Clarenceux moved a hair aside on Annie’s sweat-streaked face, and wiped her forehead again. She was so weak, so pale and vulnerable. He looked up at the woman who had been nursing her. “By now I had thought that things would have turned one way or the other. That it would not be…not be like this.”
He looked down at her again and saw her face so changed: the bright eyes unseeing, the delirium holding her from within. He thought of the people possessed by devils in the Bible and confessed to himself that he had never thought that such things might happen to his family. He had been too complacent. But if one does not live with a measure of complacency, one cannot live. To pour ashes over our heads every day—that is no way to bring up our children, no way to face life.
He bit his lip and wiped her face again. Every intake of breath, every movement of her hand on the counterpane gave him an instant of hope—an instant that was quickly dashed. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of his tiredness; all he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep and wake to find that everything was well again—that Awdrey and Mildred were restored to him and at home, and Annie well again and smiling. So many people must feel the same way, he reflected. I am not alone. When there are so many of us who suffer, how can anyone want to make our lives worse? In what way is that a Christian thing?
He noted Annie moving her hand. She blinked and opened her mouth, and once again his hopes were raised. But she simply moaned and looked past him, through him—her eyes focused on an eternity that she could see and he could not. He held her hand and kissed it.
“Annie, my beloved Annie,” he whispered, “I want you to know that I am here and that all will be well for you, that you have no need to fear. You are innocent, you are good, and the Lord loves the good and the innocent.” Why, then, do the righteous suffer? Clarenceux fought back the question. “He will protect you and give you strength, Annie, and I will pray for you every day. I pray for you and your mother and sister. Our house is empty of laughter; there is dust on the tables and on the shelves. There are rats in our kitchen eating the crumbs of stale bread that have fallen there; there is a leak in the stable roof. The sheets I sleep in are dirty, as are those in which Thomas sleeps. All will not be right again until you, my sweet, are well once more and we are all together again as a family. Come back to us, Annie; if you can hear me in the depths of your suffering, come back to me. I need you.”
Annie moved her hand, unconsciously. She stretched out, her hand shaking, reaching for something. Then the vision in her head was gone and her hand fell on the bed. Clarenceux saw no further movement in her. He watched and he waited; he saw her breathing and her eyelids trembling, the beads of sweat—but that was all. He stood up, crossed himself, then made the sign of the cross on her forehead and left the room, wiping away a tear hurriedly lest anyone should see.