"AND THERE WAS LIGHT"
"Are you inflexible, Doris? Can nothing alter your decision?"
"Spare us both further pain, Warner. I cannot leave my blind mother. It
is useless to ask it."
"And do I ask it? You can still care for your mother. I do not ask you
to leave her."
The girl shook her head sadly.
"As a wife I must go with my husband. In the conflict of duties the
mother must yield. No, no, it would be cruel."
"Even admitting this, is there not a way out of it? Will she not try to
have her sight restored? Once relieved she might depend upon others, and
be content without you. Then you could come to me."
"I dare not urge this. Think what she endured before--the operation, the
mismanagement, the suffering, and the final loss of the eye itself. Oh,
Warner, the recollection of that terrible time makes me shudder. I pray
that she may forget it. I dare not urge another trial. Spare me that."
There was silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of the little
mantle clock, till in a low suppressed voice she continued:
"And you know the awful blow that came so soon after, that has broken
her down. She clings to me in so many ways. No, Warner, she might yield
to my persuasions, but I should never forgive myself if things went
wrong."
"Wrong?" echoed the man, bitter pain tugging at his heart. "How much
more wrong could things go? But it is nothing to you that my life is
made desolate, that loving you through all its best years I must quietly
give you up, and that, too, when I am in condition to take care of you.
Have I shown no consideration by waiting? Have I ever pressed my claim
till I knew I could make you comfortable and happy? But why do I cringe
and beg like this?" he added, setting his teeth hard with the pain of
disappointment. "If you really loved me you could not quibble about the
thing you call duty." And he strode back and forth, refusing to take in
the situation.
Then the girl's forced composure gave way. This was not her first tilt
with the man she loved, but he had never been so hard, so desperate, so
unjust. Heroically she had tried to do her duty. Ignominously she now
felt herself faltering in the way.
He could not bear her tears. The sight of her grief drove him from
himself. Pausing before her, he said:
"Doris, I yield. Let it be as you say."
And he lifted her hand to his lips in adieu; though in his powerfully
imposed self-restraint he could not be all tenderness. His tones were
gentle, and in the look he cast upon her bowed figure there was no
reproach.
He was gone; and Doris went back to the mother who was unconscious that
she was wrecking the happiness of this devoted child; the only one left
to her. One by one they had married and gone, and now in her darkened
world she was enduring a more fearful weight of woe than blindness.
Ralph, her youngest, and her darling, the Benjamin of her old age, had
fled the country under the awful ban of murder. His employer, a hard
man, had been found dead in his private office from a blow on the back
of the head. Suspicion pointed to Ralph, who, poor, hot-headed fellow,
had been heard to vow vengeance against the dead man for his harshness.
A fellow clerk warned him in time to flee from the officers of the law.
He could not go without seeing his mother. In the silence of the night
he had clasped her trembling form in his stalwart young arms, and in
broken, quivering tones, bade her trust in his innocence. "Mother,
believe me, only believe me; I did not do it," and sped on in the
darkness, an exile. She did believe in him. She would almost as soon
have doubted her Savior's love. But her stern, unbending pride of race
was wounded. Her loving heart was pierced in its tenderest spot, and in
a few short weeks she was a fretful, peevish invalid, making wholesale
but unconscious draughts upon her noble daughter's patience.
Five years had gone by since these household fetters had been forged for
Doris. Young and lovely, she adorned every circle. Offers of marriage
were unheeded, and her heart was untouched till Warner Douglas, the
young physician, came. They had met when she was a school girl and he
a student in the same town; and now it was revealed to her why he had
chosen her place of residence as the starting point in his career. So
they had loved and hoped on only to be crushed at last.
The day after her final rejection of his suit, the post brought a note
that ran thus:
"Doris, good-bye; not for a day, or a week, but as long as may
require to perfect my plans. I have spent a sleepless night, and this
is my conclusion. There is one way out of this. Maddening as is your
decision, I am forced to yield. But I shall not give you up without
a struggle. I have determined to study the human eye as a specialty.
The savings I had meant to devote to our united lives shall go to this
end. If I do not write often and in lover-like fashion, it will be
because I must be firm in my undertaking. When I have mastered the
science, I hope to come back to you with healing in my hand for the
mother for whose infirmities you sacrifice me. Do not think me bitter;
I am trying to be kind. In any case, be my probation long or short,
I shall be
"Ever yours,
"WARNER DOUGLAS."
Long Doris wept heart-breaking tears over this letter. Had she decided
aright? She mused far into the night, and at last her tired spirit found
comfort in the hope that her lover might one day unlock the prison doors
of both her mother and herself. Next day and for many days she went
about her duties mechanically, but her blind mother missed nothing, knew
nothing. Wearisome vigils were those! Not for a moment could she trust
her charge alone. With the perverseness of age she would try to grope
her way about, and more than once had she wandered into danger. Besides
this active, bodily vigilance, there were papers and books to read to
her, and the post-office was fairly haunted by fruitless messages for
tidings of the wandering boy. "How long, O Lord, how long?" was the
burden of the mother's heart, and upon Doris fell the hopeless task
of comforting.
Two years dragged their slow lengths. Time and sorrow made little change
in Doris Hadyn. The fair, round cheeks had lost none of their bloom, for
duty well performed brings its own reward. She was the moving spirit in
all good works, and several of her young friends had gradually come to
share her time in amusing and interesting her invalid mother.
Her lover's departure, leaving his patients to a brother physician, had
been a nine-days' wonder, but now all were rejoicing in his success at
the city hospitals. Several wonderful operations had made a great noise,
and he awoke one morning to find himself famous. No more anxious care
for the savings he had intended for himself and his bride. They were
returning upon him tenfold. At last he wrote to Doris:
"Are you waiting for me? I am coming, not for an hour, or for a day,
but to cast my lot once more near you. But first I shall come as the
physician, since till that mission is ended, I am forbidden to come
as a lover.
"WARNER."
Not even the reproach in this laconic letter could tinge her joy. He
was coming; that was uppermost. He came, and Doris met him as she had
parted--loving and faithful; so proud of him, too, but unalterable in
her duty as before. She found his whole nature widened and broadened,
just as in appearance he was more manly. He was then a clever
practitioner: he was now the renowned oculist. From the first day his
office swarmed with patients. Old, chronic cases seemed to spring up
everywhere, and he found himself in a fair way of being taxed beyond
the limit.
Gently he began his ministrations to the mother of his beloved. When he
had won her confidence, he felt that the battle was half fought. She
soon expressed a willingness to submit to anything, to undergo any pain,
if only her sight might be restored. This he could not promise, but his
experienced eye could detect nothing worse than a cataract obstructing
the vision, and he convinced her that it was worth the trial.
One mild winter day she was taken to his office now fitted up with
all the belongings of his service. With bated breath he adjusted his
instrument. Heavy portieres shut out the daylight. Steadily the electric
ray was thrown into the darkened eye. Shrinking with a thousand fears,
and tortured with suspense, Doris sank upon a sofa. In silence he
applied his tests. She could hear the beatings of her heart. Softly he
questioned his patient, who hung upon his words for her life sentence.
At last, lying a hand almost caressingly upon each shoulder, he said:
"My dear Mrs. Hadyn, I think I can give you sight."
An involuntary cry broke from her lips, and Doris burst into convulsive
tears. Then relaxing the tension of these many weary years, the bearer
of good tidings folded his arms about the slight form for a moment as
he led her to her mother. Not yet, even, would he give full rein to
his hopes. He might fail. There was inflammation lurking behind the
eye-ball, caused by contagion from its fellow, which, when carelessly
bandaged too closely, had burst from its socket, irretrievably lost.
He could but try; and now his humanity as well as his love nerved him
to the task.
A preliminary course of treatment was ordered, and the Lenten season was
nearly over when the eye was declared ready for the knife. The day was
appointed, and the patient's own room was selected as the place. The
night before, the doctor came in all worn and tired out from a hurried
call to a neighboring city hospital. Doris knew his step and met him at
the door.
"Come with me, Doris, into the library," he said.
Nervous with undefined apprehension, she followed him.
"Can you bear good news?" he asked, bending upon her eyes which held for
her the light of loving sympathy. "Will you be as brave as you have been
all these years? I was called away yesterday----"
"Ralph!" she gasped, catching his arm in the excitement of hope.
"Yes--Ralph," he said, placing his arm about her; "he is cleared at
last. The man I was called to see was James Green, Ralph's fellow-clerk.
He was run down by a heavy furniture van and badly crushed. I could not
save him, but he knew me, and gave me this paper, which is a confession
of his guilt. It completely exonerates your brother."
"Thank God!" she fervently exclaimed, clasping the paper to her heart.
"Shall we tell Mrs. Haydn?" he asked, still gravely supporting her.
"By all means," was her happy answer through shining tears; "now--this
moment," leading him away. "Joy does not kill."
It did not kill; it only braced the grateful sufferer for the ordeal set
for the next day.
"Find my boy as soon as you can and bring him to me," was her prayer;
and with a sense of comfort long a stranger, the mother slept peacefully
on this, her last night perhaps, of blindness.
The next day she was made ready for her couch, where she was to lie in
perfect quiet after the operation. At two o'clock, Dr. Douglas, with two
young assistants, entered easily and cheerfully upon his task.
"Are you strong enough to witness it?" he asked in alow voice, as Doris
took her stand.
She bowed her head, and the work began. It was neither long nor
difficult. A little cocaine in the eye, a quick, perpendicular incision,
the deft scooping from the orifice of a hard, pearly ball like an opal
setting, a cleansing of film by one skillful sweep, and all was over.
"Close the eye for a moment," was his order, as incomplete silence the
trio hung upon the result.
"Now open it and look."
As the lids parted, he held his hand before them, moving his fingers in
quick succession.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Well," he spoke playfully, as to a child; "what is it? I want you to
tell me. Do you see anything?"
"Yes, I see--a hand, but--it looks blue."
At this the surgeon clasped his hands in thanksgiving, and exclaimed:
"Victory! If you did not see the blue coloring at first, madam, I should
be in despair."
Yes, victory was his, for his skill and for his love. He continued his
tests, first by resting the eye, then by bringing objects within the
range of vision. At last he gently led Doris in full view.
"It is Doris, my faithful, patient child, whose dear face I have not
seen for so long," she said with emotion that threatened tears, but
this the doctor forbade, and proceeded at once to carefully seal the
patient's eyelids.
"Keep the room light, and watch her day and night. She must not touch
the eye even in sleep," was his parting injunction.
"But, doctor, don't you bandage the eye? And my room was kept dark after
the other operation was performed."
"No, madam, the room must be light, and I do not bandage the eye."
The days went by, each new one revealing some half-forgotten picture
to the patient. She already loved Dr. Douglas as a son, and her bodily
infirmities, real or fancied, were fast vanishing away. Ralph had been
found, and a telegram said he was coming. Easter eve was here, and as
the doctor took leave his grateful patient bade him good-night with
unusual feeling,
"Through you," she said, "I am made to realize the precious promise, 'At
evening time it shall be light.' Think what this anniversary must be to
me! The morning will celebrate the resurrection of Him who was the Light
of the world. Light, light, everywhere! How can I be thankful enough!"
"To-morrow I will set you free, my dear madam, and if you feel that I
have done you a service, perhaps I may show you how to repay me." And
with a warm pressure of her hand, and an unspoken good-night to Doris,
he went away.
At the dawn of the morning Doris stood beside her mother when she awoke,
and said lightly: "Whom do you want to see besides your grumpy old
Doris, this bright morning?"
"Is he here? Ralph--my boy--has he come?" And his fond arms enwrapped
her in joy too deep for words. She could not look at him enough--her
bronzed and bearded baby boy.
Later on the doctor called, but he did not at once interrupt the mother
and son. When at last he walked into the cheerful family room it was
with Doris by his side.
"My dear Mrs. Hadyn," he began, "do you want to make me as grateful as
you say you are? If so, only look!"
With the uncertain timidity she had not yet learned to overcome, she
directed her once sightless eyes toward him. He stood with Doris clasped
in his arms. The mother had not heeded his words of the previous
evening, for they bore no hidden meaning to her. A light now broke over
her features, while Ralph smilingly watched her.
"Doris, my child, how long have you loved this man?" were the only words
she found to say.
"So long, mother, that I shall not try to remember."