Anna of the Five Towns · Chapter 10 (4/4)

“Oh! There’s the loveliest yacht just coming into the bay,” Beatrice cried suddenly, in a tone of affected enthusiasm. “I’m going out to sketch it.” She snatched up her hat and sketching-block, and ran hastily from the room. The other two saw her sitting on the grass, sharpening a pencil. The yacht, a large and luxurious craft, had evidently come to anchor for the night.

Mrs. Sutton arrived from her bedroom, and then Mr. Sutton also came in. Tea was served. Mynors called to Beatrice through the window and received no reply. Then Mrs. Sutton summoned her.

“Go on with your tea,” Beatrice shouted, without turning her head. “Don’t wait for me. I’m bound to finish this now.”

“Fetch her, Anna dear,” said Mrs. Sutton after another interval. Anna rose to obey, half-fearful.

“Aren’t you coming in, Bee?” She stood by the sketcher’s side, and observed nothing but a few meaningless lines on the block.

“Didn’t you hear what I said to mother?”

Anna retired in discomfiture.

Tea was finished. They went out, but kept at a discreet distance from the artist, who continued to use her pencil until dusk had fallen. Then they returned to the sitting-room, where a fire had been lighted, and Beatrice at length followed. As the others sat in a circle round the fire, Beatrice, who occupied the sofa in solitude, gave a shiver.

“Beatrice, you’ve taken cold,” said her mother, “sitting out there like that.”

“Oh, nonsense, mother⁠—what a fidget you are!”

“A fidget I certainly am not, my darling, and that you know very well. As you’ve had no tea, you shall have some gruel at once, and go to bed and get warm.”

“Oh no, mother!” But Mrs. Sutton was resolved, and in half an hour she had taken Beatrice to bed and tucked her up.

When Anna went to the bedroom Beatrice was awake.

“Can’t you sleep?” she inquired kindly.

“No,” said Beatrice, in a feeble voice, “I’m restless, somehow.”

“I wonder if it’s influenza,” said Mrs. Sutton, on the following morning, when she learnt from Anna that Beatrice had had a bad night, and would take breakfast in bed. She carried the invalid’s food upstairs herself. “I hope it isn’t influenza,” she said later. “The girl is very hot.”

“You haven’t a clinical thermometer?” Mynors suggested.

“Go, see if you can buy one at the little chemist’s,” she replied eagerly. In a few minutes he came back with the instrument.

“She’s at over a hundred,” Mrs. Sutton reported, having used the thermometer. “What do you say, father? Shall we send for a doctor? I’m not so set up with doctors as a general rule,” she added, as if in defence, to Anna. “I brought Beatrice through measles and scarlet fever without a doctor⁠—we never used to think of having a doctor in those days for ordinary ailments; but influenza⁠—that’s different. Eh, I dread it; you never know how it will end. And poor Beatrice had such a bad attack last Martinmas.”

“If you like, I’ll run for a doctor now,” said Mynors.

“Let be till tomorrow,” the Alderman decided. “We’ll see how she goes on. Happen it’s nothing but a cold.”

“Yes,” assented Mrs. Sutton; “it’s no use crying out before you’re hurt.”

Anna was struck by the placidity with which they covered their apprehension. Towards noon, Beatrice, who said that she felt better, insisted on rising. A fire was lighted at once in the parlour, and she sat in front of it till teatime, when she was obliged to go to bed again. On the Wednesday morning, after a night which had been almost sleepless for both girls, her temperature stood at 103°, and Henry fetched the doctor, who pronounced it a case of influenza, severe, demanding very careful treatment. Instantly the normal movement of the household was changed. The sickroom became a mysterious centre round which everything revolved, and the parlour, without the alteration of a single chair, took on a deserted, forlorn appearance. Meals were eaten like the passover, with loins girded for any sudden summons. Mrs. Sutton and Anna, as nurses, grew important in the eyes of the men, who instinctively effaced themselves, existing only like messenger-boys whose business it is to await a call. Yet there was no alarm, flurry, nor excitement. In the evening the doctor returned. The patient’s temperature had not fallen. It was part of the treatment that a medicine should be administered every two hours with absolute regularity, and Mrs. Sutton said that she should sit up through the night.

“I shall do that,” said Anna.

“Nay, I won’t hear of it,” Mrs. Sutton replied, smiling.

But the three men (the doctor had remained to chat in the parlour), recognising Anna’s capacity and reliability, and perhaps impressed also by her businesslike appearance as, arrayed in a white apron, she stood with firm lips before them, gave a unanimous decision against Mrs. Sutton.

“We’st have you ill next, lass,” said the Alderman to his wife; “and that’ll never do.”

“Well,” Mrs. Sutton surrendered, “if I can leave her to anyone, it’s Anna.”

Mynors smiled appreciatively.

On the Thursday morning there was still no sign of recovery. The temperature was 104°, and the patient slightly delirious. Anna left the sickroom at eight o’clock to preside at breakfast, and Mrs. Sutton took her place.

“You look tired, my dear,” said the Alderman affectionately.

“I feel perfectly well,” she replied with cheerfulness.

“And you aren’t afraid of catching it?” Mynors asked.

“Afraid?” she said; “there’s no fear of me catching it.”

“How do you know?”

“I know, that’s all. I’m never ill.”

“That’s the right way to keep well,” the Alderman remarked.

The quiet admiration of these two men was very pleasant to her. She felt that she had established herself forever in their esteem. After breakfast, in obedience to them, she slept for several hours on Mrs. Sutton’s bed. In the afternoon Beatrice was worse. The doctor called, and found her temperature at 105°.

“This can’t last,” he remarked briefly.

“Well, Doctor,” Mr. Sutton said, “it’s i’ your hands.”

“Nay,” Mrs. Sutton murmured with a smile, “I’ve left it with God. It’s with Him.”

This was the first and only word of religion, except grace at table, that Anna heard from the Suttons during her stay in the Isle of Man. She had feared lest vocal piety might form a prominent feature of their daily life, but her fear had proved groundless. She, too, from reason rather than instinct, had tried to pray for Beatrice’s recovery. She had, however, found much more satisfaction in the activity of nursing.

Again that night she sat up, and on the Friday morning Beatrice was better. At noon all immediate danger was past; the patient slept; her temperature was almost correct. Anna went to bed in the afternoon and slept soundly till suppertime, when she awoke very hungry. For the first time in three days Beatrice could be left alone. The other four had supper together, cheerful and relieved after the tension.

“She’ll be as right as a trivet in a few days,” said the Alderman.

“A few weeks,” said Mrs. Sutton.

“Of course,” said Mynors, “you’ll stay on here, now?”

“We shall stay until Beatrice is quite fit to travel,” Mr. Sutton answered. “I might have to run over to th’ Five Towns for a day or two middle of next week, but I can come back immediately.”

“Well, I must go tomorrow,” Mynors sighed.

“Surely you can stay over Sunday, Henry?”

“No; I’ve no one to take my place at school.”

“And I must go tomorrow, too,” said Anna suddenly.

“Fiddle-de-dee, Anna!” the Alderman protested.

“I must,” she insisted. “Father will expect me. You know I came for a fortnight. Besides, there’s Agnes.”

“Agnes will be all right.”

“I must go.” They saw that she was fixed.

“Won’t a short walk do you good?” Mynors suggested to her, with singular gravity, after supper. “You’ve not been outside for two days.”

She looked inquiringly at Mrs. Sutton.

“Yes, take her, Henry; she’ll sleep better for it. Eh, Anna, but it’s a shame to send you home with those rings round your eyes.”

She went upstairs for a jacket. Beatrice was awake.

“Anna,” she exclaimed in a weak voice, without any preface, “I was awfully silly and cross the other afternoon, before all this business. Just now, when you came into the room, I was feeling quite ashamed.”

“Oh! Bee!” she answered, bending over her, “what nonsense! Now go off to sleep at once.” She was very happy. Beatrice, victim of a temperament which had the childishness and the impulsiveness of the artist without his higher and sterner traits, sank back in facile content.

The night was still and very dark. When Anna and Mynors got outside they could distinguish neither the sky nor the sea; but the faint, restless murmur of the sea came up the cliffs. Only the lights of the houses disclosed the direction of the road.

“Suppose we go down to the jetty, and then along as far as the breakwater?” he said, and she concurred. “Won’t you take my muffler⁠—again?” he added, pulling this ever-present article from his pocket.

“No, thanks,” she said, almost coldly, “it’s really quite warm.” She regarded the offer of the muffler as an indiscretion⁠—his sole indiscretion during their acquaintance. As they walked down the hill to the shore she though how Beatrice’s illness had sharply interrupted their relations. If she had come to the Isle of Man with a vague idea that he would possibly propose to her, the expectation was disappointed; but she felt no disappointment. She felt that events had lifted her to a higher plane than that of lovemaking. She was filled with the proud satisfaction of a duty accomplished. She did not seek to minimise to herself the fact that she had been of real value to her friends in the last few days, had probably saved Mrs. Sutton from illness, had certainly laid them all under an obligation. Their gratitude, unexpressed, but patent on each face, gave her infinite pleasure. She had won their respect by the manner in which she had risen to the height of an emergency that demanded more than devotion. She had proved, not merely to them but to herself, that she could be calm under stress, and could exert moral force when occasion needed. Such were the joyous and exultant reflections which passed through her brain⁠—unnaturally active in the factitious wakefulness caused by excessive fatigue. She was in an extremely nervous and excitable condition⁠—and never guessed it, fancying indeed that her emotions were exceptionally tranquil that night. She had not begun to realise the crisis through which she had just lived.

The uneven road to the ruined breakwater was quite deserted. Having reached the limit of the path, they stood side by side, solitary, silent, gazing at the black and gently heaving surface of the sea. The eye was foiled by the intense gloom; the ear could make nothing of the strange night-noises of the bay and the ocean beyond; but the imagination was stimulated by the appeal of all this mystery and darkness. Never had the water seemed so wonderful, terrible, and austere.

“We are going away tomorrow,” he said at length.

Anna started and shook with apprehension at the tremor in his voice. She had read that a woman was always well warned by her instincts when a man meant to propose to her. But here was the proposal imminent, and she had not suspected. In a flash of insight she perceived that the very event which had separated them for three days had also impelled the lover forward in his course. It was the thought of her vigils, her fortitude, her compassion, that had fanned the flame. She was not surprised, only made uncomfortable, when he took her hand.

“Anna,” he said, “it’s no use making a long story of it. I’m tremendously in love with you; you know I am.”

He stepped back, still holding her hand. She could say nothing.

“Well?” he ventured. “Didn’t you know?”

“I thought⁠—I thought,” she murmured stupidly, “I thought you liked me.”

“I can’t tell you how I admire you. I’m not going to praise you to your face, but I simply never met anyone like you. From the very first moment I saw you, it was the same. It’s something in your face, Anna⁠—Anna, will you be my wife?”

The actual question was put in a precise, polite, somewhat conventional tone. To Anna he was never more himself than at that moment.

She could not speak; she could not analyse her feelings; she could not even think. She was adrift. At last she stammered: “We’ve only known each other⁠—”

“Oh, dear,” he exclaimed masterfully, “what does that matter? If it had been a dozen years instead of one, that would have made no difference.” She drew her hand timidly away, but he took it again. She felt that he dominated her and would decide for her. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she said.

She saw pictures of her career as his wife, and resolved that one of the first acts of her freedom should be to release Agnes from the more ignominious of her father’s tyrannies.

They walked home almost in silence. She was engaged, then. Yet she experienced no new sensation. She felt as she had felt on the way down, except that she was sorely perturbed. There was no ineffable rapture, no ecstatic bliss. Suddenly the prospect of happiness swept over her like a flood.

At the gate she wished to make a request to him, but hesitated, because she could not bring herself to use his Christian name. It was proper for her to use his Christian name, however, and she would do so, or perish.

“Henry,” she said, “don’t tell anyone here.” He merely kissed her once more. She went straight upstairs.