On the twentieth day they shifted her on to a water-bed, fearing that she might get bed-sores. To do this, they had to lift her off her bed on her mattress, so that for a while she lay on the floor on her mattress while they heaved the water-bed into place. They had spent some time filling it with water from the bath-room tap. It was an unwieldy object, it leapt about convulsively, as the water swelled up into its various compartments. Then they lifted her up, Viola at her head and the nurse at her feet, and laid her on the strange new balloon of a mattress. She was exhausted by the process, but smiled at them and said that she felt far more comfortable. Viola went away into the next room, trying to forget the fragility and thinness of the shoulders she had lifted, and the way she had had to support the head.
She stayed at the flat thatt night.
Next day Evelyn was definitely better. Her temperature had gone down and her cough had decreased. Doctor Gregory came out cheerful from the sick room. “We’ve turned the corner, I do believe,” he said, rubbing his hands together. Viola, who was tired, listened without conviction. Still, when she went in to see Evelyn, she observed a real difference, and sent a comforting letter to Dan—Dan whom she had never seen, but to whom she had written every day for a week, in France. Although she had never seen the boy, she was prejudiced in his favour by what Miles had told her of him, and by the letters she had received from him since she had started writing to him about his mother. He reminded her, in some way, of her own brother at the same age.
Next day, again, the improvement was maintained, as Dr. Gregory put it. Thatt meant that for the first -time, Evelyn asked to see the paper, and asked whether any letters had come which she ought to answer. She asked weakly; but still, she asked. It was a good sign. She was told not to worry; there were no letters to speak of, only circulars. She easily and gratefully accepted this untrue assurance.
Hopes were held out to Dan that he might be allowed to come home for Christmas after all. He sent a telegram in eager response, saying that he would start at a moment’s notice. But Viola, still cautious, wrote to tell him that his room in the flat was still occupied by the nurse and that although his mother was now practically out of danger, mere considerations of accommodation might make it advisable for him not to come. Dan telegraphed again, impatiently, saying, “But I can stay at an hotel.”
Viola had not thought of thatt.—She laid Dan’s telegram aside, to be answered next day. Next day, Evelyn was not so well. She had coughed a great deal during the night, was weak and tired by the morning, and complained of the pain in her chest. Even the cheerful Dr. Gregory did not like this relapse. He pretended, however, that it was just temporary. “In a week or two, she’ll be as right as rain,” he said, looking out of the window at the streaming rain which had replaced the fog.
Viola wrote to tell Dan that he had better make up his mind to spending his Christmas at Blois. His mother was much better, she said, but she still coughed when she tried to talk, and excitement was bad for her. Dan’s arrival would be an excitement. So Dan must be unselfish, and stay away for Christmas. Perhaps by the New Year he might come home . . . In the meantime, he must not worry about her. She was really much better, but it was essential that she should be kept quiet.
Dan sent another telegram saying, “Quite understand give her my love and tell her to keep quiet will spend Christmas here and hope to come home for New Year.”
Next day, again, Evelyn was not so well. She lay very silent, but, when asked, said that her chest and her back hurt her. The nurse put it down coldly in her notebook: “5.30: complained of pain in the lumbar region.” Viola read the comments each time she passed through the sitting-room. Her breathing became more difficult, and it was obvious that she drew every breath with pain. The atmosphere of anxiety which had lightened over the flat during the forty-eight hours, now deepened again, and all the little jokes were stilled, which cluster gallantly about a sick-room and about such ludicrous objects as bed-pans and water-beds,—the little jokes pretending that life goes on as an absurdity without death and danger standing just outside the door.
Evelyn herself scarcely wondered what was happening to her. All her instinct and effort were concentrated on sparing herself as much as possible. She wished only that they would leave her alone, instead of constantly washing her and rubbing her back with whisky and changing her sheets. She dreaded the nurse’s approach, fearing that she would be required to move, sit up, or eat something, or speak. She spoke only when compelled to do so, for with every breath she took she felt as though the corselet of her ribs deepened into her body like the closing jaws of a shark.
There were two nurses now, a day and a night nurse. The night nurse sat near the fire, with a screen round her, and played Patience or read a novel throughout the night. She was very quiet, but Evelyn would lie listening for the tiny rustle of the page being turned over, or for the click of the falling cards. Every now and then the nurse would make up the fire,—for the electric fire had been condemned as drying the atmosphere too much; every now and then she would come warily over to the bed, to see if Evelyn slept or if she wanted anything. Watch in hand, at intervals, she would take her pulse. It was a curious intimacy, with a woman of whom she knew nothing, and who knew nothing of her beyond the secrets of her suffering body.
The nights were the worst time of all, interminable without the small diversions of the day. At night, indeed, everyone seemed to have abandoned her and to have gone away back into normal life, leaving her to this strange concentrated existence which was the epitome of loneliness. Normal life was resumed for them, the moment they left her room; but for her there was no possibility of escaping into a saner air. They could forget; the burden of going on with it was left to her.
Hearing her moan, the nurse rose and came over to her. “Feeling uncomfortable?” she asked, and, slipping her arm under Evelyn’s shoulders, she deftly turned the pillow. She brought a sponge, and wiped Evelyn’s forehead, which was damp with sweat. “Is the pain bad?” she asked, bending down, for the doctor had left a piqûe of morphia with her in case it should be needed.
Evelyn nodded without speaking.
“Worse than usual?”
Evelyn nodded again. There were tears in her eyes, from the pain.
“Wait a minute,” said the nurse, making her decision,—for if Mrs. Jarrold did not sleep all night, she would be exhausted by the morning. “I’ll give you something to take it away, and then you’ll have a lovely sleep.”
Evelyn looked up at her gratefully, and tried to smile. Such a relief had never occurred to her as a possibility. She started a little as the needle went into her arm, and as the nurse pressed it home with its merciful charge, and dabbed the puncture with iodine. The tiny, localised pain distracted her attention for an instant from the vast, general pain. She wondered vaguely what the nurse had done to her. Then everything in the room began to float, and the familiar sensation of falling through the bed became pleasurable instead of terrifying. She began to speculate with amusement on what the couple in the flat below would say if she gradually descended through their ceiling. The pain receded to a huge distance,—though it was still there, somewhere. But although the pain receded everything else took on an exaggerated significance,—the handkerchief under her pillow, the texture of the sheet under her chin, the proportions of the room, its height, its curtained windows, its white ceiling,—what an expanse!—she wished the room were more brightly lit, so that she might observe it better; it was like the full moon, only oblong instead of round,—how wrong, that the ceiling should not conform to the shape of the moon!—the screen round the fire,—all became immensely important and amusing. She remembered Miles. But Miles did not matter. He was a long way off. Miles? Who was Miles? Someone she had seen in a mirror. “Give me a looking-glass,” she said in a strong voice.
“There, there,” said the nurse, sponging her forehead. “You go off to sleep.”
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sp; “Give me my looking-glass,” she said again, and tried to sit up. The pain was quite unimportant now, but it was extremely important that she should see Miles in a mirror.
The nurse knew well enough that morphia excited some patients before sending them off, and that it was better to humour them. In a few minutes Mrs. Jarrold would be asleep. By the next morning she would have forgotten what she looked like in the mirror, and no harm would be done. She would not remember enough to be alarmed by her own feverish and emaciated appearance. So she fetched the hand-glass off the dressing-table and gave it into the hand that had only just enough strength to hold it.
Evelyn looked into the mirror and saw Miles. He was laughing and gay and fair. His hair shone. He was alone. No woman was beside him. He looked at her and laughed. The mirror dropped from her hand, and she slept. The nurse restored the mirror to the dressing-table and went back to tiptoe to her novel beside the fire. The patient slept till nine o’clock next morning.
When the doctor came, the nurse told him that she had administered the morphia. He said she had done rightly, but it must be saved up as far as possible. Mrs. Jarrold would of course ask for it, now that she had discovered what it could do for her. But it must be kept from her till the last possible moment, and used only to give her a night’s rest.
Evelyn did ask for it; she knew now that something could give her release from the pain she had thought herself compelled to endure. The hour when they gave it to her became the one hour for which she lived through the day. She started to beg for it at least an hour before it was due, and, realising dimly that for some reason they were reluctant to give it to her, appealed to Viola. Viola was terribly distressed. She went to the doctor and said, “Can it really make so very much difference, one way or the other?”
“How do you mean, Lady Viola? Of course it makes a difference, it relieves her discomfort and sends her to sleep.”
“I don’t mean that, Dr. Gregory. Bluntly, I mean, how much chance do you think she has of recovery?”
“We are all in the hands of God, Lady Viola.”
“Leaving God aside for the moment, if you don’t mind, she is in your hands. More immediately than in God’s. And since I can’t ask God,—I only wish I could,—I ask you. How much chance has she? You see, I have made myself responsible to a certain extent, as well as her sister-in-law, of course. It may become necessary to send for Mrs. Jarrold’s son, who, as you know, is in France. It will take him a day to get here. If you think we ought to send for him, you must give me due warning.”
Dr. Gregory hated being pushed into a corner, and Viola was always pushing him into one. He said cautiously, “Lord Orlestone would no doubt like to spend Christmas in England. One enjoys being with one’s family at a time like Christmas. I think it might possibly cheer his mother up to feel that he was in the house.”
“In other words, you think he ought to be sent for.” “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Lady Viola.” “But thatt is what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Well, if you put it like thatt, I think Lord Orlestone might advisably be nearer at hand, certainly.”
“I will telegraph tonight.”
“Oh, no need to telegraph. I should write, if I were you. The posts to France are very good.”
“No, I will telegraph. But then, to return, if you take so serious a view, can the morphia make so very much difference?”
“I never said I took so serious a view.”
“Dr. Gregory, please! If you are thinking of my feelings, I assure you that you need not spare them. I only want the truth. I want you to spare Mrs. Jarrold as much suffering as possible. I cannot bear to hear her moan hour after hour, knowing that the morphia would relieve her, if she is going to die in the end. Surely you don’t want to prolong life by twenty-four hours, at the cost of forty-eight hours of agony? If she is going to die, then let us make her last hours as easy as possible. Surely?”
Dr. Gregory was shocked. He was not accustomed to such plain speaking. Usually, the family of his patients asked for reassurance, the reassurance which he was always ready to give. This Lady Viola seemed to charge straight ahead to the worst. But then, of course, she was only a friend, not a relation.
He asserted his dignity.
“I am afraid Mrs. Jarrold can have the morphia only once a day, and it is better that she should have it at night.”
“Well, Dr. Gregory, will you promise me this at least: if the case, in your view, becomes hopeless, you will keep her under morphia all the time?”
“We must wait and see, Lady Viola; wait and see. Meanwhile we mustn’t lose heart.”
“There is another thing, Dr. Gregory. I don’t, of course, know exactly how these illnesses go. But supposing she were to ask to see a friend? What should I say?”
“She is not very likely to ask to see anyone, in her present state.”
“No, I know. But it is possible. Supposing it occurs to her that she is dying, there is one person, I think, whom she might wish to see.”
“Had we not better wait until the occasion arises?”
“Certainly, if you think so,” said Viola, tired of talking to Dr. Gregroy and resolving to tackle the specialist, who was a shade more prepared to face facts, although he was always in a hurry and managed to convey the impression that his appointments with his patients were a nuisance. She had not dared to mention Miles to Evelyn, though she felt some surprise that Evelyn herself had never mentioned him. She had not asked once whether he knew of her illness; whether he had enquired; whether he had called at the flat. In point of fact, Miles was beside himself with anxiety, and Viola could keep him away only by saying that she was sure Evelyn would not like the Jarrolds to know he was always in the sitting-room. He wanted to remain there all day, to be within call in case she asked for him. He said the Jarrolds could go to blazes.
“Yes, Miles, but Evelyn really would mind when she found out afterwards.”
Now that there was not likely to be any afterwards, and seeing Miles really distraught, she relented and told him that he might come if he were very careful not to allow Evelyn to hear his voice. She then hit on an ingenious way of explaining his presence to Hester.
“Mrs. Jarrold, Dan may be arriving at any moment, and I have asked Miles Vane-Merrick to be here when he arrives. Dan is very devoted to him, and I think it will make things easier for the boy.”
She hated herself for the hypocrisy, but she knew that Evelyn would be grateful,—afterwards.
Hester had to swallow it. She drew herself up stiffly for a moment, then, remembering that it was not a time to stand upon one’s dignity or to consult one’s prejudices, she relaxed and assented. Still, she thought it very odd. She was shocked, too, that Dan should be devoted to his mother’s lover. But no doubt the poor innocent boy did not know.
She took her departure before Vane-Merrick could arrive, saying that she would return later in the day. Inwardly, she was very resentful of this invasion of strangers,—Viola with her high-handed methods, and now this young man who had no right whatsoever to be there; whose presence was indeed indecorous. In her view, the only people who had a right to look after an invalid were the invalid’s immediate relations; and they had been ousted, simply ousted, by this total stranger, who took it upon herself to bring Evelyn’s lover into the flat! Hester, although she had tried to behave well when Viola made the suggestion, snorted as she drove away from the door. It was really going a little too far.
Miles came at once. He was pathetically anxious to obey Viola’s injunction; entered the flat on tip-toe, and spoke to Mason in a whisper. The familiar sitting-room looked strange; the arm-chairs had been pushed aside into different positions, and beside the door leading into Evelyn’s bedroom stood a kitchen table covered with a white cloth and a cluster of white jugs, cups, and basins, an unopened bottle of champagne, and a pine-apple. He glanced at
them shyly and obliquely. Beyond thatt door lay Evelyn, how changed? how different? What did they do to her? What did she think about? Did she suffer too much to think? Would he be allowed to see her, or would she be kept away from him, behind this mysterious veil of danger and pain? He felt horribly excluded, from an Evelyn submitted to the ministrations of strange hands.
The bedroom door opened and Viola came out, shutting it very quietly behind her. She looked tired and strained, but smiled on seeing him, and put her finger to her lips. They went over to the further side of the room, where they could talk.
“How is she?”
“Quiet for the moment,—dozing. The effect of the morphia hasn’t quite worn off. Dan is coming.”
“Is it as bad as all than?”
“I hope not, but I couldn’t take the risk.”
“You hope not, but you think so?”
“Yes, Miles, I think so.”
“The doctor . . .”
“The doctor never says anything he can avoid saying, but he didn’t dissuade me from sending for Dan.”
“The specialist?”
“Not very hopeful. Miles, what do you think I ought to do about her father? He’s an old man, and I cannot see any point in dragging him up to London. Yet Hester seems to think he ought to be here. You know what the Jarrolds are like: family, family, family. People’s private emotions don’t seem to count for them at all. Hester was obviously horrified at the idea of your coming here,-I had to say it was on account of Dan; forgive me—but she is quite prepared to drag a poor old man up from Biggleswade because she thinks it the right thing to do. He would only be in the way; it would distress him; and Evelyn wouldn’t ask to see him. Isn’t it better and kinder to leave him where he is, even at the risk of giving him a shock if she dies?”
Family History Page 27
