CHAPTER II.
They had placed the children in bed in two upper rooms of the rectory looking towards the north. In the absence of shutters, the windows were carefully covered with dark curtains, so that in the brightest day scarcely a ray of light could creep in. The rector's wide orchard overshadowed the walls, and kept at a distance the murmur of external life.
The doctor had recommended that particular care should be taken of the little girl; all that depended on him had succeeded; now, in quiet, must nature do the rest; and the girl's easily excitable temperament required the most careful attention and precaution.
At the decisive moment, Mary had been firm, when her mother burst into tears, as she heard the doctor's footstep on the stairs, she had gone to her and encouraged her.
The doctor began with the boy, who, excited but of good courage, sat down and bore all; only at first he would not allow anyone to hold him during the operation, but at Mary's entreaties he at last permitted it to be done.
When the doctor, after some seconds had elapsed, removed his hands from the boy's eyelids, he screamed loudly with joyous terror.
Mary recoiled. Then she bore without a murmur the passing pain. But tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame trembled; so that the doctor hastily placed a bandage over her eyes, and assisted her himself to her room; for her knees trembled under her. There, on her couch, sleep and fainting struggled long over her, whilst the boy declared that he was perfectly well, and only lay down at his father's earnest entreaties.
But he did not sleep at once. Coloured forms--coloured now for the first time--glided by him, full of mystery; forms which, as yet, were nothing to him, and which were to become so much, if the people were right who wished him joy. He asked his father and mother, as they sat by his bedside, about innumerable things, which truly the most profound science could hardly have solved. What does it know of the well-springs of life? His father entreated him to have patience, for with God's help he would soon be able to resolve his doubts more clearly for himself. Now, rest was necessary for him, and above all for Mary, whom he might so easily awake with his talking. Then he was silent, and listened through the wall. He begged them, in whispers, to open the door, that he might hear whether she slept or was not sighing from pain. His mother did as he wished. Then he lay motionless and listened, and the breathing of his sleeping little friend, as it sighed softly in and out, sang him, too, at last, to sleep.
So they lay for hours. The village without was more quiet than usual. When a peasant had to pass the rectory with his cart, he guarded carefully against noise. Even the children, who may have been told by their master, did not storm out of the school as noisily as was their wont, but went in twos and threes, whispering, and glancing shily at the house, as they passed to more distant play-grounds. Only the song of the birds ceased not among the branches; but when has its sound disturbed or wearied a rest-seeking child of man?
The bells of the cows returning from pasture first awakened the two children. The boy's first question was, whether Mary had inquired for him yet? He asked her then, in a low voice, how she was. Her heavy sleep had hardly refreshed her, and her eyes burned under their light covering. But she forced herself to say that she was better, and chatted gaily with Clement, over whose lips streamed the wildest thoughts.
Late, when the moon had already risen from behind the wood, hesitating little hands knocked at the rector's door. It was the little village girls, who brought a garland of their fairest garden flowers for Mary, and a nosegay for Clement. When they brought them to the boy, his face brightened; their scent and cool sprinkling of dew refreshed him. "Thank them for me very much. They are good girls; I am ill now, but when I can see I will defend them against the boys." Mary, when they laid the garland on her bed, pressed it gently back with pale little hands, and said, "I cannot, mother! I feel giddy when flowers are so near me! Take them to Clement, too."
She soon sank again into her feverish half-sleep. The wholesome approach of day tranquillized her at last, and the doctor, who came early, found her freer from danger than he had dared to hope. Long he sat by the boy's bedside, listened smiling to his strange questions, warned him kindly to be patient and quiet, and left with the best prognostications.
Much use recommending calmness and patience to one who has at last caught a distant glimpse of a new and highly praised land! His father was obliged, as often as his duties permitted him, to go up to his room and talk to him. The door then was not to be shut, that Mary might hear the beautiful stories too. Legends of pious men and women on whom God had laid and removed heavy sufferings were repeated. The tale of poor Henry, for whom the pious maiden was willing in her humility to sacrifice herself, and how God brought all to a happy ending was related, and all the edifying histories which the worthy man was able to recollect.
When the pious rector glided gradually from tale to prayer, or the mother with her clear voice sang a hymn of thanksgiving, Clement folded his hands, or sang with her; but directly after he began new questionings, which showed that he took more interest in the stories than in the hymns. Mary asked about nothing. She was friendly with every one, and no one suspected what deep thoughts and questions were seething in her little breast.
They grew visibly better from day to day, and on the fourth day after the operation the doctor permitted them to get up. He himself supported the little girl, as she stepped, weak and trembling, across the darkened room towards the open door, in which the boy stood, stretching forth his hands, joyously seeking hers. Then he grasped her hand firmly, and entreated her to lean on him, which she did confidingly. They paced to and fro in the chamber together, and he, with that delicate sense of locality so peculiar to the blind, guided her carefully past the different pieces of furniture.
"How are you now? he asked her.
"I am well," was her answer, "to-day as ever."
"Come," he said, quickly, "lean on me, you are weak still, it would refresh you to breathe a little sweet meadow air out of doors, for the air here is thick and heavy. But it is not good for us yet, the doctor says. Our eyes would get sore, and be blind again, if they were to look out into the light too soon. Oh, I know already what light and darkness mean. No flute note is so sweet as when your eyes can do that. It hurt me, I must say, yet I could have looked for ever into the beautiful coloured world, so blissful was the pain. You will feel it too. But it must be many days before we are so happy. But then I will do nothing all day long but see. I want to know so many things, Mary. They say that each thing has a different colour. I wonder what colours your face and mine are? Dark or bright? It would be horrible if they were not very bright. Shall I know you with my eyes? now, touching you so, I could pick you out with my little finger from all the other people in the world. But in future we shall have to learn to know each other all anew again. I know now that your hair and cheeks are soft to touch, will they be so to my eyes? I want to know so much, and it is so long to wait."
After this fashion he chattered incessantly, without remarking how silently she walked beside him. Many of his words had sunk deep into her heart. It had never occurred to her that she too was to see, and she hardly knew what to think about it. She had heard of mirrors, without understanding what was meant. She thought now that when a person who saw opened his eyes, his own face appeared to him.
When she was again in her little bed, and her mother thought she slept, the idea flashed across her mind. "It would be horrible if our faces were not bright!" She had heard of ugly and beautiful, and she knew that ugly people were pitied, and often less loved than others. "Oh, if I should be ugly," she thought to herself, "and he care no more about me. It used to be all the same when he played with my hair and called it silken threads. That will all cease now if he sees that I am ugly; and he--even if he is ugly, I will never let him know it, because I shall love him still. But no! I know that he cannot be ugly--he cannot be."
Long she lay restless with sorrow and anxiety. The air was sultry; without, in the garden, the nightingales called complainingly to each other, and a sobbing west wind beat against the window panes. She was entirely alone in the chamber, for her mother's bed, which had been placed beside hers, had been removed on account of the closeness of the room. And besides, they no longer thought a night watcher necessary, as her fever had entirely disappeared. And just on this very evening it returned again, and tossed her to and fro, until, long after midnight, a short, heavy sleep fell upon her.
Meanwhile the storm, which had circled muttering around the horizon half the night, approached in its might, spread itself over the forest, and then paused. The wind was still. A crash of thunder burst in upon Mary's sleep. Half dreaming she sprang up; she knew not what she sought or thought, a nameless anxiety forced her to rise, her pillow was so hot. Now she stood by the side of her bed and heard the strong rain rushing down without. But it cooled not her feverish brow. She tried to collect herself and think, but found nothing within her soul but the miserable thought with which she had fallen asleep. A strange determination arose within her. She would go to Clement now he was alone; what prevented her from putting an end to her uncertainty, and seeing both herself and him? She thought but of this alone, and every word of the doctor was forgotten; so she went unhesitatingly, just as she had arisen from her couch, towards the door which stood half open, found the end of the bed, crept on her little bare feet, to the side of the sleeping boy, and bending over him, with bated breath, tore the bandage hastily from her eyes.
But she started when all remained dark as before. She had forgotten that it was night, and that she had been told that in the night all people were blind. She had fancied that a light streamed from an eye that saw, and lighted both itself and what it looked upon. Now she felt the boy's breath soft upon her cheek, but she could distinguish no form. Already terrified, and in despair, she wished to go back. There flamed through the now uncovered window-panes a flash one second long--then another and another--the air waved to and fro with the intensity of light--thunder and rain-stream without increased in roar; but she gazed for one short moment on the curly brow that lay softly pressed on the pillow before her--then the vision vanished into the darkness, her eyes gushed with tears, and, overcome with unspeakable terror, she rushed to her room, replaced the bandage, and sank upon her bed, feeling, with a sense of unalterable conviction, that she had seen for the first and the last time.