BLIND, YET SEEING
MANY a weary day and watchful night were passed by Mr. Mountford,
before his wife was pronounced out of present danger. But the sentence
of hopeless blindness, and a life, probably a short one and of
comparative helplessness, hung over her, and no human skill could avert
these.
At length the state of the invalid was so far improved that she could
be wheeled into another room on a level with that in which she slept.
It was a bright morning in early spring before she reached this stage,
and the air was fresh without coldness.
"Wheel me close to the window," she whispered. "I want to feel the
sunshine that I shall not see again." Tears streamed from the sightless
eyes, still beautiful, for the injury had left them undisfigured,
though the life was gone from them.
Mrs. Mountford's wish was carried out, and the couch placed in the deep
bay-window. The sun shone straight in upon her, and made the tear-drops
glisten on her wan face. She thanked the nurse and her maid with a
smile which brought moisture to their eyes. She had been very gentle
and patient through her illness, for pain, which in some cases causes
irritation, had in hers been overmastered by remorse, and all the old
petulant ways were gone.
"You can leave me now, and tell Mr. Mountford I am ready for him to
come," she added.
"I am here, darling," replied her husband.
"I might have known," she whispered, as he bent over her, and drawing
his head down, she kissed him tenderly again and again.
He seated himself so as to be on a level with her, but again she drew
his head to her breast and held him in a close embrace. Hitherto,
neither of them had spoken to the other of that terrible day, but now
Mrs. Mountford whispered—
"Can you ever forgive me, Kenneth? I have been longing to ask you,
ever since I knew what my wickedness had brought on you. I say you,
darling husband, for though I know you will place my loss of sight and
helplessness as worst of all, because I have to bear them through all
my life, I am sure you have suffered even more than I have. Besides,
bodily pain is not the worst part, though you have borne that along
with me. I understand something about what sympathy means, when such
love goes with it; for whenever our little one was ill, every pain she
had was a double stab to me. And once when you were ill, my husband, it
was the same or worse. To see those we love suffer is so hard. It would
be bliss to bear the pain, if by doing this one could spare them. If
such a poor, weak, wilful creature as I am can feel in this way, what
must you have endured for my sake?"
Mrs. Mountford spoke softly and slowly, still holding her husband
clasped closely to her.
He could not answer, and she knew why. She passed her slender fingers
over his face, and felt the tears that he could not keep back, and
knew, by the heaving of his breast, that he was too much overcome by
emotion to utter a word in reply.
She waited patiently for a while, dried the tears as they fell, and
kissed his hair, even, as his; head lay close to her. She could not,
and never would, see how it had changed of late. Where only a few
silver threads had been, it was now all grey.
"Kenneth," she whispered at length, "you must not grieve. I am not
worth such love and tears, but I want you to tell me I am forgiven
first, and then—"
"My darling, do not speak of forgiveness. I forgave you long, long
ago," said Mr. Mountford.
"That is what I wanted. I should not have liked you to say that there
was nothing to forgive, because even when I was planning to deceive
you on that awful day, conscience was showing me my wickedness, and
striving with me, only I would not listen. Do you know, Kenneth, I was
worse than wilful, defiant, and disobedient? I was untruthful. I who
had always been proud to say, that whatever were my faults, falsehood
in any shape had never been one of them. It was so mean, Kenneth, to
deceive James, by saying that I had told you I should ride Prince that
morning, and not saying that you had forbidden me to mount him until
you had made sure that he was fit for me to use with safety."
"I ought to have stayed with you and made sure," said Mr. Mountford. "I
have reproached myself ever since for having left you alone. It would
have been no privation for me to give up the meet."
"Do not reproach yourself, Kenneth. If I had been such a wife as you
had a right to expect, there would have been no need for you to stay.
Looking back, it seems horrible that my wilfulness should have made
it necessary for me to have a keeper as well as a husband in you,
and that if I were out of your sight you were made miserable, lest I
should bring harm upon myself. I shall need no watcher now," added Mrs.
Mountford, with a pitiful realization of her helplessness.
"But you will have my companionship, dearest. All that I can do I will.
I will be eyes to you, and tell all that is passing. Thank God, you
have seen, and as I describe the changes that are going on around us,
memory will enable you to picture them, though you cannot now see them.
My feet shall turn whither you will, and be your messengers. My hands
shall be such willing hands in your service. Every day our child will
grow more able to join me in loving ministry, and her prattle will
cheer you."
"I know, Kenneth dearest, what you will be. My sorest trial is that I
cannot see your face and our child's. Perhaps, after all, it matters
less about seeing yours, for I can never forget it, and you will grow
no older to me, though I may live to be a white-haired grandmother."
Mrs. Mountford laughed at the thought, for Kathleen was but three and a
half years old. But the laugh died almost as it was born, as she added
with a sigh—"They say that all the other senses become more acute when
sight is gone. I shall have to pass my hand over Kitty's face and hair,
and measure her height from time to time, and you will tell me about
everything, will you not?"
"I will, dearest."
"And when I am a little stronger you will bring poor James to see me,
and I will ask his pardon for having deceived him. I shall not be quite
happy till I have done that."
Mr. Mountford promised, and in due time James was taken to see his
mistress and hear her confession. He came away blubbering, poor fellow,
like a school-boy, and declaring that if by taking her helplessness on
himself he could restore her strength, he would do it; and those who
heard believed him.
But neither love nor skill could greatly prolong Mrs. Mountford's life,
and four years after the accident she died.
In spite of the elements of suffering and sadness, which of necessity
were always present, those four years were not unhappy ones. The outer
vision of the invalid might be gone for ever, but the spiritual vision
became clearer and brighter day by day, in the case of both husband and
wife.
"It needed a terrible lesson to show me myself first, for I had never
been conscious either of my ignorance of all that is best worth
knowing, or of what I was in God's sight: I was always sorry when I
grieved you, Kenneth, for I did love you, and I knew something of your
love for me. But I never felt any sorrow for the real sin, or penitence
towards God. I have never known or wanted to know much of Him, though
I suppose I should have been shocked and angry if any one had accused
me of not believing in God; but they would have told the truth. I just
took it for granted there was one, and never troubled myself any more
about the matter. Not knowing, how could I love Him who never came into
my thoughts as a great reality? But now—oh, the blessed difference! It
is true happiness to be allowed in ever so little a way to love Him
who is love. The pity of it is, that now I can never show my love by
service. I cannot go about amongst the poor and tell them the sweet
lesson I have learned, or do them good for Christ's sake."
"My darling, you think of and care for many whom you cannot visit or
cheer with your presence and kind words."
Mrs. Mountford shook her head. "The only thing I can do is to bear my
blindness and helplessness with patient submission, and to thank God
that I did not die without having time for repentance. If I have been
patient, He has made me so in answer to prayer."
"You are patience itself, dearest. Every one feels it a privilege to
wait upon and learn sweet lessons of endurance from you," replied her
husband.
"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now
what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite
of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer
to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth
is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we
cannot see each other."
"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for
years to come."
"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I
used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I
repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what
the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His
grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."
"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear
wife."
"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees
and hears us both."
Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave
them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It
cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight
years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.
"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so
constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone.
Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as
blind and helpless."
"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford,
and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One
thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she
was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured
by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and
disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.
Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to
remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always
been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that
Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up
to girlhood and womanhood.
So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these,
but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he
had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her
mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him
pleasure, in another pain.
Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome
ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an
ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be
a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent
one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly,
and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not
entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male
relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when
she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These
were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped,
live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her
majority.
Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of
his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr.
Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst
willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on
account of age.
"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to
consider the character and business qualities of the individuals
chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end.
I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways.
Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and
I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman.
I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's
guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you
will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in
the same individual."
The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his
friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a
reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what
it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty
to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight
years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of
match-making in the future."
"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than
the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing
better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the
same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or
your son."
"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very
effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though
I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought
of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he
should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no
one will have to take a father's place to her."
This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his
old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.
From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint
guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining
the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which
is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was
tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious
brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of
its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well
back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes,
whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and
otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly
complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it
was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking
on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it
was commonly said, there was no love lost.
Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and
would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally
impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather
than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally
looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires
ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged
friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her
own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.
The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the
friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is
equally able to give a reason for her answer.
And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only
when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual
well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory
results can be hoped for.
Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth
with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when
it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole
aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the
cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are
in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are
invisible to the eye.
The higher nature may pity the lower and long to elevate it, but the
two cannot work as friends without such assimilation.
There must at least be kindred principles strong enough to overcome,
or even utilize the many minor points of difference which may exist,
without proving any bar to a real friendship, or the closer union of
which marriage should be the precursor.
Alas, that so close a union should not always mean true unity of
hearts, aims, hopes, and lives!
Of Captain Torrance's character something has already been told. Of
Aylmer Matheson's only good can be written.
An only son and idolized by his father, he repaid this affection by
filial devotion. A man of scholarly attainments and refined tastes,
whose society was much sought after, Aylmer was content to share the
country pursuits in which his father delighted, and to live almost
wholly at Westhill after leaving Oxford. Whilst at college he had been
the generous friend and helper of young men who needed such aid. In
society he was self-possessed, but modest; in manners as courteous and
considerate to the lowly as to those who filled high places.
In one respect Aylmer and his father closely resembled each other.
Unlike too many young men, Aylmer was not ashamed to confess Christ
before the world, but gladly acknowledged that his chief desire was to
be numbered amongst His true soldiers and servants, and to spend and be
spent in doing His will.
It will be easily imagined that friendship between Captain Jack
Torrance and Aylmer Matheson could hardly exist.