The Big Nightcap Letters Part 5

"But the next day after this the good doctor decided not to withhold the communication, whatever it might be, from Eva's father and mother.

As soon as he entered the room, he said abruptly: 'Nurse, bring me the child.' He stood by a window, and threw wide open the darkened blinds.

The little Eva was brought to him just from her morning toilette, fresh, sweet, and pure as a rain-brightened flower; her long embroidered dress sweeping the carpet, and soft lace nestling about her tiny arms.

"'Oh, dear doctor!' exclaimed the young mother, 'do not take the baby there! That bright glare of light has dazzled even my strong eyes; and how can her feeble sight endure it?'

"'It is necessary, madam,' replied the doctor. He seemed to be a cross old fellow, but beneath his gruff manner was hidden a great, kind heart.

"He took the child, and having sent the nurse away, turned from the mother, who lay anxiously watching him. He gazed fixedly at little Eva, while he exposed her beautiful and tender eyes to the bright glare of the morning sun. His brow was contracted into a great heavy frown, and a short but deep sigh escaped him; but he never took his eyes from her face: then he forced the lids, with their long silken fringes, far away from the ball of the eye, and little Eva was now screaming with the pain caused by this rough and cruel treatment. Alas! a deeper shade of anxiety crossed the doctor's face, and the hard and unfeeling man, as the weeping mother thought him, drew the infant tenderly to his breast, and murmured in a low tone, '_Poor little thing! poor little helpless thing!_' and gave her back to her nurse, and went away without saying another word.

"That same evening the doctor came again. It was very unusual for him to come after dark, and his great creaking boots and rough manner would have broken in upon a very pretty group.

"But he went softly up stairs, and looked in the room, unseen himself.

There was the happy mother wrapped in a cashmere, and half-buried in an immense arm-chair, with a sweet motherly look upon her face, watching her darling.

"Close to his wife, Eva's father sat, holding her in his arms; and, wonderful to tell, for a _man_, holding her quite comfortably; for he had lulled her to sleep with a lullaby of his own composition, the language of which was utterly unknown to the rest of the company. He was learning to talk 'baby talk,' and was really getting on very well, and just now he was looking extremely proud and happy at his success in soothing the little one.

"Opposite to these happy parents sat Mr. Vernon, a n.o.ble-looking gentleman, and his wife, a beautiful lady, uncle and aunt to the baby; and, in the distance, was the faithful black nurse, old Dinah, fast asleep, and quite as happy, in her own opinion, as the rest of the party.

"Presently the father laid the baby tenderly down in her beautiful cradle, and while gently rocking her, said softly: 'I wonder what the baby was thinking about while I sang to her?'

"'She looked so wonderfully wise,' said the mother.

"'Did you ever come across that lovely little poem--"What is the little one thinking about?"' said Mr. Vernon. 'I can only remember the last part of it, though my little daughter has often read it to me,' and he recited, in a sweet, low voice, this exquisite little fragment:

"What is the little one thinking about?

What does she think of her mother's eyes?

What does she think of her mother's hair?

What, of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through the air?

What does she think of her mother's breast, Round and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- Cup of her life, and couch of her rest?

What does she think, when her quick embrace Presses her hand, and buries her face Deep, where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tender love she can never tell, Though she murmurs the words Of all the birds, Words she had learned to murmur well?

Now she thinks she'll go to sleep!

I can see the shadow creep Over her eyes in soft eclipse Over her brow, and over her lips.

Out to her little finger-tips!

Softly sinking--down she goes!

Down--she--goes!--down--she--goes!

See! she is hushed in sweet repose."

"As the doctor gazed on this lovely scene, and heard the beautifully touching words so fitly spoken, instead of smiling, he frowned and sighed, for his heart was troubled.

"Coming forward, he grumbled out, 'A family party, I see.'

"'Yes,' said the father, rising and smiling; 'and no one but yourself would find a welcome.'

"'So much the better,' growled the doctor. 'Nurse, light the gas.'

"'We have not lit it yet,' said the young mother, pointing to the two wax lights in a distant corner, 'because they tell me the eyes of infants are very weak and tender.'

"The doctor took no notice of this, only nodded to the nurse; and she, standing in mortal fear that he would cut her head off immediately if she hesitated, obeyed his order.

"The mother looked at her little child, who was still peacefully sleeping, and then shaded her eyes with her hand from the sudden blaze of light, thinking that though the doctor seemed very cruel, he must be doing what was right. Poor young mother!

"'I only need this last test before I tell you what it means,' said the doctor. 'Here, give me the child.'

"The father tenderly laid the little Eva in his arms, though quite at a loss to imagine what experiment was to be tried. The light was certainly too strong to be let suddenly into a darkened room, he thought; but the doctor knew best. It was strange that only the n.o.ble-looking gentleman, Mr. Vernon, seemed to divine the meaning of the rough but kind-hearted man, but he knew only too well; he was _sadly sure_. I will tell you why, presently.

"And now the tender head of the sleeping child lay helplessly against the physician's rough coat, encircled by his arm.

"Suddenly he dashed some cold water, that stood near, into her face.

"Little Eva awoke, and opened her dark blue eyes immediately under the bright stream of light. She did not cry; she did not shrink; calmly she looked up, never flinching, never winking as she lay.

"The doctor raised her nearer and nearer to the flame; he turned the screws, and let out each burner to its fullest capacity, and pa.s.sed his hands rapidly to and fro close to the child's eyes, then turning towards the wondering, panic-stricken group, who were slowly beginning to understand the meaning of that fearful pantomime, he laid her once more in her father's arms, and looking in his face, said, in a rough, broken voice, while a great tear trembled in his eye--'G.o.d help little Eva,--SHE IS BLIND.'

"The doctor went away that night with the sorrowful wail of the poor parents smiting his heart.

"He came again and again, but nevermore in that house did he open the door upon a group so smilingly happy, as that which greeted him on the fatal night, when he told them the dreadful truth, that their child would never see their faces, for she was blind.

"And now I will tell you about Mr. Vernon. When he was quite a young man, rich, handsome, and surrounded with friends, he was taken ill with a dreadful fever, which left him totally blind. For a long, long time he murmured at G.o.d's will, and refused to believe there was any thing left worth living for; but G.o.d's ways are not our ways, and in His own good time He so softened the wilful heart of the blind man, so that he became not only resigned, but happy.

"After a few years, G.o.d gave him a beautiful wife, who loved him more because of the affliction which made him so dependent upon her loving care; and oh! how I hope that all who are reading this true story will have a tender pity for those upon whom G.o.d has caused outward darkness to fall. They cannot see the suns.h.i.+ne, or the beautiful flowers--let them _feel_ the warm suns.h.i.+ne of a loving heart.

"In due course of time Mr. Vernon had two lovely children, the elder a pretty little maiden, with deep blue eyes, and dark, wavy hair, whose sweet name was Ruth. The dear little girl was six years old before the other darling came to gladden his parents' heart, and having no companions but her blind father and gentle mother, she grew to be quite a dignified little woman. None so proud and happy as Ruth, when she was guiding her blind father; none knew better all his favorite walks in and around the beautiful country place where they lived; and her gentle, patient ways made her the very darling of his heart.

"In a few years there was another little being in the world, to whose happiness Ruth was necessary; and that was her poor blind cousin, Eva, and though Ruth's parents missed her sadly, they would often give up their darling, and send or take her into the city, to visit and comfort and amuse Eva.

"Ruth understood Eva better than any one else, because she had been her dear blind father's constant companion; and Eva loved her with all her heart; she knew her step; she would hear it before any one else did, and the color would rush in her face, and she would wait with beating heart till the door opened, and then she would rush to her, throw her arms round her neck, and cry, 'Oh, dear Ruth! darling Ruth!' and kiss her twenty times, and Ruth would kiss Eva just as many, and then they would sit down close together, and have such a nice, happy talk! for Ruth had to tell all about the chickens, and Dandy, the pony, who loved sugar so dearly; and how she had hemmed six pocket-handkerchiefs for her dear father, and most wore a hole in her little thimble; and how her little baby brother had scrabbled off with old Dobbin's bran-bag, just as the poor old horse was going to eat his dinner, and poked his own dear little head in it, and when he pulled it out, the bran was all over his face, making him look as if he was covered with freckles; which funny caper made Eva laugh like 'any thing.'

"And when the talking was over, Ruth read to little Eva, for all toys were useless to the blind child; but her books were doubly dear, and Ruth was never tired of reading to her; so while she staid, Eva was as happy as it was possible to be.

"One day the good doctor brought a celebrated occulist to see Eva. An occulist is a physician who cures diseases of the eyes, and devotes his whole time and talent to that precious and delicate part of the human frame.

"The occulist examined her eyes very carefully, and then said: 'After a few years I can perform an operation on Eva's eyes that _may_ give her sight; but it will be a very painful one, and perhaps I may not succeed.

If this dear little child were mine, I would almost rather let her remain blind than give her such terrible pain, which may end in disappointment.'

"But oh! what a blessed hope! her parents _would not_ see the dark side; they dwelt upon the happiness it would be for little Eva to see; and one day her father took her upon his knee, and, fondly kissing her, said: 'Eva, my darling, would you like to see the beautiful sunlight and sweet flowers?'

"'O papa! yes! yes! but, most of all, I want to see you and mamma, and Ruth and Dinah.'

"'Well, my darling, if you can make up your mind to endure a terrible pain, when you are older we will have the operation tried. It will only last a moment, dear Eva, and then just think! you will see the whole beautiful world! and know all of us by our faces, as you now do by our steps and voices; you will see the birds flying in the air; the moon sailing slowly in the heavens, the little twinkling stars, and the rippling water, and we shall be so happy! so happy! I will not tell you when to have it done; I will wait till _you_ are ready, my darling.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: EVA PRAYING FOR STRENGTH TO SAY THE WORDS.]

"Then Eva thought long of it, and had many an earnest conversation upon the subject with her little cousin Ruth; and one day she said: 'Ruth, will you promise me, _true for true_, that you will come and hold my hand when they operate upon my eyes?'

"'I promise you, _true for true_,' said Ruth.

"And so the matter was settled.