The children had been laid in two small rooms with a northern aspect,
in the upper story of the vicarage. In default of shutters, the windows
had been carefully hung with shawls, making soft twilight of the
brightest noonday. The vicar's quiet extensive orchard, while it gave
the walls abundant shade, kept off the din of village life beyond.
The doctor had enjoined extreme precaution, for the girl especially. As
far as depended upon himself, the operation had proved successful. In
solitude and silence. Nature must be left to do the rest. The young
girl's temperament was so excitable as to require the utmost care, and
most attentive watching.
At the decisive hour Marlene had not flinched; and when her mother had
burst into tears on first hearing the doctor's step on the threshold,
she had gone up to her to comfort her.
The doctor began the operation with the boy. Though somewhat agitated,
he had seated himself bravely, and borne it well. At first he would not
suffer himself to be held, and only yielded to Marlene's entreaties.
When, for a second, the doctor removed his hand from his unveiled eyes,
he had raised a cry of surprise and delight.
Marlene started; then she too proceeded to undergo the ordeal without a
murmur. Tears gushed from her eyes, and she shook from head to foot,
hastily tying on the bandage. The doctor helped them to carry her into
the adjoining room, for her knees knocked together, and she could
hardly stand. There, stretched on her little conch, she had a long
alternation of sleep and faintness; while the boy declared himself to
be quite well, and only his father's serious orders induced him to go
to bed. To go to sleep was not so easy. Confused visions of forms and
colors,--colors for the first time,--flitted across his brain;
mysterious forms that had as yet been nothing to him, and were now to
be so much, if those were right who wished him joy. He asked a thousand
questions while his father and mother sat by his bedside--riddles not
yet expounded by the deepest science. For what can science tell us,
after all, of the hidden springs of life? His father entreated
him to be patient; with God's help, ere long, he would be able to
resolve these doubts himself; at present, quiet was the one thing
needful--especially to Marlene, whom he must not wake by talking. This
silenced him, and listening at the wall, he whispered a petition that
the door between them might be left ajar, in order that he might hear
whether she slept or if she was in pain. When his mother had done his
bidding, he lay quite still, and listened to the breathing of his
little sleeping friend; and the quiet rhythm as it rose and fell, sang
him like a lullaby to sleep.
Thus they lay for hours. The village was much more still than usual.
Those who had to pass the vicarage with carts, took every possible
precaution against noise. Even the village-children, warned, most
likely, by their master, in place of running riot on coming out of
school as usual, went quietly by in couples to their remotest
playgrounds, whispering as they passed, and looking up at the house
with wistful eyes. The birds alone among the branches did not hush
their song. But when did a bird's voice ever vex or weary child of man,
be he ever so sorely in need of rest?
Only by the bells of the homebound flocks, were the children at last
awakened. The boy's first question was for Marlene, and whether she had
been asking for him? He called to her in a suppressed tone, and asked
her how she felt? That heavy sleep has not restored her, and her eyes
are burning under the slight handkerchief that binds them. But she does
violence to her sensations, and forces herself to answer that she feels
much better, and to talk cheerfully to Clement, who now gives utterance
to all the wildest speculations of his fancy.
Late, when the moon stands high above the woods, a shy small childish
hand is heard to knock at the vicarage door. The little village-girls
have brought a garland for Marlene; woven from their choicest
garden-flowers, and a bunch of them for Clement. When they are brought,
the boy's whole countenance lightens up. "Give them my kindest thanks,"
he begs; "they are such kind good girls! I am not well yet, but when I
have my sight, I shall always be on their side, and help them against
the boys." When the wreath was brought to Marlene, she pushed it gently
from her with her small pale hands. "I cannot have it here," she said;
"it makes me faint, dear mother, to have these flowers so near--give
these to Clement too."
Again she sank into a sort of feverish slumber; only the healing
approach of day brought something like repose. And the doctor, who came
in the morning very early, was able to pronounce her out of danger,
which indeed was more than he had hoped for. He sat long by the boy's
bedside, listening to his strange questions with a smile, benevolently
admonishing him to patience; and, filled with the most sanguine hopes,
he left them.
But to be admonished to quiet and patience after one has had a glimpse
of the promised land! In each interval of his duties, his father had to
go upstairs to that little room and talk. And the door was left ajar,
that Marlene too might hear these charming stories. Legends of godly
men and women, to whom the Lord had sent most heavy trials, and then
withdrawn them. The story of poor Henry, and of that pious little
maiden who would have sacrificed herself in her humility; and how God
had guided all to the most blissful consummation; and as many of such
edifying histories as the worthy pastor could find to unfold.
And when on the good man's lips, story would unconsciously turn to
prayer; or his wife would raise her clear voice in a hymn of
thanksgiving, Clement would fold his hands and join--but he would so
soon break in with fresh enquiries, as to prove his mind to have been
far more present with the story than with the song.
Marlene asked no questions; she was kind and cheerful to every one, and
no one guessed the thoughts and questions that were working in her
mind.
They recovered visibly from day to day; and on the fourth, the doctor
allowed them to get up. He himself supported the young girl, as, all
weak and trembling, she crept towards the door, where the boy stood
joyously holding out a searching hand for hers, and then holding hers
fast, he bid her lean on him, which she did in her usual confiding way.
They paced up and down--he with the perceptions of locality peculiar to
the blind, guiding her carefully past the chairs and cupboards that
stood against the walls. "How do you feel now?" he asked her. "Well;"
she answered again--and always.
"Come," he said; "lean heavier on me; you are so weak. It would do you
good to breathe the air, and the scent of the flowery meadows; it is so
close and heavy here. Only the doctor says it might be dangerous; our
eyes might get sore again, and even blind, if we were to see the light
too soon. Ah! now I know the difference between light and darkness! No
sound in music is so sweet as that feeling of space about the eyes. It
did hurt me rather, I must confess; yet I could have gazed for ever at
those bright colors--the pain was so beautiful (you will soon feel it
also). But it will be many a long day before we are allowed to enjoy
that pleasure. At first, I know I shall do nothing but look all day
long. One thing I should like to know, Marlene; they tell us each thing
has its color--now what is the color of your face and mine? I should so
like to know--bright or dark? Would not it be disagreeable if they
should not be bright and fair? I wonder whether I shall know you with
my eyes? Now when I only feel with the tip of this little finger, I
could distinguish you from every other human being in the world.
"But then!--ah! then we shall have to begin again. We must learn to
know each other by sight. Now, I know that your cheeks and hair are
soft to touch--will they be soft to look at? I do so long to know, and
have so long to wait!" In this way he would run on, talking
unceasingly. How silently she walked by his side, he never noticed.
Many of his words sank deep into her heart. It had never yet occurred
to her that she should see herself as others saw her--she could hardly
fancy that could be. She had heard of mirrors, but she never had been
able to understand them. She now imagined that when a seeing person's
eyes are opened, his own image must stand before him.
Now as she lay in bed, her mother believing her to be asleep, the words
recurred to her again: "It would be disagreeable if we should find our
faces dark!" She had heard of ugliness and beauty; she knew that ugly
people were generally much pitied, and often less loved. "If I should
be ugly," she said to herself, "and he were to care less for me! He
used to play with my hair and call it silk--he will never do that now,
if he finds me ugly. And he?--if _he_ should happen to be ugly, I never
would let him feel it--never! I should love him just the same. Yet, no;
_he_ cannot be ugly--not he. I know he is not." Thus she brooded long,
lost in care and curiosity. The weather was hot and close. From the
garden the nightingale was heard complaining, while fitful gusts of
west wind came rattling at the windowpanes. She was all alone in her
room. Her mother, who till now had slept beside her, had had her bed
removed, to lessen the heat within that narrow space. It was
unnecessary to watch her now, they thought, as all feverish symptoms
were supposed to have disappeared. This night, however, they did return
again, and kept her tossing restlessly until long after midnight. Then
sleep, though steep dull and broken, had taken pity on her, and come to
close her weary eyelids.
Meanwhile the storm that had been encircling the horizon half the day,
threatening and growling, had arisen with might, gathered itself just
above the wood, and paused--even the wind had ceased. Now a heavy crash
of thunder breaks over the young girl's slumbers. She starts up, half
dreaming still--what it is she feels or wants, she hardly knows;
impelled by some vague terror, she rises to her feet. Her pillows seem
to burn her. Standing by her bed, she listens to the pattering rain
without; but it does not cool her fevered brow. She tries to collect
her thoughts--to remember what had passed. She can recall nothing but
those melancholy fancies with which she had fallen asleep. A hasty
resolution forms and ripens in her mind. She will go to Clement; he too
is alone--what is to prevent her resolving all her doubts at once, by
one look at him and at herself? Possessed by this idea, the doctor's
injunctions are all forgotten. Just as she had left her couch, with
groping trembling hands, she finds the door which stands half open;
feeling for the bed, she steals on tiptoe to the sleeper's side;
holding her breath, bending forward where he lies, she tears the
bandage from her eyes.
But how is she terrified to find that all is as dark as ever. She had
forgotten that it was night, and that she had been told night makes all
men blind. She had believed it was the light streaming from a seeing
eye that lighted up itself and other objects round it. She can
distinguish nothing, although she feels the boy's soft breath upon her
eyelids. In distress, almost in despair, she is about to leave the
room, when a sudden flash of lightning flames through the now less
carefully darkened panes; a second, and then a third--the whole
atmosphere seems to surge with lurid light. Thunder and rain increase
their roar. But she stands motionless, her rapt gaze fastened on the
curly head before her, resting so peacefully upon its pillows. Then the
picture begins to fade--the water gushes from her eyes; seized with
unutterable terror, she takes refuge in her room, and hastily replacing
the bandage, she throws herself upon her bed. She knows--she feels
irrevocably--her eyes have looked and seen for the first time--and for
the last!