CHAPTER I.
In the morning I dreamed of Isola. Across a broad black river, I sawher lovely smile. Thick fog rose from the water, in which two swanswere beating a dog, and by snatches only could I see my darling. Shewaved her little hand to me, and begged me, with that coaxing smilewhich bent cast iron and even gold, to come across to Isola. In vain Ilooked for a boat, even in my dream I knew that I could not swim, and ifI could, the lead upon my eyelids would have sunk me. So I called toher to come to me, and with that cry awoke.
It was striking ten--my own little clock which my father gave me. Icounted every stroke. What was Mrs. Shelfer doing, that she had notcalled me yet? What was I doing, that I lay there so late; for I alwaysget up early? And what was the sun about, that no light came into theroom? I knew it was ten in the morning.
I felt all round. I was in my little bed, the splinter at the side ofthe head-board ran into my finger as usual. There I was, and nowhereelse. Was it a tremendous fog? If it was, they should have told me,for they knew that I liked fogs. At least they thought so, from theinterest I felt.
I groped for the little bell-pull, a sleezy worsted cord, which meant tobreak every time, but was not strong enough to do it. I jerked with allmy strength, which seemed very little somehow. What a pleasure! Thebell rang like a fire-peal. I fell back on the pillow, exhausted, butdetermined to have it out with Mrs. Shelfer. I put my hands up toarrange my hair, to look a little more like Clara Vaughan, when thelight should enter, and to frighten Mrs. Shelfer.
There was something on my head. I never wear a night-cap; my long blackhair would scorn it. Am I in a madhouse, is this put to keep me cool?Cold it is, and my brain so hot. All Wenham lake on Dives, and he willonly hiss. While I am pulling at it, and find it streaming wet, incomes--I know her step--Mrs. Shelfer. But there is no light from thepassage!
"Mrs. Shelfer, what do you mean by this?"
"By what, my dear good soul? I have done all the blessed things I wastold to do for you. You might have put a ostrich feather or a maraboutto my mouth, Miss Valence, and tucked me up, and a headstone, and nonethe wiser, when Uncle John brought you home last night."
"I suppose I am dreaming. But I am sure I rang the bell."
"Miss Valence, you did so, and no mistake. Bless me! I started in myshoes. A good job, Shelfer wasn't home, he's so nervous. He'd havegone for gin straightways. Now get up, that's a dear good soul, andwhen you have had some breakfast, we'll talk over it, Miss Valence. Letme see how your eyes are. Uncle John said they was bad, and I was tokeep them covered. I expects him here every minute. Now turn them upto the light. What large eyes you have, to be sure. Bless me! Whereare your long black lashes?"
"Mrs. Shelfer, there is some strange mistake. Let the light into theroom."
I had risen in the bed, and her breath was on my forehead.
"Light, dear child, I can't let more. The sun is on your face."
I fell back upon my pillow, and could rise no more. The truth had beentingling through me, all the time she talked. I was stone-blind. Iflung the bandage from me, and wished my heart would break. Mrs.Shelfer tried some comfort. She seemed to grieve for my eyelashes, morethan for my eyes; and addressed her comfort more to my looks than sight.Of course, I did not listen. When would the creature be gone, and letme try to think?
Poor little thing! I was very sorry; what fault was it of hers? Whoand what am I, blind I, to find fault with any one who means me well? Idrop my eyelids, I can feel them fall; I lift them, I can feel themrise; a full gaze, a side gaze, a half gaze; with both eyes, with one;it is all the same; gaze there may be, but no sight. Henceforth I wantno eyelids.
The sun is on my face. I can feel his winter rays, though my cheeks arewet. What use is he to me?
I have the dagger somewhere by which my father died. Let me find it, ifI can.
I could have sworn that the box was in that corner carefully concealed.I strike against a washing-stand. Ah, now I have it; the box is locked,my keys are in the top-drawer. I bear the box to the bed, and gogroping for the chest of drawers. Already I can tell by the sun-warmthon my face, which way I am going. Surely, if I wait, I shall have theinstinct of the blind.
What care I for that? The coward love of life suggested that poorsolace. Now I have the keys. Quick unlock the box.
At length I throw the cover back. The weapon handle is to the right. Istoop to seize it. I grasp a square of colour. Pretty instinct this!I have got my largest drawing box.
Oh paints, my paints, so loved but yesterday, that ape the colours Ishall never see, my hot tears make you water-colours indeed! If God hasrobbed my eyes of sight, He has not dried my tears.
The gushing flood relieves me. What right have I to die? Even withoutasking if my case be hopeless! Who knows but what these lovely tints mayglow for me again? May I not once more intone the carmine damask of therose, the gauzy green of April's scarf? Softening scenes before merise. I lay my box of colours by, and creep into my bed for warmth.
Presently the doctor comes. Inspector Cutting has chosen him, andchosen well. From his voice I know that he is a gentleman, from hiswords and touch instinctively I feel that he understands the case.
When he has finished the examination he sees me trembling for the answerwhich I dare not seek.
"Young lady, I have hopes, strong hopes. It is quite impossible to saywhat course the inflammation may pursue. All depends on that. Atpresent there is a film over the membrane, but the cornea is uninjured.Perfect quiet, composure, so far as in such a case is possible, coldapplications, and the exclusion of light, are the simple remedies. Allthe rest must be left to nature. Avoid excitement of any kind. Diet aslow as possible. Do not admit your dearest friends, unless they willkeep perfect silence. Even so, they are better away, unless you pine atloneliness."
"Oh no. I am quite accustomed to that."
"That is well. I shall make a point of calling daily, but shall notexamine your eyes every time. The excitement and the effort wouldstrain the optic nerve. Our object is to keep the inflammation fromstriking inwards. I should not tell you all this, but I see that youhave much self-command. On that and your constitution, underProvidence, the cure depends. One question. I am not a professedophthalmist, would you prefer to have one?"
"Oblige me with your opinion."
"It is a delicate point for me. There is no operation to perform. Itis a medical, not a surgical case. I have dealt with such before. Wereyou my own child I would call in no ophthalmist, but as you are astranger to me, I wish you to decide for yourself."
"Then, I will have none. I have perfect confidence in you."
He seemed gratified, and took his leave. "Please God, Miss Valence, youshall look me in the face ere long."
Clara Vaughan, Volume 2 (of 3) Page 3