The Adventures of Miss Gregory - Gibbon Perceval

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the English. The rest of them—what are they? Mostly lean and a little young, with loud voices and given to facetiousness. But this one—you have seen her—is of a decent figure. At a guess, she weighs as much as I do. And though she is chill and remote in her manner, and very stiff and formal as to her clothes, she is yet human. One feels that there is blood in her; for all her grey hair and the hardness of her countenance, she knows the heat of passion. One feels that she knows it. Here she comes afoot across the world, smiling that little smile of hers at our town and the people in it, and within two days she is in Doña Fortuna's chamber, easing her in her pain and whispering to her things which give her peace.

      "How she got in? That was simple. The German that gives people medicine, he sent to her to ask her for quinine. She gave it at once, for nothing, only asking some questions about who was ill and the like. Teresa, who went for the quinine, told me. And that evening, soon after dark, she was knocking at the door.

      " 'I came to see if I could do anything,' she said, when I opened to her, smiling at me in her strange manner. I was abashed—I confess it; I am not used to these ways. I knew not how to answer, for the moment, and that moment was enough for her. She passed in at the door as though I had bidden her enter; she has an air of lordship which it is not easy to deal with. Opposite to her was the door of Doña Fortuna's chamber, with light shining under it. 'That is the room?' she asked, pointing. And what could I do but nod?"

      "Ah!" said Timotheo profoundly.

      "But I assure you," went on Anna rapidly, gesticulating with the hand that held the cigarette so that its head of fire swooped to and fro in the darkness, "there is a compulsion in her. Our Doña Fortuna—rest her soul!—knew how to make herself obeyed, but not with that same quietness and speed. Do you think I am a woman to let any stranger walk into my mistress' chamber? And yet I meekly closed the outer door and followed her without a question. You smile, Timotheo, but if you had been there——"

      "I smile," said Timotheo, "because I, too, know this Mees Gregory. You forget that I came here with her. Well, she entered the chamber. What then?"

      "It is a great chamber," said Anna. "To-morrow I will show it to you. Stone flags are underfoot, and the walls are all of great stones, with the window set high up. The bed is in one corner—a bed with a canopy, like a tent, and long, solemn curtains trailing about it. There is other furniture, too, but for the most part the room is bare, and when the candles are alight they make a little space of radiance at the heart of a great sombreness of shadow. It is a room that I have never liked; the shadows stand in the corners like men watching. This Mees Gregory, she stepped over the threshold, and took one more pace into the room, and then halted to gaze. It made its effect with her, too. Our Doña Fortuna was in the bed, with a long coverlet of blue across her breast and its end hanging over on the floor, and her gaze turned toward us. You did not know that face, Timotheo; you are the poorer by that. It is said—I have heard—that in the old days, before she came to her retirement at Tete, Doña Fortuna was famous for her beauty. That was before I served her. What I knew in her, and shall remember till my day comes to be carried out to the river-bank, was the fire that burned in her and would not be quenched, the darkness and quickness of her face, like a storm at the point of breaking, and all the power and brightness and weariness that stay in my mind as though she stood before me—which saints forbid! In that great bed with the shadows all about and the candles before her like the lights on an altar, she seemed not to be a real and living thing. Even I, who knew her and somewhat loved her, as you might say, caught my breath. She was of a sudden ghostly and remote; one trembled and hesitated as at an apparition.

      "The Englishwoman stood but a few moments. Her manner of making herself known to Doña Fortuna has given me matter for thought. She approached the bed without formality, as one might go to one's own bed. 'You understand English, I hope?' she asked. 'I've come to see if I can help at all.' No more than that, and it was spoken as one might speak to any chance-met stranger on the Praça. Timotheo, these high people, who have men and women like you and me to serve them, have an understanding. They know how to recognise one another. I looked to see Doña Fortuna lift her head and call us to thrust the Englishwoman out; but, instead of that, she smiled wearily. 'You are very gracious,' she answered. 'Anna, set a chair for the senhora, idiota!' And Mees Gregory sat down by her bedside and took her gloves from her hands. They surveyed one another a little keenly, while they spoke small matters of politeness. But, I tell you, they have a means of knowing each other, those people. In half an hour they were talking closely, the smooth grey head bowed above the stormy black one. And something of calm descended upon our Doña Fortuna; she lay back and the lids drooped upon her great eyes. I, in my corner, was content; a moment's peace is never amiss, and I gained some trifle of sleep.

      "She is as strong as a mule, that Mees Gregory; she has the endurance of a crocodile. Do you think she paid her visit and went away? Not she! One of us was despatched to her lodging for certain matters, and when these were brought she settled herself to stay all night. She made a strange toilet, in which she seemed half a nun and half a clown. She bound a shawl over her head and put shoes of soft cloth on her feet, and established herself serenely in the chair by the bedside. The chamber began to be warm, so all the candles but one were put out, and by the light of it, when my sleep broke, I saw her always there, motionless in the gloom, austere, courageous, and watchful. I tell you, Timotheo, I have my weaknesses. I do not like things that are awful or ominous in their appearance. I avoid them willingly. And I was glad in those still hours that this Englishwoman was at least never majestic or solemn. That pink face of hers—it does not daunt one."

      "H'm!" grunted Timotheo.

      "It does not daunt me," said Anna. "And Doña Fortuna—she did not shrink, either. That night she had rest; Mees Gregory tended her with her own hands. She had a kind of slow deftness which was surprising to see; in all her ministry she made no noise. She shifted the pillows and arranged the bed, brought cool water and a fan—everything. For me, who had been to Doña Fortuna as her right hand, there was nothing to do. As I have said, I made my profit of it.

      "It was in the grey of morning that their voices woke me. When you have served a lady like Doña Fortuna you gain the habit of rousing at a whisper to save yourself from being beaten with a stick. I opened my eyes to see them close together, talking almost in murmurs, so that all they said was not to be heard.

      " 'This languor that is upon me,' Doña Fortuna was saying, 'it tells me more than you can know. It has dried up my desires like dew in the morning—all save one.'

      "Mees Gregory was leaning upon the edge of the bed, with her broad back to me. I could see Doña Fortuna's face over her shoulder.

      " 'Yes,' she said; 'what is it?'

      "Doña Fortuna opened her great dark eyes. 'To see him,' she said. 'To speak to him, even though it be only to confess.'

      "I could not catch what Mees Gregory answered. She spoke briefly and very low. Whatever she said, Doña Fortuna smiled at it, a slow smile of great weariness.

      " 'He was a man once,' she answered—'a man. And now he is a priest. As good as dead, you see. And me—I am no better. What is it? To see him for a moment under lowered eyelids, in this shadowed room; to see him as across a broad river, beyond even the range of my voice—it is not much, and yet it will slake what is left to me of my fever.'

      "I wondered at her voice, so even, so empty of passion; and her face, so tranquil. It was then I knew what was to come and how I should hear the earth upon her coffin. I felt wonder, too; for Doña Fortuna seemed to speak of that life she had before she came to this land. There was a tale—I had heard ends and scraps of it—of a young man and some desperate passages; but there are such tales about everybody.

      "The Englishwoman hushed her as one stills a restless child, but Doña Fortuna had a need of speech. With her gaze upturned to the canopy of the bed, and a manner as though she dreamed, she went on.

      " 'To see him!' she said. 'The sorrow of his face dwells in my mind, so that I cannot remember how he looked when he was glad. But he was happy once; that was before he knew I was wicked. When I close my eyes there is always one thing that I see—the bright room above Lisbon, and the youth who was holding my hand, and

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