Grand Canary

by A. J. Cronin

  She stood watching him, her expression oddly furtive. No use – no use! Her words had no power to move him. So, with a stifled sigh, she turned opened the door, limped wearily along the corridor and down the stairs.

  In the refectory, supper was set; the candles lit; Corcoran and the marquesa already at table, waiting. The sight of the little prinked-out figure, fantastic as a marionette, caused her a queer unreasonable irritation. She dropped into a chair and began hopelessly to stir the coffee that Jimmy placed before her. For a long time no one spoke. Then Jimmy wiped his brow; solely for the sake of easing the oppressive silence, he remarked:

  ‘Faith, I wisht this storm would break. It’s hangin’ over us too long for my likin!’

  The marquesa, primly upright in her regalia at the table, declared:

  ‘It will not come yet. Tomorrow, yes. But not tonight.’

  ‘It can’t come too quick for me,’ said Corcoran. ‘Sure, the waitin’ is like sitting on a keg of gunpowther.’

  Susan moved restlessly.

  Overcome by her fatigue, her nerves were quivering on edge:

  ‘Don’t let’s moan about the thunder,’ she jerked out. ‘ I guess things are bad enough without that. Reckon we ought to be praying, not complaining about the weather.’

  The marquesa lifted her eyes gently towards the ceiling. She did not like Susan – whom she named Americana. Rodgers, the American, had filched the water of her irrigation stream and her enmity in consequence was national. As her own naïve phrase had it: The Americana had used her ill.

  ‘“A saint’s words and a cat’s claws,” she murmured, and smiled remotely. ‘ It is an old proverb I remember. But for all the proverbs and the prayers, assuredly the thunder will come.’

  A hot colour ran into Susan’s wan cheeks. She wanted to let herself go, to shout out a really abusive answer at this absurd old woman. But no, she didn’t. She looked down at her plate; then she apologised:

  ‘I guess I am sorry for speaking that way. I didn’t think. And I’m all to pieces. I guess that’s – that’s why. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It is not need now to be sorry, Americana,’ said the marquesa nodding her head queerly. ‘When the thunder comes – the thunder that must not be spoken of – then there will be greater need for sorrow.’

  Susan stared at her in apprehension, and she stammered:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The marquesa took a delicate sip of water:

  ‘Some things are not fitted to shape in words. It is best to meditate upon them – to leave them quite unspoken. I might speak much about this gathering beneath my roof. It has, perhaps, a meaning beyond our human understanding. We – who feel so much and know so little.’

  ‘Don’t talk that way,’ whispered Susan. ‘You make me queer. Oh, this whole house makes me scared.’

  ‘Strange things have happened in this house,’ the marquesa answered calmly. ‘And stranger things may happen. Why should one deceive herself? Without doubt there is calamity so near. Truly I can perceive. Like the thunder, it is in the air. Is it for me? No, no. My time is not yet. And you? You are so strong, so much with spirit. There is one clear solution you will say. For the English senora – this calamity! Ay, ay, ay, you may judge according to your desire.’ And she made a movement with her tiny, ringed hand, vague, yet somehow infinitely suggestive.

  Susan drew back as though cold fingers had torn aside the veil of her inner consciousness. The room, overhung by the enormous flapping swan, enclosed by its brooding walls, taut with the sultry air, became suddenly terrifying, macabre. She shuddered. It gave to her, all at once, a fearful precognition of disaster which made her want to scream. She felt that Mary was going to die. Yes, she thought quite wildly, I knew it, yes, I knew it from the first.

  Even Jimmy stirred uneasily. He threw out his chest.

  ‘It doesn’t do to be talkin’ like that,’ he declared with an entirely factitious cheerfulness. ‘ You never can tell. I’m not denyin’ but what she’s powerful ill. But sure, while there’s life, there’s always hope.’ He had proclaimed the platitude with the same resilient fortitude a dozen times before.

  Again the marquesa smiled gently.

  ‘Speech is easy. And often it is misunderstood,’ she murmured. ‘Now I am silent. Only remember that misfortune comes by the yard and goes by the inch.’

  A short silence fell; then Jimmy suddenly remarked:

  ‘Misfortune or not, there’s one thing I can’t for the life of me get hold of. And faith, it makes me none too easy in me mind. Why, will ye tell me, have we heard no more of that Cyarr fella? He went out of this room with lightnin’ in his eye, swearin’ he’d burn up the cable wires. What he wasn’t goin’ to do wouldn’t bear the tellin’. And here we are with never the sign of a step from anny of them.’

  ‘What step could they take?’ answered Susan sharply; she paused, added in a lower voice: ‘It is impossible to move her until – until the crisis comes. And only her husband has authority for that.’

  He rubbed his chin, sure indication of his speculation, and persisted.

  ‘For all that, something’s behind it I’ll be bound. And I’m tellin’ ye, I’m not easy in me mind about the endin’ of it, for Harvey.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she interposed with a nervous quiver of her cheek. ‘No one could have managed this case better than – than he.’ She could not speak his name; but, leaning forward, she went on hurriedly, defensively: ‘He has been marvellous. Don’t I know that. Haven’t I seen it. And I’ll swear to it as well. I’ll swear that no one on earth could have done more to save her.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t be saved, poor thing,’ said Jimmy in a low voice, ‘how with one thing and another is that goin’ to affect Harvey?’

  His question laid bare the very heart of that fear which was worrying her to death. If Mary Fielding died? – and she was going to die! – how would Harvey endure the blame? They would blame him – she knew it – this awful catastrophe following so swiftly upon the other! The responsibility entirely was his – he had made it so deliberately – oh, the thought was dreadful, it terrified her!

  She tried to eat the fruit that lay upon her plate. But she couldn’t swallow. Torn again by that emotion in her breast, she whispered to herself: ‘Oh, help us all, dear God. Please help us now.’

  Suddenly, in her unpremeditated manner, the marquesa rose from her chair. Fastidiously, she laved her fingers and her lips with water. Then she crossed herself, murmured a grace of thanksgiving, signed herself again. Finally, she declared:

  ‘She eats quickly who eats little. And it is time now for Isabel de Luego to retire. Si, si – she must go now to her room.’ She retreated slowly, with extended elbows and floating mantilla; but at the door she paused, levelled across the ghostly room that elusive, almost sightless stare.

  ‘Al gran arroyo pasar postrero’ she said very distinctly; and then: ‘Adios.’

  It was her valediction.

  Susan threw a scared look at Corcoran.

  ‘What did she mean?’ she whispered.

  He got up, brushing the crumbs from his vest.

  ‘Ah, nothin’ at all,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t rightly understand the lingo.’

  She gripped his arm and persisted:

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘A kind of queer thing ye may be sure,’ he answered awkwardly. ‘Somethin’ about the great stream, and bein’ the last to think of crossin’ it. But don’t be mindin’ what she says. She’s a powerful decent little cratur when you know her. Faith, she’s give me the chance of a lifetime annyway.’ He took snuff, and hung about the table for a moment. Then, with a covert glance at her, he moved to the door. ‘I’ll be goin’ into the kitchen now. I’ve a job of work that wants lookin’ afther before mornin’.’

  He went out silently, and she was alone. She still felt unaccountably uneasy. Nervously she fingered the peel upon her plate. Tiny beads of oily juice ran into her bruised thumb and set it smarting afres
h. But she hardly noticed the stinging ache, thinking dully how uncanny was that old woman, and how very frightening, too.

  ‘A great stream; and be the last to cross it.’ What did that mean? In this parched land where all the streams were dry, it was baffling, inexplicable, but vaguely intimidating. At last, with a decided straightening of her body, she put away her thoughts. She brushed her hair from her brow, made to rise. But as she pushed back her chair the door opened, and Harvey came into the room.

  She took one quick breath, drawing from his unexpected entry a dreadful meaning. A question trembled on her lips. Yet she could not utter it, but followed him with startled eyes as he advanced silently and sank into the opposite chair. There he looked across at her and shook his head slowly.

  ‘It isn’t that.’ His tone was quite controlled but behind it lay a mortal weariness.

  She faltered:

  ‘She is – she is still all right?’

  ‘She is not all right. Since the fever became haemorrhagic she is infinitely worse. That final bleeding has left her utterly collapsed.’

  ‘Then why have you come down?’

  He was a long time answering; then, with a sort of icy sternness, he said:

  ‘She is sinking. Her resistance has completely gone. But her crisis cannot be far off. If she could live till morning she might have a chance. There is only one way to give her that chance. It is dangerous, but it is the only way.’

  She whispered:

  ‘What is that?’

  Looking at her directly, he answered:

  ‘A transfusion.’

  There was a silence; the unexpectedness of his reply left her speechless; her heart beat quickly. Then she gave a little shudder.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she stammered. ‘ It’s unheard of. She’s got fever. It’s not the right thing. Oh, it’s not like you to suggest such a thing.’

  ‘I’m not like myself, now.’

  ‘But it would be better,’ she gasped, ‘better just to wait –’

  ‘And see her die from the effects of that haemorrhage.’

  ‘You can’t do it,’ she said again. ‘It’s impossible, here of all places. Now of all times. You haven’t got the things.’

  ‘I’ve got all I want.’

  ‘You can’t do it,’ she cried for the third time – pressing her hands together. ‘The risk, it’s too frightful. It might easily prove fatal. And they’ll blame you. Don’t you see they’ll blame you if you fail. They’ll say you’ve –’

  He said nothing. His lips were outlined by the shadow of his old ironic smile.

  ‘In the name of God,’ she wept, ‘I implore you to get some assistance. I’ve wanted to say this a hundred times before. No one could have done more than you. You’ve been wonderful. But the responsibility, like this, away from everyone. Don’t you see, if she dies, they’ll say you’ve killed her.’

  She reached her hand fumblingly towards his arm. At the sight of his tired, sunken eyes her love for him welled over. She couldn’t check her feeling. She wanted to kiss those tired eyes – wanted to – wanted to. Tears streamed down her cheeks mussing up – she didn’t care! – mussing up her dowdy face. But he did not seem to see her.

  ‘Nothing matters to me,’ he answered heavily, ‘if she dies.’

  Her face altered as though she had been struck; she withdrew her hand, raised it to her forehead to conceal her tears. She snuffled, controlled her trembling lip. At last she said in a different voice:

  ‘If you are going to do it – then – you’ll want me – want me to be the donor?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t have it that way. This is all my affair. I’m going to do it all. Then – if there’s any fault it will all be mine.’ He paused.

  The beating of her heart was stifling her.

  ‘You might let me have hot water, plenty of hot water.’ He was speaking calmly, gently. ‘And I’ll give you the needles – they must be boiled.’ Then he got up silently. He didn’t even look at her as he walked to the door.

  But she rose and followed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At the end of the hall there stood an old Castilian clock which Corcoran had found in clogged inertia and promptly mended. It chimed now three lingering strokes. Mounting the darkness of the hall, the whirring echoes floated along the corridor into the sick-room.

  Instinctively Harvey looked at his watch, his first movement in an hour: yes, three o’clock. The silence following the striking of the clock was profound. Actually the silence was not complete, for threading the dimness of the room came the thin rasping of Mary’s breathing. But this had now gone on so long it had become part of the room, woven to the very substance of its silence. He was alone with her. The others had not wished to go to bed. Susan especially had protested. But he had insisted. No heroic sentiment had moved him – simply the feeling that it must be so. A strange sense of possession had now taken him. It had come, this sense, when he had felt the current of his blood stream languorously into hers. That transfusion – oh, he would never forget it. Never! Sheer madness in one way, nothing else. This vast bare room, the defective apparatus that filled the seconds with feverish anxiety, his own tense forearm bathed in the pool of candlelight, the encircling darkness pressing nearer, Susan’s chalk-white face and nervous trembling fingers – it made a contrast against the background of his hospital experience that was simply ludicrous.

  A gigantic joke, with Death splitting his sides with laughter in the corner.

  It wasn’t right, you see – not orthodox, not scientific – this drastic line of treatment. Six weeks ago he would have joined in the laughter of derision and called the whole thing lunacy.

  But now – now he wasn’t thinking in terms of his test-tubes. He wanted to save one life. The crude equipment at his disposal could not deter him, nor yet the danger – the frightful danger. He saw that she must die unless something were done to sustain her. Not reason, but passionate intuition, was his guide. He had carried out the transfusion. Yes, it was over. Now, inscrutably, they were united; come what might, nothing could dissever that union. He felt it to be so.

  The room was unbearably sultry, and his head, already swimming from lack of sleep, was lighter still from loss of blood. Suddenly he rose, extinguished one of the candles which stood upon the chest. The smoky glare which hurt his eyes might also strike painfully on hers. Shading the remaining flame, he bent forward, gazing intently into her face, while upon the opposite wall his shadow took gigantic shape. Then he sighed and dropped into his chair again. Still no change; still that feverish rasping breathing. Her face, held in the mask of unconsciousness, was yet beautiful; her lips, half parted, drooped wanly at their corners; on her thin cheeks a dusky flush stood high; her eyes were not quite closed, but showed a marble slit of white.

  Another sigh broke heavily from his chest. Mechanically he took water, laved her dry lips and burning brow. She had rallied following the transfusion, a quicker and a stronger pulse; his heart had bounded up with hope: but now she was back again, lapsing towards the illimitable desolation that was death.

  How he had fought, too, during these last days! He had given everything that was his.

  He slipped his hand beneath the sheet and clasped her fingers, so thin and unresistant to his touch. The feel of those burning fingers stirred in him unbelievable depths of pain.

  He bit his teeth together, devoured by pain. The sight of her, weakened and sinking, the sense of his impotence, racked him maddeningly. Passionately he gathered his flagging strength and willed that it might flow from him towards her. Two tiny human creatures bound only by their linked hands within the vast unreasoning universe. So negligible under the dark canopy of night, they were like atoms lost in a great blackness. And yet they were together. That made the blackness naught, and stripped the vast universe of every fear but one. It was the beginning; it was the end. Nothing could solve the meaning of that simplicity, nothing dissolve its power.
With terrible conviction this bore upon him. His whole attitude towards life was swept and shattered; and from the ruins had emerged this shining revelation. No longer could he find a jibe with which to mock the weakness of humanity; no longer was he cold and hard, contemptuous of life. Life now seemed rare: a lovely, precious gift, fraught with strange, unconsidered sweetness.

  As he sat bowed beside the bed, there pressed upon his mind the weight of all the suffering and sacrifice the world had known. Dazedly he felt the crushing weight: beauty and love inextricably mingled with the sweat and tears and blood of all humanity.

  And with a writhing of his soul – that soul which he had scoffingly denied – he saw his petty arrogance as something pitiful and powerless. His thoughts flew back. With staggering might came the realisation: his work, the very purpose of his work, had failed and been defeated by that same arrogance. If he had cared about the lives of those three patients – how far away it seemed in time and space! – if he had really thought of them as human creatures to be saved? Then he might have been successful. But he had cared only for the vindication of himself and his research. And it had not been enough.

  Humility overwhelmed him. Again, as on that last night in the Aureola, all his life seemed wasted suddenly and void.

  His eyes drew towards her face, then slowly filled with tears. There lay the slender hope of his redemption. A torturing emotion took him. If he could save her! Life would not then be void. Again the burning thought possessed him: If only she could reach the crisis! If only she might live! He knew so well how crucial were these present hours: as though her body, swinging in space, were balanced in a strange, uncertain equipoise from which abruptly it would slip and fall with star-like flight to safety or oblivion.

  Involuntarily he leaned over her, until her hot breath fell upon his cheek, and whispered to her.

  As by instinct, her thin face smiled weakly. But she neither saw nor heard him. She muttered a few unintelligible words. And then, without warning, her delirium began again.