever since I've known you-you need the other thing, if you're ever going to develop properly. Don't take the sufferings of the world upon your shoulders-our Lord Jesus Cbrist did that once for all. You can't live other people's lives for them, not even Shirley's. Help her, yes; but don't mind so much."
Laura said, white-faced: "You don't understand."
"You're like all women, have to make such a song and dance about things."
Laura looked at him for a moment in silence, and then turned on her heel and went out of the room.
"Bloody old fool, that's what I am," said Mr. Baldock aloud to himself. "Oh well, I've been and done it now, I suppose."
He was startled when the door opened, and Laura came swiftly through it, and across to his chair.
"You are an old devil," she said, and kissed him.
When she went out again, Mr. Baldock lay still and blinked his eyes in some embarrassment.
It had become his habit lately to mutter to himself, and he now addressed a prayer to the ceiling.
"Look after her, Lord," he said. "I can't. And I suppose it's been presumption on my part to try."
4
On hearing of Henry's illness, Richard Wilding had written to Shirley a letter expressing conventional sympathy. A month later he had written again, asking her to see him. She wrote back:
"I don't think we had better meet. Henry is the only reality now in my life. I think you will understand. Goodbye."
To that he replied:
"You have said what I expected you to say. God bless you, my dear, now and always."
So that, Shirley thought, was the end of that…
Henry would live, but what confronted her now were the practical difficulties of existence. She and Henry had practically no money. When he came out of hospital, a cripple, the first necessity would be a home.
The obvious answer was Laura.
Laura, generous, loving, took it for granted that Shirley and Henry would come to Bellbury. Yet, for some curious reason, Shirley was deeply reluctant to go.
Henry, a bitter rebellious invalid, with no trace of his former light-heartedness, told her she was mad.
"I can't see what you've got against it. It's the obvious thing to do. Thank goodness Laura has never given the house up. There's plenty of room. We can have a whole suite to ourselves, and a bloody nurse or man attendant, too, if I've got to have one. I can't see what you are dithering about."
"Couldn't we go to Muriel?"
"She's had a stroke, you know that. She'll probably be having another quite soon. She's got a nurse looking after her and is quite ga-ga, and her income's halved with taxation. It's out of the question. What's wrong with going to Laura? She's offered to have us, hasn't she?"
"Of course she has. Again and again."
"Then that's all right Why don't you want to go there? You know Laura adores you."
"She loves me-but-"
"All right! Laura adores you and doesn't like me! All the more fun for her. She can gloat over my being a helpless cripple and enjoy herself."
"Don't say that, Henry. You know Laura isn't like that."
"What do I care what Laura is like? What do I care about anything. Do you realise what I'm going through? Do you realise what it's like to be helpless, inert, not able to turn over in bed? And what do you care?"
"I care."
"Tied to a cripple! A lot of fun for you!"
"It's all right for me."
"You're like all women, delighted to be able to treat a man like a child. I'm dependent on you, and I expect you enjoy it."
"Say anything you like to me," said Shirley. "I know just how awful it is for you."
"You don't know in the least. You can't. How I wish I was dead! Why don't these bloody doctors finish one off? It's the only decent thing to do. Go on, say some more soothing, sweet things."
"All right," said Shirley, "I will. This will make you really mad. It's worse for me than it is for you."
Henry glared at her; then, reluctantly, he laughed.
"You called my bluff," he said.
5
Shirley wrote to Laura a month later.
"Darling Laura. It's very good of you to have us. You mustn't mind Henry and the things he says. He's taking it very hard. He's never had to bear anything he didn't want to before, and he gets in the most dreadful rages. It's such an awful thing to happen to anyone like Henry."
Laura's answer, quick and loving, came by return.
Two weeks later, Shirley and her invalid husband came home.
Why, Shirley wondered, as Laura's loving arms went round her, had she ever felt she did not want to come here?
This was her own place. She was back within the circle of Laura's care and protection. She felt like a small child again.
"Laura darling, I'm so glad to be here… I'm so tired… so dreadfully tired…"
Laura was shocked by her sister's appearance.
"My darling Shirley, you've been through such a lot… don't worry any more."
Shirley said anxiously: "You mustn't mind Henry."
"Of course I shan't mind anything Henry says or does. How could I? It's dreadful for a man, especially a man like Henry, to be completely helpless. Let him blow off steam as much as he likes."
"Oh, Laura, you do understand…"
"Of course I understand."
Shirley gave a sigh of relief. Until this morning, she had hardly realised herself the strain under which she had been living.
Chapter Nine
1
Before going abroad again, Sir Richard Wilding went down to Bellbury.
Shirley read his letter at breakfast; and then passed it to Laura, who read it.
"Richard Wilding. Is that the traveller man?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know he was a friend of yours."
"Well-he is. You'll like him."
"He'd better come to lunch. Do you know him well?"
"For a time," said Shirley, "I thought I was in love with him."
"Oh!" said Laura, startled.
She wondered…
Richard arrived a little earlier than they had expected. Shirley was up with Henry, and Laura received him, and took him out into the garden.
She thought to herself at once: 'This is the man Shirley ought to have married.'
She liked his quietness, his warmth and sympathy, and his authoritativeness.
Oh! if only Shirley had never met Henry, Henry with his charm, his instability and his underlying ruthlessness.
Richard enquired politely after the sick man. After the conventional questions and answers, Richard Wilding said:
"I only met him a couple of times. I didn't like him."
And then he asked brusquely:
"Why didn't you stop her marrying him?"
"How could I?"
"You could have found some way."
"Could I? I wonder."
Neither of them felt that their quick intimacy was unusual.
He said gravely:
"I might as well tell you, if you haven't guessed, that I love Shirley very deeply."
"I rather thought so."
"Not that it's any good. She'll never leave the fellow now."
Laura said dryly:
"Could you expect her to?"
"Not really. She wouldn't be Shirley if she did." Then he
said: "Do you think she still cares for him?"
"I don't know. Naturally she's dreadfully sorry for him."
"How does he bear up?"
"He doesn't," said Laura sharply. "He's no kind of endurance or fortitude. He just-takes it out of her."
"Swine!"
"We ought to be sorry for him."
"I am in a way. But he always treated her very badly. Everybody knows about it. Did you know?"
"She never said so. Of course I've heard things."
"Shirley's loyal, he said. "Loyal through and through."
"Yes."
After a moment or two's silence Laura said, her voice suddenly harsh:
"You're quite right, you know. I ought to have stopped that marriage. Somehow. She was so young. She hadn't had time. Yes, I made a terrible, mess of things."
He said gruffly:
"You'll look after her, won't you?"
"Shirley is the only person in the world I care about."
He said:
"Look, she's coming now."
They both watched Shirley as she came across the lawn towards them.
He said:
"How terribly thin and pale she is. My poor child, my dear brave child…"
2
Shirley walked with Richard after lunch by the side of the brook.
"Henry's asleep. I can get out for a little."
"Does he know I'm here?"
"I didn't tell him."
"Are you having a bad time of it?"
"I am-rather. There's nothing I can say or do that's any help to him. That's what's so awful."
"You didn't mind my coming down?"
"Not if it's to say-good-bye."
"It's good-bye all right. You'll never leave Henry now?"
"No. I shall never leave him."
He stopped and took her hands in his.
"Just one thing, my dear. If you need me-at any time-just send the one word: 'Come.' I'll come from the ends of the earth."
"Dear Richard."
"It's good-bye then, Shirley."
He took her in his arms. Her starved and tired body trembled into life. She kissed him wildly, desperately.
"I love you, Richard, I love you, I love you…"
Then she whispered:
"Good-bye. No, don't come with me…"
She tore herself away and ran back towards the house.
Richard Wilding swore under his breath. He cursed Henry Glyn-Edwards and the disease called polio.
3
Mr. Baldock was confined to bed. More than that, he had two nurses in attendance. He loathed them both.
Laura's visits were the only bright spot in his day.
The nurse who was on duty retired tactfully, and Mr. Baldock told Laura all her failings.
His voice rose in a shrill falsetto:
"So damned arch. 'And how are we this morning?' There's only one of me, I told her. The other one is a damned slab-faced, grinning ape."
"That was very rude of you, Baldy."
"Bah! Nurses are thick-skinned. They don't mind. Held up her finger, and said: 'Naughty, naughty!' How I'd like to boil the woman in oil!"
"Now don't get excited. It's bad for you."
"How's Henry? Still playing up?"
"Yes. Henry really is a fiend! I try to be sorry for him, but I can't."
"You women! Hard-hearted! Sentimental about dead birds and things like that, and hard as nails when a poor fellow is going through hell."
"It's Shirley who's going through hell. He just-goes for her."
"Naturally. Only person he can take it out of. What's a wife for, if you can't let loose on her in times of trouble?"
"I'm terribly afraid she'll have a breakdown."
Mr. Baldock snorted contemptuously: "Not she. Shirley's tough. She's got guts, Shirley has."
"She's under a terrible strain."
"Yes, I expect so. Well, she would marry the fellow."
"She didn't know he was going to get polio."
"That wouldn't have stopped her? What's all this I hear about some romantic swashbuckler coming down here to stage a fond farewell?"
"Baldy, how do you get hold of things?"
"Keep my ears open. What's a nurse for, if you can't get the local scandal out of her?"
"It was Richard Wilding, the traveller."
"Oh yes, rather a good chap by all accounts. Made a silly marriage before the war. Glorified Piccadilly tart. Had to get rid of her after the war. Very cut up about it, I believe-silly ass to marry her. These idealists!"
"He's nice-very nice."
"Soft about him?"
"He's the man Shirley ought to have married."
"Oh, I thought maybe you fancied him yourself. Pity."
"I shall never marry."
"Ta-ra-ra-boom-di-ay," said Mr. Baldock rudely.
4
The young doctor said: "You ought to go away, Mrs. Glyn-Edwards. Rest and a change of air is what you need."
"I can't possibly go away."
Shirley was indignant.
"You're very run down. I'm warning you." Dr. Graves spoke impressively. "You'll have a complete breakdown if you're not careful."
Shirley laughed.
"I shall be all right."
The doctor shook his head doubtfully.
"Mr. Glyn-Edwards is a very trying patient," he said.
"If he could only-resign himself a little," said Shirley.
"Yes, he takes things badly."
"You don't think that I'm bad for him? That I-well-irritate him?"
"You're his safety-valve. It's hard on you, Mrs. Glyn-Edwards, but you're doing good work, believe me."
"Thank you."
"Continue with the sleeping-pills. It's rather a heavy dose, but he must have rest at night when he works himself up so much. Don't leave them where he can get at them, remember."
Shirley's face grew paler.
"You don't think that he'd-"
"No, no, no," the doctor interrupted her hastily. "I should say definitely not the type to do away with himself. Yes, I know he says he wants to sometimes, but that's just hysteria. No, the danger with this type of drug is that you may wake up in a half-bemused condition, forget you've had your dose and take another. So be careful."
"Of course I will."
She said good-bye and went back to Henry.
Henry was in one of his most unpleasant moods.
"Well, what does he say-everything proceeding satisfactorily! Patient just a little irritable, perhaps. No need to worry about that!"
"Oh, Henry." Shirley sank down in a chair. "Couldn't you sometimes-be a little kind?"
"Kind-to you?"
"Yes. I'm so tired, so dreadfully tired. If you could just be-sometimes-kind."
"You've got nothing to complain about. You're not a twisted mass of useless bones. You're all right."
"So you think," said Shirley, "that I'm all right?"
"Did the doctor persuade you to go away?"
"He said I ought to have a change and a rest."
"And you're going, I suppose! A nice week at Bournemouth!"
"No, I'm not going."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to leave you."
"I don't care whether you go or not. What use are you to me?"
"I don't seem to be any use," said Shirley dully.
Henry turned his head restlessly.
"Where's my sleeping stuff? You never gave it to me last night."
"Yes, I did."
"You didn't. I woke up and I asked for it. That nurse pretended I'd had it."
"You had had it. You forget."
"Are you going to the vicarage thing to-night?"
"Not if you don't want me to," said Shirley.
"Oh, better go! Otherwise everyone says what a selfish brute I am. I told nurse she could go, too."
"I'll stay."
"You needn't. Laura will look after me. Funny-I've never liked Laura much, but there's something about her that's very soothin
g when you're ill. There's a sort of-strength."
"Yes. Laura's always been like that. She gives you something. She's better than me. I only seem to make you angry."
"You're very annoying sometimes."
"Yes?"
"Nothing."
When she came in before going out to the vicarage whist drive, she thought at first that Henry was asleep. She bent over him. Tears pricked her eyelids. Then as she turned to go, he plucked at her sleeve.
"Shirley."
"Yes, darling?"
"Shirley-don't hate me."
"Hate you? How could I hate you?"
He muttered: "You're so pale, so thin… I've worn you out. I couldn't help it… I can't help it. I've always hated anything like illness or pain. In the war, I used to think I wouldn't mind being killed, but I could never understand how fellows could bear to be burnt or disfigured or-or maimed."
"I see. I understand…"
"I'm a selfish devil, I know. But I'll get better-better in mind, I mean-even if I never get better in body. We might be able to make a go of it-of everything-if you'll be patient. Just don't leave me."
"I'll never leave you, never."
"I do love you, Shirley… I do… I always have. There's never really been anyone but you-there never will be. All these months-you've been so good, so patient. I know I've been a devil. Say you forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive. I love you."
"Even if one is a cripple-one might enjoy life."
"We will enjoy life."
"Can't see how!"
With a tremor in her voice, Shirley said:
"Well, there's always eating."
"And drinking," said Henry.
A faint ghost of his old smile showed.
"One might go in for higher mathematics."
"Crossword puzzles for me."
He said:
"I shall be a devil to-morrow, I expect."
"I expect you will. I shan't mind now."
"Where are my pills?"
"I'll give them to you."
He swallowed them obediently.
"Poor old Muriel," he said suddenly.
"What made you think of her?"
"Remembering taking you over there the first time. You had on a yellow stripy dress. I ought to have gone and seen old Muriel more often, but she had got to be such a bore. I hate bores. Now I'm a bore."
The Burden Page 10