BLIND BENNER'S TRIBUTE.
The two weeks of Gill's absence ran into six and he had not come back.
Lizzi wrote to the address he gave, and the letter was returned to her.
Gossip said he had deserted her, but she said to her broken heart, "John
is dead."
She recalled his fond good-by and his promise to return, with or without
his mother's approval of his marriage, at the end of two weeks. She
remembered his cavalier appearance as he rode by the Block and waved her
a farewell. She heard still the sound of his horse's hoofs in the long
bridge. She knew he had considerable money on his person, and supposed
some one had murdered him for it. She was left a widow, indeed.
Yet she held her peace and bore herself proudly as ever. Her eyes did
not quail before the cold stare of the matrons. Her honest heart
sustained her. It did not cry out, "Shame! shame!" So she did not
seclude herself, nor was she forward. When necessity called her into the
streets, she courageously faced her old acquaintances and bore with
patience their scorn. Two women were kind to her and sad for her, but
were not oppressive in their attentions. These were Mrs. Hornberger and
Gret Reed. Yet she did not seek the comfort of their sympathy, nor once
become weak enough to ask them to believe in her. Appearances were
against her, but she never intimated that she could produce legal proof
of her innocence. Her heart cried out in woe, "I am bereft," and there
was no solace for her, grieving for her dead husband. She could not
weep, because the tears would be misconstrued.
Her father's kind words had been a great support to her.
"Ye may have gone wrong, Lizzi, but I'll ne'er believe it till ye tell
it me."
The deep tenderness of his tones had touched her where the tears lay,
and they rose, overflowing the obstruction her will had built against
their flood. She fell at his feet. It was Saturday night, and he sat in
his split-bottomed chair, resting. She laid her head on his knee, and
sobbed and wept convulsively. His shaking hand stroked caressingly her
soft black hair, and he murmured low lullaby words as if soothing a
child. His conviction had been unhesitatingly expressed, but his
sympathy could not find suitable language except in a song that was used
to hush a crying infant.
He was seventy years old. His hair and beard were pure white. His broad
chest and square shoulders told the story of his vigorous age. It was
not to frown that he contracted his eyebrows, but to narrow his vision,
while he fixed a gentle look on his daughter, for whom his heart ached,
but in whom he believed. No, he did not frown on her. He never did
shadow her babyhood, her childhood, her dawning womanhood, nor now would
he her approaching motherhood, by scowl of his. He sat bowing above his
daughter, not casting a stone at her, but quivering over her head a
blessing of trust.
His wife tottered down the stairs, and Lizzi made a movement as if to
arise, but he kept her at his knee.
Mrs. McAnay was not a hard woman, but she had to the full measure her
sex's vindictiveness against the woman who is weak and it was difficult
for her not to relieve her mind of what she considered its just
sentiments towards her daughter. Yet she pitied Lizzi. She stopped at
the foot of the stairs and gazed wonderingly at the father and daughter.
Peter did not speak and Lizzi remained on her knees. Mrs. McAnay slowly
approached her child and bent over her.
"I am glad yer confessin', girl," she said in a weak, quavering voice.
Lizzi shivered. Her mother's hand resting on her head was not cold, but
the knowledge that she yet withheld from her parents what they should
know sent a chill to her heart.
"Tain't that yet, mother," said Peter, "for I'm thinkin' she ain't got
anything to confess that's wrong. I was sayin' something to her that
made her cry, that's all."
The door opened, and Levi and Matthi entered. Lizzi had not yet risen,
and her mother stood over her.
The boys stopped at the door, and would have gone out again had not
their father bade them stay. They knew no law higher than obedience to
their venerable father. So they remained, awkwardly seating themselves,
while Lizzi rose to her feet and buried her tear-stained face in her
hands. An embarrassing silence fell on the group. It was broken by the
entrance of Cassi and Blind Benner. Cassi saw at a glance that a family
scene was in progress, and he started to escort Blind Benner to the
door, but Peter said he was welcome. Cassi seated Benner, and then
leaned against the wall.
"Boys!"
Peter had risen, and at the sound of his voice addressing them Levi and
Matthi stood up, and Cassi took a step from the wall. "Boys, I've been
tellin' yer sister that I don't believe she has gone wrong, and I want
to know if you think as I do."
"Yes."
A volley of affirmation, a single unflagging response, which Lizzi
echoed by a sob, and their mother heard with pride, but still she
doubted. She went from one son to the other, kissing each in turn, yet
she doubted her daughter.
Blind Benner had groped his way to Lizzi, and caught her right hand just
as it was going to produce her marriage certificate.
"Listen!" he said as he held her hand in both of his. "Listen an' I'll
tell yer all 'bout Lizzi."
An expectant hush fell upon the group, and even Lizzi's thumping heart
beat more softly as she awaited her blind friend's story.
"My eyes are only a joke." He spoke like a wise cynic. "They don't see.
Hunch says they look like good eyes an' move an' wink like other
people's. 'Tain't no use their winkin', 'cause the light don't hurt
them."
Very bitterly he spoke the last sentence as he winked his eyes
sarcastically.
"But my ears, they're good; they know." His tone became more cheerful,
but no less earnest. "They hear well, better than you folks see. They
know when the birds laugh and when they cry, when they're glad and when
they're sad. They know when the fiddle's in tune. They know a right
sound. No, I've no eyes to see the white snow, er the blue sky, er the
green grass; but my ears hears the wind in the trees, and it never lies
ter me. I know when it's mad, when it's sad, when it's glad. So is
Lizzi's voice ter me, like the wind among the trees that never lies ter
me. I hev never seen Lizzi's face, but I hev heard her voice. I know
when she's glad, when she's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing
her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em
like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzi."
The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzi, but
Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzi, though her heart
hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.