VIII

I went to the hospital that evening, and after prolonged difficulties

and much tipping of porters, managed to reach Severn at last. He was in

a small, comfortably-furnished separate room with a crucifix over the

mantelpiece and a view of the brilliantly-lit Champs Elysées through

the window. They had stretched him out on a sort of suspended platform,

and the whole of his head and face, with the exception of apertures cut

for his eyes, was a mass of bandages. Only his left hand was free to

move, but as soon as I approached he held it out and pressed mine with

the old sharp grip that he had always had. And then, while his eyes

sparkled like black gems, he wrote in pencil on a writing-pad:

"Delighted to see you. I can't talk, but I'm learning to write with my

left hand. What's brought you here? Do you want a special interview with

the man who had a carriage-door pushed into his spine?"

I stared at him and saw his eyes dancing (so it seemed to me) with

merriment. _Could_ it have been that? I stammered: "My dear Severn, I

came--_we_ came--Terry and I--to see how you were.... Are you--are you

very badly hurt?"

He wrote: "There's a nasty kink in my spine, I'm afraid. Also a few

face-scratches and a knock on the posterior third of the left parietal

bone. Right arm sprained. Spirits excellent. Where's Terry?"

I told him the truth--that Terry was in bed at the hotel (which I

named), and that he would have come with me if he had been at all well

enough.

He wrote instantly: "So he's ill? I'm not surprised. What he needs is a

long rest cure. Are you going to take him back to England?"

Was I? I had hardly thought what I was going to do, but I said: "Most

likely, if I can manage to persuade him to come with me." Then Severn

wrote: "That's right. We're both crocked up, Terry and I, and you've

jolly well got to help us. You're the ministering angel. I'm the

interesting mangle. The doctors think so, anyway."

I laughed hysterically. Then I made inquiries about Helen, and he wrote

that she and June had been cabled for from New York, where they had been

on holiday. They were already on their way. All this questioning and

answering took time, for he insisted on writing down everything exactly

as he would have spoken it. At the last moment, when the sister had

entered to indicate that I must go, I asked him if there was anything I

could do, and he wrote, in large block capitals: "Yes. Come and see me

again before you go to England. But don't bring Terry--it would only

upset him. And also, if you've time, you might run down into the

basement of the Magasins du Louvre and buy me one of their BBB pencils

with cork holders."

I wanted to laugh again--to burst into loud, unchecked laughter; but the

sister was patiently waiting for me at the door. It was she who told me,

as she led the way along the corridor to the head of the stairs, that

most likely Severn would have to be wheeled about in a chair for the

rest of his life. Somehow, even in my most despondent moments, I had

never thought of anything so bad as that. I had pictured him dying of

injuries; I had been prepared for even amputations and disfigurements;

but this grim foreshadowing of death within life struck me with freezing

bewilderment.

And so again into the heavy-scented night. The whole visit to Severn had

lasted less than half an hour and I have set down everything I can

remember of it. If the result seems rather slight and scrappy, make

allowance for the fact that I had spent two successive nights in a

train, and was fatigued to the point of faintness. I remember standing

on the kerb facing the Arc de Triomphe and wondering if I too were going

to crock up; I know that I walked the whole length of the Champs

Elysées down to the Place de la Concorde before deciding finally that I

wasn't. At a café in the Rue Royale I fortified myself with coffee and

cognac and was glad of the few moments' rest; besides, I had to make up

my mind what I should tell Terry.

He was still fast asleep when I reached the hotel, and I sat up reading

and smoking in his room until very late. About two in the morning he

awakened, but seemed too dazed to ask questions; I gave him a simple,

straightforward account of my visit, stressing what was favourable and

ignoring the worst. He thanked me when I had finished, but that was all.

No questions; no comments even; it was as if he were too weary even to

be interested. I told him that Helen and June were on their way back

from America, but even then he only nodded his comprehension. And the

next moment, with a whispered "Good-night," he closed his eyes and

slept.

But there was no sleep for me. Despite an overwhelming tiredness I lay

awake till the early morning traffic made sleep impossible. I smoked

cigarette after cigarette in bed; and then, on sudden impulse, I got up

and wrote a letter to Roebuck, telling him to prepare a second bed in my

bedroom. "It is possible," I wrote, "that when I come back I shall bring

with me a friend who will stay some time...." After all, that was the

only thing to do. Terry had no English friends except me and Severn, and

Severn had enough trouble of his own without being called upon to help

Terry. There was really no alternative to his coming to stay with me,

unless he went back to Vienna, which he probably wouldn't do in any

case. Fortunately my rooms, though few, were fairly commodious, and

Roebuck was the sort of man who would rise to an emergency. The only

thing I feared was that Terry would find London, and especially the part

I lived in, too bustling and noisy for him; apart from that, I was

confident I could make him feel comfortable and at home.

The letter to Roebuck was never sent, for before the ink on the envelope

was dry, the chambermaid brought me my morning pot of coffee, and with

it the following letter from Severn, posted late the night before:

"MY DEAR HILTON,--I must write to thank you for your visit yesterday; it

made me more cheerful than any hospital patient has a right to be; but

the result, unfortunately, has been a strict order from the doctor that

I'm to be kept perfectly quiet and to be allowed no more visitors till

Helen and June arrive. He (the doctor) swore that you excited me, and

so, by God, you did, and I wouldn't have missed a moment of it. Anyhow,

I'm not in any severe pain, and I'm allowed to read and think, so I've

nothing much to grumble about. Perhaps, if you remember, you could call

at Brentano's in the Avenue de l'Opéra and have sent to me a copy of

Brieux's play, _Les Hannetons_, which a friend advised me to read a few

weeks ago.

"And now about Terry. I really think you had better get him to England

as soon as you can, for breakdowns are serious things, and Paris at

midsummer is the very last place to cure them. I happen to have a

controlling interest in a small but decent hotel-pub near Hindhead, and

if you will send (or, better still, take) the enclosed letter to the

manager he will no doubt be pleased to accommodate Terry and yourself

for as long as you like. I think it would be a good thing if you took

Terry there the minute he is fit to travel.

"Just one thing more. I wonder if you could possibly arrange to meet

Helen and June at Liverpool? They are due to arrive by the _Franconia_

next Monday, and it would be a kindly act to cheer them on the way here.

Besides, you and Helen might make it an excuse for becoming good friends

again. Please try to manage it, will you?

"Some of these requests are a sad trespass on your good nature, but, as

I remarked before, you're already cast for the rôle of ministering

angel! Ever yours,

"GEOFFREY SEVERN."

I have that letter still, and if I'm ever asked what sort of a man

Severn is, I should like to show it and say: He's the sort of man who

could write that sort of letter three days after being crippled for

life....

I read it through to Terry, and when I had finished he looked almost as

if he were going to cry. "It's awfully good of him," he said, and I took

that to mean that he would accept the hotel offer. So that was one thing

settled, anyhow. After a pause I said tentatively that I thought it

mightn't be a bad idea if I _did_ meet Helen at Liverpool, and I

suggested that he and I could travel together as far as Hindhead. He

nodded tranquilly, and the whole thing seemed beautifully arranged until

the doctor came and absolutely forbade him to travel so soon. In vain my

protests about the comparative quietude of Paris and Hindhead; even

Paris, he insisted, was better than crowding on trains and steamers.

Perhaps by the middle of the following week the journey could be

attempted, but certainly not before....

It was Terry, after that, who suggested that I should leave him in Paris

while I went to meet Helen. He would be all right, he assured me; he

would just potter about the hotel and do nothing at all. And when I

looked doubtful he said, with the first sign of eagerness that I had

seen in him since his collapse: "Oh, you _must_ go, Hilton. It's time

somebody did the right thing...."

_It was time somebody did the right thing_. That, I think, was the

saddest thing he ever said, for it showed his spirit at its pitiable

lowest--without pride and without hope.