Chapter IV

" Now just describe the whole place/' said Nevill, leaning back — "No: I won't have a cigarette, old man. They taste beastly. Go on, Aunt Anna."

She had been on the morning of the next day, at Nevill's request, to see over the nursing-home and to bring back a full report. The last twenty-four hours had passed, as time does pass, with a deadly swift kind of slowness, like the moving of wheels that neither jar nor sway. He had lain down after lunch; then she had gone to have tea with him and had read to him afterwards. He had come across from his room after dinner and had sat with her and Algy, too, who was under orders to come in for every principal meal until further notice; and she had played for a while on the big grand piano that was in the drawing-room. The next morning after breakfast she had read his letters to him and then gone off to view the battlefield. They had not talked any more at all as to the future or the past; he had really meant what he had said; they formed no plans; they reviewed nothing: they merely waited.

Aunt Anna drew off her gloves: she had come straight in from the hall and through the drawing-room, and had found Algy in the library window-seat and Nevill in a big chair with his hands before him. The voices stopped talking suddenly as she came in.

"Well; I've seen all over it," she said. "I like it.

Yes, I do; and I like the people and the nurses and the whole thing."

" Go on."

" It's in Curzon Passage, as you know; St. Joseph's is just across the way; I went in there for a minute or two afterwards. Well, the drawing-room is just like any other drawing-room; but you won't see much of that, you poor dear! Miss Brance came in almost at once: she's a Catholic, you know; and most of the nurses are."

" What's she like? "

*' She didn't say very much. She's quite grey; she's very small with very delicate features: she was extremely well dressed."

"I like that," put in Nevill. "That's Form. Let's be decently dressed anyhow."

" Well; then she asked whether I wouldn't like to see your room. So we went upstairs and "

" Did you see the operating-place — the theatre, isn't it — as I told you? "

" Yes," said Aunt Anna, steadily. " I saw it on the way up."

"Well?"

" It is a little room on the top of the first flight. It's perfectly white and looks very clean and fresh."

" Tiles on the walls? "

" I think so. The — the bed arrangement is a stretcher covered with sheets and blankets. It faces the window in the middle. There are things to wheel about — plate glass tables; there are disinfectant jars, and so on. There's a kind of small stove to — to disinfect the instruments in. It all looks very empty and clean. It has two doors on to the landing: one is a baize door."

" See the instruments? "

" No.... Well; then we went upstairs. Your room's at the top, looking out on to the back. It's quite big. It's very nicely furnished. The bed's in the middle of the room with its head against the wall; and the bell and electric switch are within reach. It has wardrobes and tables and everything. It's extremely nice in every way. Then Miss Brance sent for your nurse."

"Well?"

" I like her particularly. She is a Catholic, by the way, and Irish. She's tall and very quiet, with grey eyes and dark hair. Her uniform is delightful."

"What colour?"

" Blue, with a white apron and a white linen cap."

" Will she be there during the operation? "

" Yes: and Miss Brance too. Miss Brance is a fully qualified nurse, by the way."

" And you asked all about the operation, too? "

" Yes." (Her voice trembled a little; but she recovered herself.) " They asked me whether you'd prefer to be put under the anaesthetic in your own room, or whether you'd walk down to the theatre."

"Yes?"

" I said you'd do exactly which they preferred — as you told me. Well; of course they'd sooner you went down to the theatre. They said "

"Yes?"

" They said some people couldn't stand that. I said I was sure you could."

" Go on."

"Well; it's fixed for half-past nine. The surgeon and the ansethetist will be ready by then. Then the nurse comes to tell you; and you put on a dressing-gown and slippers and walk downstairs. Then you climb up on to the bed and they give the chloroform. Then you wake up in your own room. They carry you back before you recover consciousness."

" How long will it take? "

" They can't tell for certain. It depends what they find. It'll probably be between two and three hours."

"Then I shall just be in time for lunch."

" My dear, you won't want any lunch. You won't want anything at all that day: but of course you'll have to have something, whether you want it or not."

" Oh! shall I! " said Nevill defiantly. " We'll see about that. By the way, shall I be able to see when I wake up? Did you ask about that? "

" They hope so," said Anna. " It depends on what they find."

There was a pause. It had been a considerable effort to relate all this; and she was glad for once that he could not see her face. She could not have done it at all, if it had not been for the day and the night that had passed since sentence had been pronounced. But she had had just enough time to wrench her attitude to his, and to meet it with the mingled silence and frankness with which he was facing it himself.

" Algy," he said presently.

The figure in the window seat turned round. He had been staring very earnestly out into the garden while she had been giving her descriptions.

" Yes, old man."

" Think it sounds all right? "

" First-rate."

" You'll be downstairs with! Aunt Anna, won't you, on Tuesday?"

" Why, yes," said Algy.

" Aunt Anna, I wish you'd ask Maresfield in to dinner to-morrow. I suppose you'll be going to church, won't you? "

"Of course, I'll ask him.... Yes; I had thought of going, unless you wanted me."

" And that reminds me," continued Nevill. " How long do they starve me for, before the affair comes off? "

" Yes: I asked them that too. You won't be starved much. You'll have a light lunch on Monday, soon after you arrive: but not much else. Just a cup of tea about five and some soup later."

"That all?"

" Yes; that's all."

It is said of condemned criminals that, of the period between sentence and execution, the worst time is not, as might be expected, the night before the execution, but the night immediately after the sentence. Nevill found this, in its measure, to be true of himself. The Friday night had been a considerable burden; for, alone there in the dark, he had been able to face facts with a deliberation that had scarcely been possible during the day. But the result was that by Saturday morning his attitude had been arranged and established. The Saturday night was considerably easier; and the Sunday night easier still.

Maresfield had come and gone; his breezy, abrupt personality had been a distinct stimulus; and Nevill awoke on Monday morning in a state of far less apprehensiveness than he would have thought possible three days before.

The start was made about half-past ten; for his orders were that he must be in the Home by eleven to begin his grim preparations. Medicine had to be taken; the top of his head had to be shaved: he had, all round, to settle in and be made comfortable.

He had a few minutes of loneliness and even of a little horror, as he sat, dressed, in the drawing-room before the arrival of Algy, listening to the preparations in his room across the hall, the passing of Charleson's footsteps and Aunt Anna's, the carrying out of bags and the one or two returns that were made for small things that had been overlooked. He felt very helpless — like an intelligent sheep waiting for the coming of the temple attendants....

Then, at last, he heard Aunt Anna come in; and that she did not shut the door behind her.

" Now, my dear," she said. " We're ready."

They did not talk much on the way. Vaguely he tried to follow their route.

" We're at Hyde Park Corner, aren't we? " he said. And then again, " Now to the right, isn't it? " And at last the car stopped.

He felt yet more helpless as he was led indoors. He could hear a rustle as of two or three people as he came in through the door on the right.

" How do you do, Sir Nevill? " came a very gentle voice that, for all its gentleness, had a considerable strength about it.

He put out his hand, smiling with an effort; and felt it taken in the small hand of a woman. She retained it as she led him forward to a chair.

" There," she said. " Now, if you'll allow me I'll leave you for five minutes while I just look upstairs once more. And then, I am afraid, I shall have to take you away."

He murmured something polite; and heard her go out.

" I like her voice," he said. " But I suppose it's like walking along the street, to her.... I wonder if she knows " (He stopped. That line would not do.)

" Room smells all right/' he said genially.

" Not a bit what I thought it would be/' remarked Algy.

" What did you expect? "

" Oh! I don't know. I thought it would be dingy or pious, or something."

Yes; this was certainly the right line, thought poor Anna. Naturalness was the only possible attitude. Yet her whole heart longed to turn Algy out of the room and say — say — she did not know what she wanted to say — something to Nevill. She would not see him again, she knew, for at least forty-eight hours. He must be delivered over to other hands than hers — hands which, however tender or skilful, held knives and basins and bandages. But this naturalness was better; and she herself managed to say something presently about the old mirror over the mantelpiece.

Then, after what seemed an incredibly short interval, the door opened once more, and the dainty little grey-haired lady stood on the threshold.

It was they who had to go first, after all.

" Well; good luck, old man! " said Algy, and shook him warmly by the hand.

" Good-bye, my dear," said Aunt Anna. " We shall both be here to-morrow, you know."

He felt her warm lips linger on his forehead. There was a rustle; there was a sound of footsteps; then the hall-door closed heavily. He stood waiting. Then there came the sound of another step.

" Ah! here is Nurse Deacon," said the gentle voice. " This is your patient, Nurse."

It was a long way upstairs, and the space seemed rather contracted. Miss Brance went before, directing him at the corners; the nurse came behind. At the top of the first flight he stopped; for not only did he remember what

Aunt Anna had told him, but he perceived a very distinct and peculiar smell, not unpleasant, but reminding him of a chemist's shop. Smells had come to mean a good deal to him during these last days.

" This is the theatre, isn't it? " he said.

" Yes; how did you know? " By the tone he guessed that she smiled.

" My aunt told me. Besides, I can smell it."

Half-way up the next flight a thought struck him.

" Any operations this morning, Miss Brance? "

" Yes. Two."

" Doing well, I hope? "

" Splendidly."

He perceived by her tone that he must not be inquisitive. He wondered why. Surely they weren't afraid for his nerve!

" Here we are," she said at last; and took him by the hand to lead him forward. " Sit down a minute, Sir Nevill, and get your breath. It's a long way upstairs."

This room smelt charmingly of flowers, and of absolutely nothing else. He perceived that he was facing the light; and, from the warmth on one side, he understood that there was a fire on the right. He considered these things while she talked.

" Can you get ready for bed by yourself? " she asked. " Or would you sooner have Nurse to help you — or your man-servant? "

" Thanks very much," he said hastily. " I can do it by myself." Then the door shut, and he understood that the nurse was gone.

" May I sit down for a minute or two? " asked the other voice. " There are just one or two things I would like to mention."

" Why, certainly," he said, wondering what in the world they could be.

" The first is about the other patients. You know we have to have a very strict rule here that patients shouldn't know about one another. It would never do. So I know I can ask you, quite simply, not to ask any questions. The nurses have orders in any case not to answer."

(Yes; this lady had plenty of the governing faculty, he perceived. Her voice had not belied her.)

He assented; and said that he quite understood.

" Thank you, Sir Nevill. And the next thing is about yourself. The male patients sometimes have a certain difficulty in their minds about the nurses. I want just to remind you, if I may, that it's all perfectly natural to the nurses to look after patients in every way. It's their ordinary accustomed work. You won't feel any difficulty about it, will you? "

" I'll remember," said Nevill.

" Thank you. The third thing is about a priest. The Fathers at St. Joseph's can always send a priest at any time, day or night. We never, of course, suggest this to Catholic patients. That is not our business. Our business is the body, not the soul. But if you should want a priest to hear your confession to-night, or at any time; or to bring you Holy Communion, you only have to say so. We are quite accustomed to that. And it is the same, of course, for Protestants."

".Thank you very much," said Nevill. " I don't think — just at present "

" Just so," said the quiet, steady voice. " Then I'll leave you, now, Sir Nevill: so soon as I've shown you where the bed is, and so on. Your man is here, and will come up when you're in bed, unless you'd like him now."

" No: I can manage all right, thank you. I hate to be waited upon, you know."

Again he could tell by her tone that she smiled.

" I'm afraid you'll have to submit here/' she said. " Now let me show you."

Ill

When he heard the nurse come in with his soup about eight o'clock that night, he put into words the decision he had at last come to.

" Is that you, Nurse Deacon? "

" Yes, Sir Nevill, with your soup."

" Could I have a priest from St. Joseph's, do you think? To hear my confession? And I should like to have Holy Communion in the morning too."

" I'll send across directly," she said.

He could not have believed that an afternoon and an evening could have made so great a difference in his feelings. The time had passed very tranquilly indeed, broken only by little events, quite unimportant, yet oddly exciting. It had been an event when his lunch had come, a couple of hours after he had been in bed — a lunch well cooked and alluring, though strangely tasteless, as all food had been ever since his blindness. He had eaten this lunch with the help of Nurse Deacon, who steadied the plates and directed his movements. Then he had slept and dozed alternately till about four. Tea had come up a little later, and, with tea, Miss Brance, who brought the suggestion that Nurse Deacon might, if he cared for it, read aloud to him for an hour. He had declined this; and he did not know why, except that he wanted to think. About seven the barber had come; and, when the barber had gone, he had passed his hand over the shaved top of his head with a strange feeling of excitement. Matters seemed drawing to a crisis. The sheep was decked for the sacrifice indeed.

His first intelligent emotion about himself was that he was not really Nevill Fanning at all; that his consciousness had been tricked somehow into believing in its own continuity; that it was not really he at all who lay here waiting for the morrow, but someone else with whom he had been identified. It seemed incredible that he, who had bathed and ridden and shot and played tennis — he who was so essentially a health-loving, air-loving person — should have been caught so swiftly and chained down here like... like an invalid. He ran over his memories three or four times — he fingered the links that had led him here — before his emotion as well as his understanding grasped all the connections.

He did not know at exactly what point he had decided to receive the Sacraments. He had known perfectly well that as a Catholic he ought not to hesitate; yet the last time he had received them had been at Easter in Rome — at Easter when his life seemed turning to pure gold under the spell of Enid. Since then it had seemed impossible.

Yet, during these hours of expectancy, matters had begun to adjust themselves in a manner he would not have believed possible. Certain elements of thought retired; others advanced; there was a striving and a rearrangement that appeared to be going forward independently of his own volition. His helplessness of body, it seemed, was but a symbol of an infinitely deeper helplessness of soul. There was an atmosphere here — a harmony of pain and tenderness, and charity and terror — as bewildering as a completely new experience. The nurse whom he could not see appeared as a kind of tangible incarnation of it all. The touch of her hands when she settled him to eat and drink; the cool linen of her apron which he caught at once in mistake for the side of the bed; the smell of the flowers in the invisible room; the sound of the fire in the grate — there was not a sense that was not affected, not a sensation that was not eloquent.

There seemed then to emerge in him, drawn out by environment, that old frame of things and thoughts that, formed in him by education, had been overlaid by his later experiences and actions. It was as if his own inner childishness came up and took charge once more. It appeared to him absurd to allow his own little thoughts and philosophies to dominate him any longer; he was to stand in peril of his life to-morrow — he knew that well enough, in spite of all his pretences; then what better thing could he do than prepare his soul for that encounter? It was not that he was conscious of any religious emotion, nor even of definite fear; but the shadows were falling faster every hour. Then it was but reasonable to meet them in the way that was most familiar. By eight o'clock it seemed obvious to him that he must make his confession and receive Holy Communion to-morrow.

A little before nine the priest had come. Like all Jesuits he had the infinite tact of utter simplicity. He said nothing except the plainest things. When Nevill had finished his little story, he remarked that an experience such as Nevill had passed through, might be the occasion of the greatest merit, if it were rightly accepted; he bade him commit himself without reservations into the hands of God; he gave him absolution; and he told him he would bring Holy Communion to him at half-past six the next morning.

Again he felt no emotion; rather, he felt the relief of its absence. It was not that he experienced any ineffable peace, or that he felt particularly more cleansed than he had felt before. Merely he was conscious that he had done the suitable thing; that in that strange exterior world which was called religion, he had performed the proper actions.

Then he said the three Hail Marys assigned to him as his penance; and settled down for the night.

He awoke, suddenly and completely, about six o'clock, and after a minute or two of hesitation, touched his bell. For he awoke to the entire consciousness of where he was, and of what awaited him.

The night-nurse came in, told him what time it was, and asked if she should bring in the necessaries for Holy Communion. He assented.

At seven o'clock the priest had come and gone, and the nurse had cleared away the flowers and linen cloths and the lighted candles. He had seen nothing of this; but he had followed her actions by the little sounds she made. Then she left him in quiet, telling him to ring if he wanted her; unless he rang, she said, no one would interrupt him till Nurse Deacon came to him at nine.

Then, once more, he settled down to consider.

His night had been like the night of a traveller. Certainly he had slept a great deal; he had slept continuously from three till six. Yet, previously to that, he had no more been wholly unconscious of what approached so swiftly than the night-traveller is unconscious of the steady roar of the wheels and the rush of the night outside. But it was not Fear that he felt; he had never even been remotely tempted by that which so afflicts many who await such an ordeal — the knowledge that he could yet refuse it and go out again at his will. Rather his emotion had been one of contemplation of a fact that cannot be evaded. Now and again he had heard a clock strike softly; once in the silent hours he had heard the low talking of a man's voice on the landing outside, and supposed that the doctor had been summoned in haste for some other patient. Yet the burden of anticipation lay on him as heavy as lead....

One emotion he had had, however, which he had not anticipated; and that was the thought of Enid. Again and again during the night he had thought of her; her image had grown upon him like a giant, now that in his helplessness he could no longer put it away. It was not that he wanted anything particular from her; not for a moment even now did he desire, however helpless and vague his mind might be, that that Enid whom he now knew, should come to him. But, with a sentimentality of which he had not believed himself capable, he had longed to hear the voice and feel the touch of the Enid whom he had once thought he knew — of the quiet, serene girl who understood him so quickly — the Enid of Frascati and Rome and Hartley — of Hartley at least in the first few hours of her visit there — the Enid of that ideal which he had once formed of her who had so ruthlessly torn away the mask and shown him the cruel reality.

Now, however, even this had passed....

Then he considered the sacred ceremony in which he had just been a partaker; and was quietly amazed at the absence of emotion it had caused. He had received That which, in his deepest being, he believed to be the Body of Christ; ke had quieted his thoughts that he might contemplate that fact; yet there had been no reaction of devotion. As in his confession last night, so again this morning, he felt nothing except that he had performed the action proper to his religion.... The priest had come and gone; and he lay there reflecting.

At nine o'clock the nurse came in.

" Good-morning, Sir Nevill. I hope you slept well."

" Oh yes; pretty well, thanks."

" You'd like your hands and face washed, wouldn't you? "

" Thank you."

This was done: the sponge passed smoothly and gently over his face and ears. Then he laid first one hand and then the other in the warm water. Then these were dried; and he lay still. Then he had listened to the basin being put back. Then the door had shut.

Then, once again, the sense of helplessness and fatality came down on him like a pall. By now, he knew, somewhere in the house below him, waited Aunt Anna and Algy; and, for the first time, a kind of childish fury seized him at the thought of them. Of what use, after all, were all Aunt Anna's prayers and Algy's sympathy? For, somewhere, also, in that very house, his butchers were gathering— the man who would drug and stifle him into insensibility; the man who would open his head with knives and saws and scissors. (There was a horrible little instrument, too, of which he had forced poor Algy to read aloud to him from an encyclopaedia — an instrument that faintly resembled an elaborate kind of mechanical corkscrew.)... If there were anything in prayer and sympathy, why could not these horrors be prevented? It was all very well for Aunt Anna to be meek and courageous, and Algy to be silent and emotional; but what had they to suffer? They would wait in that pleasant drawing-room, while he was being choked and hacked upstairs.... He put away, with a kind of savage selfishness, the thought that they, too, were suffering. What, after all, he asked himself, were mental sufferings compared to physical?

It was the naked bodily nerve that hurt, in the long run, and not memories and anticipations....

About twenty minutes past nine he was quiet again; and lay there, indeed, like a sheep on the steps of the altar. His whole attention seemed fixed on the faint noises of the house. He heard the hooting of a motor, and wondered whether it were his surgeon who was coming. He heard the faint chink of china; and wondered whether it were a basin being carried down to catch his blood.... For one mad instant he desired that there might be some delay; that the surgeon might be called elsewhere.... There flashed across his consciousness — come and gone again in an instant — the knowledge that he was yet free to say no, and to demand his release.

The end came far more swiftly and undramatically than he imagined.

The door opened so quietly and ordinarily that it seemed nothing.

Then the quiet, steady voice spoke.

" They are quite ready, Sir Nevill. Will you get up and come downstairs? I will help you into your dressing-gown and slippers."

The faint, drug-like smell smote his nostrils suddenly, as, with outstretched hands and fingers from behind guiding his arm, he shuffled in through the double doors on the first landing. (One of them was baize, he remembered.)

" Good-morning, Sir Nevill. Feeling pretty well, I hope?"

It was Handsworth's voice: he remembered that, and put out his hand.

" Good-morning.... Oh, yes; thanks."

" This is Dr. Martin, who will give you the anaesthetic."

Again his hand was taken.

" Good-morning, Dr. Martin. I — what am I to do, please? "

" That's all right, Sir Nevill," came Miss Brance's delicate voice from behind. " Just slip off your dressing-gown and slippers."

As he was doing this he wondered whether he ought to say anything. He decided not. Standing in his pyjamas, hare- footed, he felt more helpless than ever.

" What " he began.

" Now, please: the bed is just in front of you. By the way, you have no false teeth, have you? "

" No."

He groped forward, feeling with his hands, till they encountered a sheet-covered edge. It seemed unusually high, he thought. The light was on his left. Then, with his exploring foot, he felt a step. This altar had steps, then.

Very carefully he climbed up on to the bed; it seemed extremely hard and narrow. At least two pairs of hands guided his movements. He lay straight down on his back, and felt bed-clothes laid lightly over him; and it was then for the first time that he was aware that his heart was beating sharply and almost painfully about midway, it seemed, between his throat and his breast-bone. There were sounds of soft footsteps about him, and of some article moving lightly on wheels.

" Now, Sir Nevill," began the anaesthetist's voice — "yes: your hands just crossed on your breast, please. When I put the mouthpiece on, just breathe as deeply and deliberately as you can — just like a child. Don't pant at all, please — just long, slow breaths."

(Yes; he knew that. He had made up his mind to that. Ah! why would they not begin? They seemed to him intolerably slow. He longed to escape — and to leave his body here. Then he would come back to it when all was over.)

So suddenly that he started a little, he felt some kind of curved rubber receiver laid gently across his mouth and nostrils. It curved down on to his jaws on both sides. There was no catch or fastening of any kind; yet he felt as if it pinned him down, as might a chain. He conceived the possibility of struggling and throwing it off.

" Now begin to breathe quite gently," said the soft voice.... "Now"...

Ah! there it was.... It was not at all a violent or shocking scent; on the contrary, it was just a shade sickly and attenuated. Then he began to count, drawing in his breaths deeply, to the full extent of his lungs. He had fancied, somehow, that four or five breaths would send him off.

There came down on him suddenly a sense of great quiet and expectancy, as if the world stood still; but he disliked this expectancy. He wished to escape; but time appeared to stand still. He wondered if this were unconsciousness beginning, and directed his attention to his body and limbs. No; they were still his: he could feel the texture of the rather coarse linen beneath his clasped hands and above his toes.

That was the seventh breath; the eighth; the ninth.... Each was very slow and deep, as had been ordered. Each occupied at least three or four seconds.

At the tenth he thought he would put a test to himself. He began to try to separate his interlaced fingers; they moved, but it was certainly slowly and with difficulty; and they felt slippery. He ceased to try to move them.

As he continued to breathe and to count, again there came down on him the sense of tranquil expectancy. It appeared to him as if in a new kind of way he was the centre of attention. There were several pairs of eyes fixed on him, he knew; the anaesthetist was watching him with skilled observation, to see that all was as it should be. Handsworth, somewhere behind the head of the bed, he thought, was standing, either in a white coat or with his sleeves turned up, with a glittering instrument, perhaps, already in his fingers. Miss Brance, he had an idea, was standing with her back to the closed doors; and Nurse Deacon, probably, beside the little plate-glass table covered with strange articles. Perhaps, too, there were others in this room of whom he had heard nothing. He did not know. Then there were Aunt Anna and Algy downstairs in the drawing-room, pretending to read, perhaps — certainly not talking. There were other patients in bed upstairs— some waiting their turn for to-day or some other day, some having already passed through these strange experiences.

Then, outside there was the London street, and motorcars and policemen and shops. Perhaps somewhere there was Enid; he did not know whether she were in London or not. Then there was Hartley, and Jim, and the hall and the river and the pavilion, and Father Richardson.... And, somehow, he himself was the centre of all these things; they radiated from him, and looked towards him.

At the seventeenth breath a note began in his head, quite soft and clear, and not unpleasant, a kind of curved note that moved upwards, like a very melodious siren-whistle; at the eighteenth it was moving more rapidly, as if the curve grew acute. He counted nineteen....,