The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  All at once, she was impatient for the birth, for the sight of her daughter, for the external feel of her body. Her hands lifted a little, as if to take the baby, to touch its soft new skin, to caress its head and flesh. Her fright, her aversion, her terror and agony, had gone forever.

  And now the sights about her, the dark moist earth, the trunks of the trees, the glittering fragments of sunlight that spilled upon her knees and hands, the glow of the red roofs far above her, seemed too poignant, too beautiful, to be borne. She had emerged from the colourless and formless world in which she had lived, and had stepped into sound and loveliness and pungent odours, her heart beating wildly and with a penetrating joy. She was like one emerging from the grey caves of death into vivid and burning life.

  Tears ran down her cheeks; she tasted them at the corners of her smiling mouth. Their saltness was sharp and strong to her new consciousness. All her pulses were beating, as if a trance had been lifted from them. When another squirrel ran near her and peered at her inquisitively, she laughed aloud, and snapped her fingers at it, and laughed again.

  And now her whole spirit was like a city that had been frozen and smothered under a black and freezing mist, and at last feels the sun of life and delight again. One by one, each forbidden tower in her mind rose from the mist. She ran into them all, throwing wide the doors and the windows, letting in the light, no longer in dread or fear or hopelessness or sorrow. She looked everywhere, fearlessly, sometimes, with a little sadness, but always with courage

  She thought of Peter, and his quiet grave, and all the years she had with him of love and understanding and pain and gentleness. These months, since he had died, she had thought of him only in confusion and anguish, shutting a door upon his remembered face when she remembered it all. It had seemed to her that he had not really died, but that he was waiting for her, dumb, lonely, in darkness, and that she had turned away from him in her remorse and grief. Now she opened the door and looked at him fully, smiling, her tears quickening. And it seemed to her that he smiled back, and held out his hand and laughed gently, indulgently and with love, as if she had been frightened by such little and insignificant things that had not touched him. Why, he must have known, always, she said to herself, with wonder and humility. She remembered how she had burst out to him on that last day, crying hysterically against herself, and how he had silenced her, and just touched the thin white streak in her hair. He had understood so much; he had wanted her to know some happiness, though he had not been able to give it to her himself. How can there be talk of forgiveness, between you and me? she heard him say, as she looked at him fully again. How can there be talk of forgiveness in such a huge universe, where there is so much pain and so much to do? When she left him to go elsewhere, in the forbidden towers, she felt him looking after her, his face as radiant as the sun itself.

  So much to do! There was all of life before her, perhaps not a life of delirious joy, but a life of serenity, strength and peace. There was a child to love and to know, and a place to be made in the world for that child. All at once she was filled with a sense of haste, of impatience, of desire to begin to live again. She had never really lived, except for those brief days and nights when she had been with Henri, and then they had been wretched days and nights, bound and not free.

  She stood up, breathing quickly and lightly, as a liberated prisoner breathes. She pushed back her hair with swift hands, caught up her hat, and turned to the path that led back to the house.

  It was then that she saw Henri in the arch of the trees, watching her.

  CHAPTER LI

  She saw him without shock, surprise or fear. She stood there in the green gloom of the trees, motionless, her hat dangling from her hand, her white loose dress faintly stirring, and he looked back at her quietly, the blaze of the sunlight throwing him into silhouette.

  He began to walk slowly towards her, and she waited for him. He saw the brilliant blue light of her eyes, the stern delicacy of her face, so palely luminous in the shadow. ‘Hello, Celeste,’ he said, softly. He held out his hands.

  She did not move. But she felt her heart bursting in her breast; she felt the knotting of her throat, and the long trembling that ran along her body. She felt the moist earth slide under her feet, and the long upward swell of joy that rushed through her veins. She lifted her arms, and waited, and she uttered faint and smothered sounds.

  He put his arms around her gently, and she pressed her head into his shoulder, her fingers tightening in the warm light flannel of his coat. The peace and happiness she had experienced a few moments ago climbed to rapture, to ecstasy, and to a breaking sweet grief. She did not know she was crying, or that she was sobbing incoherent things. She only clung to him as a child clings, who has been lost.

  ‘Such a little fool,’ he said, and loosened her arms, and wiped her eyes and wet cheeks. But her hands continued to grasp him unknowingly, and she began to laugh a little, breathlessly, murmurously.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d ever come back,’ she said.

  He put his arm about her again, and sat down with her, on the white wooden bench she had left. He held her to him tightly.

  ‘I didn’t go away. You left me, you little imbecile,’ he said. She could only look at him devouringly, and then, very slowly, the joy began to leave her eyes, and they became drained and dim. ‘I had to,’ she whispered. ‘You shouldn’t have come back. You mustn’t come again.’

  But he only smiled down at her. He said, at last: ‘I know. I know all about it.’

  She said, faintly, clasping her hands tightly together: ‘Then, you see why you mustn’t come again.’

  ‘You were always a little fool, and a romantic,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I heard about the child, from Christopher, I knew that was why you’d gone away from me. But now—that circumstances have changed—it doesn’t matter any longer, does it?’

  With a sick shock, she saw that he still did not understand, that he was in graver danger than ever. She cried out: ‘You mustn’t come again, not alone, not ever again! You’ve got to understand that, Henri!’

  ‘Good God,’ he said impatiently. ‘Did you actually think that I intended to proclaim out loud that this is my child? Why can’t you be sensible, Celeste—.’

  But she interrupted him, in a passion of fear: ‘They all know, all of them! If you came alone, if we tried to go on as we did before, there’d be no hiding it, in spite of what everyone would try to do!’

  He frowned over this, baffled, trying to understand her. ‘Well, then, if they all know, in the family, what does it matter? I’ve never taken the time to wonder whether they knew, or, if they knew, what the hell it mattered, anyway. As far as anyone else, outside of the family, is concerned, that doesn’t trouble me in the least.’

  Her fear became frenzy. ‘Henri, you’ve got to realize that as long as you are married to Annette, you can’t come here—alone! We can’t see each other—alone!’

  He stared at her, suddenly cold and inimical. ‘Look here, I’ve an idea that Annette understands all about it. So—’ She was silent, very white, and shivering. She felt his iron egotism, his formidable blindness and selfishness. At last she said, very faintly: ‘I can’t tell you what I mean, Henri. Not yet. But you’ve got to trust me. As far as anyone else knows, outside the family, this is Peter’s child.’ And she put her hand on her body. ‘But if others ever knew—’

  ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘They never knew anything, before. Besides, I’m not sure whether I care a damn, anyway.’

  As in a flash of lightning, Celeste saw Antoine’s face. She stood up, impelled by a sense of desperate hurry. He stood up, also, and put his arm firmly about her. She saw his face, changed, now, as she had never seen it before, and very moved. He said, roughly: ‘What do you think I’ve gone through, all this time, knowing you were up here alone after poor Pete’s death, knowing you were frightened and sick and wretched? I kept away; I knew you didn’t want me to come. I knew it was all nonsense, but I had that m
uch thought for you, at least, you addled little fool. I don’t suppose you gave a single thought to what all this meant to me, did you?’

  She pulled away from his arm. ‘I did! That is why I knew you mustn’t come here! Can’t you see? If you can’t, I can’t tell you, Henri.’

  She looked at him, in agony. He stood and glowered at her, his pale eyes flashing inexorably.

  ‘I don’t know what this is all about. I only know that I had to see you, in spite of your absurdity. I made Edith promise to be here with you, and I intended to stay away, for some time. But I had to come today. It had gotten to be too much.’ She pleaded, with pathetic eagerness: ‘You can always come, with Annette, or with Edith, or with Christopher. But never alone, never again.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ he said, grimly, ‘that when my child is born I’m to keep my distance, and let you go through it by yourself? And then visit you nicely, with my wife, as an affectionate relative? He added, with increasing roughness: ‘Have you thought what it means to me to have everyone speak to me of “poor Peter’s child”? And to know that it’s always to be that way—“poor Peter’s child”?’

  He was about to say much more brutal things, violent and vicious things, but bit them back, in the face of her fear and white despair. He said, in a stifled voice: ‘Later, things will be different. How long, I can’t say. I’ve always told you I couldn’t marry you while Armand lives. You’ve known that. But when he dies, then Annette will give me a divorce, and we can be married. Not right away. That would be too obvious. But even then, for years, for always, my child must still be “poor Peter’s child”!’

  My God! he thought. Even if I ‘adopt’ the child, for the sake of appearances, he’ll always think of that damned, miserable, poor weakling as his father! He’ll be told that; I’ll have to stand by and let it be done.

  Something of what he was thinking communicated itself to Celeste. Her fear lessened in the rising of her compassion. She had never felt compassion for Henri before, and she was dimly amazed. His pale harsh face swam before her eyes. She held out her hands to him, and then, when he didn’t take them, she grasped his arms. Love gave her an unfamiliar cunning.

  ‘Don’t you see, Henri,’ she pleaded, ‘why you can’t be here, now? Or ever alone with me until—until you are ready to marry me? We’ve got to think of the baby. There—there mustn’t be any sort of scandal about her—’

  ‘Him,’ he corrected, automatically. Then he began to laugh a little. He drew her to him, gently. ‘All right, then. I see what’s been in your mind all along, and I was a fool not to know it. It was all for the baby’s sake, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in a muffled voice, her lips pressed against his neck. His arms tightened strongly about her. ‘It’s a hell of a thing,’ he said, softly. ‘There now, stop blubbering. It isn’t good for you.’

  Then he held her face in his hands, and looked down at her with such moved passion as he had never shown her before. ‘My dear, tell me you are well, that you aren’t too miserable?’

  ‘Oh no, Henri, I’m not miserable! I’m happy. I was just sitting here before you came, thinking how happy I was!’ She was laughing now, but crying too, and she turned her head and kissed his hand.

  ‘We’ll be happy again, my darling. It won’t be long, perhaps. It won’t be too bad; waiting?’

  ‘I could wait forever, if you will just go on loving me,’ she answered, simply. ‘Nothing else really matters.’

  She smiled at him, her wet face shining with tenderness and new joy. And then, her face changed, and she cried out, sharply. He caught her arm. ‘What is it, Celeste?’

  She struggled to speak, above the sudden awful plunging of pain in her body. She gasped for breath, while he held her. He saw the sweat start out over her lip and on her forehead. Her blue eyes dilated with fear and suffering.

  Then he lifted her in his arms, quickly, and carried her out of the little woods, and up the uneven path towards the house.

  Christopher and Edith, who had started out to the gardens behind the house to look for Celeste, were dumbfounded to see Henri swiftly climbing the long slope towards them, carrying her in his arms. Christopher recovered first; he ran towards Henri and his sister. Henri, oblivious to everything but Celeste’s extremity, looked up at Christopher, with alarm and ire. ‘Don’t stand there!’ he shouted. ‘Get someone!’

  ‘Well,’ said Christopher, ‘I’ll be damned.’

  CHAPTER LII

  The child, premature by three weeks, was born two hours later. It was a boy, long and strong of body, but extremely thin, ‘like an eel,’ Christopher remarked, to Edith’s indignation. The baby was not in the least red or wrinkled. It had considerable light hair, and square hands, and strongly marked features, and did not resemble its mother at all.

  ‘And if anyone thinks he is like Pete, then it’ll be a triumph of imagination.’ said Christopher, (Edith later brought him a faded photograph of herself and Henri as children. She, a solemn little girl with a plain and frowning face, stood beside a high-chair, her dress, with the pointed lace at the hem, brushing the tops of her black tasselled boots. In the high-chair sat Henri, a pugnacious, square-faced child with a crest of light hand, pale staring eyes, and a heavy look. Christopher, seeing this photograph, burst out laughing. ‘Hide the damn thing; bury it!’ he advised.)

  Celeste was very ill. The months of fear and grief and despair, of forced courage and inner anguish, now exacted their fee of weakness and lassitude. It was not until six o’clock that night that Henri, her brother, and Edith were permitted to see her. She had slept all day, breathing uneasily, moaning a little. When she opened her eyes, she saw Henri’s face bent over her in the lamplight. His expression was strained and grim, and when he tried to smile it was only a convulsive grimace. She tried to speak, but he put his hand gently near her lips. He felt their heat and dryness when she feebly kissed his hand, and at their touch he started a little and the nostrils in his broad nose expanded as if he had been overtaken by a sharp pang. She slept again, her hot and tremulous hand in his, and he sat beside her, not moving, only watching her, bent towards the bed. The doctors and the nurses were there, but he did not see them. His eyes remained fixed on her, and each time that Edith and Christopher peeped into the room it seemed to them that he had not moved a muscle. Once or twice the doctors tried to persuade him to leave her, but he gave no indication that he had heard them.

  Edith was uneasy. ‘I wonder what they’ll think,’ she said to Christopher. She sat with her husband on the cool terrace, leaning back in her chair, exhausted. ‘Dr Morton already has a funny look. They’re scared to death of Henri. He always frightens people. Anyway, I saw them exchanging a look, and it was a very peculiar one.’

  Christopher shrugged. ‘You can count on their not repeating anything,’ he said. ‘The nurses are another matter.’

  ‘The family has been calling regularly for hours,’ said Edith, hopelessly. ‘I’ve told them no one can see the baby or Celeste for several days, but there’s bound to be a delegation up here tomorrow morning, or even tonight. We’ve got to get Henri out of here.’

  ‘Call out the derricks, then,’ replied Christopher. His voice was so dull that Edith looked at him sharply. That pale wedge-shaped face, with its fine wrinkled skin like parchment, had aged, had become sunken and lifeless. It’s no use, thought Edith, despondently, but with the old dark anger smouldering in her heart. ‘I think,’ said Christopher, ‘that I need a drink. Several drinks. Will you get me one, sweet?’

  Edith went into the house. She returned with the frosty glass, and Christopher drank rapidly. He hated whiskey, but he exhibited a kind of hasty greed in downing it. The night was very dark and silent, except for the shrilling of crickets in the dry warm grass, and the occasional spasmodic fluttering of hidden trees. In the valley below, lights twinkled like distant stars, and once or twice an air-liner thundered overhead, its green and red navigation lights moving like coloured planets through the moonless sky
. All at once, there was a quickening of the wind, and from the sun-baked earth and grass there rose a strong and passionate odour.

  ‘He hasn’t seen the baby yet,’ said Edith. ‘I thought he’d be more interested.’

  ‘It’s been hours,’ answered Christopher, almost in a murmur. ‘Why don’t you try to get him out of there now. Tell him, if necessary, that something’s wrong with the child.’

  Edith considered this for a moment. ‘I will,’ she said, listlessly. She sighed. ‘Of all the messes. I knew it was going to be bad, but not this bad. It’s going to be very hard on Henri. It’s always going to be hard. Even if and when he and Celeste are married, that youngster will always be known as Peter’s child. That isn’t going to be very nice for Henri. I know him too well.’

  It was fortunate that she didn’t see the sudden malignant smile on Christopher’s lips, nor his sudden expression of surprised pleasure. But she felt his malignancy, and she said, in a rising voice: ‘You’ve always hated him, Kit. You’ll have a lot of fun watching him during the next few years.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he murmured, languidly. ‘Anyway, you can’t expect me to love him, can you? Who could? No one ever did, except a batch of women. I’ve always wondered what the secret of his charm was for the ladies.’

  ‘He’s a man, not a polite cut-throat,’ she said, with considerable bitterness.

  ‘Women are such atavists,’ Christopher remarked, with a loud yawn. ‘They prefer clubs to hand-kissing.’

  Edith went upstairs again. She peeped into Celeste’s large pretty room, with the soft curtains blowing gently in the rising night-wind. In the background burned shaded lamps; around the white bed there was a large gentle circle of shadow. Henri still sat there beside Celeste, his relaxed hand near her cheek. Celeste slept, and it was evident that Henri, too, had fallen into a doze. The two nurses were whispering in the background, as they prepared various things at a table. Edith could see the black shining mass of Celeste’s hair on the pillow, and her quiet white profile. She was breathing easily now, and did not stir.