by Gwen Bristow
“Do you have to wait?”
“He’ll be here any minute, and she’s in a lot of pain.”
She heard Kester give a wordless sound like a shudder made audible. Eleanor fastened her teeth on her lip to steady herself.
“She wants to talk to you, Kester,” she said after an instant. “Cornelia, here’s father.”
She laid the telephone by Cornelia and held the receiver so Cornelia could hear. Kester spoke, but she could not distinguish his words. Cornelia said, “Why can’t you come now? Do I have to go to New Orleans?”
They talked until Eleanor heard Bob Purcell running up the staircase. As he came in she picked up the phone. “Kester, Bob is here. You and Cornelia will have to stop.”
“I’ll drive down to New Orleans this minute,” Kester said quickly. “There’s a train about ten, isn’t there ?—you take that and I’ll meet you at the station.”
“All right.” Eleanor put back the receiver and turned around.
Bob was already bending over Cornelia, who was crying out again, whether in pain or fright Eleanor had no way of knowing.
“I’ve just talked to Kester,” Eleanor said. “He’s on his way to New Orleans to get a specialist. Can you come down with Cornelia and me?”
Bob glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, I’ll be glad to. But first let me take a look at her.” Cornelia shrank away from him and he looked up again. “Eleanor, there’s no time for me to be gentle. She can’t understand that I’ve got to do this. You’ll have to hold her still so I can look into her eyes.”
“Are you going to hurt her?” Eleanor asked, then without waiting for an answer she said, “Very well, I’ll hold her,” and sat on the bed, drew Cornelia’s arms down and held her head rigid. She shut her own eyes and turned her head away. It seemed a long time that she had to sit there, letting Bob be as cruel as he had to be, and when at last she heard him say, “That’s all, you can let her rest now,” Eleanor found that her muscles were painful with tension. Bob picked up Cornelia and laid her down in bed, drawing the covers over her. He had put shields over her eyes and fixed them with a bandage, and she was growing quiet under a sedative. Eleanor looked at her, and reached up to push her own hair off her face. Now that Cornelia was temporarily relieved she was remembering for the first time that she had not so much as washed her face or put a comb to her hair that morning.
“You’re very brave,” said Bob. “Not every mother could have done that so quietly.”
For a moment Eleanor did not reply. She did not feel brave. She felt as if it might have been a relief to faint and have a few minutes of blankness.
“Let me talk to you,” she begged.
“Come in here,” said Bob. They went into the next room. Eleanor asked,
“Bob, what has she done?”
“It’s her left eye,” said Bob. “She has cut the sclera at the margin of the cornea—does that make sense to you?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“The sclera is the white part of the eye. The cornea is the clear window in front of the iris.”
“How dangerous is it?”
He hesitated.
“Bob, I want to know!”
“It’s almost impossible to foretell, Eleanor. Sometimes eyes have astonishing powers of healing. Now if you’ll get dressed and have somebody pack a grip for you, I’ll attend to everything else.”
He smiled with what looked like professional optimism, and added that he was going to order breakfast sent up to her. His gentleness struck her with deeper fear than Cornelia’s screams.
3
Bob engaged a drawing-room on the train, and when Cornelia had been put to bed, still quiet under the sedative he had given her, he sat by Eleanor on the seat near the window. Eleanor looked out at the cypress swamp through which they were passing. It was a cool silver landscape, thick with clouds that now and again broke into showers over the gray trees and their draperies of gray moss. She thought of the day when she and Kester had first driven into a cypress swamp together, and had sat watching the rain while he had shown her beauty where she had never seen it before. That had been during the enchanted winter when she was first beginning to be aware of her love for him. Their love had been so rich and tender once, a love full of splendid possibilities that they had let slip by them unrealized until now the citadel they might have built for their marriage was a pile of ruins and they had to face each other across the body of this tortured child.
She must have trembled visibly, for Bob spoke to her, and it was not until she heard his voice that she realized how silent she had been.
“This isn’t necessarily tragic, Eleanor,” he advised her.
“I was thinking of Kester,” she returned faintly. “He loves her so.”
Bob did not answer, for he could give her no comfort there and was too wise to offer anything less, but he reached over and took her hand in a simple gesture of friendliness. Watching Cornelia’s tumbled dark hair shake on the pillow with the motion of the train, Eleanor wondered how much mutilation Cornelia’s parents had wrought upon her by their failure to control their own lives. Nobody would ever hold out to them anything but sympathy for an undeserved accident. But as the train went through the dripping cypress swamp Eleanor’s own memory was setting facts in order and mercilessly drawing its conclusion, that if she had kept her temper Kester would not have left Ardeith, if he had kept his she would not have found his knife in Isabel’s room. If they had behaved with a decent sense of responsibility toward each other and toward the children they had no right to have until they were ready to stop being children themselves, this would not have happened.
How strange it was, Eleanor thought as she watched the trees glide past, you were told the accumulated wisdom of generations who had suffered to acquire their knowledge, and you simply did not believe it. Those difficult rules might be right for other people, but as for yourself, you were going to get what you wanted. You were the center of your own universe and intended to have supremacy in it. She looked at Cornelia’s bandaged eyes, and her fists clenched in the cushion of the seat as she remembered. “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.”
As the train drew into the station she saw Kester from the window. His face was grim, the mouth a thin line and the forehead creased with his search among the alighting passengers. The sight of his anxiety would have told her if she had not known it before how much he loved Cornelia. Bob picked up Cornelia in his arms and motioned Eleanor to go ahead of him. When she stepped down from the train Kester sprang forward to meet her.
“Where is she, Eleanor?”
He spoke as though there were no other subject of concern between them, and she was glad of it; everything else they had to say to each other could wait. Eleanor answered,
“Here she is. Bob is carrying her.”
“Give her to me,” said Kester. He took Cornelia in his arms, wincing visibly at the sight of the bandage over her eyes. “There’s an ambulance waiting,” he told them. “Come this way.” Carrying Cornelia, who had stirred and then quieted again, he went on talking as he led them through the station. “Dr. Renshaw and his assistant are at the hospital. I’m told he’s one of the best eye-specialists in the country. When you’ve talked to him, Bob, tell me what he says.”
Bob promised that he would. They got into the ambulance, where a nurse was ready to make Cornelia as comfortable as possible on the little cot at one side. The other three of them sat opposite, Eleanor between Kester and Bob. They said very little. Kester kept his gaze on Cornelia as though his eagerness could command her to get well.
Eleanor had never seen him look so grave or so frightened. She hoped she could prevent Kester’s discovering that any action of his had helped bring this about. Cornelia’s danger was anguish enough for him without her adding to it, and it was enough for hers
elf too.
When they reached the hospital Eleanor could not help feeling a certain surprise at the thoroughness with which Kester had attended to all the details of preparation, and she realized then that she had been unconsciously expecting to have to do all this herself. But there was nothing left for her to do. The doctor was ready. A room had been prepared for Cornelia and another room where she and Kester could wait in private. Bob went at once to confer with the specialist. Cornelia was caught up in the silent white efficiency of the hospital and the doors closed on her. Kester and Eleanor were left alone.
They were in a hospital waiting-room, furnished with a table, several chairs and a sofa. There had evidently been an attempt to make the room pleasant by bright curtains at the window and a fern growing in a pot on the table, but in spite of that it had the bare coldness of a room used day after day by occupants who did nothing here but sit or pace, waiting for news and dreading what it would be when it came. Eleanor looked around, wondering how much anonymous agony this room had held before today. In front of her was an armchair, the varnish on its arms stained by the cold sweat from a succession of gripping hands. She turned away from it and sat down on another chair, drawing off her gloves, and as she did so she found that there were little drops on her own palms.
Kester set her suitcase in a corner. He began to walk up and down. He went to the end of the room and back again, then said,
“I haven’t notified your family or mine. I thought I wouldn’t till later on. Relatives get in the way so.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “they do.”
Kester took another turn. Coming back, he stopped in front of her. “Eleanor, tell me about it! What happened?”
“It was early this morning,” said Eleanor. “I was asleep.” Her hands were holding each other tight on her lap. “Cornelia and Philip had some kind of scuffle over a knife. She fell and it went into her eye.”
“What did Bob say?”
“Nothing. I mean, nothing definite. He said you couldn’t tell at once.”
“Her eyes,” said Kester. “Of all things—her eyes.”
“Kester, it’s only one of them,” she said banally.
“I wonder if the cut will show,” he said. “She has such beautiful eyes.” He sat down in the armchair, and without noticing them closed his hands over the marks on either side of him. There was a pause. As long as there had been necessary activity to occupy them, both he and Eleanor had been supported by it, but now that they could do nothing but wait they were sick with their own helplessness. At length Kester asked, “Who could have left a dangerous instrument where the children could pick it up?”
“I did,” said Eleanor. “It was my fault.”
“You?”
She nodded. “It was a knife I was using last night. I was tired and sleepy and I forgot about it. I left it lying on the parlor table.”
Kester took a short breath. As though glad to have something on which to vent his alarm, he exclaimed, “What a damnably stupid thing to do!”
“Yes, it was,” said Eleanor.
The door opened and a young woman came in. She had a French face, sleek black hair, and long hands in which she carried a notebook. “Mrs. Larne?” she said briskly.
“Yes.”
“I am Amélie Crouzet, Dr. Renshaw’s assistant. Will you tell me, please, just how the accident occurred?”
“How is she?” Kester exclaimed.
“Dr. Renshaw is with her, Mr. Larne. She’s not in pain, if that’s what you mean. I understand you were not at home this morning?”
“No,” said Kester, “I wasn’t at home.”
He set a chair for Miss Crouzet. Notebook on knee, she addressed Eleanor again. Eleanor told her the children had quarreled over a knife. After scribbling notes for a moment Miss Crouzet took something wrapped in surgical gauze from the pocket of her white uniform. “Is this—”
“Kester, would you get me a glass of ice water?” Eleanor asked suddenly. “They keep it so hot in here.”
“Yes, certainly,” said Kester. As he went out Eleanor turned back to Miss Crouzet, who continued,
“Is this the knife that cut her? Dr. Purcell says one of the servants gave it to him.” She opened the packet of gauze and held out Kester’s knife.
“Yes,” said Eleanor.
“The blade was clean, evidently,” Miss Crouzet observed.
“I suppose so. Of course it wasn’t surgically clean.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Miss Crouzet got up with a competent rattle of starched skirts.
“Just a minute,” said Eleanor. “Miss Crouzet, if you can help it, don’t show that knife to my husband. You see, it’s his—it has his name on the handle—it will simply add to what he’s bearing now if he finds he left it lying around.”
Miss Crouzet smiled slightly, glancing at the door through which Kester had gone for the ice water. “Very well, Mrs. Larne. I’ll do my best.” She waited until Kester returned with the glass of water, but in reply to his eager queries about Cornelia all she could say was, “I can’t answer yet. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything definite to tell you, of course.”
When she had gone out Eleanor drank the water. She set the empty glass on the table. Kester stood by the window looking down into the street. After several minutes he turned around and came across the room to her.
“Can’t you even speak to me?” he asked. “Don’t you know I love her as much as you do?”
“Yes, I know!” she exclaimed penitently. “Forgive me.”
As she spoke she shivered and covered her face. Kester put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to lean against him. Eleanor felt herself relaxing as though she were holding to a pillar. She thought of what joy they had had of each other once, and with what carelessness they had pulled it down around them, and wondered if they were ever going to be given a chance to rebuild it. There had been so much she wanted to say to Kester, but at this moment she had not strength to begin it. The ground where they had met was solid but very narrow, simply their knowledge that no one shared their relationship to their child but themselves. But for the present neither of them could go any further. They had to wait, and they waited together, but except for occasional jerky speeches that were no more than uncontrollable expressions of their suspense they did not say anything more until Miss Crouzet came in to tell them they could speak to Dr. Renshaw.
4
But even that brought them no relief, for all they learned was that not even the most expert doctor could prophesy the exact future of a cut in a child’s eye. Through the afternoon they alternately sat with Cornelia and returned to their room to pace the floor in torments of uncertainty.
Eleanor was so unnerved that she was nearly as helpless as Cornelia. The emotional strain she had been undergoing since her last quarrel with Kester had left her very little strength to cope with such a crisis as this. Except for the brief periods when they would let her stay with Cornelia she spent most of the afternoon making purposeless movements such as walking around the floor or tying and untying knots in her handkerchief.
Without remarking on her distracted state, Kester quietly took upon himself the task of attending to the undramatic details accompanying the major catastrophe. He finally notified their respective families, received them when they came to the hospital, and withdrew so Eleanor could have an uninterrupted hour with her parents. Molly offered to bring little Philip down to New Orleans so he would not be left entirely to the care of servants, and when Eleanor told him about it Kester went off at once to wire Dilcy to get ready for the trip. He answered telephone calls and made no comment as he accepted the flowers and picture-books that began to arrive from well-meaning acquaintances who had not taken the trouble to ascertain that Cornelia could not look at them. All the rest of the time he stayed with Cornelia as much as he was permitted, and told her funny stori
es that made her forget how uncomfortable she was. Eleanor watched him with a grateful admiration that she was too overwrought to express. It occurred to her that this was perhaps the first time in his life that Kester had been called upon to meet a situation that demanded his ultimate resources.
Shortly before dark he came back into their waiting-room, where Eleanor sat on the sofa twisting the corner of a sympathetic telegram. The nurse had said they could speak to Cornelia again before she went to sleep, and Kester had gone downstairs while they waited for the summons.
“The room across the hall from Cornelia’s is vacant,” he said to her as he entered. “I’ve arranged for you to have it—they say we can both stay here unless they have to use the rooms for patients.”
“That was good of you,” she said. She had not thought of leaving, but neither had she remembered that in a hospital such arrangements were sometimes difficult to make. “Where are you going to stay?” she asked.
“They’ll put up a cot for me in here,” said Kester. “Is that another wire we’ll have to answer?”
“Yes, from Neal and Clara Sheramy. Put it with the others.” Eleanor handed it to him, wondering if the hospital clerk had made any protests against allowing them two rooms tonight instead of one. She was glad Kester had managed to avoid any direct reference to the fact that there was very little left of their marriage but its legal existence.
The nurse came to tell them they could see Cornelia now. They went to her room.
Cornelia turned her head as the door opened. “Is that mother and father?”
“Yes, both of us,” said Eleanor. They sat down, one of them on each side of her bed, and she reached to take their hands to assure herself of their presence.
“I wish I could see you,” she said to Kester. “How soon will they let me see you?”
“Very soon, I hope. As soon as your eye gets better.”
“I don’t know why they won’t unwrap my eyes for just a minute. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“I don’t look a bit different.”
