Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,     Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
    He of the Faith as master to slave;
Yet at the last, tho’ the Kafirs had maimed him,
    Broken by and by the reiver,—
Yet at the last, tho’ the darkness had claimed him,
    He called upon Allah and died a believer.
 
—Kizzilbashi.
 
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but—but isn’t nothin’ going to happen?” said Mr. Beeton.
 
“No!” Dick had just waked to another morning of blank despair and his temper was of the shortest.
 
“’Tain’t my regular business, o’ course, sir; and what I say is, “Mind your own business and let other people mind theirs;” but just before Mr. Torpenhow went away he give me to understand, like, that you might be moving into a house of your own, so to speak—a sort of house with rooms upstairs and downstairs where you’d be better attended to, though I try to act just by all our . Don’t I?”
 
“Ah! That must have been a mad-house. I shan’t trouble you to take me there yet. Get me my breakfast, please, and leave me alone.”
 
“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, sir, but you know I hope that as far as a man can I tries to do the proper thing by all the gentlemen in —and more particular those whose lot is hard—such as you, for instance, Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe bloater, don’t you? Soft-roe bloaters is scarcer than hard-roe, but what I says is, “Never mind a little extra trouble so long as you give satisfaction to the tenants.”’
 
Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to himself. Torpenhow had been long away; there was no more rioting in the chambers, and Dick had settled down to his new life, which he was weak enough to consider nothing better than death.
 
It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing the day and night; dropping to sleep through sheer weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in the chill of the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, would grope along the corridors of the chambers till he heard some one snore. Then he would know that the day had not yet come, and return wearily to his bedroom.
 
Later he learned not to stir till there was a noise and movement in the house and Mr. Beeton advised him to get up. Once dressed—and , now that Torpenhow was away, was a business, because collars, ties, and the like hid themselves in far corners of the room, and search meant head-beating against chairs and trunks—once dressed, there was nothing whatever to do except to sit still and brood till the three daily meals came. Centuries separated breakfast from lunch and lunch from dinner, and though a man prayed for hundreds of years that his mind might be taken from him, God would never hear. Rather the mind was quickened and the thoughts ground against each other as millstones grind when there is no corn between; and yet the brain would not wear out and give him rest. It continued to think, at length, with imagery and all manner of reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and past success, reckless travels by land and sea, the glory of doing work and feeling that it was good, and suggested all that might have happened had the eyes only been faithful to their duty. When thinking ceased through sheer weariness, there poured into Dick’s soul tide on tide of overwhelming, purposeless fear—dread of starvation always, terror lest the unseen ceiling should crush down upon him, fear of fire in the chambers and a louse’s death in red flame, and agonies of fiercer horror that had nothing to do with any fear of death. Then Dick bowed his head, and clutching the arms of his chair fought with his sweating self till the of plates told him that something to eat was being set before him.
 
Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he had time to spare, and Dick learned to hang upon his speech, which dealt with badly fitted gas-plugs, waste-pipes out of repair, little tricks for driving picture-nails into walls, and the sins of the charwoman or the housemaids. In the lack of better things the small gossip of a servant’’ hall becomes immensely interesting, and the screwing of a washer on a tap an event to be talked over for days.
 
Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would take Dick out with him when he went in the morning to with tradesmen over fish, lamp-wicks, mustard, tapioca, and so , while Dick rested his weight first on one foot and then on the other and played aimlessly with the tins and string-ball on the counter. Then they would perhaps meet one of Mr. Beeton’s friends, and Dick, aside a little, would hold his peace till Mr. Beeton was willing to go on again.
 
The life did not increase his self-respect. He abandoned shaving as a dangerous exercise, and being shaved in a barber’s shop meant exposure of his infirmity. He could not see that his clothes were properly brushed, and since he had never taken any care of his personal appearance he became every known variety of . A blind man cannot deal with cleanliness till he has been some months used to the darkness. If he demand attendance and grow angry at the want of it, he must assert himself and stand upright. Then the meanest menial can see that he is blind and, therefore, of no consequence. A wise man will keep his eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal lump by lump out of the with the and pile it in a little heap in the fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one by one and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work them out; he may talk to himself or to the cat if she chooses to visit him; and if his trade has been that of an artist, he may in the air with his ; but that is too much like drawing a pig with the eyes shut. He may go to his bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in order of their size; or to his wardrobe and count his shirts, laying them in piles of two or three on the bed, as they suffer from or lost buttons.
 
Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are very, very long.
 
Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where Mr. Beeton kept hammers, taps and nuts, lengths of gas-pipes, oil-bottles, and string.
 
“If I don’t have everything just where I know where to look for it, why, then, I can’t find anything when I do want it. You’ve no idea, sir, the amount of little things that these chambers uses up,” said Mr. Beeton. at the handle of the door as he went out: “It’s hard on you, sir, I do think it’s hard on you. Ain’t you going to do anything, sir?”
 
“I’ll pay my rent and messing. Isn’t that enough?”
 
“I wasn’t doubting for a moment that you couldn’t pay your way, sir; but I ’ave often said to my wife, ‘It’s ’ard on ’im because it isn’t as if he was an old man, nor yet a one, but quite a young gentleman. That’s where it comes so ’ard.’”
 
“I suppose so,” said Dick, absently. This particular nerve through long had ceased to feel—much.
 
“I was thinking,” continued Mr. Beeton, still making as if to go, “that you might like to hear my boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of an evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he’s only nine.”
 
“I should be very grateful,” said Dick. “Only let me make it worth his while.”
 
“We wasn’t thinking of that, sir, but of course it’s in your own ’ands; but only to ’ear Alf sing ‘A Boy’s best Friend is ’is Mother!’ Ah!”
 
“I’ll hear him sing that too. Let him come this evening with the newspapers.”
 
Alf was not a nice child, being up with many school-board certificates for good conduct, and proud of his singing. Mr. Beeton remained, beaming, while the child his way through a song of some eight eight-line verses in the usual of a young Cockney, and, after compliments, left him to read Dick the foreign telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his parents rather pale and scared.
 
“’E said ’e couldn’t stand it no more,” he explained.
 
“He never said you read badly, Alf?” Mrs. Beeton spoke.
 
“No. ’E said I read beautiful. Said ’e never ’eard any one read like that, but ’e said ’e couldn’t the stuff in the papers.”
 
“P’raps he’s lost some money in the Stocks. Were you readin’ him about Stocks, Alf?”
 
“No; it was all about fightin’ out there where the soldiers is gone—a great long piece with all the lines close together and very hard words in it. ’E give me ’arf a crown because I read so well. And ’e says the next time there’s anything ’e wants read ’e’ll send for me.”
 
“That’s good hearing, but I do think for all the half-crown—put it into the kicking-donkey money-box, Alf, and let me see you do it—he might have kept you longer. Why, he couldn’t have begun to understand how beautiful you read.”
 
“He’s best left to hisself—gentlemen always are when they’re downhearted,” said Mr. Beeton.
 
Alf’s rigorously limited powers of comprehending Torpenhow’s special correspondence had waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He could hear, through the boy’s nasal chant, the camels in the squares behind the soldiers outside Suakin; could hear the men swearing and chaffing across the cooking pots, and could smell the wood-smoke as it drifted over camp before the wind of the desert.
 
That night he prayed to God that his mind might be taken from him, offering for proof that he was of this favour the fact that he had not shot himself long ago. That prayer was not answered, and indeed Dick knew in his heart of hearts that only a lingering sense of humour and no special had kept him alive. Suicide, he had persuaded himself, would be a ludicrous insult to the gravity of the situation as well as a weak-kneed of fear.
 
“Just for the fun of the thing,” he said to the cat, who had taken Binkie’s place in his establishment, “I should like to know how long this is going to last. I can live for a year on the hundred pounds Torp cashed for me. I must have two or three thousand at least in the Bank—twenty or thirty years more provided for, that is to say. Then I fall back on my hundred and twenty a year, which will be more by that time. Let’s consider.
 
Twenty-five—thirty-five—a man’s in his prime then, they say—forty-five—a middle-aged man just entering politics—fifty-five—“died at the comparatively early age of fifty-five,” according to the newspapers. Bah! How these funk death! Sixty-five—we’re only getting on in years. Seventy-five is just possible, though. Great hell, cat O! fifty years more of in the dark! You’ll die, and Beeton will die, and Torp will die, and Mai—everybody else will die, but I shall be alive and kicking with nothing to do. I’m very sorry for myself. I should like some one else to be sorry for me. Evidently I’m not going mad before I die, but the pain’s just as bad as ever. Some day when you’re vivisected, cat O! they’ll tie you down on a little table and cut you open—but don’t be afraid; they’ll take precious good care that you don’t die. You’ll live, and you’ll be very sorry then that you weren’t sorry for me. Perhaps Torp will come back or... I wish I could go to Torp and the Nilghai, even though I were in their way.”
 
left the room before the speech was ended, and Alf, as he entered, found Dick addressing the empty hearth-rug.
 
“There’s a letter for you, sir,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like me to read it.”
 
“Lend it to me for a minute and I’ll tell you.”
 
The outstretched hand shook just a little and the voice was not over-steady. It was within the limits of human possibility that—that was no letter from Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed envelopes only too well. It was a foolish hope that the girl should write to him, for he did not realise that there is a wrong which admits of no reparation though the evildoer may with tears and the heart’s best love strive to mend all. It is best to forget that wrong whether it be caused or endured, since it is as remediless as bad work once put forward.
 
“Read it, then,” said Dick, and Alf began intoning according to the rules of the Board School—
 
“‘I could have given you love, I could have given you , such as you never dreamed of. Do you suppose I cared what you were? But you chose to whistle everything down the wind for nothing. My only excuse for you is that you are so young.’
 
“That’s all,” he said, returning the paper to be dropped into the fire.
 
“What was in the letter?” asked Mrs. Beeton, when Alf returned.
 
“I don’t know. I think it was a circular or a about not whistlin’ at everything when you’re young.”
 
“I must have stepped on something when I was alive and walking about and it has bounced up and hit me. God help it, whatever it is—unless it was all a joke. But I don’t know any one who’d take the trouble to play a joke on me.... Love and loyalty for nothing. It sounds enough.
 
I wonder whether I have lost anything really?”
 
Dick considered for a long time but could not remember when or how he had put himself in the way of winning these trifles at a woman’s hands.
 
Still, the letter as on matters that he preferred not to think about stung him into a fit of that lasted for a day and night. When his heart was so full of despair that it would hold no more, body and soul together seemed to be dropping without check through the darkness.
 
Then came fear of darkness and desperate attempts to reach the light again. But there was no light to be reached. When that agony had left him sweating and breathless, the downward flight would recommence till the torture of it spurred him into another fight as hopeless as the first. Followed some few minutes of sleep in which he dreamed that he saw. Then the procession of events would repeat itself till he was worn out and the brain took up its consideration of Maisie and might-have-beens.
 
At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came to his room and volunteered to take him out. “Not marketing this time, but we’ll go into the Parks if you like.”
 
“Be damned if I do,” quoth Dick. “Keep to the streets and walk up and down. I like to hear the people round me.”
 
This was not altogether true. The blind in the first stages of their infirmity dislike those who can move with a free stride and unlifted arms—but Dick had no earthly desire to go to the Parks. Once and only once since Maisie had shut her door he had gone there under Alf’s charge. Alf forgot him and fished for minnows in the with some companions. After half an hour’s waiting Dick, almost weeping with rage and , caught a passer-by, who introduced him to a friendly policeman, who led him to a four-wheeler opposite the Albert Hall. He never told Mr. Beeton of Alf’s forgetfulness, but... this was not the manner in which he was used to walk the Parks aforetime.
 
“What streets would you like to walk down, then?” said Mr. Beeton, sympathetically. His own ideas of a holiday meant picnicking on the grass of Green Park with his family, and half a dozen paper bags full of food.
 
“Keep to the river,” said Dick, and they kept to the river, and the rush of it was in his ears till they came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck thence on to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton explaining the beauties of the scenery as he went on.
 
“And walking on the other side of the pavement,” said he, “unless I’m much mistaken, is the young woman that used to come to your rooms to be drawed. I never forgets a face and I never remembers a name, except paying tenants, o’ course!”
 
“Stop her,” said Dick. “It’s Bessie Broke. Tell her I’d like to speak to her again. Quick, man!”
 
Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of the omnibuses and arrested Bessie then on her way . She recognised him as the man in authority who used to glare at her when she passed up Dick’s staircase, and her first impulse was to run.
 
“Wasn’t you Mr. Heldar’s model?” said Mr. Beeton, planting himself in front of her. “You was. He’s on the other side of the road and he’d like to see you.”
 
“Why?” said Bessie, faintly. She remembered—indeed had never for long forgotten—an affair connected with a newly finished picture.
 
“Because he has asked me to do so, and because he’s most particular blind.”
 
“Drunk?”
 
“No. ’Orspital blind. He can’t see. That’s him over there.”
 
Dick was leaning against the parapet of the bridge as Mr. Beeton him out—a stub-bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty magenta-coloured neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. There was nothing to fear from such an one. Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, he could not follow far. She crossed over, and Dick’s face lighted up. It was long since a woman of any kind had taken the trouble to speak to him.
 
“I hope you’re well, Mr. Heldar?” said Bessie, a little puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with the air of an ambassador and breathed responsibly.
 
“I’m very well indeed, and, by Jove! I’m glad to see—hear you, I mean, Bess. You never thought it worth while to turn up and see us again after you got your money. I don’t know why you should. Are you going anywhere in particular just now?”
 
“I was going for a walk,” said Bessie.
 
“Not the old business?” Dick spoke under his breath.
 
“Lor, no! I paid my ’—Bessie was very proud of that word—“for a barmaid, sleeping in, and I’m at the bar now quite respectable. Indeed I am.”
 
Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe in the loftiness of human nature. Therefore he dissolved himself like a mist and returned to his gas-plugs without a word of apology. Bessie watched the flight with a certain uneasiness; but so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of the harm that had been done to him...
 
“It’s hard work pulling the beer-handles,” she went on, “and they’ve got one of them penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if you get wrong by a penny at the end of the day—but then I don’t believe the is right. Do you?”
 
“I’ve only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.”
 
“He’s gone.
 
“I’m afraid I must ask you to help me home, then. I’ll make it worth your while. You see.” The sightless eyes turned towards her and Bessie saw.
 
“It isn’t taking you out of your way?” he said hesitatingly. “I can ask a policeman if it is.”
 
“Not at all. I come on at seven and I’m off at four. That’s easy hours.”
 
“Good God!—but I’m on all the time. I wish I had some work to do too.
 
Let’s go home, Bess.”
 
He turned and into a man on the sidewalk, with an oath. Bessie took his arm and said nothing—as she had said nothing when he had ordered her to turn her face a little more to the light. They walked for some time in silence, the girl him through the crowd.
 
“And where’s—where’s Mr. Torpenhow?” she inquired at last.
 
“He has gone away to the desert.”
 
“Where’s that?”
 
Dick pointed to the right. “East—out of the mouth of the river,” said he.
 
“Then west, then south, and then east again, all along the under-side of Europe. Then south again, God knows how far.” The explanation did not enlighten Bessie in the least, but she held her tongue and looked to Dick’s path till they came to the chambers.
 
“We’ll have tea and muffins,” he said . “I can’t tell you, Bessie, how glad I am to find you again. What made you go away so suddenly?”
 
“I didn’t think you’d want me any more,” she said, by his ignorance.
 
“I didn’t, as a matter of fact—but afterwards—At any rate I’m glad you’ve come. You know the stairs.”
 
So Bessie led him home to his own place—there was no one to hinder—and shut the door of the studio.
 
“What a mess!” was her first word. “All these things haven’t been looked after for months and months.”
 
“No, only weeks, Bess. You can’t expect them to care.”
 
“I don’t know what you expect them to do. They ought to know what you’ve paid them for. The dust’s just awful. It’s all over the easel.”
 
“I don’t use it much now.”
 
“All over the pictures and the floor, and all over your coat. I’d like to speak to them housemaids.”
 
“Ring for tea, then.” Dick felt his way to the one chair he used by custom.
 
Bessie saw the action and, as far as in her lay, was touched. But there remained always a keen sense of new-found superiority, and it was in her voice when she spoke.
 
“How long have you been like this?” she said wrathfully, as though the blindness were some fault of the housemaids.
 
“How?”
 
“As you are.”
 
“The day after you went away with the check, almost as soon as my picture was finished; I hardly saw her alive.”
 
“Then they’ve been cheating you ever since, that’s all. I know their nice little ways.”
 
A woman may love one man and despise another, but on general feminine principles she will do her best to save the man she despises from being . Her loved one can look to himself, but the other man, being obviously an idiot, needs protection.
 
“I don’t think Mr. Beeton cheats much,” said Dick. Bessie was flouncing up and down the room, and he was conscious of a keen sense of as he heard the swish of her skirts and the light step between.
 
“Tea and muffins,” she said shortly, when the ring at the bell was answered; “two teaspoonfuls and one over for the pot. I don’t want the old teapot that was here when I used to come. It don’t draw. Get another.”
 
The housemaid went away scandalised, and Dick . Then he began to cough as Bessie banged up and down the studio disturbing the dust.
 
“What are you trying to do?”
 
“Put things straight. This is like unfurnished . How could you let it go so?”
 
“How could I help it? Dust away.”
 
She dusted furiously, and in the midst of all the pother entered Mrs. Beeton. Her husband on his return had explained the situation, up with the peculiarly proverb, “Do unto others as you would be done by.” She had to put into her place the person who demanded muffins and an uncracked teapot as though she had a right to both.
 
“Muffins ready yet?” said Bess, still dusting. She was no longer a drab of the streets but a young lady who, thanks to Dick’s check, had paid her premium and was entitled to pull beer-handles with the best. Being dressed in black she did not hesitate to face Mrs. Beeton, and there passed between the two women certain regards that Dick would have appreciated. The situation adjusted itself by eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton returned to cook muffins and make remarks about models, hussies, trollops, and the like, to her husband.
 
“There’s nothing to be got of with him, Liza,” he said. “Alf, you go along into the street to play. When he isn’t crossed he’s as as kind, but when he’s crossed he’s the devil and all. We took too many little things out of his rooms since he was blind to be that particular about what he does. They ain’t no objects to a blind man, of course, but if it was to come into court we’d get the sack. Yes, I did introduce him to that girl because I’m a feelin’ man myself.”
 
“Much too feelin’!” Mrs. Beeton slapped the muffins into the dish, and thought of housemaids long since dismissed on suspicion.
 
“I ain’t ashamed of it, and it isn’t for us to judge him hard so long as he pays quiet and regular as he do. I know how to manage young gentlemen, you know how to cook for them, and what I says is, let each stick to his own business and then there won’t be any trouble. Take them muffins down, Liza, and be sure you have no words with that young woman. His lot is cruel hard, and if he’s crossed he do swear worse than any one I’ve ever served.”
 
“That’s a little better,” said Bessie, sitting down to the tea. “You needn’t wait, thank you, Mrs. Beeton.”
 
“I had no intention of doing such, I do assure you.”
 
Bessie made no answer whatever. This, she knew, was the way in which real ladies routed their , and when one is a barmaid at a first-class public-house one may become a real lady at ten minutes’ notice.
 
Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she was both shocked and . There were droppings of food all down the front of his coat; the mouth under the ill-grown beard ; the forehead was lined and contracted; and on the lean temples the hair was a dusty indeterminate colour that might or might not have been called gray. The utter and self-abandonment of the man appealed to her, and at the bottom of her heart lay the wicked feeling that he was and brought low who had once humbled her.
 
“Oh! it is good to hear you moving about,” said Dick, rubbing his hands.
 
“Tell us all about your bar successes, Bessie, and the way you live now.”
 
“Never mind that. I’m quite respectable, as you’d see by looking at me. You don’t seem to live too well. What made you go blind that sudden? Why isn’t there any one to look after you?”
 
Dick was too thankful for the sound of her voice to resent the tone of it.
 
“I was cut ............