Capítulo 26: Chapter XXVI
Though generally there was so little that was complex or artificial in her father's character, Mathilda was struck by what was revealed now. He was lying on his back, her mother's hand on his arm, and suddenly all disguises were thrown off and all his pain and fear shone in his fatigued, sick eyes. He looked at her mother, his wife, smiling; then all at once his brows twitched, pulled down into a pained frown and he threw his head sideways. A poor attempt to hide his suffering. The cramps seemed to subside after a few moments, and he reached out to her mother, clutched her hand, and pressed it close to his chest, breathing heavily. He was in pain. He was in pain and Mathilda could do nothing but watch.
And for the first few moments after that realisation, it seemed to Mathilda that she was the one to blame. Never mind that it was irrational; unreasonable. And her father noticed.
"Mathilda—" he whispered. And in her father's eyes there was a tenderness that told her that she was far from the one to blame for his sufferings. 'If not me, then who is to blame for it?' she thought unconsciously, seeking someone responsible for his suffering for her to punish; but there was no one responsible. No one. And it enraged her.
Then her father grew calmer, and as he did so, released her mother's hand. It fell back onto the sheets. Mathilda watched with astonishment as her mother took up the knitting she had brought with her and began working at it again, throwing the bed a brief glance every fourth stitch.
Elaine moved away from her seat by the dark window and rang the bell. When no one came, she mumbled: "I shall get us something to eat."
Mathilda nodded. She searched her father's swollen and agonised face. A tress of hair clung to his moist brow. Soft breaths escaped him. Minutes went by before she moved from the end of the bed where she had stood as if frozen, and went out of the room, meaning to call on the doctor again.
Memories flooded her mind as she rapidly moved about the corridors. The ominous feeling in her stomach didn't disintegrate as she strode with rustling skirts down the steps of the staircase. While she was sure to hold her countenance wrenched into a mask of indifference, her mind was in fragments. Kind, loving, fragile memories of every corner and doorway she passed erupted from her mind. It was as if she could see herself as a girl run through the hallway, laughing, and playing.
How fitting.
Hanging, in protest, on one of her father's legs as Elaine hung from the other; the utter concentration as she attempted to knot his tie; clawing her fingers in his hair as she stabilised herself when seated on his shoulders as a mere four year old; the prickle of his beard as she kissed his cheek; standing on his feet as they swayed to the music of the gramophone.
She shook her head as if physically dispersing the memories. She would not break down; she would not. Mathilda promised herself.
At the end of the stairs stood Elaine. She saw the old governess too, flushed, and overwrought, with her grey curls in disorder and her firm, resolute, reassuring face. Elaine was addressing Miss Boisse, and Mathi and Elaine briefly crossed gazes. Mathilda caught sight of the cook as well, standing in the staff doorway to the kitchen. Then there was the maid, smoking heavy cigarettes, and Jacob walking up and down the hall with a frowning face. But why they were out in the hallway, she did not know.
"What's the matter?" Mathi asked Elaine as she reached the end of the stairs. Elaine forced herself to gulp down her tears, and, biting her lips, she whispered:
"He's back. The man from this morning. He's drunk. Crying and shouting," Elaine nodded towards the coachman who stood looking through a gap in the curtains, "Jacob's been telling him to leave, or he'll call the police, but I don't dare do anything."
Mathi frowned and closed a comforting hand around her elbow. She squeezed once. "Show me."
"Should I get Maman?"
"Yes,— no wait," she held Elaine back. "Let them be for now." Elaine hesitated, Mathi saw, and she persisted: "Papa's our priority right now. Let him rest." She then released Elaine and breathed once to gather her courage, and, straightening out her posture, she folded her hands and went to the door. Jacob saw her coming:
"Miss, it's better to wait, perhaps. For all we know he'll leave on his own."
"What does he want? Money?"
Jacob sighed and let the curtain drop, "he wants to talk to Mr Aldouin," he hesitated, "it's one of the workers that's been laid off, but I don't understand how he, well— how he found this address."
"I'll talk to him. Tell him to leave."
His eyes widened, "no! Miss, please do not leave the house! Let us wait. I will go to the station myself if he keeps at it. But please stay inside."
"It'll be alright." Mathilda knew Jacob was right, but ever since she had heard about the situation and the man outside, all vicious thoughts of loss and despair had been pushed back. And it hurt less. If only just a bit. This was good. She could concentrate on something. Do something productive; and if she could shout and curse while doing it, it would only help her exhaust herself.
Mathilda turned the lock, and opened the door. Outside it was dark, and wet, and only a single passer-by was visible on the other side of the street.
The man at the gate was in a poor state, and stood in stark contrast with the peaceful neighbourhood. His head was tipped, and his countenance fell in the shadow of the lamppost behind him. The man stank. He had not yet spotted her, and stood, breathing heavily and uttering something between a prayer and a cry, his head down as he leaned his alcohol-soaked torso against the wall in which the tall black fence that separated their driveway from the street was affixed. The man had ceased tugging at the iron, but his fingers were still curled around a single bar. The muttering stopped. One pair of eyes regarded her curiously. Mathilda descended the frontal steps, leaving the door open. Behind her the gravel crunched, and she distantly perceived that Jacob was following her.
"Good evening," she called, glad there was no tremor in her voice. But she was shaking, and held her hands stiffly folded over her stomach.
There came no reply. Mathi halted a few paces before the fence, out of reach were he to try and spit, but close enough that she could now distinguish the bruises that covered half his face. Mathilda felt her shoulders rise. His shadow fell onto their driveway between the shadow of the fence; and for some reason, she did not dare to step onto it.
"May I ask you to leave? I believe you were made aware of my father's unavailability."
The muttering had recommenced. Mathi wetted her lips. A car roared by in the distance. A few moments passed and Mathi took a deep breath, ignoring the upcoming stabbing pain in her stomach: "You are not welcome here. Please leave before we call the police."
The muttering stopped. Then a hoarse voice said: "—would be locking up a victim. They should lock up the whole lot of you, instead."
"Please leave, sir." She was out of her dept, and knew she was being foolish, but something made her continue: "Please, I do not know you," she implored. "Please leave. My father is unwell. He will not see you. You have no business here." She then shouted, to the great fright of Jacob next to her: "Leave! Leave! Just leave, you miserable scurf!"
"You're all sick." The answer came. "Sick in your heads."
"Leave—!" She cried. And as if all had been waiting to break lose, waiting for an opening, liquid terror went straight into Mathilda's chest and stole the air from her lungs. Mathi gasped out loud, then quickly shoved her hand over her open mouth, frightened of letting it out, and, leaning herself against the empty birdbath, tried to subdue her desperate breathing.
Jacob stepped in. In a daze, she saw the coachman shout something at the man, and he pointed to the empty street. He shouted again.
Mathilda closed her eyes and fisted her dress. Her other hand she kept pressed over her mouth, screaming a soundless scream. Mathilda kept trying to draw a proper breath, trying to suck in enough oxygen to combat the roaring in her ears, but it was impossible to inflate her lungs at all over the pressure of the iron bands that seemed to have wrapped themselves around her chest. She threw her cardigan off, tried to claw open the neck of her dress, but it was hard to concentrate on anything when her heart was threatening to hammer straight out of her chest. She spluttered out a choked and dreadful laugh—
"Miss—? Good God, Miss Aldouin!" Miss Boisse shrieked. Her face was stern and pale, and still as resolute, though her jaws were twitching, and her eyes were fixed intently on Mathilda. "Come on. Lean on me, dear. Very good. Come on now. That's it. That's it. Very good. Very good, my dear. Slowly now. That's it. Now sit down."
Mathi didn't register much, only that she was sitting. A pair of low heels distanced themselves. Another pair went by. It was cold in the hallway. Where was her cardigan? She liked that cardigan. Pale blue. Not too pale. Just enough colour to be subtle. And warm. So warm. It was good to be warm. Bad to be cold. Cold gets you sick. Wear a cardigan, Miss Boisse always taught her.
Mathi laid herself down, pulling up her feet and not caring to take off her shoes. Only if she kept her knees bowed could she lay down. There was some hustling beside her. Something draped around her. She didn't care. The fabric of the sofa was quite soft, that was important, and she buried her face against it, until Mathi tasted velvet on her lips and the tufted fabric left an imprint on her cheek. She closed her eyes.
At once she could hear the melodic voice of the maid standing in the kitchen doorway still, who kept smoking one cigarette after another and extinguishing them on the edge of a full ash tray, in the company of the cook and her father's old valet. They talked about breakfast, about politics, about her father's illness, and often they would look and ask each-other whether the intruder had left yet. And then there were moments where Mathi suddenly forgot what was happening, and felt as though she was sleeping; a moment later she was back in reality, on the sofa, with a breaking heart.
There were footsteps rounding the corner, and a long sigh which preceded a dip in the chair right above her head. A hand dropped gently onto the back of her head, tilting it upwards and Mathilda couldn't help cower even as she kept her eyes tightly shut and she was laid onto soft thighs — but then there were slightly trembling fingers pressing into her hair, and another sigh, long and resigned and Elaine softly said: "That man's gone, for now. Jacob left to see if they can get an officer here," she hesitated, and the fingers stilled, "Now, Miss Boisse told me there's someone here to see you— no, no, Mathi— don't get up. You don't have to get up. You don't have to. You shouldn't. I'm just telling you because I thought you should know. Miss Boisse will send him away. I should have, but I wanted to leave you the option—"
"Him?" Mathi whispered.
"The Englishman. Mr Crawford."
Richard? What was Richard doing here? Mathilda searched her mind but did not know, and willed herself to come to a seating position. She didn't have to look at Elaine to know how worried her sister looked. She knew Mathi wasn't in the right mind to meet anyone. Mathi knew she wasn't in the right mind to meet anyone. But when had that ever stopped her?
"I'll show him out myself."
Then, feebly leaning on her arms for an instant to steady herself, Mathi gathered herself up and rose. Her hairpin had fallen out. With an intuitive desire to efface all traces of weakness she so abhorred to show to others, and bring herself into order again, she sought for it, although she could barely stand to continue. She tried to recall the details which had thrown her into this state; but she could not. She only understood two facts — that her father lay dying, and that she had to brave the company of a dear friend she'd rather not see at this time.
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