“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!’