Grand Canary (30 page)

He struggled to control himself. Kneeling by her side, his face impassive, he fought down a wild tumultuous joy. He knew the full significance of the swiftly falling fever. In a violent infection such as this, flaring upwards with feverish intensity, the crisis meant no mere turn for the better. It was a definite indication towards recovery. But he would not yet believe. He was still afraid. He waited breathlessly. When he had endured the passage of another half an hour, he slipped the thermometer beneath her arm once more. This time he took the reading with a firm hand. Her temperature had fallen another point and a fraction. All her body now was dewed by a gentle moisture. Her pulse was stronger, her breathing slower. Even her features had altered in some indefinable fashion for the better.

A great exultant joy burst over him. So exquisite a sob came choking from his throat. And, as though at last she heard him, her eyes opened slowly. She looked at him; with no delirious stare. Recognition was in her gaze and unexpected comprehension of her deliverance.

Then she spoke, her tone so low as to be almost inaudible; but it was her natural voice.

‘I've been ill,' she whispered.

The wonder of her speech struck him with unbelievable happiness.

‘You are better. You are going to get well.'

She looked at him as though the knowledge caused her no surprise.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I know.' Then over her face there came incredibly the vestige of a smile. Something profound and significant was in that shadowy smile. And something steadfast.

The room was quite light now; the shadows were gone beyond return. He gave her to drink, watched her close her eyes.

The ebbing of her life had ceased. Now, instead, fresh life was fast flowing into her. She was sleeping, a sleep of weariness yet of tranquillity. The happiness it gave to him transcended everything.

He had risen to his feet, and for a long time he stood looking down upon her sleeping face. A thrilling exultation that could not be contained was in his heart. He wished suddenly to wake Susan, Corcoran, to spread abroad the glorious news. But he did not.

And then came the consequence of his own fatigue, the quick desire for a breath of air. She was sleeping; she would sleep for hours. And she was safe. He felt quite dizzy now, felt again the need of a freshening breeze. He took one last look, then on his tiptoes slipped gently from the room. Downstairs, he let himself quietly out of the house.

He went into the garden, wandering through the orange-grove where they had stood on that sweet, dreadful night. His heart still sang with that wild and matchless joy. But his steps flagged wearily. For three nights he had not slept. He was dead with tiredness.

There was no breeze. The air was hushed and motionless. No birds appeared to greet the day. The earth lay bare and silent, awaiting the coming of the storm.

What did it matter, the storm, or anything which now might come? She was better, saved, alive! Mazed by happiness, he wandered on, beyond the plantation, into a screen of retama shrubs.

Then all at once he heard a curious buzzing sound. From high up it came, as though a monster dragon-fly were tearing through the brassy sky. Not so much a buzzing as a roaring. A great roaring noise. He tried to look up, but the stark glare of that brazen sky defeated his weary eyes. He was dreadfully tired: at last he admitted it; that perhaps made the awful roaring in his ears. He began to laugh at his own silly fancy. It was too funny for words. But the laugh would not come. His eyes were closing. Drunk with sleep, he staggered and collapsed.

As the seaplane circled and swooped down upon the harbour, Harvey slipped to the ground. He sank into a thick retama bush, which closed over him, and instantly he was asleep.

He did not know how long he had been asleep. When he woke, his watch was stopped. But he judged it must be late. Already the sky was darkening with the early night. Rain had begun to fall in warm, heavy drops. These, splashing upon his face, had awakened him. Free of the first momentary wonder at his position, he lay for a moment in the retama bush staring at the sultry heavens, letting those solitary splashes come upon his brow, his cheek, his eyes. One fell full upon his lips – it tasted quite soft and colourless. And then a crashing peal of thunder broke out of the sky and rolled over him. Marvellous! He saw no lightning, but immediately, as though released by that terrific note, the rain gushed down in torrents.

He jumped up, laughing like a boy, and raced for shelter. How well he felt, how fresh and rested! It was the storm at last – delayed so long that now it had arrived with double vengeance. Another clap of thunder made him laugh again in sheer excitement. There was reason for his mood, of course. The instant he had wakened he had thought: She is better. And, oh, it was a glorious thought, a dazzling, splendid thought. Better – better – Mary was better!

He dashed across the drive, observing with only half an eye that the gravel was churned and cut by new-made ruts. He shot through the door, shook the rain-drops from his coat, and stood gathering his breath in the hall. Still silent the hall – but its silence held no terror for him now. The door of the refectory stood ajar. With a quick step he advanced and looked in. Amidst the silence and the shadows of that strange, familiar room the marquesa sat at dinner, alone. Why, it was funny – It gave him a queer start, reminiscent of their first meeting, to see her thus in her black dress, her trinkets, her solitary, impenetrable stateliness. And she seemed to know that he was there. She raised her head, fixed him with bird-like, unastonished eyes.

‘You are come back,' she said calmly. ‘Assuredly it is agreeable to me. And you are expected. See, here again is fruit and milk laid out and waiting. Just as it was in the beginning.'

He smiled at her.

‘I've had a long sleep,' he said. ‘And in rather a queer place. But I'm going upstairs before supper.'

‘First you must eat,' she declared composedly. ‘The wise man enjoys his little whilst the fool seeks more.'

Her manner amused him as it had never done before.

‘No, no,' he said, ‘ I'm going upstairs.' He paused. ‘But I'll drink a glass of milk before I go.' He came into the room, poured out some milk, took a long drink. It tasted delicious. Then, cupping the glass in both hands, he said: ‘Where are the others?'

‘The Americana – she is upstairs.' That, of course, he had expected; but she went on: ‘And El Corcoran – he will return. Meanwhile he has gone to Santa Cruz with the escolta.'

His eyes widened in surprise.

‘Escolta – I do not know that word.'

‘Words and feathers are carried by the wind.'

He smiled again, this time rather doubtfully.

‘I am foolish, perhaps. But even yet I don't quite understand.'

‘There is no cure for folly. Did I not say the storm would come?'

Now indeed he stared at her with sudden apprehension. Her impassive face, charged with a sort of fatal knowledge, gave him an unexpected shock.

‘Is anything wrong?' he cried. ‘Why has Corcoran gone to Santa Cruz? Why don't you tell me?'

She went on cutting a fig into tiny little dice, just as she had done on that first evening. With a gentle inclination of her head she said:

‘He who does not look forward remains behind.'

There fell an icy silence. Her evasion suddenly frightened and exasperated him. Without a word he thrust the tumbler upon the table and ran out of the refectory. He dashed upstairs. A fresh peal of thunder broke about his ears as he raced along the corridor. He burst into the bedroom. And there he paused. He couldn't – he couldn't believe his eyes.

No one was in the room but Susan Tranter. The bed was empty, stripped; the window stood wide open to the air; and by that window Susan was on her knees. She wore her hat. She was dressed as for departure. And he saw that she was praying. His heart went cold within him.

‘What has happened?' he cried wildly. ‘Where is Mary?'

She turned her head; and instantly her pale face was flooded with relief. Hastily, awkwardly, she got upon her feet.

‘You're back,' she stammered. ‘I'm glad. Oh, I'm terrible glad. We didn't know what had happened – where you'd been. I was afraid. An awful lot afraid.'

‘Where is Mary?' he shouted. ‘ Tell me. For God's sake tell me.'

Outside there came another terrific crash of thunder and a sudden gust of wind rattled the window in its rotted frame.

‘She is gone!'

‘Gone?'

‘They have taken her away.'

‘Taken her away?' He echoed her words stupidly, his voice hardly above a whisper; then, in the same tone, a pause between each word: ‘Who has taken her away?'

She looked at him with eyes in which jealousy and pity swam, and then she said:

‘Her husband!'

He stared at her dazedly. He could not understand. And in a minute she went on fearfully:

‘He came early in the morning. You weren't here. He had come by plane, from England – seaplane – you understand. He waited hours here. And still you weren't here. And then he decided she must be moved. He fixed everything. It couldn't have been better done. She's been gone half an hour. But she is gone. Now she's in Santa Cruz.'

He stood staring at her, so horribly still he seemed turned to stone. He couldn't move; he couldn't breathe.

Mary was gone. And it was her husband who had taken her away. Her husband! The thing was staggering and yet so simple. He had thought of everything but that. It stupefied him with its pain, its irony. And then sudden fury took him.

‘She wasn't fit to be moved,' he cried. ‘It was too soon. Why did you let her go? What in the name of God were you thinking about? You shouldn't have let them take her away.'

Flustered, she dropped her eyes.

‘I guess I couldn't help it,' she answered in a low voice. ‘I've told you everything was done. Oh, it was managed great. Don't be afraid. She is out of danger. And now – now it's better for her to be in Santa Cruz in the swell house he's taken for her – better than here in this awful dump. She'll get through her convalescence quicker there.'

He pressed his hands against his temples. His face was ashen; a knife, a wicked knife, seemed turning and turning in his side. He couldn't be angry any more. There was nothing to be angry about. A coldness crept over him. There came the memory of her delirium: ‘Why do they take me away?' She had cried that out again and again; endlessly repeated. The precognition of this separation.

His mind plunged through unsubstantial vapours. Somehow he seemed to be beholding an event at an enormous distance in time and space. And yet it grew nearer – clearer. All his previous thin and shadowy impressions were corroborated by what he saw. His emotions alone produced the vision and its clarity. But he did see. For a moment. A curtain rolled up and then rolled down again.

Susan raised her head. A stab of lightning lit up the room and revealed the consternation in her eyes.

‘Please,' she whispered. ‘Oh, please don't be upset. I can't bear to see you upset.' She came up to him breathing quickly, and placed her hand upon his arm. ‘Don't you see – don't you see it's better that way? It all figures out for the best. You've done your work. Now there's nothing more for you to do.' Tears of compassion stood in her eyes as she whispered; ‘Oh, my dear, can't you see I'm heart-broken to see you hurt so awful bad? Oh, honest – it's true. I swear before God it's true.' Her voice quivered passionately. ‘Oh, I'd give my very soul to make you happy.'

He sank into a chair, let his head fall forward into his hands.

Watching him, tears ran down her cheeks. And suddenly all her love for him overflowed and wouldn't be denied. She'd sworn to herself never – never to give way again. But oh

She flung herself down on her knees beside him.

‘Listen to me,' she whispered. ‘I beg you to listen. You've saved her life, haven't you? That's enough. She's married. And her husband loves her. You can't alter these things. If you love her, then you won't try to alter them. If you do, you'll only make sordidness out of something that's beautiful to you. It wouldn't be you to do that. Oh, no, it wouldn't. For you've been wonderful.' Her breath came pantingly. ‘Your skill, your courage, your nobility. Yes, you've got to listen. I don't care. From the moment I saw you on the boat, and saw all you'd suffered written plain on your face, I just went crazy about you. Give me the chance.' Convulsively she pressed his hand in hers. ‘Just give me the chance to prove that to you – please, oh, please. You don't love me. But later on you might. Just give me the chance to be with you, to help you, to take care of you. I'll work for you, slave for you. Oh, God in heaven, I'd kill myself for you if only you'd give me just one little chance to show you I love you.'

He lifted his head and looked at her. His face was cold, but in his eyes there shone a strange light of sorrow.

‘No,' he said heavily. ‘I'm sorry, Susan. But that can't be either.'

The sound of her name upon his lips made her feel weak.

‘You're sure?' she gasped.

Silently he looked away.

She, too, was silent, and she was blinded by her tears. Then her head drooped, a shudder went through her body.

‘I see,' she said in a choking voice. ‘ If that's how you feel about it – then – it's just no earthly use.'

She stumbled to her feet. The wind, arisen to greater force, poured through the window and enwrapped her coldly. O, God, she thought, why did You make me like this, so ugly and so hateful? Why didn't You make me so that he could love me? And then within her something finally was crushed and dead. Helplessly she gazed at him sitting with hunched shoulders in the leather-backed chair; a minute passed; then she said lifelessly: