Friends and Neighbors Part 23

"All alone! how do you find your way?"

"I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and this takes the place of the sun with me."

"But the holes?"

"I know them all."

"And the walls?"

"I feel them. When I approach anything thick, sir, the air comes with less force upon my face; it is but now and then that I get a hard knock, as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left on the road, I do not suspect it--whack! bad for you, poor five-and-thirty, but this is soon over. It is only when I get bewildered, as I did day before yesterday. O then---"

"You have not told me of that, James," said Mr. Desgranges.

"I was, however, somewhat embarra.s.sed, my dear friend. While I was here the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of a quarter of an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I had lost my way, and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to stir a step. You know the plain, not a house, no pa.s.sersby. I sat down on the ground, I listened; after a moment I heard at, as I supposed, about two hundred paces distant, a noise of running water. I said, 'If this should be the stream which is at the bottom of the plain?' I went feeling along on the side from which the noise came--I reached the stream; then I reasoned in this way: the water comes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses it. I put in my hand to feel the current."

"Bravo, James."

"Yes, but the water was so low and the current so small, that my hand felt nothing. I put in the end of my stick, it was not moved. I rubbed my head finally, I said, 'I am a fool, here is my handkerchief;' I took it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. Soon I felt that it moved gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont is on the right. I started again and I get home to Juliana, who began to be uneasy."

"O," cried the young man, "this is admir----"

But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to the other end of the room,

"Silence!" said he to him in a low voice. "Not admirable--do not corrupt by pride the simplicity of this man. Look at him, see how tranquil his face is, how calm after this recital which has moved you so much. He is ignorant of himself, do not spoil him."

"It is so touching," said the young man, in a low tone.

"Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie there. A thousand blind men have found out these ingenious resources, a thousand will find them again; but this moral perfection--this heart, which opens itself so readily to elevated consolations--this heart which so willingly takes upon it the part of a victim--this heart which has restored him to life. For do not be deceived, it is not I who have saved him, it is his affection for me; his ardent grat.i.tude has filled his whole soul, and has sustained--he has lived because he has loved!"

At that moment, James, who had remained at the other end of the room, and who perceived that we were speaking low, got up softly, and with a delicate discretion, said to his wife,

"We will go away without making any noise."

"Are you going, James?"

"I am in the way, my dear Mr. Desgranges."

"No, pray stay longer."

His benefactor retained him, reaching out to him cordially his hand. The blind man seized the hand in his turn, and pressed it warmly against his heart.

"My dear friend, my dear good friend, you permit me to stay a little longer. How glad I am to find myself near you. When I am sad I say--'James, the good G.o.d will, perhaps, of His mercy, put you in the same paradise with Mr. Desgranges,' and that does me good."

The young man smiled at this simple tenderness, which believed in a hierarchy in Heaven. James heard him.

"You smile, sir. But this good man has re-created James. I dream of it every night--I have never seen him, but I shall know him then. Oh my G.o.d, if I recover my sight I will look at him for ever--for ever, like the light, till he shall say to me, James, go away. But he will not say so, he is too good. If I had known him four years ago, I would have served him, and never have left him."

"James, James!" said Mr. Desgranges; but the poor man could not be silenced.

"It is enough to know he is in the village; this makes my heart easy. I do not always wish to come in, but I pa.s.s before his house, it is always there; and when he is gone a journey I make Juliana lead me into the plain of Noiesemont, and I say--'turn me towards the place where he is gone, that I may breathe the same air with him.'"

Mr. Desgranges put his hand before his mouth. James stopped.

"You are right, Mr. Desgranges, my mouth is rude, it is only my heart which is right. Come, wife," said he, gayly, and drying his great tears which rolled from his eyes, "Come, we must give our children their supper. Good-by, my dear friend, good-by, sir."

He went away, moving his staff before him. Just as he laid his hand upon the door, Mr. Desgranges called him back.

"I want to tell you a piece of news which will give you pleasure. I was going to leave the village this year; but I have just taken a new lease of five years of my landlady."

"Do you see, Juliana," said James to his wife, turning round, "I was right when I said he was going away."

"How," replied Mr. Desgranges, "I had told them not to tell you of it."

"Yes; but here," putting his hand on his heart, "everything is plain here. I heard about a month since, some little words, which had begun to make my head turn round; when, last Sunday, your landlady called me to her, and showed me more kindness than usual, promising me that she would take care of me, and that she would never abandon me. When I came home, I said to Juliana, 'Wife, Mr. Desgranges is going to quit the village; but that lady has consoled me.'"

In a few moments the blind man had returned to his home.

DEPENDENCE.

"WELL, Mary," said Aunt Frances, "how do you propose to spend the summer? It is so long since the failure and death of your guardian, that I suppose you are now familiar with your position, and prepared to mark out some course for the future."

"True, aunt; I have had many painful thoughts with regard to the loss of my fortune, and I was for a time in great uncertainty about my future course, but a kind offer, which I received, yesterday, has removed that burden. I now know where to find a respectable and pleasant home."

"Is the offer you speak of one of marriage?" asked Aunt Frances, smiling.

"Oh! dear, no; I am too young for that yet. But Cousin Kate is happily married, and lives a few miles out of the city, in just the cosiest little spot, only a little too retired; and she has persuaded me that I shall do her a great kindness to accept a home with her."

"Let me see. Kate's husband is not wealthy, I believe?"

"No: Charles Howard is not wealthy, but his business is very good, and improving every year; and both he and Kate are too whole-souled and generous to regret giving an asylum to an unfortunate girl like me. They feel that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

"A very n.o.ble feeling, Mary; but one in which I am sorry to perceive that you are a little wanting."

"Oh! no, Aunt Frances, I do feel it deeply; but it is the curse of poverty that one must give up, in some measure, the power of benefiting others. And, then, I mean to beguile Kate of so many lonely hours, and perform so many friendly offices for her husband, that they will think me not a burden but a treasure."

"And you really think you can give them as much comfort as the expense of your maintenance could procure them in any other way?"

"Yes, aunt; it may sound conceited, perhaps, but I do really think I can. I am sure, if I thought otherwise, I would never consent to become a burden to them."

"Well, my dear, then your own interest is all that remains to be considered. There are few blessings in life that can compensate for the loss of self-reliance. She who derives her support from persons upon whom she has no natural claim, finds the effect upon herself to be decidedly narrowing. Perpetually in debt, without the means of reimburs.e.m.e.nt, barred from any generous action which does not seem like 'robbing Peter to pay Paul,' she sinks too often into the character of a sponge, whose only business is absorption. But I see you do not like what I am saying, and I will tell you something which I am sure you _will_ like--my own veritable history.

"I was left an orphan in childhood, like yourself, and when my father's affairs were settled, not a dollar remained for my support. I was only six years of age, but I had attracted the notice of a distant relative, who was a man of considerable wealth. Without any effort of my own, I became an inmate of his family, and his only son, a few years my elder, was taught to consider me as a sister.