Part 92 (1/2)
”Is he worse?”
”Yes. That is--yes. You never know with a child. They're up and down and all over the place inside of an hour.”
”Can I go?” Edwin suggested.
”No. I can explain to him quicker than you.”
”You'll never find your way in this fog.”
”Bosh, man! D'you think I don't know the town as well as you? Besides, it's lifted considerably.”
By a common impulse they tiptoed to the window at the end of the corridor. Across the lawn could be dimly discerned a gleam through the trees.
”I'll come with you,” said Edwin.
”You'd much better stay here--in case.”
”Shall I go into the bedroom?”
”Certainly.”
Charlie turned to descend the stairs.
”I say,” Edwin called after him in a loud whisper, ”when you get to the gate--you know the house--you go up the side entry. The night bell's rather high up on the left hand.”
”All right! All right!” Charlie replied impatiently. ”Just come and shut the front door after me. I don't want to bang it.”
TWO.
When Edwin crept into the bedroom he was so perturbed by continually growing excitement that he saw nothing clearly except the central group of objects: that is to say, a narrow bed, whose burden was screened from him by its foot, a table, an empty chair, the gas-globe luminous against a dark-green blind, and Hilda in black, alert and erect beneath the down-flowing light. The rest of the chamber seemed to stretch obscurely away into no confines. Not for several seconds did he even notice the fire. This confusing excitement was not caused by anything external such as the real or supposed peril of the child; it had its source within.
As soon as Hilda identified him her expression changed from the intent frowning stare of inquiry to a smile. Edwin had never before seen her smile in that way. The smile was weak, resigned, almost piteous; and it was extraordinarily sweet. He closed the door quietly, and moved in silence towards the bed. She nodded an affectionate welcome. He returned her greeting eagerly, and all his constraint was loosed away, and he felt at ease, and happy. Her face was very pale indeed against the glittering blackness of her eyes, and her sombre disordered hair and untidy dress; but it did not show fatigue nor extreme anxiety; it was a face of calm meekness. The sleeves of her dress were reversed, showing the forearms, which gave her an appearance of deshabille, homely, intimate, confiding. ”So it was common property at one time,” Edwin thought, recalling a phrase of Charlie's in the breakfast-room.
Strange: he wanted her in all her disarray, with all her woes, anxieties, solicitudes; he wanted her, piteous, meek, beaten by destiny, weakly smiling; he wanted her because she stood so, after the immense, masterful effort of the day, watching in acquiescence by that bed!
”Has he gone?” she asked, in a voice ordinarily loud, but, for her, unusually tender.
”Yes,” said Edwin. ”He's gone. He told me I'd better come in here. So I came.”
She nodded again. ”Have that chair.”
Without arguing, he took the chair. She remained standing.
The condition of George startled him. Evidently the boy was in a heavy stupor. His body was so feverish that it seemed to give off a perceptible heat. There was no need to touch the skin in order to know that it burned: one divined this. The hair was damp. About the pale lips an irregular rash had formed, purplish, patchy, and the rash seemed to be the mark and sign of some strange dreadful disease that n.o.body had ever named: a plague. Worse than all this was the profound, comprehensive discomfort of the whole organism, showing itself in the unnatural pose of the limbs, and in mult.i.tudinous faint instinctive ways of the inert but complaining body. And the child was so slight beneath the blanket, so young, so helpless, spiritually so alone. How could even Hilda communicate her sympathy to that spirit, withdrawn and inaccessible? During the illness of his father Edwin had thought that he was looking upon the extreme tragic limit of pathos, but this present spectacle tightened more painfully the heart. It was more shameful: a more excruciating accusation against the order of the universe. To think of George in his pride, strong, capricious, and dominant, while gazing at this victim of malady ... the contrast was intolerable!
George was very ill. And yet Hilda, despite the violence of her nature, could stand there calm, sweet, and controlled. What power! Edwin was humbled. ”This is the sort of thing that women of her sort can do,” he said to himself. ”Why, Maggie and I are simply nothing to her!” Maggie and he could be self-possessed in a crisis; they could stand a strain; but the strain would show itself either in a tense harshness, or in some unnatural lightness, or even flippancy. Hilda was the very image of soft caressing sweetness. He felt that he must emulate her.
”Surely his temperature's gone up?” he said quietly.