by A. J. Cronin
Though through ages she had waited for this moment, her eyes, closed by the perfume of the orange flowers, opened timidly towards him. The strange pulse, which through the day had troubled her, began again, beating, beating behind her brow. She thought: perhaps it is happiness which makes me feel like this.
In his blood the surging eagerness increased, and his face, no longer gaunt, wore that wild arisen joy. Winging to him came the thought that he had never touched her. No, he thought, not even have I touched those fingers that might fall so cool and soft upon my lips. His body trembled. He stretched out his hand towards her.
Surely now she was lighter than the moon-drenched air. But the pulse within her head was beating, beating, beating – confusing her beyond thought. As in a trance she placed the slip of orange-blossom in his hand. With fumbling touch he thrust it amongst the tresses of her hair. She tried to smile. How stiff her lips were suddenly, and how dry! She could not smile the quickening tenderness that enkindled her.
He was close to her, so close the opening sweetness of her body exhaled to him. He held his breath. Together in this deserted house, enwrapped by the scented ardent night, alone. All changeless and predestined. The orange-blossom in her hair gleamed palely. Nothing in heaven or earth could now arrest their love: this love which he had never known before, which now incredibly was his.
‘Are you happy?’
‘I am happy,’ she answered breathlessly. ‘That is all I know. I feel light and free. Away from everything.’
Her heart swelled like the throat of a thrush. She felt his body melting towards her; but cruelly her own body had become a cage which stiffly baulked the flowing ardour of her spirit.
With all her soul she longed for him. Not to assuage that longing would mean the bitterness of death. I love him, she thought wildly. At last I have found love which wearily all my life I have awaited. And, fleeing the racing darkness of her mind, she said wanly:
‘I came here because I love you. Oh, my love, do you understand? There is nothing in life but you.’ Then piteously she pressed her hand to her brow.
Startled, he gazed at her, torn between joy and fear. The pallor of her brow blinded him; and, beneath, her eyes seemed shadowed, suddenly worn by an inward fever. Instinctively he took her hand. It burned him like fire, burning, burning like the hot beating in her head. The colour ebbed slowly from his face so that his lips were white. Where there had been singing, now there was panic in his blood.
‘Mary, beloved,’ he cried. ‘Your hands are burning.’
‘It is that queerness,’ she answered thickly, ‘come back again. But it will pass like it did before. What does it matter when I love you?’ She tried again to smile but now her face was like a mask mocking her from afar. Not one, but many masks, leering amongst the shadows of the orange-trees. And, through it all, with anguish she hungered to let herself dissolve into the sweetness of his kiss.
Then all at once she felt herself defeated, shrivelled. Forlornly she made to say again: ‘I love you’; but no words came. Instead, those leering masks revolved about her, faster, faster, circling at giddy speed; and then the earth rose up and darkness struck her. Swooning, she fell towards him into his arms.
He gave an incoherent cry, riven by a dreadful thought. Supporting her weightless body, again he took her hand. Her pulse beneath the thin archway of her wrist galloped madly. Against his cheek her cheek lay burning. Her whole body was aflame.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned aloud, ‘why didn’t I think before? It’s fever.’
Her white lids lifted, and for a second her eyes looked into his all wide and mournful like a wounded bird.
‘At last,’ she whispered weakly. ‘But how awfully queer I feel.’ And then her head drooped forward upon his arm.
For an instant he gazed fixedly at those shuttered eyes, then with passionate haste he gathered her, and, half running, half stumbling, bore her back through the garden to the house. The door gave to the violent impulse of his shoulder. In the hall he did not pause, but, calling loudly: ‘Manuela! Manuela!’ he mounted the stairs swiftly and entered his own room. There upon the old brocaded coverlet of his bed he laid her, and, panting, knelt down beside her. At the sight of her prone body, so helpless upon that bed, a thought came which lacerated him. Tears ran into his eyes, blinding him. Distracted, he pressed her limp hands within his own.
Suddenly, at a scraping sound, he turned quickly. Manuela was behind him peering from the shadows with her sombre startled eyes. Without rising from his knees, he said hurriedly:
‘The English señora is ill, she has fainted. Will you bring some water, please. Quickly.’
She did not move, but, after a pause which seemed to him intolerably long, she said flatly:
‘And what business has this English señora to be here?’
‘No business,’ he cried. ‘ But she is ill. Bring water quickly in the ewer.’
There was a silence. The serving woman, staring blankly, seemed to turn strange theories within the dull caverns of her mind. Then all at once she bent forward, peering across his shoulder, her eyes starting beneath her sallow brow.
‘Sea por Dios!’ she exclaimed shrilly. ‘She is ill, you say. Dios mio, I know that look upon the face.’ Her voice rose. ‘Dios mio, but it is writ upon her. She has the sickness!’
‘Be quiet,’ Harvey cried harshly. ‘Get water, I tell you. You must help me. Do you understand?’
Manuela drew back, posied for a violent protest. But she made no protest. She stood with arms crossed, strangely motionless; then her mouth closed like a trap. Without a word she swung round. Darting one last look across her shoulder she passed stealthily from the room.
Immediately Harvey rose from his knees and lit another candle. His hand trembled, so that the liquid wax ran down and splashed in warm gouts upon his fingers, but, shielding the flame, he held it near, gazed deeply into Mary’s face. It was flushed now, the eyelids slightly swollen, the lips scarlet as a wound. A low groan broke from his lips. He knew it was as Manuela had said.
Manuela! Would the woman never come? His hands clenched savagely, with sudden determination he shot from the room and raced downstairs, calling aloud her name. ‘Manuela! Manuela!’ The cry had a lost sound, rising and falling through the dark emptiness of the hall, the refectory, the kitchen. There was no answer. He called and called, then, suddenly, in the deserted kitchen, he stopped, struck by a knowledge of the truth. Manuela had taken fright. She had run away.
His expression changed slowly. So he was alone – save for the old marquesa, who now must be asleep – alone with Mary in this benighted house. For ten seconds he stood quite still. Some broth simmering in a pan upon the charred wood embers made a gentle hubble-bubble of sound. From outside the faint croaking of frogs stole in like voices raised in mockery. Then his eyes hardened with sudden resolution. He threw off his jacket. Turning, he seized a brimming water-jar that stood upon its low, slate ledge. Clasping the dewed earthenware in his arms he went rapidly upstairs.
She lay as he had left her, her scarlet lips parted, her bosom rising to her quickened breaths. With a set face he began to unfasten her dress. His fingers were stiff and cold as ice yet now they did not tremble. But within him his heart trembled, flooded by a mortal anguish. She wore so little, her body was so light, her clothing slipped from her like gossamer. One by one he placed her garments upon the chair, her dress that seemed fashioned for her fragility, her stockings that drooped to nothing in his hand.
Tiny beads of sweat broke coldly upon his brow, the fine edge of his nostrils seemed cut from stone. But he went on. He knew it was imperative: he must combat the rising fever. Her skin was white like silk, her breasts unguarded, small and firm, pink-tipped with innocence. Soft shadows fell aslant her outstretched body, draping its lower nudity. About her unresistant form there floated a marvellous serenity.
At last, with a convulsive gesture, he threw back the coverlet, and, clasping her gently, lowered her upon the coolness of the s
heet. As he moved, her arm fell limply and seemed to seek its place around his neck. For that single instant her heavy eyes opened and consciousness returned.
‘It is so like me,’ she muttered brokenly, ‘to be a nuisance to you.’
Before he could answer she was away, falling, falling down darkly into a deep oblivion.
He took water and began rapidly to sponge her naked body. His mind worked desperately. He thought with supreme intensity: I must save her. I will save her. If she dies then I too will die. That does not matter. Nothing matters but that she shall be saved.
Under his moving hands her skin grew cooler, moist with the spring water which lay between her breasts like dew. Deluding himself, he fancied she breathed more peacefully; with fingertips upon the thin column of her throat he tried to feel a slackening of her racing blood. Nothing, he thought blindly, nothing matters if only she will get well. Again those words formed and reformed within him until they suffused his very soul and rose soaring from the tenebrous room – an inarticulate aspiration to the watching sky.
He flung down the towel, covered her lightly with the sheet, stood over her. Then at a thought he went downstairs into the kitchen, poured out a cup of the simmering broth and returned. When the broth had cooled, he supported her tired head gently and gave her to drink. Instinctively, like one half sleeping, she drank deeply with soft and drooping lip. To see her swallow the thin cold soup afforded him an exquisite comfort. Courage came to him. Quietly he put away the empty cup, quietly he sat down beside her. Bending forward he took her hand in his, let her fingers rest upon his palm. Immobile as a rock he let his strength flow out to her.
The minutes passed silently. The vigil brought him strange felicity. Hope ran into the coldness of his heart. He had pledged himself to save her. Outside, the croaking of the frogs went on – a passionless uncomprehended cry. A night bird brushed the window with soft wings. The moon swung round, flooding the room with gracious light, loitered awhile and then was gone. And there through the long still night he watched and tended her.
Chapter Twenty
The candles guttered to their sockets, the dawn broke fair and clear, the leaves stirred softly, preening themselves from sleep, and Susan Tranter came down the hill to Los Cisnes with an eager step.
A shy flush was on her cheek. Kind of early, she reckoned, to be calling at the house. To be sure it was! Yet, as she picked a flower and thrust it in her dress, she thought: There isn’t any harm. We’re working together, aren’t we? He’ll be at breakfast, with – oh, that quietness in his face. He may even smile to me. We’ll go together to the village.
Yes, it was happiness for her to be linked with Harvey in such a cause. The outbreak, it is true, had passed its zenith; signs of its abatement were in the air. The form was fulminating, falling as swiftly as it had risen. And, in spite of Rodgers’s reviling, the authorities had now taken action. Not the kind of action, she thought, that a real live organisation might have put over. No, indeed. But it would serve its purpose. The civic guard were in Hermosa, and an army surgeon; the dead had been buried, the houses fumigated, a makeshift hospital constituted, a drastic ring of quarantine drawn round the village.
There was less to do than she had wished. But still, it was a noble work. And to do that work by Harvey’s side – ah, there lay the happiness, a thrilling happiness which overcame even her uneasiness upon her brother’s account. Something was wrong with Robert. She did not wish him to be involved in the business of the epidemic. It wasn’t his work. He wasn’t strong enough to expose himself to infection. Yet, to see him moping all day in apathy, goading himself to false activity under Rodgers’s caustic eye – it gave her a fathomless disquiet.
But even that could not quench the sparkle of her eye, nor curb the briskness of her step, as she pushed open the door and entered the hall of Los Cisnes. With brightness in her plain face she went into the refectory. No breakfast was set; no one was there. Surprised, she hesitated, then, with a little twitching smile, she reflected: Slept late, of course – he hasn’t come down yet. The smile remained upon her lips as at a secret thought. Then she turned, slowly ascended the staircase, paused once more. Diffidently she knocked upon the door of his room.
‘Are you up?’ she called.
There was a strange silence; then from within his voice answered. But, though she held her ear close to the panel, she could not make out the words.
Another silence followed, and again his voice came – more clearly, bidding her to enter.
She turned the handle and went in. She took three steps forward, then her smile went wrong. Her mouth stiffened and all the brightness of her look dissolved. Her eyes slipped from his haggard face to the figure upon the bed. A short cry rose, and was stifled coldly in her breast.
‘She is ill,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘It is that cursed fever.’ And he turned away his head.
The world had suddenly gone dead for Susan. She did not think to ask why Mary should be here. Enough that she was here, a blow undreamed of, shattering hopelessly all the new zest of life. Her eyes, travelling dully about the room, took in everything: the sodden towels upon the floor, Mary’s bare arm, her hand resting in his hand, the heap of silken underclothing lying nakedly upon the chair. At this a spasm of pain went through her. But she forced herself to speak.
‘Is she very ill?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she has nothing here – not – not even a nightdress?’
‘What does that matter?’
A pause.
‘Did you sit up with her all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘You worked all day yesterday. You sat up all night. You must be very tired.’
He made no answer; and she, too, was silent. Then, aware dimly that some explanation was due to her, he told her briefly of Mary’s coming on the previous night.
She listened with averted eyes; then she said:
‘You can’t keep her here. She’ll have to go to Santa Cruz. There’s nothing here fit for a sick person. You’ve no drugs, nothing.’
‘I can get everything I want. She can’t be moved. I won’t have her moved.’
Susan made no reply. She was staring intently, ridiculously, at the floor. A long sigh shook her without escaping from her lips. She moved, came slowly forward, took off her hat, her cotton gloves, and placed them upon the table by the window.
‘Well, you’d better rest now,’ she said at last; her voice, extinguished, would not rise above a monotone. ‘You must be terrible tired. I guess I’m going to look after her.’
He did not appear to hear, but as she began to tidy up the room his eyes, looking sideways, followed her careful movements. And at length he said:
‘Do you mean that you will help me to nurse her?’
‘I’ll nurse her. Nothing else for it, I reckon. It’s my plain duty.’
He studied her intently with his sleep-tormented eyes, then he said quietly:
‘I shall not forget. You are really good.’
Susan stopped short as though she had been stung. And she flushed instantly – a shameful colour that mounted upon her brow. It seemed as though she would not speak, when suddenly she cried:
‘You’re wrong,’ and now her voice was not a monotone. ‘It isn’t goodness that makes me do this. It’s something quite different. I tell you it isn’t goodness. It’s the worst kind of jealousy. I know you love her. Don’t you see I can’t bear even to think of you touching her. That’s why I’ve got to stick around and do for her. So’s I can be here. So’s I –’ Choking, she raised her hand to her throat. Her eyes fell upon the garment she had been folding. With a sob she let it slip back upon the chair.
He got up and looked out of the window. Minutes passed, then in a calm, completely altered tone she spoke.
‘You got to go and lie down.’
‘I am all right.’
‘Please be sensible. If you want to be at your best –’ She stopped, but continued doggedly: ‘For her sake
you got to have sleep. I’ll take duty now. I’ll send a letter over to Robbie to let him know what’s happened. You’ve got to have sleep.’
He seemed to weigh the reason of her words, then with grudging decision he moved from the window.
‘Very well. I shall lie down for just one hour. You know what to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘You see, we must get the fever down –’ He gave her his instructions, striving to infuse his tone with confidence, and then he added: ‘It will be acute. Soon – soon there may be more to do!’
She nodded her head in tragic acquiescence, looking up at him with lacerated eyes.
His gaze left hers, then slid across her shoulder towards the flushed face upon the pillow. For a moment his soul lay naked – anguished and afraid; then he turned and went out of the room.
He crossed the corridor and, at random, entered another room. It was not a bedroom, but a stately chamber full of gilt furniture and dusty hanging lustres, shuttered against the light, with curtains frayed and carpets raddled by the ants – the ghastly ruin of a noble room. He did not care. Tearing open his collar, he flung himself upon a brocaded sofa and closed his eyes.
He tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. At least, no sleep that merited the name. The room had a musty smell like shut-up cupboards tenanted by mice. It seemed to him that the dangling lustres were waiting – waiting to play a tinkling tune. He tossed and turned upon the hard settee. Visions marched across his mind, not in orderly array, but massed distressingly, pressing, pressing upon him, inextricably tangled in their forward sweep. And always Mary was there, pleading piteously for his aid. At times it seemed that he heard voices; then came, too, a loud knocking, the sound of some arrival.
For about an hour this troubled rest endured, then abruptly he opened his eyes. Unrefreshed, he stared numbly at the gilded ceiling on which the painted swan with outstretched neck and pinions winged fantastically towards him. Despite himself, he shivered. The repetition of the emblem upon the ceiling of each room conveyed to him a sense of something ominous, inevitable. He felt suddenly chilled – menaced vaguely by the unknown.