THE BLIND GIRL.
Maude's chamber was ready at last, and very inviting it looked with
its coat of fresh paint, its cheerful paper, bright carpet, handsome
bedstead, marble washstand, and mahogany bureau, on which were
arranged various little articles for the toilet. The few pieces of
furniture which Mrs. Kennedy had ordered from the cabinet-maker's
had amounted, in all, to nearly one hundred dollars, but the bill
was not yet sent in; and in blissful ignorance of the surprise
awaiting him the doctor rubbed his hands and tried to seem pleased
when his wife, passing her arm in his, led him to the room, which
she compelled him to admire.
"It was all very nice," he said, "but wholly unnecessary for a blind
girl. What was the price of this?" he asked, laying his hand upon
the bedstead.
"Only twenty-five dollars. Wasn't it cheap?" and the wicked black
eyes danced with merriment at the loud groan which succeeded the
answer.
"Twenty-five dollars!" he exclaimed. "Why, the bedstead Matty and I
slept on for seven years only cost three, and it is now as good as
new."
"But times have changed," said the lady. "Everybody has nicer
things; besides, do you know people used to talk dreadfully about a
man of your standing being so stingy? But I have done considerable
toward correcting that impression. You aint stingy, and in proof of
it you'll give me fifty cents to buy cologne for this." And she took
up a beautiful bottle which stood upon the bureau.
The doctor had not fifty cents in change, but a dollar bill would
suit her exactly as well, she said, and secretly exulting in her
mastery over the self-willed tyrant, she suffered him to depart,
saying to himself as he descended the stair, "Twenty-five dollars
for one bedstead. I won't stand it! I'll do something!"
"What are you saying, dear?" a melodious voice called after him, and
so accelerated his movements that the extremity of his coat
disappeared from view, just as the lady Maude reached the head of
the stairs.
"Oh!" was the involuntary exclamation of Louis, who had been a
spectator of the scene, and who felt intuitively that his father had
found his mistress.
During her few weeks residence at Laurel Hill Maude Glendower had
bound the crippled boy to herself by many a deed of love, and
whatever she did was sure of meeting his approval. With him she had
consulted concerning his sister's room, yielding often to his artist
taste in the arrangement of the furniture, and now that the chamber
was ready they both awaited impatiently the arrival of its occupant.
Nellie's last letter had been rather encouraging, and Maude herself
had appended her name at its close. The writing was tremulous and
uncertain, but it brought hope to the heart of the brother, who had
never really believed it possible for his sister to be blind. Very
restless he seemed on the day when she was expected; and when, just
as the sun was setting, the carriage drove to the gate, a faint
sickness crept over him, and wheeling his chair to the window of her
room he looked anxiously at her, as with John's assistance, she
alighted from the carriage.
"If she walks alone I shall know she is not very blind," he said,
and with clasped hands he watched her intently as she came slowly
toward the house with Nellie a little in advance.
Nearer and nearer she came--closer and closer the burning forehead
was pressed against the window pane, and hope beat high in Louis'
heart, when suddenly she turned aside--her foot rested on the
withered violets which grew outside the walk, and her hand groped in
the empty air.
"She's blind--she's blind," said Louis, and with a moaning cry he
laid his head upon the broad arm of his chair, sobbing most
bitterly.
Meantime below there was a strange interview between the new mother
and her children, Maude Glendower clasping her namesake in her arms
and weeping over her as she had never wept before but once, and that
when the moonlight shone upon her sitting by a distant grave.
Pushing back the clustering curls, she kissed the open brow and
looked into the soft black eyes with a burning gaze which penetrated
the shadowy darkness and brought a flush to the cheek of the young
girl.
"Maude Remington! Maude Remington!" she said, dwelling long upon the
latter name, "the sight of you affects me painfully; you are so like
one I have lost. I shall love you, Maude Remington, for the sake of
the dead, and you, too, must love me, and call me mother--will you?"
and her lips again touched those of the astonished maiden.
Though fading fast, the light was not yet quenched in Maude's eyes,
and very wistfully she scanned the face of the speaker, while her
hands moved caressingly over each feature, as she said, "I will love
you, beautiful lady, though you can never be to me what my gentle
mother was."
At the sound of that voice Maude Glendower started suddenly, and
turning aside, so her words could not be heard, she murmured sadly,
"Both father and child prefer her to me." Then, recollecting
herself, she offered her hand to the wondering Nellie, saying, "Your
Sister's misfortune must be my excuse for devoting so much time to
her, when you, as my eldest daughter, were entitled to my first
attention."
Her stepmother's evident preference for Maude had greatly offended
the selfish Nellie, who coldly answered, "Don't trouble yourself,
madam. It's not of the least consequence. But where is my father? He
will welcome me, I am sure."
The feeling too often existing between stepmothers and stepdaughters
had sprung into life, and henceforth the intercourse of Maude
Glendower and Nellie Kennedy would be marked with studied
politeness, and nothing more. But the former did not care. So long
as her eye could feast itself upon the face and form of Maude
Remington she was content, and as Nellie left the room she wound her
arm around the comparatively helpless girl, saying, "Let me take you
to your brother."
Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded now, and
suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber where Louis watched
for her coming. She could see enough to know there was a change, and
clasping her companion's hand she said, "I am surely indebted to you
for this surprise."
"Maude, Maude!" and the tones of Louis' voice trembled with joy, as
stretching his arms toward her, he cried, "You can see."
Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude flew like
lightning to his side, and kneeling before him hid her face in his
lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching her to say if she
could see. It was a most touching sight, and drawing near, Maude
Glendower mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children
on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.
Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature, and though she
had passed through many an hour of anguish, and had rebelled against
the fearful doom which seemed to be approaching, she did not yet
despair. She still saw a little--could discern colors and forms, and
could tell one person from another. "I shall be better by and by,"
she said, when assured by the sound of retreating footsteps that
they were alone. "I am following implicitly the doctor's directions,
and I hope to see by Christmas; but if I do not--"
Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands she cried, "Oh,
brother--brother, must I be blind? I can't--I can't, for who will
care for poor, blind, helpless Maude?"
"I, sister, I," and hushing his own great sorrow the crippled boy
comforted the weeping girl just as she had once comforted him, when
in the quiet graveyard he had lain him down in the long, rank grass
and wished that he might die. "Pa's new wife will care for you,
too," he said. "She's a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one, I am
sure, for she cried so hard over mother's grave, and her voice was
so gentle when, just as though she had known our mother, she said,
`Darling Matty, I will be kind to your children.'"
"Ah, that I will--I will," came faintly from the hall without, where
Maude Glendower stood, her eyes riveted upon the upturned face of
Maude, and her whole body swelling with emotion.
A sad heritage had been bequeathed to her--a crippled boy and a
weak, blind girl; but in some respects she was a noble woman, and as
she gazed upon the two she resolved that so long as she should live,
so long should the helpless children of Matty Remington have a
steadfast friend. Hearing her husband's voice below she glided down
the stairs, leaving Louis and Maude really alone.
"Sister," said Louis, after a moment, "what of Mr. De Vere? Is he
true to the last?"
"I have released him," answered Maude. "I am nothing to him now,"
and very calmly she proceeded to tell him of the night when she had
said to Mr. De Vere, "My money is gone--my sight is going too, and I
give you back your troth, making you free to marry another--Nellie,
if you choose. She is better suited to you than I have ever been."
Though secretly pleased at her offering to give him up, J.C. made a
show of resistance, but she had prevailed at last, and with the
assurance that he should always esteem her highly, he consented to
the breaking of the engagement, and the very, next afternoon, rode
out with Nellie Kennedy.
"He will marry her, I think," Maude said, as she finished narrating
the circumstances, and looking into her calm, unruffled face Louis
felt sure that she had outlived her love for one who had proved
himself as fickle as J.C. De Vere.
"And what of James?" he asked. "Is he still in New Orleans."
"He is," answered Maude. "He has a large wholesale establishment
there, and as one of the partners is sick, he has taken his place
for the winter. He wrote to his cousin often, bidding him spare no
expense for me, and offering to pay the bills if J.C. was not able."
A while longer they conversed, and then they were summoned to
supper, Mrs. Kennedy coming herself for Maude, who did not refuse to
be assisted by her.
"The wind hurt my eyes--they will be better to-morrow," she said,
and with her old sunny smile she greeted her stepfather, and then
turned to Hannah and John, who had come in to see her.
But alas for the delusion! The morrow brought no improvement,
neither the next day, nor the next, and as the world grew dim there
crept into her heart a sense of utter desolation which neither the
tender love of Maude Glendower nor yet the untiring devotion of
Louis could in any degree dispel. All day would she sit opposite the
window, her eyes fixed on the light with a longing, eager gaze, as
if she feared that the next moment it might leave her forever.
Whatever he could do for her Louis did, going to her room each
morning and arranging her dress and hair just as he knew she used to
wear it. She would not suffer anyone else to do this for her, and in
performing these little offices Louis felt that he was only repaying
her in part for all she had done for him.
Christmas Eve came at last, and if she thought of what was once to
have been on the morrow, she gave no outward token, and with her
accustomed smile bade the family good-night. The next morning Louis
went often to her door, and hearing no sound within fancied she was
sleeping, until at last, as the clock struck nine, he ventured to go
in. Maude was awake, and advancing to her side he bade her a "Merry
Christmas," playfully chiding her the while for having slept so
late. A wild, startled expression flashed over her face, as she
said: "Late, Louis! Is it morning, then? I've watched so long to see
the light?"
Louis did not understand her, and he answered, "Morning, yes. The
sunshine is streaming into the room. Don't you see it?"
"Sunshine!" and Maude's lips quivered with fear, as springing from
her pillow, she whispered faintly, "Lead me to the window."
He complied with her request, watching her curiously, as she laid
both hands in the warm sunshine, which bathed her fair, round arms
and shone upon her raven hair. She felt what she could not see, and
Louis Kennedy ne'er forgot the agonized expression of the white,
beautiful face which turned toward him as the wretched Maude moaned
piteously, "Yes, brother, 'tis morning to you, but dark, dark night
to me. I'm blind! oh, I'm blind!"
She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood there rigid and
immovable, her countenance giving fearful token of the terrible
storm within. She was battling fiercely with her fate, and until
twice repeated, she did not hear the childish voice which said to
her pleadingly, "Don't look so, sister. You frighten me, and there
may be some hope yet."
"Hope," she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless eyes toward
him, "there is no hope but death."
"Maude," and Louis' voice was like a plaintive harp, so mournful was
its tone, "Maude, once in the very spot where mother is lying now,
you said because I was a cripple you would love me all the more. You
have kept that promise well, my sister. You have been all the world
to me, and now that you are blind I, too, will love you more. I will
be your light--your eyes, and when James De Vere comes back--"
"No, no, no," moaned Maude, sinking upon the floor. "Nobody will
care for me. Nobody will love a blind girl. Oh, is it wicked to wish
that I could die, lying here in the sunshine, which I shall never
see again?"
There was a movement at the door, and Mrs. Kennedy appeared,
starting back as her eye fell upon the face of the prostrate girl,
who recognized her step, and murmured sadly, "Mother, I'm blind,
wholly blind."
Louis' grief had been too great for tears, but Maude Glendower's
flowed at once, and bending over the white-faced girl she strove to
comfort her, telling her how she would always love her, that every
wish should be gratified.
"Then give me back my sight, oh, give me back my sight," and Maude
clasped her mother's hands imploringly.
Ere long she grew more calm, and suffered herself to be dressed as
usual, but she would not admit anyone to her room, neither on that
day nor for many succeeding days. At length, however, this feeling
wore away, and in the heartfelt sympathy of her family and friends
she found a slight balm for her grief. Even the doctor was softened,
and when Messrs. Beebe & Co. sent in a bill of ninety-five dollars
for various articles of furniture, the frown upon his face gave way
when his wife said to him, "It was for Maude, you know!"
"Poor Maude!" seemed to be the sentiment of the whole household, and
Nellie herself said it many a time, as with unwonted tenderness she
caressed the unfortunate girl, fearing the while lest she had done
her a wrong, for she did not then understand the nature of Maude's
feelings for J.C. De Vere, to whom Nellie was now engaged.
Urged on by Mrs. Kelsey and a fast diminishing income, J.C. had
written to Nellie soon after her return to Laurel Hill, asking her
to be his wife. He did not disguise his former love for Maude,
neither did he pretend to have outlived it, but he said he could not
wed a blind girl. And Nellie, forgetting her assertion that she
would never marry one who had first proposed to Maude, was only too
much pleased to answer Yes. And when J.C. insisted upon an early
day, she named the 5th of March, her twentieth birthday. She was to
be married at home, and as the preparations for the wedding would
cause a great amount of bustle and confusion in the house, it seemed
necessary that Maude should know the cause, and with a beating heart
Nellie went to her one day to tell the news. Very composedly Maude
listened to the story, and then as composedly replied, "I am truly
glad, and trust you will be happy."
"So I should be," answered Nellie, "if I were sure you did not
care."
"Care! for whom?" returned Maude. "For J.C. De Vere? Every particle
of love for him has died out, and I am now inclined to think I never
entertained for him more than a girlish fancy, while he certainly
did not truly care for me."
This answer was very quieting to Nellie's conscience, and in
unusually good spirits she abandoned herself to the excitement which
usually precedes a wedding. Mrs. Kennedy, too, entered heart and
soul into the matter, and arming herself with the plea, that "it was
his only daughter, who would probably never be married again," she
coaxed her husband into all manner of extravagances, and by the 1st
of March few would have recognized the interior of the house, so
changed was it by furniture and repairs. Handsome damask curtains
shaded the parlor windows, which were further improved by large
heavy panes of glass. Matty's piano had been removed to Maude's
chamber, and its place supplied by a new and costly instrument,
which the crafty woman made her husband believe was intended by Mrs.
Kelsey, who selected it, as a bridal present for her niece. The
furnace was in splendid order, keeping the whole house, as Hannah
said, "hotter than an oven," while the disturbed doctor lamented
daily over the amount of fuel it consumed, and nightly counted the
contents of his purse or reckoned up how much he was probably worth.
But neither his remonstrances nor yet his frequent groans had any
effect upon his wife. Although she had no love for Nellie, she was
determined upon a splendid wedding, one which would make folks talk
for months, and when her liege lord complained of the confusion, she
suggested to him a furnished room in the garret, where it would be
very quiet for him to reckon up the bill, which from time to time
she brought him.
"Might as well gin in at oncet," John said to him one day, when he
borrowed ten dollars for the payment of an oyster bill. "I tell you
she's got more besom in her than both them t'other ones."
The doctor probably thought so too, for he became comparatively
submissive, though he visited often the sunken graves, where he
found a mournful solace in reading, "Katy, wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged
twenty-nine,"--"Matty, second wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged thirty," and
once he was absolutely guilty of wondering how the words, "Maude,
third wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged forty-one," would look. But he
repented him of the wicked thought, and when on his return from his
"graveyard musings," Maude, aged forty-one, asked him for the twenty
dollars which she saw a man pay to him that morning, he gave it to
her without a word.
Meanwhile the fickle J.C. in Rochester was one moment regretting the
step he was about to take and the next wishing the day would hasten,
so he could "have it over with." Maude Remington had secured a place
in his affections which Nellie could not fill, and though he had no
wish to marry her now, he tried to make himself believe that but for
her misfortune she should still have become his wife.
"Jim would marry her, I dare say, even if she were blind as a bat,"
he said; "but then he is able to support her," and reminded by this
of an unanswered letter from his cousin, who was still in New
Orleans, he sat down and wrote, telling him of Maude's total
blindness, and then, almost in the next sentence saying that his
wedding was fixed for the 5th of March. "There," he exclaimed, as he
read over the letter, "I believe I must be crazy, for I never told
him that the bride was Nellie; but no matter, I'd like to have him
think me magnanimous for a while, and I want to hear what he says."
Two weeks or more went by, and then there came an answer, fraught
with sympathy for Maude, and full of commendation for J.C., who "had
shown himself a man."
Accompanying the letter was a box containing a most exquisite set of
pearls for the bride, together with a diamond ring, on which was
inscribed, "Cousin Maude."
"Aint I in a deuced scrape," said J.C., as he examined the beautiful
ornaments; "Nellie would be delighted with them, but she shan't have
them; they are not hers. I'll write to Jim at once, and tell him the
mistake," and seizing his pen he dashed off a few lines, little
guessing how much happiness they would carry to the far-off city,
where daily and nightly James De Vere fought manfully with the love
that clung with a deathlike grasp to the girl J.C. had forsaken, the
poor, blind, helpless Maude.