The Crescent Moon

by Francis Brett Young

She thought it best to let him try. When he got on to his feet he swayed and clutched at the bed to steady himself.

“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Everything swims . . . the whole room went round even when I shut my eyes. I must be ill. What can I do? . . . What can I do?”

She was thankful that he had proved it for himself. “This is where I come in,” she thought, convinced that she was going to have a bad time of it.

For four days James kept his bed; as long, indeed, as the fever had its way with him. At first he fought desperately; but in a little while, realising that he was powerless, he submitted to her tenderness. “Really,” she said, “he was awfully good . . . much nicer than when he was well.” She found him patient and pathetic . . . almost lovable, quite different from the acknowledged success of the family which he had been at home; and she discovered in him—in his tired eyes and even in his voice-an amazing hidden likeness to their mother which almost moved her to tears. It seemed as if the fever had suddenly made him a man instead of the incarnation of a spiritual force. Not even a man, but a frail, puzzled boy, with no pretensions in the world. He appealed to her dormant instincts of maternity, making her all tenderness. She wanted to kiss him as he lay there with the open unread Bible—always the Bible—on his bed.

When he was at his worst Godovius called to inquire. She wondered how Godovius knew he was ill, not realising that Godovius knew everything in Luguru. He met her on the stoep and cross-questioned her narrowly. How much quinine was he taking? Five grains a day? P’ff! . . . Useless! That was the English method: Manson’s method. . . . Proved useless long ago. The proper way of taking quinine was the German way, the only reasonable way—ten and fifteen grains on two successive days once a week. That was the only prophylaxis worth considering. He told her to look at himself, standing there in his fine, swart robustness, and looking at him she remembered the poor, transparent child whom she had left within. “And what about yourself?” he said. “You are looking tired, pale.” She blushed in a way that removed the second accusation. “You must not wear yourself out for him—you who are young and vigorous and magnificently healthy.” His interest confused her, and she slipped into the house to see if James would see Godovius.

He was greatly agitated. He, too, flushed.

“Herr Godovius?” he said. “Why does he come here when I am in bed? A man who has slaves! No . . . No . . .”

She protested that he had come with the kindest intentions.

“No . . . not that man,” he said.

She made her excuses to Godovius. He looked at her in a way that revealed their hollowness, then laughed and rode away. “I am not a favourite of your brother? Now why is that? Mr. Bullace and I were the best of friends. Do you think we had more in common?” She felt that he had surprised her in a swift remembrance of Mr. Bullace’s whisky bottles and was ashamed. “It is better that we should be friendly, don’t you think so?” he said.