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.
âTell me the truth,â Henry said. He meant, donât make me wait, donât try to soothe me. He wanted a surgeon, not a nurse. Nothing gentle.
âYour exam shows youâre losing your sight,â Jed answered, unable to be brusque.
âIâm going blind,â Henry said.
âSay it.â He could still see Jedâs face clearly enough or at least he knew his expressions well enough to read what the shadows meant, the steadiness of Jedâs 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.
âYouâre going blind,â Jed said, reaching out to lay his hand on Henryâs arm.
âAnd thereâs nothing to be done,â Henry said.
âNo. Well, thereâs nothing to be done here. Even if I had the right equipment, you need an oculist, a specialist. What I could do wouldnât be worth a damn, even if I had Samuelâs help,â Jed replied. âIf ever anything proved there is a God in Heaven, itâs a manâs eye, the delicacy of it, the intricacy, the sheer bloody-minded genius of it.â
âI wasnât finished,â Jed said. âAll 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.â
âYouâre very kind, Jed, but you neednât,â Henry said.
âYou must let me. Right away, while they may do the most good,â Jed said. He did not say an expert could save Henryâs vision, only some salvage. How much darkness could he rejoice over? How little light?
âNo. I accept it. I accept this is what is meant for me,â Henry said. âAnd even if I did not, I shouldnât 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.â
âHenry, pleaseâMary and I, we could help, we have more than enough,â 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 plantationâs currency of blood and soul, if it had been his officerâs salary or what Maryâs first husband had left of his honest work, Henry could not have taken it.
âThere are better things to spend it on. That will do more good.â Henry laid his hand atop Jedâs, the gesture arresting. Heâd learned over the years how sensitive Jed was to touch, had seen how Mary knew it, how often her hand had grazed Jedâs well before they were married.
âYouâre a Congregationalist, man, you neednât be a martyr. Rome isnât interested in the likes of you,â Jed countered and Henry couldnât help but laugh. He could still see. It wasnât pitiableâyet.
âIâll keep that in mind,â Henry said. He would lose his sight; heâd keep his pride. âYou must admit, I have a lot to consider before I leave.â
âYou canât imagine Iâd stay,â Henry said. âLike this. What I will become.â
âJed, you cannot argue with me about this,â Henry said.
âBlast you, of course, I can!â
âNo, you cannot. You are not going blind.â
