Idle Hour Stories Part 23

A preliminary course of treatment was ordered, and the Lenten season was nearly over when the eye was declared ready for the knife. The day was appointed, and the patient's own room was selected as the place. The night before, the doctor came in all worn and tired out from a hurried call to a neighboring city hospital. Doris knew his step and met him at the door.

"Come with me, Doris, into the library," he said.

Nervous with undefined apprehension, she followed him.

"Can you bear good news?" he asked, bending upon her eyes which held for her the light of loving sympathy. "Will you be as brave as you have been all these years? I was called away yesterday----"

"Ralph!" she gasped, catching his arm in the excitement of hope.

"Yes--Ralph," he said, placing his arm about her; "he is cleared at last. The man I was called to see was James Green, Ralph's fellow-clerk.

He was run down by a heavy furniture van and badly crushed. I could not save him, but he knew me, and gave me this paper, which is a confession of his guilt. It completely exonerates your brother."

"Thank G.o.d!" she fervently exclaimed, clasping the paper to her heart.

"Shall we tell Mrs. Haydn?" he asked, still gravely supporting her.

"By all means," was her happy answer through s.h.i.+ning tears; "now--this moment," leading him away. "Joy does not kill."

It did not kill; it only braced the grateful sufferer for the ordeal set for the next day.

"Find my boy as soon as you can and bring him to me," was her prayer; and with a sense of comfort long a stranger, the mother slept peacefully on this, her last night perhaps, of blindness.

The next day she was made ready for her couch, where she was to lie in perfect quiet after the operation. At two o'clock, Dr. Douglas, with two young a.s.sistants, entered easily and cheerfully upon his task.

"Are you strong enough to witness it?" he asked in alow voice, as Doris took her stand.

She bowed her head, and the work began. It was neither long nor difficult. A little cocaine in the eye, a quick, perpendicular incision, the deft scooping from the orifice of a hard, pearly ball like an opal setting, a cleansing of film by one skillful sweep, and all was over.

"Close the eye for a moment," was his order, as incomplete silence the trio hung upon the result.

"Now open it and look."

As the lids parted, he held his hand before them, moving his fingers in quick succession.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Well," he spoke playfully, as to a child; "what is it? I want you to tell me. Do you see anything?"

"Yes, I see--a hand, but--it looks blue."

At this the surgeon clasped his hands in thanksgiving, and exclaimed: "Victory! If you did not see the blue coloring at first, madam, I should be in despair."

Yes, victory was his, for his skill and for his love. He continued his tests, first by resting the eye, then by bringing objects within the range of vision. At last he gently led Doris in full view.

"It is Doris, my faithful, patient child, whose dear face I have not seen for so long," she said with emotion that threatened tears, but this the doctor forbade, and proceeded at once to carefully seal the patient's eyelids.

"Keep the room light, and watch her day and night. She must not touch the eye even in sleep," was his parting injunction.

"But, doctor, don't you bandage the eye? And my room was kept dark after the other operation was performed."

"No, madam, the room must be light, and I do not bandage the eye."

The days went by, each new one revealing some half-forgotten picture to the patient. She already loved Dr. Douglas as a son, and her bodily infirmities, real or fancied, were fast vanis.h.i.+ng away. Ralph had been found, and a telegram said he was coming. Easter eve was here, and as the doctor took leave his grateful patient bade him good-night with unusual feeling,

"Through you," she said, "I am made to realize the precious promise, 'At evening time it shall be light.' Think what this anniversary must be to me! The morning will celebrate the resurrection of Him who was the Light of the world. Light, light, everywhere! How can I be thankful enough!"

"To-morrow I will set you free, my dear madam, and if you feel that I have done you a service, perhaps I may show you how to repay me." And with a warm pressure of her hand, and an unspoken good-night to Doris, he went away.

At the dawn of the morning Doris stood beside her mother when she awoke, and said lightly: "Whom do you want to see besides your grumpy old Doris, this bright morning?"

"Is he here? Ralph--my boy--has he come?" And his fond arms enwrapped her in joy too deep for words. She could not look at him enough--her bronzed and bearded baby boy.

Later on the doctor called, but he did not at once interrupt the mother and son. When at last he walked into the cheerful family room it was with Doris by his side.

"My dear Mrs. Hadyn," he began, "do you want to make me as grateful as you say you are? If so, only look!"

With the uncertain timidity she had not yet learned to overcome, she directed her once sightless eyes toward him. He stood with Doris clasped in his arms. The mother had not heeded his words of the previous evening, for they bore no hidden meaning to her. A light now broke over her features, while Ralph smilingly watched her.

"Doris, my child, how long have you loved this man?" were the only words she found to say.

"So long, mother, that I shall not try to remember."

In the Mammoth Cave

WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY

NOTE--This story is built upon a legend of Mammoth Cave.

The open mouth of Kentucky's far-famed cavern yawned huge and black. On the brow of the hill, ready to descend the winding rock stairway, stood a group of young people picturesquely attired in the bloomer costume of cave-explorers. They were disputing as to whether to take the long or short route first, unmindful of the guide, who ventured to hint that time was slipping away.

"If we take the long route first we will be too tired for the short one," said one.

"Oh, that will never do!" exclaimed another, "I must see the Chapel and the Star Chamber. That is about all I came for."

Apart from the wranglers a pair stood in earnest conversation, hardly in keeping with the frivolity of the hour.

She was small, lovely, and winning in gypsy dress of red and black, relieved here and there with soft white ruffles. Upon her golden curls rested a dainty little padded cap, and strong boots protected the tender feet. From her gloved fingers swung a torch not yet lighted.

The youth beside her showed his hardy pioneer lineage in a well-knit frame and a countenance full of chivalry, and at present glowing with eloquent love for his fair companion.

Neither of the absorbed pair noticed the angry light in the cruel eyes of a man standing near the guide. He was fully thirty-five years of age, quite tall, and as a merry girl expressed it, brigandish-looking. But for the restless pa.s.sions that marred his bearded face he might have been called handsome. He glared at Minnie Dare as a tiger might watch his prey, for she was indeed the destined prey of this fierce-looking man.

By what mysterious power Jason Hammond had won the gentle girl from her devoted father no one knew, but with haggard face and heart-wrung pain, Colonel Dare had bidden his one ewe lamb prepare for the sacrifice.