So after pausing a short while he
said in a low voice:

'I suppose she had better come now. We must not keep her waiting!' When
the Doctor brought her to his bedside Stephen felt in a measure awed. His
bandaged face and head and his great beard, singed in patches, looked to
her in the dim light rather awesome. In a very gentle voice she said
kind things to the sick man, who acknowledged them in a feeble whisper. The Doctor, a keen observer, noticed the change in his voice, and
determined to understand more. Stephen spoke of his bravery, and of how
it was due to him that all on the ship were saved; and as she spoke her
emotion moved her so much that her sweet voice shook and quivered. To
the ears of the man who had now only sound to guide him, it was music of
the sweetest he had ever heard. Fearing lest his voice should betray
him, he whispered his own thanks feebly and in few words. When Stephen went away the Doctor went with her; it was more than an hour
before he returned. He found his patient in what he considered a state
of suppressed excitement; for, though his thoughts were manifestly
collected and his words were calm, he was restless and excited in other
ways. He had evidently been thinking of his own condition; for shortly
after the Doctor came in he said:

'Are we alone?' 'Quite!' 'I want you to arrange that there shall not be any nurse with me.' 'My dear sir! Don't handicap me, and yourself, with such a restriction. It is for your own good that you should have regular and constant
attention.' 'But I don't wish it. Not for the present at all events. I am not
accustomed to a nurse, and shall not feel comfortable. In a few days
perhaps . . . ' The decided tone of his voice struck the other. Keeping
his own thoughts and intentions in abeyance, even to himself, he answered
heartily:

'All right! I shall not have any nurse, at present.' 'Thanks!' There was relief in the tone which seemed undue, and Mr.
Hilton again took mental note. Presently he asked a question, but in
such a tone that the Doctor pricked up his ears. There was a
premeditated self-suppression, a gravity of restraint, which implied some
falsity; some intention other than the words conveyed:

'It must have been a job to carry me up those stairs.' The Doctor was
doubting everything, but as the safest attitude he stuck to literal truth
so far as his words conveyed it:

'Yes. You are no light weight!' To himself he mused:

'How did he know there were stairs? He cannot know it; he was senseless! Therefore he must be guessing or inquiring!' Harold went on:

'I suppose the Castle is on high ground. Can you see far from the
windows? I suppose we are up a good height?' 'From the windows you can see all round the promontory. But we are not
high up; that is, the room is not high from the ground, though the Castle
is from the sea.' Harold asked again, his voice vibrating in the note of
gladness:

'Are we on the ground floor then?' 'Yes.' 'And I suppose the gardens are below us?' 'Yes.' The answer was given quickly, for a thought was floating through
him: Why did this strong brave man, suddenly stricken blind, wish to know
whether his windows were at a height? He was not surprised when his
patient reaching out a hand rested it on his arm and said in an imploring
tone:

'It should be moonlight; full moon two nights ago. Won't you pull up the
blind and describe to me all you see? . . . Tell me fully . . . Remember,
I am blind!' This somehow fixed the Doctor's thought:

'Suicide! But I must convey the inutility of such effort by inference,
not falsity.' Accordingly he began to describe the scene, from the very base of the
wall, where below the balcony the great border was glorious with a mass
of foliage plants, away to the distant sea, now bathed in the flood of
moonlight. Harold asked question after question; the Doctor replying
accurately till he felt that the patient was building up a concrete idea
of his surroundings near and far. Then he left him. He stood for a long
time out in the passage thinking. He said to himself as he moved away:

'The poor fellow has some grim intention in his mind. I must not let him
know that I suspect; but to-night I will watch without his knowing it!' CHAPTER XXXIV--WAITING


Mr. Hilton telegraphed at once countermanding, for the present, the nurse
for whom he had sent. That night, when the household had all retired, he came quietly to his
patient's room, and entering noiselessly, sat silent in a far corner. There was no artificial right; the patient had to be kept in darkness. There was, however, a bright moonlight; sufficient light stole in through
the edges of the blinds to allow him, when his eyes grew accustomed, to
see what might happen. Harold lay quite still till the house was quiet. He had been thinking,
ever since he had ascertained the identity of Stephen. In his weakness
and the paralysing despair of his blindness all his former grief and
apprehension had come bank upon him in a great wave; veritably the tide
of circumstances seemed to run hard against him. He had had no idea of
forcing himself upon Stephen; and yet here he was a guest in her house,
without her knowledge or his own. She had saved his life by her energy
and resource. Fortunately she did not as yet know him; the bandages, and
his act in suppressing his voice, had so far protected him. But such
could not last for long. He could not see to protect himself, and take
precautions as need arose. And he knew well that Stephen's nature would
not allow her to be satisfied without doing all that was possible to help
one who had under her eyes made a great effort on behalf of others, and
to whom there was the added bond that his life was due to her. In but a
little time she must find out to whom she ministered. What then would happen? Her kindness was such that when she realised the
blindness of her old friend she might so pity him that out of the depths
of her pity she would forgive. She would take back all the past; and now
that she knew of his old love for her, would perhaps be willing to marry
him. Back flooded the old memory of her independence and her theory of
sexual equality. If out of any selfish or mistaken idea she did not
hesitate to ask a man to marry her, would it be likely that when the
nobler and more heroic side of her nature spoke she would hesitate to a
similar act in pursuance of her self-sacrifice? So it might be that she would either find herself once again flouted, or
else married to a man she did not love. Such a catastrophe should not happen, whatever the cost to him. He
would, blind as he was, steal away in the night and take himself out of
her life; this time for ever. Better the ingratitude of an unknown man,
the saving of whose life was due to her, than the long dull routine of a
spoiled life, which would otherwise be her unhappy lot. When once this idea had taken root in his mind he had taken such steps as
had been open to him without endangering the secrecy of his motive.