The World for Sale, Complete

  CHAPTER XII. "LET THERE BE LIGHT"

  In Ingolby's bedroom, on the night of the business at Barbazon's Tavern,Dr. Rockwell received a shock. His face, naturally colourless, wasalmost white, and his eyes were moist. He had what the West callednerve. That the crisis through which he had passed was that of afriend's life did not lessen the poignancy of the experience. He had asingularly reserved manner and a rare economy of words; also, he hadthe refinement and distinction of one who had, oforetime, moved on thehigher ranges of social life. He was always simply and comfortably andin a sense fashionably dressed, yet there was nothing of the dude abouthim, and his black satin tie gave him an air of old-worldishness whichsomehow compelled an extra amount of respect. This, in spite of the factthat he had been known as one who had left the East and come into thewilds because of a woman not his wife.

  It was not, however, strictly true to say that he had come Westbecause of a woman, for it was on account of three women, who by suddencoincidence or collusion sprang a situation from which the only reliefwas flight. In that he took refuge, not because he was a coward, butbecause it was folly to fight a woman, or three women, and because itwas the only real solution of an ungovernable situation. At first hehad drifted from one town to another, dissolute and reckless, apparentlyunable to settle down, or to forget the unwholesome three. But oneday there was a terrible railway accident on a construction train, andLebanon and Manitou made a call upon his skill, and held him in bondageto his profession for one whole month. During this time he performedtwo operations which the surgeons who had been sent out by the RailwayDirectors at Montreal declared were masterpieces.

  When that month was up he was a changed man, and he opened an office inLebanon. Men trusted him despite his past, and women learned that therewas never a moment when his pulses beat unevenly in their presence.Nathan Rockwell had had his lesson and it was not necessary to learn itagain. To him, woman, save as a subject of his skill, was a closed book.He regarded them as he regarded himself, with a kindly cynicism. Henever forgot that his own trouble could and would have been avoided hadit not been for woman's vanity and consequent cruelty. The unwholesomethree had shared his moral lapse with wide-open eyes, and were in nosense victims of his; but, disregarding their responsibility, they had,from sheer jealousy, wrecked his past, and, to their own surprise, hadwrecked themselves as well. They were of those who act first and thenthink--too late.

  Thus it was that both men and women called Rockwell a handsome man, butthought of him as having only a crater of exhausted fires in place of aheart. They came to him with their troubles--even the women of Manitouwho ought to have gone to the priest.

  He moved about Lebanon as one who had authority, and desired not to useit; as one to whom life was like a case in surgery to be treated withscientific, coolness, with humanity, but not with undue sympathy; yetthe early morning of the day after Ingolby had had his accident atBarbazon's Hotel found him the slave of an emotion which shook himfrom head to foot. He had saved his friend's life by a most skilfuloperation, but he had been shocked beyond control when, an hour afterthe operation was over, and consciousness returned to the patient in thebrilliantly lighted room, Ingolby said:

  "Why don't you turn on the light?"

  It was thus Rockwell knew that the Master Man, the friend of Lebanonand Manitou, was stone blind. When Ingolby's voice ceased, a horrifiedsilence filled the room for a moment. Even Jim Beadle, his servant,standing at the foot of the bed, clapped a hand to his mouth to stop acry, and the nurse turned as white as the apron she wore.

  Dumbfounded as Rockwell was, with instant professional presence of mindhe said:

  "No, Ingolby, you must be kept in darkness a while yet." Then he whippedout a silk handkerchief from his pocket. "We will have light," hecontinued, "but we must bandage you first to keep out the glare andprevent pain. The nerves of the eyes have been injured."

  Hastily and tenderly he bound the handkerchief round the sightless eyes.Having done so, he said to the nurse with unintentional quotation fromthe Gospel of St. John, and a sad irony: "Let there be light."

  It all gave him time to pull himself together and prepare for the momentwhen he must tell Ingolby the truth. In one sense the sooner it wastold the better, lest Ingolby should suddenly discover it for himself.Surprise and shock must be avoided. So now he talked in his low,soothing voice, telling Ingolby that the operation had put him out ofdanger, that the pain now felt came chiefly from the nerves of theeye, and that quiet and darkness were necessary. He insisted on Ingolbykeeping silent, and he gave a mild opiate which induced several hours'sleep.

  During this time Rockwell prepared himself for the ordeal which mustbe passed as soon as possible; gave all needed directions, and had aconference with the assistant Chief Constable to whom he confided thetruth. He suggested plans for preserving order in excited Lebanon, whichwas determined to revenge itself on Manitou; and he gave some carefuland specific instructions to Jowett the horse-dealer. Also, he hadconferred with Gabriel Druse, who had helped bear the injured man tohis own home. He had noted with admiration the strange gentleness of thegiant Romany as he, alone, carried Ingolby in his arms, and laid himon the bed from which he was to rise with all that he had fought foroverthrown, himself the blind victim of a hard fate. He had noticed theold man straighten himself with a spring and stand as though petrifiedwhen Ingolby said: "Why don't you turn on the light?" As he looked roundin that instant of ghastly silence he had observed almost mechanicallythat the old man's lips were murmuring something. Then the thought ofFleda Druse shot into Rockwell's mind, and it harassed him during thehours Ingolby slept, and after the giant Gipsy had taken his departurejust before the dawn.

  "I'm afraid it will mean more there than anywhere else," he said sadlyto himself. "There was evidently something between those two; and sheisn't the kind to take it philosophically. Poor girl! Poor girl! It's abitter dose, if there was anything in it," he added.

  He watched beside the sick-bed till the dawn stared in and his patientstirred and waked, then he took Ingolby's hand, grown a little cooler,in both his own. "How are you feeling, old man?" he asked cheerfully."You've had a good sleep-nearly three and a half hours. Is the pain inthe head less?"

  "Better, Sawbones, better," Ingolby replied cheerfully. "They'veloosened the tie that binds--begad, it did stretch the nerves. I hadgripes of colic once, but the pain I had in my head was twenty timesworse, till you gave the opiate."

  "That's the eyes," said Rockwell. "I had to lift a bit of bone, and theeyes saw it and felt it, and cried out-shrieked, you might say. They'vegot a sensitiveness all their own, have the eyes."

  "It's odd there aren't more accidents to them," answered Ingolby--"justa little ball of iridescent pulp with strings tied to the brain."

  "And what hurts the head may destroy the eyes sometimes," Rockwellanswered cautiously. "We know so little of the delicate union betweenthem, that we can't be sure we can put the eyes right again when,because of some blow to the head, the ricochet puts the eyes out ofcommission."

  "That's what's the matter with me, then?" asked Ingolby, feeling thebandage on his eyes feverishly, and stirring in his bed with a sense ofweariness.

  "Yes, the ricochet got them, and has put them out of commission,"replied Rockwell, carefully dwelling upon each word, and giving a noteof meaning to his tone.

  Ingolby raised himself in bed, but Rockwell gently forced him downagain. "Will my eyes have to be kept bandaged long? Shall I have to giveup work for any length of time?" Ingolby asked.

  "Longer than you'll like," was the enigmatical reply. "It's the devil'sown business," was the weary answer. "Every minute's valuable to me now.I ought to be on deck morning, noon, and night. There's all the troublebetween the two towns; there's the strike on hand; there's that businessof the Orange funeral, and more than all a thousand times, there's--" hepaused.

  He was going to say, "There's that devil Marchand's designs on mybridge," but he thought better of it and stopped. It had been hisintentio
n to deal with Marchand directly, to get a settlement of theirdifferences without resort to the law, to prevent the criminal actwithout deepening a feud which might keep the two towns apart for years.Bad as Marchand was, to prevent his crime was far better than punishinghim for it afterwards. To have Marchand arrested for conspiracy tocommit a crime was a business which would gravely interfere with hisfreedom of motion in the near future, would create complications whichmight cripple his own purposes in indirect ways. That was why he haddeclared to Jowett that even Felix Marchand had his price, and that hewould try negotiations first.

  But what troubled him now, as he lay with eyes bandaged and a knowledgethat to-morrow was the day fixed for the destruction of the bridge, washis own incapacity. It was unlikely that his head or his eyes would beright by to-morrow, or that Rockwell would allow him to get up. He feltin his own mind that the injury he had received was a serious one, andthat the lucky horseshoe had done Maxchand's work for him all too well.This thought shook him. Rockwell could see his chest heave with anexcitement gravely injurious to his condition; yet he must be told theworst, or the shock of discovery by himself that he was blind might givehim brain fever. Rockwell felt that he must hasten the crisis.

  "Rockwell," Ingolby suddenly asked, "is there any chance of mydiscarding this and getting out to-morrow?" He touched the handkerchiefround his eyes. "It doesn't matter about the head bandages, but theeyes--can't I slough the wraps to-morrow? I feel scarcely any pain now."

  "Yes, you can get rid of the bandages to-morrow--you can get rid of themto-day, if you really wish," Rockwell answered, closing in on the lastdefence.

  "But I don't mind being in the dark to-day if it'll make me fitter forto-morrow and get me right sooner. I'm not a fool. There's too muchcarelessness about such things. People often don't give themselves achance to get right by being in too big a hurry. So, keep me in darknessto-day, if you want to, old man. For a hustler I'm not in too big ahurry, you see. I'm for holding back to get a bigger jump."

  "You can't be in a big hurry, even if you want to, Ingolby," rejoinedRockwell, gripping the wrist of the sick man, and leaning over him.

  Ingolby grew suddenly very still. It was as though vague fear had seizedhim and held him in a vice. "What is it? What do you want to say to me?"he asked in a low, nerveless tone.

  "You've been hit hard, Chief. The ricochet has done you up for sometime. The head will soon get well, but I'm far from sure about youreyes. You've got to have a specialist about them. You're in the dark,and as for making you see, so am I. Your eyes and you are out ofcommission for some time, anyhow."

  He leaned over hastily, but softly and deftly undid the bandages overthe eyes and took them off. "It's seven in the morning, and the sun'sup, Chief, but it doesn't do you much good, you see."

  The last two words were the purest accident, but it was a strange,mournful irony, and Rockwell flushed at the thought of it. He sawIngolby's face turn grey, and then become white as death itself.

  "I see," came from the bluish-white lips, as the stricken man made callon all the will and vital strength in him.

  For a long minute Rockwell held the cold hand in the grasp of one wholoves and grieves, but even so the physician and surgeon in him wereuppermost, as they should be, in the hour when his friend was standingon the brink of despair, maybe of catastrophe irremediable. He did notsay a word yet, however. In such moments the vocal are dumb and theblind see.

  Ingolby heaved himself in the bed and threw up his arms, wresting themfrom Rockwell's grasp.

  "My God--oh, my God-blind!" he cried in agony. Rockwell drew the headwith the sightless eyes to his shoulder.

  For a moment he laid one hand on the heart, that, suddenly still, nowwent leaping under his fingers. "Steady," he said firmly. "Steady. Itmay be only temporary. Keep your head up to the storm. We'll have aspecialist, and you must not get mired till then. Steady, Chief."

  "Chief! Chief!" murmured Ingolby. "Dear God, what a chief! I riskedeverything, and I've lost everything by my own vanity. Barbazon's--thehorseshoe--among the wolves, just to show I could do things better thanany one else--as if I had the patent for setting the world right. Andnow--now--"

  The thought of the bridge, of Marchand's devilish design, shot intohis mind, and once more he was shaken. "The bridge! Blind! Mother!" hecalled in a voice twisted in an agony which only those can feel to whomlife's purposes are even more than life itself. Then, with a moan, hebecame unconscious, and his head rolled over against Rockwell's cheek.The damp of his brow was as the damp of death as Rockwell's lips touchedit.

  "Old boy, old boy!" Rockwell said tenderly, "I wish it had been meinstead. Life means so much to you--and so little to me. I've seen toomuch, and you've only just begun to see."

  Laying him gently down, Rockwell summoned the nurse and Jim Beadle andspoke to them in low tones. "He knows now, and it has hit him hard, butnot so hard that he won't stiffen to it. It might have been worse."

  He gave instructions as to the care that should be taken, and replacedthe bandages on the eyes. It was, however, long before Ingolby wasrestored to consciousness, and when it came, Rockwell put to his lipsa cooling drink containing a powerful opiate. Ingolby drank it withoutprotest and in silence. He was like one whose sense of life wasautomatic and of an inner rather than an outer understanding. But whenhe lay back on the pillow again, he said slowly:

  "I want the Chief Constable to come here to-night at eight o'clock. Itwill be dark then. He must come. It is important. Will you see to it,Rockwell?"

  He thrust out a hand as though to find Rockwell's, and there was agratitude and an appeal in the pressure of his fingers which went toRockwell's heart.

  "All right, Chief. I'll have him here," Rockwell answered briskly, butwith tears standing in his eyes. Ingolby had, as it were, been strickenout of the active, sentient, companionable world into a world wherehe was alone, detached, solitary. His being seemed suspended in anatmosphere of misery and helplessness.

  "Blind! I am blind!" That was the phrase which kept beating with thepulses in Ingolby's veins, that throbbed, and throbbed, and throbbedlike engines in a creaking ship which the storm was shaking and poundingin the vast seas between the worlds. Here was the one incomprehensible,stupefying fact: nothing else mattered. Every plan he had ever had,every design which he had made his own by an originality that even hisfoes acknowledged, were passing before his brain in swift procession,shining, magnified, and magnificent, and in that sudden clear-seeingof his soul he beheld their full value, their exact concrete forceand ultimate effect. Yet he knew himself detached from them, inactive,incapable, because he could not see with the eyes of the body. The greatessential thing to him was that one thing he had lost. A man might be acripple and still direct the great concerns of life and the business oflife. He might be shorn of limb and scarred of body, but with eye sightstill direct the courses of great schemes, in whatever sphere of lifehis purposes were at work. He might be deaf to every sound and foreverdumb, but seeing enabled him still to carry forward every enterprise.In darkness, however, those things were naught, because judgment mustdepend on the eyes and senses of others. The report might be true orfalse, the deputy might deceive, and his blind chief might never knowthe truth unless some other spectator of his schemes should report it;and the truth could not surely be checked, save by some one, perhaps,whose life was joined to his, by one that truly loved him, whose fatewas his.

  His brain was afire. By one that truly loved him! Who was there thatloved him? Who was there at one with him in all his deep designs, in allhe had done and meant to do? Neither brother, nor sister, nor friend,nor any other. None of his blood was there who could share with him theconstructive work he had set out to do. There was no friend whose fatewas part of his own. There was the Boss Doctor: but Rockwell was tied tohis own responsibilities, and he could not give up, of course, would notgive up his life to the schemes of another. There were a dozen men whomhe had helped to forge ahead by his own schemes, but their destinieswere not linked with
his. Only one whose life was linked with his couldbe trusted to be his eyes, to be the true reporter of all he did, haddone, or planned to do. Only one who loved him.

  But even one who loved him could not carry through his incompletedwork against the assaults of his enemies, who were powerful, watchful,astute, and merciless; who had a greed which set money higher thanall else in the world. They were of the new order of things in theNew World. The business of life was to them not a system of barter andexchange, a giving something of value to get something of value, with amargin of profit for each, and a sense of human equity behind; it wasa cockpit where one man sought to get what another man had--and get italmost anyhow.

  It was the work of the faro-bank man, whose sleight of hand deceived theman that carried the gun.

  All the old humanity and good-fellowship of the trader, the man whoexchanged, as it was in the olden days of the world and continued ingreater or less degree till the present generation--all that was gone.It was held in contempt. It had prevailed when men were open robbers andfilibusters and warriors, giving their lives, if need be, to get whatthey wanted, making force their god. It had triumphed over the violenceand robbery of the open road until the dying years of one centuryand the young years of a new century. Then the day of the trickstercame--and men laughed at the idea of fair exchange and strove to givean illusive value for a thing of real value--the remorseless sleight ofhand which the law could not reach. The desire to get profit by honesttoiling was dying down to ashes.

  Against such men had Ingolby worked--the tricksters, the manipulators.At the basis of his schemes was organization and the economy whichconcentrated and conserved energy begets, together with its profit. Hehad been the enemy of waste, the apostle of frugality and thrift; andit was that which had enabled him, in his short career, to win theconfidence of the big men behind him in Montreal, to make good everystep of the way. He had worked for profit out of legitimate product andindustry and enterprise, out of the elimination of waste. It was histheory (and his practice) that no bit of old iron, no bolt or screw, noscrap of paper should be thrown away; that the cinders of the enginescould and should be utilized for that which they would make; and thatwas why there was a paper-mill and foundry on the Sagalac at Manitou.That was why and how, so far, he had beaten the tricksters.

  But while his schemes flashed before his mind, as the opiate suspendedhim in the middle heaven between sleep and waking, the tricksters andmanipulators came hurrying after him like marauders that waited for themoment when they could rush the camp in the watches of the night. Hisdisordered imagination saw the ruin and wreck of his work, the seizureof what was his own--the place of control on his railways, the place ofthe Master Man who cared infinitely more to see his designs accomplishedthan for the profit they would bring to himself. Yesterday he had beenjust at the top of the hill. The key in his fingers was turning in thelock which would make safe the securities of his life and career, whenit snapped, and the world grew dark as the black curtain fell and shutout the lighted room from the wayfarer in the gloom. Then, it was,came the opaque blackness which could be felt, and his voice calling indespair: "Blind! I am blind!"

  He did not know that he had taken an opiate, that his friend hadmercifully atrophied his rebellious nerves. These visions he was seeingwere terribly true, but they somehow gave him no physical torture. Itwas as though one saw an operation performed upon one's body with thenerves stilled and deadened by ether. Yet he was cruelly conscious ofthe disaster which had come to him. For a time at least. Then his mindseemed less acute, the visions came, then without seeing them go,they went. And others came in broken patches, shreds, and dreams,phantasmagoria of the brain, and at last all were mingled and confused;but as they passed they seemed to burn his sight. How he longed for acool bandage over his eyes, for a soft linen which would shut out thecumuli of broken hopes and designs, life's goals obliterated! He had hadenough of the black procession of futile things.

  His longing was not denied, for even as he roused himself from theoblivion coming on him, as though by a last effort to remember his diremisfortune, maybe his everlasting tragedy, something soothing and softlike linen dipped in dew was laid upon his forehead. A cool, delicioushand covered his eyes caressingly; a voice from spheres so far away thatworlds were the echoing points of the sound, came whispering to him likea stir of wings in a singing grove. With a last effort to remain in thewaking world, he raised his head so very little, but fell gently backagain with one sighing word on his lips:

  "Fleda!"

  It was no illusion. Fleda had come from her own night of trouble to hismotherless, wifeless home, and would not be denied admittance by thenurse. It was Jim Beadle who admitted her.

  "He'd be mad if he knew we wouldn't let her come," Jim had said to thenurse.

  It was Fleda who had warned Ingolby of the dangers that surroundedhim--the physical as well as business dangers. She came now to serve theblind victim of that Fate which she had seen hovering over him.

  The renegade daughter of the Romanys, as Jethro Fawe had called her,was, for the first time, in the house of her master Gorgio.