Chapter III

" WHY have doctors' waiting-rooms always got such thick carpets? " asked Nevill genially, so soon as it was plain to him that the man-servant was gone, and that there was no one else in the room beside Algy, who had brought him. By this time he could not see at all, beyond just being able to distinguish the difference between light and darkness — although it was now only Friday; and darkness had first fallen as they finished shooting on Tuesday.

It was still all new enough to be interesting, now that he was quite sure that there was no organic injury to his seeing apparatus; and yet it appeared to him that an almost incalculable time had passed. The first night and morning had been the worst. Aunt Anna had come to him, five minutes after the doctor had left; and had told him his verdict. She had done it quite admirably: she had not been in the least dramatic or over-tender; she had simply begun: " My poor dear! " in an extraordinarily natural tone; and had then told him, still genially, that it was entirely his own fault for not having gone again to a man in London; that Dr. Mackenzie had assured her that there was no organic injury to the eyes, but that the headaches were responsible. The headaches, therefore, must be looked to at once; and he must just be content to be in the dark, in every sense of the word, for a few hours. She had, with Dr. Mackenzie's consent, wired for an oculist and proposed to send the car to London, if Nevill approved, the first thing in the morning, to bring the oculist back. Meantime, she proposed to come and dine with him in his room, and show him how not to put his spoon and fork into his nose and ears. The guests must just take care of themselves.

That, then, had been Scene One. The hours that followed had certainly been very oppressive, particularly as his head had ached again, though not as acutely as before. Waking in the morning was rather bad; as, though he could hear the birds under the eaves, he had been able to make out no more than dim oblongs where the windows ought to be, so soon as Charleson, who had slept in the bath-room, pulled back the curtains at his command and assured him that it was half-past seven. Besides, in spite of himself, he had nourished a hope that somehow or other he would be able to see again, just as usual, after a night's rest. He had one or two spurts of impatience at breakfast in bed, when Aunt Anna had looked in an hour ago, especially when he dropped a spoonful of porridge and milk just inside his pyjama jacket. It seemed to him that Charleson was really rather clumsy not to have prevented that. His cigarette, too, was disappointing: it tasted precisely like brown paper.

After breakfast, Algy had come up and sat on the bed — which was annoying; and Maresfield had come in later to say good-bye, carrying a cigar: and he particularly disliked the smell of a cigar in his bedroom. He said to Aunt Anna with some bitterness, afterwards, that it reminded him of a Commercial Traveller.

The oculist had arrived about noon; and when Nevill heard the tread of his feet on the threshold and Aunt Anna's genial, " May we come in? " for a moment, the ironical ill-humour with which he had deliberately tried to hide his interior apprehensiveness, had deserted him.

S50 INITIATION

He felt very helpless and rather frightened; because, really a good deal depended on what this new man said. He had gathered that, generally, from Aunt Anna's remarks: and yet he was not sure how she had conveyed it.

There followed a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. The oculist first asked him a number of questions; and then proceeded, as Nevill would have said, to " pull him about." He had to sit very upright, with pillows packed behind him, and to open his eyes wide. There followed disconcerting flashes of light; the grip of rather cold, dry fingers about his temples; palms of hands laid on his forehead. Aunt Anna was in the room, too, all the while; and he did not like this: it made him feel rather like a child. There then followed some more questions; and then a little silence.

" Aunt Anna."

" Yes, my dear," came her quiet voice, from a position much closer to him than he had expected.

" I want you to go downstairs, please. I'll send Mr. Braughing down as soon as he's done with me."

Then he was perfectly certain that she and the doctor were exchanging glances: and he felt infuriated. Before he could speak again, she had answered him.

" Very well," she said.

He heard the door close.

" Mrs. Fanning's gone? "

" Yes, Sir Nevill," came th'e steady voice.

"Well.... What's the matter with me?" (His lips and throat felt curiously dry.)

" I really can't quite tell yet, Sir Nevill. I can only assure you that there's no organic injury at all "

" That's good news, is it? "

" The very best. I do not mean for a moment that the thing may not be serious. But what I do mean is that there is no injury to the instrument itself. It is perfectly sound "

" Then what in the world is the matter? Why can't I "

" One moment, Sir Nevill. I say that there is no injury that I can detect. But it appears to me almost certain that there is some pressure upon the optic nerves — the nerves, you know, that connect the eye with the brain. The wire, if I may say so, is clogged in some way; it is not in itself injured; nor is the retina."

"What's the nexb thing to do, then?" snapped the young man, a little peevishly. It seemed to him that this man was unnecessarily wordy.

" The next thing is to consult a head-specialist. He will be able to give you a first-rate opinion as to the cause of this pressure, and to advise you how it may be removed. What you have told me about your headaches "

"I see. Then you've done your job?"

"Well; I have detected that there is no job for me to do. Mrs. Fanning tells me that the doctor here has recommended Sir Arthur Handsworth. You could go to no better man. Dr. Mackenzie is downstairs; I will have a word with him again if I may."

It seemed a very long while before Aunt Anna came back; and she did not seem quite so exultant as Nevill had expected. She was quite quiet and controlled; she said that so far the news was good; but scarcely more. She then said that she was sending a note by the car, straight up to Sir Arthur, asking for an appointment.

" I suppose I'd better go at once," remarked Nevill, with a detached manner.

" My dear, of course you must. We'll all go up together."

It was later in the afternoon, after they had received the answer that Sir Arthur Handsworth would be happy to receive them on Friday morning at twelve o'clock, that Nevill announced to Aunt Anna that she was not to accompany him to the surgeon.

" You mustn't think me brutal," he had said: " but I must have it out alone."

" But, my dear, you won't be able to "

" I've asked Algy to come up with us, and to go with me on Friday morning. You'll be at Elizabeth Street; and when we come back, we'll all have lunch together; and then, if this man has taken away the pressure on the what's-his-name, we all go to the Zoo. That's much better. Please, Aunt Anna! I really mean it."

After an instant's silence, she had said simply that it should be so.

Here then, on Friday morning, at five minutes to twelve, sat Nevill and Algy in two arm-chairs in the room that had the thick carpet: and Aunt Anna was waiting for them in Elizabeth Street, where they had arrived in time for dinner last night.

" It's to deaden the shrieks," said Algy, in answer.

Nevill laughed, a short bark.

" You're a cheering chap," he said.

Algy felt as much bewildered and out of his element as such a man always must feel under such circumstances, and, equally characteristically of his type, he bore himself most suitably. Without actually expressing it to himself, he felt that any change of manner really might alarm his friend; he felt it to be far better, as indeed it was, to behave as usual.

" Now tell me all about the room," said Nevill. " I hear a clock. Is it black marble? It sounds portly, somehow."

" Well, you're wrong. It's Empire, and extremely good. It is also observing that we are five minutes early. I told you so."

" Go on about the room," said Nevill. " Pictures? Engravings? "

" There's a Burne-Jones over the clock. A Johnny in armour with a horse.. There are large engravings on the other walls, with very wide borders. The carpet "

" I bet it's red."

" Well, you'd lose. It's chiefly black and yellow."

" Chairs mahogany? "

" No; walnut. At least, I think so. You're on the wrong tack, old man. It isn't Early Victorian, you know "

"Go on. What colour's the paper?"

" It looks like Spanish leather; but I bet it isn't."

" What's on the table? Graphic, Times "

"Well; the Toiler's on top; and I can see a corner of Country Life."

" What's the view out of the window? "

" Well; I can see a terra cotta sort of house, rather rich. It's at the corner of the street. There's a cat on a balcony. Over the other side there's a little green and white shanty. There's a car "

" That's enough. By the way, what time's lunch? " I think Mrs. Fanning said half-past."

" That's all right. We shall be in loads of time. I suppose this chap won't want to do the job bang off. If he does, I think I shall "

He stopped short, as, to his strained and listening ears, there vibrated a step outside. Then the door opened softly; and a discreet voice spoke.

" Will you come this way, sir? "

When Algy came back to the comfortable room with the black and yellow Turkey carpet, and the Toiler, and the Empire clock, two minutes later, he was trembling a little. Yet he had seen nothing that was not pleasant and reassuring.

He had gripped Nevill by the arm as he rose, and led him after the servant. (He could hear him breathing as they went.) They came out into the comfortable little hall, through which they had passed on their first arrival, and turned to the right. A man, in a coat not yet buttoned, was picking up his hat and gloves from the black oak table by the stairs: plainly he had just come out from the specialist's room: he did not look at all alarmed or upset, and eyed the stiffly walking figure of Nevill with interest. They went on through the hall towards a half-opened door, which the servant pushed wider, himself stepping back to let them go in. As they entered, a tallish man with rather kind narrow grey eyes, in frock-coat and grey trousers, clean-shaven except for little grey whiskers by his ears, was standing by a kneehole table from which, plainly, he had just risen.

He bowed a little, as the door closed almost noiselessly behind them.

" Sir Nevill Fanning? "

Nevill put out his hand rather awkwardly: the other made haste to take it.

Then Algy steered his friend to a deep-padded armchair, indicated in silence by the surgeon. The surgeon then nodded at him, again in silence.

" Well, I'll be going, old man," said Algy. " I'll be in the waiting-room."

Nevill too nodded, without speaking; and Algy went out once more.

What in the world, then, was he frightened at? There had been absolutely nothing in the room in the least suggestive, to a layman's eyes at any rate, of anything in the least approaching disease or death or pain. There had been a tall narrow bookshelf in the little room; there had been a deep carpet, as in here: the fireplace had been just ordinary, with bright fire-irons, and a little fire. There had been just a curtained doorway at the other end of the room that might, conceivably, lead to some other sort of consulting-room. The presence of the inhabitant of that room, too, had been strong and kindly. Yet Algy was undoubtedly frightened. He supposed that it was because it was his first visit to such a place.

He had never realised till now how very fond he was of his friend. Up to now, he had taken him for granted, rather, ever since schooldays. He went down every now and then to stay at Hartley. He had been sincerely grieved over Nevill's catastrophe in the summer; but, until now, he had had no idea that beneath the genial bantering with which he treated Nevill, there was anything that could be called deep affection. He would have thought, in fact, that such an emotion would have been rather weak and sentimental. Yet, having faced that surgeon, side by side with his friend, he was conscious that his own sentiment, at any rate, was not weak. It was there, anyhow.

So he sat down again, pulled the Taller towards him; and only just caught himself in time beginning to bite his nails.

The Taller of September the 28th seemed to him a singularly poor number.

On the front page was a large picture of a very stupid-looking Royalty, of the greatest possible importance, with a row of five pearls round a well-polished neck. There was not much comfort there: she at any rate had never sat in a surgeon's waiting-room waiting for a verdict on somebody else. On the next page, under the heading In Town and About were first two pictures of girls' faces, framed as if they were miniatures; and inscriptions underneath. He read one carefully through. The lady was Miss Alexandra Bennett; she was the youngest daughter of some old fool, and was going to be married next Tuesday to the Hon. Carvell Compton, of the Grenadiers, in the Guards' Chapel, Wellington Barracks. That wasn't much good. The marriage couldn't come off, anyhow, if on the previous Friday she had had the inside of her head examined by a kind-looking man in a room with a curtained doorway at the back. The third picture on the page represented the departure of the Dowager Queen of Spain's aunt from Victoria Station. Foolish men stood about the carriage, bare-headed, with a crick in their backs.

He began to turn the pages in despair. The letterpress was, of course, out of the question; but he stared meditatively at a number of pictures. There was a champion golfer with his legs terribly twisted, and a cigarette in his mouth; apparently, he had just driven a ball. Dim persons in straw hats, looking like dummies, formed the background. There were two white dogs, resembling crumpled wool-mats, with their tongues hanging out; there was an American actor with a very long stick, and very long legs, photographed in company with an American actress whose name Algy remembered as having been connected with a cause celebre. There were four people in a white motor-car, all looking very ugly, because their faces were screwed up against the sunlight, who bore distinguished names. There were some political skits — one representing Mr. Asquith as a scullery-maid washing up a saucepan with a significant word printed upon it; and another, Mr. Redmond crowing like a very small cock, on a very large dunghill, labelled " Coalition." And so on. Finally came some Elliman's advertisements. Algy tossed it from him in despair.

Then he began to walk up and down the room. Fortunately there was a thick carpet. Oh! yes, the poor old chap had said that — first thing after the man had gone out. What a time they were in there! He looked at the Empire clock; it marked seven minutes past twelve, only.

By twenty-five minutes past twelve Algy took up Country Life, convinced that the worst must have happened; though he could form no conjecture at all as to what the worst might be. It struck him as very odd that there was no one else in the waiting-room, until he became even further depressed by the guess that perhaps the oculist and the Hartley doctor had written about the case, and informed Sir Arthur that it would be a long business.

He began, gallantly, at Country Life; but suddenly laid it down again; because the " corner of the hall in the seat of Silas Mond, Esq., in the county of Westmoreland " reminded him of another " corner of a hall " in the seat of Sir Nevill Fanning, Bart., in the county of Sussex. He felt as if he had been stung in the middle of his mind.

Then he determined to begin a study of the pictures round the room; and began with " the Johnny in armour." It appeared to him unconvincing; and he moved on to the next. This was of a small girl in a large bonnet; and he wondered why on earth such a repellent and simpering face should have been selected by any artist, for immortality.

He was moving on to the next, when his heart leapt and stood stil].

There was the vibration of a step outside. Then a hand was laid on the handle of the door, and he heard a firm voice speaking. It struck him as a good omen. Surely no one could speak so resolutely and loudly if there were any bad news about.

Then the door opened and the surgeon looked in.

"Mr. Lennox?"

He could not speak.

" Sir Nevill has just got his things on. Would you give him your arm to the car; or would you prefer "

He was out and in the hall without a word. Nevill was coming towards him, led by the sleek and discreet servant. Algy moved the man aside, and himself took his place. He remembered as they approached the hall door to nod to Sir Arthur; but no more.

" Four steps down," he said.

They crossed the pavement. The car was drawn up, and Paul made haste to open the door.

" Mind the step up," said Algy.

He tucked the rug round his friend as Paul went round to the front. Then he could wait no longer.

" Well, old man? "

Nevill hesitated.

" Got to go through with it," he said. " He says, Operation as soon as possible. It's pretty bad."

The motor began to throb violently.

By the time they had reached Elizabeth Street, Algy had succeeded in assimilating the fact. A large number of minor aspects and relations had to be adjusted; and this took a little time. It also made it extremely difficult for him to ask intelligent questions and, still more, to absorb the answers. Briefly, however, he knew the outlines of the matter. Sir Arthur had diagnosed a tumour on the brain that was the cause at once of the headaches and of the temporary blindness. This tumour must at once be removed, if indeed it was operable; for it pressed upon the optic nerves, and would presumably press still more. It would be what was called a " severe operation." Of course it might be found that the tumour could not be removed, if it were in a vital spot. But an exploration at any rate must be made. The process was called " trepanning " or " trephining."

" When? " asked Algy.

" He suggested next Monday for the nursing-home, and Tuesday morning for the operation."

When a violent shock has been received, the nerves, mercifully, refuse to respond to anything else for a little while; and Algy, in spite of a consciousness that Aunt Anna would have to be told almost immediately, did not realise at all that this would probably be very unpleasant for Aunt Anna. He just regarded the fact, as a man, after a bad fall from a horse, regards the blood on his hands and clothes. There it was!

As the motor drew up outside the Elizabeth Street house, and the door opened as if their coming had been looked for, Nevill put his hand on the other's arm.

" Just take me through into the drawing-room: she'll be waiting there. And then go straight on into the library and shut the door."

" Right," said Algy. (He had not said a word of consolation; and could not.)

When they came in, arm-in-arm, through the drawing-room door, Aunt Anna was standing on the hearthrug. Her hands were clasped behind her back; and her grey-piled head was flung back, as if in defiance. She looked at them with her bright eyes; but she said nothing.

" Here we are/' said Algy fatuously.

He steered Nevill past Anna, to the chintz chair that stood with its back to the light, and placed him there.

" Got to go," he said, yet more fatuously. He went past Anna without looking at her, through the library door and closed it behind him. He could hear no voices in the room he had left. He sat down miserably in the window-seat, staring out into the garden.

By the time Aunt Anna saw them come in, she had arranged, she thought, her attitude in a completely satisfactory manner. Nevill had breakfasted in bed; and she had gone to his room afterwards to see him light his cigarette, and to hold the match. They had talked together, very carefully, on a completely different level from that on which they were really thinking: they had kept up a cheery sort of conversation, with even a little banter. Then she had gone out and resolutely written letters till Nevill came in a little before eleven conducted by Charleson: she had jumped up and steered him to a chair; and they had talked again about when they should go back to Hartley. There had been a few desperate silences, which each made haste to break. Then at half-past eleven she had gone to the door to see them start. Then she had come back to the drawing-room and sat down.

The attitude she had arranged during the hour that followed had been that suggested by Mr. Morpeth. Here the thing was; it was nobody's fault; whatever happened had to happen. He must not be softened by the wrong kind of tenderness. She must be quiet and business-like and natural.

Again and again during that hour, with her hands knitted tight in her lap, she had emphasised all that to herself: yet, across that interior rigidity, flashes had come and gone, of which she could not tell the nature — whether they were gleams of knowledge that a great pain was a great good if it were rightly met, or lurid streaks of horror that such a thing should come to Nevill — to Nevill! These she dared not stay to analyse....

Then she reminded herself that perhaps all this tension was entirely unnecessary; perhaps the verdict would be simply that Nevill was over-wrought in some way: that he must follow a certain diet perhaps; that he must not get up till midday for a few weeks. She knew, after all, nothing beyond what Mackenzie and Braughing had told her, and they had told her very little. They did not profess to know for certain: they only guessed.

For quite a long time this cheerful optimism worked beautifully. Her temperament and her mood were such that such self-suggestions as these had a great temporary effect. By half-past twelve she was practically certain that there was nothing whatever the matter with Nevill; they would all be laughing over it all at lunch in a few minutes.

Then, when the hall-door opened she sprang to her feet: and, by the time that the two had slipped off their things and were coming in at the door, the whole of the tension was back again, and she was ready for anything. She could not speak one word as they entered.

When the door had shut behind Algy, she turned and looked at Nevill. The window was behind him, and it was a little difficult to make out his face: his eyes were closed. Then she saw that he was trying to smile.

"Well; what did he say?" she asked, determined that her voice and words, at least, should not betray her.

Nevill raised his face a little and his eyelids flickered.

" Got to go through with it, my dear," he said (using the same words he had used to Algy. He had settled on them in those few seconds after the doctor had pronounced sentence.) "He isn't quite certain yet; but he thinks it's a tumour. At any rate he's got to find out."

" An operation then? " she said quietly.

" That's it. Next Tuesday."

"Where? Here?"

" No, a nursing-home. He telephoned for me at once. They've got a bed all right. Got to go in on Monday."

For one fierce instant her whole emotional system shook her like a storm. A violent impulse seized her, to run to that patient miserable figure, and kiss those dear eyes, and — and wash them clear again. Fortunately he could not see her face. She bit her lower lip savagely; but she could not speak.

" Aunt Anna."

" Yes? " (Ah! her voice shook ever so little. That must not happen again.)

" I want you to promise me something; and then I don't want to talk about it any more at all."

She waited.

" Do you hear, Aunt Anna? Come nearer."

" I'd sooner stand.... Go on, my dear. What is it? "

" I want you to promise not to talk to any of the doctors behind my back. What they say to you, they must say to me. Do you understand? "

" Yes... I promise."

" That's all right then. Because there's something else. They're nearly sure it's a tumour on the brain. It's that which causes the headaches and the blindness. They want to remove that, if they can — I mean Handsworth does. But the point is, Why have I got one? Well, I know all I want to know: and all that anyone must know — I mean you. No one else must know anything at all — about the reason, I mean."

He spoke abruptly and spasmodically; and she could see how strong was the emotion behind.

" Do you hear, Aunt Anna? "

" Yes, my dear. And what is the reason? "

" Do you remember what father said to me before he died?"

She had not expected this, or remembered it; it simply had not entered into her recent meditations at all. It was as if a hand had gripped her heart without warning. She could not speak. Fortunately he did not seem to need any answer, for he went on almost immediately.

" Well; it seems that there was something in it. Hands-worth asked me quite plainly about my parents, and so on: asked me outright what my father had died of; what his life had been like, and so on. I told him that my father had lived wildly — drink — everything. And then he seemed to understand "

Again he paused: and again she could not speak. Back again, like a great darkness, surged the memory of a talk she had had with Mr. Morpeth, and then of another. What Nevill was saying now seemed as prearranged as a play. There seemed not a detail missing. Here was pain indeed;

here was the physical suffering, and added to it a further bitterness; here was the old curse that the old man in the country' had dared to call — no, had called — the shadow of a blessing. She must hold tight to that; it must be the shadow of a blessing, or she could not bear it. The sins of the fathers — " that was a Law of Mercy, not of wrath:" she must hold to that. "To love means to suffer"; but Love is the only joy: therefore there must be joy in suffering....

Nevill was talking, was he not? What was he saying?

..." Well; he seemed to think that that explained everything. He wanted to tell me details: but I refused: and I forbade him to tell you, or anyone. He promised he would not. I don't want details. Principles are — are all I can deal with. It is enough that I know so much. I'm weak — constitutionally — that was the word he used. That is why this thing has developed. Do you understand, Aunt Anna?... Oh! do say that you understand." (His voice rose nearly to a wail.)

She was half away across the distance between them, driven again by that fierce impulse of love and pity, before she caught herself up. She must be quiet: she must not soften him. But — but how in God's name did he know all this — this mystery of love and atonement? For his words surely bore no other meaning.

She drew herself up then, within an arm's clasp of his patient upturned face. Oh! she must be resolute. Yet his face quivered before her eyes.

" My dear. I understand. Of course I understand. We will not speak of it again."

Then, very gently, as her custom was, she kissed him on the forehead, above his open unseeing eyes. He caught her suddenly in his arms.