Part 75 (1/2)
”I don't want to go away,” Lucilla went on; ”I don't want to leave him.
All I ask for, is a little more time. Time _must_ help me to get back again to my old self. My blind days have been the days of my whole life.
Can a few weeks of sight have deprived me of the feelings which have been growing in me for years? I won't believe it! I can find my way about the house; I can tell things by my touch; I can do all that I did in my blindness, just as well as ever, now I am blind again. The feeling for _him_ will come back to me like the rest. Only give me time! only give me time!”
At the last word, she started to her feet in sudden alarm. ”There is some one in the room,” she said. ”Some one who is crying! Who is it?”
Oscar was close to us. The tears were falling fast over his cheeks--the one faint sobbing breath which had escaped him had caught my ear as well as Lucilla's. I took his hand in one of my hands; and I took Lucilla's hand in the other. For good or for evil, the result rested with G.o.d's mercy. The time had come.
”Who is it?” Lucilla repeated impatiently.
”Try if you can tell, my love, without asking me.”
With those words, I put her hand in Oscar's hand--and stood close, watching her face.
For one awful moment, when she first felt the familiar touch, the blood left her cheeks. Her blind eyes dilated fearfully. She stood petrified.
Then, with a long low cry--a cry of breathless rapture--she flung her arms pa.s.sionately round his neck. The life flowed back into her face; her lovely smile just trembled on her parted lips; her breath came faint and quick and fluttering. In soft tones of ecstasy, with her lips on his cheek, she murmured the delicious words:
”Oh, Oscar! I know you once more!”
CHAPTER THE FIFTIETH
The End of the Journey
A LITTLE interval of time elapsed.
Her first exquisite sense of the recognition by touch had pa.s.sed away.
Her mind had recovered its balance. She separated herself from Oscar, and turned to me, with the one inevitable question which I knew must follow the joining of their hands.
”What does it mean?”
The exposure of Nugent's perfidy; the revelation of the fatal secret of Oscar's face; and, last not least, the defence of my own conduct towards her, were all comprehended in the answer for which that question called.
As carefully, as delicately, as mercifully as I could, I disclosed to her the whole truth. How the shock affected her, she did not tell me at the time, and has never told me since. With her hand in Oscar's hand, with her face hidden on Oscar's breast, she listened; not once interrupting me, from first to last, by so much as a single word. Now and then, I saw her tremble; now and then I heard her sigh heavily. That was all. It was only when I had ended--it was only after a long interval during which Oscar and I watched her in speechless anxiety--that she slowly lifted her head and broke the silence.
”Thank G.o.d,” we heard her say to herself fervently--”Thank G.o.d, I am blind.”
Those were her first words. They filled me with horror. I cried out to her to recall them.
She quietly laid her head back on Oscar's breast.
”Why should I recall them?” she asked. ”Do you think I wish to see him disfigured as he is now? No! I wish to see him--and I _do_ see him!--as my fancy drew his picture in the first days of our love. My blindness is my blessing. It has given me back my old delightful sensation when I touch him; it keeps my own beloved image of him--the one image I care for--unchanged and unchangeable. You _will_ persist in thinking that my happiness depends on my sight. I look back with horror at what I suffered when I had my sight--my one effort is to forget that miserable time. Oh, how little you know of me! Oh, what a shock it would be to me, if I saw him as you see him! Try to understand me, and you won't talk of my loss--you will talk of my gain.”
”Your gain?” I repeated. ”What have you gained?”
”Happiness,” she answered. ”My life lives in my love. And my love lives in my blindness.”
There was the story of her whole existence--told in two words!
If you had seen her radiant face as she raised it again in the excitement of speaking; if you had remembered (as I remembered) what her surgeon had said of the penalty which she must inevitably pay for the recovery of her sight--how would you have answered her? It is barely possible, perhaps, that you might have done what I did. That is to say: You might have modestly admitted that she knew what the conditions of her happiness were better than you--and you might not have answered her at all!