She pirouetted on her heel like a girl, and went to the door. He could not see her, but he heard her give a little gasp and then utter a name. His eyes opened to the full—he began to breathe quickly and laboriously. The veins on his dark, wizened-looking forehead stood out in the frightful effort to break through, to move, to speak——
"Major Tristram—what a shock you gave me! I thought you were at death's door. You oughtn't to be here, I'm sure. I hardly recognized you."
"Yes—I am a sight, aren't I? Still, I'm not dead—not by some lengths. May I speak to your husband?"
"Oh, yes, you may speak to him. You won't mind a monologue, will you? You've heard about it, I expect—spinal column affected or something—but I'm so stupid about these things. Do come and talk to me afterwards, won't you, Major? I should like to hear all your news."
The door closed. Boucicault lifted his eyes. They were sunken—so black, so lightless that their expression could not be guessed at. It might have been an appalling hatred—anything.
Tristram did not return the gaze. He stood at the sick man's side, rocking on his heels, fighting a purely physical battle, then suddenly crumbled up on the edge of the bed, his shaking hands to his face. Thus he remained for a minute whilst Boucicault's eyes rested on him with mute, unfathomable intensity.
Presently Tristram raised himself, and the encounter had taken place, almost actual in the poignancy and force of the memory which flared up behind the mutual scrutiny. Neither man flinched.
"I had the deuce of a business to get here," Tristram said at last quite simply. "I had to humbug and dodge any number of people, and get my own legs to crawl which wasn't easy. But I had to come. I've got to speak to you, Boucicault. I'd have come sooner, but I've been a raving lunatic most of the time and this was my first chance. You may think it damnable of me to hound you down when you can't hit back, as it were, but I can't help that, I've got to have it out." He paused a moment, running his hand over his close-cropped head. He seemed to be struggling for coherency. Boucicault's stare never wavered. "It's not very much I've got to say. I won't waste time and breath telling you what I feel—I've done something worse than murder you. I smashed you up when I ought to have realized that you were a man with a sick brain. I was a sick man myself and—and couldn't think clearly. I just heard poor old Wickie scream—well, we won't go into that—it's too beastly. But I've just come to tell you that I'm not going to give myself up to what some people would call justice. That's what I meant to do at first—but I see now that it was sentimentality and cowardice—the sort of thing that drives some people to confess—a kind of shaking off one's burden of responsibility on to some one else. I'm rambling—it's so infernally difficult to keep one's thoughts clear." He passed his tongue over his cracked lips. Boucicault's eyes closed for an instant. "Can you understand what I'm saying?" The eyes opened again to their full stare and Tristram went on more clearly. "Of course, it's possible you may get all right or even be able to denounce me without that. I shan't deny anything. I shall be jolly glad, I daresay. But until then I'm going on with my work. We're men, Boucicault—and I won't mince matters—you've smashed up a good many lives in your time—men in the regiment, your wife, Anne—and you and I have smashed each other but that's the end of it. You may or you may not believe me—but I'm not going to be dragged into disgrace if I can help it—for my mother's sake. She's old—very old—she can't last long—-she's had a rotten time, and the last year or two—well, I shall protect them with all my strength." He straightened his shoulders as a man does who, groping through darkness, suddenly sees his way clear. "That's what I conceive to be my duty. You hate me, of course, but you're clever enough to know the sort of man I am and you know quite well that whether I'm punished or not, I've done for myself. That ought to satisfy you for the present." He got up. "So I'm going back to my work. I don't know whether you'll understand what I mean when I say that I'm going to try and balance the misery you and I have brought into this world—I've got your responsibilities as well as my own to shoulder because I've smashed your chance of making good. And there's something else—if it lies in human power I'll set you on your feet again. If I succeed I shall tell my mother the truth, and I think somehow that then she will feel differently about it—it won't be quite the same sort of failure. Of course you'll want other doctors—you mayn't trust me—but no one else will fight for you as I shall. Give me some sign. If you trust me close your eyes once. I shall understand."
In the long silence which followed the two men held each other in a gaze so ardent, so penetrating that it was like the physical grappling of wrestlers, one of whom at least knew no pity. The sweat of weakness and recent effort showed itself on Tristram's forehead, but his features wore a weary serenity.
Presently a change showed itself on Boucicault's face. There was a shadow at the corners of his stiff, powerless lips—a kind of smile, malicious, calculating, ironic. His eyes closed once.