"What?"
"You needn't have put it that way--you might have told a polite lie."
He rose, turned aside, holding the back of the wicker chair.
"I've got something to tell you," he said abruptly. "You would have to
find out soon, so you may as well know now. But don't be alarmed or
concerned. I can't see your face."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been stone blind for fifteen years."
"Blind?"
She sat for some moments paralysed. It was inconceivable. This man
was so strong, so alive, so masterful, with the bright face and keen,
humorous eyes--and blind! A trivial undercurrent of thought ran
subconsciously beneath her horror. She had wondered why he had
insisted on sounds and scents, why he had kept his stick in his hand,
why he had touched things--tables, window jambs, chairs--now she knew.
Roger went on talking, and she heard him in a dream. He had not
informed her when he was stricken, because he had wished to spare her
unnecessary anxiety. Also, he was proud, perhaps hard, and resented
sympathy. He had made up his mind to win through in spite of his
affliction. For some years it had been the absorbing passion of his
life. He had won through like many another, and, as the irreparable
detachment of the retina had not disfigured his eyes, it was his joy to
go through the world like a seeing man, hiding his blindness from the
casual observer. By dictated letter he could never have made her
understand how trifling a matter it was.
"And I've deceived even you!" he laughed.
Tears had been rolling down her cheeks. At his laugh she gave way. An
answering choke, hysterical, filled her throat, and she burst into a
fit of sobbing. He laid his hand tenderly on her head.
"My dear, don't. I am the happiest man alive. And, as for eyes, I'm
rich enough to buy a hundred pairs. I'm a perfect Argus!"
But Winifred Goode wept uncontrollably. There was deep pity for him in
her heart, but--never to be revealed to mortal--there was also
horrible, terrifying joy. She gripped her hands and sobbed frantically
to keep herself from laughter. A woman's sense of humour is often
cruel, only to be awakened by tragic incongruities. She had passed
through her month's agony and shame for a blind man.
At last she mastered herself. "Forgive me, dear Roger. It was a
dreadful shock. Blindness has always been to me too awful for
thought--like being buried alive."
"Not a bit of it," he said cheerily. "I've run a successful business
in the dark--real estate--buying and selling and developing land, you
know--a thing which requires a man to keep a sharp look-out, and which
he couldn't do if he were buried alive. It's a confounded nuisance, I
admit, but so is gout. Not half as irritating as the position of a man
I once knew who had both hands cut off."