University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
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
Mattie 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. “Every
body 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 decended
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's 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 step-mother'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 step-mothers and
step-daughters 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 grave-yard 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 stead-fast
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.”

Awhile 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 step-father, 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 any one 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, started 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's 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's 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 grat
ified.

“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 any one 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!”

“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. DeVere, 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 fifth 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 Nellies 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 first 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. Mattie'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 bills, 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 41,”
would look. But he repented him of the wicked thought,
and when on his return from his “grave-yard musings,”
Maude, aged 41 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 fifth 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.”

“Ain't 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.