At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing
At first, Henry has simply thought it was fatigue, long days, longer nights, for longer than he could remember. The candles were tallow or a wick floating in a shallow dish of oil, not beeswax tapers or the clear, soft gleam of whale-oil from his childhood; the noon sun in Virginia was so bright it must be squinted at and the grey dust rose in the rutted streets with the passage of every wagon, with every pair of worn boots or threadbare slippers. It was his faith, falling away, it was his anger, pulling him under, it was his longing for a dreamless night, a deathless night. When he could not convince himself any longer, he went to Jed.
“Tell me the truth,” Henry said. He meant, don’t make me wait, don’t try to soothe me. He wanted a surgeon, not a nurse. Nothing gentle.
“Your exam shows you’re losing your sight,” Jed answered, unable to be brusque.
“I’m going blind,” Henry said.
“Say it.” He could still see Jed’s face clearly enough or at least he knew his expressions well enough to read what the shadows meant, the steadiness of Jed’s dark eyes. This was the man Mary had fallen in love with, this kind man who carried sorrow with him not lightly but without questioning it.
“You’re going blind,” Jed said, reaching out to lay his hand on Henry’s arm.
“And there’s nothing to be done,” Henry said.
“No. Well, there’s nothing to be done here. Even if I had the right equipment, you need an oculist, a specialist. What I could do wouldn’t be worth a damn, even if I had Samuel’s help,” Jed replied. “If ever anything proved there is a God in Heaven, it’s a man’s eye, the delicacy of it, the intricacy, the sheer bloody-minded genius of it.”
“I wasn’t finished,” Jed said. “All hope is not lost. I shall write to a colleague in Boston and another in Paris, an old friend in Vienna. I feel certain one of them will be able to do something for you.”
“You’re very kind, Jed, but you needn’t,” Henry said.
“You must let me. Right away, while they may do the most good,” Jed said. He did not say an expert could save Henry’s vision, only some salvage. How much darkness could he rejoice over? How little light?
“No. I accept it. I accept this is what is meant for me,” Henry said. “And even if I did not, I shouldn’t be able to afford a long journey, expensive treatment, a convalescence. What little I have I must use to make a life I can live without burdening anyone.”
“Henry, please—Mary and I, we could help, we have more than enough,” Jed said. He spoke quickly, confidently, the tone of a man born to wealth. Even if not a penny had come from his inheritance, the plantation’s currency of blood and soul, if it had been his officer’s salary or what Mary’s first husband had left of his honest work, Henry could not have taken it.
“There are better things to spend it on. That will do more good.” Henry laid his hand atop Jed’s, the gesture arresting. He’d learned over the years how sensitive Jed was to touch, had seen how Mary knew it, how often her hand had grazed Jed’s well before they were married.
“You’re a Congregationalist, man, you needn’t be a martyr. Rome isn’t interested in the likes of you,” Jed countered and Henry couldn’t help but laugh. He could still see. It wasn’t pitiable—yet.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Henry said. He would lose his sight; he’d keep his pride. “You must admit, I have a lot to consider before I leave.”
“You can’t imagine I’d stay,” Henry said. “Like this. What I will become.”
“Jed, you cannot argue with me about this,” Henry said.
“Blast you, of course, I can!”
“No, you cannot. You are not going blind.”
