 | My third book |  |
Leona: a Blind Man's Story.
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind man's home is the home of night,
And its beings are empty voices.
BULWER LYTTON.
For all ye may believe,
And often in my spirit lies
A clear light as of midday skies;
And splendors on my vision rise
Like gorgeous hues of eve.
MARY HOWITT.
I HAD not been blind from my birth. Sitting
alone in the utter darkness, my closed eyes could
make pictures. I could call back glories of nature
and glories of art, blue sky, and wind-swept fields;
and, above all, dear faces—faces whose very memory
lightened my nighttime—my father, my gentle mother,
my young, dark-eyed brother. There was another,
too, not of our blood, whose face I saw oftener than
any. This was strange, for Leona Ashland, the daughter
of my mother's most intimate friend, was but a
child of ten, six years younger than myself. She was
very dear to me, however. She had been in and out
of our house as familiarly as a daughter. She was the
pet of every one save me; but, child as she was, my
own feeling for her was too tender and reverent to admit
of gay familiarity. I had never heard any one
call her beautiful, but to me her face always seemed
that of an angel. I used to tremble lest, some day of
summer, God should give her wings, and we should
see her no more forever—her features, framed in those
long brown curls, seemed so spiritual, so delicate.
When I looked into her thoughtful eyes, at school or
at church, life seemed a holier, a more earnest thing.
But the time came when I could see them no longer.
For fifteen years the world had been visible to me,
began to steal gradually over me. It was a whole
year before the last ray of light had faded. I was
stone-blind at sixteen. I was thankful that it was not
a sudden stroke. Day after day I had sought in vain
for some cherished object of vision. Once it had been
the blue range of the far-off hills; again the familiar
outline of a distant tree. After a time the darkness
came nearer. Day after day some tender grace would
fade out from a beloved face, and I could only reproduce
it in my fancy. At length I seemed to dwell in
a world of shadows. Shapes, whose dim outline I
could only faintly catch, floated by me; but still I
could tell day from night; still heaven's blessed light
was welcome. But what shall I say of the anguish
of desolation when the last ray was gone—when they
told me the midday sun was shining clear and bright,
and I, alas! sat in blindest, deepest midnight! no light,
no hope?
I had so much to give up. It was not alone the
joy of sight, the dear faces, the beautiful world, but
all my high hopes, my plans for the future, my ambition,
my pride. I had meant to be a student. I had
had visions of fame. There were months of stormy,
surging discontent before I could settle calmly down to
my destiny. I secluded myself even from those dearest
to me on earth. The very sound of their voices
maddened me, for it made more intense the longing to
look upon their faces. Day after day I sat alone in
my room, where I had besought them not to come to
me.
Sometimes my mother, who loved me more than
ever in my sorrow and my helplessness, would steal
She was so still I could scarcely hear her breathe; but
I knew that at these times she wept much. Once, in
an irresistible impulse of maternal tenderness, she folded
her arms around me, and drew my head to her bosom.
“Oh, my child!” she cried; “my dear child,
be comforted! Believe that there is something left in
life, or this blow will kill us both.”
But my rebellious spirit would not struggle with its
despair, even though I felt that it was breaking my
mother's heart.
Once—and I think this did me more good than any
thing—Leona came to me. She had so long entreated
to see me that at length my mother consented. She
came in alone. I knew her footstep as soon as it crossed
the threshold, but I did not speak. She came to
my side. She laid her hand—her little child's hand
—upon mine. I knew, as well as if I had seen it, the
sorrowful pity with which her eyes were lifted to my
face. She seemed striving to gather self-command
enough to speak calmly. At length, low and quiet,
yet earnest, her words fell upon my ear:
“Oh, Mr. Allen, the rector says God knows just what
is best for every one. He is our father, and he does
not love to make us sorry. This is the passage Mr.
Green told me to say to you: `Like as a father pitieth
his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'”
Her childish voice had deepened into a thrilling energy
as she recited the words of inspiration. Then she
turned to leave me; but I detained her. Already she
had comforted me.
“How came Mr. Green to tell you to say that to me?”
I asked.
“You are not vexed, Mr. Allen?”
“No, I am grateful. I only wished to know how it
happened.”
“He was at our house last night, and he spoke of
you. He pitied you very much; but he said you had
a great deal left in life yet, if you would not be in despair.
After a while mother went out of the room,
and I told him you had been very good to me, and I
wanted to tell you something to make you feel better.
Then he said I might repeat that verse to you. Does
it do you good?”
“Much good, blessed child! Your words have
helped me more than you can ever know.”
She left me then. I did not strive to keep her. I
felt the need of solitude to receive reverently the light,
brighter than earthly dawning, which was rising upon
my spirit. Her words had thrilled me as if they had
dropped downward from some angel's lips, leaning from
the far watch-towers of the celestial city. “A great
deal left for me yet in life!” And, as I repeated those
words, my blessings seemed to rise up before me and
reproach me. For me Agur's prayer had been answered.
I had neither poverty nor riches; but a competence
was mine in my own right, which would secure
me against want. I had health and strength, and many
friends. The paths about our little village were all
familiar to me. I could traverse them without a guide;
I could feel the free winds sweep my brow; I could
inhale the sweet breath of the flowers; I could hear
the beloved voices of home. Verily, God had not forsaken
me. I had been willfully shutting his mercies
out of my heart. I knelt now, and thanked him for
what had been left—prayed him to teach me to bear
patiently the loss of what had been taken.
When the bell rang for supper, I rose, and went
quietly down stairs. They gave no noisy greeting to
the son who had not sat beside them there since the
spring flowers had blossomed, though now the summer
lay green and luxuriant upon hill and woodland. But
I understood my father's welcome—the unuttered tenderness
which deepened my mother's voice—the eager
grasp in which my brother Richard held my hand. I
found my plate and my chair in their old place. After
that, I never secluded myself from them again.
When supper was over, I went out to go to evening
prayers at the church. I had not thought I could ever
go there again. I had dwelt morbidly on the curiosity
with which the congregation would look at me. I never
thought of that now. God had opened the eyes of
my spirit. I went there to thank Him for this great
mercy. I had never before been so deeply thrilled
with the church music. Hearing seemed to me like a
new sense. Through it, I drank in deep draughts of
pleasure. I had sat in the choir; and, when prayers
were over, I entreated the organist to play for me again.
Soon we became fast friends. I think that my enthusiasm
pleased him, for twilight after twilight found us
alone in the church, with only the little boy who blew
the bellows—John Cunningham playing, and I listening
and dreaming.
But I soon felt—I think an intuitive sense of power
revealed it to me—that the organist was no artist.
Sometimes I longed to sweep him off the stool, and interpret
with my own fingers the music that was in my
soul. This idea that I could be a musician dawned
upon me slowly; but day by day the sense of power
strengthened.
At length I asked him to let me try. I think he
was astonished. My soul was flooded with harmony.
Wild, sweet strains came to me like the whispers of
angels. From that night I was the master, he my pupil.
Sometimes I would persuade my brother to go
with me to the church, and then, for hour after hour,
the organ would indeed be the voice of my soul. I
breathed out in music all the dreams of my long, dreaming
boyhood, before the one stern stroke had come, under
which I bowed my head, and rose up a man. God
was very merciful. With this resource, I could never
be entirely lonely, wholly desolate.
When I was twenty-one John Cunningham had left
Ryefield, and I had been chosen the organist of our village
church. It was my business, for which a small salary
was paid me. This was all I was, all I ever could
be; but I was content.
My brother was in college. He was taking my
place; he would realize my early dreams. The world
called him a brilliant young man. At home there was
little change, save that Leona's light footfall less often
crossed our threshold. For some years she had been
at school in Boston. In the vacations she came home,
and then I could tell by her voice that she was good
and innocent as ever. The next spring—it was winter
now—her schooldays would be over. At last the
time arrived. I welcomed her joyfully, though I
scarcely knew why her presence seemed so infinitely
precious. We wandered together into the fields; and
she told me how fresh and green the grass was springing
under foot—how blue and bright was the May-time
sky. I could smell the bloom of the fruit-trees, which
She never wearied of making all things visible to me.
She would tell me how the mist was lying white and
purple in the valley—how the far, hazy hills were sleeping
in the sunshine; and, seeing with her eyes, I scarcely
realized that I was blind.
But this dream also had an awakening. My brother
Richard came home. He had finished his course at
the University with high honors, and his advent in
Ryefield was the signal for a series of parties, and picnics,
and merry-makings, in which I did not join, and
which took Leona from my side. I heard from all
quarters the praises of my handsome, manly brother.
He was only nineteen now, but he was six feet tall,
and, they said, looked older than his years. I was not
surprised to hear that his wit and his manly graces
were making sad havoc with the hearts of the village
girls. Already over my soul had begun to steal a presentiment
of sorrow.
I think my brother was very fond of me. He had
always made me his confidant. One night he came
to my room, and said, with a hesitation which seemed
very singular in his frank, fearless nature, that he had
something to tell me. Then he talked of indifferent
subjects for a while; and at length, suddenly—alas!
it seemed to me pitilessly—the blow fell. He loved
Leona Ashland!
Oh, heaven pity me! God have mercy on me! I
knew in that moment that I, too, loved her. I, blind,
helpless fool that I was, had made her my idol. I
had not known before what was the spell which bound
me to her, or, rather, I had resolutely closed my heart
against the conviction. The veil was ruthlessly rent
imbecility. A voice in my soul mocked me. It cried,
“You cowardly idiot! You thought, did you? to
darken her life by fastening yourself upon her, a blind,
helpless shadow! You thought that young girl could
love you—that girl, radiant with youth and hope, all
the glory and brightness of life, before whose feet the
future stretches out green, and fresh, and smiling. You
thought you could win her. Selfish! insensate! mad!”
I bade the voice cease its upbraidings. I shut my
ears against it; I ordered my brother from the room.
For the first time in my life I was harsh and stern
with him. He had a generous temper. I do not
think he blamed me. He reproached himself, rather,
for speaking to me of a love from which he thought
my misfortune had shut me out forever. Begging me
to forgive him, he went out.
I closed the door behind him. I locked it. The
key turned with a sharp click. Then I threw myself
down upon the floor, as a traveler might prostrate
himself before the poison wind of the desert. Lying
there, this fierce, scorching simoon swept over me.
Unknown to myself, I had been cherishing one sweet
flower in my heart, watering it day and night with the
dew of hope. It lay there now, torn up by the roots,
its buds blighted, its fair blossom withered.
Blind, helpless idiot! So the voice in my heart had
called me. Ay; but the blind idiot could love. Who
else could pour such wealth of tenderness on one who
could never grow old to his sightless eyes—whose
brow would always be smooth—whose hair would
never lose its brightness — whose eye would never
grow dim, because forever he could clothe her with
my heart answered, “I am worthy, for I love.”
With those words strength came to me, and I rose
up, and stood erect in my darkened world, lonely and
grief-stricken, but still a man. I was not one to inflict
my sorrow upon others. I strove to go out among
my fellows with a cheerful face. But I listened with
tremulous eagerness to every inflection of Leona's
voice when she talked with my brother. I knew she
must love him; but there was a curious fascination in
watching how this passion would spring up in her
pure heart—how the tenderness which could never
be for me would grow into her beloved voice. Day
after day it seemed to me to become full of a sweeter
pathos. Richard was constantly by her side. Often
they roamed together over the fields. Sometimes they
asked me to go with them; but I was too sensitive to
intrude. I always refused. Once or twice, when I
had declined going, Leona insisted on remaining with
me. Then she would be so cruelly kind to me, read
to me, talk to me, bewilder me with torturing glimpses
of an impossible happiness. Then Richard would
come back with a floral offering—a spray of honey-suckle
or a bunch of wild roses; and, sitting beside
her afterward, I smelt all day the fragrance of his flowers
upon her bosom.
One night she asked me if she might go alone with
me to evening prayers, as she used before Richard
came. It was a pleasant walk, that half mile between
our house and the church, in the summer sunset, with
the trees over our heads all odorous with bloom.
There was a curious joy, which was more than half
compounded of pain, in knowing that she was by my
my arm.
When the services were over, she asked me to stay
a little longer, and play for her, as I had often done
before. Hitherto, at such times, she had chosen the
tunes; but now the fever fit of inspiration was upon
me. I poured forth the story of my hopeless love.
I used no words; but the music explained itself. It
thrilled, it trembled, it pleaded, it despaired, it struggled,
it hoped; then, as if for the dead, it wailed, and
died out, at last, in a long, helpless cry of sorrow. I
heard Leona sobbing. She stood, at a little distance,
alone in the darkness. I left my seat. I went to her
and took her hands. In the darkness she laid her
tender, pitying arms around my neck. I felt her wet
cheek against my own. Alas! I knew the language
of that silent caress. She loved Richard; but, with
all the fullness of her angelic nature, she pitied me.
She would be my sister.
No word was spoken by either of us. We went
out of the church, and went home, under the night
and the trees.
Soon after this Richard was obliged to leave us for
two or three weeks on some business for my father.
I did not know whether he had declared his love previous
to his departure. I watched Leona's voice jealously
for signs of sorrow, but it was clear and full of
music as ever. Indeed, I thought it more joyous than
was its wont. I said to myself, “How certain she
must be of his love, to bear his absence so calmly.
The joy of knowing that he is her own forever makes
her insensible to sorrow.”
Oh, how kind she was to me during those two
came, save that a barbed arrow was rankling in
my heart. The unconscious hope I had cherished in
those other days could never return again.
At last the time came for Richard's return. Leona
was with us. Frankly, as one who has nothing to
conceal, she talked of the pleasure there would be in
having him back. At noon he arrived. With eager
step he entered the room; but his voice trembled
when he spoke to Leona. I could only tell by that
token how his heart thrilled to be once more by her
side. She was not demonstrative. The tone with
which she replied to his greeting was very quiet; but
I had never known Richard's manner so eager, so
restless as that afternoon.
In the evening we three were alone in the long parlor.
I sat at one end among the shadows. Richard
and Leona were at the other, where the moon—for I
heard them talking of it—shone in at the open window.
Perhaps Richard thought I could not hear, or
that I slept. He did not know what a second sight
hearing is to the blind. Not a murmur, not a quiver
of their voices escaped me. It seems that he had never
told her of his love before. He poured it forth now
with passionate, fervid eloquence. I listened breathlessly
for her answer; I held tight to the chair where
I was sitting; I commanded every nerve to do its
duty; I bade my self-control to be vigilant at its post;
I would bear the torture without a moan; I waited to
hear her low words of love. Her voice fell on my
ear. Hush, rebellious heart, thou hadst no business
to throb so wildly.
“I can not,” she says; “oh, I can not! I thought
here the tender, troubled voice breaks up into pitiful
sobs, as she beseeches him to leave her—only to leave
her. Richard makes no attempt to comfort her. I
hear him go out. Then I cross the room; I kneel beside
her; I tell her I have heard all; and then a mad
impulse seizes me: I pour out at her feet the libation
of my love. I can not help it. Blind, and poor, and
helpless as I was, I had dared to love her. I did not
mean to tell her. I knew she could never return it.
But when I had heard her grieve, I had longed so to
comfort her; I had wanted her to know how gladly I
would die to give her peace.
Oh! how can I tell the story? She did not spurn
me. Once more, in the darkness, her tender arms
were laid about my neck. For the first time I felt
upon my mouth the kisses of her fresh, pure lips.
Her words were solemn and earnest: “Do not die for
me. Live, live, dear Allen! and, if you love me, let
me be your wife.”
When our betrothal was made known, there was a
struggle in my brother's heart. He loved me; he
strove to rejoice in my happiness; but he could not
stay to witness it. I, who knew Leona's worth, did
not blame him. He left home the next week for a
year of foreign travel; and, three weeks after, Leona
became my wife.
Our wedding was a very simple one. We chose
to be married in the old church at twilight, for to us
that had been the blessed hour of destiny. When the
ceremony was over, and the witnesses had departed,
we walked slowly homeward under the trees. Leona
told me the moon was flooding all things with a silver
of our future.
My wife insisted on a short bridal tour. She must
take her blind husband to Boston. I was a little sensitive
about exposing my misfortune to strangers. This
step seemed unlike Leona; but I wished to please her,
and I consented.
The next morning after our arrival we sat alone in
our room at the Winthrop House. I wanted to talk
to my wife, but she could scarcely listen. She fluttered
around the apartment, arranged and disarranged
the furniture a dozen times. I had never known her
so restless. Every now and then she would drop for
a moment upon my knee, and, lifting up my face,
would cover it with kisses; but even there she would
not sit still.
At length there came a tap upon the door, and she
sprang hurriedly to open it. There were a few whispered
words with the new-comer, and then Leona said,
gravely,
“My love, this is Dr. Williams. I have heard much
of his skill, and I brought you here because I longed,
for my own satisfaction, to have him examine your
eyes. I did not wish to mention it at home, for there
was no use in making any one else a sharer of my
suspense.”
Dr. Williams' voice was very kind. I liked that.
He proceeded gently with his examination. For five
moments I was in an agony of hope. In fancy I saw
again earth and sky, and, dearer still, the sweet face
of my bride. Leona held my hand tightly.
At length the doctor's verdict came. I know he
pitied us, two poor young things, looking to him to
crush or confirm a hope as precious as life. His voice
it to you! There is no hope!”
He went out of the room. Leona closed the door
after him, and then came back, and threw herself into
my arms. I could feel her heart throbbing tumultuously
against my side. But she commanded herself,
and strove to comfort me. “My poor, poor darling!”
she said, tenderly, “can you forgive me for disturbing
you with this vain trial? I did so long to know the
worst. I could not help hoping before. Now we
shall be at rest. It will not be like a doubtful sorrow.”
“And you, Leona, can you indeed be content to
share a blind man's darkened life?”
She stopped my words with her kisses.
“Hush, beloved! I will be your light—your eyes.”
She has kept her word. I miss no pleasant sights
or sounds of nature, for in her I have all things. I do
not even need to look on her beloved face, for I see it
in my heart forever, fresh, and young, and fair as when
my eyes last beheld it. She was but a child when
she first aroused me from my blind despair. She was
my comforter then. She will be all the days of my
life. The two years since our bridal have been full
of joy. My heart has hardly space for more.
A month ago Richard brought home his bride.
They call her more beautiful than Leona, but her
voice is not so thrilling in its music. I do not believe
so much soul looks from the eyes they call so dark
and bright. I am full of content. I know, when
God's own angels shall unseal my vision—when, in
the everlasting light of heaven, the blind shall see
again—fairest among women, fairest and truest will
stand by my side my God-given—my wife Leona.
| My third book | |