One evening in April, while Jeremy was reading and Barbara sewing in
the little candle-lit parlour, almost simultaneously with a sudden
downpour of rain came a knock at the front door. Jeremy, startled by
this unwonted occurrence, went himself to answer the summons, and,
opening the door, was confronted by a stout, youngish man dressed in
black with elegant ruffles and a gold-headed cane.
"Your pardon, sir," said the new-comer, "but may I crave a moment's
shelter during this shower? I am scarce equipped for the elements."
"Pray enter," said Jeremy hospitably.
"I am from London, and lodging at the 'White Hart' at Bullingford for
the night," the stranger explained, shaking the raindrops from his hat.
"During a stroll before supper I lost my way, and this storm has
surprised me at your gate. I make a thousand apologies for deranging
you."
"If you are wet the parlour fire will dry you. I beg you, sir, to
follow me," said Jeremy. He led the way through the dark passage and,
pausing with his hand on the door-knob, turned to the stranger and said
with his grave courtesy:
"I think it right to warn you, sir, that I am afflicted with a certain
personal disfigurement which not all persons can look upon with
equanimity."
"Sir," replied the other, "my name is John Hattaway, surgeon at St.
Thomas' Hospital in London, and I am used to regard with equanimity all
forms of human affliction."
Mr. Hattaway was shown into the parlour and introduced in due form to
Barbara. A chair was set for him near the fire. In the talk that
followed he showed himself to be a man of parts and education. He was
on his way, he said, to Oxford to perform an operation on the Warden of
Merton College.
"What kind of operation?" asked Barbara.
His quick, keen eyes swept her like a searchlight.
"Madam," said he, not committing himself, "'tis but a slight one."
But when Barbara had left the room to mull some claret for her guest,
Mr. Hattaway turned to Jeremy.
"'Tis a cataract," said he, "I am about to remove from the eye of the
Warden of Merton by the new operation invented by my revered master,
Mr. William Cheselden, my immediate predecessor at St. Thomas's. I did
not tell your wife, for certain reasons; but I noticed that she is
blinded by the same disease."
Jeremy rose from his chair.
"Do you mean that you will restore the Warden's sight?"
"I have every hope of doing so."
"But if his sight can be restored--then my wife's----"
"Can be restored also," said the surgeon complacently.
Jeremy sat down feeling faint and dizzy.
"Did you not know that cataract was curable?"
"I am scholar enough," answered Jeremy, "to have read that King John of
Aragon was so cured by the Jew, Abiathar of Lerida, by means of a
needle thrust through the eyeball----"
"Barbarous, my dear sir, barbarous!" cried the surgeon, raising a
white, protesting hand. "One in a million may be so cured. There is
even now a pestilential fellow of a quack, calling himself the
Chevalier Taylor, who is prodding folks' eyes with a six-inch skewer.
Have you never heard of him?"
"Alas, sir," said Jeremy, "I live so out of the world, and my daily
converse is limited to my dear wife and the parson hard by, who is as
recluse a scholar as I am myself."
"If you wish your wife to regain her sight," said Mr. Hattaway, "avoid
this Chevalier Taylor like the very devil. But if you will intrust her
to my care, Mr. Hattaway, surgeon of St. Thomas' Hospital, London,
pupil of the great Cheselden----"
He waved his hand by way of completing the unfinished sentence.
"When?" asked Jeremy, greatly agitated.
"After her child is born."
"Shall I tell her?" Jeremy trembled.
"As you will. No--perhaps you had better wait a while."
Then Barbara entered, bearing a silver tray, with the mulled claret and
glasses, proud of her blind surety of movement. Mr. Hattaway sprang to
assist her and, unknown to her, took the opportunity of scrutinising
her eyes. Then he nodded confidently at Jeremy.