She held my head gently with one hand, and waited with the patience of an angel until that first outbreak of my grief had exhausted itself. "Don't cry about my blindness," said the soft, sweet voice that I knew so well.
"The days when I had my sight have been the unhappiest days of my life.
If I look as if I had been fretting, don't think it is about my eyes."
She paused, and sighed bitterly. "I may tell _you,_" she went on in a whisper. "It's a relief, it's a consolation, to tell _you._ I am fretting about my marriage."
Those words roused me. I lifted my head, and kissed her. "I have come back to comfort you," I said: "and I have behaved like a fool."
She smiled faintly. "How like you," she exclaimed, "to say that!" She tapped my cheek with her fingers in the old familiar way. The repetition of that little trifling action almost broke my heart. I nearly choked myself in forcing back the stupid cowardly useless tears that tried to burst from me again. "Come!" she said. "No more crying! Let us sit down and talk as if we were at Dimchurch."
I took her to the sofa: we sat side by side. She put her arm round my waist, and laid her head on my shoulder. Again the faint smile flickered like a dying light on her lovely face; wan and wasted, yet still beautiful--still the Virgin's face in Raphael's picture. "We are a strange pair," she said, with a momentary flash of her old irresistible humour. "You are my bitterest enemy, and you burst out crying over me the moment we meet. I have been shockingly treated by you--and I have got my arm round your waist and my head on your shoulder, and I wouldn't let go of you for the world!" Her face saddened again; her voice suddenly altered its tone. "Tell me," she went on, "how is it that appearances were so terribly against you? Oscar satisfied me, at Ramsgate, that I ought to give you up, that I ought never to see you again. I took his view--there is no denying it, my dear--I agreed with him in detesting you, for a little while. But, when the blindness came back, I could keep it up no longer. Little by little, as the light died out, my heart _would_ turn to you again. When I heard your letter read, when I knew that you were near me--it was just like the old times; I was mad to see you. And here I am--satisfied, before you explain it to me, that you have been the victim of some terrible mistake."
I tried, in grateful acknowledgment of those generous words, to enter on my justification there and then. It was impossible. I could think of nothing, I could speak of nothing, but the dreadful discovery of her blindness.
"Give me a few minutes," I said, "and you shall hear it all. I can't talk of myself, yet--I can only talk of you. Oh, Lucilla, why did you keep away from Grosse? Come with me to him to-day. Let him try what he can do.
At once, my love--before it is too late!"
"It _is_ too late," she said. "I have been to another oculist--a stranger. He said, what Mr. Sebright said: he doubted if there was ever any chance for me: he thought the operation ought never to have been performed."
"Why did you go to a stranger?" I asked. "Why did you give up Grosse!"
"You must ask Oscar," she answered. "It was at his desire that I kept away from Grosse."
Hearing this, I penetrated for myself the motive which had actuated Nugent--as I afterwards found it indicated in the Journal. If he had let Lucilla go to Grosse, our good German might have noticed that her position was preying on her mind, and might have seen his reasons for exposing the deception that Nugent was practicing on her. For the rest, I still persisted in entreating Lucilla to go back with me to our old friend.
"Remember our conversation on this very subject," she rejoined, shaking her head decisively. "I mean at the time when the operation was going to be performed. I told you I was used to being blind. I said I only wanted to recover my sight, to see Oscar. And when I did see him--what happened?
The disappointment was so dreadful, I wished myself blind again. Don't start! don't cry out as if you were shocked! I mean what I say. You people who can see, attach such an absurd importance to your eyes! Don't you recollect my saying that, when we last talked about it?"
I recollected perfectly. She had said those words. She had declared that she had never honestly envied any of us the use of our eyes. She had even reviled our eyes; comparing them contemptuously with _her_ touch; deriding them as deceivers who were constantly leading us wrong. I acknowledged all this--without being in the least reconciled to the catastrophe that had happened. If she would only have listened to me, I should still have gone on obstinately pleading with her. But she flatly refused to listen. "We have very little time to spare," she said. "Let us talk of something more interesting before I am obliged to leave you."
"Obliged to leave me?" I repeated. "Are you not your own mistress?"
Her face clouded over; her manner became embarrassed.