Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

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'It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. Did you notice how he
answered to it? Poor fellow! Let's look at him,' said the Keneu.

The excitement of the talk had died away. Dick was sitting by the
studio
table, with his head on his arms, when the men came in. He did not
change his position.

'It hurts,' he moaned. 'God forgive me, but it hurts cruelly; and yet,
y'know, the world has a knack of spinning round all by itself. Shall
I see
Torp before he goes?'

'Oh, yes. You'll see him,' said the Nilghai.

CHAPTER XIII

The sun went down an hour ago,
I wonder if I face towards home;
If I lost my way in the light of day
How shall I find it now night is come?
--Old Song-

'MAISIE, come to bed.'

'It's so hot I can't sleep. Don't worry.'

Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and looked at the
moonlight on
the straight, poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon
Vitry-sur-Marne and parched it to the bone. The grass was
dry-burnt in
the meadows, the clay by the bank of the river was caked to brick,
the
roadside flowers were long since dead, and the roses in the garden
hung
withered on their stalks. The heat in the little low bedroom under
the
eaves was almost intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of
Kami's
studio across the road seemed to make the night hotter, and the
shadow
of the big bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of inky black
that
caught Maisie's eye and annoyed her.

'Horrid thing! It should be all white,' she murmured. 'And the gate
isn't
in the middle of the wall, either. I never noticed that before.'

Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, the heat of the past
few
weeks had worn her down; secondly, her work, and particularly the
study of a female head intended to represent the Melancolia and
not
finished in time for the Salon, was unsatisfactory; thirdly, Kami
had said
as much two days before; fourthly,--but so completely fourthly that
it
was hardly worth thinking about,--Dick, her property, had not
written to
her for more than six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with
Kami,
and with her work, but she was exceedingly angry with Dick.

She had written to him three times,--each time proposing a fresh
treatment of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these
communications. She had resolved to write no more. When she
returned
to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return
earlier--she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon
conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was,
'Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours,' and he had been
repeating
the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a
cicada,--an
old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge
felt hat.

But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio
north of
the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse
than
continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and
showed her
where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained
some
trivial advice about not sketching in the sun or drinking water at
wayside
farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but three times,--as if
he did
not know that Maisie could take care of herself.

But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A
murmur of
voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman
of the
little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The
moonlight
glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his
hand
lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook's cap cast deep
shadows on
her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round
her
waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss.

'Faugh!' said Maisie, stepping back.

'What's that?' said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily
outside
her bed.

'Only a conscript kissing the cook,' said Maisie.

'They've gone away now.' She leaned out of the window again, and
put a
shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very
small
night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head
as one
who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should
turn his
thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the
degradation of
Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head
and
one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching
its ear.

Dick could not, 'because,' thought Maisie, 'he is
mind,--mine,--mine. He
said he was. I'm sure I don't care what he does. It will only spoil
his work
if he does; and it will spoil mine too.'

The rose continued to nod it the futile way peculiar to flowers.
There was
no earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose,
except
that he was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist
Maisie in
her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that went
sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the
scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon
when
Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in
the
future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly
similar
lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way----
The red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets. 'It's too
hot
to sleep,' she moaned; and the interruption jarred.

Exactly the same way. Then she would divide her years between
the little
studio in England and Kami's big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No,
she
would go to another master, who should force her into the success
that
was her right, if patient toil and desperate endeavour gave one a
right to
anything. Dick had told her that he had worked ten years to
understand
his craft. She had worked ten years, and ten years were nothing.
Dick
had said that ten years were nothing,--but that was in regard to
herself
only. He had said--this very man who could not find time to
write--that
he would wait ten years for her, and that she was bound to come
back to
him sooner or later. He had said this in the absurd letter about
sunstroke
and diphtheria; and then he had stopped writing. He was
wandering up
and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks. She would like to lecture
him
now,--not in her nightgown, of course, but properly dressed,
severely and
from a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls he certainly would
not
care whether she lecture him or not. He would laugh at her. Very
good.

She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went,
etc., etc.

The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of
it might
be slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind
her.

Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be
no
doubt whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she
began,
unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had
said he
loved her. And he kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a
yellow
sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose
in the
garden. Then there was an interval, and men had told her that they
loved
her--just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came
back,
and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her.
Then he
had---- But there was no end to the things he had done. He had
given her
his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of Art,
housekeeping,
technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant,--that was
rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the best in her
stock,--she
used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and
now
and again--a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound
waiting for
the word to crawl to his mistress's feet. In return she had given him
nothing whatever, except--here she brushed her mouth against the
open-work sleeve f her nightgown--the privilege of kissing her
once. And
on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more
than
enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not
writing
and--probably kissing other girls?
'Maisie, you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,' said the wearied
voice
of her companion. 'I can't sleep a wink with you at the window.'

Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was
reflecting on
the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he
had
nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the
skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it
intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The
shadow
of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and
faded
out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came
limping
home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the
upland
grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the
drought-shrunk river. Maisie's head fell forward on the
window-sill, and
the tangle of black hair covered her arms.

'Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill.'

'Yes, dear; yes, dear.' She staggered to her bed like a wearied child,
and
as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, 'I think--I think.
. . .

But he ought to have written.'

Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and
turpentine,
and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a
golden
teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was
not in
sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of the
work.

She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black
alpaca
coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw
neither
pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of
one
Binat. 'You have all done not so badly,' he would say. 'But you
shall
remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and
the
power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also the
conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I
taught,'--here
the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get their tubes
together,--'the very so many that I have taught, the best was Binat.
All
that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge was to
him even
when he came. After he left me he should have done all that could
be
done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he had
not the
conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,--the best of my
pupils,--and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to
hear no
more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with
conviction.'

He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as
the
pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to
make
plans for the cool of the afternoon.

Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire
to
grimace before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter
to
Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse.
How
Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his
way to
the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to
discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to
reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the
best
horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami's studio, is a mystery
that
only special correspondents can unravel.

'I beg your pardon,' said he. 'It seems an absurd question to ask, but
the
fact is that I don't know her by any other name: Is there any young
lady
here that is called Maisie?'

'I am Maisie,' was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat.

'I ought to introduce myself,' he said, as the horse capered in the
blinding
white dust. 'My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best friend,
and--and--the fact is that he has gone blind.'

'Blind!' said Maisie, stupidly. 'He can't be blind.'

'He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.'

Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. 'No! No! Not
blind! I
won't have him blind!'

'Would you care to see for yourself?' said Torpenhow.

'Now,--at once?'

'Oh, no! The Paris train doesn't go through this place till to-night.
There
will be ample time.'

'Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?'

'Certainly not. Dick wouldn't do that sort of thing. He's sitting in
his
studio, turning over some letters that he can't read because he's
blind.'

There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her
head
and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa,
complaining of a headache.

'Dick's blind!' said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she
steadied
herself against a chair-back. 'My Dick's blind!'

'What?' The girl was on the sofa no longer.

'A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn't written to me
for six
weeks.'

'Are you going to him?'

'I must think.'

'Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss
his eyes
and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don't
go I
shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to
him at
once. Go!'

Torpenhow's neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of
infinite
patience as Maisie's appeared bareheaded in the sunshine.

'I am coming,' said she, her eyes on the ground.

'You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening.' This was
an
order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said
nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing
with
this big man who took everything for granted and managed a
squealing
horse with one hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was
weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses,--very few of
those,--menthol,
packing, and an interview with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore
away.

Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to
Dick,--Dick who owned the wondrous friend and sat in the dark
playing
with her unopened letters.

'But what will you do,' she said to her companion.

'I? Oh, I shall stay here and--finish your Melancolia,' she said,
smiling
pitifully. 'Write to me afterwards.'

That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad
Englishman, doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk
all the
officers of the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from
the
lines, and had then and there eloped, after the English custom,
with one
of those more mad English girls who drew pictures down there
under the
care of that good Monsieur Kami.

'They are very droll,' said Suzanne to the conscript in the
moonlight by
the studio wall. 'She walked always with those big eyes that saw
nothing,
and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my sister,
and
gives me--see--ten francs!'

The conscript levied a contribution on both gifts; for he prided
himself on
being a good soldier.

Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the journey to
Calais; but
he was careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a compartment
entirely to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the
ease
with which the matter had been accomplished.

'The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick's
showing,--when he was off his head,--she must have ordered him
about
very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under orders.'

Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with
her eyes
shut, that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an
order
that she should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at
last
almost beginning to enjoy the situation. This was better than
looking
after luggage and a red-haired friend who never took any interest
in her
surroundings. But there appeared to be a feeling in the air that she,
Maisie,--of all people,--was in disgrace. Therefore she justified her
conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to
her on
the steamer and without preface began to tell the story of Dick's
blindness, suppressing a few details, but dwelling at length on the
miseries of delirium. He stopped before he reached the end, as
though he
had lost interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke. Maisie
was
furious with him and with 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,
Topr! 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
groped among his canvases. 'She's framed in black. Is this a black
frame
that I have my hand on? There she is. What do you think of her?'

He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint towards Maisie, and
the
eyes strained as though they would catch her wonder and surprise.
One
thing and one thing only could she do for him.

'Well?'

The voice was fuller and more rounded, because the man knew he
was
speaking of his best work. Maisie looked at the blur, and a lunatic
desire
to laugh caught her by the throat. But for Dick's sake--whatever
this mad
blankness might mean--she must make no sign. Her voice choked
with
hard-held tears as she answered, still gazing at the wreck--
'Oh, Dick, it is good!'

He heard the little hysterical gulp and took it for tribute. 'Won't
you
have it, then? I'll send it over to your house if you will.'

'I? Oh yes--thank you. Ha! ha!' If she did not fly at once the
laughter
that was worse than tears would kill her. She turned and ran,
choking
and blinded, down the staircases that were empty of life to take
refuge in
a cab and go to her house across the Parks. There she sat down in
the
dismantled drawing-room and thought of Dick in his blindness,
useless
till the end of life, and of herself in her own eyes. Behind the
sorrow, the
shame, and the humiliation, lay fear of the cold wrath of the
red-haired
girl when Maisie should return. Maisie had never feared her
companion
before. Not until she found herself saying, 'Well, he never asked
me,' did
she realise her scorn of herself.

And that is the end of Maisie.

* * * * * *
For Dick was reserved more searching torment. He could not
realise at
first that Maisie, whom he had ordered to go had left him without
a word
of farewell. He was savagely angry against Torpenhow, who had
brought
upon him this humiliation and troubled his miserable peace. Then
his
dark hour came and he was alone with himself and his desires to
get
what help he could from the darkness. The queen could do no
wrong, but
in following the right, so far as it served her work, she had
wounded her
one subject more than his own brain would let him know.

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