Chapter 87
The tears were trickling down Greta's cheeks. "It is I who am selfish, Mercy," she said, and kissed the sightless...o...b... "Your dear eyes shall give me back my poor husband."
CHAPTER III.
Two hours later the doctors arrived. They had called at the vicarage in driving up the valley, and Parson Christian was with them. 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 darling'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 pa.s.sionately.
"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 pa.s.sionately.
"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 Parson Christian. And Mercy turned toward him a face that was
"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 church-yard, 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 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. Parson Christian's eyes were raised in prayer.
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."