'Laugh away, old Dostoievsky! But let ife tell you, it's Stavrogin who ought to have been called the Idiot, not Mishkin. He was incomparably the bigger fool, the completer pervert.'
'And what sort of a fool and pervert is the fourth person at this table?' asked Philip.
'What indeed!' Rampion shook his head. His fine hair floated up silkily. He smiled. 'A pedagogue pervert. A Jeremiah pervert. A worry-about-the-bloodyold-world pervert. Above all a gibber pervert.' He got up. 'That's why I'm going home,' he said. 'The way I've been talking--it's really nonhuman. Really scandalous. I'm ashamed. But that's the trouble: when you're up against nonhuman things and people, you inevitably become nonhuman yourself. It's all your fault.' He gave a final grin, waved goodnight and was gone.
Burlap came home to find Beatrice, as usual, waiting up for him. Sitting--for such was the engagingly childlike habit he had formed during the last few weeks--on the floor at her feet, his head, with the little pink tonsure in the middle of the dark curls, against her knee, he sipped his hot milk and talked of Rampion. An extraordinary man, a great man, even. Great? queried Beatrice, disapprovingly. She didn't like to hear greatness attributed to any living man (the dead were a different matter; they were dead), unless it was to Denis himself. Hardly great, she insisted jealously. Well, perhaps not quite. But very nearly. If he hadn't that strange insensitiveness to spiritual values, that prejudice, that blind spot. The attitude was comprehensible. Rampion was reacting against something which had gone too far in one direction; but in the process of reacting he had gone too far in the other. His incapacity to understand St. Francis, for example. The grotesque and really hideous things he could say about the saint. That was extraordinary and deplorable.
'What does he say?' asked Beatrice severely. Since knowing Burlap, she had taken St. Francis under her protection.
Burlap gave her an account, a little expurgated, of what Rampion had said. Beatrice was indignant. How could he say such things? How did he dare? It was an outrage. Yes, it was a defect in him, Burlap admitted, a real defect. But so few people, he added in charitable palliation, were born with a real feeling for spiritual beauty. Rampion was an extraordinary man in many ways, but it was as though he lacked that extra sense-organ which enables men like St. Francis to see the beauty that is beyond earthly beauty. In a rudimentary form he himself, he thought, had the power. How rarely he met anyone who seemed to be like him! Almost everybody was in this respect a stranger. It was like seeing normally in a country where most people were colour blind. Didn't Beatrice feel that too? For of course she was one of the rare clear-seeing ones. He had felt it at once, the first time he met her. Beatrice nodded gravely. Yes, she too felt like that. Burlap smiled up at her; he knew it. She felt proud and important. Rampion's idea of love, for example; Burlap shook his head. So extraordinarily gross and animal and corporeal.
'Dreadful,' said Beatrice feelingly. Denis, she was thinking, was so different. Tenderly she looked down at the head that reposed, so trustingly, against her knee. She adored the way his hair curled, and his very small, beautiful ears, and even the pink bare spot on the top of his crown. That little pink tonsure was somehow rather engagingly pathetic. There was a long silence.
Burlap at last profoundly sighed. 'How tired I am!' he said.
'You ought to go to bed.'
'Too tired even to move.' He pressed his cheek more heavily against her knee and shut his eyes.
Beatrice raised her hand, hesitated a moment, dropped it again, then raised it once more and began to run her fingers soothingly through his dark curls. There was another long silence.
'Ah, don't stop,' he said, when at last she withdrew her hand. 'It's so comforting. Such a virtue seems to go out from you. You'd almost cured my headache.'
'You've got a headache?' asked Beatrice, her solicitude running as usual to a kind of anger. 'Then you simply must go to bed,' she commanded.
'But I'm so happy here.'
'No, I insist.' Her protective motherliness was thoroughly aroused. It was a bullying tenderness.
'How cruel you are!' Burlap complained, rising reluctantly to his feet. Beatrice was touched with compunction. 'I'll stroke your head when you're in bed,' she promised. She too now regretted that soft warm silence, that speechless intimacy, which her outburst of domineering solicitude had too abruptly shattered. She justified herself by an explanation. The headache would return if he didn't go to sleep the moment it was cured. And so on.
Burlap had been in bed nearly ten minutes when she came to keep her promise. She was dressed in a green dressing-gown and her yellow hair was plaited into a long thick pigtail that swung heavily as she moved, like the heavy plaited tail of a cart-horse at a show.
'You look about twelve with that pigtail hanging down your back,' said Burlap, enchanted.
Beatrice laughed, rather nervously, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He raised his hand and took hold of the thick plait. 'Too charming,' he said. 'It simply invites pulling.' He gave a little tug at it, playfully.
'Look out,' she warned. 'I'll pull back, in spite of your headache.' She took hold of one of his dark curls.
'Pax, pax!' he begged, reverting to the vocabulary of the preparatory school. 'I'll let go. The real reason,' he added, 'why little boys don't like fighting with little girls is simply that little girls are so much more ruthless and ferocious.'
Beatrice laughed again. There was a silence. She felt a little breathless and fluttering, as one feels when one is anxiously expecting something to happen. 'Head bad?'
she asked
'Rather bad.' She stretched out a hand and touched his forehead.
'Your hand's magical,' he said. With a quick unexpected movement he wriggled round sideways under the sheets and laid his head on her lap. 'There,' he whispered and, with a sigh of contentment, closed his eyes.
For a moment Beatrice was taken aback, almost frightened. That dark head lying hard and heavy on her thighs--it seemed strange, terrifying. She had to suppress a little shudder before she could feel glad at the confiding childishness of his movement. She began stroking his forehead, stroking his scalp through the thick dark curls. Time passed. The soft warm silence enveloped them once more, the dumb intimacy of contact was reestablished. She was no longer domineering in her protective solicitude, only tender. The armour of her hardness was as though melted away from her, melted away in this warm intimacy along with the terrors which made it necessary.
Burlap sighed again. He was in a kind of blissful doze of sensual passivity.
'Better?' she asked in a soft whisper.
'Still rather bad on the side,' he whispered back. 'Just over the ear.' And he rolled his head over so that she could more easily reach the painful spot, rolled it over so that his face was pressed against her belly, her soft belly that stirred so livingly with her breathing, that was so warm and yielding against his face.
At the touch of his face against her body Beatrice felt a sudden renewal of those spasmodic creepings of apprehension. Her flesh was terrified by the nearness of that physical intimacy. But as Burlap did not stir, as he made no dangerous gesture, no movement towards a closer contact, the terrors died gradually down and their flutterings served only to enhance and intensify that wonderful warm emotion of tenderness which succeeded them. She ran her fingers through his hair, again and again. The warmth of his breathing was against her belly. She shivered a little; her happiness fluttered with apprehensions and anticipations. Her flesh trembled, but was somehow joyful; was afraid and yet curious; shrank, but took warmth at the contact and even, through its terrors, timidly desired.
'Better?' she whispered again.
He made a little movement with his head and pressed his face closer to her soft flesh.
'Shall I stop now?' she went on, 'shall I go away?'
Burlap raised his head and looked at her. 'No, no,' he implored. 'Don't go. Not yet. Don't break the magic. Stay here for a moment longer. Lie down here for a moment under the quilt. For a moment.'
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Without speaking she stretched herself out beside him and he drew the quilt over her, he turned out the light.
The fingers that caressed her arm under its wide sleeve touched delicately, touched spiritually and as it were disembodiedly, like the fingers of those inflated rubber gloves that brush so thrillingly against one's face in the darkness of seances, bringing comfort from the Great Beyond and a message of affection from the loved ones who have passed over. To caress and yet be a spiritualized rubber glove at a seance, to make love but as though from the Great Beyond--that was Burlap's talent. Softly, patiently, with an infinite disembodied gentleness he went on caressing. Beatrice's armour was melted quite away. It was the soft younggirlish, tremulous core of her that Burlap caressed with that delicate touch of spirit fingers from the Great Beyond. Her armour was gone; but she felt so wonderfully safe with Denis. She felt no fears, or at least only such faint breathless flutterings of her still almost childish flesh as served to quicken her happiness. She felt so wonderfully safe even when--after what had seemed a delicious eternity of patiently repeated caresses from wrist to shoulder and back again--the spirit hand reached out of the Beyond and touched her breast. Delicately, almost disembodiedly it touched, like a skin of rubber stuffed with air; spiritually it slid over the rounded flesh, and its angelic fingers lingered along the skin. At the first touch the round breast shuddered; it had its private terrors within Beatrice's general happiness and sense of security. But patiently, gently, unalarmingly, the spirit hand repeated its caress again, again, till the reassured and at last eager breast longed for its return and her whole body was alive with the tingling ramifications of the breast's desires. In the darkness the eternities prolonged themselves.
CHAPTER XXXV
Next day, instead of whimpering with every return of pain, the child began to scream--cry after shrill cry, repeated with an almost clockwork regularity of recurrence for what seemed to Elinor an eternity of hours. Like the scream of a rabbit in a trap. But a thousand times worse; for it was a child that screamed, not an animal; her child, trapped and in agony. She felt as though she too were trapped. Trapped by her own utter helplessness to alleviate his pain. Trapped by that obscure sense of guilt, that irrational belief (but haunting in spite of its irrationality), that ever more closely pressing and suffocating conviction that it was all, in some inscrutable fashion, her fault, a punishment, malevolently vicarious, for her offence. Caged within her own snare, but outside his, she sat there holding the small hand as it were between invisible bars, unable to come to his aid, waiting through the child's quickbreathed and feverish silence for the recurrence of that dreadful cry, for yet another sight of that suddenly distorted face, that shuddering little body racked by a pain which was somehow of her own inflicting.
The doctor came at last with his opiates.
Philip arrived by the twelve-twenty. He had been in no hurry to get up and come by an earlier train. It annoyed him to have to leave town. His late arrival was in the nature of a protest. Elinor must really learn not to make such a fuss every time the child had a stomach-ache. It was absurd. S
he met him at the door as he stepped out of the car, so white and haggard, and with such darkcircled and desperate eyes, that he was shocked to see her.
'But you're the one who's ill,' he said anxiously 'What is it?'
She did not answer for a moment, but stood holding him, her face hidden on his shoulder, pressing herself against him. 'Dr. Crowther says it's meningitis,' she whispered at last.
At halfpast five arrived the nurse for whom Mrs. Bidlake had telegraphed in the morning. The evening papers came by the same train; the chauffeur returned with a selection of them. On the front page was the announcement of the discovery, in -his own motor car, of Everard Webley's body. It was to old John Bidlake, dozing listlessly in the library, that the papers were first brought. He read and was so excited by the news of another's death that he entirely forgot all his preoccupations with his own. Rejuvenated, he sprang to his feet and ran, waving the paper, into the hall. 'Philip!' he shouted in the strong resonant voice that had not been his for weeks past. 'Philip! Come here at once!'
Philip, who had just come out of the sickroom and was standing in the corridor, talking to Mrs. Bidlake, hurried down to see what was the matter. John Bidlake held out the paper with an expression almost of triumph on his face. 'Read that,' he commanded importantly.
When Elinor was told the news, she almost fainted.
'I believe he's better this morning, Dr. Crowther.'
Dr. Crowther fingered his tie to feel if it were straight. He was a small man, brisk and almost too neatly dressed. 'Quieter, eh? Sleeps?' he enquired telegraphically. His conversation had been reduced to bed-rock efficiency. It was just comprehensible and nothing more. No energy was wasted on the uttering of unnecessary words. Dr. Crowther spoke as Ford cars are made. Elinor disliked him intensely, but believed in him for just those qualities of perky efficiency and selfconfidence which she detested.
'Yes, that's it,' she said. 'He's sleeping.'
'He would be,' said Dr. Crowther, nodding, as though he had known everything in advance-which indeed he had; for the disease was running its invariable course.
Elinor accompanied him up the stairs. 'Is it a good sign?' she asked in a voice that implored a favourable answer.
Dr. Crowther pushed out his lips, cocked his head a little on one side, then shrugged his shoulders. 'Well...' he said non-committally and was silent. He had saved at least five foot-pounds of energy by not explaining that, in meningitis, a phase of depression follows the initial phase of excitement.
The child now dozed away his days in a kind of stupor, suffering no pain (Elinor was thankful for that), but disquietingly unresponsive to what was going on about him, as though he were not fully alive. When he opened his eyes she saw that the pupils were so enormously dilated that there was hardly any iris left. Little Phil's blue and mischievous regard had turned to expressionless blackness. The light which had caused him such an agony during the first days of his illness no longer troubled him. No longer did he start and tremble at every sound. Indeed, the child did not seem to hear when he was spoken to. Two days passed and then, quite suddenly and with a horrible sinking sense of apprehension, Elinor realized that he was almost completely deaf.
'Deaf?' echoed Dr. Crowther, when she told him of her dreadful discovery. 'Common symptom.'
'But isn't there anything to be done about it?' she asked. The trap was closing on her again, the trap from which she had imagined herself free when that terrible screaming had quieted into silence.
Dr. Crowther shook his head, briskly, but only once each way. He did not speak. A foot-pound saved is a foot-pound gained.
'But we can't let him be deaf,' she said, when the doctor was gone, appealing with a kind of incredulous despair to her husband. 'We can't let him be deaf.' She knew he could do nothing; and yet she hoped. She realized the horror; but she refused to believe in it.
'But if the doctor says there isn't anything to be done...'
'But deaf?' she kept repeating, questioningly.'deaf, Phil? Deaf?'
'Perhaps it'll pass off by itself,' he suggested consolingly and wondered, as he spoke the words, whether she still imagined that the child would recover.
Early next morning when, in her dressing-gown, she tiptoed upstairs for nurse's report on the night, she found the child already awake. One eyelid was wide open and the eye, all pupil, was looking straight up at the ceiling; the other was half shut in a permanent wink that imparted to the thin and shrunken little face an expression of ghastly facetiousness.
'He can't open it,' the nurse explained. 'It's paralysed.'
Between those long and curly lashes, which she had so often envied him, Elinor could see that the eyeball had rolled away to the exterior corner of the eye and was staring out sideways in a fixed unseeing squint.
'Why the devil,' said Cuthbert Arkwright, in the tone of one who has a personal grievance, 'why the devil
doesn't Quarles come back to London?' He hoped to extort from him a preface to his new illustrated edition of the Mimes of Herondas.
The rustication, Willie Weaver explained polysyllabically, was not voluntary. 'His child's ill,' he added, uttering his little cough of self-applause; 'it seems very reluctant, as they would say in Denmark, to absent itself from felicity much longer.'
'Well, I wish it would hurry up about it,' grumbled Arkwright. He frowned. 'Perhaps I'd better try to get hold of someone else for my preface.'
At Gattenden the days had been like the successive stages of an impossibly horrible dream. When he had been deaf for a couple of days, little Phil ceased also to see. The squinting eyes were quite blind. And after nearly a week's respite there was a sudden recurrence of the pain of the first days; he began to scream. Later he was seized several times with violent attacks of convulsions; it was as though a devil had entered into him and were torturing him from within. Then, one side of his face and half his body became paralysed and the flesh began to waste almost visibly from off his bones, like wax melting away in the heat of some inward and invisible fire. Trapped by her helplessness and by that horrible sense of guilt, which the news of Everard's murder had enormously intensified, Elinor sat by her child's bed and watched the phases of the malady succeeding one another--each one worse, it seemed to her, than the last, each more atrociously impossible. Yes, impossible. For such things could not, did not happen. Not to oneself at any rate. One's own child was not gratuitously tortured and deformed before one's eyes. The man who loved one and whom one had (oh wrongly, guiltily and as it had turned out, fatally!) almost made up one's mind to love in return, was not suddenly and mysteriously murdered. Events like that simply did not occur. They were an impossibility. And yet, in spite of this impossibility, Everard was dead and for little Phil each day reserved a new and more excruciating torment. As in a nightmare, the impossible was being actualized.