One morning Mr. Hattaway, after his examination of the patient, entered
the parlour where Jeremy was reading _Tillotson's Sermons_ (there were
the fourteen volumes of them in the room's unlively bookcase) and
closed the door behind him with an air of importance.
"Sir," said he, "I bring you good news."
Jeremy closed his book.
"She sees?"
"On removing the bandages just now," replied Mr. Hattaway, "I perceived
to my great regret that with the left eye my skill has been unavailing.
The failure is due, I believe, to an injury to the retina which I have
been unable to discover." He paused and took snuff. "But I rejoice to
inform you that sight is restored to the right eye. I admitted light
into the room, and though the vision is diffused, which a lens will
rectify, she saw me distinctly."
"Thank God she has the blessing of sight," said Jeremy reverently.
"Amen," said the surgeon. He took another pinch. "Also, perhaps,
thank your humble servant for restoring it."
"I owe you an unpayable debt," replied Jeremy.
"She is crying out for the baby," said Mr. Hattaway. "If you will
kindly send it in to her I can allow her a fleeting glimpse of it
before I complete the rebandaging for the day."
Jeremy rang the bell and gave the order. "And I?" he inquired bravely.
The surgeon hesitated and scratched his plump cheek.
"You know that my wife has never seen me."
"To-morrow, then," said Hattaway.
The nurse and child appeared at the doorway, and the surgeon followed
them into Barbara's room.
When the surgeon had left the house Jeremy went to Barbara and found
her crooning over the babe, which lay in her arms.
"I've seen him, dear, I've seen him!" she cried joyously. "He is the
most wonderfully beautiful thing on the earth. His eyes are light
blue, and mine are dark, so he must have yours. And his mouth is made
for kisses, and his expression is that of a babe born in Paradise."
Jeremy bent over and looked at the boy, who sniggered at him in a most
unparadisiacal fashion, and they talked parentwise over his perfections.
"Before we go back to Bullingford you will let me take a coach, Jeremy,
and drive about the streets and show him to the town? I will hold him
up and cry: 'Ladies and gentlemen, look! 'Tis the tenth wonder of the
world. You only have this one chance of seeing him.'"
She rattled on in the gayest of moods, making him laugh in spite of the
terror. The failure of the operation in the left eye she put aside as
of no account. One eye was a necessity, but two were a mere luxury.
"And it is the little rogue that will reap the benefit," she cried,
cuddling the child. "For, when he is naughty mammy will turn the blind
side of her face to him."
"And will you turn the blind side of your face to me?" asked Jeremy
with a quiver of the lips.
She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek.
"You have no faults, my beloved husband, for me to be blind to," she
said, wilfully or not misunderstanding him.
Such rapture had the sight of the child given her that she insisted on
its lying with her that night, a truckle-bed being placed in the room
for the child's nurse. When Jeremy took leave of her before going to
his own room he bent over her and whispered:
"To-morrow."
Her sweet lips--pathetically sweet below the bandage--parted in a
smile--and they never seemed sweeter to the anguished man--and she also
whispered, "To-morrow!" and kissed him.
He went away, and as he closed the door he felt that it was the gate of
Paradise shut against him for ever.
He did not sleep that night, but spent it as a brave man spends the
night before his execution. For, after all, Jeremy Wendover was a
gallant gentlemen.
In the morning he went into Barbara's room before breakfast, as his
custom was, and found her still gay and bubbling over with the joy of
life. And when he was leaving her she stretched out her hands and
clasped his maimed face, as she had done once before, and said the same
reassuring words. Nothing could shake her immense, her steadfast love.
But Jeremy, entering the parlour and catching sight of himself in the
Queen Anne mirror over the mantle-piece, shuddered to the inmost roots
of his being. She had no conception of what she vowed.
He was scarce through breakfast when Mr. Hattaway entered, a full hour
before his usual time.
"I am in a prodigious hurry," said he, "for I must go post-haste into
Norfolk, to operate on my Lord Winteringham for the stone. I have not
a moment to lose, so I pray you to accompany me to your wife's
bedchamber."
The awful moment had come. Jeremy courteously opened doors for the
surgeon to pass through, and followed with death in his heart. When
they entered the room he noticed that Barbara had caused the nurse's
truckle-bed to be removed and that she was lying, demure as a nun, in a
newly made bed. The surgeon flung the black curtains from the window
and let the summer light filter through the linen blinds.
"We will have a longer exposure this morning," said he, "and to-morrow
a little longer still, and so on until we can face the daylight
altogether. Now, madam, if you please."
He busied himself with the bandages. Jeremy, on the other side of the
bed, stood clasping Barbara's hand: stood stock-still, with thumping
heart, holding his breath, setting his teeth, nerving himself for the
sharp, instinctive gasp, the reflex recoil, that he knew would be the
death sentence of their love. And at that supreme moment he cursed
himself bitterly for a fool for not having told her of his terror, for
not having sufficiently prepared her for the devastating revelation.
But now it was too late.
The bandages were removed. The surgeon bent down and peered into the
eyes. He started back in dismay. Before her right eye he rapidly
waved his finger.
"Do you see that?"
"No," said Barbara.
"My God, madam!" cried he, with a stricken look on his plump face,
"what in the devil's name have you been doing with yourself?"
Great drops of sweat stood on Jeremy's brow.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"She can't see. The eye is injured. Yesterday, save for the
crystalline lens which I extracted, it was as sound as mine or yours."
"I was afraid something had happened," said Barbara in a matter-of-fact
tone. "Baby was restive in the night and pushed his little fist into
my eye."
"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed the angry surgeon, "you don't mean to
say that you took a young baby to sleep with you in your condition?"
Barbara nodded, as if found out in a trifling peccadillo. "I suppose
I'm blind for ever?" she asked casually.
He examined the eye again. There was a moment's dead silence. Jeremy,
white-lipped and haggard, hung on the verdict. Then Hattaway rose,
extended his arms and let them drop helplessly against his sides.
"Yes," said he. "The sight is gone."
Jeremy put his hands to his head, staggered, and, overcome by the
reaction from the terror and the shock of the unlooked-for calamity,
fell in a faint on the floor.
After he had recovered and the surgeon had gone, promising to send his
apprentice the next day to dress the eyes, which, for fear of
inflammation, still needed tending, Jeremy sat by his wife's bedside
with an aching heart.
"'Tis the will of God," said he gloomily. "We must not rebel against
His decrees."
"But, you dear, foolish husband," she cried, half laughing, "who wants
to rebel against them? Not I, of a certainty. I am the happiest woman
in the world."
"'Tis but to comfort me that you say it," said Jeremy.
"'Tis the truth. Listen." She sought for his hand and continued with
sweet seriousness: "I was selfish to want to regain my sight; but my
soul hungered to see my babe. And now that I have seen him I care not.
Just that one little peep into the heaven of his face was all I wanted.
And 'twas the darling wretch himself who settled that I should not have
more." After a little she said, "Come nearer to me," and she drew his
ear to her lips and whispered:
"Although I have not regained my sight, on the other hand I have not
lost a thing far dearer--the face that I love which I made up of your
voice and the plash of water and the sunset and the summer air." She
kissed him. "My poor husband, how you must have suffered!"
And then Jeremy knew the great, brave soul of that woman whom the
Almighty had given him to wife, and, as he puts it in his diary, he did
glorify God exceedingly.
So when Barbara was able to travel again Jeremy sent for the great,
roomy chariot and the horse-pistols and the post-horses, and they went
back to Bullingford, where they spent the remainder of their lives in
unclouded felicity.