Evelyn woke that morning out of one of those cruel, dreamless sleeps
that seem for a little while on waking to have expunged all memory, and
he lay a few minutes conscious vaguely of something a little wrong, but
for the moment not knowing where he was, and not caring to make the
effort to guess. Then suddenly, like the stroke of a black wing across
the sky, memory came home for the day. Whenever he woke in the hereafter
he would awake to that, to his maimed, ruined life. The knowledge of it
was more unbearable to-day than it had been yesterday; to-morrow it
would be worse; it would keep growing worse.
Then out of that utter darkness there grew a little light. It might have
been even more desperate--how was that? Then he remembered Madge. She
had seen, and the worst of all that he had imagined was not true.
This morning he felt within himself a sudden accession of strength; his
long sleep-acting with his extraordinary recuperative powers, had set
fresh tides of vitality on the flow. Something had happened lately which
in spite of all, interested him--ah, yes, the gradual compensating
sensitiveness in his hands. He had played a whole _partie_ of picquet
with Madge, using those cards with raised indexes. The _partie_ had only
taken an hour--not bad for a beginning; to-day perhaps he would be a
little quicker. To-day also these bandages that worried him with their
close-clinging, sticky feeling would be removed, and with regard to them
he could not help half-thinking that when they were gone, some light,
however dim, must reach him. Surely the blackness would become a sort of
grey. It was unreasonable, he knew well, but he could not help feeling
that it must be so. But the fact that he thought about the picquet he
had played and the greater celerity with which he was going to play it,
even the idea, which he himself knew to be purely imaginary, that he
would not feel so terribly alone and in the dark when these bandages
were removed, all pointed one way: he looked, or tried to look, forward
instead of brooding backwards. And in such matters, as indeed in all
others, the will is the deed, provided only that the will be undivided.
So for the time the utter blackness of his waking moments was gone, the
tiny things of life, as well as life's ultimate possibilities, still
retained their interest, and while he waited for his breakfast, he kept
feeling with his nimble, hovering hands at all objects within reach: the
woolliness of the blankets, the cool texture of the sheets, a certain
slipperiness of counterpane, which eventually he determined to be
silk-covered. Then there was wall-paper above his head; there was a
pattern on that, and with both hands he traced his way up the slight
raising of the design, stopping often, visualising to himself what the
picture of the course of his fingers would be like.... There was a spray
of some sort; it branched to the left and ended in narrow, slender
leaves. On the right it went higher before it branched; there were
leaves there, too, and above again there started a stem like the one he
had traced a minute before. Yes; it repeated here, for first to the left
went out a thinner stem with narrow leaves; then again to the right it
branched, and narrow leaves forked out from it. He had seen it, of
course, before, on the evening he arrived here, but he could not
remember it from that.... Thin stem and narrow leaves--ah, a Morris
paper of willow twigs! But the feeling fingers had given it him; without
this exploration he could not have known it.
This was an enormous advance, and, without pause, for he instinctively
knew the step that came through the dressing-room adjoining, he called
out:
"Oh, Madge, such a discovery!" he cried. "Blanket here, sheet here, a
coverlet with silk on the top, and the paper--it is a Morris willow
paper. I found that out. And I want breakfast."
Yet somehow Madge's heart sank at his elation. The Evelyn who spoke was
the old Evelyn: it was in such a voice and with such joy of discovery
that he had told her at Pangbourne how the purple of the clematis would
heighten the value of the pink and butter-haired Jewess who sat in the
centre. There was just the same triumphant ring about it. And as such
it was unnatural; she feared he was recovering too quickly: for this
elation there would be a corresponding depression. It was too sudden to
satisfy her. All this was instantaneous and instinctive; she feared
really without knowing she feared. But she had come prepared for the
further development of his newly-awakened interest in the senses that
resided in fingers, and had brought with her some small objects of
baffling shape. She had, too, in her hand Philip's letter.
The first two or three were easy to him. A knife certainly, but a knife
with no edge to it. And of this he talked.
"Dessert knife," he said. "No, not dessert knife, because the blade of a
dessert knife would, anyhow, be as cold as the handle, even if both were
made of metal. And the blade of this is warmer than the handle. Oh,
shade of Sherlock Holmes! Cold handle, warmer blade. Oh, Madge, how
easy. Paper-knife of course; silver handle, ivory cutter. Ask another."
"I haven't asked how you are yet," said she.
"Quite well. And I want breakfast. I say, Madge, do you know just for
the moment, I don't mind being blind. You see there's a new sense to
cultivate. I always love experiments. Ah, damn it, there's no colour
left. But there is shape; somehow, I feel there's a lot to learn in
shape. There's warmth, too; of course I knew that ivory was warmer--less
cold than metal, but now I have found it true without help. Give me
another."
This time it was an absurd Dutch cow, spindle-legged and huge of body
and head, a cream-jug cow, into which the cream was put via an aperture
in the back, on which sat a gigantic fly, and from which, _via_ the
mouth, it was conveyed to tart. This was puzzling, and he thought aloud
over it.
"Four legs," he said, "as thin as a stag's. So where's the head? That
won't do; horn each side, and--good Lord! what's this on the middle of
the back? It's movable, too. Shall I break anything?"
"Not if you are not violent."
"Well, a big head with a switch-horn, and a mouth, why it's from ear to
ear. And a lid on the abortion's back. Tail--is it a tail; oh, yes, it
must be, it comes from there--curled up till it nearly reaches the hole
in the back."
He paused a moment, feeling it with nimble fingers, and though Madge
could not see his forehead, she knew from his mouth that he was
frowning. Then it came to him.
"Dutch cow," he cried. "There's an insect, a fly, I should think,
sitting on the hole at its back, where you put the cream in. And it
comes out of its mouth, you know. Looks rather as if it was being sick."
Madge's letter slipped to the ground as she applauded this.
"Give me that letter," he said. "I'll tell you whom it is from. Oh,
there's nurse; is it breakfast? I am so hungry. I'll tell you about the
letter afterwards."
Then for a moment he was silent, and his mouth grew grave. He had
insisted late the evening before on being shaved, and the smooth chin,
the smooth upper lip, were clean below the white bandages. The nurse had
been confederate to this.
"You see, the bandages are coming off to-morrow," he had said, "and
Madge would hate to see me with this awful stubble. Sometimes, nurse, I
usen't to shave before breakfast, and she always cut me--figuratively,
you know--till I did. You'll find a razor about somewhere. Clip it
first, please."
So to-day he had cleanness of lip and chin, and now when the breakfast
was being brought in, Madge drew her thumb and fourth finger down from
his cheek to meet and pinch his chin.
"You were afraid I should cut you," she said gently.
"Yes, so I got shaved by nurse. Ah, Madge, sit on the bed, just there,
and see me have breakfast. Have you had yours, by-the-way?"
Madge recalled the events of the morning.
"I don't think I have," she said.
"Then may we have another cup, nurse?" said he. "Oh, it's bacon, I can
smell bacon. Now, Madge, I'm boss of this show. You may think you were
going to feed me; not at all--I'm going to feed you. How elusive bacon
is. Are you sure the plate is there? Oh, I felt it, then."
Here the nurse intervened, but with laughter.
"Oh, Mr. Dundas, do lie quiet, and we will give you your breakfast. Yes,
another cup. I'll send for one. But your bed will be 'all over' bacon."
Madge made a negative sign to her.
"There, you've got a piece," she said. "Raise it slowly, you clumsy
boy! That's right; now wait. Your hand is really very steady. There!"
And she slipped it off the fork into her mouth.
"Oh, Madge," he cried, "how greedy! I thought I was going to get it. And
I can't manage everything. I'll give you bacon if you'll give me toast
and butter."
So she buttered the toast, and they ate it like children, bite and bite
about, and Evelyn chivied bacon round the plate, and fed now himself and
now her. The extra cup lingered on its way, and one cup did for them,
and all this to Madge was a sort of rehearsal of what would be. And it
was a rehearsal of the best possible. For what if his gaiety, his
interest in this new game was but a last flare-up? He could not feel
this childish excitement in the entrancing sport of feeding each other,
always. Besides, even if he did, she herself did not know all yet. What
horror perhaps awaited her under the bandages of that swathed face?
Tender and womanly and loving as she was, she could not help wondering
as to that. She had put up her hand for guidance and leading; she wanted
nothing else. But she wanted to be led very strongly, very firmly.
Then when breakfast was done, Evelyn went straight back to this
identification game. A match-box was easy, because of its rough sides, a
cigarette could not be a pencil, because of its smell. "And----"
"Oh, the letter!" he said.
"Dear, it's quite impossible," said Madge. "I'll tell you whom it is
from with pleasure; in fact I meant to talk to you about it. I brought
it up here for that purpose, to read it to you----"
But he interrupted again, rather peevishly.
"Ah, that's finished then," he said, dropping the envelope.
"What nonsense; you can't guess," said she.
"It's no question of guessing. You brought a letter in with you, and
didn't mention it. You knew I shouldn't--see. You were meaning to talk
about it afterwards. Well, it's either the Hermit or Philip. Besides, if
the Hermit wrote to you, you would have told me. No, it's Philip."
This was no more than ordinary reason could have done.
"What does he say?" asked Evelyn in a harsh, dry tone. "Does he say he
is very sorry, and it serves us right? That is the correct attitude, I
should think."
Madge put a cigarette in his lips.
"Won't you smoke?" she asked.
"No, it doesn't taste. It's like smoking in a tunnel. About Philip now?"
"He doesn't take the correct attitude," said she. "If he had, how could
I have wanted to talk to you about him? He wants to help us, Evelyn. And
he will arrive here to-night, unless we stop him on his way at Inverness
or Golspie."
The corners of his mouth were compressed; she knew he was frowning.
"Philip?" he said. "That isn't Philip."
"It wasn't perhaps," said Madge, "but it is, I think. Things have
happened--Mr. Merivale is dead. Philip was there."
"Dead?" he asked.
"Yes; I only know about it from Philip. Oh, yes, you have guessed right.
I can only tell you what he said. Mr. Merivale died because--because
sorrow, pain were revealed to him. He died very suddenly--that I gather,
and he died terribly, somehow. I know no more than what I tell you."
Evelyn was silent a little.
"Yet he was the happiest man I ever saw," he said. "I used to feel like
a convict in chains beside him. What does it all mean? Have we all got
to suffer in proportion----"
Again he broke off.
"And Philip is coming here?" he asked. Then his voice got suddenly
shriller and more staccato. "I won't see him!" he cried. "He has come to
gloat over me. My God, is it not enough----"
Madge laid her two hands on his chest, pressing him gently down again.
"No, my darling," she said, "he will not come for that."
"Well, then, to make love to you again," he cried. "He knows I am a
cripple, a blind man, a blot on the earth!"
Madge gave a great sigh.
"Ah, why say things you don't mean?" she said. "And why make those
dagger-thrusts at me, that cannot touch me? No, don't go on. Be silent,
dear, or else beg my pardon, and his. I am sorry I should have to ask
that, but you have said what is abominable! Oh, I don't want words. Just
nod your head, my darling, and that will mean it is said. But for the
sake of love, I must have that token."
"Why does he come here, then?" he asked.
Madge could not reply for the moment; she felt so sick at heart and
helpless. She had fancied, poor thing, that she had catalogued, so to
speak, all the troubles and difficulties which Evelyn had to face, which
she had to face with him, but here was a fresh one, that attitude of
suspicion which besets those who have a sense missing, and who imagine
that even those whom they love and trust most may be taking advantage of
their defect. Had he been able to see her face, the absolute frankness
of her expression, the candour of her eyes would have made it impossible
that the merest shadow of suspicion should have crossed his mind, that
peevish cry "he has come to gloat over me or to make love to you," could
not have crossed his lips, for there would have been no impulse in his
mind which could determine the words. Yet they had been spoken by him,
fretfully, irritably, all but causelessly.
But cause there had been, and that cause was an instinct to ascribe the
worst motive to the action of others instead of assuming the best. That
was to be a foe to him more bitter and relentless than his
sightlessness; even that which his bandages concealed would not draw so
deeply on the healthful spring of kindly sanity which alone can carry a
man smiling and indulgent through the frets of the world.
But for the present Madge restored his balance.
"Oh, Evelyn," she said, "don't disappoint me, dear, or make yourself
bitter. You have been so brave and so splendid. Philip is coming
here--or proposes to come because--he is sorry for you, because in spite
of the injury we did him he still loves me--why not? But when you ask if
he is coming to make love to me, then, dear, you let something which is
not yourself speak for you. You utter counterfeit coin. It rings false.
Besides, you have not heard his letter yet; I will read it you. And then
you shall take back what you said, but did not mean to say."
She read it through, every word.
"And now, dear?" she said.
But the corners of his mouth were tremulous, and that was enough; she
knew well why he could not speak. So she kissed him again, and no more
was said.
* * * * *
Lady Dover usually came up to see Evelyn after breakfast, and thus it
was quite natural that she should be there when Dr. Inglis made his
morning visit. She had already asked him whether she might be there when
the bandages were removed, and so, when he came in now, she said:
"We are going to make quite a little festival of congratulation this
morning, Mr. Dundas--that is to say, if you and Dr. Inglis will allow me
to stop and see how wonderfully Sir Francis' surgery and Dr. Inglis'
doctoring have succeeded."
So while this was going on, she and Madge sat in the window, looking out
on to the broad sunny day. The bracken on the hillsides was already
beginning to turn colour, and Lady Dover said in a low voice, for fear
Evelyn should hear, and be wounded, that the gold of the sunlight
striking the gold of the bracken made each appear more golden. There was
time, indeed, for a good deal of leisurely art-criticism of this nature,
for the unswathing of his face, the gentle withdrawal of the lint
dressings from the healed wounds took time, and more than once the nurse
went out to get more water for the sponging away of the gum of plaster.
For Dr. Inglis, kind man of silent sympathy as he was, knew well what
this moment must inevitably be to Madge--knew the torture of suspense in
which she must be awaiting the sight of her husband's face. Brave as he
well knew her to be, he knew also that she would have here to summon her
bravery to her aid; and he wanted to make it as easy for her as he
could, and thus took great pains to render the sight as little painful
as might be. But he could do so little; whatever sponging and smoothing
was possible, it still was so small a salvage. For the shot had struck
him sideways, ricocheting off the rock, and on his forehead there was a
long wound, healed indeed as well as it would ever be healed, but the
outer skin had been destroyed, and it showed a long, pink line, as if
perhaps some corrosive match had been struck on it. Another such went
across the right cheek, another had crossed the left eyebrow, leaving a
little hairless lane between the two severed sides of it. One eyelid had
been struck and torn before the pellet did its deadlier work, and the
other, though intact and drawn down over the hole of the eye-socket, was
not like the eyelid of a man whose eyes were closed in rest or sleep,
swelling gently over the eyeball and lying on the lower lashes; it hung
straight, like the blind of a window, for there was nothing beneath to
cause its curvature.
His kind, twinkle-eyed Scotch face had grown grave over his operations,
but he guessed what the suspense to Madge was, and rightly decided that
nothing could be gained by lengthening it. Then he completed the shaving
operations which the nurse had begun the evening before to the uncovered
part of the face, and brushed into order his thick brown hair. Finally
he adjusted a pair of large dark spectacles. Evelyn demurred at this.
"What is that for?" he asked.
"Ah, that is necessary," said the doctor; "we have to protect the--the
place of the worst injury. You will always have to wear them, I am
afraid. And now I think we are ready."
Madge got up from the window-seat. Though she had wished Lady Dover to
be there, at this moment she cared not one farthing who was there or who
was not. It was only she and Evelyn who mattered; Piccadilly might have
buzzed round them, and she would have been unconscious of the crowd.