Grand Canary (24 page)

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.

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.

At last he rose, shook off his lethargy, and went out of the room. But in the corridor he paused, his ears caught by the sound of a guarded yet heavy step beneath. Surely he knew that step. He listened attentively, then, moving quietly past Mary's room, he descended the stairs and entered the refectory. Yes, he had known who it was.

‘Well,' he said, ‘you've come.'

From across the chair on which he straddled, Corcoran smiled at him – that familiar, battered smile charged with unconquerable optimism.

‘Sure. Didn't I tell ye I was comin'?'

‘I'm glad,' said Harvey heavily. ‘Yes, I'm glad that you have come.'

There was a silence, during which Corcoran shot furtively one serious glance at Harvey; then, pulling out his snuff-box, he tilted his head, affected to consider it with stupendous interest.

‘I know how things are,' he said. ‘ Had it all from Susan T. She let me in, ye see. I near fell off the step at the soight of her. I'm sorry! Honest to God, I'm sorry – at the throuble – an' all. Faith, I'll do what I can to give ye a hand.'

‘What is there for you to do?'

‘Ye've got to eat, haven't ye? I'll get me sleeves up and have a turn in the cook-house. Sure, I've cooked for fifty in me time – back on an Oregon loggin'-camp. I'd like to have a slash at this place – kitchen and all. 'Tis a likely spot, but it's needin' someone with a sinse of order in his eye.'

Harvey listened with a set face; then he said:

‘I might want some things from town. You'll get them for me?'

‘Faith and I will too,' answered Jimmy soothingly. ‘Didn't I run over with a note for Susan T. a minnit ago? I'll do anything that's useful. Talk sense. And, by the same token, I'll stand by ye if yer afther runnin' into throuble here.'

‘Trouble? What do you mean?'

‘Oh, just things I've been pickin' up down the town. Off and on, ye know. Nothin' special. Just odd bits of things.'

‘What things?' cried Harvey tersely.

Jimmy breathed upon his snuff-box, rubbed it gently against his trouser-leg, then slipped it back into his pocket.

‘Them two others has come over from Orotava,' he answered easily. ‘ Dibdin and Mistress Baynham. Stayin' at the Plaza, they are. And more. The agent fella, Carr, dropped into town last night and started raisin' hell to find the little lady. Betwixt one thing and another, I'm thinkin' ye might be havin' throuble to keep her here.'

‘I intend to keep her here.'

‘Of course ye do. Of course, of course.'

A word trembled on Harvey's tongue, but it remained unspoken. Just then the door-bell rang, a vicious pealing which was repeated with the same unnecessary force before the first jangling echoes had died out. The two men looked at each other, and into Corcoran's face there swam a look of righteous vindication.

‘Didn't I tell ye?' he muttered. ‘They've come afther her.'

‘See who it is,' Harvey said curtly.

Jimmy felt for his toothpick, concomitant of his most absolute composure; thrusting it delicately between his teeth, he lounged from the room. A moment later a quick rush of footsteps sounded in the hall and a man burst into the room. It was Carr. At his heels came a little Spaniard with a small neat yellow face and a large neat leather bag.

Behind them, closing the door with studied nonchalance, was Corcoran.

Carr wasted no time: his heavy face was flushed, the veins of his neck congested; he looked a man whom anger had made to hurry. In one second his arrogant gaze flashed round the room then came to rest on Harvey.

‘Mary Fielding is in this house,' he said, ‘I've come to take her away.'

Harvey looked at him steadily. He did not answer for a long time.

‘How do you know she is here?'

‘On Tuesday she left her friends in Orotava. She had been queer – obviously unwell. The next afternoon she was seen in Santa Cruz enquiring the road to Laguna. We know she took a calèche to Los Cisnes. Last night, from the woman Manuela, we had positive information of an English señora who is ill with fever in this house. I know she is Mary Fielding. Now are you satisfied? I have a doctor and a closed car. I am going to take her away.'

Harvey's eyes came to rest on the Spaniard.

‘You are a doctor?' he enquired civilly.

‘Si, señor,' The little yellow man drew his small pointed boots together and made a deprecatory bow.

‘Apothecary, graduate with commending of Seville. And with papers of recommending from many good families I have awaited upon.'

‘Good!' said Harvey, ‘apothecary graduate with commending and recommending. Very good.' Reflectively his gaze wandered back to Carr. ‘And you are going to take her away?'

Carr's colour deepened.

‘I've said that once,' he answered sharply. ‘I don't propose to say it again. Where is she? Where is her room? I'm going up there now.'

‘No,' said Harvey in the same even tone, ‘you're not going up. And you're not going to take her away. She came here of her own free will. And now she is ill – desperately ill. Do you understand? And your surgeon apothecary is not going to look after her. I shall do that – here, in this house.'

‘You!' sneered Carr. ‘I know all about you. I've been making a few enquiries since I met you. I wouldn't trust a dog to your care. And here! What sort of place is this for a sick person? You've no nurse for her, no treatment, nothing.'