Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
herself.
She was hurried on from Dover to London almost before she could ask for breakfast, and—she was past any feeling of indignation now—was bidden curtly to wait in a hall at the foot of some lead-covered stairs while Torpenhow went up to make inquiries. Again the knowledge that she was being treated like a naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. It was all Dick’s fault for being so stupid as to go blind.
Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he opened very softly. Dick was sitting by the window, with his chin on his chest. There were three envelopes in his hand, and he turned them over and over. The big man who gave orders was no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped behind her.
Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he heard the sound. ‘Hullo, Torp! Is that you? I’ve been so lonely.’
His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the blind. Maisie pressed herself up into a corner of the room. Her heart was beating furiously, and she put one hand on her breast to keep it quiet. Dick was staring directly at her, and she realised for the first time that he was blind. Shutting her eyes in a rail-way carriage to open them when she pleased was child’s play. This man was blind though his eyes were wide open.
‘Torp, is that you? They said you were coming.’ Dick looked puzzled and a little irritated at the silence.
‘No; it’s only me,’ was the answer, in a strained little whisper. Maisie could hardly move her lips.
‘H’m!’ said Dick, composedly, without moving. ‘This is a new phenomenon. Darkness I’m getting used to; but I object to hearing voices.’
Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he talked to himself? Maisie’s heart beat more wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began to feel his way across the room, touching each table and chair as he passed. Once he caught his foot on a rug, and swore, dropping on his knees to feel what the obstruction might be. Maisie remembered him walking in the Park as though all the earth belonged to him, tramping up and down her studio two months ago, and flying up the gangway of the Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was making her sick, and Dick was coming nearer, guided by the sound of her breathing. She put out a hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw him to herself, she did not know which. It touched his chest, and he stepped back as though he had been shot.
‘It’s Maisie!’ said he, with a dry sob. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came—I came—to see you, please.’
Dick’s lips closed firmly.
‘Won’t you sit down, then? You see, I’ve had some bother with my eyes, and——’
‘I know. I know. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I couldn’t write.’
‘You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.’
‘What has he to do with my affairs?’
‘He—he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see you.’
‘Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can’t. I forgot.’
‘Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry! I’ve come to tell you, and—— Let me take you back to your chair.’
‘Don’t! I’m not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything about it. I’m no good now. I’m down and done for. Let me alone!’
He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down.
Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down and done for—masterful no longer but rather a little abject; neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up to—only some blind one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him—more sorry than she had ever been for any one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his words. So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled with pity most startlingly distinct from love.
‘Well?’ said Dick, his face steadily turned away. ‘I never meant to worry you any more. What’s the matter?’
He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands.
‘I can’t—I can’t!’ she cried desperately. ‘Indeed, I can’t. It isn’t my fault. I’m so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I’m so sorry.’
Dick’s shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip. Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realise that you have failed in the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of making sacrifices.
‘I do despise myself—indeed I do. But I can’t. Oh, Dickie, you wouldn’t ask me—would you?’ wailed Maisie.
She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that Dick’s eyes fell on hers. The unshaven face was very white and set, and the lips were trying to force themselves into a smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that Maisie feared. Her Dick had gone blind and left in his place some one that she could hardly recognise till he spoke.
‘Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I told you how it would be. What’s the use of worrying? For pity’s sake don’t cry like that; it isn’t worth it.’
‘You don’t know how I hate myself. Oh, Dick, help me—help me!’ The passion of tears had grown beyond her control and was beginning to alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his arm round her, and her head fell on his shoulder.
‘Hush, dear, hush! Don’t cry. You’re quite right, and you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with—you never had. You’re only a little upset by the journey, and I don’t suppose you’ve had any breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you over.’
‘I wanted to come. I did indeed,’ she protested.
‘Very well. And now you’ve come and seen, and I’m—immensely grateful. When you’re better you shall go away and get something to eat. What sort of a passage did you have coming over?’
Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first time in her life glad that she had something to lean against. Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly but clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be.
She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart.
‘Are you better now?’ he said.
‘Yes, but—don’t you hate me?’
‘I hate you? My God! I?’
‘Isn’t—isn’t there anything I could do for you, then? I’ll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes.’
‘I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. I don’t want to seem rude, but—don’t you think—perhaps you had almost better go now.’
He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain continued much longer.
‘I don’t deserve anything else. I’ll go, Dick. Oh, I’m so miserable.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve nothing to worry about; I’d tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. I’ve got something to give you first. I meant it for you ever since this little trouble began. It’s my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever you’re poor you can sell her. She’s worth a few hundreds at any state of the market.’ He