“I don’t see how I could let you do that, Mr. Dean,” said David, with distress as well as gratitude in his voice. “Somehow I’ve often wondered whether it was right that I should accept so much from you as I have done—whether it was altogether manly of me. I hope I don’t hurt you when I say this. But I’ve never been quite comfortable about it. Whether I wouldn’t have been better satisfied with myself if I’d worked my way through college—paid for my own education—”
“My dear boy, don’t I know you’ve often been troubled by those doubts! But it wasn’t selfishness on your part that impelled you to accept my assistance. There was the obligation not to reject an arrangement that would improve your mother’s circumstances and that would give Ralph his chance. There was my own peculiar need, which you could hardly in compassion have refused. No, you’ve given quite as much as you’ve received. You needn’t have scruples on that score. And now in regard to Katharine.”
He rose and made his way to his bureau, where his hand unerringly searched out and picked up a framed photograph of a young woman who was dressed in a fashion of fifty years ago. David had often wondered about that photograph—who the girl was and why, even in his blindness, Mr. Dean had always been careful that it should occupy the central place on his bureau.
“David,” said Mr. Dean, holding out the picture, “there is the photograph of the girl to whom I was engaged when I was in college. When I graduated, I went into teaching at a small salary; we felt that we could not immediately afford to get married, but in a year or so—well, eventually I did win some increase in salary, but when I did my mother’s health was failing, and what I earned barely sufficed to keep her properly cared for until she died. At the end of four years it seemed to us that we could get married. Our plans were all made when Lydia—that was her name—was stricken with scarlet fever. She died in two weeks. Less than a year later an uncle of my mother’s, a childless widower who had gone West in his early youth and who had never manifested the slightest interest in his relatives, died and left me a hundred thousand dollars. That money might have been of so much use to me and was of so little! I don’t want you, David, to run the risk of missing your happiness as I missed mine. I don’t even want you to go through four years of waiting such as I passed through. Indeed, I’m determined not to allow it. You must talk with Katharine and tell her what I’ve said; and perhaps she will come and let me talk with her. If she does, I shall tell her that I feel—I know—my Lydia’s spirit is hovering near, watching you and her, watching you and her wistfully. Sometimes of late when I hold this photograph I feel again my Lydia’s hand in mine.”
Mr. Dean’s head had sunk forward upon his breast, his voice had grown dreamy, he seemed suddenly to have forgotten David’s presence. But only for a moment; he raised his head and said with brisk and cheerful command that brooked no argument: “So we won’t discuss it any more, David. Run along now and tell Katharine what I’ve made up my mind to do.”
After David had left the room, Mr. Dean remained seated in his chair, holding the photograph, lightly caressing it with his fingers.
THE END
Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the Illustrations.