As the days passed on, and certain preparations for the operation were made, John grew more quiet than ever; a silent tragedy had come into his happy life. Within another week his wife would see—would look at him, perhaps with aversion!
“Will you tell her,” he said to Mrs. Desmond, “before she sees—will you tell her? Directly the bandages are removed, she will turn to me, and she won’t know me. Will you prepare her?”
“It’s most unfortunate,” she said, slowly. “Yes, I mean it; I look upon this hope for Nora’s sight as a great misfortune. She was perfectly happy, perfectly content, I know”—neither of them heard a soft step coming along the passage—“she longed to see the child, but, after all, her sense of touch is so delicate, she knows as well as I know what he is like. This interfering doctor had better have left things alone.”
The soft steps stopped outside the door. The blind girl stood and listened, her heart beating strangely. Sight a misfortune for her! Why—why? She could not understand.
“After all,” Mrs. Desmond went on, slowly, “she loves you dearly; she will grow used to your looks in time; even if she is shocked at first, it will wear off, and any one can see that it’s your misfortune that you’re not a handsome man; your features, as I have told Nora often, are beautiful. You ought to be a handsome man, and but for the smallpox marks you certainly would have been.”
The blind girl, standing so motionless outside the door, shivered a little.
“I shan’t be able to bear it,” John said. “Blind as she is, she worships beauty. What will she feel when she sees she is bound for life to me! I ought not to have married her; but when a man loves”—he made a hopeless gesture—“and I wanted to take care of her.”
Mrs. Desmond rose, and walked about the room.
“You’re her husband,” she said; “you have the remedy in your own hands—forbid the operation!”