To return to Roderick. You perhaps expected to hear that he fretted and petted very much after he was first blind, but really it was not so; and though occasionally he may have grumbled a little, it was only when he was slightly peevish, as children will sometimes be, and I believe he would have found something to grumble about then, even if he had seen as well as you do.

Besides, as I said before, the knowledge of his misfortune came upon him by degrees; and after he had got used to it, he did not think much about it. When the family moved to the great town, Roderick had as it were to begin his blind lessons over again, for he had to learn to remember all about the rooms and the furniture there; but with a kind little brother or sister always at hand to help him he soon became expert in the town house too, and could run up and down the long flights of stairs with the nimblest of them. I believe the only melancholy wish he ever uttered was heard on the first day he reached the town house. When his Mamma came to see him in the nursery that evening, she found him kneeling in a chair against one of the windows--and on going up to him he threw his arms round her neck and said, "Oh, Mamma, if I could but see the lamplighters!" Do not laugh, dear readers, if I add that the tears trickled over his cheeks as he spoke. His mother was much distressed, as she always was when she saw him thinking of his affliction, but she sat down and said, "Never mind, dear Roderick, I will tell you all they do to-night." And so she did, and she made her account so droll, of how the lamplighter ran, and how he seized his ladder in such a hurry, and all the whole business, that by the time she got to the end, and said, "and now he has come to the last lamp-post,--ah, he's up before I can tell you!

and pop! the lamp is lit, and down he runs, and off with his ladder to the next street--and now the lamps are shining bright all round the square, and I must go to dinner,"--Roderick was clapping his hands and laughing as merrily as ever, and he got down from the chair quite satisfied. Still for a few weeks he used always to get one of the children to tell him of the lamps lighting, and this was the only sad little fancy the poor child ever indulged in.

The great town gave him various new amus.e.m.e.nts. His Parents used every now and then to take him to some fine conservatory, where flowers are shown even in winter, and where he could smell various new and rare ones, and be told all about their beautiful colours. Then sometimes in the parks and gardens there was a band playing, which was a great delight. And besides that, they took him occasionally to morning concerts for an hour or so; for though it is not usual to take children to those places, he was deprived of so many enjoyments, they let him have all they could: and especially musical ones, for it is a very common thing for blind people to become very fond of music, and Roderick was so, and among other employments learnt to play. I cannot, however, I am sorry to say, add that the great doctors in the town were able to do him any good, though they tried very much, and some of them were so much charmed and interested by his cheerful manner and sweet disposition, that they got quite fond of him, and would often have him come and see them, and play with their children, who were instructed to amuse him in every possible way, and as children are naturally kindhearted, this was generally a pleasant task, and many of them quite looked forward to the visits of the little blind boy.

And so pa.s.sed on a long and rather severe winter, and presently Roderick's birthday came round, and there was great wondering as to what Mamma could do to keep it. And when the time came it turned out that she had got a band of musicians to come and play--and the children danced, and Roderick among them, for some sister was always ready to take him under her especial charge. And then some older children acted a little play, which he could hear and understand, and his Mamma described to him who came in and went out, and in this manner he enjoyed it nearly as much as the others.

Well, the spring-time came once more, and with it the season for returning to the old Sea Castle, and the children went through their usual round of impatience, and I cannot say that Roderick at all forbore, for his Papa had promised to teach him to climb a ladder like the lamplighter when he got back, and he was by that means to go up one of the very old elm trees, and get on to a great branch there was, which was curled into a sort of easy chair, and there he was to sit and play at being judge, and hold trials, and I know not what. There were besides so many schemes for his instruction and amus.e.m.e.nt, and among other things, there was to be a band established in the neighbouring village, which should come and play to them in the old Sea Castle--that the child was more wild with hurry and impatience than ever, and said more absurd things than the rest, for he used every day to declare the _flies_ were becoming so numerous and troublesome he was plagued out of his life by their walking over his face and nose! But as none of his brothers and sisters ever saw the flies, we are obliged to conclude the tickling he talked of was only an effect of his excited imagination.

At last, however, they went, and in compliment to Roderick's wishes it was a week or two sooner than usual. The return to the Sea Castle home rather oppressed poor Lady Madeline's spirits. The doctors in the great town had failed--it was now clear that nothing could be done, and in spite of all her sincere endeavours to be resigned, she could not help feeling this coming back to the original scene of her misfortune very much. One day--it was the anniversary of the day on which her poor child became blind, the Lady Madeline was working in her sitting-room that faced the Sea,--Mothers' memories are very acute about anniversaries, and days, and even hours marked by particular events. They may not talk much about them perhaps, but they recollect times and circ.u.mstances connected with their children very keenly, and therefore it is not surprizing that on this day the poor lady was sitting in her room working, or trying to work, but thinking of nothing in the world but of that day year and her blind child. It was a beautiful evening, and the window was thrown wide open, and the fresh but soft breeze from the Sea blew pleasantly on her face as she sat at her work-table by the cas.e.m.e.nt--but lovely as the scene outside was, she seldom lifted up her eyes to look at it. She had been all her life a great admirer of beautiful scenes, and of all the varieties the changes of day and night produce--but now the sight of any thing particularly lovely brought so painfully before her mind the fact that her child's eyes were closed to all these things, that she often forbore to look again, and so spared herself a repet.i.tion of the pang.

Madeline's eyes therefore remained upon her work, or on her knee when she ceased working,--for ever and anon there was a burst of noise and merriment about the old house, which startled her from her painful thoughts. It was, however, the happy voices of her children, and again and again she sank into her melancholy mood, and so continued till the red hue of a very red sunset burst as it were suddenly into the room, and lighted up the portrait of Roderick, which hung over the mantel-piece. Involuntarily Madeline's eyes glanced from the lovely countenance of her then bright-eyed boy, thus illuminated, to the sun beyond the Sea. She was too late, however. He had just descended behind the waves in a perfect flood of crimson glory, but as she gazed, (for she could not withdraw-her eyes,) a haze--yes, the softest and most etherial cloud-like haze, showing the outline of a beautiful mountainous island, rose in the far off distance, just on the verge of the horizon. It was the Fairy Island. It recalled to the mother's remembrance the existence of her Fairy cousin once more. "Cruel, cruel Eudora," she exclaimed, "you offered me friendship and a.s.sistance, and in the hour of trouble and affliction you have never been near to help or even to comfort me."

And Madeline, in the bitterness of her heart, closed the window hastily and angrily, and sat down. Soon, however, the noises she had several times heard of the children playing, became louder and louder, and the whole party burst at last into the room. "Mamma, Mamma," they cried, scarcely able to speak, "guess where Roderick has been." "I cannot." "Oh, but do, dear Mamma!" cried a little thing with fairy curls, "do guess." "I cannot." "I'll tell Mamma," cried a stout st.u.r.dy fellow, a little older; "Mamma! he's been up the winding staircase of one turret, and all along the leads and down the winding staircase of the other turret, and he has done it three times, and he has seen to do it better than I can."

Here there was a burst of laughter and a violent clapping of hands at the little fellow's _Irish_ account.

"But why don't you do it as well?" asked an elder girl, "you that are going to be a soldier too!"

"Yes; I know I'm going to be a soldier; and I'll try and do it as well as Roderick;" and off ran the eager child, followed by the rest of the party, all but Roderick. He lingered behind, and edging his way easily and quietly as usual to his Mother, having asked her where she was, he sat down on a footstool at her feet. The slight answer she had occasion to make, revealed by its tone, to the now acute blind child, that his Mother's mood was serious, and therefore he did not talk and laugh of what he had accomplished, as he otherwise might have done.

There was a silence of some minutes: at last, "Mamma," said Roderick gravely, "a light has broken in upon me to-day."

Lady Madeline started, and with difficulty suppressed a groan.

Roderick felt the start: "Oh Mamma, Mamma," cried he more cheerfully, "you must not do that! I wasn't thinking about earthly light in the least, but of a light which I know, when you come to hear of it, you will say is a great deal better."

"Indeed! dear Roderick," said Lady Madeline, trying to seem interested.

"Yes _indeed_. Mamma. Why, do _you_ remember, (_I_ had never thought about it till it came into my head to-day;) but do _you_ remember the silly time when I wouldn't fetch you any thing from the drawing room, unless there were candles in the room?"

"I recollect something about it," said his Mother.

"Oh, I'm so glad you do; because now you can laugh with me over the nonsense I used to talk and feel then: I remember I used to tell you I saw _Bears_ when I shut my eyes, and wouldn't go by the pipes in the pa.s.sage, and more such foolish stuff! How odd it seems that I should never have thought about this before, but I never did, and it never came into my head distinctly till to-day." And here Roderick fell into a kind of dream for a few minutes, but he soon began again. "You know what I have done to-day, Mamma. They told you quite right; but they forgot to tell you I have been practising walking across the leads for two or three days, that I might be able to go the great round to-day on purpose to tell you of it; because I thought you would be so much pleased to know I could go alone all over the house on the day year when I was first blind. So now, Mamma, if ever, when I am grown up to be a man, an enemy comes and attacks the old Sea Castle, I shall be able to run about and give the alarm, for you know I could hear them, if I could do nothing else."

There was another pause, for Madeline could not speak: the often restrained tears for her son's misfortune had this day burst forth, and could not be kept back; but Roderick did not know, and went on.

"Certainly those old foolish fears were very wrong, Mamma. And I can't think how it was, for you used to remind me always that G.o.d could take care of us by night as well as by day, in darkness as well as in light; and still somehow, though I knew it was true, I didn't believe it,--at least, not so as not to be afraid in the dark: how very wrong it was! Still I had quite forgotten all about it till this evening.

But, as I was going the last of the three rounds, I sat down on the leads for a few minutes to enjoy the air. The sun was just setting, I am sure, for it felt so fresh and cool; and it was, as I sat there, that it came into my head how strange it was that, since the day I was first blind, I had never thought any more about being afraid in the dark! or by night any more than by day! Indeed it has been quite a play to me ever since to do different things, and find my way about in all the rooms and all over the house, without seeing; and I have only known night from day by getting up and going to bed. So that you see, Mamma, being always in the dark, has quite cured me of being afraid of it: and is not this a very good thing indeed?"

"Very," murmured Madeline.

"I knew you would say so! But that isn't all I have got to say. A great deal more than that came into my head when I was out upon the leads."

And Roderick nestled closer to his Mother, and laid his arms across her lap.

"Something to comfort you still more, Mamma."

She could not speak.

"Mamma, you are crying! I feel your tears on my hand. Do not cry about me."

"Go on, dear Roderick."

"Don't you think," continued the child, "that people who wont listen to what is told them, and wont be cured of being foolish and wicked, are very like the old Jews you told us about yesterday, who had G.o.d among them, and Moses teaching them what G.o.d wished them to do, and still were as disobedient as ever?"

"It is true, Roderick, we are all apt to resemble the Jews in their journey through the wilderness."

"Yes, Mamma; and particularly people who can't trust in G.o.d, though they know He is everywhere. The Jews knew He was in the cloud and the pillar, and still were always afraid He couldn't take care of them.

And what came into my head was, that I used to be as bad as those old Jews once; knowing that G.o.d was present everywhere to take care of me, and still not _feeling_ it so as really to believe it, and not be afraid. But the blindness has quite cured me, and is it not very likely that it came on purpose to do so, and to make me trust in G.o.d; for I have done so more and more, dear Mamma, as I groped about this year, for I have all along hoped He would take care of me, and keep me from falling; and, therefore, I think the blindness has done me a great deal of good, and I hope I shall never be like the naughty old Jews again! This is what I had to say; and I hope you will be as glad as I am."

"I will try, my darling," cried poor Madeline.

The tenderest love, the bitterest grief, mixed with earnest struggles for resignation to the will of Heaven, contended in the Mother's bosom, as she clasped her innocent child to her heart. He was almost frightened. She lifted him on to her knees, and buried her face on his shoulder. He put his young arms round her neck, and almost wondered why she sobbed so bitterly; but he felt he must not speak.

There was a painful pause. Suddenly, however, a strange faint light began to creep into the room, which had hitherto been gradually darkening in the twilight. It was a mysterious gleam, like nothing that is ever seen. It increased in strength and brilliancy, till at length the whole place became illuminated.

Roderick's head was against his Mother's breast; and, besides, _he_ could not see.

She, however, suddenly started up; the light had become so powerful, it had forced her from her grief. She sprung up in terror, and a faint shriek burst from her lips.

"Mamma, what is the matter?" cried Roderick, holding her fast.

"Oh, the light--the light, my child! there is such a light!" answered Madeline.

"Mother, you are not afraid of _Light_!" exclaimed the bewildered Roderick.

"Oh, but _this_ light! it is like no other;--it is awful!"

"Mother,--it is not the light of _Fire_, is it," cried poor Roderick, now at last turning pale. "But even if it is, remember that I can help you _now_; I can go everywhere,--all over, and fear nothing. I can go and fetch my brothers and sisters, one by one! Oh, send me; send me, Mamma! I shall be less afraid than any of you, for I cannot see the horrid light that frightens you!"

As he finished, a gentle, prolonged "Hush!" resounded through the room; like the soothing, quieting sound of lullaby to an infant. And in the midst of the beaming light, the form of the long-forgotten Fairy Eudora appeared before the eyes of the astonished Madeline.

"The Sea Castle is not on Fire, you dear, brave child," cried the Fairy; "and your Mother has no cause for fear. I am a friend."

"Cousin!" cried the bewildered Madeline, "why are you here?" and a terrible suspicion flashed through her mind: and she pointed to her boy, and added, trembling with agony--

"Is that _your_ doing?"

"What if I say it _is_, Cousin Madeline. There is a long story about that, but we shall have time for it hereafter.--Dear little Cousin Roderick," pursued the Fairy, seating herself, and drawing Roderick to her. "You have been a good boy, and got _light out of darkness_. Mind you hold it fast. You did not use the light well, though, when you had it, Cousin Roderick."

"I know I didn't," was his answer.

"If you could live the light time over again, you would be wiser, Roderick."

"I hope I should indeed," he murmured fervently; "but it is not likely I shall ever see the light again."

"Little boys shouldn't say things are not likely, when they don't know any thing about them," cried the Fairy gaily, to cheer them up.

"I dare say, if I were to ask you, you would tell me it was a bit of sand that got into your eyes last year, that made you blind; but it was no such thing, clever Master Roderick. Your naughty Cousin Eudora had something to do with that; but, luckily, she can put her own work straight again. Cousin Madeline, what do you think of my pretty light?"