Part 12

“‘Probably when I dress your eyes to-morrow,’ said the Doctor, adding, ‘at the worst, you will never be in the dark....’

“‘I know....’ Dalton’s voice was very low, very quiet; ... ‘you mean that I will live behind ground glass....’

“The firm mouth stiffened and the triangular space which it occupied beneath the bandages grew suddenly white. At a sign from the doctor we picked him up and carried him to his berth and left him there to fight his fight alone.

“That night I sat late with Burton and the pious old chief had a sharp tussle to remain within the bounds of Christian submission as we discussed the accident. I soon discovered that he knew more of Dalton than he cared to tell, but I asked no questions. When I left him at eleven o’clock I passed the open door of Dalton’s room, and as I did so I was conscious of one of those long, deep, shuddering inspirations which scarcely carry sound and seem wrung less from the body than the tortured soul.

“‘Are you in pain?’ I whispered, for I did not wish to wake him if he should be asleep.

“‘In torture, Doctor Leyden,’ came the low answer; ‘but it is not of the flesh.’

“This was the first indication that I was known to him. I slipped into the room and went to the head of his bunk.

“‘May I sit with you?’ I asked.

“‘Thanks ... you know me, of course?’

“‘Yes,’ said I. I dropped on the locker beside him, and for several moments neither of us spoke.

“‘What do _you_ think of my chances of losing my sight, Doctor?’ he asked presently.

“‘I think,’ said I, ‘that your sight will be impaired, but not entirely destroyed. One eye appears to have been less injured than the other.’

“‘Do you think that I will be able to do my work?’ he asked quickly.

“‘Perhaps ... it is impossible to tell, my dear boy, until to-morrow—very likely not for several days.’

“Again I felt that shuddering sigh which was less a sound than an impression.

“‘It is not for myself that I am afraid, Doctor Leyden,’ he said in a few moments. ‘There is some one else ... other people....” My word! One could see his very heart squirming in the grip of his feudal pride.

“‘Tell me all about it, my boy,’ said I. ‘Life has shown me many of her poisons ... and their antidotes; perhaps I can help you.’

“‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said he, and went on to tell me his story. Briefly, he had several years before committed the indiscretion of running off with another man’s wife; not long afterward the husband had died and Dalton had married the woman. His father had cut him off without a penny, but through a friend he had got a billet as engineer, for which his technical education had fitted him, and had in time risen solely through his merits. The wife and their two children were living in Singapore.

“There were qualities in the romance, Doctor, which raised it to a plane higher than most similar affairs. Ten years of poverty had brought them no regrets, and this alone seemed to me sufficient to warrant the breach of etiquette; then, the former husband was a rake, or, what is far worse, an ex-rake. Also, the love of this man and woman had grown and deepened and gathered volume until, and this I gathered from what Dalton did _not_ tell me, the love itself contained in him had raised the nature of this man to a sublime height, where it would almost seem that he had undergone an apotheosis; this perfect love which had begun so imperfectly had matured this creature, who was the result of generations of highly bred and highly cultured ancestors, until the man was an Olympian, Doctor, a demi-god, or I am no judge of men.

“Before long I left him, soothed as much as might be, and promising to sleep. When I visited him the following day he was calm, and one read only in the lines of the firm and beautiful mouth which cut the triangular space between the bandages, ‘_I wait_.’”

Leyden’s voice grew muffled.

“My word! I couldn’t stand it, Doctor, for very long; it was worse than the accident itself. I sneaked off into Burton’s room, and there the surgeon found me an hour later lying on the old man’s bunk, for he was below at the time, and holding a capsized book in front of my face. There was a simplicity about this doctor which appealed to me.

“‘Oh, hell!’ said he, and dropped into Burton’s desk chair and buried his face in his hands, and there he sat until presently the chief came in. From behind my book I could feel the grizzled old fellow looking from one to the other of us, and presently he gave a husky and inquiring grunt.

“‘Blind,’ said the doctor, ... stone blind,’ and with that old Burton kicked shut the door which opened on the boiler-room, and the three of us began to snivel in the shamefaced way characteristic of certain emotional members of the Anglo-Saxon race. I think Burton prayed a little, for he was inclined to be theosophical.

“‘Does he know?’ asked Burton, presently.

“‘No,’ muttered the doctor, ... I ... I put him off....’

“‘You put him off!’ I snapped. ‘Do you mean to say that you have any hope?’

“‘There’s none to have,’ he answered a bit sulkily; ‘the cornea might just as well have been seared with a Paquelin....’

“‘And yet you put him off!’ I snarled, ‘and add the hell of uncertainty to the agony he’s got to suffer anyway when he hears the truth!’

“‘Go in and tell him yourself then,’ grumbled this doctor.

“‘I will,’ said I, and flung open the door and went out. I found Dalton lying on his bunk, his face swathed in fresh bandages, his straight mouth sphinx-like.

“‘Dalton,’ said I, roughly, ‘the doctor has just told me that you are blind.’

“‘Has he?’ said Dalton, calmly. ‘The poor chap lacked the nerve to tell me, and I don’t know that I blame him much. Beastly thing, that, to have to tell a chap that he’s blind.’

“I began to choke up again, Doctor. I had been purposely rough, commonplace, and I had expected and in fact half wished an hysterical outburst. As it was, the situation was infinitely more difficult. For several minutes Dalton did not speak.

“‘Would you like me to stay with you?’ I asked, ‘or shall I get out?’

“The bandaged head rolled toward me and the fine mouth curved in a smile which showed the white, even teeth.

“‘Don’t stay, Doctor; it is horribly depressing for you and I am so busy thinking that I don’t notice being alone. Come in and see me to-night, if you like.’

“I left him then and went aft on the other side of the ship from Burton’s room, and as I went I looked my hardest at the blue water and the blue sky and the bright-work and the bright faces of the children scampering up and down the deck ... and then a mist came before my eyes and my vision was as Dalton’s would be, ‘behind ground glass.’

“That night I went to him again. He greeted me quietly as I came in.

“‘Doctor Leyden,’ said he, ‘it is a terrible thing to be blind, is it not?’

“I did not answer.

“‘But it is not a terrible thing to die. We none of us fear to face death; most of us enjoy a bit of a tussle with the grim old man.’

“I had expected this and waited for him to go on.

“‘To myself,’ said Dalton, ‘I consider that I am dead, practically dead.’ He was silent for a few minutes and then said, ‘Do you not consider, Doctor Leyden, that we have all of us a certain claim upon each other as fellow-men?’

“‘Undoubtedly,’ I answered.

“‘I am glad that you feel as I do,’ said he composedly, ‘because my 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