WAITING THE VERDICT
Elaine lay in Rivière's room in the Villa Clémentine. The doctor was
injecting morphine, and a sister of mercy, grave-eyed under her spotless
white coif like a Madonna of Francia, spoke soft words of comfort to
soothe the agony of the blinded girl.
In the adjoining room Rivière waited the decision of the doctor--waited
in tense, straining anxiety.
From that moment by the Druids' Tower when the vitriol had been flung
upon Elaine, he had lived through a nightmare. Up on the hillside he was
impotent to relieve her agony. No house around to take her to. Without a
moment's delay he must get her into the hands of a doctor.
At first he had tried to lead her down the hillside, along the winding
paths of the gardens, his hands around her shoulders. It was too slow.
Twice the moaning girl had tripped over unseen obstacles. Then he caught
her up in his arms and ran with her, the shadows of the trees and the
undergrowth clutching at him like mocking shapes in a Dantesque vision
of the nether world.
Even when down below the hillside, by the aqueduct, they were still far
from the Villa Clémentine and yet farther from Elaine's hotel by the
station. Some conveyance was imperative. But in a quiet country town
like Nîmes there are no cabs to be found wandering around at night-time.
Nor was there carriage or motor-car in sight.
A peasant's cart drawn by a tiny donkey came providentially to solve the
problem. Rivière laid Elaine on the straw of the cart; snatched the
reins from the owner; drove home at frantic speed; had her put to bed in
his own room by Mme Giras; 'phoned imperatively for a doctor and a
nurse.
And now he waited in straining anxiety for the verdict. The waiting was
more horrible than the nightmare flight through the shadows of the
garden on the hillside. That at all events had been action; now he was
being stretched in passive helplessness on the rack of Time.
After an æon of waiting, the doctor left the sick-room and closed the
door noiselessly behind him. Rivière looked him square in the eye.
"I want the truth," he said in French. The words sounded as though his
throat had closed in tight around them.
"We must wait until the morning before it will be possible that we may
say definitely," replied the doctor.
"To say if----?"
"If we can save the right eye."
"The left?"
"I greatly fear----" A slight gesture of his two hands completed the
sentence.
"It's ghastly! That _beast_----!"
"But you must not despair," continued the doctor in an endeavour to be
optimistic. "Madame is strong and healthy. She has a very sound
constitution, and in such a case as this it is a most important factor
in the recovery. You may rely on me to do my utmost. I have great hopes
that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife."
"Mademoiselle," corrected Rivière mechanically.
"Mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow.
"You will come again later to-night?"
"That would serve no useful purpose. I have injected a large dose of
morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. I have left full
instructions with the Sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she
will communicate with me by telephone."
"I have a further question to ask you, doctor. Mademoiselle Verney is
alone in Nîmes. She has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been
staying at the Hotel de Provence while passing through the town. Would
it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or
here?"
"Here--decidedly!" answered the doctor. "Mme Giras is kindness itself--I
know her well. I recommend that mademoiselle stay here."
Rivière could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured
by hopes and fears. The doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but
was this mere professional optimism?
Suppose Elaine were blinded for life--blinded on his account. What was
she to do for her livelihood? He knew that she was an orphan; that her
relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her
throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in Paris. Her
slender means would soon be exhausted--what was she to do then?
With overwhelming conviction Rivière saw the inevitable solution. She
had been blinded while trying to save him. The debt, the overwhelming
debt, lay on him. He must provide for her, guard over her.
If she would accept such help....
In the cold grey of a mist-shrouded morning he woke with a new insistent
thought hammering into his brain. For the first time since he had taken
up the personality of John Rivière, doubt surged upon him in wave after
wave of icy, sullen surf. Had he had the right to cut loose from the
life of Clifford Matheson? Had one alone of a married couple the right
to decide on such a separation? Had he violated some unwritten law of
Fate, and was this the hand of Fate punishing him through the woman he
cared for more deeply than he had yet confessed to himself?
He knew now that from the first moment of their meeting by the arena of
Arles she had opened within him--against his volition--a whole realm of
inner feelings which up till then had lain dormant. He had wanted no
woman in this new life of his, and both at Arles and at Nîmes he had
tried to shut and bolt the gate of the secret realm. Sincerely he had
wanted to give his whole thoughts and energies to his future work, but
here was something which persisted in his inner consciousness against
his will. It was like curtaining the windows and shutting one's eyes
against a storm--in spite of barriers the lightning slashes through to
the retina of the eye.
Was Fate to punish him through the woman he loved?
Rivière rose with determination and flung the thought aside. "Fate" was
only a bogey to frighten children with. "Fate" was a coward's master.
Every man had the right to rough-hew his own life. He, Rivière, had
chosen his new life with eyes open, and, right or wrong, he would stick
by his choice and hew out his life on his own lines. If "Fate" were
indeed a reality, then he would fight it as he had fought Lars Larssen.
He would unknot the tangled threads at whatever cost to himself.
The doctor looked very grave when he had left Elaine's bedside the next
morning.
"The injuries are very serious," he told Rivière. "The cornea of the
right eye has almost been destroyed by the acid. It will heal over, but
the sight will not be as it was before."
"You mean blinded for life--in both eyes?" asked Rivière, ruthless for
his own feelings.
"We must not hope for too much," hedged the doctor. "A great deal
depends on the course of the recovery. I wish not to raise false
hopes...."
"You must pardon what I am going to say, doctor. I have every confidence
in your skill, but is it not possible that the help of an eye specialist
from Paris or Lyons might be of service?"
The doctor put false dignity aside and answered sympathetically: "You
are right, monsieur, a specialist _is_ needed. As soon as mademoiselle
can stand the long journey, I would advise that she be taken to
Wiesbaden, to the very greatest specialist in the world."
"You mean Hegelmann?"
"None other."
"It would not be possible for him to travel to here?"
The doctor shook his head decisively. "Only for kings does he travel. He
has too many patients in his surgical home at Wiesbaden who need him
daily."
"When will mademoiselle be able to make the journey?"
"Within the week, I hope."
* * * * *
Information of the attack had of course been given to the police, who
were hot on the trail of the youth Crau. Meanwhile the local papers sent
their reporters to interview Rivière. He was too well accustomed to the
ways of pressmen to refuse an interview. He received them and replied
with the very briefest facts of the case, explaining that he wished to
avoid publicity so far as it was possible. He asked them at all events
to leave out names, as French journals will sometimes do, on request.
Amongst the callers was an Englishman who sent in word that he was a
local correspondent for the _Europe Chronicle_. Rivière had him shown
into the garden of the villa, to the arbour. The would-be interviewer
was a man of thirty, quiet and secretive looking, with a heavy dark
moustache curtaining the expression of his lips. "Morris Sylvester" was
the name on his card.
He carried a hand-camera, which he placed on a seat beside him and
pointed it towards the path from the house. As Rivière approached,
Sylvester's left hand was fingering the silent release of the
instantaneous shutter. He had made a practice of working his camera
surreptitiously while his eyes held the eyes of his subject.
"Mr Sylvester," began Rivière, "I want to ask you a favour, as one
Englishman to another. Publicity is extremely distasteful to the lady
who has been so terribly injured. To have her story spread broadcast for
the satisfaction of idle curiosity would only add to her sufferings.
Isn't it possible for you to suppress this story?"
Sylvester looked hesitant. "I am sincerely sorry for the lady," he said.
"But of course I have my duty to my journal. I had intended to wire a
full column, and take a picture of the scene of the attack by the
Druids' Tower." He took up his camera from the seat beside him, as
though to show his purpose.
After a moment of reflection he added: "Would it satisfy you if I were
to suppress names?"
"I would much rather you wrote nothing at all," replied Rivière. "I know
that I can't insist. I appeal to your generosity in the matter."
"Very well. Under the circumstances, in deference to the feelings of
your friend, I'll take it on myself to suppress the story."
"That's very kind of you. Is there no form of _quid pro quo_...?"
suggested Rivière tentatively.
"Thanks--nothing."
"You'll take something with me before you go?"
"Thanks--yes."
Over the glasses Sylvester chatted pleasantly about matter of no
import, and then brought the conversation round to the real object of
his visit--to get certain information for Lars Larssen.
"Your name seems familiar to me, somehow," he ventured. "Aren't you a
scientist, Mr Rivière?"
"I do a little private research work," was the guarded admission.
"I seem to associate your name with that of Clifford Matheson, the
financier."
"My half-brother."
"Ah, that's it.... A very remarkable man. I had the pleasure of
interviewing him once, at his office in the Rue Lafitte."
Rivière knew that for a lie. He had never seen Sylvester before, to his
knowledge, and he had a keen memory for faces. What was the man driving
at? He must try and discover. With his long years of business training
behind him, Rivière became suddenly expansive, talking with apparent
frankness without in reality saying anything of import.
"As you say, a remarkable man. That is, as a financier. Personally I
have no interests in that direction. My brother and I have very little
in common. He is the man of affairs, and I am buried in my work. What
was the subject of your interview with him?"
"Canada's future. He gave me a splendid interview--first-rate copy,"
lied Sylvester. "Have you seen your brother lately? Is he engaged on any
big scheme just now? Perhaps you could put me on to a news story in that
direction? I should be glad if you could."
Rivière knew that Sylvester was fishing for information of some kind,
but what it was puzzled him completely, unless the man were now speaking
the truth in his statement that he was on the look-out for financial
news. That seemed the only solution of the puzzle.
"I've seen nothing of my brother lately," answered Rivière. "He's at
Monte Carlo, I believe. I'm sorry not to be able to help you in the
matter, but, as I said before, I'm very little interested in my
brother's movements or plans. His ways and mine lie apart. If I hear of
anything that might be of service to you, I'll let you know. Will you
give me your address?"
"Hotel de la Poste will find me. I travel about the Midi for the
_Chronicle_. They'll send on any message for me at the hotel."
"Many thanks for your kindness in the matter of suppressing the story of
the attack," said Rivière, and his tone intimated that it was now time
for the visitor to leave.
Sylvester, having gained the objects of his visit, rose and took his
departure. Inside half-an-hour he had developed an excellent snap-shot
of Rivière walking along the garden path towards him. He wrote a long
letter to Lars Larssen explaining that John Rivière apparently knew
nothing of the disappearance of Clifford Matheson, and detailing the
story of Elaine and the vitriol outrage.
With the letter he enclosed a bromide print of the snapshot.
* * * * *
Inside a room, closely shuttered to keep out the light, Rivière was
talking earnestly with Elaine a few days later. The agony of the first
days had died down, but she was absolutely helpless. Her eyes were
bandaged, and she was dependent on the sister of mercy and Mme Giras for
everything.
"Crau is in prison," said he. "I've given formal evidence against him,
and he is remanded for trial a month hence. When you are well again,
they will take your evidence on commission. He will undoubtedly be
sentenced to hard labour for some years."
"What does it matter to me--now?" There was despair in her voice.
"The doctor is very hopeful for you, if you will put yourself under
Hegelmann's care."
"He can do nothing for me, I feel it. Only useless expense. No man can
give me back the sight I want for my work."
"In time," said Rivière gently, but he could not force conviction into
his voice. It went hard with him to lie to the woman he cared for most
in the world, even to bring temporary comfort to her.
"My work. Barrèze and the Odéon," she murmured slowly, speaking to
herself rather than to him. "My work was my life. I remember your saying
to me in the garden, by the arbour, only a few days ago: 'If Fate were
to deny you your freedom!' I shivered even at the words.... Do you
believe in Fate?"
Rivière's fist was clenched as he answered: "I'll fight Fate for both of
us."
She was silent for a few moments. Then she asked: "Will you write a
letter for me?"
He brought pen and ink, and waited for her dictation.
"My dear Barrèze," she dictated slowly, "you must find someone else to
paint your scenes of Provence. I am blinded for life----"
"Don't ask me to write that!"
"I am blinded for life," she continued with the clear tones of one whose
mental vision sees the future unveiled. "They want me to go to Hegelmann
at Wiesbaden. He is a great man, and will do for me all that surgical
skill can do. There will be an operation--several, perhaps. It may
perhaps give me a faint gleam of light--enough to tell light from
darkness and to realize more keenly all that I have lost. I shall never
see the theatre again--never paint again. I shall live on the memories
of the past and the bitter thoughts of what might have been----"
"I can't write it!" he cried, torn with the pathos of the words she bade
him put to paper.
"----of what might have been. My friends of the theatre must pass out of
my life. They can have no use for a crippled, helpless woman, nor do I
wish to cloud their happiness with my unwanted presence. Say good-bye to
them for me. And you, my dear Barrèze, I would thank for the chance you
gave me. Your encouragement would have had its reward if I had kept my
sight. But it is gone--gone for always--and I am wreckage on the
rocks...."
"Elaine, Elaine!" he cried. "You have me by your side! I ask you to let
me devote my life to you!"
The answer came gently: "I must not accept such a sacrifice. You offer
it out of pity for me. Later, you would repent of it. You have your work
to do and your life to live in the open sunshine.... Yet don't think me
ungrateful. I am deeply grateful. I shall remember what you said out of
pity for me, and treasure it amongst my dearest thoughts."
"It's not pity, Elaine, but----"
He stopped abruptly. The accusing hand of memory had touched him on the
shoulder. He had no right to make any such offer--it had come from his
heart in passionate sincerity, but it was not his to give. Olive was
still his wife. Disguise it as he would, he was still Clifford Matheson.
He must leave Elaine to think that pity alone had moulded his words. To
explain to her now the shackles of circumstance that bound him fast
would be sheer cruelty, for if she knew the whole truth, she would send
him away from her and refuse even the temporary help he could give her.
For Elaine's sake he must keep silent.
A pause of bitter reflection raised a barrier of stone between them.
When he spoke again, it was from the other side of the barrier. "At
least you will let me stay by you until you leave Hegelmann's charge?
That I claim.... And I believe he will be able to do for you much more
than you imagine. He has worked wonders before. He will do so again. He
is the foremost specialist in the world. All that money can command
shall be yours."
"Money is terribly useless," said Elaine sadly.