The Crescent Moon

by Francis Brett Young

I

In those days James was never free from fever for long, despite the German method of quinine prophylaxis to which, in defiance of Manson, he had submitted. It seemed as if the tertian parasite—and there is none more malignant than that which the M’ssente Swamp breeds—had rejoiced to find a virgin blood in which it might flourish as long as life lasted. Every ten days or so Eva would find herself called upon to face a new attack. She became used to the succession of shivering and high fever; she began to know exactly when James should be bullied and when he should be left alone; to realise how the sweet submissiveness of the sick man merged into the irritability of the convalescent. Symptoms that once would have frightened her out of her life were now part of the day’s work. She steadfastly determined that she would let nothing worry her. It was just as well to have one equable person in the house.

Godovius still came to the mission from time to time. Eva was glad to see him. She would have been glad to see almost any man; for the idea of being quite alone in those savage solitudes was frightening. She was not ignorant of the power of disease in that country. She knew perfectly well that some day “something might happen” (as they say) to James, and without definitely anticipating it she felt a little happier for having the strength of Godovius behind her. For he was strong, whatever else he might be. In his presence she was always conscious of that: and even if his strength seemed at times a little sinister, there were moments in which he struck her as wholly charming, almost boyish, particularly when he smiled and his beautiful teeth showed white against the ruddy swarthiness of his face. Seriously, too, he was ready to help her.

“Your brother is overworking,” he said. “Do you think the unfortunate results to himself are balanced by any colossal success in his work? Do you? I think he should take a little alcohol . . . a sundowner . . . quite a good thing for Europeans.”

Eva smiled. “He’d have a fit if I told him that.”

“Would he? . . . In many ways your brother does not resemble the Good Bullace. And yet in others I think he deserves a little of my name . . . Sakharani.” He laughed. “I believe, Miss Eva, you are still rather frightened of my name. Now how long is it since last you saw me drunk?”

Even though she protested, she wasn’t altogether sure that he was joking.

“But you never know when I may break out,” he said. “Now you witness nothing but my admirable self-control.”

Every time that Godovius came to see her when James was in bed her brother would question her narrowly as to what he had said. His persistence annoyed her, because it seemed to her ungenerous that he should not take Godovius as he found him.

“I sha’n’t tell you when next he comes,” she said one day.

“That would be no good. . . . I know. . . . I have a feeling in my bones when he is here. It’s like some people who shiver when a cat comes into the room even if they don’t see it.”

“I think it’s rather horrid of you,” she said. “Is it that you’re jealous? . . . Or don’t you trust me?”

“Oh, I trust you all right,” he said bitterly.

In the intervals between his attacks he brightened up wonderfully. It was difficult to believe that he was the same man; but for all this he had lost a great deal of weight, and his face showed a blue and yellow pallor which alarmed her. And he was sleeping very badly. Eva became accustomed to the sound of his footsteps walking up and down his room at night, and to the whining voice in which he would recite long passages of scripture. She knew that some day there must come a big breakdown. Yes . . . it was good to have Godovius behind her.