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Opotiki News, Volume II, Issue 274, 22 December 1939, Page 6 (Supplement)

Back to Darkne

A Short Story by L. C. DOUTHW

EAN PERRIMAN married Selwyn Backhouse because she loved him though he had been blind from birth.

There was so much that was lovable about him, and so little that was not. She loved his tall, slim figure—in greater measure, perhaps, because of that forward droop of the shoulder due to long years of groping; the easy, lowpitched voice; a courtesy that took no account of expediency; the quick, vivid smile that so often brought the fullness to her throat; even she loved the grey, startlingly clear eyes into whose depths you had to look so hard to detect the lack of that vital spark with which all other eyes were informed. More than all, perhaps, she loved his hands, those “eyes of the blind” —so exquisitely formed and so sensitive with that sixth sense of their own.

Had there been any economic reason against, she still would have insisted upon their marriage; had stood out firmly against his first quick refusal of what, actually, was her own proposal.

“Think what it would mean,” he protested with the selflessness so inseparable from him, “to spend the rest of your life with a permanent semi-invalid. And a woman like you, so vital and — and glorious, needs a husband, not a patient.”

She touched his cheek with the tips of fingers love had made newly sensitive.

“One woman does, my dear,” she said practically, for if you didn’t want to break down altogether sometimes brusqueness was necessary. It wasn’t one of his faults he so hated pity—it was just part of his humanity. And so, willy-nilly, quite literally, she had “led him to the altar”—and in five years never once regretted it. Combined, their incomes were more than sufficient for their needs. They had the books she read aloud, the music that was one of his minor passions; less frequently than concerts went to the theatre. And if there were times when she longed for the country —the grass and trees and long vistas of dale and down and moor—this she was careful he should not know, for the noise and smells of the city—the grind of wheels and the hoot of motor horns, served to keep him within closer touch with his fellows.

One of the closest of the many friends who dropped in upon them, was Sir John Raymond, the surgeon, whose speciality lay in research. For quite a little time Joan had suspected, a shade resentfully, that genuine as most obviously was his affection for her husband, the great man’s interest had taken a more professional turn. And when, one evening, the flat bell tinkled, and he was accompanied by a stranger, for some reason she discovered her heart beating to a faster measure. It beat more quickly yet when that stranger was presented as Professor Steinmetz, of Vienna, for with the knowledge she had made it her business to acquire, she knew this stout, untidy man with the fat, red face and mop cf upstanding, grey hair as the greatest optical surgeon in Europe. With an impression of something urgent as yet withheld, for a little time the conversation drifted rather constrainedly. Then, breaking into some triviality or other, Sir John, looking across at Backhouse, said in a level voice:—

“Actually, the reason for this call is that, yesterday, I took it upon myself to discuss your case with Professor Steinmetz. And now, I ask you to submit to still another examination.” While Backhouse, who could not have counted on the fingers of both hands the similar ordeals he had unJoan, [ace suddenly upright }n her \V'»'he said, l| I'lllUl 1 I l ' I l 'ili 1 i 'l ' 'I, V ■ MM/ P^c?:>nc Viavires id rc

cently operated upon with success in Vienna, he had foreclosed an old obligation by enlisting that surgeon’s skill on behalf of his friend.

“I have no doubt,” the professor pronounced after an examination, that lasted over an hour, “that, if it is your wish, I can give you sight.” Backhouse, whose usually calm face seemd to have undergone sudden transfiguration, said: —

“What reason could I have for refusing?” “The reason,” the Austrian replied gravely, “that you might so soon be called upon to return that gift. For while it is possible the sight I could bring would remain, not improbably the darkness would return within a few days of my removing the bandages.” Ide laid a large but sensitive hand upon the stricken man’s sleeve, “And when once one has known the sun in splendour . . .”

For a little while Backhouse’s eyes remained fixed upon some far country of which, it is to be presumed, only the blind are citizens.

“If you could realise,” he said at last, “how fundamental is the gulf between those who have lost their sight and those who have been blind from birth, you would know that for one moment’s realisation of—say—the face of my wife, I would spend a hundred years of purgatory.” “Let us pray to the good God, then, my brave friend,” the surgeon said, “that you may not be called upon to return to the shadows.”

After the operation, and before the bandages were removed, they took him, with a nurse provided by Sir John Raymond, to a bungalow that slept in a fold of the Sussex Downs and faced the sea. If that most priceless of the senses was to be but a loan at short call, at least he should know the riches of the world—the green of grass and hedgerow, the loveliness of green sea darkening to purple horizon, and, if God willed, the flaming crimson sunset.

Then came that trepidous day when, more gradually than synthetic dawn upon a darkened stage, a measure of light was admitted to eyes that in forty years had not known it. To Joan, in that • first untenable moment of revelation, it was as if she were present at the birth of a soul. The wonder and illimitable awe in eyes that outwardly were so strangely unaltered ; then, as the light within those four walls strengthened slowly but cumulatively the siblirnity of happiness that crowded them. The breathless peering into her face, as yet indistinct in the half-light; the eager questioning as to what was this and that about the room . . .

An hour or so, and the bandages were replaced, but with each day succeeding day a little longer time for peering, and a cumulatively stronger light. Yet, to Joan, it seemed an unconscionable time before at last the professor allowed the curtains to be drawn to their fullest. After that first moment when, as if from a blow, Backhouse flinched from what, to him, was the glare, it was she to whom instinctively he turned. And as his eyes fastened upon her face, he touched her cheeks in the way that, over the years, she had learnt to love.

* * * I could not have believed,” he said slowly, “ that the world

held such loveliness.” Face turned from him because of the flooding of her eyes. “Wait until we get you on the verandah and you see the Downs,” she said unsteadily. The professor broke in. “ I think,” he said, “that now those so laggard eyes have become so much more accustomed to the work for ordained as to face the good s like that to be jAyou know, it is^BSSSSBSBBj^m k Tid e to * Se to P

attend took place t and the following da go back to Vienna.;

“ If it would be o: to Herr Backhouse trian continued, “ I know how gladly main. But now thei I can do for him tl Nurse Forrester ca take with safety.”

So that it was fr shine of the veranda was given his first s land; of the widt Downs; of the livi: grassland; of catt contentedly on rich of the grey spire o church, drowsing in

It was at once a : victory, a thanksgh each a period of sta hension.

When the taxi cai Joan as the immir of a sheet anchor, ready she had beei answers so many were such innumera she had to put to l understanding* man the station less than away, and Nurse Fo in call, hatless, she the car with him.

“ If the sight wei there no hope; was ing she might do: specialist in the W( be of any use to co exactly did he thi chances ?

“ So much better to hope,” Steinmet: note of confidence “ It is so good a sig there is no failure with each moment

permanence mcreas

Though they we way to the station, the driver’s should

“I must go back said.

Alone, Backhou dazed with wonder for anything but And even should only a loan, so would return to th least he would no pletely shut out lows. He would ha thing of what th< would realise an ii their world—the women, of trees b wind, the ripple of breeze . . . Then, stabbingly him what it wouk back. It would b aflame with thirstgiven a spoonful turned again into At that irresisti whole body broke i side him was a c< the nerves of feet ;l forehead vibrated strings. I Worse, for eveij slightly, it seemedl since he had been I line across the valll less clear-cut, andl of confirmation I eyes scanned fever! ject that a few I they had feasted I trepidous gaze. Ail continued to lookl stable enough, \l watched others ail to them he was if ceive himself. Th<| clear as they had! Where was Joal her. The shutter! down, and she wal had said she’d be I utes at most, and! an hour gone ancl face things I Another few mil it came to him tl not here soon it I late ... I Now the horizcl into a universal I If he did not J again. he would dil And now he \vl the old impenetrafl * * I JPIFa telephoned help catne. I

His reply was to grope for her hand. And as, slowly, his hand passed down her face—she knew. “ But I can still make out,” he said, and struggled desperately for fortitude, “just a—vague impression of you.” For some reason he coiild not determine, she did not bring her face nearer. lie felt her body stiffen; that she was groping feverishly in her vanity-bag. There was a scraping sound. “Now what?” she said. But because his heart was in his throat and his temples pounding, he could not speak. For now her face was clear; a section of the verandah rail, the flooring, and their basket chairs stood out as well. So, too, did her hand, until the match went out. “ Dearest,” she said, “ I should have warned you. It always goes dark at this time—in February !”