The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
about hemorrhages; darted into the kitchen; snatched what she wanted
from the refrigerator; wrapped a dish-cloth about it; darted back to the
lift.
Downstairs, Ronnie waited impatiently. "The taxi's here," he said.
They leaped into the taxi.
2
The shock of unexpected ill-news held both lovers rigid, speechless, as
their vehicle, an old one, rattled and bumped over Putney Bridge; and
when at last Aliette spoke it was of those trivial things with which
human beings console themselves against the threat of disaster. "How on
earth did you manage to get dressed so quickly?"
"The old school trick." Ronnie masked his anxiety with the semblance of
a laugh. "Trousers and an overcoat." But sheer anxiety forced the next
words to his lips. "What do you think can have happened?"
"From what Kate said, it sounded as though your mother had had a
hemorrhage."
"A hemorrhage," repeated Ronnie. And then, under his breath, as though
trying to convince himself, "But she can't have had a hemorrhage."
The taxi rattled on down a gray and empty King's Road, bringing back to
Aliette's mind the memory of that other drive she had taken in
vision-land.
"What's that?" asked Ronnie suddenly, pointing to the dish-cloth at her
feet.
"Ice. There's just a chance they won't have any."
They swung out of King's Road into Sloane Street. Under the lights of
Knightsbridge, Ronnie, looking sideways at his mate, marveled at the
composure of her face; marveled that her brain should have acted so
swiftly in crisis. His own brain felt impotent, dumb. His heart hung
like a nodule of ice in his breast. The nodule of ice sank into his
bowels, turning his bowels to water. The Wixton imagination pictured his
mother helpless, in agony. He thought, "Suppose we're too late. My God,
suppose we're too late."
"I don't expect there's any immediate danger." Aliette, fighting for her
own composure, guessed the unspoken thought in her lover's mind.
"Servants always exaggerate."
Ronnie wrenched down the window, leaned out. "Hurry," he called to the
driver, "hurry." The old taxi rattled to speed. Hyde Park corner flashed
by--Piccadilly.
"Don't worry, dear," Aliette managed to whisper. "The doctor will be
there by now."
Ronnie sat silent. It seemed as though, for the moment, he had forgotten
her presence. Nor could she be angry with him for that forgetting. "His
mother," she thought; "his mother!"
At last they made Bruton Street. Outside the open front door, waiting
for them, stood Kate. Kate, the immaculate cap-and-aproned Kate, was in
tears. "Oh, Mr. Ronnie," she sobbed, "I'm so glad you've come. I'm so
glad you've come."
"Doctor here?" Julia Cavendish's son, usually so affable with servants,
snapped out his question as though he had been speaking to a defaulter.
"Yes, Mr. Ronnie. I fetched him myself. He's with your mother now. He
wants cook to go out and get some ice, but cook don't know," the
domestically precise English vanished under stress of emergency, "where
to get no ice."
"Lucky you thought of bringing some." Abruptly, rudely almost, Ronnie
snatched the dish-cloth from Aliette's hand; and she watched him
disappear, three at a bound, up the green-carpeted stairs.
"Kate," she said quietly, "tell the taxi-driver to stop his engine and
wait. We may want him for something."
3
Ronnie, a little out of breath, found himself, on the second landing,
confronted at the closed door of his mother's bedroom by his mother's
woman, Smithers. Smithers was still in her dressing-gown--her hair
disheveled, but her black eyes unpanicked.
"You can't go in, sir. The doctor's with her."
"I've got the ice." He made to push past the woman, but she put a hand
on his arm.
"I'll take it to him, sir. Your mother said you wasn't to go in."
"Why not?"
"Because of the blood. After the doctor came, she said you wasn't to see
her till I'd put clean sheets on the bed. It's a hemorrhage, sir."
"I know. Let me go in." Again Ronnie tried to push past the woman. Again
she restrained him. Her black eyes seemed strangely hostile, resolute.
"It's a hemorrhage," she repeated fiercely, "and it's her own fault.
Time and again I've told her she ought to heed what Sir Heron said. But
she wouldn't. She wouldn't give in." Then, accusingly, "Because she
didn't want you and Mrs. Ronnie to know."
"Know what?"
"That she had the consumption."
"Consumption!" The word struck Ronnie like the lash of a whip. He saw
accusation--an accusation of selfishness--in the woman's hostile eyes.
Those eyes knew his whole story. He wanted to say to them: "We hadn't an
idea. Honestly, we hadn't the slightest idea." Sir Heron Baynet's
reported diagnosis recurred to his mind. "She isn't ill, but she has a
tendency to illness." Either the specialist had made a mistake, or
else---- He realized, with a heart-rending clarity, that Julia must have
purposely concealed her danger, because--because of his own troubles.
The bedroom door opened noiselessly, and a clean-shaven intellectual
face inspected him through gold-rimmed glasses.
"Are you the patient's son?" asked Dr. Redbank; and then, seeing the
dish-cloth in Ronnie's hand, "Is that the ice?"
"Yes. Can I come in?"
"If you like. But please understand she mustn't talk."
Ronnie followed the man into the bedroom, and closed the door quietly
behind him.
Save for the glow of the bed-lamp, the room was in darkness. Making his
way round the foot of the bed, Julia's son saw, in the light of that one
lamp--the shade of it was crimson, crimson as those telltale marks on
his mother's pillow--his mother's face.
The face lay on the stained pillow, pallid, motionless, the hair awry,
the mouth half-open as though in pain. On the chin and on the half-open
lips, blood clots showed like brown stains. But the blue eyes were wide
open. Motionless in their sockets, they recognized him.
Stooping down, Ronnie saw that Julia would have spoken. Remembering the
doctor's warning, he said: "You're not to talk, mater. I'm here.
Aliette's here. It's quite all right." It seemed to him as though the
blue eyes understood. They closed wearily; and a sigh, almost a sigh of
relief, came through the half-opened lips. He thought, standing there by
the bedside: "I am powerless. Powerless to help. I can do nothing.
Nothing. Why doesn't the doctor do something? Why did he want that ice?"
Then, glancing toward the shadowy fireplace, Ronnie saw the doctor at
work; heard the faint smash-smash of the poker handle on ice in a cloth.
The doctor came to the bedside. He felt the doctor's hand on his arm;
heard his authoritative whisper, "Hold this for me, please"; and found
himself grasping a soap-basin.
The soap-basin was full of crushed ice, of the ice Aliette had
remembered to bring. The doctor had been crushing the ice. Now he was
feeding the ice to his patient. Piece by little piece he fed it--fed it
between those half-open lips.
Through interminable minutes Ronnie, holding the soap-basin, watched. At
last the doctor said: "One more piece, Mrs. Cavendish, just one more
piece. It'll do you good." His mother tried to shake her head in
refusal, but Dr. Redbank insisted. "There, that will do."
Somehow Julia's son knew her immediate danger over. For the first time
he could hear her breathing. Faint, irregular breathing. "She's asleep,
isn't she?" he whispered, looking down at the closed eyes.
But at that, the eyes opened again. His mother seemed to be
searching--searching for him about the darkness of the room. He bent
over her, and it appeared to him that her pupils moved. "Is there
anything you want, mater?" he asked, forgetful of the doctor's warning.
The eyes turned in their sockets.
Following their glance, Ronnie saw, beside the bed-lamp, a
handkerchief--a stained handkerchief. Scarcely conscious of his action,
he fumbled in the pocket of the overcoat he was still wearing, found his
own handkerchief, dipped it in the soap-basin, and wiped the blood-clots
from his mother's lips. Faintly, the lips murmured: "Smithers--want
Smithers--want clean sheets."
"_Please_ don't talk, Mrs. Cavendish," interrupted the doctor's voice.
"You're all right now, mater." Ronnie grasped the situation. "Quite all
right. _I_ know exactly what you want done. _I'll_ tell Smithers for
you." "She'd like her maid," he whispered to the doctor. "She'd like
clean pillow-cases."
"Of course she would." The answer sounded loud, almost cheerful. "Of
course, she'd like clean pillow-cases. But not for another half-hour,
Mrs. Cavendish. I want you to rest. I must insist on your resting."
Julia's eyes closed.
"We shall have to have a hospital-nurse," whispered Dr. Redbank. "If
you'll stay with her I'll go and telephone for one." He tiptoed from the
room, leaving mother and son alone.
For a long time, hours as it seemed, Ronnie stood watchful. His mother
must be asleep--safe--out of pain. A great rush of gratitude, gratitude
to some unknown deity, overwhelmed him. Quietly he drew a chair to the
bedside. Quietly he sat down. But the faint noise disturbed the woman on
the bed. Her eyelids fluttered; and she tried to speak--indistinctly,
incoherently, choking on each word.
"Ronnie,"--her first thoughts, as always, were for him--"did
I--frighten--you?"
"Mater," he implored, "please don't try and talk. If there's anything
you want, just look at it, and I'll get it for you.''
"Ice," she choked, "more ice."
Every movement of her lips frightened him, but he managed to keep fear
out of his voice.
"Good for you. I'll get it."
He took the basin of ice from the bed-table, and fed it to her bit by
bit, slowly, as Dr. Redbank had done.
The touch of her lips on his fingers almost unnerved him. The lips were
so weak, so loving, so piteously grateful as--piece by piece--they
sucked down the melting pellets. Controlling himself for her sake,
Ronnie realized a little of the self-control, of the unselfishness which
had so long locked those weak lips from revealing their own danger. And
again, at that realization, he felt his heart melting, even as the ice
melted.
"Good man!" It was the doctor--whispering. "She can't have too much of
that. I've sent your taxi for the nurse. It's her first hemorrhage, I
suppose?"
"Yes--as far as I know."
"H'm. I thought so. Frightening things, hemorrhages. But there's no
cause for immediate alarm. I'll wait till the nurse comes, and give her
a second injection. You'd better go down and look after your wife."
On the landing, Smithers still waited. "Is she better, sir?" asked
Smithers.
"Much better, Smithers. She's out of danger. But you can't go in yet."
Tiptoeing downstairs, Ronald Cavendish knew that the woman was watching
him--blaming him. Half-way down, he hesitated. "I can't face Alie," he
thought. "I can't face Alie." Then he turned, tiptoed upstairs again.
Together, in silence, the son and the servant waited outside the
mother's door.
4
Aliette, too, waited--waited downstairs in the dining-room where Kate
had insisted on lighting a fire for her--waited and waited while the
slow half-hours went by. She felt weary; but there was no sleep in her
weariness. Her ears, keyed to acutest tension, magnified every whisper
in the house of illness; Dr. Redbank's feet in the hall, the jar of the
front door, the taxi chugging away, the faint creak of carpeted stairs,
the fainter clink of crockery in the basement.
At four o'clock Kate came in with a pot of coffee; at half-past,
Smithers to ask if the nurse had arrived. Aliette suffered both maids to
go without question. In that well-ordered home she felt herself the
useless stranger. Her muscles yearned to be of use, to be doing