“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 Christmas vacation, 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.