by A. J. Cronin
At last he rose, shook off his lethargy, and went out of the room. But in the corridor he paused, his ears caught by the sound of a guarded yet heavy step beneath. Surely he knew that step. He listened attentively, then, moving quietly past Mary’s room, he descended the stairs and entered the refectory. Yes, he had known who it was.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’ve come.’
From across the chair on which he straddled, Corcoran smiled at him – that familiar, battered smile charged with unconquerable optimism.
‘Sure. Didn’t I tell ye I was comin’?’
‘I’m glad,’ said Harvey heavily. ‘Yes, I’m glad that you have come.’
There was a silence, during which Corcoran shot furtively one serious glance at Harvey; then, pulling out his snuff-box, he tilted his head, affected to consider it with stupendous interest.
‘I know how things are,’ he said. ‘ Had it all from Susan T. She let me in, ye see. I near fell off the step at the soight of her. I’m sorry! Honest to God, I’m sorry – at the throuble – an’ all. Faith, I’ll do what I can to give ye a hand.’
‘What is there for you to do?’
‘Ye’ve got to eat, haven’t ye? I’ll get me sleeves up and have a turn in the cook-house. Sure, I’ve cooked for fifty in me time – back on an Oregon loggin’-camp. I’d like to have a slash at this place – kitchen and all. ’Tis a likely spot, but it’s needin’ someone with a sinse of order in his eye.’
Harvey listened with a set face; then he said:
‘I might want some things from town. You’ll get them for me?’
‘Faith and I will too,’ answered Jimmy soothingly. ‘Didn’t I run over with a note for Susan T. a minnit ago? I’ll do anything that’s useful. Talk sense. And, by the same token, I’ll stand by ye if yer afther runnin’ into throuble here.’
‘Trouble? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, just things I’ve been pickin’ up down the town. Off and on, ye know. Nothin’ special. Just odd bits of things.’
‘What things?’ cried Harvey tersely.
Jimmy breathed upon his snuff-box, rubbed it gently against his trouser-leg, then slipped it back into his pocket.
‘Them two others has come over from Orotava,’ he answered easily. ‘ Dibdin and Mistress Baynham. Stayin’ at the Plaza, they are. And more. The agent fella, Carr, dropped into town last night and started raisin’ hell to find the little lady. Betwixt one thing and another, I’m thinkin’ ye might be havin’ throuble to keep her here.’
‘I intend to keep her here.’
‘Of course ye do. Of course, of course.’
A word trembled on Harvey’s tongue, but it remained unspoken. Just then the door-bell rang, a vicious pealing which was repeated with the same unnecessary force before the first jangling echoes had died out. The two men looked at each other, and into Corcoran’s face there swam a look of righteous vindication.
‘Didn’t I tell ye?’ he muttered. ‘They’ve come afther her.’
‘See who it is,’ Harvey said curtly.
Jimmy felt for his toothpick, concomitant of his most absolute composure; thrusting it delicately between his teeth, he lounged from the room. A moment later a quick rush of footsteps sounded in the hall and a man burst into the room. It was Carr. At his heels came a little Spaniard with a small neat yellow face and a large neat leather bag.
Behind them, closing the door with studied nonchalance, was Corcoran.
Carr wasted no time: his heavy face was flushed, the veins of his neck congested; he looked a man whom anger had made to hurry. In one second his arrogant gaze flashed round the room then came to rest on Harvey.
‘Mary Fielding is in this house,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to take her away.’
Harvey looked at him steadily. He did not answer for a long time.
‘How do you know she is here?’
‘On Tuesday she left her friends in Orotava. She had been queer – obviously unwell. The next afternoon she was seen in Santa Cruz enquiring the road to Laguna. We know she took a calèche to Los Cisnes. Last night, from the woman Manuela, we had positive information of an English señora who is ill with fever in this house. I know she is Mary Fielding. Now are you satisfied? I have a doctor and a closed car. I am going to take her away.’
Harvey’s eyes came to rest on the Spaniard.
‘You are a doctor?’ he enquired civilly.
‘Si, señor,’ The little yellow man drew his small pointed boots together and made a deprecatory bow.
‘Apothecary, graduate with commending of Seville. And with papers of recommending from many good families I have awaited upon.’
‘Good!’ said Harvey, ‘apothecary graduate with commending and recommending. Very good.’ Reflectively his gaze wandered back to Carr. ‘And you are going to take her away?’
Carr’s colour deepened.
‘I’ve said that once,’ he answered sharply. ‘I don’t propose to say it again. Where is she? Where is her room? I’m going up there now.’
‘No,’ said Harvey in the same even tone, ‘you’re not going up. And you’re not going to take her away. She came here of her own free will. And now she is ill – desperately ill. Do you understand? And your surgeon apothecary is not going to look after her. I shall do that – here, in this house.’
‘You!’ sneered Carr. ‘I know all about you. I’ve been making a few enquiries since I met you. I wouldn’t trust a dog to your care. And here! What sort of place is this for a sick person? You’ve no nurse for her, no treatment, nothing.’
Harvey gave him a pale, cold glance.
‘I have a nurse for her. I know what I am doing. And I say that it is madness for you to move her. She must not be moved until she has her crisis. Your Spanish friend will tell that I am right.’
The little apothecary, thus appealed to, put down his bag and made a timid non-committal gesture with his shoulders.
Carr took no notice; he was scowling; his eyes, slightly injected, were fixed on Harvey.
‘You!’ he said again, more loudly. ‘I tell you I don’t give a damn for your opinion. I’ve told you what I mean to do. And I don’t intend to waste any more time. I’m in a hurry. I mean to find her.’ He took two steps forward; but Harvey was at the door before him.
‘No,’ he said in a voice like ice, ‘I think not.’ He was surprised to find himself so calm. His whole body was set to an inordinate calmness. He felt himself poised like a runner keyed to the signal-gun. Within, his purpose burned with a cold intensity. The thought of physical violence, of interference from this hectoring fellow, made his determination glacial.
‘Let me pass.’
Harvey shook his head slowly.
They faced each other closely; suddenly a corded artery stood out on Carr’s temple.
‘And who,’ he said thickly, ‘who is going to stop me?’
‘I am.’
There was a rigid silence. The Spanish doctor, utterly dismayed, slipped back against the wall. Jimmy stood tense, his eyes alight, his nostrils expanded, his big hands clenching and unclenching in sheer delight.
On Carr’s face there was a wicked look; with his head half lowered, he had a bull-necked pugnacity. He looked out and out a dangerous customer.
‘So,’ he sneered heavily, ‘we think we can fight, do we? We are athletic as well as intellectual. Isn’t that pretty?’ All at once his tone altered; he thrust out his jaw. ‘Get out of the way, you fool. I’m stronger than you. I know everything about this game. Get out or I’ll wipe the floor with you.’
Harvey did not move. His face had a cold pallor; his lips, drawn together, held the vestige of an inner smile.
‘Will you get out?’ cried Carr again.
Once more Harvey shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the other’s face.
‘Then, by God, you’ll get hurt,’ shouted Carr, and with his hands up and his head down he rushed forward. Viciously he shot out his left, missed, then swung with his right. The blow caught Harvey heavily upo
n the head. As it went home, a sort of sneering grin ran over Carr’s face. He was a trained boxer. He saw that Harvey had no style – his hands were low, his guard open – and he thought wickedly: He knows nothing; I’ll punish him till he drops.
Crouching, his lower lip protruding mockingly, he sparred lightly, then feinted, to land on the jaw with his left. But the blow never landed. Harvey suddenly shot out his right. Let go unexpectedly, the knuckled fist smashed full into Carr’s face with such force it seemed to flatten back his nose. His head jerked over, a spurt of blood gushed down his nostrils, the smile twisted upon his mouth. He swallowed painfully. The saline taste of his own blood ran into his throat. He drew back, shook his head, then bored in again with a fierce rush. The rush carried Harvey back against the door. His shoulder struck heavily against the solid wood, but he side-stepped and hit Carr hard in the wind. He felt his fist go home with a soft thud. Carr winced. He was getting more than he had bargained for. His temper gone, his lip now drawn back in a fixed snarl, he rushed in again and went for Harvey, using both hands to head and body. For a full minute he forced the fighting without landing clean. Harvey kept away from him, always a fraction too soon. His quickness was extraordinary, his eye steady, hard with a deep-set bitterness. He knew nothing of boxing. But he knew he must get the better of this fight. High on his cheek-bone was a livid weal; he breathed through his nostrils; he seemed waiting, waiting all the time.
Carr was trying everything he knew. His arrogant air was gone; he was feeling now the flabbiness of his condition. He seemed desperately anxious to get home a decisive punch. Moisture ran down behind his ears; his quick, indrawn breaths hissed through his teeth. He hit Harvey heavily in the neck, bored in to a clinch. Using his weight, he butted Harvey hard under the chin, fell on him savagely, wrestled and tripped him across his knee.
Harvey went down, twisting his leg. But he was up in a second, fought off Carr’s rush, and fell into a clinch. In that panting breath upon his cheek he heard the signal he had awaited. He broke away. For a moment he stood off, poised on his toes, then with shut teeth he dashed fiercely into Carr. He seemed to have saved everything for this. He showed no science, but he fought like a demon. Carr took heavy punishment, tried to cover up, and failed. A blow to the head sent him staggering to his knees. He knelt there for a while, then he rose, panting. Smeared with blood, his face was an ugly sight. His collar had come adrift; his hair fallen across his eyes. And he was wild with rage. He went for Harvey madly. His jaw was uncovered, and, like a flash, with all his strength Harvey shot out his left. The delicious thrill of that impact ran up his arm and into his blood like tingling fire. It was a moment to live for.
Carr fell with a thud. It was all over. Harvey wiped the sweat from his eyes, stood watching. Slowly Carr rolled over on his side, lay for a moment with glassy stare upon the ceiling, then struggled to his feet. One eye was closed; his mouth seemed full of blood. Supporting himself against the table, he coughed once or twice, groped in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it painfully against his lips.
‘I’ll remember this,’ he said with difficulty, looking at Harvey from the corner of his eyes. ‘I don’t forget easily.’
‘Sure ye won’t forget it,’ broke in Jimmy; he paused, let out a long, ecstatic sigh. ‘Ye’ve had such a bidin’ it’ll stick to ye for the rest of yer born days.’
‘You haven’t finished with me,’ went on Carr, still staring slantingly at Harvey. ‘I know how to deal with you.’
Harvey said nothing.
‘You’ve landed yourself in a pretty mess,’ continued the other. ‘And I warn you, if anything happens to Lady Fielding you will be held responsible. I am going to cable to her husband. Immediately I have his authority I shall act.’
Holding his face tenderly, he threw one last vicious glance at Harvey, then, with his head down, brushed past to the door. The apothecary, impelled at last to action looked helplessly from one to the other, bowed jerkily at nothing, then followed like a puppy-dog.
As he went by, Harvey reached out his hand and said quietly:
‘Leave me that bag.’
‘But, señor,’ stammered the other, pale to the lips, ‘my medicaments are contained –’
‘Don’t be afraid. You shall have it back. Later.’
‘Assuredly, señor. Most assuredly. But there is the question of usage. For me there is need of immediate usage. And it is not convenable to deprive quickly. We of the profession – we must conduct ourselves, señor, with moral, with behaviour, with deportment.’
Firmly Harvey took the bag. The apothecary stood limp, then, raising his hands and eyes to heaven, he gasped aloud one word and fled the room to safety. There was a moment’s silence split by the heavy slam of the outer door, then Jimmy pressed forward, his battered face ecstatically abeam.
‘By God,’ he cried, ‘that was a fight. Sure, I wouldn’t have missed it for the money in Klondyke. You gave him two stone and knocked a tune out of him. Oh, didn’t you spoil his mug! It’s the prettiest fight I’ve seen since cracky Joe put out the Smiler. Oh, tricky, tricky, lovely.’ His lips worked with his delight; he took snuff twice rapidly; then felt Harvey’s bleeding knuckles with gentle, appraising touch.
‘Nothin’ broke, thank God. These thick-necked customers take a lot of knockin’ out. Oh, my sammy, what a hidin’ he took. Didn’t he ask for it? And didn’t he need it? Are ye all right yourself, now? Are ye sure?’
‘I’m all right,’ said Harvey. He walked over to the table, lifted up the bag, and pulled it open. It contained, as he anticipated, a serviceable equipment of instruments and drugs. He snapped the catch shut, picked up the bag again, and stepped across the room. At the door, standing with one hand pressed against the lintel, he gave Corcoran a final look.
‘I’m going up now,’ he said. ‘ Do what you can down here.’ Turning, he went upstairs to the sick-room.
Chapter Twenty-One
Afternoon of the same day. And Corcoran was in the kitchen, which he had made, instinctively, his own. The beaten blue clay floor, wide-open fireplace, and lofty cone-shaped roof – designed five hundred years before to carry off the fume of roasting meats – were somehow congruous to his nature. But the sad disorder of the place offended even his indulgent eye.
Discarding coat and vest, he had set himself in gentlemanly fashion – hardly to clear the litter, but to ‘put a top on things,’ to draw just a ‘dthrop of wather,’ to furbish leisurely a few utensils against their later use.
He was whistling softly. He liked a job like this – sure, he did! – it brought back memories of the old place yonder. There was, indeed, about this spot a native ease that pleased him proudly. He was content. Suddenly, at a quiet sound, he paused, glanced up from his work. The marquesa stood in the doorway, her hands folded, her bird-like eyes bent immovably upon him. At once he stopped his gentle whistle and with a conscious air tucked his shirt more modestly within his waist-belt. Then he rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and eloquently broke the silence.
‘Turned warmer of a suddent, don’t ye fancy? Faith, for all that it goes against the grain to let you catch me unbeknowns without me collar.’
Still framed by the doorway, she said:
‘Where is Manuela?’
‘If it’s the woman yer meanin’, she’s gone this long while back. Or so they tells me. And she’s left a pretty pickle of a mess behind.
Bad scran to her, ye’d think she’d stirred the kitchen wid a stick. I’m doin’ me best to get things straight.’
She pursed her tiny mouth perplexedly.
‘But I do not understand. You, a guest! Thus you demean yourself and me.’
‘Ah, now! Honest work never demaned nobody,’ he boasted, with a virtuous hitch to his braces, ‘ no, indade, not the finest fambly in the land. And as for the other, sure, doesn’t Playto say it’s proper to bestow fayvours on them what needs them?’
‘I do not ask favour,’ she answered gravely. ‘ Here, Isab
el de Luego bestows favour. But without doubt you are gentle. And your family? You have said that it is truly fine.’
‘None bether,’ he assured her blandly. ‘Descended from the Kings of Ireland on me father’s side. I could giv’ ye the pedigree. There’s the blood of Brian Boru in me for a sartinty.’
She gave a little exclamation, and came mincing into the room towards him.
‘So, it is pleasure. Truly, you have the air of caballero.’
For a moment he gallantly sustained her naive yet hooded scrutiny; then sheepishly he looked down, wiped his palms on the seat of his trousers, and declared:
‘Well, that’s the way me father had it, anny way. The more so when he’d got a dthrop of flip in him. Maybe we was and maybe we wasn’t such great things. But an Irishman’s a gintleman whatever way he’s born. And show me the man that denies it. I’ll paste him like Harvey done the agent.’
‘Yes, you have fought,’ she murmured. ‘ Your face – so bravely ugly – scarred like a matador’s. It does not prepossess. But behind there is a heart.’
He shifted his feet and reached ineffectually for his snuff. Then he grinned.
‘Sure, there’s a heart. Big as a boat. Couldn’t have swam along without it.’
‘You have had trouble. Ay, ay, ay. It is writ upon your beautiful unloveliness. Trouble enough to break the heart of strength. But be not put down. Always there is an ending. For you perhaps there is an ending now.’
Doubtful still as to whether her intention was derisive, Jimmy threw her an uncomfortable glance from beneath his tufted brows.
‘You’ve had trouble enough yourself by the look on it.’
She smiled, netting her face with sad yet elfish wrinkles.
‘Jesus Maria,’ she murmured. ‘Speak not that word for Isabel de Luego. Be it known she is surrounded by infamy. Or was. Everything gone to loss. Everything to pieces. Make yourself honey and the flies will eat you. Breed up crows and they will peck your eyes out. Don Balthasar was the only one. And now he is dead.’
