menu_book Chapter 23

X. Will he hate me still? For some time after my retreat I rejoiced like a tempest-beaten sailor at his entrance into the harbor. But I've been for some time unsettled and distracted. My mind is disturbed with a thousand perplexities of doubt. Razzalas. Chapter 21.

The kestrel was gently swinging again at her moorings in the river, which reflected the blue above. Even the pair of wag-tails were once more making their excited and jerky darts over the little lawn, oblivious this time of human presence. Perhaps, indeed, they were hardly aware that a man was sitting on the seat beneath the mulberry tree, because he sat so still, with an elbow on the arm of it and a hand over his eyes. It won't be a

short business. Now, indeed, centuries long it seemed already. Was it really only a week today that Harvey had first stood with Alexander Touchwood beside that bed in the spare room? And since then he had been beside it with him so often. And oftener still alone, listening to the difficult breathing, trying to shut his ears to the scraps of delirium, with their broken revelations of horror and suffering, the agonized entreaties for air. Air. He was

stifling in this place. Why would they not open a scuttle and let in a breath? Just one breath for a moment. Or at other times, when the fevered mind was haunted by that crazy climb from the window, when it became apparent what a strain it had been on nerve and courage, when the dreamer thought that he had to do it again and shrank from it, crying, I can't, and no one, not even the good and untiring Touchwood, could get through the mists of

delirium to tell him that he need not, when life seemed to be burning itself out to no purpose, fighting a remorseless foe that must win in the end, the foe that he, Harvey Barrington, had hounded on to the attack. For the voice was always at his ear. If he dies, you will have killed him. And this had been going on for a week, and the fight was still being waged. But it was plainly a losing battle. Indeed, Touchwood had said this morning that

the boy could not possibly last another twenty-four hours at this rate. It must end today, one way or the other. Either the crisis must come, or his heart would give out, and he was afraid, now, that the latter alternative was much the more probable, and that they had all better prepare themselves for it. Harvey was trying to do this now, under the Mulberry tree, where only nine days ago the

Signora Thomas had sat and given umbrage to Mrs. Jeremy. He was trying to look at the situation dispassionately, to tell himself that after all, he had only done his duty in making de Sabliac a prisoner in the first instance, and that since then he had saved him from drowning, endangered his own career and reputation for his sake, and cared for him not less vigilantly than if he had been his own son or brother. And yet, illogically,

the sense of guilty responsibility remained as strong as ever. If de Sabliac died, he died through his agency. Moreover, de Sabliac knew it, and worse still, supposed his captor to be gloating over his suffering. This was no conjecture. He had said it with his own parched and discoloured lips when Harvey, coming in very early the first morning to see how he did, had observed

in a rather horrified voice to touch wood. He was still in that pain then. And de Sabliac had turned his brilliant, tortured eyes on him and gasped out, Yes, you're getting an even better revenge than you had hoped, Captain Barrington. On which Harvey, after standing for a moment like a man struck, had gone out of the room. A little later, when Mr. Touchwood came out to say that he was going to try if cupping

would give relief, he had found Harvey pacing up and down the landing in uncontrollable agitation, had been seized by him, had the complete story poured into his astonished ear, and been implored to try to disabuse his patient's mind of that most dreadful idea that his rescuer had been pleased to see him in pain. But the moment had gone, perhaps forever. Raoul's mind was too clouded thereafter for

explanations, and very soon he recognized Harvey no more. Though in the many hours to come in which Captain Barrington watched and nursed him, the latter never felt safe from recognition and tried always, as far as possible, to keep out of range of the eyes to which sight might suddenly be restored. This unfortunate episode had made the strain of the past week much heavier for Harvey than for any of the others, though as far as actual

nursing went, Mrs. Jeremy had spent more hours at the bedside than he, in spite of the fact that she had her other duties to attend to as well. Her devotion had been wonderful, and sometimes Cole had seemed to know her when he knew no one else. He knew at least that she was a woman, and more than once had called her mother. It was she who had contrived to keep him quiet while the broken wrist was set. She was with

him now. In an hour's time Harvey would take her place. The doctor would be back again before that. Captain Barrington got up. He had been sitting still so long that he was almost stiff. He walked slowly over the lawn to the river wall. He was conscious, in a way, of the glory of the morning, even of the snowy gull balancing itself out there on the kestrel's mast. But he was thinking how paltry now seemed his

own great decision of a week ago, which he had thought so momentous, against the greater which would be made to-day. And yet the life and the balance was only that of an unknown young man, and an enemy. Hearing a step as he stood there, he turned his head. He knew that the decision had already been made. It was Mrs. Jeremy come to fetch his time. And he knew what the decision was, for she was crying.

Oh, sir, come and look at him. How beautiful he lies there, my lamb, how you wouldn't credit it. How like a miracle. Asleep. Asleep, repeated Harvey in an almost inaudible tone. His face was gray. How do you mean really asleep? Or... Mrs. Jeremy made a final dab with the apron and her bosom heaved. How sleeping like a child, sir, as the doctor said he might, if the whatever it was happened. Oh, I can't help crying. It seems too good to be true.

How will you come back with me, sir? I daren't stay away, but I thought you would wish to know. And you look as pale as a corpse yourself, sir. How tired out, I'm sure. But, oh, Captain Barrington, isn't it wonderful. Had Billy had seen him, Harvey would not believe it. But it was true. He had his hand under his cheek like a child and drew a child's even breaths. When he wakes, thought Harvey,

looking down at him with half incredulous eyes, will he hate me still? Oh, I suppose he will never know how I feel about him now. For, being an Englishman, he knew he would be able to tell him. Indeed, he felt ashamed of the emotions which were his as he stood there apparently unmoved, while on the other side of the bed Mrs. Jeremy was unrestrainedly murmuring. How bless him, with the tears still running down her face.

A little later, Mr. Alexander touched Wood as jubilant over the issue, he declared, as if he had made some discovery that would silence the geologists of the opposite school forever, was letting fall the opinion that, when he came to himself, the young fellow would probably retain only a very indistinct recollection of the beginning of his illness. And as to events before his escape from Fairhaven, well, he would realize now that he owed Captain

Barrington his life. How I shouldn't see it in that light, if I were in his shoes, replied Harvey dryly. Yet, though I have no wish for gratitude, I should prefer him not to hate me. When he is awake, I shall keep out of his way as much as I can until I am sure. But when his turn came for vigil in the sick room, it was not possible, with so small a

staff of watchers, to refuse it, even though the miraculous and healing sleep had broken. It seemed very quiet in there, now that the unending fight for breath was over, and de Sabliac himself was so quiet, lying flat in the bed, like a Christian at last, as Mrs. Jeremy had it, mostly with closed eyes and with no expression on his face beyond that of utter weariness at rest.

Once or twice in the time that Harvey sat by the bedside the sunken eyelids lifted, and the tired grey gaze flickered over him. But no emotion of any kind was visible on the tranquil features, and Harvey was reassured. And Touchwood was quite right, and the boy had forgotten. But Raoul had not forgotten, far from it. Even in the intense lassitude of mind and

body which weighed him down after his battle for life, even in the strange floating contentment of rest and quiet and freedom from pain. For both lassitude and content were his at one and the same time. There was a shadow. He recognized Captain Barrington, and knew perfectly who he was. To him he was associated with one scene only, the scene which had taken place in this very room, how long or short a time ago he was not sure. And now Captain

Barrington had somehow got him into his clutches again. The exact method he had employed was not clear to the young man, who remembered little with any coherence since his pursuit by the population of the Riverside farm. But the fact of his enemy's success remained. One could not get away from him. He loomed up and filled all the horizon. He had gloated over him, Raoul, when he was ill. He came now from time to

keep an eye on him, or sent his man, who had kicked him and held him helpless that night to watch him. Only with a kind and motherly woman who had nursed him so devotedly—was she the housekeeper? Did he feel that he was not being spied upon? Though she, too, must have her orders. But the convalescent was not at first physically capable of treading continuously this dismal road which led from an unpleasant past to an equally unpleasant

future. Nature strongly desired him to live in the immediate present, and saw to it that he should so live, either sleeping for hours, or spending uncounted time in an agreeable stupor, just content with the touch of the fine, cool linen sheets, or the sun coming into the room. His eyes would follow Mrs. Jeremy about with a lazy, pleased attention. Her delicious soups and jellies were the events of the day, and for her, however languid he

felt, he had a little smile and generally a weak word or two of thanks. But when Captain Barrington or his man was in charge of him he pretended to be asleep, angrily conscious sometimes, in the former case, of a humiliating desire to withdraw himself entirely beneath the bedclothes. Yet he gave nature the slip now and then. At times he would once more be standing outside, on the ledge of that very window, now before his eyes, his hands

gripping the gutter above him, his heart thumping against his ribs, his shirt sticking to them, his shoes slung round his neck by a purloined towel, and trying not to be so acutely conscious of those nerve-shaking spikes below, and knowing that in a moment his life would hang in the most literal sense on the stability of that narrow, leaden trough above him. Or he would feel the ivy stem give way once more, and himself slipping with it, a clutching, a falling,

landing with his wrist doubled back under him, and crouching there on the grass in the dawn, sick with a hurt of it, telling himself that he had only wrenched it and that the pain would go off. How cold the river had been when he plunged in, and how longingly he had looked at the little boat which Prudence warned him not to take lest it should betray his route. Yes, and how cold the wood on the other side before sunrise, and how he had

shivered there in his thin, wet clothes as he lay hid in the undergrowth. By evening, indeed, when he had cautiously worked down the river toward the coast, he had long been dry, but so hopelessly fainting and hungry that necessity had driven him, after dusk, to the Willis's farm, on the chance that its inmates had not yet heard of the hue and cry after him, which Captain Barrington must certainly have raised.

And the Willis family, to whom he represented himself as a smuggler in difficulties with the preventive men, had been more surly than suspicious. Their ears were too dull to detect an alien accent in his excellent English. In exchange for the fugitive's two famous shoes and his stockings they gave him a meal, but they could not be induced to part with any old foot gear in place of them. All he could extract in addition was a dirty bit

of sacking and some directions which turned out to be far from precise. Yet the visit of this penniless and half-clothed young man had struck out a spark of romance in one unlikely breast. The same young man, lying in his bed a fortnight later, passing the scene in review, still smiled at the recollection. Barefooted now, and with his piece of sacking over his shoulders, he had not gone far along the darkening road before

an ugly hulking farm girl came running after him with a mighty hunch of bread and cheese. Half timidly, half roughly, she thrust this upon him, for thy journey, lad. Then she saw left wrist all muffled up in the towel. How vain had been Gaoul's hope that tying it up in the Huckaback would ease the persistent ache of it! Inquired in her uncouth speech what was the matter with it, and finally converted the towel into a sling.

After his recent treatment at the hands of Captain Barrington, this unexpected and unmotivated kindness so moved its recipient that he rendered his benefactress the only return in his power. Even though in the past he had thought little of making this payment when necessary, and even when unnecessary, it was on this occasion made at real cost, for the girl was not only very ill-favoured but dirty. He shut his eyes, therefore, and held his breath when he kissed

her. The result of his salute was surprising, for, after a moment's stupefaction, the maiden burst into tears, and the astonished Gaoul went on his way rather hastily, half fearing that some rustic cordon would appear and fall upon him. But now he thought that his reluctant kiss had probably saved his life. After that, disaster on disaster, ill-judged short cuts in the dark, full of stones and brambles, enormous fields which, to the wanderer's

bare feet, seemed entirely devoted to the cultivation of thistles, causing him to regret even his hated shoes. A dawn which found him not only back nearly at the point from which he had started earlier in the night, but with a fast growing incapacity for exercising choice or movement of any kind. His head was aching horribly. Once or twice he nearly lost consciousness, and it was clear that his condition was not merely due, as

he had at first thought, to the inflamed and painful state of his wrist. Having vainly tried to eat the bread and cheese, he lay down under a hedge and wondered what would be the end of this. Somehow, by afternoon, he had crept back to the farm, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, implored them to let him stay there a little, offering to pay for this privilege by working for them later on. Had he not been half lightheaded, he might

have realised that there was something odd behind the changed manner of the Willis family, the alacrity with which they greeted him and agreed to his proposal, and the speed with which they ushered him into an empty barn and bought him food and cider. He could not eat, but he was very thirsty. Between the heady cider and his own exhaustion, he was soon asleep on a mound of hay and never heard the bar slide into place outside.

It was its removal which woke him an hour or so later, that and the hurried entry of his Dulcinea. Her frightened face, as she bent over him and shook him, enlightened him as quickly as her stammering words, and he dashed out of the trap just in time to avoid the pitchfork prongs, for which he conceived an aversion far deeper than ever English bayonets. Had roused in him. If one of the Willis brothers had not seen the girl go in and guessed her

errand, he might even have got away without being chased, though it was hard to know to what shelter. Then, the swim he had thought his last, a boat making for him, thereafter fog with an endless choking illness, till the emergence of Captain Barrington once again. Illness, broken wrist, foolhardy climb and all, he had only been like a squirrel, fruitlessly turning a wheel in its cage when he tried to get away from that man. And so, on the fourth day of

his convalescence, Cole decided to ask a question of the tall, unusual semi-jocular doctor. From him he might find out how much longer he was going to be allowed to remain in paradise before being sent back to hell. He was not going to give Captain Barrington the satisfaction of hearing and answering that inquiry. But he had to wait till the following day before he saw the doctor alone, when Mr. Touchwood informed him that he was getting on famously and would be a credit to any

practitioner, much less the one who had abandoned medicine as long as he had. Cole half-smiled and said languidly, You have been good, too good. Was it worth while to take so much trouble? Mr. Touchwood raised those eyebrows of his, which were always on the move. What do you mean, young fellow? Surely, at your age, you are not so cynical as to be tired of

living. That depends on what you call living, does it not? returned the young man. The colour began to come into his face, for everything was an effort, and he dreaded the result of this one. How I should like to know how long I am to stay here.

How in bed, well, I couldn't promise, began Mr. Touchwood. Mon Dieu, no, not that, said Cole with a spurt of irritation, for he suspected that his question was being evaded. I mean, how long before Captain Barrington tells them to come and take me back to the Hawks? Tells them to come and, oh, my dear boy, you may set your mind at rest. He isn't going to do that at all.

No, I assure you, when you are well enough, he will, I believe, wink at your escaping. But send you back after this, never, or don't you worry your head about it. A lie, a palpable lie. As the door shut behind the doctor, Raoul cursed below his breath. Why could not Mr. Touchwood be straightforward and tell the truth?

Because he probably had Captain Barrington's orders not to do so. Yet how could Captain Barrington think that he, Raoul, would believe such a manifest absurdity as that he would allow his prey to escape? Oh, hadn't he been escaping when he came across Captain Barrington's path the second time? Hadn't he? Had he not swum out to the friendly boat when somehow Captain Barrington?

What was Captain Barrington doing in that boat with the men who were taking him to France? Or was that, were they, a dream? Which was a dream and which was real? He had been in a boat. Clutching at the sheet he began to grope feverishly in the mist.

How, if he had been in the smuggler's boat going to France, as he seemed to remember, could he be here back in Stowe in Captain Barrington's house? He had never envisaged the difficulty in this way before. Then, suddenly, the mist parted. The sweat poured off Raoul with shock and rage.

Captain Barrington had deliberately tricked him, lied to him, used his necessity as a lure, got him here by the most heartless of falsehoods. He had taken all that trouble to entice him back so that he might have the satisfaction of the last shot in their duel, so that he might do as he had threatened that night. Wink at his escaping, indeed.

He was waiting, waiting for the day when he could announce to him in that cold voice of his, how you will be taken back to the Hawks tomorrow morning, making acquaintance with a black hole first, I imagine. Oh, but he should not have the last shot.

No, by God! Utterly helpless as his captive was, he could fool him yet. He saw the way clear. It would not probably take very long to carry the business through. The plan only needed resolution.