Yes,those pretty baby-eyes were dark--quite dark.There was nothing painful nor unnatural in their look,save,perhaps,the blankness of gaze which I have before noticed.Outwardly,their organization was perfect;but in the fine inner mechanism was something wrong--something wanting.She never had seen--never would see--in this world.
"BLIND!"The word was uttered softly,hardly above a breath,yet the mother heard it.She pushed every one aside,and took the child herself.Herself,with a desperate incredulity,she looked into those eyes,which never could look back either her agony or her love.
Poor mother!
"John!John!oh,John!"--the name rising into a cry,as if he could surely help her.He came and took her in his arms--took both,wife and babe.She laid her head on his shoulder in bitter weeping."Oh,John!it is so hard.Our pretty one--our own little child!"John did not speak,but only held her to him--close and fast.When she was a little calmer he whispered to her the comfort--the sole comfort even her husband could give her--through whose will it was that this affliction came.
"And it is more an affliction to you than it will be to her,poor pet!"said Mrs.Jessop,as she wiped her friendly eyes."She will not miss what she never knew.She may be a happy little child.
Look,how she lies and smiles."
But the mother could not take that consolation yet.She walked to and fro,and stood rocking her baby,mute indeed,but with tears falling in showers.Gradually her anguish wept itself away,or was smothered down,lest it should disturb the little creature asleep on her breast.
Some one came behind her,and placed her in the arm-chair,gently.
It was my father.He sat down by her,taking her hand.
"Grieve not,Ursula.I had a little brother who was blind.He was the happiest creature I ever knew."My father sighed.We all marvelled to see the wonderful softness,even tenderness,which had come into him.
"Give me thy child for a minute."Ursula laid it across his knees;he put his hand solemnly on the baby-breast."God bless this little one!Ay,and she shall be blessed."These words,spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic benediction of the departing patriarchs of old,struck us all.We looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon her;as if the mysterious touch which had scaled up her eyes for ever had left on her a sanctity like as of one who has been touched by the finger of God.
"Now,children,I must go home,"said my father.
They did not detain us:it was indeed best that the poor young parents should be left alone.
"You will come again soon?"begged Ursula,tenderly clasping the hand which he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured "God bless thee!""Perhaps.We never know.Be a good wife to thy husband,my girl.
And John,never be thou harsh to her,nor too hard upon her little failings.She is but young--but young."He sighed again.It was plain to see he was thinking of another than Ursula.
As we walked down the street he spoke to me only once or twice,and then of things which startled me by their strangeness--things which had happened a long time ago;sayings and doings of mine in my childhood,which I had not the least idea he had either known of or remembered.
When we got in-doors I asked if I should come and sit with him till his bed-time.
"No--no;thee looks tired,and I have a business letter to write.
Better go to thy bed as usual."
I bade him good-night,and was going,when he called me back.
"How old art thee,Phineas--twenty-four or five?""Twenty-five,father."
"Eh!so much?"He put his hand on my shoulder,and looked down on me kindly,even tenderly."Thee art but weakly still,but thee must pick up,and live to be as old a man as thy father.Goodnight.God be with thee,my son!"I left him.I was happy.Once I had never expected my old father and I would have got on together so well,or loved one another so dearly.
In the middle of the night Jael came into my room,and sat down on my bed's foot,looking at me.I had been dreaming strangely,about my own childish days,and about my father and mother when we were young.
What Jael told me--by slow degrees,and as tenderly as when she was my nurse years ago--seemed at first so unreal as to be like a part of the dream.
At ten o'clock,when she had locked up the house,she had come as usual to the parlour door,to tell my father it was bed-time.He did not answer,being sitting with his back to the door,apparently busy writing.So she went away.
Half an hour afterwards she came again.He sat there still--he had not moved.One hand supported his head;the other,the fingers stiffly holding the pen,lay on the table.He seemed intently gazing on what he had written.It ran thus:
"GOOD FRIEND,"To-morrow I shall be--"
But there the hand had stopped--for ever.
O dear father!on that to-morrow thou wert with God.
