This is the next day. Mother Beckett is better, and I've been praised by
the _médecin major_ for my nursing. We've got our luggage from
Compiègne, and may be here for days. We shall miss the pleasure of
travelling to Amiens with the war correspondents, who must go without
us, and we women will get no glimpse of the British front!
Now I'm going to tell you about the incident which has made me almost
love Dierdre O'Farrell--a miracle, it would have seemed two weeks ago,
when my best mental pet name for her was "little cat!"
When I wrote last night, I mentioned that the room Mother Beckett has in
this little hotel had been intended for the wife of a French officer
coming out of hospital. Another room was prepared for that lady, and it
happened to be the one next door to Mother Beckett's. Through the thin
partition wall I heard voices, a man's and a woman's, talking in French.
I couldn't make out the words--in fact, I tried not to!--but the woman's
tones were soft and sweet as the coo of a dove. I pictured her beautiful
and young, and I was sure from her way of speaking that she adored her
husband. The two come into my story presently, but I think it should
begin with a walk that Brian and Dierdre (and Sirius, of course) took
together.
With me shut up in Mother Beckett's room, my blind brother and Julian
O'Farrell's sister were thrown more closely together even than before.
I'm sure Julian saw to that, eliminating himself as he couldn't do when
travelling all three in the Red Cross taxi! Perhaps Dierdre and Brian
had never been alone in each other's company so long; and Brian found
the chance he'd wished for, to get at the _real_ girl, behind her sulky
"camouflage."
He has repeated the whole conversation to me, because he wanted me to
know Dierdre as he has learned to know her; and I shall write everything
down as I remember it, though the words mayn't be precisely right. Never
was there any one like Brian for drawing out confidences from shut-up
souls (except _you_, Padre!) if he chooses to open his own soul, for
that end; and apparently he thought it worth while in the case of
Dierdre. He began by telling her things about himself--his old hopes and
ambitions and the change in them since his blindness. He confessed to
the girl (as he confessed to me long ago) how at first he wished
desperately to die, because life without eyesight wasn't life. He has so
loved colour, and beauty, and success in his work had been so close,
that he felt he couldn't endure blindness.
"I came near being a coward," he said. "A man who puts an end to his
life because he's afraid to face it is a coward. So I tried to see if I
could readjust the balance. I fell back on my imagination--and it saved
me. Imagination was always my best friend! It took me by the hand and
led me into a garden--a secret sort of garden that belongs to the blind,
and to no one else. It's the place where the spirits of colour and the
spirits of flowers live--the spirit of music, too--and all sorts of
beautiful strange things which people who've never been blind can't
see--or even hear. They're not '_things_,' exactly. They're more like
the reality behind the things: God's thoughts of things as they should
be, before He created them; artists' thoughts of their pictures;
musicians' thoughts of their compositions--all better than the things
resulting from the thoughts. Nothing in the outside world is as
wonderful as what grows in that garden! I couldn't go on being unhappy
there. Nobody could--once he'd found the way in."
"It must be hard finding the way in!" Dierdre said.
"It is at first--alone, without help. That's why, if I can, I want to
help my fellow blind men to get there."
"Only men? Not women, too?"
"I've never met a blind woman. Probably I never shall."
"You're talking to one this minute! When I'm with you, I always feel as
if I were blind, and you could see."
"You're unjust to yourself."
"No, but I'm unjust to you--I mean, I have been. I must tell you before
we go on, because you're too kind, too generous. I'm blind about lots of
things, but I do see that, now. I see how good you are. I used to think
you were too good to be true--that you must be a _poseur_. I was always
waiting for the time when you'd give yourself away--when you'd show
yourself on the same level with my brother and me."
"But I am on the same level."
"Don't say it! I don't feel that horrid, bitter wish now. I'm glad
you're higher than we are. It makes me better to look up to the place
where you are. But I wish I could get nearer."
"You are very near. We're friends, aren't we? You don't really mind
because I'm from the North and you from the South, and because we don't
quite agree about politics?"
"I'd forgotten about politics between you and me! But there are other
distances. Do take me into your garden. You say it belongs only to blind
people; but if I am blind--with a different kind of blindness, and
worse--can't I get there with you? I need such a garden, dreadfully. I'm
so disappointed in life."
"Tell me how you're unhappy, and how you've been disappointed," said
Brian. "Then perhaps we can find the right flowers to cure you, in the
garden."
So she told him what Julian had told me: about trying to get on the
stage, and not succeeding, and realizing that she couldn't act; feeling
that there was no vocation, no place for her anywhere. To comfort the
girl, Brian opened the gate of his garden of the blind, and gave her its
secrets, as he has given them to me. He explained to her his trick of
"seeing across far spaces," with the eyes of his mind, and heart: saying
aloud, to himself, names of glorious places--"Athens--Rome--Venice," and
going there in the airship of imagination; calling up visions of
rose-sunset light on the yellowing marble of the Acropolis, or moonlight
in the Pincian gardens, with great umbrella-pines like blots of ink on
steel, or the opal colours shimmering deep down, under the surface of
the Grand Canal. He made Dierdre understand his way of "listening to a
landscape," knowing by the voice of the wind what trees it touched; the
buzz of olive leaves bunched like hives of silver bees against the blue;
the sea-murmur of pines; the skeleton swish of palms; the gay, dancing
rustle of poplars. And he showed her how he gathered beauty and colour
from words, which made pictures in his brain.
"I never thought of all these things when I could see pictures with my
_eyes_--and paint them with my hands," he said. And perhaps he gave a
sigh for the past, which touched Dierdre's heart as the wind, in his
fancy, touched the trees. "Couldn't you use your old knowledge, and
learn to paint without seeing?" she asked. "You might have a line for
the horizon, and with someone to mix your colours under your
directions--someone who'd tell you where to find the reds, where the
greens, and so on, someone to warn you if you went wrong. You might make
wonderful effects."
"I've thought of that," said Brian. "I've hoped--it might be. Sometime,
when this trip is over, I may ask my sister's help----"
"Oh, your sister's!" Dierdre broke in. "But she may marry. Or she may go
back to nursing again. I wish I could help you. It would make me happy.
It would be helping myself, more than you! And we could begin soon. I
could buy you paints from a list you'd give me. If we succeeded, you
could surprise your sister and the Becketts. It would be splendid."
Brian agreed that it would be splendid, but he said that his sister must
be "in" it, too. He wouldn't have secrets from her, even for the
pleasure of a surprise.
"She won't let me help you," Dierdre said. "She'll want to do everything
for you herself."
Brian assured the girl that she was mistaken about his sister. "She's
mistaken about you, too," he added. "You'll see! Molly'll be grateful
to you for inventing such a plan for me. She'll want you to be the one
to carry it out."
No argument of his could convince the girl, however. They came back to
the hotel at last, after a walk by the river, closer friends than
before, but Dierdre depressed, if no longer sulky. She seemed in a
strange, tense mood, as though there were more she wished to say--if she
dared.
Dusk was falling (this was evening of the day we arrived, you must
realize, Padre) and Brian admitted that he was tired. He'd taken no such
walk since he came out of hospital, weeks and weeks ago.
"Let's go and sit in the _salon_, to rest a few minutes and finish our
talk," he proposed. "We're almost sure to have the room to ourselves."
But for once Brian's intuition was at fault. There were two persons in
the little _salon_, a lady writing letters at a desk by the window, and
a French officer who had drawn the one easy chair in the room in front
of a small wood fire. This fire had evidently not existed long, as the
room was cold, with the grim, damp chill of a place seldom occupied or
opened to the air.
As Dierdre led Brian in, the lady at the desk glanced up at the
newcomers, and the officer in the big chair turned his head. The woman
was young and very remarkable looking, with the pearl-pale skin of a
true Parisian, large dark eyes under clearly sketched black brows, and
masses of prematurely white hair.
For a second, Dierdre thought this beautiful hair must be blonde, as the
woman could not be more than twenty-eight; but the light from the
window fell full upon the silver ripples, blanching them to dazzling
whiteness.
"What a lovely creature," the girl thought. "What can have happened to
turn her hair white?"
As for the man, Dierdre took an instant dislike to him, for his
selfishness. His face was burned a deep, ruddy brown, and his eyes, lit
by the red glow of the fire, were bright with a black, bead-like
brightness. They stared so directly, so unblinkingly at Brian, that
Dierdre was vexed. She was his chosen friend, his confidante, his
champion now! Not even Sirius could be more fiercely devoted than she,
who had to atone for her past injustice. She was angry that blind Brian
should be thus coldly stared at, and that a man in better health than he
should calmly sprawl in the best chair, screening the fire.
By this time, Padre, you will have learned enough about Dierdre
O'Farrell to know what her temper is! She forgot that a stranger might
not realize Brian's blindness at first sight in a room where the dusk
was creeping in, and she spoke sharply, in her almost perfect French.
"There's quite a nice fire," she said, "and I should have thought there
was room for everybody to enjoy it, but it seems there's only enough for
_one_! We'd better try the _salle à manger_, instead, I suppose."
Brian, puzzled, paused at the door, his hand on Sirius's head, Dierdre
standing in front of them both like a ruffled sparrow.
The French officer straightened up in his chair with an astonished look,
but did not rise. It was the woman by the window (Dierdre had not
connected her with the man by the fire) who sprang to her feet.
"Mademoiselle," she said quietly, in a voice of exquisite sweetness,
"my husband would be the first one in the world to move, and give his
place to others, if he had known that he was monopolizing the fire. But
he did not know. It was I who placed him there. Those eyes of his which
look so bright are made of crystal. He lost his sight at the Chemin des
Dames."
As she spoke, choking on the last words, the woman with white hair
crossed the room swiftly, and caught the hand of her husband, which was
stretched out as if groping for hers. He stumbled to his feet, and she
stood defending him like a gentle creature of the woods at bay.
Perhaps at no other moment of her life would Dierdre O'Farrell have been
struck with such poignant repentance. That she, who had just been shown
the secret, inner heart of one blind man, should deliberately wound
another, seemed more than she could bear, and live.
Brian remained silent, partly because he was still confused, and partly
to give Dierdre the chance to speak, which he felt instinctively she
would wish to seize.
She took a step forward, then stopped, with a sob, shamed tears stinging
her eyes. "Will you forgive me?" she begged. "I would rather have died
than hurt a blind man, or--or any one who loves a blind man. Lately I've
been finding out how sacred blindness is. I ought to have guessed,
Madame, that you were with him--that you were his wife. I ought to have
known that only a great grief could have turned your wonderful hair
white--you, so young----"
"Her hair white!" cried the blind officer. "No, I'll not believe it.
Suzanne, tell this lady she's mistaken. I remember, in some lights, it
was the palest gold, almost silver--your beautiful hair that I fell in
love with----"
His voice broke. No one answered. There fell a dead silence, and Dierdre
had time to realize what she had done. She had been cruel as the grave!
She had accused a helpless blind man of selfishness; and not content
with that, on top of all she had given away the secret that a brave
woman's love had hidden.
"Suzanne--you don't speak!"
"Oh!" the trembling woman tried to laugh. "Of course, Mademoiselle is
mistaken. That goes without saying."
"Yes--I--of _course_," Dierdre echoed. "It was the light--deceived me."
"And now," said the blind man slowly, "you are trying to deceive
_me_--you are both trying! Suzanne, why did you keep it from me that
your hair had turned white with grief? Didn't you know I'd love you
more, for such a proof of love for me?"
"Indeed, I--oh, you mustn't think----" she began to stammer. "I loved
your dear eyes as you loved my hair. But I love it twice as much now.
I----"
He cut her short. "I don't think. I _know_. _Chérie_, you need have had
no fear. I shall worship you after this."
"She could never have been so lovely before. Her hair is like spun
glass," Dierdre tried to atone. "People would turn to look at her in the
street. Monsieur le Capitaine, you should be proud of such a beautiful
wife."
"I am," the man answered, "proud of her beauty, more proud of her
heart."
"But it is I who am proud!" the woman caught him up. "He has lost his
dear eyes that all women admired, yet he has won honours such as few men
have. What does it matter about my poor hair? You can see by the ribbons
on his breast, Mademoiselle, what he is--what he has done for his
country. You also, Monsieur, you see----"
"I don't see, Madame, because I, too, am blind," said Brian. "But I
feel--I feel that your husband has won something which means more than
his eyes, more than all his honours and decorations: a great love."
"You are _blind_!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman. "I should never have
guessed. Ah, Madame, it is I who must now ask your pardon! I called you
'Mademoiselle.' Already I had forgiven you what you said in error. But I
did not understand, or the forgiveness would have been easier. Your
first thought was for your husband--your blind husband--just as my
thought always is and will be for mine! You wanted him to have a place
by the fire. Your temper was in arms, not for yourself, but for him--his
comfort. How well I understand now! Madame, you and I have the same
cross laid upon us. But it's a cross of honour. It is _le croix de
guerre_!"
"I wish I had a right to it!" Dierdre broke out. "I haven't, because he
is not my husband. He doesn't care for me--except maybe, as a friend.
But to atone to him for injustice, to punish myself for hurting _you_,
I'll confess something. I'd marry him to-morrow, blind as he is--perhaps
_because_ he is blind!--and be happy and proud all my life--if he would
have me. Only,--_I know he won't_."
"My child! I care too much for you," Brian answered, after an instant of
astonished silence, "far too much to take you at your word. Some men
might--but not I! Monsieur le Capitaine here, and Madame, were husband
and wife before their trouble came. That is different----"
"No!" cried the woman whose name was Suzanne. "It is not different. My
husband's the one man on earth for me. If we were not married--if he had
lost his legs and arms as well as his eyes, I'd still want to be his
wife--want it more than a kingdom."
"You hear, Monsieur," her husband said, laughing a little, and holding
her close, with that perfect independence of onlookers which the French
have when they're thoroughly in love.
"I hear, Madame," said Brian. "But you, Monsieur le Capitaine--you would
not have accepted the sacrifice----"
"I'm not sure I could have resisted," the Frenchman smiled.
"You love her!--that is why," Dierdre said. "My friend--doesn't love me.
He never could. I'm not worthy. No one good could love me. If he knew
the worst of me, he'd not even be my friend. And I suppose, after this,
he won't be. If, by and by, I'm not ashamed of myself for what I've
said, he'll be ashamed for me, because----"
"Don't!" Brian stopped her. "You know I mustn't let myself love you,
Dierdre. And you don't really love me. It's only pity and some kind of
repentance--for nothing at all--that you feel. But we'll be greater
friends than ever. I understand just why you spoke, and it's going to
help me a lot--like a strong tonic. You must have known it would. And if
Monsieur and Madame have forgiven us----"
"Us? What have _you_ done? If they've forgiven me----"
"They have, indeed, forgiven," said the blind Frenchman. "They even
thank you. If possible you've drawn them closer together than before."
Brian searched for Dierdre's hand, and found it. "Let us go now, and
leave them," he whispered.
So they went away, and Brian softly shut the door of the little _salon_.
"I _did_ mean every word I said!" the girl blurted out, turning upon him
in the hall. "But--I shouldn't have dared say it if I hadn't been sure
you didn't care. And even if you did care--or could--your sister
wouldn't let you. She knows me exactly as I am."
"She _shall_ know you as you are--my true and brave little friend!"
Brian said.
He can find his way about wonderfully, even in a house with which he is
merely making acquaintance: besides, Sirius was with him. But he felt an
immense tenderness for Dierdre after that desperate confession. He
didn't wish the girl to fancy that he could get on without her just
then, or that he thought she had any reason for running away from him.
He asked if she would take him to his room, so that he might rest there,
alone, remembering an exquisite moment of his life.
"It's wonderful to feel that for a beautiful girl like you--blind as I
am, I am a _man_!" he said. "Thank you with all my heart--for
everything."
"Who told you I was beautiful?" Dierdre flung the question at him.
"My sister Mary told me," Brian answered. "Besides--I felt it. A man
does feel such things--perhaps all the more if he is blind."
"Your sister Mary?" the girl echoed. "She doesn't think I'm beautiful.
Or if she does, it's against her will."
"It won't be, after this."
"Why not? You won't tell her----"
"I'll tell her to love you, and--to help me not to!"
It was just then they came to Brian's door, and Dierdre fled, Sirius
staring after her in dignified surprise.
But Dierdre herself came to me at once, and told me everything, with a
kind of proud defiance.
"I _do_ love your brother," she boasted. "I _would_ marry him if he'd
have me. I don't care what you think of me, or what you say!"
"Why, I love you for loving him," I threw back at her. "That's what I
think of you--and that's what I say."
I was sincere, Padre. Yet I don't see how they can ever marry, even if
Brian should learn to love the girl enough. Neither one has a
penny--and--_Brian is blind_. Who can tell if he will ever get his sight
again? I wish Dierdre hadn't come into our lives in just the way she did
come! I wish she weren't Julian O'Farrell's sister! I hope she won't be
pricked by that queer conscience of hers to tell Brian any secrets which
concern me as well as Julian and herself. And I hope--whatever
happens!--that I shan't be mean enough to be jealous. But--with such a
new, exciting "friendship" for Brian's prop, it seems as if, for
me--Othello's occupation would be gone!