XXVII
“Tama!” He opened the sliding doors at last. She did not stand, even when he spoke to her, but with a mute, wordless sob moved a pace nearer to him on her knees, and put her head submissively at his feet.
He stooped above her, his face working, his hands trembling. Gently he lifted her to her feet, only to release her instantly.
“Stand there,” he said, “while I speak to you. You must do whatever the Be-koku-jin wishes of you. He tells me you have resisted his attempts to help you. If I tell you it is my wish, my very dear wish, you will go with him, will you not?”
She had put out her hands in the old blind way, and would have found him had he not stepped back soundlessly as she approached him. She sighed in her distress, sighed and sobbed, like a tortured child. As he looked at her he felt his resolve far from weakening, becoming even more fixed. He would not have her this way, blind in mind and in sight. She must know the truth.
“The Be-koku-jin will help you, Tama. Soon you are going to see, and then things will appear very differently to you. What you believe now to be beautiful may prove to be otherwise. For example,” he continued steadily, “you believe me other than I am in fact. My face is horrible. It may even frighten you, as it did another woman once!”
A hush fell between them. Her eyes, very wide and dark, were fixed upon his face, almost as though they were endowed with sight.
“Though all keep dark foraever ad my eyes, still I would know your face—ad—my heart!” she said.
“If you could really see—” he murmured hoarsely, almost imploringly.