The Eden Passion (51 page)

The wound rebound, she lingered over John's face, one hand stroking his brow. "The resemblance is quite unique, isn't it?" she commented quietly.

At last Andrew felt himself recovered enough to speak. "It is," he agreed. "I too knew his father. I grew up in the Ragged School near Jacob's Island."

She looked at Andrew as though with new respect. "I'm afraid, Corporal," she began, "that the nature of my duties here has taken a heavy toll of my respect for the . . . maleness of the world." She looked back down on John, the brusqueness softening. "However, I can say without hesitation that Edward Eden was one of the rarest individuals it has ever been my privilege to know."

In the face of such a tribute, Andrew thought it safe to remain silent. Then again she seemed to shake her head and in a clear tone asked, "Now, tell me everything."

As succinctly as possible, he recounted all the grim events of the last few days. Not once did she interrupt, and at the conclusion of the brief account, she continued to sit primly upon the stool, as silent as the man in the bed.

At last she lifted her head, as though an approach had been decided upon, and in a clear voice which exuded self-confidence, as though it had never occurred to her that she would not receive an answer, she said, "John? Can you hear me?"

Andrew stood still, his eyes moving back and forth between her face and the unresponding one on the pillow.

"Of course you can," she went on, undeterred by the silence. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you four days ago. But I'm certain that you'll forgive me. Men with mere arm wounds do not, of course, warrant the same attention as men with no arms. But now I'm here, with a few minutes to spare, and I'd like nothing better than to pass them with you."

In a mix of amazement and despair, Andrew watched. How many times during the last four days he'd tried the same approach.

But whereas, in the past, Andrew had retreated after a few such words, Miss Nightingale persisted, nothing in her manner to suggest that she was, in essence, conversing with herself.

"Now," she went on, "what I want to know is where do you intend to go from here? You see, in a few days you'll be able to get about quite handily on your own power. Will you be returning to the war zone or going back to England? The war zone," she went on, answering her own question, "is in my opinion quite unrealistic, don't you agree? I must confess I can't for the life of me understand what we are doing there at all. Can you? Of course not. Clearly you were 'talked into' something. Am I correct? Of course I'm correct."

Andrew listened closely, amazed by his impression that John was actually responding. But of course he wasn't. Her voice simply gave

that impression. And how clever, her denunciation of the war, how close she was moving to John's heart.

"But the fact remains," she went on, "for whatever foolish reason, here you are, at the end of one road, and now you must select another, mustn't you? Of course, that shouldn't be too difficult, a young man like yourself. The most pronounced difficulty will arise in the variety of roads open to you."

She laughed softly and seemed to relax a bit, one hand smoothing the lace collar at her throat. "I'll now confess to you, John"—she smiled—"all my life, in secret, I've wanted to be a man. But merciful heavens, the agony of choosing which worlds to conquer. To have every horizon open to you, and to know that you can accomplish everything." She shuddered. "What hell that must be. For the female of the species, the decisions are so simple. Still, there have been many times when I would willingly change all that deadly simplicity for just one day of your glorious hell."

Andrew had the feeling that she was no longer speaking for John's benefit. Some essential aspect of her personality had without warning surfaced, and the self-revelation had to be dealt with before she could go on.

But deal with it she did, and once again restored, she talked on.

"I knew your father, John," she began, one hand grasping the limp one on the bed, "knew you as well when you were the length of a man's arm. Merciful heavens, what a weight we all put upon you in those days, long before you were ready to carry it. And the weight is still there, the weight that the gods place on all gifted individuals, the willingness to be tested to the very limit of one's endurance and capacity."

She abandoned the limp hand as though it had offended her in some way. "What a baffling inconvenience," she pronounced in a mocking tone. "How skillful we all are at raising false issues. The death of a good friend, the horror of a stupid war, the old phalanx of weakness bristling with its accustomed spears. So easy to say I'm beaten. Much more difficult having to admit that you've simply thrown away the game. And with all the winning cards in your hand! And so noble a game! John Murrey Eden threw the game away!"

There was mockery in her voice, as harsh as any man's. Andrew moved a step forward, amazed to see John's eyes upon her.

Then, in a curious reversal of both mood and manner, she announced bluntly, "I will not speak to you of God. The subject is beyond me. I have been accused of viewing the Deity as little more

than a sanitary engineer. A man's god is something personal." Her manner and voice altered as though for a confession. "Not that I haven't dwelt on the puzzle long"—she smiled—"though I'm afraid that the fruits of my efforts are thin and lacking."

She seemed to warm to the "thin-and-lacking" subject, leaning close to share an intimacy. "The most fascinating approach that I can devise for the matter is a simple question. What beings should we conceive that God would create? Now, He cannot create perfect beings, since essentially perfection is One. If He did so, He would only be adding to Himself."

She paused as though aware of her audience of two, for at some point Andrew had lost interest in John's reaction and was listening to her words as though they were being spoken for him alone.

"Thus the conclusion is obvious," she went on. "God must create imperfect creatures." Again she smiled down on John. "All that will be asked of us at the end is whether or not we have been unprofitable servants. He gives us a lamp by which we shall stand, and frequently the lamp shows us only our own shipwreck. No wonder at times our feelings are mixed to the point of a confused silence," she said softly. "And yet, at other times, I fancy there are possibilities of human character much greater than have ever before been realized."

In spite of the abstract nature of her words, Andrew had the feeling that at the heart of the matter was a soul made of steel. He found it difficult to believe that such a woman had ever truly agonized over the mystery of God. If anything, the Almighty had better be careful lest He too fall into her clutches and she reorganize heaven as she had reorganized Scutari.

In the semidarkness of the ward, Andrew saw her eyes still focused downward on John, and he listened closely for the parting words, expecting some moving summary to everything she had said earlier. Instead, to his surprise, she said simply, in a manner so positive, and practical, "I'll give you a week, John. Then I want you up and about. You see, I need your bed, for others less fortunate."

Without hesitation she walked rapidly away, never once turning back, as though the possibility that she would not be obeyed was simply beyond her.

Andrew held his position beside the table and watched her the length of the ward, was still watching even after the double doors had closed, her presence lingering in spite of the physical vacuum, like the hallucination of the eye when it continues to see a flame after the candle has burned out.

It was some minutes before he shook off the mood and drew near to John's bedside. He looked down. Nothing. The eyes had returned to their customary spot on the ceiling. For all her noble efforts, Miss Nightingale had accomplished nothing.

Suffering a strange weakness brought on by the encounter, Andrew sat on the camp stool, his eye in the process falling on the man in the next bed, his cheeks still bulging with the leather pouch, though from all signs, he was fast asleep.

It wasn't until Andrew turned back toward John's bed that he saw the first faint movement, that left hand suddenly stiffening with new energy, the arm following suit, and arm and hand together lifting the torso, the body angling to the right as it fought for a center of balance, John himself at last seated upright on the edge of the bed.

The face lifted with a stubborn concentrated expression, and as the eyes, buried in hollows, met Andrew's, two words left those parched lips.

"My . . . friend," John whispered, lifting his hand.

The next evening, with Andrew packed and ready to leave, John sat propped up by pillows and tried to manipulate the spoon in his left hand. He finished the bowl of stew and pushed the tray away, a little annoyed by the grinning Andrew and greatly annoyed by the delirious mutterings of the man in the bed next to him.

"It's like Bedlam," he muttered, feeling irascible, in the manner of an invalid.

"It's paradise"—Andrew smiled—"compared to what it used to be."

"Then spare me paradise," John grumbled, and slipped down beneath the blanket, amazed by his presence in this place. Still struggling through a degree of confusion, he looked up at Andrew, neat and polished in his scarlet tunic and white shoulder straps. "When are you leaving?" he asked, as quietly as the ravings in the next bed would permit. He knew the answer anyway.

"With the evening tide," Andrew said.

John was on the verge of expressing his gratitude when suddenly the sun-baked lunatic in the next bed let out an unearthly scream which brought nurses scurrying from all quarters of the ward. Even Andrew hurried to offer his assistance. For the first time John felt a wave of sympathy for him. Perhaps the poor man had simply fallen into the pit out of which John had recently climbed.

As the man's howls increased, John sent his attention in the oppo-

site direction. Slowly he lifted his hand to his right shoulder. The only remaining sensation was a burning, a negotiable discomfort, but still something new, considering that for four days he'd felt nothing. During that strange time, apparently every nerve ending in his body had been occupied elsewhere, trying to assist him with that mysterious and difficult passage which at one point had deposited him at Eden, a scene of crystal clarity, withered leaves blowing about the inner courtyard.

Again the man screamed. God, what were they doing to him? Unable to bear the sounds of misery any longer, John threw back the blanket and stood, a bit wobbly on unsteady legs, and cut through the barrier of nurses and orderlies with a single command.

"Leave him be!" he shouted.

One by one, the nurses looked up in surprise, Andrew with them, their expressions registering amazement that so firm a command could come from such an unlikely source.

Without warning, he felt weak. He took a step backward until he felt the bed behind him, and sat, trying to maintain the impression of strength.

One of the nurses offered an explanation. "He must be bathed, Mr. Eden," she said kindly. "That's all we were trying to do."

John felt the recently consumed stew turn in his stomach. "Clearly he does not want a bath," he muttered.

Apparently Andrew saw the approaching weakness and moved back to John's side, throwing out a suggestion to the waiting nurses. "Perhaps he's right," he said. "Later. He might be more cooperative later."

From where John sat on the edge of the bed, he could see the objecting patient in the next bed. The hospital robe had been stripped down to his waist. Apparently someone had tried to remove a small leather pouch which hung about his neck. The man now clutched at it, his eyes white and darting, his cheeks ablaze with fever.

John watched him for as long as he could; then, using the last of his energy, he walked to the bed next to him and with his good hand drew the blanket over the man's chest, muttering angrily, "Damn nurses. . ."

The man looked gratefully up out of his fear. "Thanks . . . mate," he whispered, both hands clutching at the leather pouch.

John lingered, moved by the helplessness of so strapping a man. Under better circumstances, no one would lift a hand to him without his permission. While he was still standing there, John saw the

man's eyes close, as though convinced that now it was safe to sleep.

"Where did he come from?" John asked, stepping back to his own bed.

"India," Andrew said, "or so one of the nurses claims."

John looked up, newly interested. "India? How did he get here?"

"Aboard a troop ship heading for England. Dysentery caused them to put in at Malta. Some were sent here."

As a new wave of weakness swept over John, he leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes, wishing that the whitewashed walls would stop whirling about him.

As Andrew drew up the blanket about him, John asked a question. "Have. . . you been here all the time?"

Andrew nodded, smiling.

"Without sleep ... or respite?"

Again Andrew nodded.

John watched his friend's face closely. There really was no need to pose either question. The answer was clear in the lines of fatigue about Andrew's eyes.

Suddenly John caught the hand that was arranging the blanket and held it fast. Something had to be said. "There was no need, you know."

"There was every need."

"I would have survived."

"I wanted to see for myself."

A tension had fallen over both, a unique defense against rising emotions. John released his hand. "You really insist upon returning?"

"I have no choice," he repeated.

"That's nonsense and you know it," John snapped. "The rate of desertions each day is high, and climbing higher."

"And I will not add my name to the list," Andrew said with conviction. Apparently he saw the look of annoyance in John's face and moved to dispel it. "Oh, don't get me wrong, my friend." He smiled. "I should have listened to you back in London, on the day we signed up. But then I thought you were wrong."

"And now?"

Andrew lowered his head. "It was a stupid venture to start with. And you?" he asked. "What will you do? Is it back to London or Eden for you?"