The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [392]
But there was a difference. His mind was as acute as ever, it is true, but, unknown to himself, there was something that had been added to his temperament, or perhaps it was that something had left him.
His poise had been so shattered that a change had come about – a change that he knew nothing of, for his logical mind was able to reassure him that whatever the magnitude of his blunder in Barquentine’s room, yet the shame was his alone, the mortification was private – he had only lost face to himself for no one had seen the old man’s quickness.
To have been so burned was too high a price to pay for glory. But glory would assuredly be his. The graver his condition the rarer his bravery in attempting to save the old man’s life from the flames. His prestige had suffered nothing, for Barquentine’s mouth was filled with the mud of the moat and could bear no witness.
But there was a change all the same, and when he was woken an hour later by a sound in the room, and when on opening his eyes he saw a flame in the fireplace, he started upright with a cry, the sweat pouring down his face, and his bandaged hands trembled at his sides.
For a long while he lay shuddering. A sensation such as he had never experienced before, a kind of fear was near him, if not on him. He fought it away with all his reserves of undoubted courage. At last he fell again into a fitful sleep, and when some while later he awoke he knew before he opened his eyes that he was not alone.
Dr Prunesquallor was standing at the end of his bed. His back was to Steerpike, his head was tilted up and he was staring through the window at the tower that was now mottled with sunlight and the shadows of flying clouds. The morning had come.
Steerpike opened his eyes and on seeing the Doctor, closed them again. In a moment or two he had decided what to do and turning his head to and fro slowly on the pillow, as though in restless sleep –
‘I tried to save you,’ he whispered, ‘O Master, I tried to save you,’ and then he moaned.
Prunesquallor turned around on his heel. His bizarre and chiselled face was without that drollery of expression which was so typical of him. His lips were set.
‘You tried to save who?’ said Prunesquallor very sharply as though to elicit some involuntary reply from the sleeping figure.
But Steerpike made a confused sound in his throat, and then in a stronger voice …
‘I tried … I tried.’
He turned again on the pillow and then as though this had awakened him he opened his eyes.
For a few moments he stared quite blankly and then –
‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t hold him.’
Prunesquallor made no immediate reply but took the swathed creature’s pulse – listened to the heart and then after a while – ‘You will tell me about it tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Doctor,’ said Steerpike, ‘I would rather tell you now. I am weak and I can only whisper, but I know where Barquentine is. He lies dead in the mud outside the window of his room.’
‘And how did he get there, Master Steerpike?’
‘I will tell you.’ Steerpike lifted his eyes, loathing the bland physician – loathing him with an irrational intensity. It was as though his power of hatred had drawn fresh fuel from the death of Barquentine. But his voice was meek enough.
‘I will tell you, Doctor,’ he whispered. ‘I will tell you all I know.’ His head fell back on the pillow and he closed his eyes.
‘Yesterday, or last week, or a month ago, for I do not know how long I have been lying here insensible – I entered Barquentine’s room about eight o’clock, which was my habit every evening. It was at that hour that he would give me my orders for the next day. He was sitting on his high chair and as I entered he was lighting a candlestick. I do not know why but he started at my entrance, as though I had surprised him, but when he turned his head back again, after cursing me – but he meant no harm to me for all his irritability – he misjudged his distance from the flame, his beard