CHAPTER XLVI—THE ANGEL WHISTLES
It was the longest day in June. The room was stifling, filled with greenish light which fell in stripes through the slats of the closed shutters. On the tiled floor water had been sprinkled. Walls were stripped bare. A sheet, dipped in disinfectants, was pinned across the open door. On the other side sat the nun who had come to act as nurse. She sympathized with the jealousy that kept them always at the bedside and only intruded when she was sent for, or to give the medicines. This desperate clinging of flesh to flesh while the soul was outgrowing the body—how often she had watched it! She could not speak their language—didn’t understand anything but the quivering tenderness of what was said. She was a little in awe of these two young Englishmen who seemed so angry with God, and who sat day and night guarding the dying girl lest, in an unheeded moment, God should snatch her from them. Reckless of contagion, they bent above the pillow where the flushed face tossed between the plaits of daffodil hair.
The fight was unequal; it couldn’t last much longer. It had been going on for a week. Had they known in time that it was typhoid——. By the time they knew it was too late for her to be removed. The fishing-village had none of the necessities of nursing; the doctor had to come from Spezia.
Someone had to go for him at this moment; she had had a relapse. Harry looked at Peter. “I’ll go.” He spoke quietly, knowing that she might not be there when he returned.
Peter touched Kay’s hand, attempting the cheerfulness which they had feigned from the first, hoping that it might deceive even Death.
“Kitten Kay.”
She opened her eyes. She had gone back years as her strength had failed. She spoke as she looked, like a slight child-girl far distant from womanhood.
“Belovedest?”
They had been crowding the gentleness of a full life into the words exchanged in those few days.
He started to speak; choked and had to start afresh.
“Harry’s off to Spezia to fetch the doctor—the man who’s going to make you well.”
“Well!”
It was uttered deliberately, with a wise disbelieving smile.
“Harry! Harry!”
Her face grew troubled as she tried to recollect a name that was familiar.
Harry’s eyes filled with tears. He went on his knees beside her, pressing her hand to his lips.
“Kay, don’t you know me—your mouth-organ boy?”
The puzzled look melted. A low laugh came to her parched lips. “My dear, dear mouth-organ boy!”
At the door he gazed back longingly. Peter caught him by the arm. It was the struggle not to be selfish—it had been going on through seven days.
“You stay. Let me go.”
Harry shook his head. “She was yours before she was mine.”
He slipped out. His footsteps faded down the stairs.
In the house there was no sound—only her weary sighing. Everything was hushed and shuttered. Outside waves dragged against the sand and broke in long sparkling ripples. A pulley creaked as a fisherman hoisted sail. Across the bay came the panting of the steamer from Lerici. It drew in against the pier; boys’ laughter sounded and splashing as they dived for money. Again the panting, wandering off into the distance. It rounded the headland.