when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking
hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro'
town.
She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him,
she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot
through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the
ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she
looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with
enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and
melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly
passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers
who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable
horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and
impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow
street.
"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place
where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why
do you not run?"
"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille,
clinging to the stranger's side.
"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt
not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the
spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged
animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save
_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock
directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her
side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was
poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and
terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive
her.
"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"
"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well.
_This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."
But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him
at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the
confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did
not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now
insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home;
and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was
forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the
humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely
crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was
insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to
beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the
most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the
least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking
even a stranger in peril."
He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer;
and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush
of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was
put aside.
The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor
did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he
should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night.
The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that offers
but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day,
until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her
recovery.
You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there _is_ such a
thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable affinity
between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly
together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our
souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus
attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same
orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet,
without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was
but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene
St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had
so generously suffered for his sake.
The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye
the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his
perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an
imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy.
He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of
voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the
young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully
denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!"
uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon
his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to
vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to
till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on
his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for
one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad
objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There
is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing
_lovingness to protect_. This makes them the angels of sickness, the
comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in
Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her
compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With
ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years,
she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully
susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious
of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that
she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her
eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household
who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words,
speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she was
beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections
of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal
attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the
freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an
expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the
blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early
childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the
small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not
only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed
even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's
family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so
bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that
poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous
than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty,
the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune.
Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all
Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much
together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent
mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a
counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had
meekened, without souring, her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit
that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that
was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic.
And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most
dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved.
Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain
inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing
from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.
"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as
he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that
acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their
house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his
dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his
steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I
propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment,
"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and
I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a
hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have
been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I
could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would
fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."
"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive
such a lodger."
"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family
I thought."
"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good
enough for you."
"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That
is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most
kindly."
The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the
same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so
constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St.
Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill
that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was
not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at
Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face
to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was
she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?"
Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter
than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still
evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one
to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and
was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him,
for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved?
St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood
of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he
had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.
He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he,
as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were
alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the
rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection
beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand
glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But
it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now
unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet
cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the
vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read
to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed at
the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books, with
the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the pomp, the enthusiasm
of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever
denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the
Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls
there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had
something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a
sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my
dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who
had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my
mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of
memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of
human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a
home where my father and my mother's kind voice were _not_. A restless
impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my
home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change
an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this
old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at
Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old,
for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I
was utterly alone, till I came hither and found _thee_."
Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that
had led to a friend who never could desert.
But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her
power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to
reconcile him to his forlorn condition.
"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face
that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate."
"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."
"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may
find thee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should
judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."
He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the
descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they
occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she
heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss
of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing,
the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.
Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they
possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith.
Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends
and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus
conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three
Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals.
However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily
conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had
been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of
the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and
undoubtingly as the rest.
And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the
Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first
potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious
Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would
belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually
silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment,
for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he
sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)--each
of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and
indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin
atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected
Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly
declared himself a witness of its truth.
A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit
connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate
mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would,"
said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I
am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted
her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child
grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses
added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator)
hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she
resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful,"
said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the
mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured
her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she
returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her
cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened rafters and
yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk
upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that
moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed
to her arms, and called her "mother!"
He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before;
but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had
been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse
was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already
taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her
substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful
submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin
of the mother was visited no longer on the child.
I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon
Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by
the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a
beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not
God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the
guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the
offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator
was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I
love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his
sight, _thy_ charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be
it so; I shall at least have made him happy!"
Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished
them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to
perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her
parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation
would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to
whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's
visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a
twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than
Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding
was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading
parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some
dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of
her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles,
which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would
sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the
wedding.
"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St.
Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."
In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their
pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current
congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed
themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to
their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the
notion that there would be no such great disproportion in the connexion
after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate;
the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not
lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not
blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud could
not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the
fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible!
St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the
notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's
representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her
parents. "And _thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive
voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a
second blindness."
"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!"
"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand,
bitterly.
"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of
her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not
how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her;
"Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible
it is to be alone."
"But my mother will not leave you."
"She is not you!"
"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.
"What is Julie to me?"
"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in
her presence."
"And why, Lucille?"
"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."
"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how
much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in _her_ voice."
The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and
her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide
sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and
filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the
frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought
his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she
fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of
her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid
hope.
At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the
short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town,
instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs,
and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she
set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely
superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its
weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe,
that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that
fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love.