claim upon _you_, Doctor Leyden, is that you go to my father and tell
him of my death and its cause and make him support my family as they
should be supported. He must make my oldest boy his heir. Will you do
this for me? There is no desperate hurry; within a year will be time
enough.’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I will do it.’
“He was silent for many minutes and then he turned to me, and again his
flashing smile illumined the triangular open space.
“‘And now as to details,’ said he. ‘You would not try to prevent me if I
were to get out of my bunk and get over the rail, would you, Doctor
Leyden?’
“‘No,’ I answered. ‘I would not try to prevent you.’
“There was another silence, and then he said in a low voice:
“‘Don’t you think that it would be easier ... for her?’
“‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
“‘But living I can only be a weight, a drag.’
“‘Her little children are that,’ said I.
“‘But don’t you see,’ he cried, ‘how different it is? They will grow
up....’ His voice rose in key.
“‘They will grow up and need her less,’ said I; ‘it is while they are
drags, weights, that they give her the greatest joy.’
“‘Don’t,’ he groaned, ‘... don’t you see, man, that my mind was at rest
about it; that I was cheerful, happy, when it was only a matter of
dying, ... and now that you are taking that away, think of the horror of
what’s left....’ His mouth writhed.
“‘You are the chief sufferer,’ said I. ‘My sympathy is for you. I did
not mean to destroy your faith in the ethics of this thing. Personally,
for your _own_ good, I would advise you to get overboard, and if you
wish I will lead you to the rail. I have been truthfully answering the
questions which you asked me concerning your wife....’
“We were both silent for many minutes.”
“‘I begin to see it now, I begin to see it ... you are right....’ And
then, Doctor, as he looked down the long, dark, narrow corridor
stretching away into the years of obscurity before him the shadow fell
across his soul and I left him writhing beneath the weight of his doom.”
Leyden paused and turned his pale, classic face toward the liquid
darkness of the star-flecked sky. “... See all of those planets,
Doctor,” he mused, “and think of what the sight of just one of them
would mean to a blind man ... a single break in the utter obliteration
of a sense ... a pin-prick in the curtain.... I once witnessed an
operation which restored to a blind man the perception of light alone
... no vision, only light ... and he would place his hands over his eyes
and then take them away and laugh with the joy of a heart too full for
utterance. Think of the myriad things we see which go to waste! My word,
it makes one wish to treasure the image of each passing object....”
“And now, Doctor, I will tell you the rest, and then you shall tell me
if I was a fool to answer him so truthfully; in my own mind I have never
been quite sure.
“Three days saw the end of his period of frantic and agonized
depression, for his stoicism and self-control abandoned him as soon as I
removed the balm of a voluntary death. In this time he would see none of
us; would eat because he had determined to live; but one could see that
a word of comfort, of sympathy, would be infuriating. Next came a week
of apathy while the wound was granulating ... inside and out. What is
it, Doctor, which regulates the duration of violent pain when its cause
still persists? In the case of this newly blinded man, with his high
vitality and potent perceptions, one could not conceive of such a thing
as reconciliation, nor did it arrive as such....”
“The first inkling I had of the change was while we were going down the
Red Sea. I had gone to pay my usual afternoon visit; one of the mess
boys was coming from Dalton’s room, and as he stepped into the corridor
I heard Dalton’s voice say peevishly:
“‘Be sure to get it well done and plenty of gravy ... do you hear,
plenty of gravy.’
“_Ach!_ For no reason the words shocked me more than when he had told me
of his wish to die! Plenty of gravy...! What could it matter to a man
newly blind if his gravy were of gall and wormwood? What _could_ it
matter?”
“Dalton had before this time recovered from the physical effects of the
shock; the epidermis of his face had not been deeply burned; the danger
to his eyes was due to the fact that the irritation of the caustic had
involuntarily forced him to hold the lids shut, thus causing the stuff
to burn the more deeply. His face had been blistered as it might from
any burn and the new skin had formed beneath, and at this time the
bandages were off and the only evidence of the accident was in the
pellucid film drawn across his pupils. He wore dark glasses to prevent
the irritant action of the light.
“It was a few days later that I received another shock. The chief and I
were standing by the railing talking when, glancing forward, I saw the
doctor come around the corner of the deck-house leading Dalton by the
hand. Burton caught sight of them as soon as I, and happening to glance
at him, I saw an odd expression cross his face; it was not alone the
shadow of pain and compassion, which would have been natural—there was
something puzzled in the look, something studious, contemplative. The
doctor led Dalton to a wicker _chaise-longue_ and left him there. The
face of the blind man was turned in our direction, but our voices failed
to reach him above the swash alongside.
“‘Poor lad!’ said Burton, in a low voice. ‘He were better dead, Doctor.
I ... I ... I did not think to see him abide by it....’ There was a
vague disappointment in the old man’s voice which irritated me.
“‘I agree with you that he would be better off himself if he were dead,’
I answered curtly, ‘but there are others than himself to consider.’
“Burton shook his head.
“‘’Twould be better for him if he were dead,’ he answered; ‘he can no
longer contribute to their support; and as far as sentiment is
concerned, why, do you not see, Doctor——’
“‘Do I not see what?’ I asked testily, the more so because I saw very
well, and I felt that it was my work.
“‘That he is no longer the same man,’ said Burton. ‘Look at the face of
him as he turns it this way. Do you think that dark glasses could ever
make that change?’
“Once again, Doctor, there ran through me the little chill which I had
felt on hearing Dalton emphasize the detail of his dinner. Burton was
right; he no longer was the same man, and as I realized this and was
able to look with clear sight far into his future I felt for the moment
as if I had tampered with the man’s soul. We are what we are by virtue
of our senses, Doctor, for it is through them that we give and receive
and translate and modify and perform the various functions and evolve
the phenomena, the sum of which is known as life. Of these senses sight
is perhaps the one through which we receive the most and must keep on
receiving, to fulfil the constant demand of the dependencies of this
sense, and just as the nature of a man is rounded and made fuller and
finer and greater by that which he sees, so must it shrivel and wane
when this tributary of the soul is cut off.
“It is, of course, unnecessary to state that Dalton was an object of the
most supreme compassion to the passengers, and where he had at first
shunned their expressions of sympathy I noticed that as the days wore on
he first endured, then courted them. His face, too, had changed; the
fine, sensitive lines about the mouth and eyes were gradually erased; he
began to put on flesh; his appetite was better than before the accident;
his demeanor grew to be gentle and passive. I have seen women read to
him by the hour and finally close the book and steal away in tears, but
do you know, Doctor, that while my compassion was as great as ever, the
change in the man had cooled my sympathy. I grew to be sorry for him
only with my head.”
“Burton understood. He said to me one day,’’Tis a rough thing, Doctor
Leyden, that I cannot take yon poor lad’s hurt more to heart, but ’tis
not as if ’twas Dalton himself in such trouble. Honestly, Doctor, I
believe that part of the man I loved was killed in him with the loss of
his sight....’ He glanced narrowly down the deck to where Dalton was
talking earnestly with one of the women passengers. ‘Look now ... one
cannot imagine Dalton so pouring out his soul to a stranger, for the lad
was always shut within himself with a double water-tight bulkhead!’
“‘He told me this morning,’ said I, ‘that the passengers were taking up
a collection for him.’
“‘Did he, now? ... but there! ... why not for a poor fellow with a wife
and children, struck blind in the performance of his duty? Only ...
only....’
“‘Only it is not like Dalton,’ said I, harshly.
“‘No, Doctor. Belike it is the humbleness of soul which comes to those
whom the Lord deeply chastens, ... and it is a balm, Doctor, ... a
balm....’
“When the ship reached Singapore I offered to conduct Dalton to his
home. It was a sweet spot on one of the charming little islands a short
row from the mainland; a bungalow half hidden in the foliage, a
diminutive jetty with a dozen steps leading into the dark green shadows.
As our sampan drew near I saw a woman with a toddling child on either
side step from this plushy background and descend the steps. Seeing me,
a white man and a stranger, she paused at the head of the toy jetty, but
as Dalton, wearing his dark glasses, began to fumble at the ladder with
no hail, no word of greeting, she slipped her hands from those of the
children and ran forward swiftly.
‘Hugh! ...’ she cried. ‘... Hugh!’
“‘One minute, girlie,’ answered Dalton. His voice was full, cheerful, a
_fat_ voice, Doctor, and a trifle flat in _timbre_, and as it reached
the ears of the woman I saw her stop as one might stop who runs to meet
a bullet full in the chest.
“‘Hugh!’ she cried again, and as she was by this time close at hand, I
spoke.
“‘He has met with an accident to his eyes ...,’ I began ... and then
looked away, but not in time to miss the expression of her face as she
cast her eyes first at her husband, then at me, ... and I knew that I
had fetched home a stranger to fill a husband’s place.”
Leyden paused and stared moodily at the bowl of his china pipe. “There
is a good deal in sacred literature, as well as in the laws of each
land, Doctor, concerning the impropriety of interfering with the
duration of a man’s life; is there anything regarding the sin of
interfering with his death ...? because there ought to be! It cannot be
pleasing to God to prolong an existence which He has culled in part....”
“Six months later I returned that way on my journey home from Java. I
took a sampan and was sculled across to the little island, and there in
front of the bungalow I found Dalton sitting beneath the high shade of
the royal palms. He had grown heavy; the last lines had left his face,
which was now smooth as that of a child. I noticed as his hands rested
on the arms of the chair that the thumbs had thickened, yet his other
senses had begun to do the mechanical work of his lacking sight.”
“‘Is that you, Leyden?’ he asked, in a full, flat, heavy voice, the
voice which suggested a fat throat. His two children were playing about
his chair; all three were munching a confection of sugar and chopped
cocoanut.
“‘Yes,’ he said, in answer to my question. ‘We are doing nicely. Ah,
Leyden, each cloud has its silver lining....’ His wife joined us at this
point and a glance at her face showed me the change. I had never known
it otherwise, yet the change was evident. ‘... I wrote to the earl ...’
continued Dalton—his voice grew slightly peevish—‘ ... and while he was
not above hurting the feelings of a poor blind man ...’—the fat voice
grew querulous—‘ ... he was generous ... very generous ...’—a complacent
note crept in.
“I glanced at the woman and a shiver ran down my back. ‘I am glad ...’ I
managed to mutter, ‘... very glad....’ She glanced at me warningly and
laid her finger on her lips, then nodded toward the landing. I shook his
hand, which was sticky from the sweet-meats.
“‘Good-bye ... I have barely time ...’ I mumbled and followed the woman
toward my boat.”
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mountains of Fears, by Henry C. Rowland