CHAPTER VIIBLINDNESS
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. “Afterall, 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 variousdiamonds. 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 commentson 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 hesat 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—”
“OH!” CRIED DAVID. HE CLASPED MR. DEAN’S HAND. “IT—IT CAN’T BE SERIOUS”
“OH!” CRIED DAVID. HE CLASPED MR. DEAN’S HAND. “IT—IT CAN’T BE SERIOUS”
“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 schoolroomor 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 seemedto 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 Christmasvacation, 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 canwhip ’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 hisstudy, 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 recitationswithout 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.