Willie did not want lunch but said he would be glad of a cup of coffee.
“You feel the cold, coming back,” he added mildly.
And no wonder, thought Moray. No overcoat and such an outfit. Aloud he said:
“We’ll go immediately your luggage is brought out.”
“This is it.” Willie indicated the zipper bag. “All I need. Some shirts and a pack of coloured slides. You know I can’t stay long.”
In the café below the restaurant the waitress brought two steaming cups. As Willie applied himself to his, Moray took a painful yet purposeful inspiration.
“I want to explain everything to you, Willie . . . in the hope of your forgiveness. It’s a long tragic story, but perhaps you’ll listen, for it has a—I fully believe—a good ending. You see, when I . . .”.
“Don’t,” said Willie, fixing the other with tired, brilliant eyes. “That’s all in the past and forgotten. Human beings should not judge one another. I had your cable and Kathy’s letter. So not another word.”
An immense wave of gratitude flowed over Moray, so warm and overwhelming it left him speechless. In total silence he sat watching Willie nursing the hot cup, drinking in little gulps. If there seemed no flesh on his body, there was less on his hands; the fingers holding the cup were skeletal. He noticed also that Willie had a marked tic which periodically caused his head to jerk laterally, exposing a scar that ran from one side of the neck to the larynx.
“I see you’ve spotted my beauty scratch.” Willie had caught his eye. “One of my old scoundrels was a prize spear-thrower in the early days. Now he’s my chief catechist. It doesn’t trouble me much, though once in a while I lose my voice. It was worth it.”
All this was said in such a natural lighthearted manner as to impress Moray even more. He’d have given a lot, there and then, to announce the intention that burned inside him. But no, Kathy had claimed the privilege of imparting this sensation, linked to the news of their marriage, so with all his newfound self-denial he refrained, saying instead:
“If you’re ready we may as well be off.”
In the station wagon Moray turned the heating full on, but they hadn’t gone far before he observed that Willie was shivering. He wanted to stop and offer his overcoat, but this, although St Francis of Assisi had set the precedent, struck him as officious in the present case. Yet his heart glowed towards Willie. Dressed as he was, with that explosive tic and his strange shivering remoteness, Willie looked odd, extremely odd, but there was something real about him, he was undoubtedly a man. Already Moray had identified himself with him and, half turning, while still keeping one eye on the road, he said:
“If I had some idea of your plans, it would enable me to make the best possible arrangements for your stay.”
“I’m due in Edinburgh on the eleventh. Let’s see,” Willie reflected, “that’s three days from now. I’ve some serious matters to put before my committee. And a lecture to deliver in the Usher Hall. Kathy,” he added, “had better come along to help me and collect her gear.”
“Must you both go so soon?” Moray exclaimed in a disappointed tone. “I’d banked on keeping you for some time.”
“It’s all very pressing. We shall not stay long in Edinburgh but work down to London, lecturing on the way. I’m needed at the Mission. So I’ve arranged to fly back to Kwibu on the twenty-first.”
“Good heavens, that’s sooner than we expected—less than two weeks from today. And I did want to do something for you here.”
Already, at the back of his mind, Moray had felt the need of a definite act to mark his departure from Schwansee. He meant to go off with a bang. No hole-and-corner business, no slinking off, he’d march out with head high and flags flying. And now, under the stress of urgency, this idea took definite form: he’d have a farewell party, introduce Willie to a gathering of his friends, there would be a frank declaration by himself, an appropriate speech by Willie—ah, that suggested an added attraction.
“You say you’re to deliver some lectures?”
“They call it a lecture.” Willie smiled. “Just a little descriptive talk about the Mission, chiefly our beginnings there, illustrated by coloured slides. I only do it to raise funds.”
“Then,” said Moray warmly, “why don’t you raise some here? Give the lecture in my house tomorrow. I can promise you a substantial response.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Willie said, after a moment’s thought. “I’m not much of a speaker. At least I could run through some of it.”
“Good, then that’s settled.”
They were now beyond Lachen, on the last stretch of their journey, yet the dazzling view of the mountains which presented itself brought no comment from Willie. Instead Moray became increasingly aware that his companion, drawn up in the corner of the seat and despite the fact that the station wagon had become excessively warm, was enduring a sharp return of his earlier shivering fit. Momentarily neglecting the road, Moray turned full round to find the other’s over-bright gaze bent apologetically upon him.
“Don’t mind me,” Willie said. “I felt this coming on in the plane. Just a little snatch of fever.”
Reverting to eyes front, Moray groped along the seat and found Willie’s bony fingers. They were dry and hot.
“Good heavens, man, you’re obviously getting a temperature. You must go to bed immediately when we get back.”
Selecting an interlude between the rigors, Willie smiled.
“If I lay down every time I had a temperature I’d never be up.”
“What is it?” Moray asked, after a pause. “Malaria?”
“It could be. But then I’ve so many interesting bugs inside me—amoebae, cocci, trypanosomes, and whatnot—one never knows.”
“Surely not trypanosomes?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve had a go of sleeping sickness. Then I did have to be flat on my back.”
“We’ll stop at the chemist’s and at least get you some quinine.”
“Thank you, David, you’re a goodhearted chap. However, I’ve had a staple diet of quinine so long it’s stopped doing any good. I stoke up with atabrine and paludrin occasionally, though actually it’s better to let the bugs fight it out amongst themselves. If you leave them alone the different strains go into battle and knock each other out.”
Good God, thought Moray, staring straight ahead and frowning, this man is a hero or a saint—or else he’s a little bit dotty.
But now they were in Schwansee and, turning up the hill from the lake, into the winding avenue lined with acacia trees, Moray drew up at his house. Immediately Kathy rushed from the porch—she had been waiting more than an hour for the sound of the car.
Watching the reunion of uncle and niece, Moray suffered a twinge of jealousy that it should be so affectionate. But, manfully, he dismissed the unworthy sentiment—Kathy, he well knew, was all his own. He smiled at her meaningly.
“Show Willie to his room, my dear. I’m sure you have lots to say to him.”
When he had washed and restored himself with a quick glass of amontillado he went into the library to wait for her. She was a long time in coming down, and although he occupied himself by drawing up a list of the people he meant to invite to the lecture party—Arturo would telephone them later in the day—he had begun to feel anxious at the delay when the door swung open and she appeared. Her cheeks were flushed, she flew like a homing dove straight into his arms.
“I’ve explained everything. Uncle Willie is coming down to have a talk with you, so I won’t stay. I think it’s all right. I’m sure he likes you . . . And, oh, dearest David, I’m happy again.”
When she had gone, he waited with a touch of apprehension, aware of the many points on which he might be interrogated. But when Willie arrived his expression, with its mixture of patience and kindness, was far from intimidating. Standing there, with his sloping shoulders and thin, dangling hands, his bones seemed loosely strung together under the thin, parchment-dry skin. He looked at Moray from under his brows with those bright, luminous eyes, in an embarrassed manner, made evident by an exacerbation of his tic.