But he did not tell Clare that now he could sleep at any time he wished and without fear of dreams. He did not tell her this because, if he did, she would not sit with him every night until either he slept or pretended to sleep. There was a constraint between them now: it had begun after the visitors had left, and it had progressed increasingly as his determination for utter recovery grew with each day more iron-clad. He knew it was there and he knew that it hurt her as it was hurting him. But he steeled himself to disregard it until the answer should come to him. Until he had the answer, he was not living, and until he lived he must not have dealings with any matter so vital to him as Clare. He tried to explain it to her once, without explaining. He said:
“If I seem strange, it is because I am in . . . in a sort of . . . of . . .” The words were difficult to find. “In a sort of shell. That is while I am growing well. Then I can . . . can put the shell away.”
It did not seem to interest her much. She said she understood—and that was as far as it went, except that he had for the first time a vague thought, too nebulous to be termed suspicion, that perhaps the constraint was not entirely of his own causing.
But he dismissed the thought—and sank wholly back within the armoured shell again and inside it went on mending.
Dr. Brandt was delighted, and made no secret of his amazement.
“Wonderful specimen!” he said to Ingolls. “Wonderful physique! And hard! We don’t breed ’em that hard over here, more’s the pity in these days! Ninety-five men out of a hundred would’ve died with what that lad took. And just
That was the day before they cut the casts off his legs and found them in far better condition than they had hoped. They gave him metal splints then, and in a few days yet lighter ones in which presently, so the doctor said, he could even walk a little.
He smiled at the doctor and said nothing—but within ten minutes of Brandt’s leaving there came to Lena’s ears, as she worked in the living-room below, a curious shuffling, bumping sound from above her head. She sped up the stairs and arrived, breathless, to find her Mizr Johnson incredibly out of bed and upon his feet and in the middle of the room. He was holding to the back of a chair—and, as she squealed in horrified amazement, he grinned at her, as she told afterwards, “f’m year to year, like a child among a melon-patch!”
In two more days he went down the stairs for the first time. He was helped by the balusters and a stick, impeded by the hoverings of Clare and Lena and John the ‘outside man’ and even Waldemar Ingolls himself. But he was sure and careful, and in two more days was making the slow journey, both up and down, with none worrying about his safety.
The constraint between himself and Clare grew worse now that he was a freer agent. Perhaps, although they were both wary, it was noted by others; perhaps not. There was no way to tell—and with the conviction growing daily stronger that he would soon be in a condition to face himself with the problem and determine the answer to it, he took no trouble to find out. He was coming, gradually, out of the shell He knew that—and waited. The signs were various, but first among them was the reaction which he felt to mention of the Texas oil disaster. He had made himself numb at first, and successfully, but now, as he hobbled on walking-splints and stick about the house and listened three times at least a day to the vehemence of Waldemar Ingolls, his torment grew and he began, however sternly he ordered his mind not to dwell upon it, to think about Altinger’s Plan Six, due now in less than eight short weeks; the Sixth ‘Attack’ beside which all others would pale into third-rate insignificance. When he thought of this he sweated, and even, once or twice, was persuaded by emotion to wrestle with the problem, while knowing that yet he was not ready. . . .
Then there arrived, utterly without warning, the night which was to mark the end of waiting and indecision and retreat within armour. A fantastic, undreamt-of, incredible night.
Clare was out with friends, and Otto and Waldemar Ingolls dined alone. They enjoyed the food and drank more wine with it than usual and Ingolls did most of the talking. But it was good talk—and Otto found, with a sudden amazement, that he was actively and pleasantly aware of immediate existence: the shell had broken and been pulled away.
Ingolls did a strange thing. He looked suddenly at Otto across the table, and he suddenly smiled, and he said:
“So the chrysalis has cracked! We will now proceed to get very slightly drunk.”
Otto stared but said nothing. He only half-understood the words and was not sure enough of their astonishing implication. He studied the other man covertly, and saw him, despite his age, erect and strong and happy; vigorous and with a life as full as he made it, commanding and vital and intelligent, with a quality about him at the same time unfathomable and familiar.