THE VERDICT
It was Monday morning now. The hours of that night had been hours of
torture. Sleep had come once or twice, but sleep meant only the surrender
of his mind to the horrors which preyed upon it. He could, in some
measure, exert a mastery when awake, but no man is master of his dreams.
His dreams put before him all those things his thoughts fought away. In
his dreams, there was a fearful thing pursuing him, reaching out for him,
gaining upon him with each step. Or sometimes, it stalked beside him, not
retreating, not advancing, but waiting, standing there beside him with
grim, inexorable smile. It was after waking from such dreams that he
breathed his prayer that this night pass. No matter what be ahead, he
asked that this night pass away.
After he was up he found himself able to go on in much the usual way.
When Ernestine came in and asked about his head, he told her it was
better; when she wanted to know about his eyes, he said they were not any
better yet, but that that was something which would simply have to run
its course. She begged him not to go over to the university, but he told
her it was especially important to go this morning. He added that he
might not be there very long.
He ate his usual breakfast. A truth that would shake the foundations of
his life might be waiting for him just ahead, and yet he could make his
usual laughing plea for a second cup of coffee. Undoubtedly it was so
with many men; beneath a mail of conventions and pleasantries they lived
through their fears and sorrows alone.
Something clutched at his heart as he kissed Ernestine good-bye and there
was a momentary temptation. Could he face it alone, if he had to face it?
To have her with him! But he put that aside; not alone for her sake, but
because he felt that after all there were things through which one must
pass alone. But after he had reached the door, he came back and kissed
her again. What if he were to go down into a place too deep for his voice
to reach her?
There was some solace, assurance, in the naturalness of things about him.
Everything else was just the same; it did not seem that it could be part
of natural law then for his own life to be entirely overturned.
And the world was so beautiful! It was a buoyant spring morning. There
was assurance in the song of the birds, in the perfume of flowers and
trees. The air upon his face was soft and reassuring. This seemed far
away from the hideous phantoms of the night. Why the world did not _feel_
like tragedy this morning!
He had a lecture at eight o'clock, and he made up his mind he would give
it. In the night he had thought of going first of all to the laboratory.
The truth would be waiting for him there. But it was his business to give
the lecture and he could not be sure of giving it if he went to the
laboratory first. A man had no right to let his own affairs interfere
with his work. Oh yes--by all means, he would give the lecture. In spite
of his prayer that the uncertainty should end, he reached out for another
hour of holding it off.
He knew as the hour advanced that he had never done better work in the
lecture room. He pinned his mind to it with a rigidity which prompted him
to put the subject as though it were the most vital thing in all the
world. He threw the whole force of his will to filling his mind with the
things of which he spoke that he might not yield so much as an inch to
the things which waited just outside.
He talked until the last minute; in fact, he went so much over his time
that another class was waiting at the door. He clung to those last
moments with the desperation of the drowning man to the splintered piece
of board. After it was over, just as he was yielding the desk to the man
who followed him, one of his students approached him with a question and
the thankfulness, the appeal, almost, in the smile with which he received
him, mystified the student until he stammered out his question
bewilderedly.
He could wait no longer now. That room belonged to others. The next
period was his usual hour in the laboratory. It was an hour which on
Monday morning he could, if he wished, spend alone.
His temples were beating, thundering. His hands were so cold that they
seemed things apart from him. But his mouth--how parched it was!--was set
very hard, and his steps, though slow, was firm.
In the outer laboratory, Professor Hastings stopped him, remonstrating
against his working when he was having trouble with his eyes. He assured
him, elaborately, that he was taking care of them, that probably he would
not be in there long.
He opened the door of his laboratory and passed in. He closed it behind
him, and stood there leaning against it. He was all alone now. There was
nothing in the room but himself and the truth which was waiting for him.
He put his book down upon the table. He walked over and sat down before
the culture oven. He must get this over with! He was getting sick. He
could not stand much more.
With firm, quick hand he wrenched open the doors. He put his hand upon
what he knew to be the tube. He pulled it out, turned around to the light
and held it up between him and the window. For one moment he looked
away;--how parched his mouth was! And then, a mighty will turning his
eyes upon it, in one long gaze he read the plain, unmistakable,
unalterable truth. He had never seen a better culture. Science would
perhaps commit itself no further than to say his eyes had become
inoculated with the most virulent germ known to pathology. But out beyond
the efforts which would be made to save him, he read--written large--the
truth.
He was going blind.