Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

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'It's all I had and I've lost it,' he said, as soon as the misery
permitted
clear thinking. 'And Torp will think that he has been so infernally
clever
that I shan't have the heart to tell him. I must think this out quietly.'

'Hullo!' said Torpenhow, entering the studio after Dick had
enjoyed two
hours of thought. 'I'm back. Are you feeling any better?'

'Torp, I don't know what to say. Come here.' Dick coughed huskily,
wondering, indeed, what he should say, and how to say it
temperately.

'What's the need for saying anything? Get up and tramp.'
Torpenhow
was perfectly satisfied.

They walked up and down as of custom, Torpenhow's hand on
Dick's
shoulder, and Dick buried in his own thoughts.

'How in the world did you find it all out?' said Dick, at last.

'You shouldn't go off your head if you want to keep secrets, Dickie.
It
was absolutely impertinent on my part; but if you'd seen me
rocketing
about on a half-trained French troop-horse under a blazing sun
you'd
have laughed. There will be a charivari in my rooms to-night.
Seven
other devils----'

'I know--the row in the Southern Soudan. I surprised their councils
the
other day, and it made me unhappy. Have you fixed your flint to
go?
Who d'you work for?'

'Haven't signed any contracts yet. I wanted to see how your
business
would turn out.'

'Would you have stayed with me, then, if--things had gone wrong?'
He
put his question cautiously.

'Don't ask me too much. I'm only a man.'

'You've tried to be an angel very successfully.'

'Oh ye--es! . . . Well, do you attend the function to-night? We shall
be
half screwed before the morning. All the men believe the war's a
certainty.'

'I don't think I will, old man, if it's all the same to you. I'll stay
quiet here.'

'And meditate? I don't blame you. You observe a good time if ever
a man did.'

That night there was a tumult on the stairs. The correspondents
poured
in from theatre, dinner, and music-hall to Torpenhow's room that
they
might discuss their plan of campaign in the event of military
operations
becoming a certainty. Torpenhow, the Keneu,, and the Nilghai had
bidden all the men they had worked with to the orgy; and Mr.
Beeton,
the housekeeper, declared that never before in his checkered
experience
had he seen quite such a fancy lot of gentlemen. They waked the
chambers with shoutings and song; and the elder men were quite
as bad
as the younger. For the chances of war were in front of them, and
all
knew what those meant.

Sitting in his own room a little perplexed by the noise across the
landing,
Dick suddenly began to laugh to himself.

'When one comes to think of it the situation is intensely comic.
Maisie's
quite right--poor little thing. I didn't know she could cry like that
before;
but now I know what Torp thinks, I'm sure he'd be quite fool
enough to
stay at home and try to console me--if he knew. Besides, it isn't
nice to
own that you've been thrown over like a broken chair. I must carry
this
business through alone--as usual. If there isn't a war, and Torp
finds out,
I shall look foolish, that's all. If there is a way I mustn't interfere
with
another man's chances. Business is business, and I want to be
alone--I
want to be alone. What a row they're making!'

Somebody hammered at the studio door.

'Come out and frolic, Dickie,' said the Nilghai.

'I should like to, but I can't. I'm not feeling frolicsome.'

'Then, I'll tell the boys and they'll drag you like a badger.'

'Please not, old man. On my word, I'd sooner be left alone just
now.'

'Very good. Can we send anything in to you? Fizz, for instance.

Cassavetti is beginning to sing songs of the Sunny South already.'

For one minute Dick considered the proposition seriously.

'No, thanks, I've a headache already.'

'Virtuous child. That's the effect of emotion on the young. All my
congratulations, Dick. I also was concerned in the conspiracy for
your welfare.'

'Go to the devil--oh, send Binkie in here.'

The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous from having been
made
much of all the evening. He had helped to sing the choruses; but
scarcely
inside the studio he realised that this was no place for
tail-wagging, and
settled himself on Dick's lap till it was bedtime. Then he went to
bed with
Dick, who counted every hour as it struck, and rose in the morning
with
a painfully clear head to receive Torpenhow's more formal
congratulations and a particular account of the last night's revels.

'You aren't looking very happy for a newly accepted man,' said
Torpenhow.

'Never mind that--it's my own affair, and I'm all right. Do you
really go?'

'Yes. With the old Central Southern as usual. They wired, and I
accepted
on better terms than before.'

'When do you start?'

'The day after to-morrow--for Brindisi.'

'Thank God.' Dick spoke from the bottom of his heart.

'Well, that's not a pretty way of saying you're glad to get rid of me.
But
men in your condition are allowed to be selfish.'

'I didn't mean that. Will you get a hundred pounds cashed for me
before
you leave?'

'That's a slender amount for housekeeping, isn't it?'

'Oh, it's only for--marriage expenses.'

Torpenhow brought him the money, counted it out in fives and
tens, and
carefully put it away in the writing table.

'Now I suppose I shall have to listen to his ravings about his girl
until I
go. Heaven send us patience with a man in love!' he said to
himself.

But never a word did Dick say of Maisie or marriage. He hung in
the
doorway of Torpenhow's room when the latter was packing and
asked
innumerable questions about the coming campaign, till Torpenhow
began
to feel annoyed.

'You're a secretive animal, Dickie, and you consume your own
smoke,
don't you?' he said on the last evening.

'I--I suppose so. By the way, how long do you think this war will
last?'

'Days, weeks, or months. One can never tell. It may go on for
years.'

'I wish I were going.'

'Good Heavens! You're the most unaccountable creature! Hasn't it
occurred to you that you're going to be married--thanks to me?'

'Of course, yes. I'm going to be married--so I am. Going to be
married.

I'm awfully grateful to you. Haven't I told you that?'

'You might be going to be hanged by the look of you,' said
Torpenhow.

And the next day Torpenhow bade him good-bye and left him to
the
loneliness he had so much desired.

CHAPTER XIV

Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
He of the Faith spoke as master to slave;
Yet at the last, tho' the Kafirs had maimed him,
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,--
Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him,
He called upon Allah and died a believer.
--Kizzilbashi.

'BEG your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but--but isn't nothin' going to
happen?'

said Mr. Beeton.

'No!' Dick had just waked to another morning of blank despair and
his
temper was of the shortest.

''Tain't my regular business, o' course, sir; and what I say is, "Mind
your own business and let other people mind theirs;" but just
before Mr.

Torpenhow went away he give me to understand, like, that you
might be
moving into a house of your own, so to speak--a sort of house with
rooms
upstairs and downstairs where you'd be better attended to, though I
try
to act just by all our tenants. Don't I?'

'Ah! That must have been a mad-house. I shan't trouble you to take
me
there yet. Get me my breakfast, please, and leave me alone.'

'I hope I haven't done anything wrong, sir, but you know I hope
that as
far as a man can I tries to do the proper thing by all the gentlemen
in
chambers--and more particular those whose lot is hard--such as
you, for
instance, Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe bloater, don't you?
Soft-roe
bloaters is scarcer than hard-roe, but what I says is, "Never mind a
little
extra trouble so long as you give satisfaction to the tenants."'

Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to himself. Torpenhow had
been long
away; there was no more rioting in the chambers, and Dick had
settled
down to his new life, which he was weak enough to consider
nothing
better than death.

It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing the day and night;
dropping
to sleep through sheer weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in
the
chill of the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, would grope
along the
corridors of the chambers till he heard some one snore. Then he
would
know that the day had not yet come, and return wearily to his
bedroom.

Later he learned not to stir till there was a noise and movement in
the
house and Mr. Beeton advised him to get up. Once dressed--and
dressing,
now that Torpenhow was away, was a lengthy business, because
collars,
ties, and the like hid themselves in far corners of the room, and
search
meant head-beating against chairs and trunks--once dressed, there
was
nothing whatever to do except to sit still and brood till the three
daily
meals came. Centuries separated breakfast from lunch and lunch
from
dinner, and though a man prayed for hundreds of years that his
mind
might be taken from him, God would never hear. Rather the mind
was
quickened and the revolving thoughts ground against each other as
millstones grind when there is no corn between; and yet the brain
would
not wear out and give him rest. It continued to think, at length,
with
imagery and all manner of reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and
past
success, reckless travels by land and sea, the glory of doing work
and
feeling that it was good, and suggested all that might have
happened had
the eyes only been faithful to their duty. When thinking ceased
through
sheer weariness, there poured into Dick's soul tide on tide of
overwhelming, purposeless fear--dread of starvation always, terror
lest
the unseen ceiling should crush down upon him, fear of fire in the
chambers and a louse's death in red flame, and agonies of fiercer
horror
that had nothing to do with any fear of death. Then Dick bowed his
head,
and clutching the arms of his chair fought with his sweating self
till the
tinkle of plates told him that something to eat was being set before
him.

Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he had time to spare, and
Dick
learned to hang upon his speech, which dealt with badly fitted
gas-plugs,
waste-pipes out of repair, little tricks for driving picture-nails into
walls,
and the sins of the charwoman or the housemaids. In the lack of
better
things the small gossip of a servant'' hall becomes immensely
interesting,
and the screwing of a washer on a tap an event to be talked over
for days.

Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would take Dick out with
him
when he went marketing in the morning to haggle with tradesmen
over
fish, lamp-wicks, mustard, tapioca, and so forth, while Dick rested
his
weight first on one foot and then on the other and played aimlessly
with
the tins and string-ball on the counter. Then they would perhaps
meet
one of Mr. Beeton's friends, and Dick, standing aside a little,
would hold
his peace till Mr. Beeton was willing to go on again.

The life did not increase his self-respect. He abandoned shaving as
a
dangerous exercise, and being shaved in a barber's shop meant
exposure
of his infirmity. He could not see that his clothes were properly
brushed,
and since he had never taken any care of his personal appearance
he
became every known variety of sloven. A blind man cannot deal
with
cleanliness till he has been some months used to the darkness. If
he
demand attendance and grow angry at the want of it, he must assert
himself and stand upright. Then the meanest menial can see that he
is
blind and, therefore, of no consequence. A wise man will keep his
eyes on
the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal lump by
lump out
of the scuttle with the tongs and pile it in a little heap in the
fender,
keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one
by one
and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work
them
out; he may talk to himself or to the cat if she chooses to visit him;
and if
his trade has been that of an artist, he may sketch in the air with
his
forefinger; but that is too much like drawing a pig with the eyes
shut. He
may go to his bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in
order of
their size; or to his wardrobe and count his shirts, laying them in
piles of
two or three on the bed, as they suffer from frayed cuffs or lost
buttons.

Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are
very,
very long.

Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where Mr. Beeton kept
hammers,
taps and nuts, lengths of gas-pipes, oil-bottles, and string.

'If I don't have everything just where I know where to look for it,
why,
then, I can't find anything when I do want it. You've no idea, sir,
the
amount of little things that these chambers uses up,' said Mr.
Beeton.

Fumbling at the handle of the door as he went out: 'It's hard on you,
sir,
I do think it's hard on you. Ain't you going to do anything, sir?'

'I'll pay my rent and messing. Isn't that enough?'

'I wasn't doubting for a moment that you couldn't pay your way, sir;
but
I 'ave often said to my wife, "It's 'ard on 'im because it isn't as if he
was
an old man, nor yet a middle-aged one, but quite a young
gentleman.

That's where it comes so 'ard."'

'I suppose so,' said Dick, absently. This particular nerve through
long
battering had ceased to feel--much.

'I was thinking,' continued Mr. Beeton, still making as if to go, 'that
you
might like to hear my boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of an
evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he's only nine.'

'I should be very grateful,' said Dick. 'Only let me make it worth
his
while.'

'We wasn't thinking of that, sir, but of course it's in your own 'ands;
but
only to 'ear Alf sing "A Boy's best Friend is 'is Mother!" Ah!'

'I'll hear him sing that too. Let him come this evening with the
newspapers.'

Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up with many school-board
certificates for good conduct, and inordinately proud of his
singing. Mr.

Beeton remained, beaming, while the child wailed his way through
a
song of some eight eight-line verses in the usual whine of a young
Cockney, and, after compliments, left him to read Dick the foreign
telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his parents rather pale
and
scared.

''E said 'e couldn't stand it no more,' he explained.

'He never said you read badly, Alf?' Mrs. Beeton spoke.

'No. 'E said I read beautiful. Said 'e never 'eard any one read like
that,
but 'e said 'e couldn't abide the stuff in the papers.'

'P'raps he's lost some money in the Stocks. Were you readin' him
about
Stocks, Alf?'

'No; it was all about fightin' out there where the soldiers is gone--a
great
long piece with all the lines close together and very hard words in
it. 'E
give me 'arf a crown because I read so well. And 'e says the next
time
there's anything 'e wants read 'e'll send for me.'

'That's good hearing, but I do think for all the half-crown--put it
into the
kicking-donkey money-box, Alf, and let me see you do it--he
might have
kept you longer. Why, he couldn't have begun to understand how
beautiful you read.'

'He's best left to hisself--gentlemen always are when they're
downhearted,' said Mr. Beeton.

Alf's rigorously limited powers of comprehending Torpenhow's
special
correspondence had waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He could
hear,
through the boy's nasal chant, the camels grunting in the squares
behind
the soldiers outside Suakin; could hear the men swearing and
chaffing
across the cooking pots, and could smell the acrid wood-smoke as
it
drifted over camp before the wind of the desert.

That night he prayed to God that his mind might be taken from
him,
offering for proof that he was worthy of this favour the fact that he
had
not shot himself long ago. That prayer was not answered, and
indeed
Dick knew in his heart of hearts that only a lingering sense of
humour
and no special virtue had kept him alive. Suicide, he had
persuaded
himself, would be a ludicrous insult to the gravity of the situation
as well
as a weak-kneed confession of fear.

'Just for the fun of the thing,' he said to the cat, who had taken
Binkie's
place in his establishment, 'I should like to know how long this is
going to
last. I can live for a year on the hundred pounds Torp cashed for
me. I
must have two or three thousand at least in the Bank--twenty or
thirty
years more provided for, that is to say. Then I fall back on my
hundred
and twenty a year, which will be more by that time. Let's consider.

Twenty-five--thirty-five--a man's in his prime then, they
say--forty-five--a middle-aged man just entering
politics--fifty-five--"died
at the comparatively early age of fifty-five," according to the
newspapers. Bah! How these Christians funk death!
Sixty-five--we're
only getting on in years. Seventy-five is just possible, though.
Great hell,
cat O! fifty years more of solitary confinement in the dark! You'll
die,
and Beeton will die, and Torp will die, and Mai--everybody else
will die,
but I shall be alive and kicking with nothing to do. I'm very sorry
for
myself. I should like some one else to be sorry for me. Evidently
I'm not
going ma before I die, but the pain's just as bad as ever. Some day
when
you're vivisected, cat O! they'll tie you down on a little table and
cut you
open--but don't be afraid; they'll take precious good care that you
don't
die. You'll live, and you'll be very sorry then that you weren't sorry
for
me. Perhaps Torp will come back or . . . I wish I could go to Torp
and the
Nilghai, even though I were in their way.'

Pussy left the room before the speech was ended, and Alf, as he
entered,
found Dick addressing the empty hearth-rug.

'There's a letter for you, sir,' he said. 'Perhaps you'd like me to read
it.'

'Lend it to me for a minute and I'll tell you.'

The outstretched hand shook just a little and the voice was not
over-steady. It was within the limits of human possibility that--that
was
no letter from Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed envelopes
only too
well. It was a foolish hope that the girl should write to him, for he
did not
realise that there is a wrong which admits of no reparation though
the
evildoer may with tears and the heart's best love strive to mend all.
It is
best to forget that wrong whether it be caused or endured, since it
is as
remediless as bad work once put forward.

'Read it, then,' said Dick, and Alf began intoning according to the
rules
of the Board School--
'"I could have given you love, I could have given you loyalty, such
as you
never dreamed of. Do you suppose I cared what you were? But you
chose
to whistle everything down the wind for nothing. My only excuse
for you is
that you are so young."
'That's all,' he said, returning the paper to be dropped into the fire.

'What was in the letter?' asked Mrs. Beeton, when Alf returned.

'I don't know. I think it was a circular or a tract about not whistlin'
at
everything when you're young.'

'I must have stepped on something when I was alive and walking
about
and it has bounced up and hit me. God help it, whatever it
is--unless it
was all a joke. But I don't know any one who'd take the trouble to
play a
joke on me. . . . Love and loyalty for nothing. It sounds tempting
enough.

I wonder whether I have lost anything really?'

Dick considered for a long time but could not remember when or
how he
had put himself in the way of winning these trifles at a woman's
hands.

Still, the letter as touching on matters that he preferred not to think
about stung him into a fit of frenzy that lasted for a day and night.
When
his heart was so full of despair that it would hold no more, body
and soul
together seemed to be dropping without check through the
darkness.

Then came fear of darkness and desperate attempts to reach the
light
again. But there was no light to be reached. When that agony had
left
him sweating and breathless, the downward flight would
recommence till
the gathering torture of it spurred him into another fight as
hopeless as
the first. Followed some few minutes of sleep in which he dreamed
that
he saw. Then the procession of events would repeat itself till he
was
utterly worn out and the brain took up its everlasting consideration
of
Maisie and might-have-beens.

At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came to his room and
volunteered to
take him out. 'Not marketing this time, but we'll go into the Parks
if you
like.'

'Be damned if I do,' quoth Dick. 'Keep to the streets and walk up
and
down. I like to hear the people round me.'

This was not altogether true. The blind in the first stages of their
infirmity dislike those who can move with a free stride and
unlifted
arms--but Dick had no earthly desire to go to the Parks. Once and
only
once since Maisie had shut her door he had gone there under Alf's
charge. Alf forgot him and fished for minnows in the Serpentine
with
some companions. After half an hour's waiting Dick, almost
weeping
with rage and wrath, caught a passer-by, who introduced him to a
friendly policeman, who led him to a four-wheeler opposite the
Albert
Hall. He never told Mr. Beeton of Alf's forgetfulness, but . . . this
was not
the manner in which he was used to walk the Parks aforetime.

'What streets would you like to walk down, then?' said Mr. Beeton,
sympathetically. His own ideas of a riotous holiday meant
picnicking on
the grass of Green Park with his family, and half a dozen paper
bags full
of food.

'Keep to the river,' said Dick, and they kept to the river, and the
rush of
it was in his ears till they came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck
thence
on to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton explaining the beauties of
the
scenery as he went on.

'And walking on the other side of the pavement,' said he, 'unless
I'm
much mistaken, is the young woman that used to come to your
rooms to
be drawed. I never forgets a face and I never remembers a name,
except
paying tenants, o' course!'

'Stop her,' said Dick. 'It's Bessie Broke. Tell her I'd like to speak to
her
again. Quick, man!'

Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of the omnibuses and
arrested Bessie then on her way northward. She recognised him as
the
man in authority who used to glare at her when she passed up
Dick's
staircase, and her first impulse was to run.

'Wasn't you Mr. Heldar's model?' said Mr. Beeton, planting himself
in
front of her. 'You was. He's on the other side of the road and he'd
like to
see you.'

'Why?' said Bessie, faintly. She remembered--indeed had never for
long
forgotten--an affair connected with a newly finished picture.

'Because he has asked me to do so, and because he's most
particular
blind.'

'Drunk?'

'No. 'Orspital blind. He can't see. That's him over there.'

Dick was leaning against the parapet of the bridge as Mr. Beeton
pointed
him out--a stub-bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty
magenta-coloured neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. There was
nothing to fear from such an one. Even if he chased her, Bessie
thought,
he could not follow far. She crossed over, and Dick's face lighted
up. It
was long since a woman of any kind had taken the trouble to speak
to
him.

'I hope you're well, Mr. Heldar?' said Bessie, a little puzzled. Mr.
Beeton
stood by with the air of an ambassador and breathed responsibly.

'I'm very well indeed, and, by Jove! I'm glad to see--hear you, I
mean,
Bess. You never thought it worth while to turn up and see us again
after
you got your money. I don't know why you should. Are you going
anywhere in particular just now?'

'I was going for a walk,' said Bessie.

'Not the old business?' Dick spoke under his breath.

'Lor, no! I paid my premium'--Bessie was very proud of that
word--'for a
barmaid, sleeping in, and I'm at the bar now quite respectable.
Indeed I
am.'

Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe in the loftiness of
human
nature. Therefore he dissolved himself like a mist and returned to
his
gas-plugs without a word of apology. Bessie watched the flight
with a
certain uneasiness; but so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of
the
harm that had been done to him . . .

'It's hard work pulling the beer-handles,' she went on, 'and they've
got
one of them penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if you get wrong
by a
penny at the end of the day--but then I don't believe the machinery
is
right. Do you?'

'I've only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.'

'He's gone.

'I'm afraid I must ask you to help me home, then. I'll make it worth
your
while. You see.' The sightless eyes turned towards her and Bessie
saw.

'It isn't taking you out of your way?' he said hesitatingly. 'I can ask
a
policeman if it is.'

'Not at all. I come on at seven and I'm off at four. That's easy
hours.'

'Good God!--but I'm on all the time. I wish I had some work to do
too.

Let's go home, Bess.'

He turned and cannoned into a man on the sidewalk, recoiling with
an
oath. Bessie took his arm and said nothing--as she had said nothing
when
he had ordered her to turn her face a little more to the light. They
walked for some time in silence, the girl steering him deftly
through the
crowd.

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