Brand, Max - 1924

by Clung (v1. 1)

  The wan, bony, shaking hands twitched up and covered his face; he wept loudly, catching his breath between sobs with a groan. Every sound cut Clung to the heart with horror and rage; he whipped out the knife and poised it — but the girl had leaned close and gathered the man close to her, pillowing his face against her shoulder and her breast. Her head was raised, and Clung saw her smile of ineffable pity and tenderness. It shone out to him like a light that pierced him to the soul and withered the strength from his nervous arm. Once more the knife dropped idly to the ground. It was then that Clung knew he must be near her — even if she were the defiled thing of another man. Then it came to him as plainly as if a door had opened and he had seen another room: the man was sick, but chiefly sick in his mind. He was sure of his death, and therefore he was sure to die.

  Clung went back to his horse and rode straight for the house, the hoofs clattering loudly on the beaten path. He had pulled to a halt and whipped from the saddle to the ground. There he stood with his hat off, staring blankly at the couple on the porch; the girl rose and shaded her eyes to peer into the dark and make out his form.

  He said: "I am riding north; it is night. May I sleep here?"

  He spoke slowly, as always, with a little pause between his sentences. It gave the effect of a man of much culture, who chose his words and was proud of his choice, and indeed, to Clung, words were not light things. They were not unlike arrows loosed from the string, as he remembered from one of his few books — they could not be recalled.

  The sick man scowled at him, his upper lip lifting loosely; it was very ugly. But the girl smiled and beckoned towards the door.

  "You are very welcome," she said.

  "I thank you," said Clung, and led his horse around the house towards the barn.

  Chapter 6

  After he had put up his horse he entered the house by the back door which opened on the kitchen. There were two Chinese servants there, working at the cleaning of dishes and the pans. They hushed their shrill chatter at his coming and he stood a moment staring idly at them, enjoying the silence with which the yellow man acknowledges the presence of the white, a silence crammed with meanings, all of which Clung knew. Then he went on and passed an open door beyond which sat the old man in an air blue with smoke, reading. There were around him, lining the walls, more books than Clung had dreamed were in the world. The old man glanced up at him over his spectacles, wrinkling his forehead in a quizzical frown. Clung stood in the doorway, straight and slim, and hat in hand. "I am John Ring," he said in his sombre way. "The lady on the verandah said I might stay in this house till the morning."

  The other opened his lips to speak, but Clung had bowed like an automaton and gone on towards the front of the house.

  He passed across floors as smooth as glass and glimmering under the lights; he passed through rooms wide and lofty where one might breathe more freely than in most rooms. He sensed a pleasant order as of a place where many served and few were masters. The air of this place was choice as incense in the nostrils of Clung. He began to wish that he were clothed as he had once seen a traveling man who passed through Mortimer — in white trousers, sharply pressed, graceful, cool, always hanging straight; and in a thin white shirt with a white collar and a necktie of bright colors pinned down with a golden pin. In the midst of these wishes he came to the front verandah, opened the door noiselessly, and stood beside the couple.

  They sat silent, the man moving ceaselessly, the woman staring out into the night, and Clung imagined himself sitting once more under the shadow of that tall, dark palm, watching another self step boldly out on the porch, boldly into the presence of the woman, into her fragrance, stealing the breath of it from the man who was its rightful owner. He was wronging the man; therefore he hated him.

  It was the girl who looked up first and saw him. He was conscious of her eyes, shocking against his glance — a perceptible thing like a stone dropped into an unplumbed depth of water.

  "My name," said Clung, "is John Ring."

  "I am Winifred Sampson," answered the girl, "and this is William Kirk."

  In China one bows to acknowledge an introduction; on Fifth Avenue, also, one bows in the same way, though not quite so low and not so gracefully. The girl stared at Clung.

  "Will you sit down?" she asked.

  The chair was the one which the old man had sat in; it faced the girl, but it was near the horror — the sick man.

  "I have ridden all day," said Clung. "I like to stand."

  So saying, he stepped back just a trifle towards the wall of the house so that all the breeze that blew passed across the girl and then to him. He caught the fragrance then — nothing he could name, but a fact which he would be able to recognize thereafter. The other two had forgotten him, and he was glad, for as the silence deepened his mind, his will began to reach out past the invalid chair, and towards the girl. He looked fixedly at her; she glanced up; he stared blankly off into the night. It was nothing, an accident, perhaps, but to Clung a proof of power. The sick man kept shifting and muttering.

  At length he cried out, throwing his shaking hands before him: "Winifred, why can't I sleep? Can't I even sleep, and forget?"

  "I," said Clung, "can make you sleep."

  For he had made up his mind that he would be the shield between her and the violation of the sick man's breath, his touch. It was ugly work, but it was for her. Unquestionably it was the first piece of self-sacrifice in the life of Clung. The others had turned to him.

  "I was taught many things by a Chinese doctor," he explained. "I can make a drink which will do you no harm and give you sleep."

  "Whiskey?" snarled Kirk.

  "Hush," said the girl, "I almost think he can. Will you try, Mr. Ring?"

  Clung bowed and turned back into the house. He went out through the kitchen door and ran swiftly past the barn and to a clump of shrubbery — sage. The dark could not misguide him. He gathered a few leaves of several kinds and then hurried back to the kitchen, where he ordered the servants to prepare a pot of weak tea. While they made the tea he baked the leaves of his gathering in the oven — baked them thoroughly dry. They gave off a pleasant aroma like the desert at midday.

  When the pot of tea was brought he dropped the dried leaves into the water. It changed the fragrance at once and blended with the savour a light, keen scent of spicery. He carried the tea out to the verandah, poured out a cup, and held it for Kirk. He took it in a hand that trembled so much that he threatened to spill every drop of it, and the girl would have taken it from his hand, had not Clung forestalled her. He held the cup to the colorless mouth; the purple shadowed eyes rolled curiously up to him and held upon his inscrutable face like the eyes of a dog turning up to the master who feeds it. It was disgusting, this presence of ugly death, but Clung discovered, with deep wonder, that he no longer hated this man. The moment he performed a service for him the sting of the horror of the sickness was gone. Undoubtedly only the mind of the man was sick and was wasting the body. If he could cure that then the mighty frame would fill out with strength again.

  "It seems to me," complained the invalid, "that that's just tea — tea with a funny taste to it. I don't like it — much."

  "It is only tea," said Clung, "made from strange herbs which do not grow in this country. They were gathered in China many centuries ago. The Chinese doctor I know has a little box of them, and he gave me some — just a few sprays of dried leaves and a few pinches of powder."

  "What effect does it have?" asked Kirk curiously.

  "You will see in a minute. You have not slept well for a long time?"

  "Years — yes, every day is a year. There's an ache of weariness that goes from my eyes to the back of my neck."

  Clung made the supreme sacrifice; he touched the abomination, the unclean thing. He laid one hand on the forehead of Kirk; he placed the other at the base of the man's neck.

  "From here to here?" he asked.

  "Yes," sighed the other, "keep your hands there. They ar
e cool; the pain seems to go."

  "It is the drink — the herbs," said Clung calmly. "With this drink, which seems so mild, I have seen the old Chinese stop the death struggle and bring men back to life."

  "By the Lord, I almost believe you! "

  "You will find it is true. You are not going to die. You have been fighting the sickness. You do not have to fight it any longer. It is not necessary. The herbs will fight it for you. Give up all care about it."

  "There is a coolness like ether flowing out of your hands," said the other faintly. "My whole body seems to grow light."

  "It is because the herbs are taking effect. They are undoing the knots in your brain which have come there from your struggles to live. You need struggle no more. Relax. Let your muscles grow limp. You can rest; the herbs will fight the disease."

  "Rest!" whispered the sick man. "Rest!"

  It was like the poet's invocation to the muse.

  "It is the effect of the drink," said Clung. "It begins to loosen all the fibres that ache; it is the coming of sleep. See, you can hardly keep your eyes open. You will sleep long. You will be watched and cared for while you sleep; there will be nothing to fear; the herb is killing the disease. When you wake you will be better — much stronger."

  "Sleep!" murmured Kirk, and his eyes fluttered to a close. The girl reached out her hands with a sudden, impulsive gesture of fostering, but Clung raised a lean, transparent hand and warned her away, studying the changes on the face of the sleeper, the gradually completing relaxation of his features.

  "Now," said Clung, "you may call the servants from the kitchen and carry him to his bed. He will not waken. I would carry him, but —" he made a gesture of apology — "I am not strong!"

  Chapter 7

  The servants came, at her call from the doorway, and with them came her father. She explained briefly to him the miracle which had happened, and he, swearing softly in pleased astonishment, followed the little procession up the stairs — first Winifred, carrying a light, then the servants, carrying Kirk in the invalid chair — then old Sampson, and last Clung. When they had the sick man in his room, at Clung's directions they removed only his slippers and loosened his shirt at the throat; then they covered him lightly and left him — all except Clung and the girl.

  "I will watch him," said Clung, "and you must go and sleep."

  "I am not tired," she answered.

  "There are shadows under your eyes," said Clung coldly, "as if they had been painted there with purple ink — on silk. There is not much color on your lips; your face is very pale; you must sleep — rest."

  She was whispering, for fear of waking Kirk, but Clung spoke aloud, simply lowering his tone until it was even less audible than her whisper.

  "If I'm as ghostly as that, I must sleep," she smiled, "and you don't mind watching him by yourself? You are very good to him!"

  "It is all for you," said Clung frankly.

  She frowned at that.

  You are this man's woman," said Clung, but you are beautiful, and therefore you belong to all men, and to me. If a man wants a garden for himself he must make it ugly; but if his garden is beautiful the other men will climb the wall and make it their own by looking at it. And if they see a rose on a slender stalk, wounded, and drooping, sometimes men will slip over the wall and bind up the rose in the night, and slip away again."

  "It's pleasant to hear you talk," she said, "and different! I suppose you have really stolen in the night to take care of a flower like that?"

  "Oh, many times," said Clung.

  The moonlight fell through the open window, leaving all the corner where the bed stood dark, but the rest of the room was flooded with silver radiance and this fell across the face of the girl. And looking to Clung, she saw him standing with head tilted back, his eyes half closed, smiling faintly. She had seen musicians in that attitude listening to a fine symphony, and she knew that she was like music to him. It filled her with strange fear.

  "Then I may go?" she said.

  "Yes."

  But when she reached the door the sick man stirred on his bed and moaned. She ran back and leaned over him; at once the faint struggling ceased; something like a smile changed his lips; he slept perfectly and deeply again.

  "You see?" she said, turning to Clung with something of triumph and something of despair, "He will waken if I leave him! Sometimes I almost wish — "

  But she stopped short. The look of quiet meditation had been supplanted on his face by such a cold vindictiveness that a thrill of terror went through her.

  "I will take the invalid chair," she said suspiciously, "and sit here beside him."

  "It is well," said Clung. "I will watch you both. You also shall sleep."

  "No; I never sleep while I'm watching him. "

  He took a straight-backed chair and sat

  there erect. The moonlight struck the back of his head and she could only guess at the hollows of the lean face; the wide eyes were pools of shadows sometimes vaguely lighted when his head moved. She gained an impression that although he was not old he had lived much. He seemed to have lived whole centuries, and had gained, perhaps, uncanny knowledge out of the very length of his life — not a length of years.

  "Tonight," he said, "you shall sleep." Out of those shadowy pools which were his eyes she felt the influence come. She struggled against it at first and smiled to herself; it was as if this queer fellow were trying to hypnotize her. But why should she struggle against sleep? There was no danger — no harm in it, surely, and she was very weary. She yawned; her head nodded; her last vague impression was that John Ring was rising slowly from his chair, coming towards her with something like a smile. Then she slept. When she woke yellow sunlight was there in place of the silver shaft of moon, and the new light fell on John Ring just as it had struck him the night before. She turned her head, and saw that Kirk still slept. His face was less pinched and drawn, and in the cheeks was a hint of natural color. She herself was marvelously refreshed.

  The struggle to save a life was over, and with the burden lifted she felt raised herself in strength and lightness. She smiled across to John Ring, the bringer of this deep content, but he was as impassive as a statue of Buddha. She wondered, then, why she should make that strange comparison. The all-night vigil seemed to have affected him not in the least, and he sat with his head back, his eyes half closed. He must have sat like that for hours like the critic drinking in strains of marvel-ously beautiful music.

  It made her abash her eyes, and then she saw that the hands which had lain loosely clasped in her lap now held a yellow flower, and scattered about the chair there were other blossoms. She raised her hands to her hair — it was crowned with a coronal of bloom. The fragrance of it came to her now. She rose suddenly from her chair, and the flowers fell in a flashing shower to the floor about her.

  At that Clung started from his dream and threw out his hands, as though to catch the blossoms. However, his eyes went back to her almost at once. She had flushed and a pleasant warmth filled up her eyes with friendliness.

  "What a strange fellow you are, John Ring," she said.

  "Hush!" said Clung, and he pointed to the sleeper.

  "It was a beautiful picture," said Clung, "even if it lasted only one night, for you."

  "For me?" she answered, whispering.

  "For you," said Clung, "as for me, I never forget. "

  She knew a thousand men who might have said some such trifling thing, but the solemnity of this stranger stopped the smile even as it began on her lips. He did not seem to say it to flatter her. He was announcing an impersonal truth. She had happened to make part of a charming picture which John Ring arranged; that was all. Now that the morning had come she was no more to him than a design on the wall — a picture in a frame — a painted thing. She could not help a little twinge of irritation.

  "Was he peaceful all night?" she asked coldly.

  "He moved little, " said Clung. "When the sun came up he sighed. That was all. He will
sleep now until noon. You may go; he no longer needs you."

  "I know him better," she said — for it seemed as if this was a calm negation of all the effects of her patient nursing. "Even when he’s asleep he knows whether or not I’m near."

  "That," said Clung, "was when he was very weak. It is different now. He is stronger. He does not need you."

  "It's not true!" said the girl, angrily.

  "Try," said Clung.

  She frowned at him, and then moved towards the door, her glance behind her, willing with all her might that the sick man should stir and moan at her departure. But he did not move; she reached the door and glanced at Clung. He stood, as she had known he would stand, with his head back, his eyes half closed, his lips smiling faintly. She stamped, but lightly, for fear of waking the sleeper.

  "I could hate you!" whispered the girl, and was gone.

  It startled Clung out of his dream, and he stared blankly after her. But finally he shrugged the thought away and began to pick up the flowers which she had shaken to the floor. The petals of the blossoms were already fading, and here and there they were darkly bruised.

  Chapter 8

  On the fifth day thereafter, William Kirk was strong enough to dress himself; on the tenth day he stood up and walked about; at the end of two weeks he climbed into a saddle and rode about the place at a soft trot; the next day he told Winifred that the time was come for them to marry and go north again into the world of business.

  It was a drowsy, late afternoon, and they sat on the verandah, dressed in cool white, watching the idle brushing of the palm branches across the sky — a blue-white sky which would soon be taking on colors, for the sun was dropping rapidly towards the western horizon and already the shadows were growing darker among the hills.