University of Virginia Library

28. XXVIII.
THE BLIND EYES SEE.

The three months passed rapidly. Warren could not
stay away, but he visited Grace Hastings rather as a
eherished sister, than one whom he had hoped to call
his wife. The little Rose learned to know his footstep,
and she would spring to meet him, and cling caressingly
to his neck, with her chubby arms. Once or
twice he had met Mrs. Seaton, and she had reminded
him of her old prophecy about his greatness, with a
generous pride in its fulfilment. It was early in
April, when he entered the house one evening with a
copy of “Cousin Elsie” in his hand.

“It is glorious, it is magnetic,” were his first
words. Then he said, eagerly, “I have brought you
something, Grace, which I want you to read for my
sake. What a strange signature—L'Inconnue! There
is so much of desolation in that word—The Unknown!
It is as if she said the friendless, the forsaken. Oh,
Grace, I wish I knew her; she must have suffered as

few women have suffered, and borne as few could have
borne. There is power here, life and vitality, and
yet sometimes there gushes forth a perfect wail of
music. There is always, too, a deep, underlying principle
of faith and trust in Heaven. But listen, I must
read it to you myself, at least some of it. I want you
to feel it as I do.”

And Grace listened, with flushed cheek and kindled
eye. The hour of her reward had come. The seed
sown in silence and sorrow, and watered with tears,
had sprung up, and borne fruit a hundred-fold.
“The Unknown” heard her own praises from the lips
dearest on earth. Passages, which she had written in
doubt and fear, by the bedside of her sleeping child,
came to her now as a revelation, and fairly thrilled
her with their beauty, now that his voice gave them
utterance. It was as if she had entertained angel
guests without looking upon their faces, and when
the veil was put aside, stood bewildered at their loveliness.
But not that evening would she disclose her
secret. She would wait a little to get accustomed to
her position.

When he left, she took the book from his hand,
and lifting her eyes to his face, remarked, “I want to
see you to-morrow, Warren; will you come over and
spend the evening?”

He bent over her with the old love-light in his

glance, and there was deep tenderness in the voice with
which he gave the promise she requested.

The next evening she sat absorbed in a vague,
trance-like revery. She felt that he still loved her.
The strife with the world had not worn away the freshness
of his heart—years had not weakened the passion
she had inspired in her girlhood. Momently she
expected to hear his footsteps. She fancied what a
smile his face would wear, when he knew that the
Grace of his love and the L'Inconnue of his admiration
were one and the same.

A laggard tread came up the walk. It was too
slow for him. She opened the door, and a messenger
handed her a note. She came back to the light, and
for a moment she held it with the seal unbroken. A
sudden memory thrilled her heart. The last time she
had looked upon that familiar superscription, its
enclosure had well-nigh brought her death. The old,
bitter grief surged up into her soul, but she controlled
her emotion after a time, and tore it open. Only a
few words were traced there, and she read them over
and over again.

Turning the note over and over, she sat there in
the lamplight, until the little Rose crept to her lap,
and passed her dimpled fingers over her mother's face.
“Mamma's face all wet. What make mamma cry?
Please smile 'ittle bit at Rosie.” Then, clasping the
baby-comforter to her breast, she realized that her
tears were born more of joy than grief, and from her
heart swelled up a silent thanksgiving.

Meanwhile Warren Hereford was borne onward
toward New York. It was mid-afternoon when he
reached his home. “How is Mabel?” he faltered
forth to the girl who answered his summons.
“Worse,” was the reply, and he turned toward his
sister's chamber with a hesitating step, as if he feared
to enter. But there was nothing there to mark the
presence of the death angel. It was a lovely April

day. White muslin curtains, lined with rose-color,
were looped up at the windows, and the spring sunshine
lay warm and bright on the rosewood furniture.
Bunches of spring flowers stood in vases, scattered
here and there about the room, and in a little glass on
a stand by the sick girl's bedside, was a bouquet of
wild-wood blossoms. Percy Douglass had walked out
into the country and gathered them, that morning,
while still the dew lay fresh upon their petals. There
were violets and anemones, and the tiny, pearl-like
bells of the wild crocus. Mabel could not see them,
but she knew their separate fragrance; she could call
them each one by their names, and she loved to take
their dainty leaves in her thin fingers.

Percy had been with her from the commencement
of her illness. Though she had refused to be his
wife, yet well he knew that it was for his sake the
delicate, peach-like bloom had died out of the wan
cheek. He would talk hopefully, sometimes, of her
recovery. She must be his bride yet, he would say.
When she got stronger they would be married, and he
would bear her far away, where suns of Italy should
brighten the flowers in her pathway, and winds of the
South woo the life and warmth back to her cheek with
their kisses. She would listen with a smile very sweet
and happy, but when drawing her head to his bosom, he
would whisper—“My wife,” she would answer softly—
“Yes, in Heaven;” and Percy hoping, praying, with

the might of love's despair, yet saw her fading day
by day.

Once, kneeling by her bedside, he had besought
her with prayers and tears to be his, even then—to let
him go down beside her into the night, even if the new
name, Mabel Douglass, could but be written upon her
tombstone. But her face contracted with a sudden
look of pain, for his words brought back the memory
of that long night of trial, the sorest that had swept
over her young life. “Do not ask it,” she murmured
with passionate earnestness—“it is wrong, it is wrong.”
After that, he had forborne all attempts to change her
resolution, and contented himself in cherishing what
still remained of that beautiful life, with a love which
combined the worshipping idolatry of the lover with
the tender care of a woman.

He sat beside her, as Warren Hereford threw open
the door. Emmie, now Simon Goldthwaite's cherished
wife, sat by the window, and Mrs. Hereford, swaying
to and fro in her arm-chair, watched mournfully the
young, fair features of her blind child, whereon, alas
but too distinctly, she could read the sentence of
death. When Warren entered, the blind girl was the
first to speak. His heart fairly trembled and stood
still, as he noted the fearful change four months of
absence had wrought in his pet sister. And yet his
eyes had never rested on a fairer object. No dream
of poet or of painter was ever purer or more seraphic

in its beauty. Her small, graceful head lay lightly
against the snowy pillows piled beneath her shoulders,
and the curls, soft and sunny as an infant's, clustered
in rings about her forehead. One hand lay in the clasp
of Percy Douglass, the other she extended to her
brother. “You were so good to come,” she said,
gently, “I so longed to see you before I died.” From
a child, she had thus spoken of seeing those she loved,
and yet, for the first time, Warren noticed it, and then
he thought how dark had been the path over which
those young feet had trod. To her, the summer sun
had never risen with its wondrous glory. No moon
of winter had silvered the life pages for her eyes, no
stars of midnight ever cheered her with their long-enduring
hope; and now, through these dark ways, she
was groping onward to the great end, her patient hands
outstretched toward the shadow-lands of death.

He drew near the bed, and holding her once more
on his breast, wept for the young life which had not
been strong enough to climb the steep paths of earth,
and so had plumed its wings for heaven.

The next three days passed like a painful dream.
Her spirit was losing its hold on human love, and
eyes of lover and mother, brother and sister could only
watch and weep. Once more it was afternoon. All
her loved ones were gathered around her. Kate Hereford
stood at the bed's foot. Softened by this great
sorrow, she no longer looked like the haughty, defiant

Kate Cunningham of other years. She had loved
Mabel better than any other living thing except her
husband, and now her proud eyes had grown very dim
with tears and watching. The old gray-headed rector
had just administered the sacrament of the Holy Communion,
and now the dying girl lay in the calmness
of her heaven-sent faith, like an infant, smiling in its
dreams of heaven.

“Come and kiss me, all of you,” she murmured.
“Nay, Kate, do not sob so. You would not keep me
here when the summons has come for my departure.
Dick, Simon, Emmie, dear ones all of you; my own
brother Warren, ah, I know you will think lovingly of
the absent Mabel. It will be hardest for you, my own
sweet mother; but you have nurtured your blind girl
tenderly, and when she passes from your sight, it will
not be long ere you can come to her side in heaven,
and I shall see you there. You have made life very
fair and bright, so that I have almost forgotten the
one sorrow which has darkened it. And you, Percy—”

Her arms clung convulsively to his neck, and the
watchers by that dying bed saw that this was the
bitterness of death—“Percy, you will love another.
I would not have you mourn very long for Mabel.
Let other eyes look into yours, eyes that can give you
glance for glance; other love make you happier than
mine ever could—and yet I would not be quite forgotten.
Think tenderly, sometimes, of the blind girl who

loved you too truly to be your wife, whose young life
withered for your sake, and perhaps God will let me
look down from heaven and rejoice in your happiness.
Hold my head on your bosom once more, please, and
let me go to sleep.”

Pale, silent, tearless, he held her in his arms. For
a half-hour she lay there quietly, then for an instant
her eyes opened. “Oh light,” she whispered, “oh
joy, mother, Percy, I see you all,” and once more the
lashes drooped downward, and the young heart had
beat its last throb. To the eyes so dim on earth, the
sunshine of heaven was very bright, she looked on the
Beautiful City and the Great King—the Blind Eyes
saw.