RONALD ELSDALE GIVES OPINIONS.
Something more singular than this next attracted my attention. Ronald
Elsdale, blind as he was, inclined his head to the ground and seemed
to be returning the gaze of the cat. "Can it be possible," I thought,
"that this man, physically blind, and this cat, invisible to all eyes
but mine, are conscious of each other's presence?" I put this to the
test.
"You appear to be listening for something," I said.
"Did you bring a dog with you?" he asked. "My uncle, I know, keeps
neither cat nor dog."
"No," I replied, "I brought no dog."
"Then I must be mistaken," he said, and he felt his way to the seat he
was in the habit of occupying in Bob's room. The cat lay at his feet.
I was prepossessed in the young man's favor the moment I set eyes upon
him. He was tall and fair, a true Saxon in feature and complexion.
There was an engaging frankness in his manner, and his bearing was
that of a gentleman. He aroused my curiosity by a habit he had of
closing his eyes when any earnest subject occupied his mind. He closed
them now as he sat upon his chair, and when he opened them he said, in
a singularly gentle voice, "My uncle has told you I am blind, Mr.
Emery?"
"Yes," I replied; "I sincerely sympathize with you.
"Thank you. It is a great misfortune; but there are compensations.
There are always compensations, Mr. Emery, even for the worst that can
happen to a man."
"It is good if one can think so," I remarked. "As a rule men are not
patient when things are not as they wish."
"It is not only useless to repine," was his reply, "it is foolish, and
morally weak. For, admitting that there is such a principle as divine
justice, we must also admit a divine interposition even in the small
matters of human life. I should not speak so freely if my uncle had
not told me of his early association with you, and of the friendly and
affectionate greeting he received from you after a separation of
nearly forty years. I look upon you already as a friend."
"I am glad to hear you say so; we will seal the compact."
I pressed his hand once more, and he responded as I would have wished
him to respond.
"I knew you would like each other," said Bob.
"When I closed my eyes just now," resumed Ronald Elsdale, "it was
because of the impression I had that there was some other living
creature in the room beside ourselves."
Bob and I exchanged glances, and Bob said:
"We three are the only living creatures within these four walls of
mine."
"Of course, of course. Mr. Emery said so, and it is not likely he
would deceive me. Blind people, Mr. Emery, are generally very
suspicious; it follows naturally upon their affliction. Seeing
nothing, they doubt much, and are ever in fear that they are being
imposed upon and deceived. I am happy to say this is not the case with
me; where I have not a fixed opinion I generally believe what is told
me."
A pang of self-reproach shot through me as he spoke. Here was I, in my
very first interview with this frank and ingenuous young gentleman,
deliberately deceiving him. Bob, also, did not seem quite at his ease.
He was playing with his lower lip, always an indication in him of
mental disturbance.
"You said something just now," I observed, with a wish to change the
subject, "about compensations for misfortune, and I infer that you
have compensations for yours. But it must cause you regret?"
"It does, but I do not fret, I do not take it to heart; I accept the
inevitable. The proper use of the higher intelligence with which we
are gifted is to reason calmly upon all human and worldly matters
which touch us nearly. Those who can thus reason have cause for
gratitude; and I have cause. Compensations? Yes, I have them.
Difficult to describe, perhaps, because they are spiritual; inspired
by faith or self-delusion, which stern materialists declare are one
and the same thing."
"Your uncle and I," I said, "were having a discussion upon delusions
when you entered."
"In continuation"--he turned to Bob; he seemed to know always where
the person he was addressing was standing or sitting--"in continuation
of the discussion we were having this afternoon?"
"Yes," said Bob, "and we do not quite agree."
"My uncle is a skeptic," said Ronald, "he does not believe in
miracles."
"You do?" I inquired.
"Undoubtedly. It will be a fatal day for the world when faith in
miracles is dead. Do not do my uncle an injustice, Mr. Emery; I never
heard him speak as he spoke this afternoon when we were discussing
this subject, and it almost seemed to me as if he were desirous of
arguing against himself. Do you require absolute visible proof before
you believe?"
"Not always," I replied, with my eyes on the spectral cat. "I am
forced to believe in some things which are not visible to other eyes
than mine."
"I do not quite understand you," said Ronald thoughtfully. "It is, at
the best, but a half-hearted admission, and, regarding you in the
light of a friend, as I do Uncle Bob, I would like to break down the
barrier."
"Try," I said anxiously.
He was silent for a moment or two, considering.
"My uncle, this afternoon, in the attempt to support his argument,
brought forward some instances of spectral illusions such as that of a
man who was in the habit of seeing in his drawing room a band of
figures, dressed in green, who entertained him with singular dances;
and he instanced other illusions of a like nature. These are waking
fancies, produced either by a disordered mind or a disordered body;
they are of the same order as dreams.
At dead of night imperial Reason sleeps,
And Fancy, with her train, her revel keeps.
So by day, when the mind is disturbed by such fancies, does imperial
reason sleep. For my own part I make no attempt to dispute the facts
of these cases. They have been brought forward by physicians in proof
of certain functional and scientific facts, and by wise treatment
suffering mortals have been won from madness. In this respect they
have served a good purpose; but materialists, and persons who now
fashionably call themselves agnostics, seize upon these illustrations
in proof that mortal life is of no more value, and means no more, than
the life of a flower or the growth of a stone, and that when we die we
are blotted out spiritually and materially forever. In their eyes we
are so many pounds of flesh and blood; there is nothing divine,
nothing spiritual in us; we are surrounded by no mystery. 'Miracles!'
they cry. 'Stories for children; fables to tickle, amuse, and delude!'
What we see and feel is, what we do not see and feel is not and cannot
be. If this view were universal what would become of religion? The
high priests of God, under whichever banner they preach, insist upon
our accepting miracles, and they are right in thus insisting. You
laugh at faith and destroy it, and in its destruction you destroy
comfort and consolation; you destroy salvation. God is a miracle.
Because we do not see him are we not to believe in him? Are we not to
believe in the resurrection? Then farewell to the sublime solace that
lies in the immortality of the soul. There is a road to Calvary called
the Via Dolorosa, and there pilgrims kneel and see a miracle in every
stone; there, hearts that are crushed with sorrow tarry, and go away
blessed and comforted for the struggle of years that yet lies before
them."
His voice was deep and earnest, his handsome face glowed with
enthusiasm. I touched his hand, and a sweet, pathetic smile came to
his lips.
"Mr. Elsdale," I said, "I thank you from my heart. May I venture to
ask if you believe in spiritual visitations?"
"Believing what I believe," he replied, "I must believe in them."
"You have spoken," I continued, "of receiving comfort and consolation
from such belief. Do you think that a man who is not, to his own
knowledge, interested or involved in something which, for the sake of
argument, I will call a crime, may receive a spiritual visitation
which compels him to take an active part in it?"
"Not in the crime," asked Ronald, "in the discovery of it, I suppose
you mean?"
"Yes. In the discovery of it."
"I think," said Ronald, "that a man who is not in any way connected
with it may be made an agent in its discovery."
We had some further conversation on the subject, and at the expiration
of an hour or so Ronald Elsdale took his departure, and expressed the
hope that we should meet again, to which hope I cordially responded.
As he stood with his hand on the handle of the door, the cat, which
had risen when he rose, stood at his feet.
"Are you going with him?" I mentally asked. "You are quite welcome."
A troubled expression crossed Ronald's face, and he made a motion with
his hand as if to dispel it. Then he left the room, but the cat
remained.