Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Dodo’s eyes danced as she spoke, danced and were dim at the same time.

  “Oh, Nadine, and you saw it!” she said. “How glorious for you to see that, and to know at the same moment that you loved him. And, my dear, if Hughie is to die, you must thank God for him without any regret. There is nothing to regret. And if he lives—”

  “Oh, Mama, one thing at a time,” said Nadine. “If he only lives, if only I am going to be allowed to take care of him, and to do what can be done.”

  She paused a moment.

  “I am so glad you have come,” she said; “it was dear of you to start at once like that. Did Papa Jack want you not to go?”

  “My dear, he hurried me off to that extent that I left the only bag that mattered behind.”

  “That was nice of him. They have been so hopeless, all of them here, because they didn’t understand. Berts has been looking like a funeral all day, the sort with plumes. And Edith has been running in and out with soup for me, soup and mince and glasses of port I think — I think Seymour understood though, because he was quite cheerful and normal. Oh, Mama, if Hughie only lives, I will marry Seymour as a thank-offering.”

  Dodo looked at her daughter in amazement.

  “Not if Seymour understands,” she said.

  Nadine frowned.

  “It’s the devil’s own mess,” she observed.

  “But the devil never cleans up his messes,” said Dodo. “That’s what we learn by degrees. He makes them, and we clean them up. More or less, that is to say.”

  She paused a moment, and flung the spirit of her speech from her.

  “I don’t mean that,” she said. “It is truer to say that God makes beautiful things, and we spoil them. And then He makes them beautiful again. It is only people who can’t see at all, that see the other aspect of it. I think they call them realists — I know it ends in ‘ist.’ But it doesn’t matter what you call them. They are wrong. We have got to hold our hearts high, and let them beat, and let ourselves enjoy and be happy and taste things to the full. It is easier to be miserable, my dear, for most people. We are the lucky ones. Oh, if I had been a charwoman, like that thing in the play, with a husband who stole and was sent to prison, I should have found something to be happy about. Probably a large diamond in the grate, which I should have sold without being traced.”

  These remarkable statements were not made without purpose. Dodo knew quite well that courage and patience and cheerfulness would be needed by Nadine, and she was willing to talk the most outrageous nonsense to give the sense of vitality to her, to make her see that no great happening like this, whatever the end, was a thing to moan and brood over. It must be taken with much more than resignation — a quality which she despised — and with hardly less than gaiety. Such at any rate was her private human gospel, which she found had not served her so badly.

  “I have quite missed my vocation,” she said. “I ought to have been born in poverty-stricken and criminal classes to show the world that being hungry does not make you unhappy any more than having three diamond tiaras makes you happy. You’ve got that birthright, Nadine, live up to it. Never anticipate trouble, and if it comes embrace and welcome it: it is part of life, and thus it becomes your friend. Oh, I wish I had been here this morning! I would have shouted for glee to see that darling Hughie go churning out to sea. I am jealous of you. Just think: if Papa Jack had come a-wooing of you, as I really thought he might be doing in the summer, you would have married him and I should be looking after Hughie. Isn’t that like me? I want everybody’s good times myself.”

  These amazing statements were marvelously successful.

  “I won’t give my good time away even to you,” said Nadine.

  “No, you are sharper than a serpent’s tooth. Now, darling, we will go very quietly along the passage, and just see if Hughie is asleep. I should so like to wake him up — I know he is asleep — in order to tell him how splendid it all is. Don’t be frightened: I’m not going to. We will just go to the door, and that enormous nurse whom I saw peering over the banisters, will tell us to go away. And then I shall go to dress for dinner, and you will too—”

  “Oh, Mama, I can’t come down to dinner,” said Nadine.

  “Yes, dear, you can and you will. There’s going to be no sadness in my house. If you don’t, I shall send Edith up to you with mince and her ‘cello and soup. Oh, Nadine, and it was all just for a little stupid boy, who very likely would have been better dead. He will now probably grow up, and be an anxiety to his parents, if he’s got any — they usually haven’t — and come to a bad and early end. What a great world!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Nadine enquired at Hugh’s door again that night before she went to bed, and found that he was still asleep. She had promised her mother not to sit up, but as she undressed she almost smiled at the uselessness of going to bed, so impossible did it seem that sleep should come near her. After her one outburst of crying, she had felt no further agitation, for something so big and so quiet had entered her heart that all poignancy of anxiety and suspense were powerless to disturb it. As has been said, it was scarcely even whether Hugh lived or died that mattered: the only thing that mattered was Hugh. Had she been compelled to say whether she believed he would live or not, she would have given the negative. And yet there was a quality of peace in her that could not be shaken. It was a peace that humbled and exalted her. It wrapped her round very close, and yet she looked up to it, as to a mountain-peak on which dawn has broken.

  Despite her conviction that sleep was impossible, she had hardly closed her eyes, when it embraced and swallowed up all her consciousness. This cyclone of emotion, in the center of which dwelt the windless calm, had utterly tired her out, though she was unaware of fatigue, and her rest was dreamless. Then suddenly she was aware that there was light in the room, and that she was being spoken to, and she passed from unconsciousness back to the full possession of her faculties, as swiftly as they had been surrendered. She found Dodo bending over her.

  “Come, my darling,” she said.

  Nadine had no need to ask any question, but as she put on her slippers and dressing-gown Dodo spoke again.

  “He has been awake for an hour and asking for you,” she said. “The nurse and the doctor are with him: they think you had better come. It is possible that if he sees you there, he may go off to sleep again. But it is possible — you are not afraid, darling?”

  Nadine’s mouth quivered into something very like a smile.

  “Afraid of Hughie?” she asked.

  They went up the stairs, and along the passage together. The moon that last night had been hidden by the tempest of storm-clouds, or perhaps blown away from the sky by the wind, now rode high and cloudlessly amid a multitude of stars. No wind moved across those ample floors: only from the beach they heard the plunge and thunder of the sea that could not so easily resume its tranquillity. The moonlight came through the window of Hugh’s room also, making on the floor a shadow-map of the bars.

  He was lying again with his face towards the door, but now his eyes were vacantly open, and his whole face had changed. There was an agony of weariness over it, and from his eyes there looked out a dumb, unavailing rebellion. Before they had got to the door they had heard a voice inside speaking, a voice that Nadine did not recognize. It kept saying over and over again, “Nadine, Nadine.”

  As she came across the room to the bed, he looked straight at her, but it was clear he did not see her, and the monotonous, unrecognizable voice went on saying, “Nadine, Nadine.”

  The doctor was standing by the head of the bed, looking intently at Hugh, but doing nothing: the nurse was at the foot.

  He signed to Nadine to come, and took a step towards her.

  “You’ve got to make him feel you are here,” he said. Then with his hand he beckoned to the nurse and to Dodo, to stand out of sight of Hugh, so that by chance he might think himself alone with the girl.

  Nadine knelt down on the floor, so that her face was c
lose to those unseeing eyes, and the mouth that babbled her name. And the great peace was with her still. She spoke in her ordinary natural voice without tremor.

  “Yes, Hughie, yes,” she said. “Don’t go on calling me. Here I am. What’s the use of calling now? I came as soon as I knew you wanted me.”

  “Nadine, Nadine,” said Hughie, in the same unmeaning monotone.

  “Hughie, you are quite idiotic!” she said. “As if you didn’t know in your own heart that I would always come when you wanted me. I always would, my dear. You need never be afraid that I shall leave you. I am yours, don’t you see?”

  “Nadine, Nadine,” said Hugh.

  Nadine’s whole soul went into her words.

  “Hughie, you are not with me yet,” she said. “I want you, too, and I mean to have you. I didn’t know till to-day that I wanted you, and now I can’t do without you. Hughie, do you hear?” she said. “Oh, answer me, Hughie dear!”

  There was dead silence. Then Hugh gave a great sigh.

  “Nadine!” he said. But it was Hugh’s voice that spoke then.

  She bent forward.

  “Oh, Hughie, you have come then,” she said. “Welcome; you don’t know how I wanted you!”

  “Yes, I’m here all right,” said Hugh in a voice scarcely audible. “But I’m so tired. It’s horrible; it’s like death!”

  Nadine gave her little croaking laugh.

  “It isn’t like anything of the kind,” she said. “But of course you are tired. Wouldn’t it be a good thing to go to sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hugh.

  “But I do. I’m tired too, Hughie, awfully tired. If I leaned my head back against your bed I should go to sleep too.”

  “Nadine, it is you?” said Hugh.

  “Oh, my dear! What other girl could be with you?”

  “No, that’s true. Nadine, would it bore you to stop with me a bit? We might talk afterwards, when — when you’ve had a nap.”

  “That will be ripping,” said Nadine, assuming a sleepy voice.

  There was silence for a little. Then once again, but in his own voice, Hugh spoke her name. This time she did not answer, and she felt his hand move till it rested against her plaited hair.

  Then in the silence Nadine became conscious of another noise regular and slow as the faint hoarse thunder of the sea, the sound of quiet breathing. After a while the doctor came round the head of the bed.

  “We can manage to wrap you up, and make you fairly comfortable,” he whispered. “I think he has a better chance of sleeping if you stop there.”

  The light and radiance in Nadine’s eyes were a miracle of beauty, like some enchanted dawn rising over a virgin and unknown land. She smiled her unmistakable answer, but did not speak, and presently Dodo returned with pillows and blankets, which she spread over her and folded round her.

  “The nurse will be in the next room,” said the doctor; “call her if anything is wanted.”

  Dodo and the doctor went back to their rooms, and Nadine was left alone with Hugh. That night was the birthnight and the bridal-night of her soul: there was it born, and through the long hours of the winter night it watched beside its lover and its beloved, in that stillness of surrender to and absorption in another, that lies beyond and above the unrest of passion amid the snows and sunshine of the uttermost regions to which the human spirit can aspire. She knew nothing of the passing of the hours, nor for a long time did any thought or desire of sleep come near her eyelids, but the dim room became to her the golden island of which once in uncomprehending mockery she had spoken to Hugh. She knew it to be golden now, and so far from being unreal, there was nothing in her experience so real as it.

  She could just turn her head without disturbing Hugh’s hand that lay on her plaited hair, and from time to time she looked round at him. His face still wore the sunken pallor of exhaustion, but as his sleep, so still and even-breathing, began to restore the low-ebb of his vital force, it seemed to Nadine that the darkness of the valley of the shadow, to the entrance of which he had been so near, cleared off his face as eclipse passes from the moon. How near he had been, she guessed, but it seemed to her that for the present his face was set the other way. She knew, too, that it was she who had had the power to make him look life-wards again, and the knowledge filled her with a sort of abasing pride. He had answered to her voice when he was past all other voices, and had come back in obedience to it.

  She did not and she could not yet be troubled with the thought of anything else besides the fact that Hugh lived. As far as was known yet, he might never recover his activity of movement again, and years of crippled life were all that lay in front of him; but in the passing away of the immediate imminent fear, she could not weigh or even consider what that would mean. Similarly the thought of Seymour lay for the present outside the focus of her mind: everything but the fact that Hugh lived was blurred and had wavering outlines. As the hours went on the oblongs of moonshine on the floor moved across the room, narrowing as they went. Then the moon sank and the velvet of the cloudless sky grew darker, and the stars more luminous. One great planet, tremulous and twinkling, made a glory beside which all the lesser lights paled into insignificance. No wind stirred in the great halls of the night, the moans and yells of its unquiet soul were still, and the boom of the surf grew ever less sonorous, like the thunder of a retreating storm. Occasionally the night-nurse appeared at the doorway of the room adjoining, where she sat, and as often Nadine looked up at her smiling. Once, very softly, she came round the head of the bed, and looked at Hugh, then bent down towards the girl.

  “Won’t you get some sleep?” she said, and Nadine made a little gesture of raised eyebrows and parted hands that was characteristic of her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Perhaps not. I don’t want to.”

  Then her solitary night vigil began again, and it seemed to her that she would not have bartered a minute of it for the best hour that her life had known before. The utter peace and happiness of it grew as the night went on, for still close to her head there came the regular uninterrupted breathing, and the weight, just the weight of a hand absolutely relaxed, lay on her hair. Not the faintest stir of movement other than those regular respirations came from the bed, and all the laughter and joy of which her days had been full was as the light of the remotest of stars compared to the glorious planet that sang in the windless sky, when weighed against the joy that that quiet breathing gave her. She did not color her consciousness with hope, she did not illuminate it by prayer; there was no room in her mind for anything except the knowledge that Hugh slept and lived.

  It was now near the dawning of the winter day; the stars were paling in the sky, and the sky grew ensaffroned with the indescribable hue that heralds day. Footfalls, muffled and remote, began to stir in the house, and far away there came the sound of crowing cocks, faint but exultant, hailing the dawn. About that time, Nadine looked round once more at Hugh, and saw in the pallid light of morning that the change she had noticed before was more distinct. There had come back to his face something of the firm softness of youth, there had been withdrawn from it the droop and hardness of exhaustion. And turning again, she gave one sigh and fell fast asleep.

  Lover and beloved they lay there sleeping, while the dawn brightened in the sky, she leaning against the bed where he was stretched, he with his hand on her hair. And strangely, the moment that she slept, their positions seemed to be reversed, and Hugh in his sleep appeared unconsciously to keep watch over and guard her, though all night she had been awake for him. Once her head slipped an inch or two, so that his hand no longer lay on her hair, but it seemed as if that movement reached down to him fathom-deep in his slumber and immediately afterwards his hand, which had lain so motionless and inert all night, moved, as if to a magnet, after that bright hair, seeking and finding it again. And dawn brightened into day, and the sun leaped up from his lair in the East, and still Nadine slept, and Hugh slept. It was as if until then the balance of vita
lity had kept the girl awake to pour into him of her superabundance: now she was drained, and sleep with the level stroke of his soft hand across the furrows of trouble and the jagged edges of injury and exhaustion comforted both alike.

  It had been arranged after these events of storm that the party should disperse, and Dodo went to early breakfast downstairs with her departing guests, who were leaving soon after. But first she went into the nurse’s room, next door to where Hugh lay, to make enquiries, and was taken by her to look into the sick-room. With daylight their sleep seemed only to have deepened: it was like the slumber of lovers who have been long awake in passion of mutual surrender, and at the end have fallen asleep like children, with mere effacement of consciousness. Nadine’s head was a little bowed forward, and her breath came not more evenly than his. It was the sleep of childlike content that bound them both, and bound them together.

  Dodo looked long, and then with redoubled precaution moved softly into the nurse’s room again, with mouth quivering between smiles and tears.

  “My dear, I never saw anything so perfectly sweet,” she said. “Do let them have their sleep out, nurse. And Nadine has slept in Hugh’s room all night. What ducks! Please God it shall so often happen again!”

  Nurse Bryerley was not unsympathetic, but she felt that explanations were needed.

  “I understood the young lady was engaged to some one else,” she said.