He would need courage: therefore it behoved him to be brave now, to harden himself against the ills of life, and cultivate a resolute composure. All the influences which had tended to keep him soft must be thrown aside as weights which would hinder the race. He must be wise, therefore it behoved him to think, and to train his mind. A light reason, a light excuse, would no longer be sufficient; he must learn to judge and to reflect. He must be tender; and to be tender it was necessary to bury self, and to put other interests before his own. More weights had to be thrown aside. And he must be patient! Hitherto he had considered patience a feeble, almost unmanly, virtue; but he perceived that it would be needed, and must be cultivated with the rest.
Mrs Manning confided in her neighbours that Francis had never been the same since the discovery of Baby’s blindness. He never complained, she said. Oh, no; and he was most kind—gave no trouble in the house, but—Then she sighed, and the neighbours sympathised, and prophesied that he would “come round.” In truth the good, commonplace woman was ill at ease in the rarefied atmosphere of the home, and sincerely regretted the comfortable, easy-going husband of yore.
For three whole years Frank lived untroubled, and then the questions began to come.
“Am I blind, father? Why am I blind? Is it naughty to be blind?”
The baby child was easily appeased. Later on the questions would become more insistent. Francis prepared himself for that hour. At four years fleeting shadows began to pass over the boy’s radiance. Alone with his father, his face would pucker in thought.
“Shall I always be blind, father? I don’t like to be blind. Was you blind when you was a little boy?”
The knife turned in the father’s heart at the sound of the innocent words; but always the cloud loomed darker ahead. He trained himself more zealously, in preparation for the hour when the boy would rebel!
But there were happy hours between, hours when the natural joy of childhood filled the house with laughter, and father and son were supremely happy in each other’s society. No companion of his own age was half as dear to the boy; no living creature stood for so much in the father’s heart. They read and studied together; they held long, intimate conversation. They played games from which blind people are usually debarred. Standing behind a hoop on the croquet lawn the father would cry in a brisk, staccato voice, “Prank!” and on the instant the boy’s mallet would hit the ball, and send it in the direction indicated, and proud and glad was Frankie to know that his aim was surer than that of his sighted sisters. And every hour of contentment, every added interest and occupation bestowed upon the boy, was as a salve to the sore father heart. But at six years the inevitable rebellion began.
“Is he blind?” the boy would ask of a new acquaintance. “Can he see, too? Everyone can see but me! ... I want to run about like the other fellows, and play cricket, and have some fun. It’s dull all alone in the dark. Can’t you have me made better, father?”
At times he would cry; piteous, pitiful tears, but the sensitive ear was quick to catch the distress in his father’s voice, and he would offer consolation in the midst of his grief. “Don’t be sorry, father. I don’t want you to be sorry. It doesn’t matter; really it doesn’t. I have a ripping time!”