|OF course, we watched the newspapers for an announcement of the
_Touraine's_ arrival. A fast steamer, ordinarily accomplishing the
passage within seven days, she ought to have reached Havre on the 22nd.
She was not reported, however, until Monday, the 24th, being then two
days overdue.
It was on Friday, the 4th of January, that we at last got a letter. The
envelope was superscribed not in Miriam's band, but in Fairchild's; and
when we tore it open we saw that the letter itself had been written by
the groom, and not by the bride. This struck us as rather odd, and made
us a little uneasy. We hastened to read:
“Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne,
“Havre, December 25.
“Dear Dr. Benary,
“Christmas day, and such news as I have to give you! I should put off
writing until we reach Paris, in the hope that when we are there the
face of things may have altered for the better; only I know, if you
don't receive a letter sooner than you would in that case, you will be
alarmed.
“What I have to tell you is so horrible in itself, it must shock you
dreadfully whatever way I put it. I can't hope to make it any less
painful for you by mincing it, or beating about the bush. Yet it seems
brutal to state the hideous fact downright. Miriam has become blind,
totally blind.
“Whether incurably so or not, we do not yet know. Of course we hope for
the best, but we can be sure of nothing till we reach Paris, where we
shall consult the best oculists to be found. Meantime, you may imagine
our state of mind.
“We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran
into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all
the way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and
worse until we reached port. It had only this mitigation--it was behind
us, and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed
but about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no
telling when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it
Miriam could never have survived.
“For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were
battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were
the port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were
screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights
also were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air.
Then the electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall
back upon candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became
something unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it
was impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning;
and we were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the
electric machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From
second to second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar
like the discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and
tremble. It was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic
thunder.
“And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant
vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be
thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And
then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling
of the wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the
snapping of cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose
things being knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead,
the groans of sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children,
the darkness, the loathsome air--I tell you it was frightful; it was
like pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a
nightmare.
“Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most
heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had
never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's
surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of
course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm
abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do.
I just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay
exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I
can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit
still there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly
powerless to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last
night, when we had been ashore some hours--precisely one week--she did
not taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a
drop of brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th
she was seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on,
until we left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms
and utter prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die,
her convulsions were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so
death-like. The ship's surgeon himself admitted that there was great
danger--that death might result from exhaustion. For those four
days--from the 20th to the 24th--he kept her almost constantly under the
influence of opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better--that is,
her convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When
not in convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most
of the time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday
she was worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock,
that, after she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once
she started up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone
out again. The lights were at that moment burning brightly in our
state-room; and I told her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't
see anything. It is all dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.'
“Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her
sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the
ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was
so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve,
the consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being
permanent was he could not say.
“Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant
we reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best
medical men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of
the ship's doctor--that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and
that her blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. _They think
it will probably not be permanent_. She must keep her bed until she
is thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to
Paris, and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Désessaires, who,
it seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye.
“She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the
time--or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for good.
But all last night they occurred from time to time--very much less
violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been able
to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a little
beef-tea.
“That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will
understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length
than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a
week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks
of you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means
yourself and Miss Josephine.
“I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to
write.
“Always yours,
“Henry Fairchild.”
The dismay which the foregoing epistle occasioned Josephine and myself
the sympathetic reader will conceive without my telling. But it was
as nothing to that which we experienced when we read the next, and
considered its purport:--
“Hôtel de la Bourdonnaye,
“Paris, January 1, 1889.
“Dear Dr. Benary,
“Miriam improved rapidly after I posted my letter of Christmas day.
Rest, quiet, and nourishment were what she needed--and those she had.
The doctors gave us permission to leave Havre yesterday; and we arrived
here in the afternoon. She is pale and weak, and wasted to the merest
shadow of herself, having lost _twenty-six pounds_ in weight. But she
does not suffer any more bodily pain; though what her agony of mind must
be it is not difficult for those who love her to imagine. However, that
will soon be over.
“I telegraphed in advance to Dr. Désessaires, requesting him to call
upon us here at our hotel last evening. He came at eight o'clock, and
put Miriam through a thorough examination. He confirmed what all the
other doctors had said--that it was a paralysis of the optic nerve. He
enquired all about her health in the past, and particularly whether she
had ever had any trouble of the brain or spine. Then, of course, we told
him of that accident which she met with in 1884, which had deprived
her of her memory, 'Ah! said he, 'that gives me the key to the whole
difficulty.' He proceeded very carefully to examine her head, and when
he had finished he said there was a depression of the bone at the point
where she had been hurt at that time, and a consequent pressure upon the
brain; and it was that pressure upon the brain which accounted for the
extraordinary violence of her sea-sickness and the resultant blindness.
Finally, he said that an operation to relieve that pressure would, if
made at once, restore her sight; but that, unless such an operation was
performed, she must remain permanently blind. He assured me that the
operation was not a dangerous one; that it would consist in the removal
of a minute fragment of the bone--what is called trephining. Of course,
there was nothing for us to do but consent to having the operation
performed; and thereupon he went away, saying he would return this
morning.
“At eleven o'clock this morning he arrived, accompanied by four other
physicians--Dr. Cidolt, also an oculist; Dr. Gouet, the famous alienist;
Dr. Marsac, a general practitioner of very high standing; and Dr.
Larquot, said to be the most skilful surgeon in France. They made a long
examination, and then withdrew to consult together. At the end of
nearly two hours they came to me with their report, which was simply
a repetition of what Dr. Dêsessaires had already said--that trephining
would be necessary, that it would be effective, and that it would be as
free from danger as such an operation ever is. It must be performed as
soon as possible, so that atrophy of the optic nerve may not have time
to set in; but before they can safely undertake it, Miriam must be
perfectly recovered in general health. They have set upon this day
fortnight--the 14th--as probably a favourable time. Meanwhile she is
under the care of Dr. Marsac. Dr. Larquot is to conduct the operation.
“The brave little woman! She supports her calamity so patiently! And
she looks forward to that dreadful ordeal with an amount of nerve and
courage that a man might be proud of. God grant that all may go well.
“There is nothing more for me to write at present.
“Always Yours,
“Henry Fairchild.”
At the close of Fairchild's letter this postscript was added, in a hand
that we recognised as Miriam's, though it was cramped and irregular, as
if she had written with her eyes shut:--
“Dear Ones,--I cannot see to write to you; but I love you and love you,
with all my heart.
“Miriam.”
When my sister Josephine read that, she burst out crying like a child.
I waited till she had dried her tears, Then, “Well, my dear sister,” I
questioned, “do you realise what that letter means?”
“What it means? Why, that her blindness is only temporary, and can be
cured. That she will recover her sight.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else?”
“What else! This else--and I am surprised that you do not see it for
yourself--it means that the same operation which will restore her sight
will also restore her memory. Do you understand? She will become
Louise Massarte again. She will begin at the precise point where Louise
Massarte left off. She will forget everything that has occurred during
the past four years, and will recall what occurred before. It is that
same pressure of the bone upon the brain to which they rightly or
wrongly attribute her blindness--it is that same pressure of the bone
upon the brain which keeps Louise Massarte in quiescence, and makes
Miriam Benary possible. Relieve that pressure, remove that point of
bone, and instantly Louise Massarte will spring into life again, while
at the same moment Miriam Benary will cease to exist. That is what
Fairchild's letter means.”
“Good Heavens!” gasped Josephine, holding up her hands in helpless
dismay. “But--but surely---- but what--what is to be done?”
“Which, in your opinion, would be the lesser of the two evils--to have
her remain permanently blind, or to have her regain her memory? She
would recollect all that she is happiest in forgetting, she would forget
all that she is happiest in remembering. The four years during which
she has lived here with us as our niece would be utterly obliterated and
undone. She would rise from that operation in mind and spirit exactly
where she was, and exactly what she was, just before you and I put her
under the influence of ether on the 14th day of June, 1884. Which, I
want you to tell me--which would be the lesser evil: the blindness of
Miriam Benary, or the resurrection of Louise Massarte?”
“Oh, there is no room for question about that. Better a thousand times
that she should never see the light of day again, than that she should
cease to be herself, and return to her dead personality. Why, it is--it
is Miriam's very life, her very existence, which is at stake.”
“Precisely. It is, so far as she is concerned, a choice between
blindness and death. Nay, something worse than death: a hideous
transformation of her identity, from that of a pure and innocent young
bride, to that of a weary, heart-sick, sinful woman-convict. To cure her
blindness by the means which they propose, would simply be to kill her;
to abolish Miriam Benary and to substitute for her Louise Massarte. It
is infinitely better that she should remain blind. Therefore, I am going
to prevent that operation if I can.”
“If you can indeed! But how can you? They are three thousand miles away.
How can you?”
“Well, let us see. To-day--to-day is the 12th, is it not?”
“Yes, to-day is Saturday the 12th. Well?”
“Well, the day set for the operation is the 14th--that is, the day after
to-morrow, Monday.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I shall go at once and cable to Fairchild, imploring him,
commanding him, no matter at what cost, to postpone the operation until
I arrive in Paris. Then I shall engage passage aboard the first swift
steamer that sails. The South German Clyde steamers sail on Mondays.
They make the passage in seven days, and touch at Cherbourg. Do
you, meanwhile, prepare my things, so that I may take ship day after
tomorrow. Once arrived in Paris, I will persuade Fairchild to relinquish
the idea of the operation for good and all. I will convince him that
Miriam's life will be imperilled. Or, failing in that, I may find myself
compelled to tell him the truth about Louise Massarte. Anything will be
better than to have her regain her memory.”
“Yes, anything. God grant that he may not disobey your telegram. But
you must engage passage for me as well as for yourself. I cannot stay
at home here idle. You must let me go with you. I should die of anxiety
alone here at home.”
I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following cable
despatch:--
“Fairchild, Hôtel Bourdonnaye, Paris.
“At all costs postpone operation till I arrive. Miriam's life
endangered. Sail Monday, viâ Cherbourg.
“Benary.”
Then I hastened to the steamship company's office in Bowling Slip, and
engaged staterooms for my sister and myself aboard the _Egmont_ which
was to sail promptly at noon on Monday the 14th.
Yet, despite these precautionary measures, a heavy load of anxiety lay
upon my heart. What if Fairchild should suffer the operation to proceed,
notwithstanding my protest? I could not banish that contingency from my
mind, nor its ghastly _corollaries_ from my imagination.