He shook his head.
“Not as I once could. Not as I used to. It’s going to get worse. Not suddenly … gradually. I know.
I’ve been to a specialist. It was when I was on my last trip went to London. He told me. “
“How long ago?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you kept it to yourself for so long?”
“I tried not to believe it. At first I thought… Well, I did know what to think. I just could not see as clearly … n clearly enough . Have you noticed I’ve been leaving liti things to you?”
“I thought you did that to encourage me … to give r confidence.”
“Dear Kate, you don’t need confidence. You have all y< need. You’re an artist. You’re as good as your ancestors.”
“Tell me about the doctor … what he said. Tell n everything.”
“I’ve got what they call a cataract in each eye. The doct says it’s small white spots on the lens-capsule in the centre the pupils. They are slight at the moment, but they will grc bigger. It might be some time before I lose the sight of eyes … but it could be rapid.”
“There must be something they could do?”
“Yes, an operation. But it is a risk, and my eyes would never be good enough for my sort of work, even if it we successful. You know what sight we need … how we seem develop extra power. You know, Kate.
You have it. But th . blindness . Oh, don’t you see. It’s everything . “
I was overwhelmed by the tragedy of it. His life was h work and it was to be denied him. It was the most trag thing that could have happened to him. i’:
I did not know how to comfort him, but somehow I did; At least he had told me. I chided him gently for not tell it me before, “I don’t want anyone to know yet, Kate,” he insisted.
“R our secret, eh?” i “Yes,” I said, ‘if that is what you wish. It is our secret. ” |
Then I put my arm round him and held him against me. I heard him whisper: “You comfort me, Kate.”
One cannot remain in a state of shock indefinitely. At first I had been overwhelmed by the news and it seemed as though disaster stared us in the face; but after some reflection my natural optimism came to my aid^and I began to see that this was not yet the end. For one thing the process was gradual. At the moment my father simply could not see as well as he once had. He would not be able to do his finest work.
But he could still paint. He would just have to change his style. It seemed impossible that a Collison should not be able to paint miniatures, but why shouldn’t he work on a bigger scale? Why shouldn’t a canvas take the place of painting on ivory and metals?
On consideration his burden seemed to have lightened. We talked a great deal up there in the studio.
“You must be my eyes, Kate,” he said.
“You must watch me. Sometimes I think I can see well enough… but I am not sure. You know how one false stroke can be disastrous.”
I said: “You have told me now. You should never have kept it to yourself. It isn’t as though you are suddenly smitten with blindness.
You have had a long warning. and time to prepare yourself. “
He listened to me almost like a child, hanging on my words. I felt very tender towards him.
“Don’t forget,” he reminded me.
“For the time being… not a word to anyone.”
I agreed with that. I had a ridiculous hope, which I know to be groundless, that he might recover and the obstruction go away.
“Bless you, Kate’ he said.
“I thank God for you. Your work is as good as anything I ever did … and it’s getting better. It would not surprise me if you surpassed every Collison. That would be my consolation if you did.”
So we talked and worked together and I made sure that I did the finest work on those manuscripts so that he should not have to put his eyes to the test. There was no doubt that all this had given me an added spur and I really believed that my touch was more sure than it had been previously.
A few days passed. It was wonderful what time did, and I believed that his nature was such that in time he would become reconciled. He would always see everything through an artist’s eyes and he would always paint. The work he had particularly loved would be denied him . but he was not going to lose everything. not yet, at least. That was what I told him.
It was a week or so after when I heard the news.
We had returned from a dinner-party at the doctor’s house. Evie was always included in these invitations for she was regarded, throughout the neighbourhood, as a member of the family. Even the socially minded Lady Farringdon invited her, for after all Evie was a connection of that family which contained an Earl!
It had been an evening like any other. The vicarage family had been at the doctor’s house. There was the Reverend John Meadows with his two grown-up children, Dick and Frances. Dick was studying for the Church and Frances, since her mother had died, had kept house for her father.
I knew the family well. Before I had a governess I had been to the vicarage every day to be taught by the curate not Evie’s but his predecessor, a middle-aged serious old gentleman who bore witness to the fact that curates could sometimes remain in that lowly state during their entire careers.
We had been warmly greeted by Dr. and Mrs. Camborne and their twin daughters. The twins looked so much alike that I could only on rare occasions tell the difference. They interested me. When I was with them I always wondered what one would feel to have another person who looked almost exactly the same and was so close. They had been named with a certain irony, I thought, Faith and Hope. My father said:
“What a pity they were not triplets, then Charity could have been included.”
Hope was the bolder of the two; she was the one who spoke up when they were addressed. Faith relied on her completely. She always looked to her sister for support before she spoke, even. She was of a nervous temperament but there was a degree of boldness about Hope. It often seemed to me as though the human virtues and failings had been neatly divided and distributed between those two.
Hope was clever at her lessons and always helped Faith, who was much slower and found great difficulty in learning. Faith was neat and tidy and always cleared up after Hope, so their mother told me. Faith was good working with her hands; Hope was clumsy in that respect.
“I am so glad they are fond of each other,” their mother told my father.
There was no doubt that there was some mystic bond between them, which is often found in identical twins. They looked alike and yet were so different. I thought it would be interesting to paint them and see what came out, for often when one was engaged on a miniature facets of a sitter’s character would be revealed as if by some miracle.
Dick Meadows talked a great deal about himself. He had nearly finished his training and would be looking for a living soon. A bright young man, I thought, he would surely be chosen before Evie’s James.
Frances Meadows was her usual sensible self-content, it seemed, to devote her life to church matters and the careful running of the vicarage household.
It was just one of those evenings of which there had been so many. As we walked home I was thinking how conventional my life was . and the life of all of us. I could imagine Frances keeping house at the vicarage until she was a middle-aged woman. That was her life—already mapped out for her. And myself? Was I going to spend mine in a little village my social life more or less confined to dinners such as this one tonight? Pleasant enough, of course, and shared with people of whom I was fond-but would it go on and on| until I was middle-aged? | I was very pensive considering it. Sometimes, looking back, I wonder whether even then I was subconsciously| aware of the events which were about to break over me-| disrupting my peaceful life forever. :j I was certainly already becoming restive. When my father^ came home from his visits abroad, I questioned him avidly about what he had seen. He had been to the Courts of Prussia] and Denmark and most grand of all, that of Napoleon the Third and his fascinating wife the Empress Eugenic. He described the grandeurs of those Courts and the manners. and customs of the people who inhabited them. He talked in colours and made me see the rich purple and gold of royal vestments, the soft pastel shades of the French houses and the less subtle ones of the German Courts.