The Ballad and the Source by Rosamond Lehmann Page B

Maisie fought hard at first against this decree, muttering that there was nothing wrong with her, it was only because she was having too much rich food, and now on top of that she was being made into a mollycoddle; but Mrs. Jardine summoned Dr. Gibson to examine Cherry; and then, during the course of a long private conversation, bewitched him; and then he had a tactful jolly confidential chat alone with Maisie; and after that Maisie threw up the sponge. Sick or well, Cherry greatly enjoyed her days in bed. She cut out dolls’ clothes and chalked and sang. Mrs. Jardine showed her how to cut chains and patterns from delectable sheets of coloured paper. Harry spent hours by her bedside. I observed that it was part of Mrs. Jardine’s policy to leave them together. Listening from a distance to their uninhibited conversations, an expression at once tranquil and expectant would come into her face.
    Once she was in bed with a cold and I had come in to have a grazed hand dressed by Mrs. Jardine. We were in the bathroom, which was opposite to the bedroom she shared with Maisie. Both doors were open, and I could see Harry sitting by her bed. I heard her say:
    â€œThe next one will be still more sad. Lily and Willy both get stolen away. But I’ll put some gladness in. Their mother comes for them. Their mother is a guardian angel, you see, but they don’t know it. Nor do you yet, do you?” He nodded, and leaned his cheek on his hand to listen. When the song was over, she said: “Did you like that? It was beautiful, wasn’t it? Now can I light your cigarette? Your hands smell nice, you have nice smelling soap. What shaky hands you’ve got, haven’t you? Why do they shake so?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. It’s just a bad habit they’ve got into.”
    She said in an anxiously casual way:
    â€œIs it because you’re old?”
    â€œThat might have something to do with it.”
    She was silent, then she said with false, loving simplicity:
    â€œYou are a shaky man, aren’t you? Shaky, shaky old Harry. … Do ill people have shaky hands?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œI know they do, because—I know.”
    â€œBut I’m not at all ill.”
    â€œNo!” she cried triumphantly. “You’re very well! And you’re not old either—not to me. You won’t die—oh, for fifty years I shouldn’t think, should you?”
    â€œI shouldn’t think so.”
    â€œNot ever …?” Her voice was cunning.
    â€œSome time. Everybody does.”
    â€œYes, that’s what Maisie says. It does seem a shame really. I don’t want to. I don’t want anybody to. Do you want to?”
    â€œI don’t think I shall mind much. People don’t, you know, when they’ve had a lot of life.”
    â€œPerhaps something will be invented to stop it. If I was God, I should say—” She sat up straight in her dressing-gown and called out in a tone of imperious proclamation: “I have made up my mind! Nobody is to die any more!”
    A sound came out of his throat, stifled, sudden, as if his heart turned over with tenderness and pity. He took the small hand she had raised in the act of decree and held it to his chest.
    â€œI say, look here, old girl,” he said, even more huskily than usual. “Look here. Listen. We’ll stick together. See? I’ll be here as long as you want me. You’ll be all right. I promise. See?”
    Mrs. Jardine, who had been listening intently while she washed and dressed my hand, dropped the bandage she was rolling and leaned back against the basin. Her hands sank to her sides, she looked far away out of the window, and said, very low:
    â€œNow she is his child. He will live for her.”
    The tears started to pour down her cheeks, but without blurring or staining her contours. Her eyes remained wide and more than ever brilliant, and the tears went on slipping down as if