BLINDNESS
DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at
seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the
soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and
the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh
country air.
"Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for
me!"
Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He
paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald,
then almost ran down the road to his home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle.
"Here, David, I'm on the porch," came his mother's voice.
"Mommie," he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd be
looking for me."
Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother
sob. "Oh, mother," he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Or
are you only glad to see me?"
"Glad," she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench,
Davie."
"Why--I didn't notice it first--you're wearing dark glasses again! Are
your eyes worse?"
"Sit down, Davie, sit down," she said nervously. "That's right," she
added as he sat beside her and put one arm about her.
"Now tell me," he said imperiously. "Are you sure you're all right?
You're not worrying about me?"
"No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I must
tell you--I wish I didn't have to--don't be scared--it's just about my
eyes."
"Tell me! Are they worse?"
She laid her hand on his knees. "Don't get excited--but--I can't see."
"Can't see!" He repeated the words as though he could not understand
them. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face in
the semi-darkness of the porch. "Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?"
She nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, it's come. I'm blind."
The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder in
his ears. "Mother," he cried again, "you can't be blind!"
"But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day.
I could hardly see your face this morning when you went."
"And I went away and you stayed here and went blind!" He broke into sobs
and she allowed him to cry it out as they sat together in the darkness.
"Come," she said at length, "now you mustn't take on so. It's not as
awful as you think. I said to Phares to-day that I'm almost glad it's
here, for it was awful to know it's coming."
"But it's awful," he shuddered. "Come in to the light and let me see
you--but oh, you can't see me!"
"Yes I can." She reached a hand to his face. "This is the way I see you
now. The same mouth and chin, the same mole on your left cheek--that's
good luck, Davie--the same nose with its little turn-up."
"Mommie"--he grabbed her hands and kissed them--"there's not another
like you in the whole world! If I were blind I'd be groaning and moaning
and making life miserable for everybody near me, and here you are your
same cheerful self. You're the bravest of 'em all!"
"But you mustn't think that I haven't rebelled against this, that I
haven't cried out against it! I've had my hours of weakness and tears
and rebellion."
"And I never knew it."
"No. Each one goes to Gethsemane alone."
"But isn't it almost more than you can bear--to be blind?"
"It's dreadful at first. I stumble so and every little sill and rug
seems a foot high. But I'll soon learn."
"Is there nothing to do? What did Dr. Munster say about your eyes when
we were down to see him?"
"He told me then I'd be blind soon. And he said the only thing might
save my sight or bring it back was a delicate operation that would be a
big risk, for it probably wouldn't help at any rate. So I'm not
thinking of ever trying that. Now I don't want you to think I'm brave
about it. I've cried all my tears a month ago, so don't put me on any
pedestal. It seems hard not to see the people I love and all the
beautiful things around me, but I'm glad I have the memory of them. I'm
glad I know what a rainbow is, and a sunset."
"Yes, but I think it's awful to know what they look like and never see
them again. I can't, just can't, realize that you're blind!"
"You will when you come back from war and have to fetch and carry for
me. Your Aunt Mary and Phares are just lovely about it and willing to
help in every way. I was going to live over with them at any rate."
"I wish I could stay with you, mommie. You need me, but I guess Uncle
Sam needs me too. I'm to go soon, you know."
"You go, even if I am blind. I'm not helpless. It will be awkward for a
while but there are many things I can do. I can knit without seeing."
"You're a wonder! But is there no hope?"
"Hope," she repeated softly. "No hope of the kind you mean, except that
very severe operation that would cost big money and then perhaps not
help. But this world isn't all. I've always liked that part of Isaiah,
'The eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall
be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of
the dumb sing.' I know now what it'll mean to us. It seems like the
afflicted will have a special joy in that time."
David was silent for a moment; his mother's words stirred in him
emotions too great for ready words.
Presently she continued, "But, Davie, this isn't heaven yet! And I'm
concerned just now about helping myself to live the rest of this life
the best way I can. I can knit like a machine and I like to knit
socks----"
The remainder was left unsaid for the strong arms of her boy surrounded
her and held her close while his lips were pressed upon her forehead.
"Such a mother," he breathed, as if the touch of her forehead bestowed a
benediction upon him. "Such a mother!"
In the morning he brought the news to the Metz farmhouse.
"Blind?" Phoebe cried.
David nodded.
"Blind! Mother Bab blind? Oh, it's too awful!"
"My goodness," Aunt Maria said with genuine sorrow, "now that's too bad!
Her blind and you goin' off to war soon!"
"I'm going up to see her," said Phoebe, and went off with David.
Mother Bab heard the girl's step and called gaily, "Phoebe, is that you?
I declare, it sounds like you!"
Phoebe ran to the room where Mother Bab sat alone. The girl could not
speak at first; she twined her arms about the woman while her heart
ached with its poignant grief. Again it was the afflicted one who
turned comforter. "Come, Phoebe, you mustn't cry for me. Laugh like you
always did when you came to see me."
"Laugh! Oh, Mother Bab, I can't laugh!"
"But, Phoebe, I'll want you to come up to see me every day when you can
and you surely can't cry every time and be sad, so you might as well
begin now to be cheerful."
"But, Mother Bab, can't something be done?"
"Dr. Munster, the big doctor I saw in Philadelphia, said that only a big
operation might help me, but he's not sure that even it would do any
good. And, of course, we have no money for it and at my age it doesn't
matter so much."
Later, as Phoebe walked down the hill again, she kept revolving in her
mind what Mother Bab had said about the operation. An inspiration
suddenly flashed to her. The wonder of it made her stand still in the
road.
"I know! I'll buy sight for Mother Bab! I will! I must! If it's only
money that's necessary, if there's any wonderful doctor can operate on
her eyes and make her see again she's going to see! Oh, glory! What a
happy thought! I'm the happiest girl since that idea came to me! The
money I meant to spend on more music lessons next winter will be put to
better use; it will give Mother Bab a chance to see again! Why, I'd
rather have her _see_ than be able to call myself the greatest singer in
the world! But she'll never let me spend so much money for her. I know
that. I'll have to make her believe the operation will be free. I can
fool her in that, dear, innocent, trusting Mother Bab! She'd believe me
against half the world. But I'm afraid I can't fool David so easily. I
must wait till he goes, then I'll write to Dr. Munster and start things
going!"