Grand Canary (32 page)

‘You shall ' ave a couple of towels,' she ran on, ‘ if you'll excuse me 'alf a jiff, I 'ave them 'ere under my 'and. W'ere did I put them? In this drawer they was. Never can get your fist on a thing when you wants it. I'll 'ave them in a tick. Ought to 'ave a mustard bath, you did. Stryte. But I'll get 'old of the towels first. Then you'll tyke your shimmy off and I'll give you such a rub you'll rise all of a glow. Blimey, I cawn't get it out my 'ead. You walkin' in 'ere like you'd swam the bleedin' 'arbour.'

But Susan's mood was not to be propitiated. Tensely she waited. The moment the other turned from the chest she bent over and looked her in the face.

‘Where is my brother?' Her tone was low, but it held a thrilling urgency.

Mother Hemmingway made a great ado with her towels: unfolding and flapping them in immense solicitude.

‘Brother!' she exclaimed, as if it were the last thought in her mind. ‘You're meanin' little Robert, ain't you? Blimey, ' ow should I know where he is? I ain't'is keeper, ducky. Puñeta, no. And you're the main consideration at the momenta. Wyte till you've 'ad a dry-up and a noggin. Then you can talk about ' im to your little 'eart's content.'

Susan did not move.

‘I can't wait. I've got to know. Is he here?'

The other paused. Behind her beady eyes, which beamed inevitably a sparkling malice on the universe there lay for once a singular embarrassment. Suddenly she shrugged her shoulders, offered on impulse a generous lie.

‘No,' she answered, ‘' e aint 'ere. ‘Ow should 'e be ' ere? I swear 'e ain't ' ere as Gawd's my Myker.'

‘I don't believe you,' said Susan quickly. Her teeth were chattering now, her lips blue with cold and fear. She reached across the table towards the other. ‘Tell me –' Her voice broke. ‘Oh, honest – you've got to tell me if he's in this house.'

‘No,' shouted Hemmingway, with a violent out-thrusting of her bosom. ‘'E ain't in this 'ouse. Would you myke me hout a liar to my fyce? I tell you 'e simply ain't 'ere. I swear it on my sacred oath. And that's the end of it.'

Then the door opened and Robert entered the room.

There was a dead silence, broken only by the drumming rain and the rushing of the river. He came in dizzily, like a man who had swung between unknown extremes of exultation and despair; and from his present look, drooping and half fuddled, it was clear he had now touched the pit of his experience. He lurched in aimlessly. He'd been goin' to show somebody, hadn't he? Show somebody somethin'! Well! -

And then he raised his head. He saw Susan. For five seconds he stood transfixed, then a cry that was like a sheep's bleat broke from his lips. He did not speak, but his face spoke more than words, suffused by a ludicrous dismay that shocked the eye. They gazed at each other in silence; at last he looked away – shrinking yet sulky.

She gave a long, long sigh.

‘Robert,' she whispered. But the shock of seeing him had frozen her trembling body. She could say no more. He flung himself into a chair.

‘What d'you want?' he muttered thickly, resentfully. ‘What d'you want coming down here? What you doing here?'

She gave a little choked cry.

‘Oh, Robbie, I came to find you – honest I did – to take you away.'

He stared straight at the opposite wall. He had still the dregs of liquor in him.

‘Huh! You did – did you? To take me away? And where you think you're goin' to take me?'

At his tone a scream rose almost to her lips.

‘Anywhere,' she gasped, ‘out of here. Oh, anywhere so long as we're together, Robbie.'

Mother Hemmingway, listening with ill-concealed impatience, felt irritation supplant her ineffectual benevolence.

‘That's right,' she cried shrilly to Susan. ‘You tyke 'im away. Tyke 'im out of my 'ouse, for as Gawd's my judge I'm sick of the very sight of 'im. Full of ' anky-panky the one minute and hangles' 'ymn-tunes the next. Laughin' 'is silly 'ead off like 'e was a cuckoo and the next thing – pull the blinds down, Willie's dead! ‘Streuth! I'm used to men, I am, and not to 'arf-baked ' armonium-pl'yers. I only let 'im stay to try to put some guts in 'im, but 'elp me, jimminy, you can't do that to a crawler. Tyke 'im away, I say, and good luck to you.'

A shudder ran through Robert; he groaned. He was being kicked out –
him
– the Rev Tranter – being kicked out of this – this
hole.

‘You wan' rid of me.' He tried to sneer, but his face was too slack – he couldn't.

‘You've 'it the nail on the bleedin' 'ead, cocky!'

‘Huh!'

Susan started forward nervously.

‘Oh, come on, Robbie,' she pleaded, with a quivering mouth. ‘Come on home now. Come on away with me. Let's be together again. Come on, dear. Just you and me – oh, honest, it'll – it'll be great – if you'll only come now.'

He dashed aside her outstretched hand. The last drink he'd had rose nobly to his support. He wanted to weep for the indignity he suffered. Get rid of him, would they? Him? Rev R. Tranter. Oh, God, it was too, too much. Blubbering tears ran down his cheeks.

‘Lemme be,' he bawled suddenly. ‘If I ain't fit to be touched I ain't fit to
be
touched.'

‘Oh, w'y don't 'e shut up?' muttered Mother Hemmingway, and she turned in disgust. ‘“‘Too lyte, too lyte,' the captain cried, and shed a bitter tear.” W'y don't 'e dry up and get out – the blasted fool.'

What! making a fool of him, was she? The little runt. Christ! He'd show her. He'd show them both – everybody! A man, wasn't he? His face worked. He jumped up from his chair, which fell clattering to the floor. He swayed slightly on his feet. His chest heaved. A luscious emotion suddenly anointed him. He gulped and cried:

‘Mebbe I will get out. Mebbe I don't have to trouble you much further. I've denied my God, haven't I? I've levelled myself with the swine? Huh! That's all you know. Don't you know the meanin' of atonement? Don't you know the meanin' of sacrifice?' He exploded the last word, swayed on his feet some more. He was more drunk than he knew. And God! wasn't he showing them at last? A great – oh, a
noble
idea – swelled inside him. He'd show them if he had guts – show the whole bloody lot of them. ‘ I'm lost, aren't I? Lost and damned? That's what you reckon! But I reckon different. You don't know everything. You forget about
sacrifice.'
He clung to the word. His voice, risen to a shout, became suddenly confidential. ‘And what have I got to live for?'

Susan started forward. Fear and pity burned in her eyes.

‘You've got everything to live for,' she cried. ‘We've got each other, haven't we? We'll make a fresh start, Robbie. You and me – like we always been – together.'

He gave a wild, hysterical laugh. His idea was big now – awful big. She needn't think she'd stop it. He'd hardly meant it first go off. But now – oh, now! He flung out his arms and threw back his head.

‘I'm gonna make no start,' he shouted. ‘I'm gonna make an end. Jesus done it for me. I'm gonna do the same for Him.' A thousand seraphic voices were ringing in his ears, and through that ringing came the roaring of the river. He straightened himself with a jerk, glorying in the splendour of his resolve. ‘ I've sunk myself in sin,' he bawled in a voice of frenzy. ‘But I kin cleanse myself of my iniquity.'

‘Don't talk like that,' she gasped. ‘You're – you're frightening me.' She rushed towards him, but with his big buttery hand he shoved her away. He had dramatized himself beyond reason. His eye glistened; his nostrils dilated with ecstatic fervour; in his ears the rushing river swelled in a mad celestial strain.

‘I've been steeped in evil,' he chanted. ‘And now I'm gonna wash that evil out.'

Panic thrilled in Susan's heart. With sudden desperate intuition she, too, was conscious of the sounding of the river. It was like a nightmare. Again she flung herself upon him. But she was too late.

He dashed open the door, rushed out of the room, down the corridor. Shouting, he disappeared into the outer darkness. It all happened in a second.

‘Oh, my Gawd,' cried Hemmingway. ‘'E's gone crazy.' Paralysed, Susan stood with hands clasped upon her breast. Then she stumbled forward. With a frantic cry she rushed after him.

The sudden transition from light to darkness benumbed her sight. She stood on the pavement straining with blind, bewildered eyes. And then she discerned his running figure far down the deserted street; large and dark it loomed, like the figure of one possessed.

He wasn't – oh, he couldn't – her Robbie! With a choking cry she raced after him. The rain beat into her frightened eyes, the wind battered against her panting breast.

She could not gain upon him. And he was making for the river. The knowledge drove her crazy with terror. As she panted on, the thought beat through her brain: He can't swim. It hammered on her in agony through the tumult of the night, and the frenzied beating of her heart.

The noise of the river swelled. Nearer and nearer. All at once the darkish flood burst into view before her.

‘Robbie,' she cried, in an agony of love and fear, and again, ‘Robbie.'

He could not hear. He was there at the water's edge. His form, outlined against the lowering sky, seemed to poise itself for an instant upon the brink. Then it vanished from her sight.

She shrieked, calling on God for succour. She reached the bank. Dimly she saw him struggling in the current. Faintly she heard a cry that might have been for help. An answering cry leapt from her lips. She could reach him. She could save him. She called again in answer to his call. She clenched her teeth and flung herself into the river. Her plunge made no sound. Darkness and the roaring of the waters enclosed her form. She swam and swam, straining with bursting heart to reach him. Yes, her heart felt bursting. It was weak, always had been weak. But she never thought of that. She was gaining. She was nearly there. She reached out her arm. And then came a sudden surging wave which cast her side against a spur of rock. It was not a heavy blow, but it was upon that beating, bursting heart. Her arm fell back; her body spun giddily around; dully she felt a greater darkness rush upon her. She felt herself fainting. And then, as if that were not enough, brutally the current took her and dashed her head against those hidden rocks. Again and once again. And that was all she knew.

Al gran arroyo pasar postrero.

She didn't know what that meant; and now she would never know.

As Tranter – thrown by an eddy upon a lower sandbank of the estuary – staggered to his feet, sobered now and wholly frightened, and began to wade in frantic haste towards safety, Susan's body floated past him. Scrambling away with his back to the river, he whispered:

‘Oh, gee, what was I thinkin' on? Oh, gee – oh, God – oh, Christ – oh, hell! Guess I was crazy. Guess I near drowned myself. Guess I better get some dry clothes. Oh, Lord, I'm glad – oh, thanks be to God –' And Susan went sailing out into the darkness of the sea.

A fortnight later, Harvey Leith came down the hill to Santa Cruz. It was afternoon. The wind had fallen, the sun blazed out, the earth was steaming under the shimmering sky. The storm had long passed over and been forgotten.

He entered the town, skirted the market-place, advanced across the Plaza towards the waterfront. He was walking quickly; he looked neither to the right nor to the left. Passing the barrier of the Aduana, he stepped into the shipping office and advanced to the cubicle marked ‘Enquiry'. He spoke to the clerk.

The clerk – a young blood with dashing side-whiskers and plastered hair, stared queerly at Harvey, then he shrugged his shoulders with a sort of contemptuous indifference.

‘But the senor is unfortunate. Assuredly most unfortunate. The second boat sailed yesterday.'

‘And the next one?' – very quickly.

A little curl of the plastered one's lip: ‘Not for a full ten days, senor.' A pause. Harvey's face revealed nothing of his thoughts.

‘Thank you,' he said quietly. He turned, fully conscious of the odd stare still fixed on him, and went out of the dirty office into the yellow glare of the sunshine. He retraced his steps – very slowly – recrossed the Plaza. Outside a cafe he stopped, arrested by his image in the mirror. He hardly recognised himself. His unshaven face was like the face of a stranger; one of his boots had burst across the toe; his disreputable suit, torn at the knees and stained by mud, might have been rejected by a tramp. God, he thought – looking into his own gaunt eyes – what a sight!

He moved off towards one of the public benches in the Plaza. The breeze blew a litter of papers about his feet; on the pavement some rotten melon-rind lay festering with shiny blue flies. Thrown away – left over – like himself.

He sat down. Well! – now he could at least sit still. On that night of storm – was it days ago or years? – when Susan left him to go to Rodgers's place, he hadn't been able to do that. No! He'd been forced to get up, his breast charged with a torturing restlessness which drove him to pace the empty room, whilst the thunder rolled, and the ants scurried across the dry boards.

How could he have been still! His thoughts were scattered; his mind writhed and twisted like the cedar-trees before the wind. He could not stay in the house. He couldn't wait for Corcoran's return. He couldn't speak to the marquesa. Mazedly he went out of the hall, through the garden, struck up the path towards the mountains. He didn't know where he was going. Before him the Peak rose dimly outlined in the dying light. It seemed silently to beckon. And he had the strange sensation that to surmount that towering summit would bring peace – oh, fathomless, eternal peace. There, above the littleness of earth and all the puny reaches of the sea, circled by clouds and rare omniscient winds, a man might press his brow against the step of heaven and lap himself for ever in sublime tranquillity. Walking upwards – his eyes affixed to that splendid crest – he had a glimmer of enlightenment. A vision, which words could never formulate.