HOPE REALIZED.
Mrs. Larkum's recovery was slow, and it required all the nourishing food
we could provide to start the springs of life working healthfully. Her
mind had dwelt so long upon her bereavement, and dark outlook into the
future that a naturally robust, and well-fed person might have succumbed,
but when to a delicate organization had been added the most meagre fare
possible to support human existence, it was no wonder nature rebelled.
It was a new experience to me, and a very agreeable one, to watch the
pinched faces of the children grow round and rosy, and to hear their
merry laughter.
The mother waited with feverish anxiety for tidings from her father, but
for several weeks no word came; at last she began to fear he might have
died under the strain of the operation. Mrs. Blake began to get anxious
too, while there flitted before her fancy gruesome thoughts as to what
might have been done to the poor body left to the care of those heartless
doctors.
"I can't see why they take such delight in mangling dead people to see
how they are put together. With all their trying they'll never be able
to make a body themselves."
"It is in that way they have learned how to cure diseases and relieve
pain," I assured her. "We ought to be grateful to them for taking so
much trouble to relieve us of our miseries."
"I dare say we'd ought, I never thought of it that way before; in fact
I've been rather sot ag'in doctors. Perhaps if they hadn't cut into dead
folks' eyes, they couldn't have done for the likes of Mr. Bowen."
"Assuredly not; and sometimes the very greatest doctors bequeathe their
own bodies to the dissecting room; especially if they die of some
mysterious disease."
"That is good of them. I've always reckoned doctors a pretty tight lot,
who worked for their money jest the same's the Mill hands."
"No doubt many of them do; but some of them are almost angelic in their
sympathy for the suffering, and their longing to lessen it."
"I believe you can see more goodness in folks than any one I know. Now
when I get cross with folks when they don't do as I think they ought,
what you say comes to my mind; and before I know I get to making excuses,
too. It's done me a sight of good being with you."
"And you have done me good,--taken me out of self, and taught me to think
of others. I do not know how I should have been filling up my vacant
hours but for you."
"I wish somebody would say that much to me," Mrs. Larkum said,
sorrowfully. "I don't think I am any use to any one."
"With these lovely children to care for, what more can you ask than to
work for them?"
"Yes, I forget charity begins at home."
"If you hadn't fell in with me that day in the cars, and got helping us
here on the Mill Road you'd a found some other good work to do. Most
young ladies like you would a turned up their noses at a plain old
creature like me, skeered most out of their wits, talking so bold like
as I did; but you answered me so kind like, I never thought you were
anything but common folks like myself."
"I am very thankful to God you did meet her that day. Most like I would
have been dead by this time, and father and the children on the parish,"
Mrs. Larkum said, with a shudder.
"Yes, I am right glad, myself," Mrs. Blake said, very complacently.
"She might have been amusing herself visiting with the aristocracy," Mrs.
Larkum continued, "and dressing up every fine day, instead of coming
among us, bringing better than sunshine with her. Dr. MacKenzie told me
folks wondered at her coming among us so much; but he said he wished
more of her class was like her."
"Now I must leave you;" I said, rising suddenly. "When you begin to
praise me, I shall always go away."
"Don't you like us to tell you how much you have helped us?" Mrs. Larkum
asked wistfully. "It does me so much good to talk about you."
"I believe helping you gives me more pleasure than anything I do; so why
thank me for what I enjoy?"
"You won't mind your own kind talking about you coming to us, and doing
so much for the poor, will you?"
"Certainly not. While I am not dependent on my neighbors for my peace of
mind, I will come to see you two as often as I can do anything for you."
"I am glad to hear that; I don't get over one of your visits for days.
They brace me up to take hold of life, and do the best I can for father
and the children."
"I guess if folks does talk about you, they talked about one that was
better'n any of us. I was reading the other day about the respectable
ones in their days complaining how Christ eat with publicans and
sinners," Mrs. Blake said, giving me one of her strong encouraging
glances.
"Thank you, Mrs. Blake; after that I can brave any criticism."
A few days later I walked in the early afternoon to the Mill Road. Cook
had prepared some special dainties for Mrs. Larkum; so with a small lunch
basket on my arm I started on my errand of mercy.
I had been standing at my easel a good part of the forenoon, and the
satisfaction that comes from faithful work done, together with the
assurance from Mrs. Larkum that my visits carried with them something
better than sunshine, I trod swiftly over the frozen streets, quite
content with life and its developments. I met Dr. MacKenzie on the way.
He stopped to shake hands, and with an almost boyish eagerness, said:
"Have you heard the news?"
"Not anything special. I hope you have some good news for me."
"Well, our friend Mr. Bowen has been heard from. The doctor has performed
his miracle."
"Can he see as well as ever?" I cried joyously.
"I believe so."
I could not keep back the troublesome tears. "I am so glad you told me,"
I murmured, and then nodded my adieus rather abruptly, for I was ashamed
of my emotion. It seemed perfectly fitting to me, as I walked briskly
along, that Dr. MacKenzie should be the first to tell me the news; for,
but for him, we should never have thought of making the experiment. That
very evening I met him at a party at Mrs. Silas Markham's, when he gave
me the full particulars I was too tender hearted to hear in the morning.
In answer to his inquiries, the occulist had written to him some special
circumstances of the case. He described Mr. Bowen's extreme patience.
"Such an instance of perfect trust in God is refreshing to meet with,"
he wrote; "and but for this his case would probably have proved hopeless,
since it was one of the worst cases we have treated successfully."
"His religion has helped him wonderfully all through his terrible
affliction. I wonder will he be just as devout as ever?" I said.
"I think so. He is not made of the stuff that forgets favors received
from God or man."
"I think he will have stronger reasons than mere gratitude to keep him
close to the Lord," I said, thinking of the joy he had in communion with
the Divine, even amid his darkness and poverty.
That same day, after leaving the doctor, I proceeded first to Mrs.
Blake's to tell her the news. She threw a shawl over her head and
accompanied me directly to Mrs. Larkum's. We found her sitting in a
comfortable, though rather ancient easy-chair, which I had exhumed, along
with a good many other useful articles, from the garret at Oaklands. The
two older children we interrupted taking a lesson at their mother's knee.
The primer was gladly laid aside, while the children came coyly to my
side, quite certain there was a delectable bite for them somewhere in my
pockets. I dismissed that care from my mind by dividing the sweets, and
then gave Mrs. Larkum her lunch. She sat enjoying the dainty food,
sharing now and then a taste with the little ones, who had a keen
appreciation for Oaklands' cookery. I sat watching the group, glancing
now and then at Mrs. Blake's eloquent face with a good deal of
satisfaction. I was anxious to break the news carefully and scarce knew
how to begin, when Mrs. Larkum looked up at me eagerly and said:
"Have you any news from father?"
"What makes you think she has news?" Mrs. Blake asked.
"I dreamed last night you brought me a letter, and I was afraid to open
it, and woke up all trembling and frightened. When I saw you coming
to-day, my heart stood still for a second or two."
"Your dream is partly true, only the news is good. Dr. MacKenzie told me
they have every hope that your father will see as well as ever."
I was not prepared for the effect, my words produced. A pallor overspread
her face; before Mrs. Blake could reach her she had fainted. That good
woman was always ready for any emergency. She very calmly laid her down
on the floor and proceeded to bring her back to consciousness. The
children raised a dismal wail; but this she instantly quieted by marching
them off to the bedroom.
While she applied cold water vigorously, and rubbed the nerveless hands,
I asked in much alarm, seeing how long and deathlike was her swoon: "Is
she really dead?"
"Bless you, no. She's one of them high-strung women that takes everything
hard. She fainted over and over when her husband was fetched home dead. I
did think then she'd drop off; but joy don't kill like trouble."
Presently the poor creature struggled back to consciousness.
"I am afraid I have frightened you," she said, with a feeble attempt at
apology.
"Pray do not think of us. I may have been to blame in breaking the news
so suddenly."
"No, indeed; the fault was not in you; but I have had so many shocks the
least thing upsets me. Dr. MacKenzie told me that my heart is not in a
healthy state."
"I should say that was the matter with your whole body. It's a pretty
rickety concern, like my old rocking-chair. Every day I'm looking for
it to go to pieces under me," Mrs. Blake remarked.
"I am not nearly so bad as that; I do not expect to fall to pieces for a
good many years, now that father has got his sight. He will be able to
keep us comfortable, like we used to be years ago."
Mrs. Blake having got her patient back into the chair, administered wine
and water to prevent a recurrence of the malady.
A week or two after this Esmerelda informed me one morning that there
were great rejoicings in the Mill Road.
"I think they would like to see you there. I heard Mr. Bowen and some of
them talking about you last night, after meeting."
"Mr. Bowen--was he there?"
"Oh, yes; and he sees as well as anybody."
"I will go to-day," I said, with difficulty restraining my delight.
"Some of the people who attend Beech Street Church think you are a little
above everybody in Cavendish."
Esmerelda spoke with great cordiality. Now that I had been to New York,
and the dressmakers there had transformed me, outwardly, into a
fashionable woman, I noticed that her respect had considerably increased;
and, furthermore, that some of her own costumes had been made in almost
exact imitation of mine. No higher compliment than this could Esmerelda
have paid me; neither could I help acknowledging that she looked very
graceful and lady-like in her Sunday garment, and often I fell to
speculating how she would have appeared if half her life had been spent
at a first-class boarding-school. A painful sensation, probably akin to
jealousy, suggested that probably she would have satisfied my guardian's
fastidious tastes better than I could ever do.
But I could never treat her in the same cordial way that I treated
Mrs. Blake and the Larkums, and several others of her class. These
instinctively made me feel that, no matter how friendly I might be, there
was no danger of their trying to assert an equality, which I suppose has
existed among the members of the human family since shortly after the
expulsion from Eden. With Esmerelda the case was different.
That day I betook myself to the Mill Road with a good deal of expectancy.
I was anxious to see the look of recognition in those once sightless,
disfigured eyes, and to hear how the long-concealed delights of a visible
world once more appeared. As I was walking rapidly along the street, I
saw, approaching me on the Mill Road, one whom I had never noticed there
before. He walked with a quick, energetic step, as if existence was a
rapture and yet I saw, beneath the soft felt hat, gray hairs that
betokened him a man past the prime of life. Strange to say, I did not
recognize the pedestrian and was surprised to see him pause, and hold out
his hand uncertainly, as if he were hardly sure of my identity.
"I think this is Miss Selwyn." Swiftly the assurance came to me that this
was Mr. Bowen.
"Is it possible you should first recognize me? I did not for an instant
think it was you."
"I had the conviction all along that I should know you, no matter where
our first meeting might take place."
"Persons are generally disappointed in the looks of their friends after
sight has been restored. You must be an exception to the general rule, or
else your perceptions are keener than the average sufferers from loss of
sight." I looked closely into the eyes of my companion, and saw that they
were unusually fine and expressive. He turned with me, saying, with a
beautiful deference:
"May I walk back with you?"
"I shall be disappointed if you do not give me a little of your time. I
only heard to-day that you were at home, and have come on purpose to see
you. My curiosity has been extreme to know how the world looks after your
long night."
"Nearly everything is changed, but mostly man and his works. When the
bandages were finally removed, and all the other necessary restrictions,
I asked to have my first glimpse of the outer world into the starry
night. I do not think our language has a well deep enough to express what
I felt in that first glimpse. But the human faces are sadly changed.
Poverty and care, I find, are not beautifiers. My own daughter looks a
stranger; only when I hear her speak. My own face surprised me most. It
is changed past recognition."
He spoke a little sadly. I could think of no comforting words. After we
had walked on some time in silence, he said:
"I do not think the revelations after death will be any stranger than
those of the past few weeks. My blindness and restoration to sight have,
in a measure, anticipated the full return of all the faculties that
death, for a brief season, takes from us."
"Do you think any experience we have in this world touches on those
mysteries of the first hours of immortal life? I cannot imagine any
sensation that will be common to the two existences."
"There is certainly one--probably very, very many. I cannot believe
there will be much change in the relationship that exists between the
consecrated soul and its centre of attraction. Deepened, intensified, it
no doubt will be; but not radically changed."
My thoughts instantly turned to the words the oculist had written. No
wonder a man living so far within the confines of the unseen should be
able to exercise almost superhuman patience under the most trying
exigencies of life. When we reached the broken gate leading into the
house, he paused and turned to me. He was silent for a few seconds, and
then said, apparently with an effort: "I want to thank you for what you
have done for me. Last night, on my way home from the house of prayer, I
was hunting up the constellations that once I loved to trace and call by
name, and, in some way, you were brought to mind with all that you have
generously done for me; and then, and there, I tried to frame some words
of gratitude by which to express what I felt. In Heaven I may be able;
for only there we shall have language for our utmost stretch of thought."
"Perhaps before we meet there, as I pray God we may do, I may have more
reason for gratitude than you. Have you not told me that your daily
prayer is for my salvation?"
I said good-bye hurriedly without waiting for a reply, and turned my face
homeward. Gradually there was coming into my heart the hope that ere long
I might come into the same wealthy place where he walked with such
serenity even amid life's sore trials.