BLINDNESS
In the spring vacation David saw little of Wallace. He lunched one
day at his friend’s house and felt that he was under Dr. Wallace’s
particular scrutiny; it made him self-conscious. The surgeon, he
observed, looked at him shrewdly from time to time, as if measuring him
with some mental standard; David had an uncomfortable feeling that he
fell short of what was expected.
However, the doctor’s only comment was favorable enough. “You lead the
form in studies,” he said. “Lester tells me you’ve helped him in his
work. I wish he would work hard enough not to need help.”
“Well, you saw the Latin books I brought home with me,” said Lester in
an aggrieved voice.
“Yes, I saw them, but I haven’t seen you using them.”
“That’s all right; I’m going to. I studied on the train, didn’t I,
Dave?”
And Mrs. Wallace came to his defense. “After all, boys shouldn’t be
expected to study hard in their vacations.”
On the train returning to St. Timothy’s Wallace was again accompanied
by his Latin books, and again invited David’s coöperation. David
observed that he opened to the place at which on the homeward journey
he had left off and concluded that Mrs. Wallace’s sympathy had not
quickened his zeal. Lester was too full of reminiscences to keep long
or steadily at work; he would interrupt his studies to relate to David
anecdotes of parties that he had attended or of automobile trips that
he had made. David listened with eager interest and from time to time
conscientiously directed his friend’s thoughts back to the channels
from which they so readily escaped. With all his help the amount of
ground covered in Vergil during that trip was not appreciable.
The opening of the spring term marked an acceleration of activities.
Outdoor sports at once began to flourish. The boat crews practiced
every afternoon on the ponds; the runners and high jumpers, the shot
putters and the hammer throwers engaged in daily trials at the athletic
field; there was a race after luncheon every day for the tennis courts,
and scrub baseball nines occupied the various diamonds. With all that
outdoor activity to interest and divert him, Lester Wallace did not
display the immediate improvement in scholarship to be expected of one
ambitious to remove the blight of probation. Particularly in Latin did
he continue to give imperfect readings; even when David tried to help
him, he seemed unable to fix his attention on the lesson.
Mr. Dean showed less patience with him than ever in the Latin class.
“No, it doesn’t do any good for you to guess at meanings,” he would
say when Wallace tried to plunge ahead without having prepared the
recitation. “You may sit down.”
Wallace did not seem disturbed by his failures. There was a whole month
before the Pythian-Corinthian baseball game, in which he expected to
play shortstop for the Pythians; in that time, when he set his mind to
it, he could easily emancipate himself from the shackles of probation.
Henshaw, captain of the Pythians, was more uneasy than Wallace. “Don’t
you worry, Huby,” Wallace said in reply to Henshaw’s expression of
uneasiness. “When the time comes, I’ll be all right.” And then he
would utter some sneering and disparaging remark about “old Dean.” He
was especially fond of making contemptuous comments on the master
when David could hear them; he seemed to take a malicious pleasure in
rousing David to defense or in seeing him bite his lip in vexed silence.
It seemed to David especially unkind that Wallace should cherish this
grudge when Mr. Dean was in a depressed condition of spirits. David
had noticed the change in the master during the preceding term; often
he seemed abstracted and subdued: and occasionally when he sat with
his green eye-shade shielding his eyes while David read aloud to him,
something told the boy that he was not listening and that his thoughts
were sad. Now since the spring vacation Mr. Dean’s manner had been even
more that of one who was tired and troubled. David had perhaps the best
opportunity of all the boys to judge his condition; Mr. Dean sent for
him more frequently and, though he talked less than had been his wont,
seemed to enjoy David’s presence in the room or by his side.
“I hope it doesn’t bore you, David,” he said one evening, “to come and
sit with me and read. You mustn’t let me take you away from livelier
companions.”
“Oh, no,” David replied, somewhat embarrassed. “I see enough of the
fellows through the day.”
“You read very well,” Mr. Dean remarked irrelevantly. “I like to hear
you read.”
David colored with pleasure. “We used to take turns reading aloud at
home in the evenings,” he said. “I always liked reading better than
being read to.”
“When you get old you like being read to,” replied Mr. Dean. “As our
pleasures diminish in number, we enjoy more those that are left――which
is very fortunate for some of us.”
David wondered what he meant and why he looked so grave. The boy felt
that some sorrow of which he knew nothing oppressed the master. It
seemed to him that Mr. Dean did not like to be alone; David often
wondered what it could be that had so visibly affected his spirits.
The time was not long in coming when he learned. One day Monroe was
translating in the Latin class; the hour was half over; Mr. Dean closed
his book and laid it on the table. Monroe and the other boys looked up
in wonder.
“I shall have to dismiss the class,” Mr. Dean said. “Will David Ives
stop and speak with me?”
There was a strange note in his voice that struck awe into the boys.
He did not seem to look at any one; his face was pale and rigid, and
he sat grasping the edge of his table as if for support. In mute
wonderment the boys filed out of the room, all except David, who waited
in front of the platform.
“David,” said the master, still without moving his head, “is David Ives
here?”
“Yes, right here, Mr. Dean.” David’s voice was scared; he could not
understand what had happened.
“Give me your hand, David.” The master put out his own gropingly. “I
can’t see, David. I’m blind.”
“Oh!” cried David. He clasped Mr. Dean’s hand. “It――it can’t be
serious. It will pass off――”
[Illustration: “OH!” CRIED DAVID. HE CLASPED MR. DEAN’S HAND. “IT――IT
CAN’T BE SERIOUS”]
“No, I’ve known it would come.” Mr. Dean rose. “If you’ll take me home,
David――”
Leading the helpless man along the corridor and down the stairs, David
was too stunned and too full of pity to speak. He had not known before
how much he cared for Mr. Dean, how affectionate was the feeling in his
heart for him; to have him now clasping his arm dependently brought
tears to his eyes.
They descended the stairs in silence; the boys of other classes were
studying in the schoolroom or attending recitations; not until David
led Mr. Dean outdoors did he see any one. Then in front of the study he
found his classmates waiting in curious groups; they watched him with
silent astonishment as he led Mr. Dean away. Monroe and Wallace and
one or two others made signals expressive of their desire to know what
was wrong, but David shook his head without speaking; Mr. Dean walked
clinging to him, apparently unaware of their presence.
As the two made their way slowly up the path to the master’s cottage
David looked about him, wondering what it must be to be suddenly and
forever deprived of sight. And to be so stricken on such a day in
spring, when the new grass shone like an emerald, and the elms were
living fountains of green spray! The boy looked up at the man’s face
with wonder and compassion――wonder for the expression of calmness that
he saw, compassion for the sightless, spectacled eyes.
“It came upon me suddenly in the midst of the recitation,” Mr. Dean
said. “A blur of the page, and then blackness. But I wasn’t unprepared
for it. I have known that this was before me ever since last Christmas.
For a long time I had been having trouble with my eyes that no glasses
seemed to help. When I went to an oculist in Boston during the
Christmas vacation he told me that some time I must expect to suffer
total blindness.”
“But wouldn’t some operation help?” asked David.
“I’m afraid not――from what he told me then and from what he has told me
at various times since. Of course I shall have an examination made, but
there really isn’t any hope. Well,” Mr. Dean added, with an effort to
speak cheerfully, “at any rate I shall no longer have to live in dread
of the moment when the thing happens.”
When David led him up the path to his door he pulled out his keys and
fumbled with them. “This is it,” he said at last. “No, I won’t give it
to you; I must learn to do things for myself.” And after a moment he
succeeded in slipping the key into the lock and in opening the door.
With but little help he found his way to his sofa; he sat down then
wearily.
“In a moment I shall ask you to do an errand for me, David, but first
let me tell you about this thing. I’ve told nobody――not even the
rector. I didn’t want to feel that while I was doing my work some
one’s sympathetic eyes were always on me. When I went to the oculist
in the Christmas vacation, I thought I merely needed new glasses; for
some time my sight had been blurred. The oculist gave me new glasses,
but said that they would be of only temporary benefit. When I asked
him what the trouble was, he explained that it was a disease of the
ophthalmic nerves. I asked him if it was liable to be serious; he
hesitated and then said that it might be――very. I told him that it was
important I should know the whole story, and then I learned that the
disease was progressive and incurable, and that the final catastrophe
might be sudden. He did not know how soon――he thought probably within
a year. Well, I did not rest content with his opinion; I went to other
oculists; all said the same thing. Ever since the spring vacation I
have known that this was imminent――that it was a matter not of months
but of days. I have been trying to prepare for it; but it’s the sort
of thing a man can’t prepare for very well.” He smiled faintly. “I’ve
practiced doing things with my eyes closed, dressing, undressing,
putting things away, finding my way about my room. I think that within
these four walls I can take care of myself after a fashion. But there’s
no disguising the fact that from now on for the rest of my life I shall
be one of the dependent; that’s the thing that comes hard.”
“I shall be glad to be of help to you in any way I can,” said David.
“Thank you, my boy. I felt that you would; that’s why I asked you to
help me now. I want Dr. Vincent to go down to Boston with me this
afternoon if he will; I want him to hear what the oculist says so that
in case there is any possibility of remedy by operation he can advise
me. If you’ll send him to me, and if you’ll also tell the rector――I
don’t think of anything else at present.”
David went at once upon his errands. The concern with which both Dr.
Vincent and the rector heard him and with which they hastened to the
afflicted man was hardly greater than that of the boys when David told
them what had taken place.
“Poor old duck!” said Monroe sympathetically. “I never thought he had
anything like that the matter with him. It makes me feel kind of mean
that I ever roasted him.”
Harry Clarke wondered whether he had any money――enough to live on.
“If he hasn’t, the school ought to pension him,” said Tom Henderson.
“How long has he been here――nearly forty years?”
“I guess they won’t let him starve; I guess the alumni would see to
that,” remarked Wallace.
“Pretty tough, though――just to sit in the dark and wait for death,”
said Clarke.
“I can’t imagine anything worse,” agreed Henderson.
But after the first pitying comments they did not concern themselves
with Mr. Dean’s plight; their own affairs were too absorbing. That
afternoon the Corinthians and the Pythians held their baseball practice
just as usual; of all the participants David was perhaps alone in being
preoccupied and heavy-hearted. He had come so much nearer to Mr. Dean
than any of the others, had been so bound by gratitude and affection to
him on account of the master’s tenderness when he was overwhelmed with
sorrow, that he could not lightly dismiss that helpless figure from his
thoughts. So his playing was mechanical and listless; he could take no
part in the brisk dialogue, the lively chatter that prevailed. It was
quite otherwise with Lester Wallace, who played brilliantly at first
base and who in the intervals of batting practice bubbled over with
enthusiasm about his own feelings.
“Wish we were playing a real game to-day,” said Lester. “I’ve got my
batting eye right with me, and my wing feels fine. Some days I can
whip ’em over to third better than others; this is my day all right.”
“You bet; keep up this clip and you’re going to play first on the
school nine,” remarked Henderson.
“Dave Ives here is some live wire in that position,” Wallace answered.
“Oh, Dave will do for a substitute,” said Henderson candidly. “If you
get off probation, Lester, you’ll have the position cinched.”
“I’ll get off all right. It won’t be such a job either――now that some
one else will take Mr. Dean’s place.”
That remark, more than Henderson’s frankness, made David wince. That
Wallace could imagine any advantages accruing to himself from Mr.
Dean’s misfortune was most unpleasant.
Upon the impulse David spoke. “You know perfectly well there isn’t a
fairer-minded man than Mr. Dean in this school.”
Wallace flushed. “I wasn’t trying to run him down, even if he always
has had it in for me.”
David made no response; the disclaimer was as unkind as the innuendo.
Two days later Mr. Dean returned to the school. He sent for David at
noon; David, entering his study, found him sitting at the desk with a
pen in his hand.
“I’m trying to learn to write,” Mr. Dean explained as he laid down
the pen and held out his hand. “Take up the page, David, and tell me
whether I overrun it or crowd lines and words together. What is my
tendency?”
“It’s all perfectly clear, only you waste a good deal of paper; you
space your lines far apart and get only a few words to a line,” David
said.
“That’s erring on the safe side, anyway. What’s going to bother me most
will be to know when the ink in my fountain pen runs dry. It would be
exasperating to write page after page and then learn that I hadn’t made
a mark!” Mr. Dean laughed cheerfully. “Well, the trip to Boston didn’t
result in any encouragement; I knew it wouldn’t. I’ve been talking
with the rector this morning, and I’m to go ahead with my work here.
The fact is, I’ve been teaching Cæsar, Vergil, and Horace for so many
years that I know them almost by heart――sufficiently well to be able to
follow the translation if some one reads the Latin passage to me first.
I wanted to ask you if you would pilot me to the classroom and home
again――for a few days at least; I expect in a short time to be able to
get about all alone.”
“Of course,” said David, and then he exclaimed, “It’s fine that you’ll
be able to keep on; it’s wonderful!”
“It’s generous of the rector to permit it,” said Mr. Dean. “I shan’t be
of any use for disciplinary purposes any more; I shall be relieved of
the side of teaching that I have always disliked, so my misfortune is
not without its compensations.”
“I’m awfully glad you’re not going to leave us,” David said. “And
you’ll find that all the fellows will want to help you.”
That afternoon when all the boys were assembled in the schoolroom
for the first hour of study, Dr. Davenport entered and, mounting the
platform, stood beside Mr. Randolph, the master in charge. The boys
turned from their desks and looked up at him expectantly.
“As you have all been grieved to learn,” said Mr. Davenport, “of
the affliction that has come upon the oldest and best loved of our
masters, so, I am sure, you will be glad to hear that he is not to be
lost to us, but will continue to do his work here, even under this
heavy handicap. We have all of us always respected and admired his
scholarship; we must do so even more now when it is equal to the task
of conducting recitations without reference to the printed page. We
have all of us always respected and admired his spirit of devotion;
even more must we admire it now and the fortitude that accompanies
it. I do not believe there is a boy here who would take advantage
of an infirmity so bravely borne, and I hope that those of you who
have classes with him will try to show by increased attention and
considerateness your appreciation of his spirit.”
Dr. Davenport stepped down from the platform and walked out of the
room, leaving it to its studious quiet.
At the end of the hour, in the five-minute intermission, David heard
Monroe say to Wallace, “Pretty good little talk of the rector’s; right
idea.”
“Oh, sure,” Wallace answered.