University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
EYES TO THE BLIND.

— Fenelon.

IT was that Fourth of July, 1863, when every sincere friend
of the Great Republic felt his heart beat high with mingled
hope and apprehension. Tremendous issues, which must
affect the people of the American continent through all coming
time, were in the balance of Fate, and the capricious chances
of war might turn the scale on either side. Gettysburg, Vicksburg,
Port Hudson, Helena! The great struggles that were
to make these places memorable had reached their culminating
and critical point, but were as yet undecided.

Lee's Rebel army of invasion, highly disciplined, and numbering
nearly a hundred thousand men, was marching into
Pennsylvania. General Lee assured his friends he should
remain North just as long as he wished; that there was no
earthly power strong enough to drive him back across the
Potomac. He expected “to march on Baltimore and occupy
it; then to march on Washington and dictate terms of peace.”

Such was Lee's plan. Its success depended on his defeating
the Union army; and of that he felt certain.

The loyal North was unusually reticent and grave; “troubled
on every side, yet not distressed; perplexed, but not in
despair.” A change of commanders in the army of the Potomac,
when just on the eve of the decisive contest, added to the
general seriousness.

Clara, since her parting from Vance, had addressed herself
thoughtfully to the business of life. Duties actively discharged
had brought with them their reward in a diffusive cheerfulness.

On the morning of that eventful Fourth of July, the ringing
of bells and the firing of cannon roused her from slumber

somewhat earlier than usual. On the piazza she met Netty
Pompiland, and Mary and Julia Ireton, and Master and Miss
Purling, and they all strolled to the river's side, — then home
to breakfast, — then out to the mown field by the orchard,
where a mammoth tent had been erected, and servants were
spreading tables for the day's entertainment, to be given by
Clara to all the poor and rich of the neighborhood. Colonel
Hyde, having been commissioned to superintend the arrangements,
was here in his glory, and not a little of his importance
was reflected on the busy cripple, his nephew.

Clara's thoughts, however, were at Gettysburg, where brave
men were giving up their lives and exposing themselves to terrible,
life-wasting wounds, in order that we at home might live
in peace and have a country, free and undishonored. She
thought of Vance. She knew he had resigned his colonelcy,
and was now employed in the important and hazardous, though
untrumpeted labors of a scout or spy, for which he felt that his
old practice as an actor had given him some aptitude. We
subjoin a few fragmentary extracts from the last letter she had
received from him: —

The grand entertainment under the tent lasted late into the
afternoon. An excellent band of music was present, and as
the tunes were selected by Clara, they were all good. Pompilard
was, of course, a prominent figure at the table. He was
toast-master, speech-maker, and general entertainer. He said
pleasant things to the women and found amusements for the
children. He complimented “the gallant Colonel Hyde” on
his “very admirable arrangements” for their comfort; and the
Colonel replied in a speech, in which he declared that much of
the honor belonged to his sister Dorothy, and his nephew, Andrew
Jackson.

In a high-flown tribute to the Emerald Isle, “the land of the
Emmetts and of that brave hater of slavery, O'Connell,”
Pompilard called up Maloney, who, in a fiery little harangue,
showed that he did not lack that gift of extemporaneous eloquence
which the Currans and the Grattans used so lavishly to
exhibit. The band played “Rory O'More.”

A compliment to “the historian of the war” called up
Purling, who, in the lack of one arm, made the other do double
duty in gesticulating. He was cheered to his heart's content.
The band played “Hail Columbia.”

A compliment to the absent Captain Delancy Hyde Rusk
drew from his uncle this sentiment: “The poor whites of the
South! may the Lord open their eyes and send them plenty of
soap!” The band played “Dixie.”

A venerable clergyman present, the Rev. Mr. Beitler, now
rose and gave “The memory of our fallen brave!” This was

drunk standing in solemn silence, with heads uncovered. But
Mrs. Ireton and Clara vainly put their handkerchiefs to their
faces to keep back their sobs. By a secret sympathy they
sought each other, and sat down under a tree where they could
be somewhat retired from the rest. Esha drew near, but had
too much tact to disturb them.

It was four o'clock when a courier was seen running toward
the assembled company. He came with an “Extra,” containing
that telegraphic despatch from the President of the United
States, flashed over the wires that day, giving comforting assurances
from Gettysburg. Pompilard stood on a chair and proposed
a succession of cheers, which were vociferously delivered.
Clara and Mrs. Ireton dried their tears and partook of the
general joy. Then rapping on the table, Pompilard obtained
profound silence; and the old clergyman, kneeling, addressed
the Throne of Grace in words of thankfulness that found a
response in every heart. The day's amusements ended in a
stroll of the company through the beautiful grounds.

After the glory the grief. No sooner was it known that Lee,
whipped and crestfallen, was retreating, than there was a call
for succor to the wounded and the dying. Clara, under the
escort of Major Purling (who was eager to glean materials
for the great history) went immediately to Gettysburg. She
visited the churches (converted into hospitals), where wounded
men, close as they could lie, were heroically enduring the
sharpest sufferings. She labored to increase their accommodations.
If families would n't give up their houses for love, then
they must for money. Yes, money can do it. She drew on her
trustees till they were frightened at the repetition of big figures
in her drafts. She soothed the dying; she made provision for
the wounded; she ordered the wholesomest viands for those
who could eat.

On the third day she met Mrs. Charlton and her daughter,
and they affectionately renewed their acquaintance. As they
walked together through a hospital they had not till then entered,
Clara suddenly started back with emotion and turned
deadly pale. But for Major Purling's support she would have
fallen. Tears came to her relief, and she rallied.

What was the matter?

On one of the iron beds lay a captain of artillery. He did
not appear to be wounded. He lay, as if suffering more from
exhaustion than from physical pain. And yet, on looking closer,
you saw from the glassy unconsciousness of his eyes that the
poor man was blind. But O that expression of sweet resignation
and patient submission! It was better than a prayer to
look on it. It touched deeper than any exhortation from
holiest lips. It spoke of an inward reign of divinest repose;
of a land more beautiful than any the external vision ever
looked on; of that peace of God which passeth all understanding.

Clara recognized in it the face of Clarles Kenrick. A cannon-ball
had passed before his eyes, and the shock from the
concussion of air had paralyzed the optic nerves. The surgeons
gave him little hope of ever recovering his sight.

For some private reason, best known to herself, Clara did
not make herself known to Kenrick. She did not even inform
any one that she knew him. She induced Lucy Charlton to
minister to his wants. On Lucy's asking him what she could
do (for she did not know he was Onslow's friend), he said,
“If you can pen a letter for me, I shall be much obliged.”

“Certainly,” said she; “and my friend here shall hold the
ink while I write.”

She received from the hands of her maid in attendance a
portfolio with which she had come provided, anticipating such
requests. She then took a seat by his side, while Clara sat at
the foot of the cot, where she could look in his blind, unconscious
face, and wipe away her tears unseen.

“I 'm ready,” said Lucy. And he dictated as follows: —

Several times during the dictating of this letter, Lucy (especially
when Onslow's name was mentioned) would have betrayed
both herself and Clara, had not the latter in dumb show
dissuaded her. The next day Clara made herself known, and

introduced Major Purling; but she did not allow the blind man
to suspect that she was that friend of his unknown amanuensis,
who had “held the ink.”

Her own persuasions, added to those of the Major, forced
Kenrick at last to consent to be removed to Onarock. Here,
in the society of cheerful Old Age and congenial Youth, he
rapidly recovered strength. But to his visual orbs there returned
no light. There it was still “dark, dark, dark, amid
the blaze of noon.”

He did not murmur at the dispensation. In all Clara's
studies, readings, and exercises he was made the partaker.
Even the beautiful landscapes on all sides were brought vividly
before his inner eyes by her graphic words. Along the river's
bank, and through the forest aisles, and along the garden borders
she would lead him, and not a flower was beautiful that he was
not made to know it.

It was the 18th of October, 1863, — that lovely Sabbath
which seemed to have come down out of heaven, — so beautiful
it was, — so calm, so bright, — so soft and yet so exhilarating.
The forest-trees had begun to put on their autumnal
drapery of many colors. The maple was already of a fiery
scarlet; the beech-leaves, the birch, and the witch-hazel, of a
pale yellow; and there were all gradations of purple and
orange among the hickories, the elms, and the ashes. The varnished
leaves of the oak for the most part retained their greenness,
forming mirrors for the light to reflect from, and flashing
and glistening, as if for very joy, under the bland, indolent
breeze. It was such weather as this that drew from Emerson
that note, we can all respond to, in our higher moments of
intenser life, “Give me health and a day, and I will make the
pomp of emperors ridiculous.”

With Kenrick, even to his blindness there came a sense of
the beauty and the glow. He could enjoy the balmy air, the
blest power of sunshine, the odors from the falling leaves and
the grateful earth. And what need of external vision, since
Clara could so well supply its want? He walked forth with
her, and they stopped near a rustic bench overlooking the
Hudson, and sat down.

“Indeed I must leave you to-morrow,” said he, in continuation
of some previous remark: “I 've got an excellent situation
as sub-teacher of French at West Point.”

“O, you 've got a situation, have you?” returned Clara.

The tears sprang to her eyes; but, alas for human frailty!
this time they were tears of vexation.

There was silence for almost a minute. Then Kenrick said,
“Do you know I 've been with you more than three months?”

“Well,” replied Clara, pettishly, “is there anything so very
surprising or disagreeable in that?”

“But I fear Onarock will prove my Capua, — that it will
unfit me for the sterner warfare of life.”

“O, go to your sterner warfare, since you desire it!”

And with a desperate effort at nonchalance she swung her
hat by its ribbon, and sang that little air from “La Bayadère”
by Auber, — “Je suis content, — je suis heureux.”

“Clara, dear friend, you seem displeased with me. What
have I done?”

“You want to humiliate me!” exclaimed Clara, reproachfully,
and bursting into a passion of tears.

“Want to humiliate you? I can't see how.”

“I suppose not,” returned Clara, ironically. “There are
none so blind as those who don't choose to see.”

“What do you mean, dear friend?”

“Dear friend indeed!” sobbed Clara. “Is he as blind as
he would have me think? Have n't I given hints enough, intimations
enough, opportunities enough? Would the man force
me to offer myself outright?”

There was another interval of silence, and this time it lasted
full ten minutes. And then Kenrick, his breath coming quick,
his breast heaving, unable longer to keep back his tears, drew
forth his handkerchief, and covering his face, wept heartily.

He rose and put out his hand. Clara seized it. He folded
her in his arms; and their first kiss, — a kiss of betrothal, —
was exchanged.