A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories

“My father told me to open it only when I found an honest man in the world,” she said, slowly.

The undertone of pathos in her voice drove the smile from Lansing’s lips.

“Have you found the world so dishonest?” he asked, seriously.

“I don’t know; I came from Notre Dame de Sainte Croix last year. Mr. Munn was my guardian; … said he was; … I suppose he is.”

Lansing looked at her in sympathy.

“I am not one of the community,” she said. “I only stay because I have no other home but this. I have no money, … at least I know of none that is mine.” Lansing was silent and attentive.

“I – I heard your voice; … I wanted to speak to you – to hear you speak to me,” she said. A new timidity came into her tone; she raised her head. “I – somehow when you spoke – I felt that you – you were honest.” She stammered again, but Lansing’s cool voice brought her out of her difficulty and painful shyness.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“I’m Dr. Lansing,” he said.

“Will you open my steel box and read my papers for me?” she inquired, innocently.

“I will – if you wish,” he said, impulsively; “if you think it wise. But I think you had better read the papers for yourself.”

“Why, I can’t read,” she said, apparently surprised that he should not know it.

“You mean that you were not taught to read in your convent school?” he asked, incredulously.

A curious little sound escaped her lips; she raised both slender hands and unpinned her hat. Then she turned her head to his.

The deep-blue beauty of her eyes thrilled him; then he started and leaned forward, closer, closer to her exquisite face.

“My child,” he cried, softly, “my poor child!” And she smiled and fingered the straw hat in her lap.

“Will you read my father’s papers for me?” she said.

“Yes – yes – if you wish. Yes, indeed!” After a moment he said: “How long have you been blind?”

IV

That evening, at dusk, Lansing came into the club, and went directly to his room. He carried a small, shabby satchel; and when he had locked his door he opened the satchel and drew from it a flat steel box.

For half an hour he sat by his open window in the quiet starlight, considering the box, turning it over and over in his hands. At length he opened his trunk, placed the box inside, locked the trunk, and noiselessly left the room.

He encountered Coursay in the hall, and started to pass him with an abstracted nod, then changed his mind and slipped his arm through the arm of his young kinsman.

“Thought you meant to cut me,” said Coursay, half laughing, half in earnest.

“Why?” Lansing stopped short; then, “Oh, because you played the fool with Agatha in the canoe? You two will find yourselves in a crankier craft than that if you don’t look sharp.”

“You have an ugly way of putting it,” began Coursay. But Lansing scowled and said:

“Jack, I want advice; I’m troubled, old chap. Come into my room while I dress for dinner. Don’t shy and stand on your hind-legs; it’s not about Agatha Sprowl; it’s about me, and I’m in trouble.”

The appeal flattered and touched Coursay, who had never expected that he, a weak and spineless back-slider, could possibly be of aid or comfort to his self-sufficient and celebrated cousin, Dr. Lansing.

They entered Lansing’s rooms; Coursay helped himself to some cognac, and smoked, waiting for Lansing to emerge from his dressing-room.

Presently, bathed, shaved, and in his shirt-sleeves, Lansing came in, tying his tie, a cigarette unlighted between his teeth.

“Jack,” he said, “give me advice, not as a self-centred, cautious, and orderly citizen of Manhattan, but as a young man whose heart leads his head every time! I want that sort of advice; and I can’t give it to myself.”

“Do you mean it?” demanded Coursay, incredulously.

“By Heaven, I do!” returned Lansing, biting his words short, as the snap of a whip.

He turned his back to the mirror, lighted his cigarette, took one puff, threw it into the grate. Then he told Coursay what had occurred between him and the young girl under the elm, reciting the facts minutely and exactly as they occurred.

“I have the box in my trunk yonder,” he went on; “the poor little thing managed to slip out while Munn was in the barn; I was waiting for her in the road.”

After a moment Coursay asked if the girl was stone blind.

“No,” said Lansing; “she can distinguish light from darkness; she can even make out form – in the dark; but a strong light completely blinds her.”

“Can you help her?” asked Coursay, with quick pity.

Lansing did not answer the question, but went on: “It’s been coming on – this blindness – since her fifth year; she could always see to read better in dark corners than in a full light. For the last two years she has not been able to see; and she’s only twenty, Jack – only twenty.”

“Can’t you help her?” repeated Coursay, a painful catch in his throat.

“I haven’t examined her,” said Lansing, curtly.

“But – but you are an expert in that sort of thing,” protested his cousin; “isn’t this in your line?”

“Yes; I sat and talked to her half an hour and did not know she was blind. She has a pair of magnificent deep-blue eyes; nobody, talking to her, could suspect such a thing. Still – her eyes were shaded by her hat.”

“What kind of blindness is it?” asked Coursay, in a shocked voice.

“I think I know,” said Lansing. “I think there can be little doubt that she has a rather unusual form of lamellar cataract.”

“Curable?” motioned Coursay.

“I haven’t examined her; how could I – But – I’m going to do it.”

“And if you operate?” asked Coursay, hopefully.

“Operate? Yes – yes, of course. It is needling, you know, with probability of repetition. We expect absorption to do the work for us – bar accidents and other things.”

“When will you operate?” inquired Coursay.

Lansing broke out, harshly: “God knows! That swindler, Munn, keeps her a prisoner. Doctors long ago urged her to submit to an operation; Munn refused, and he and his deluded women have been treating her by prayer for years – the miserable mountebank!”