Everyman's Land

								

down.
When we arrived in Paris, Doctor Cuyler saw us at once; but his opinion
added another pile of flinty black blocks to the prison wall. He thought
that there would be no hope from an operation. If there were any hope at
all (he couldn't say there was) it lay in waiting, resting, and
building up Brian's shattered health. After months of perfect peace, it
was just on the cards that sight might come back of itself, suddenly and
unexpectedly, in a moment. We were advised to live in the country, and
Doctor Cuyler suggested that it would be well for my brother to have
surroundings with agreeable occupation for the mind. If he were a
musician he must have a piano. There ought to be a garden for him to
walk in and even work in. Motoring, with the slight vibration of a good
car, would be particularly beneficial a little later on. I suppose we
must have looked to Doctor Cuyler like millionaires, for he didn't
appear to dream that there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying
out his programme.
I sat listening with the calm mien of one to whom money comes as air
comes to the lungs; but behind my face the wildest thoughts were raging.
You've sometimes seen a row of tall motionless pines, the calmest,
stateliest things on earth, screening with their branches the mad white
rush of a cataract. My brain felt like such a screened cataract.
Except for his blindness, by this time Brian was too well for a
hospital. We were at the small, cheap hotel on "la rive gauche" where
we'd stayed and been happy three years ago, before starting on our
holiday trip. When we came back after the interview with Doctor Cuyler,
Brian was looking done up, and I persuaded him to lie down and rest. No
one else could have slept, after so heavy a blow of disappointment,
without a drug, but Brian is a law unto himself. He said if I would sit
by him and read, he'd feel at peace, and would drop off into a doze. It
was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I hadn't glanced yet at the
newspaper we had bought in the morning. I took it up, to please Brian
with the rustling of the pages, not expecting to concentrate upon a line
but instantly my eyes were caught by a name I knew.
"Tragic Romance of Millionaire's Family," I read. "James W. Beckett
brings his wife to France and Reads Newspaper Notice of Only Son's
Death."
This was the double-line, big-lettered heading of a half column on the
front page; and it brought to my mind a picture. I saw a group of nurses
gazing over each other's shoulders at a blue cheque. It was a cheque for
six thousand francs, signed in a clear, strong hand, "James W. Beckett,
Junior."
So he was dead, that generous boy, to whom our hearts had gone out in
gratitude! It could not be very long since he had finished his training
at St. Raphael and begun work at the front. What a waste of splendid
material it seemed, that he should have been swept away so soon!
I read on, and from my own misery I had an extra pang to spare for James