"Where is she?"
"That door there. No, no, I won't come in with you; don't ask me, Hector, for I can't," and Lucy hurried away, leaving Hector standing before a red baize-covered door. Faintly curious, he knocked, and a voice said, "Come in." He entered, and then stood staring. In a high chair, drawn up close to the fire, a small pale-faced child was sitting, holding in her arms a yellow plush monkey, to which she was softly singing. As Hector entered, she turned quickly, and at the sight of her eyes the new-comer muttered "Good God!" and clutched at a chair.
"Yes, sir," said the nurse, watching him, "she can't see you; she was born like that. It's your father, Miss Ruby, come to see you and say good-night to you. I think, sir," turning again to Hector, who was still standing motionless, "perhaps you had better go now; she's not very strong, sir, and if distressed..." But the nurse stopped, astonished; for Hector, unheeding, had suddenly stumbled forward, and, picking up the little child, whose thin arms closed round his neck, was crying over her like a woman.
Hastily the nurse rose up, thimbles, needles, and work falling unheeded on the floor, and rushed headlong from the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she was soon sobbing loudly in the cook's arms.
"I'll never forget it, Martha, not if I live to be a hundred. Him disappointed, him not love the child! Why, from the moment he set eyes on her, he just made one rush and—and ... Oh, he's a good sort is that man, Martha, a right down good fellow," and again she sobbed aloud, the cook also weeping in sympathy. Nor, may it be here remarked, did the nurse ever subsequently change her opinion, but, deaf to all argument and blind to proof, maintained always that the master was a good master, let them say what they liked, and, if some folk weren't rightly able to understand him, that was their fault, not his.
Above, in the firelit nursery, father and daughter made friends; for the incredible had happened, and Hector had taken to this poor weakling as he would never have done to the sturdy, healthy romp prayed for by Lucy. Perhaps in little blind Ruby he recognised the physical incarnation of his own twisted soul, perhaps in some dim way he knew that to him and him only her infirmities were owing, but, be this as it may, his heart went out to her and hers to him.
Here, where he had least expected one, he had found a friend, and forthwith his tortured nerves were calmed and his working brain at rest; and he opened out his mind to this baby as to one his equal in years and knowledge. And the blind eyes were kept fixed on his own, and the thin hands stroked his face, as she murmured words of sympathy, possibly wondering what all this might mean and possibly comprehending, for God and his angels alone know what little children do understand.
An hour passed and still the two sat there, though in silence now, for the sightless eyes were closed and Ruby was happily dreaming; then the door opening noiselessly, the snuffling nurse stood on the threshold, and behind her Lucy, her eyes wide with wonderment and a certain awe at the marvel Heaven had brought to pass. In silence she followed Hector from the room, and when the door had closed behind them, and they stood in the passage outside, she turned and laid her hands on his breast.
"Hector," she said very low, "you have taught me a lesson. I have been so wicked about her, dearest, so unnatural; but from to-night I—I will make amends." She leaned towards him, but Hector started back, his eyes wild. For a moment he stood staring at her, and then sharply turning left her, and a minute afterwards was lying face downwards on the bed in his dressing-room, his hands gripping the iron frame-work and his face rigid with pain.
Here Lucy, entering half an hour later, all pale blue and white lace, found him, but paid no heed, only rallied him gently for being late the first night of his return, and said, "Do you like my present? Oh, never mind; to-morrow will do, it isn't much really, only, oh, Hector, do please look at them," and Lucy flew to a large brown paper parcel lying ignored on the floor, and on which was inscribed in large letters: "To HECTOR, WITH LUCY'S LOVE." "They're something you've always wanted," she ran on, her slender fingers busy with knots as she spoke, "and I've always wished to give you, but never been able to till now. There—" as the last wrapping of paper was torn off and the lid of a brown leather case revealed and lifted—"don't—don't you like them?" looking rather anxiously at Hector, who was staring silently down at a pair of shining Purdy guns, delights which in the past he had often longed for but had never been able to afford. At least three years of close saving on Lucy's part did this gift represent, for well he knew that not one penny of the price had been taken from his own money; out of her own small income alone had these toys been bought.