"What was the man like? Could you recognize him?"' "I don't know, he was just a native, young I think, but I don't know, it's difficult to tell their ages and he was the, the first I'd seen close. He wore a kimono with a short sword in his belt, and the big one, all bloody and ready again to..." Her eyes had filled with tears.
Babcott had gentled her and showed her a room, gave her some tea with a touch of laudanum, and promised he would call her the moment Struan awoke.
And now he's awake, she thought, her feet leaden, nausea welling up inside her, head aching and filled with vile pictures. I wish I hadn't come here, Henri Seratard told me to wait until tomorrow, Captain Marlowe was against it, everyone, so why did I plead so ardently with the Admiral? I don't know, we're jus' good friends, not lovers or engaged or...
Or do I begin to love him, or was I only consumed with bravado, playacting, because this whole, horrid day has been like a melodrama by Dumas, the nightmare at the road not real, the Settlement inflamed not real, Malcolm's message arriving at sunset not real: "please come and see me as soon as you can," written by the doctor on his behalf--me not real, just playacting the part of the heroine....
Babcott stopped. "Here we are. You'll find him rather tired, Mademoiselle. I'll just make sure he's all right, then I'll leave you alone for a minute or two. He may drop off because of the drug, but don't worry, and if you want me I'll be in the surgery next door.
Don't tax him, or yourself, or worry about anything--don't forget you've had a rotten time too."
She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face and followed him in. "Hello, Malcolm, mon cher."
"Hello." Struan was very pale, and had aged, but his eyes were clear.
The doctor chattered pleasantly, peered at him, quickly took his pulse, felt his forehead, half nodded to himself, said that the patient was doing fine and left.
"You're so beautiful," Struan said, his robust voice now just a thread, feeling strange, floating yet nailed to the cot and the sweat-sodden straw mattress.
She went closer. The smell was still there as much as she tried to pretend it was not. "How do you feel? I'm so sorry you're hurt."
"Joss," he said using a Chinese word that meant fate, luck, the will of the gods. "You're so beautiful."
"Ah, cheri, oh how I wish all this had never happened, that I'd never asked to go for a ride, never wanted to visit to the Japans."
"Joss. It's... it's the next day, isn't it?"
"Yes, the attack was yesterday afternoon."
It seemed to be difficult for his brain to translate her words into usable form, and equally difficult to compose words and say them, as she was finding it equally difficult to stay. "Yesterday?
That's a lifetime ago. Have you seen Phillip?"
"Yes, yes I saw him earlier but he was asleep. I'll see him as soon as I leave you, cheri. In fact I'd better go now, the doctor said not to tire you."
"No, don't go yet, please. Listen, Angelique, I don't know when I'll be, be it to travel so..." Momentarily his eyes closed against a barb of pain but it left him. When he focused on her again, he saw her fear and misread it. "Don't worry, McFay will see that you're esc... escorted safely back to Hong Kong so please don't worry."
"Thank you, Malcolm, yes I think I should, I'll return tomorrow or the next day." She saw the sudden disappointment and added at once, "of course you'll be better then, and we can go together and oh yes, Henri Seratard sent his condolences ..."
She stopped, aghast, as a great pain took him and his face twisted and he tried to double up but could not, his insides tried to cast out the foul poison of the ether that seemed to permeate every pore and brain cell he possessed but could not--his stomach and bowels already empty of everything possible--each spasm tearing at his wounds, every cough ripping more than the last with only a little putrid liquid coming out for all the torment.
In panic she whirled for the doctor and fumbled for the door handle.
"It's all right, Ange...
Angelique," said the voice that she hardly recognized now. "Stay a... moment more."
He saw the horror on her face and again misread it, seeing it as anxiety, a vast depth of compassion, and love. His fear left him and he lay back to gather his strength. "My darling, I'd hoped, I'd hoped so very much... of course you know I've loved you from the first moment."
The spasm had sapped his strength but his complete belief that he had seen in her what he had prayed for, gave him great peace. "I can't seem to think straight but I wanted... to see you to tell you ... Christ, Angelique, I was petrified of the operation, petrified of the drugs, petrified of dying and not waking up before I saw you again, I've never been so petrified, never."
"I'd be petrified too--oh, Malcolm, this is all so awful." Her skin felt clammy and head ached even more and she was afraid she would be sick any moment. "The doctor assured me and everyone that you'll be well soon!"
"I don't care now that I know you love me, if I die that's joss and in my family we know we, we can't escape joss. You're my lucky star, my lodestone, I... knew it from the first moment. We'll marry..." the words trailed off. His ears were ringing and his eyes misted a little, eyelids flickering as the opiate took hold, sliding him into the netherworld where pain existed but was transformed into painlessness. "... marry in springtime...."
"Malcolm, listen," she said quickly, "you're not going to die and I... alors, I must be honest with you..." Then the words began pouring out, "I don't want to marry yet, I'm not sure if I love you, I'm just not sure, you'll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don't think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can't, I won't, I can't, I know I'd die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I'm going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I'm never coming back, never, never, never."
But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, "... many sons, you and I... so happy you love me... prayed for... so now... live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister Mary, dead so young, my brother, father almost dead... grandfather another violent death, but now... now ... all changed... marry in springtime.
Yes?"
His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What's the matter for God's sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket's sodden with sweat and I'm lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that's because I'm cut for Christ's sake, I've only been cut and now I'm sewn up and well again, well again, well again ...
But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again....
She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.
Babcott came up behind her. "He's all right, not to worry. Here, drink this," he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. "It'll settle you and help you sleep."
She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.
"He's sleeping peacefully. Come along.
It's bedtime for you too." He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. "Sleep well. You will sleep well."
"I'm afraid for him, very afraid."
"Don't be. In the morning he'll be better, you'll see."
"Thank you, I'm all right now. He... I think Malcolm thinks he's going to die. Is he?"
"Certainly not, he's a strong young man and I'm sure soon he'll be as right as rain."
Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don't know, you never know, now it's up to God.
And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you're helpless, if you've done your best and are convinced your best and best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day--or recovered if that was God's will. Was it?
I think it's lack of knowledge. And then God's will.
If there is a God.
Involuntarily, he shivered. "Good night, not to worry."
"Thank you." She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters.
Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.