The morning had been hot and still, for the Trade Wind too had been sleeping; but it awoke at midday, and before the afternoon was over it was blowing strongly, sweeping swollen rain clouds before it and sending clouds of evil-smelling dust whirling down the narrow streets of the city. It slammed an unfastened shutter in The Dolphins’ House, and Amrah stirred restlessly and when Hero laid a hand on hers she clutched it weakly with small, hot fingers and said in a parched whisper: “Tell…tell…”
“What is it, sweetheart?—what is it you want?”
“Story. Story ‘bout…‘bout…”
“About the mermaid?”
“No…‘bout the—the man what planted…apperseeds.”
“Johnnie Appleseed? All right, pet. If you’ll promise to lie as quiet as a mouse while I tell it. ‘Once upon a time—’”
“No!”—the child’s fingers tugged feebly at her hand—“that ain’t…right. It’s “This is a true story “bout a real live…” The whisper failed; but Hero’s heart leapt and she thought: She’s better! She must he. She’s talking sensibly and she knows me! (she had known no one the previous day, but babbled deliriously, in a mixture of Arabic, Kiswahili and Cockney, to Zorah). Surely this must mean that she was better? Aloud she said: “So it does. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry, sugar, “—and began the story again; this time as it had always been told before. Amrah sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, and presently, lulled into drowsiness by the narrator’s low-pitched and intentionally monotonous voice, she fell asleep.
The wind moaned under the doors and the shutter banged again, echoing hollowly through the quiet house, and Hero rose softly and went out onto the verandah; and hearing voices in the courtyard below, leaned over the rail and saw a woman in a white dress and a wide, floppy hat decorated with roses and ribbons. It was only a very brief glimpse, for the next moment the rain came down and courtyard, woman and voices were all blotted out in a cloud-burst of falling water. But Hero had recognized the hat, and motioning to Dahili to take her place at Amrah’s bedside, she picked up her skirts and ran along the verandah and down the winding staircase, thinking that it was just like Olivia to wear that preposterous confection in a high wind and when it was obviously going to rain!
Mrs Credwell was clutching the hat with one hand and still arguing with the doorkeeper when Hero touched her on the arm, and she turned and said as though it was the most natural thing in the world: “Oh, there you are, Hero. I have just been telling this silly old man that I wished to see you, and—Oh, dear, the noise! Can we not go somewhere where we can talk? I can hardly hear myself think!”
She had to raise her voice to be heard above the roar of the rain, but she appeared more concerned with keeping her hat straight and her flounces dry than with any other matters. So like Olivia! thought Hero again, surprised to find how glad she was to see her. It seemed an age since she had last seen or spoken to a white woman, and yet it was less than a week—!
“Come upstairs,” said Hero, clutching her visitor’s arm.
The room in which months before she had removed those black, Arab wrappings was dark and gloomy and smelt strongly of mildew, and its great damp-spotted looking-glasses reflected the wild wetness of the afternoon and the ghostly palm trees that flung themselves to and fro beyond the streaming window panes. But the noise of the rain was less audible here, and the wind no more than a draught that billowed the curtains and rippled the Persian carpets that covered the floor.
“I cannot decide,” said Mrs Credwell, frowning over the problem, “whether it is worse when it rains, or not. One is so pleased when it begins, but it does not really make it much cooler, does it? And if you stand out in it, it is actually warm! How is the little girl, Hero? Dr Kealey says—”
“Does he know you are here?” demanded Hero, interrupting her.
“Well, not exactly, but—”
“Olivia, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. Haven’t the others gone yet?”
“Oh, hours ago. They went this morning and I expect they’re all being dreadfully seasick by now. With this wind, you know.”
“Why ever didn’t you go with them?”
“I didn’t want to,” said Mrs Credwell simply.
“But the cholera—!”
“Well, after all, Hero, you were not going, so I could see no reason why I should not stay if I wished. Naturally Jane had to go, because of the twins. And she wanted Hubert to go too, but he said he could not possibly leave his work, so I decided that if he could stay I could; because after all, he is my brother.”
“They shouldn’t have let you stay. They had no right to.”
“They didn’t want me to,” admitted Olivia frankly. “They all talked at me and talked at me, but I was quite firm. I told them that I should be far more comfortable here than being deplorably seasick in a tiny cabin with Jane and the twins and I don’t know how many other mothers and children as well. Which is quite true. And besides it seemed like-like deserting, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know,” said Hero.
“I knew you would.” The pink in Olivia’s faded cheeks deepened into an embarrassed flush, and she said hesitantly: “It’s different for the others. They have their children to think of, or— But I haven’t anyone; only Hubert, and he has never worried very much about me. So there was really no reason why I should not stay. Someone has to—if only to show all these poor people who would wish to leave too, and cannot, that we have not all run away. There is nothing else, really, that one can do.”
“No,” said Hero slowly, seeing Olivia Credwell with new eyes and wondering if it took disaster to bring out the best in people who would normally be accounted merely foolish and sentimental. Olivia was both. But the foolishness that had led her to prefer the horrors of a cholera epidemic to the possibility of seasickness in an overcrowded cabin, and the sentimentality that had urged her to stay behind in order to bring a little reassurance to “all those poor people’ for whom she could do nothing, had become changed by the changing circumstances into courage. An addle-headed courage, since it had obviously never occurred to her that she risked infection by walking through the fetid streets or visiting a house where a child lay sick with typhoid fever. But courage all the same. Olivia was not clever, but she was generous and warmhearted; and that, thought Hero, who had often been irritated by her gushing silliness, was enough—and more than enough!
“You must wonder why I have not called before,” said Olivia. “But I only heard about you when I went to see Jane and the children off. Cressy told me everything. And Dr Kealey was there too, and he said you were keeping well, but that it had been considered wiser not to let Cressy leave the house—except to go on board, of course—because of the infection, and that was why she had not been able to see you. She had wished so much to do so, but they would not let her; or your aunt either. And one cannot be surprised at it, for typhoid fever is a most dangerous disease, and I believe contagious.”
“Which is why you should not have come here either,” said Hero, “and why I must send you away at once.”
“Oh, you need not trouble about me,” Olivia assured her earnestly. “Because I have had it, you know. Mortimer—my late husband—and I both contracted it during our honeymoon visit to Brussels. It killed him, but I recovered, and I do not think one can get it a second time.”
“Perhaps not; I don’t know. But I do know that you should not go about the town when there are so many new cases of cholera every day, because you cannot have had that before.”
“No, indeed. But I am told that Europeans have a greater immunity to it than Africans and Asiatics, and I am sure that is true, for I was taking coffee with Thérèse after we had seen the others off, and she told me that many of the poor creatures have taken to painting their faces with white-wash in the belief that the cholera only attacks those who are dark skinned. So you see—”
“Thérèse?” said Hero sharply. “Did Madame Tissot not go?”
“No.
I am afraid dear Thérèse is not very fond of children, and when she found that she would have to share a cabin with Frau Lessing and little Karl and Hanschen, and Lotte and the baby and Mrs Bjornson and her three little girls, and Well, Thérèse said that death was preferable and that she would rather stay and contract cholera. She is such an amusing creature. And most courageous, for one of her house-servants died last night and even that did not make her change her mind, though there was still time for her to pack a valise and sail with the others. She asked me to tell you that she admires your courage and quite understands the attitude you have taken.”
“Does she, indeed!” said Hero, annoyed.
I’m sure we all do,” endorsed Olivia warmly. “So truly noble of you dear—when one considers who the child’s father is. Or its mother, for that matter. But as I told her, that is hardly the poor little thing’s fault, since a child cannot be held responsible for its parents, and a sick child must always command the help and sympathy of any woman of sensibility. Thérèse says that if you should need any help you have only to command her.”
“You may tell Madame Tissot,” said Hero frigidly, “that I do not stand in any need of her assistance.”
“I did,” confessed Olivia. “I told her I thought you would find mine quite sufficient for the time being, but—”
“Or yours either, Livvy dear.”
“But Hero—”
“No, Olivia!” said Hero firmly. “There is nothing you can do here, for Amrah does not know you and a strange face would only worry her. But I am very grateful to you for offering. It was really kind of you. But you must not come here again, because I am sure your brother would not approve, and it is far too dangerous—walking through the streets when the whole town is full of cholera.”
“Oh, danger!” said Olivia, dismissing it with an impatient wave of the hand. “If it comes to that, I do not suppose you have ever had typhoid fever, and yet you did not stay at home or run away to the Cape. And in any case I didn’t walk, I rode. Well, I will not tease you to let me stay if you would really rather I did not, but if you should need help at any time will you promise to send for me? Please, Hero?”
“I will, Livvy, I promise. And now I really must go, because I don’t like leaving Amrah for too long. When she is…when she is better I will come and see you.”
“Then she is improving?”
“Yes. I hope so. I don’t know,” said Hero. “I—I think…”
Her throat seemed to tighten and she could not get the words out, or say what it was that she thought. She could not even say “Goodbye’, and she smiled instead, a strained shadow of a smile, and went quickly away, leaving Mrs Credwell to find her own way out.
Batty and Ralub were standing at the turn of the verandah talking earnestly, their voices almost inaudible in the sound of the falling rain, and though they could hardly have heard Hero’s light footsteps on the stone flags, they turned instantly and were silent. Hero stopped. “What is it?” she demanded, startled by the look on Batty’s face.
Ralub said quietly and in Arabic: “It is nothing.”
“Then why…Batty, is it Amrah? Is she worse?”
“It ain’t ‘er,” said Batty reluctantly.‘It’s ‘im.”
“Him? Who are you talking about?”
“Captain Rory. If you must know, I offers that Baluchi barstard up at the Fort one ‘undred o’ the best to fix it so that ‘e can skip. ‘Show us your money’ ‘e says, and I does, and ‘e ups and grabs it and says ‘e’s right sorry, but the Captain ‘as give ‘is word to old Edwards that ‘e won’t sling ‘is ‘ook, so it ain’t no manner of good trying to get ‘im out.”
“I told you so,” observed Ralub without heat. “It is a matter of his honour.”
“Bah!” snarled Batty. “I ain’t got no patience with such foolishness! I’d ‘ave tried it before only I knows it ain’t no manner of use while Dan’s ‘ere; but now ‘e’s gone it’d be as easy as kiss-your-‘and. If I could ‘ave just two words with the Captain—just two!”
“It would do no good,” said Ralub soothingly. “You would waste your breath and your money. But he has only given his word that he will not escape from the Fort, and they will not wish to keep him there longer than they must. Once he has left it we—” Ralub stopped on a small embarrassed cough and threw a warning look at Batty; recollecting that Hero, though now regarded as a member of the household, might possibly hold different views on the subject of Captain Frost’s detention. But Batty was too anxious and too angry to pay attention to warning looks:
“I know, I know! You told me. Once ‘e’s out of the Fort we can nab ‘im. That’s as may be. But it be a sight easier to get ‘im out now!—what with the old Virago lying there ‘andy-like and no one to stop ‘im sailing off in ‘er any time ‘e fancies.”
Hero said: “Would you go with him, Batty?”
“Don’t be daft!” said Batty, rounding on her angrily: “Ow could I, with young Amrah sick?”
Ralub grinned, his teeth a flash of whiteness in his dark hawk face. “And you think he would go without you? You should know better than that!”
Batty scowled at them both and expectorated angrily over the rail. “All right, all right! But it don’t bear thinking of—the Captain shut up in that there stinking ‘ell ‘ole!”
“He will be as safe there as anywhere,” said Ralub soberly: and saluting Hero with grave courtesy he turned away and went down the two flights of stairs and out into the wet street.
It was still raining when Dr Kealey called. The daylight had faded by then and the lamps made pools of gold in the high, hot rooms where the mist drifted in through doors and windows in warm, ghostly wreaths, blurring the outlines of familiar things so that nothing seemed substantial any more. The bed on which the child lay, and the thin sheet that covered her, felt as damp to the touch as though they had been dipped in water; and there was a faint new film of mildew, like hoar-frost, on the leather cover of the book that Hero had been reading only that morning.
The sound of the rain absorbed all other sounds and created a curious illusion of silence, for though Hero could see the moths and winged insects that fluttered about the lamp and beat their wings against the glass, she could not hear them, and even the strip of coconut matting, lifting to the draught, made no noise.
Over and over again, since the rain began, she had thought that the child had stopped breathing, and had bent above her, straining to catch the faint sound of those shallow breaths. And hearing them had relaxed again, dizzy with relief and telling herself that she was behaving stupidly, because it was surely a good sign that the child should be able to sleep so peacefully?
“I think she is better,” said Hero, rising to relinquish her place to Dr Kealey: and did not know that she had said it defiantly, as though daring him to deny it.
But Batty, standing back among the shadows by the door and watching the doctor’s face, knew that there was no longer any hope. And with that knowledge something in him crumbled away and was for ever lost. The last of his middle-age; the lingering remnants of youth and strength. He was suddenly an old man, and only old age lay ahead…
Dr Kealey left, knowing that there was nothing more that he could do and wishing that he had, after all, persuaded Dan Larrimore to wait for just one more day. But perhaps it was as well that he had not, for the cholera was gaining ground and spreading with a speed and virulence that he had not thought possible, and the very air of the city smelt of death. He had seen epidemics before, but never one like this. And it was only beginning!
Hero had not watched the doctor’s face as Batty had done, because she was afraid of what she would see there. She had listened instead to the controlled, colourless voice that told her nothing, and had answered mechanically: and when he had gone she sank down on her knees beside the bed, and prayed as Miss Penbury had taught her to pray and Barclay had not:
‘Lighten our darkness we beseech Thee, O Lord, and by Thy great mercy deliver us from all perils and d
angers of this night…’
No one had ever taught Batty Potter to pray, but he too was putting up his own petitions, though they were different from Hero’s, because Batty did not expect miracles, or ask for them:
“Let ‘er go easy,” besought Batty, “and let ‘er find ‘er Ma.”
The women watching in the verandah, grey-haired Dahili and Ifabi the fat little negress, nodded and slept, and one by one the lights went out until only the door of the child’s room glimmered faintly through the darkness and the falling rain, and the hands of Batty’s old-fashioned turnip watch stood at midnight.
The lamp flared to a sudden gust of wind that drove the rain in under the arches of the dark verandah, and the old man moved at long last, and shuffled forward to touch Hero’s bowed shoulders:
“It’s time you ‘ad your sleep, Miss ‘Ero,” said Batty. “I’m ‘ere now, so you get to your bed, there’s a good girl.”
He might have been speaking to Amrah, and Hero lifted her head and tried to smile at him; her face showing white and exhausted and very young in the yellow lamplight.
“There now,” said Batty, patting her shoulder with awkward tenderness: “There now.”
“It isn’t fair, Batty,” whispered Hero passionately. “It isn’t fair!”
“There, there,” crooned the old man. “You been too long on watch; that’s what it is. You’ll feel better when you’ve ‘ad your sleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep. She might…she might wake and want me.”
“A fine ‘elp you’ll be tomorrow if you don’t! No good never come of wearin’ yourself to a ravelling, and well you knows it. Get along now, Miss ‘Ero. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
Hero got tiredly to her feet, unwilling to go but knowing that Batty was right and that if she did not rest now she would be in no fit state to take over from him at sunrise. She said: “You won’t let Dahili forget to call me, will you Batty?”
“Ave I ever? You got no call to worry, miss.”
He watched her go, and when the curtain had fallen behind her and the flame of the lamp steadied and burned strongly once more, he sat down slowly and stiffly in the chair that Hero had placed beside the bed, and reaching for one of Amrah’s small, lax hands, held it gently in his own gnarled and knotted one so that the child would know that he was there and feel safe and comforted.