Two hours later the doctors arrived. They looked at Mercy's eyes, and
were satisfied that the time was ripe for the operation. At the sound of
their voices, Mercy trembled and turned livid. By a maternal instinct
she picked up the child, who was toddling about the floor, and clasped
it to her bosom. The little one opened wide his blue eyes at sight of
the strangers, and the prattling tongue became quiet.
"Take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the
doctors to Greta.
A sudden terror seized the young mother. "No, no, no!" she said, in an
indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to
her breast.
"Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your boy's sake," said Greta.
"Listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly: "You are now quite
blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. We may
be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. Will
you not bear it?"
Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately.
"Just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will
never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "You have nothing to
lose, and everything to gain. Are you satisfied? Come, go away to your
room quietly."
"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mercy.
"Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will
scarcely be conscious. Before you know what is doing it will be done."
Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more
fervently.
The doctors turned to each other. "Strange vanity!" muttered the one who
had not spoken before. "Her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she
may lose them."
Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "It is not that," she
said, passionately.
"No, gentlemen," said Greta, "you have mistaken her thought. Tell her
she runs no danger of her life."
The doctors smiled and laughed a little. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, we
can tell her that with certainty."
Then there was another interchange of half-amused glances.
"Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a
mother's heart," said old Matthew. And Mercy turned toward him a face
that was full of gratitude. Greta took the child out of her arms and
hushed it to sleep in another room. Then she brought it back and put it
in its cradle that stood in the ingle.
"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted
herself to be led from the kitchen.
"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who
said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I
shall live to see him grow to be a great lad."
Her whole face was now radiant.
"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to
think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold
in the churchyard--and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't it?
But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came."
"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta.
"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a
great risk after all. And if he grew up--and I wasn't here--if--if--"
"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and
that can't be good for the doctors."
"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only
let me kiss my little Ralphie--just for the last."
Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over
it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched
wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and
resigned.
The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the
cradle head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner
wept in silence, and the good Parson's voice was too thick for the words
of comfort that rose to his lips.
The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her
bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own
thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line
of her beautiful, brave face.
"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the
other.
Mercy's features twitched.
"Who said that?" she asked nervously.
"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority.
"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she
said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry
out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say
how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible."
The doctors consulted together aside, and in whispers.
"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?"
"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing
voice.
"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will
be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I _can_ be brave,
can't I?"
The doctors returned to the bedside.
"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little
woman, after all. There, be still--very still."
One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the
other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light.
There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is
father--he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing."
She laughed a weak little laugh.
"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed."
Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a
dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child.
When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said, very
softly, "Let me hold your hand, Greta--may I say Greta?--there," and her
fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp.
The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn
north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead
silence.
In two or three minutes the doctor said, "Just another minute, and all
will be over."
At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron.
"Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, and her words came in
gusts.
"Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. In half a minute more the
linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's eyes.
"Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy!" cried Mercy.
"Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again.
"Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep--one little peep. I saw your
face--let me see my Ralphie's."
"Not yet, it is not safe."
"But only for a moment. Don't put the bandage on for one moment. Just
think, doctor, I have never seen my boy; I've seen other people's
children, but never once my own, own darling. Oh, dear doctor--"
"You are exciting yourself. Listen to me: if you don't behave yourself
now you may never see your child."
"Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be very good. Only don't shut me
up in darkness again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to me. Listen,
I hear his breathing. Go for my darling! The kind doctor won't be angry
with you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure me. I know it
will."
Greta's eyes were swimming in tears.
"Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now,
my dear."
The doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly
at the back of their patient's head.
"Now listen again," said one of them: "This bandage must be kept over
your eyes for a week."
"A week--a whole week? Oh, doctor, you might as well say forever."
"I say a week. And if you should ever remove it--"
"Not for an instant? Not raise it a very little?"
"If you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you
will assuredly lose your sight forever. Remember that."
"Oh, doctor, it is terrible. Why did you not tell me so before? Oh this
is worse than blindness! Think of the temptation, and I have never seen
my boy!"
The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no
less resolute.
"You must obey me," he said; "I will come again this day week, and then
you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and
everybody. But mind, if you don't obey me, you will never see anything.
You will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever,
or perhaps--yes, perhaps _die_."
Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she said, in a low voice:
"Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am very wilful, and I promised to
be so good. I will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake of my little
boy, I will never, never touch it. You shall come yourself and take it
off, and then I shall see him."
The doctors went away. Greta remained all that night in the cottage.
"You are happy now, Mercy?" said Greta.
"Oh yes," said Mercy. "Just think, only a week! And he must be so
beautiful by this time."
When Greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy
in her pale face, and next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was singing
softly to herself in the sunrise.