It seemed hard to Francis Manning that he, who had asked of fate nothing
more exorbitant than an easy, comfortable existence, should have been
called on to endure one of the most uncomfortable of experiences--that
of being jilted by the girl to whom he had believed himself engaged to
be married! For years past he had intended to marry Lilith Wastneys,
and when he told his love she had been everything that was sweet and
complaisant, had said, in so many words, that she loved him in return.
He had gone home feeling the happiest man in the world, had lain awake
for a solid hour by the clock, rejoicing in his happiness, and the very
next morning, behold a letter to tell him that she was engaged to
another man!
Francis could not endure to recall the shock, the misery, the
discomfort, of that hour. If the news had come from another source he
would have refused to believe it; but it was Lilith herself who wrote,
so there was no loophole of escape.
During the following days he felt stunned and wretched. His heart was
wounded, but he was not sentimental by nature, and it seemed to him that
he could have schooled his heart into subjection if it had not been
for--for the other things! There did not seem a single interest in life
which this wretched disillusionment had left untouched. To begin with,
there was his work. He had worked for a home in which Lilith should
live as his wife. Work seemed suddenly dull and purposeless now that
the proposed home had crumbled into ruins. Then, as regards amusement--
he had grown into the habit of arranging his engagements to fit in with
Lilith's own. A dinner meant the chance of Lilith for a partner; a
ball, a dance or two with Lilith, and a _tete-a-tete_ in a conservatory;
a reception, the chance of edging his way towards a little white figure
and keeping beside it for the rest of the evening. Amusement lost its
savour, now that Lilith no more entered into the scheme. Life was dull,
stale, and unprofitable. The days dragged past on leaden feet; he fell
asleep with a sigh, and woke to a pang of remembrance.
For a whole month Francis was a prey to grief, and then, as he himself
would have expressed it, he "bucked up." There came an historic
Saturday evening, when, in the company of a particularly fine cigar he
came to the conclusion that "it was not good enough," and that he could
not "stick" it any more. He had had a whole month of being miserable,
and it was the dullest time he had ever known! In self-defence he must
pull himself together and face the music.
It was astonishing how many saws Francis quoted over that cigar; but he
was as good as his vow, and from that hour he wasted no more regrets on
Lilith Wastneys. So serene and cheerful became his demeanour that his
one confidante congratulated him on having set a pattern to suffering
mankind.
"I have heard many tragic stories. People always do confide in me," she
told him; "but have I met a man who has borne his trouble as you have
borne yours. I feel a better woman from the experience. It has been a
triumph of bravery and endurance!"
"Think so?" said Francis. He was gratified to know that he had made
such a good impression, and reminded himself insistently that lookers-on
saw most of the game. He did this to quieten a tiresome inner voice
which insisted that his cheerful mien was the result of cowardice rather
than of bravery, the cowardice which refused to endure!
"Still, you know," he declared lugubriously, "a fellow feels lonely--"
The confidante sighed, and flicked her light eyelashes.
"I know the feeling," she said.
When a man has made up his mind that it is time to marry, it is foolish
to abandon the plan because one woman out of the teeming millions in the
land refuses to become his wife. This, at least, was Francis Manning's
seasoned decision, and it was emphasised by the announcement of Lilith
Wastneys' wedding, which appeared in the newspapers exactly three months
after her refusal of himself. Whatever sentimental hankerings he might
have cherished for Lilith the maid, it was clearly out of place to cast
another thought towards the wife of Hereward Lowther. Francis had a
deep respect for the conventions, and death itself could not have
removed his former love to a more impassable distance. He heaved a sigh
to her memory, and buried it underground.
Within a week from that day he was engaged to the confidante. It seemed
the obvious thing to do, for he knew her more intimately than any other
girl of his acquaintance, and owed her a debt of gratitude for her
sympathy in his former affair. She was quite a nice girl, too; not
pretty, but amiable and healthy, with a small income of her own which
would come in usefully towards running the house. He wished her
eyelashes had not been quite so white; but one could not have
everything. She was a nice, affectionate girl.
The confidante accepted Francis because she was tired of living at home
with a managing mamma, and wanted to start life on her own account. She
liked Francis, was proud of his fine appearance, knew him to be
good-tempered and honourable, and was complacently assured that they
would "get on." Far better, she said, to begin with a sensible,
open-eyed liking, than a headlong passion which would wear itself out
before the honeymoon was over. It was, in short, a sensible marriage
between eminently sensible contracting parties. The little God of Love
had no part in the ceremony, but it is only fair to mention that nobody
missed him.
Mr and Mrs Manning went to Scotland for their honeymoon, and Francis
played golf every day, what time his wife read novels in the veranda of
the hotel. She sped him on his way with a smile, and welcomed him back
with a smile to match, and if the young girls in the hotel confided in
each other that _they_ would break their hearts if _their_ bridegrooms
neglected them in such a fashion, such a thought never entered her head.
She would have been bored if Francis had stayed beside her all day
long. What on earth could they have found to say?
At the end of a fortnight Mr and Mrs Manning returned to a
semi-detached villa in a southern suburb, and settled down to a
comfortable married life.
Mr and Mrs Francis Manning spent the next ten years in peace and
comfort, and humdrum happiness. They had good health, easy means, a
large number of acquaintances, and three little daughters. The
daughters were plain, but sturdy, and gave a minimum of trouble in the
household. Francis, indeed, insisted on this point. Early in the
lifetime of Maud, the eldest daughter, he had become aware of the
amazing fact that nurses occasionally wished to "go out"; that, in
addition, they wished to go out on the Sabbath day. This seemed to him
unreasonable, and he said as much to his wife.
"But why in the name of all that's ridiculous, _Sunday_? I'm at home on
Sunday. Sunday's the day when we need nurse most of all. It's my
holiday."
Mrs Manning represented that Sunday was also a holiday for nurse and
her friends, and Francis said, very well, then, they must have _two_
nurses. If necessary they must have three. The one thing certain was
that he could not be disturbed on his day of rest, so a capable
assistant was engaged forthwith, and comfort was re-established.
The Mannings took no part in the intellectual life of the neighbourhood.
There, were several book clubs, lecture courses, and the like, which
they were urged to join, but without success. Francis declared that he
worked all day, and came home to rest, and his wife said, thank you, no;
she had no wish to go back to school at her age. They went out to
dinner now and then, and made a point of giving two or three dinners
themselves every winter. They provided lavishly on such occasions, and
were agreeably conscious that their guests were impressed. Both husband
and wife enjoyed rich foods, and saw no reason for denying themselves
the gratification.
As far as religion was concerned, the Mannings made a point of going to
church with the children every Sunday morning when it was fine, or they
were not late for breakfast, or Francis did not feel inclined for a
walk. Sometimes he went off golfing for the day, and then Mrs Manning
dressed Maud in her best clothes and they went to church together. She
had been brought up to go to church, and thought the habit "nice."
Besides it was pleasant to see friends coming out, and walk home with
Mrs Lane, her favourite neighbour. They would meet on the path outside
the graveyard, and turn uphill together, and Mrs Lane would say:
"_What_ a sermon! My dear, _did_ you see the woman in the pew before
ours? She came in late, just before the psalms. She took off her coat,
_and_, my dear, her blouse--"
She would proceed to describe the blouse in detail, and Mrs Manning
would sigh and say: "It _is_ nice to have something interesting to look
at in the next pew! We have those awful Miss Newtes."
The neighbours on both sides envied the Francis Mannings, and quoted
their doings with admiration. In the matter of holidays, for instance,
how sane and sensible were their arrangements! The children were sent
with their nurses to the sea, the father enjoyed himself on Scottish
golf links; the mother toured abroad with a woman friend. Each autumn
the neighbours agreed to profit by the example of the Francis Mannings,
and to do likewise the next summer; but somehow it never came off. When
spring came round the wife would conscientiously remind her husband of
the resolve, and urge him to keep it, while gracefully withdrawing
herself. "Margot has had several of those bad chest colds," she would
explain. "I should be so anxious in case she caught a chill. It really
is my duty to go with the children but _you_, dear, you could quite
well--"
"Well! I don't know," the husband would reply. "What would become of
you in the evenings? And I promised to teach Jack to swim. I think, on
the whole, we'd better stick to the old arrangement this summer."
So once more they would depart _en famille_ to the seaside, and stay in
lodgings, and be happy in the old domesticated fashion. But also, quite
frequently, bored!
On the rare occasions when he gave himself over to thought, Francis
realised that there was only one respect in which life had disappointed
him, only one desire which had been withheld. He wanted a son. Each
time that a child had been expected he had built his hopes upon a son;
each time disappointment had been more acute. He had built up a good
business by his own exertions; he wanted a son of his own name to carry
it on. There were times, moreover, when the purely feminine nature of
his household fretted his nerves, and he thought, with longing, of a man
child; a little chappie in trousers, instead of the eternal flounces; a
knickerbockered elf sitting in his dressing-room watching him shave; a
tall hobbledehoy beginning to play golf, listening with interest to
accounts of his father's prowess. Later on, a man, a partner, a prop
for declining years. Francis pushed the thought from him, but it
recurred. Deep at his heart lay the longing for a son.
And the son came. This time he had not hoped; he had told himself
steadily that it would be a girl. Better if it were a girl. No use
having a boy at the end of a family of girls. He would grow up half a
girl himself, and be a disappointment. He was placidly resigned to
girl, and after all, behold, it was a boy! The blood raced through his
veins as he heard the good news; something astonishingly like tears
pricked at his eyes.
"Is he--is he _all right_?" he asked breathlessly, and the doctor
laughed.
"Go upstairs and look at him, my dear fellow! Pine little chap as you
could wish to see."
In truth he was a healthy nine-pounder of a son, guaranteed by nurse and
mother to be the finest baby ever born, and seated by his wife's
bedside, Francis gave vent to his jubilation.
"Now," he said triumphantly, "I have everything I want. I really am a
lucky fellow. Jolly little beggar, eh? Seems to me--I don't know if
I'm right--but I do think he looks different from the rest!"
The wife smiled, but Francis was right; everybody said he was right.
The longed-for boy was in truth an extraordinarily comely infant, and
each week of his life he blossomed into fuller charm. His well-shaped
head was covered with golden curls and when he lay asleep (and he
obligingly slept most of his time) it was a pleasure to observe the
delicate promise of his features. He had obviously elected to resemble
his handsome father, and the father was complacently grateful for the
fact.--
Mrs Manning observed with amazement that Francis nursed this baby,
positively nursed him in his arms, and was quite disappointed when, on
returning from the city, he failed to find him awake.
"Are his eyes changing colour yet?" he would ask. "I want them to be
blue. Blue eyes would look so well with his yellow hair." But the
baby's eyes remained a dull, clouded grey. "Not blue yet!" Francis
would repeat. "How long is it before they begin to change? Fine big
eyes, aren't they? I want to make the little beggar look at me, but he
won't. Why does he stare at the ceiling?"
"It's the electric light," said his wife; but the next morning, when the
lights were turned off, the baby still stared blankly upward.
"Why the dickens does he stare at the ceiling?" Francis asked again.
Gradually, imperceptibly, a growing anxiety began to mingle with his
joy, and the anxiety was connected with those staring eyes. He would
not put his thoughts into words; but he watched his wife's face, and saw
in it no reflection of his own fears. Then for a time he would banish
the dread; and anon it would recur.
_Were_ the boy's eyes all right? Was it really natural that he should
be always staring up? Ridiculous nonsense! Of _course_ it was all
right. Things had come to a pretty pass when he took to worrying
himself, while his wife, who knew a thousand times more about babies,
remained untroubled and serene. Bother the child's eyes! ... He would
think about them no more.
All his life Francis had been a sworn opponent of worry. When anything
disagreeable threatened, his mode of procedure was to shrug his
shoulders, and immediately divert his thoughts. "Leave the thing alone;
don't bother about it; it will probably come all right in the end!"
Such was his theory, and experience had proved that as often as not it
was correct. He endeavoured to cultivate the same attitude towards his
boy, but in vain. The anxiety recurred.
He told himself that he would have the eyes tested, and satisfy himself
once for all; but once and again his courage failed, and the days passed
on, and nothing was done. Then there came an evening when suddenly fear
engulfed him, and made anything seem easier than a continuation of
suspense.
He was holding the child in his arms, and he rose and carried it across
the room, to where a powerful light hung from the wall. He pushed aside
the shade, and held the tiny face closely approaching the glass. The
eyes stared on, unblinking and still. A great cry burst from Francis'
throat:
"My God!" he cried. "The boy is blind!"
The boy was blind, and there was no hope that he would ever possess his
sight. Mrs Manning wept herself ill, but even in the depths of her
distress she realised that her husband's sufferings were keener than her
own. It gave an added touch of misery to those black days, to feel a
strange new distance between her husband and herself. She could not
comfort him; she could not understand him; after ten years of married
life it appeared as if the man she had known had disappeared, and a
stranger had taken his place. Yet there was nothing unmanly in his
grief; he was quiet and self-restrained as she had never seen him
before, gentler, and more considerate of others.
The poor woman noticed the change with awe, and wondered if Francis were
going to die.
"I have never seen you feel anything as you are feeling this," she said
to him one night. They were sitting by the dying fire, and Francis
raised his head and stared at her with sombre eyes.
"But I have felt nothing," he said flatly. "I am finding that out. I
did not know what it meant to feel!"
From the moment of his discovery of the blindness of his son, Francis
Manning became a man possessed of but one aim--to lighten and alleviate,
so far as was humanly possible, the child's sad lot. He taught himself
Braille, so that in time to come he might teach it to the boy, and be
able to translate for his benefit appropriate pieces of literature. He
visited every famous institute for the blind at home and abroad, and
made an exhaustive study of their systems. He searched for a girl of
intelligence and charm, and sent her to be trained in readiness to
undertake the boy's education; he schooled himself to be a playmate and
companion; he denied himself every luxury, so that the boy's future
might be assured. As Francis the man, he ceased to exist; he lived on
only as Francis the father.
During the first three years of his life the young Francis remained
blissfully unconscious of his infirmity. A strong, healthy child
surrounded by the tenderest of care, the sun of his happiness never set.
His little feet raced up and down; his sweet, shrill voice chanted
merry strains; his small, strong hands seemed gifted with sight as well
as touch, so surely did they guide him to and fro. Nature, having
withheld the greatest gift, had remorsefully essayed compensation in the
shape of a finer touch, a finer hearing. The blind child was the
sunshine of the home; but the father knew that the hour must dawn when
that sunshine would be clouded. He held himself in readiness for that
hour, training himself as an athlete trains for a race.
He would need courage: therefore it behoved him to be brave now, to
harden himself against the ills of life, and cultivate a resolute
composure. All the influences which had tended to keep him soft must be
thrown aside as weights which would hinder the race. He must be wise,
therefore it behoved him to think, and to train his mind. A light
reason, a light excuse, would no longer be sufficient; he must learn to
judge and to reflect. He must be tender; and to be tender it was
necessary to bury self, and to put other interests before his own. More
weights had to be thrown aside. And he must be patient! Hitherto he
had considered patience a feeble, almost unmanly, virtue; but he
perceived that it would be needed, and must be cultivated with the rest.
Mrs Manning confided in her neighbours that Francis had never been the
same since the discovery of Baby's blindness. He never complained, she
said. Oh, no; and he was most kind--gave no trouble in the house,
_but_--Then she sighed, and the neighbours sympathised, and prophesied
that he would "come round." In truth the good, commonplace woman was
ill at ease in the rarefied atmosphere of the home, and sincerely
regretted the comfortable, easy-going husband of yore.
For three whole years Frank lived untroubled, and then the questions
began to come.
"Am I blind, father? Why am I blind? Is it naughty to be blind?"
The baby child was easily appeased. Later on the questions would become
more insistent. Francis prepared himself for that hour. At four years
fleeting shadows began to pass over the boy's radiance. Alone with his
father, his face would pucker in thought.
"Shall I always be blind, father? I don't like to be blind. Was you
blind when you was a little boy?"
The knife turned in the father's heart at the sound of the innocent
words; but always the cloud loomed darker ahead. He trained himself
more zealously, in preparation for the hour when the boy would rebel!
But there were happy hours between, hours when the natural joy of
childhood filled the house with laughter, and father and son were
supremely happy in each other's society. No companion of his own age
was half as dear to the boy; no living creature stood for so much in the
father's heart. They read and studied together; they held long,
intimate conversation. They played games from which blind people are
usually debarred. Standing behind a hoop on the croquet lawn the father
would cry in a brisk, staccato voice, "Prank!" and on the instant the
boy's mallet would hit the ball, and send it in the direction indicated,
and proud and glad was Frankie to know that his aim was surer than that
of his sighted sisters. And every hour of contentment, every added
interest and occupation bestowed upon the boy, was as a salve to the
sore father heart. But at six years the inevitable rebellion began.
"Is he blind?" the boy would ask of a new acquaintance. "Can _he_ see,
too? _Everyone_ can see but me! ... _I_ want to run about like the
other fellows, and play cricket, and have some fun. It's dull all alone
in the dark. Can't you have me made better, father?"
At times he would cry; piteous, pitiful tears, but the sensitive ear was
quick to catch the distress in his father's voice, and he would offer
consolation in the midst of his grief. "Don't be sorry, father. I
don't want you to be sorry. It doesn't matter; really it doesn't. I
have a ripping time!"
Never for a moment did the boy hold his parents responsible for his
infirmity; but there came a day when he blamed his God.
"If God can do everything He likes, He could have made me quite right,
and well. Why didn't He, father?"
"I don't know, my son."
"_You_ would make me better if you could! You said yourself you'd pay
the doctor all your money. You are kinder than Him. I don't think God
_is_ kind to me, father. It would have been so easy for Him--"
The wisdom for which Francis had prayed and struggled seemed a poor
thing at that moment. He was dumb, and yet he dared not be dumb.
"Frankie," he said, "I'll tell you a secret--a secret between you and
me... God sent me a great many blessings when I was young, and they did
me no good. I was selfish, and careless, and blind, too, Frankie,
though my eyes could see, and then after He had tried me with happiness
and it had failed, He sent me"--the man's voice trembled ominously--"_a
great grief_! ... Frankie, old man, when I come to die, I believe I am
going to thank God for that grief, more than for all the blessings which
went before."
The child sat silent, struggling for comprehension.
"What did the great grief _do_ to you, father?"
Francis paused for a moment, struggling for composure. Then he spoke:
"_It stabbed my dead heart wide awake_!"
He stooped and kissed the child's blind eyes.