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Chapter III.
Many times during their short engagement something almost compelled John Le Strange to paint a word picture of himself as he really was, not as he knew she believed him to be; but, after all, is it necessary? She loved him, and, God knows, he loved her! She would never look upon his face; always to her he would be beautiful. So far as utter affection could, he would keep all sorrow from her, surround her with every comfort. She was more helpless than most women; would need all her life more care and cherishing.
More than once he asked Mrs. Desmond if it would not be better to undeceive the girl. She, however, was emphatic in her negative.
“You’ll just spoil her life and her happiness if you do,” she answered. “What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve for; as every one knows, the blind in their hearts and souls worship at the shrine of beauty more ardently than those who see. To her you are all that is desirable in every way; let that content you.”
And so, with the truth still untold, the two married, and in the whole wide world there was no happier wife than Nora Le Strange. Never once did he let her feel her blindness; never did he tire of telling her of beautiful things, describing every place he took her to so vividly, with such care, that always she smiled and nodded as she pressed the hands she held.
“I see—I see it all quite plainly!” she would say. “Oh, John, what a beautiful place this world is! And what a pair of seeing eyes you lend to me!”
It was not until her little son was born that Nora craved passionately to see, if only for a moment. Time after time, as she held the little creature, as she passed her fingers ever so gently across his downy head, his tiny features, over and over again, John described just what the little one was like—the most beautiful baby in the world. But for once, she seemed hardly satisfied.
“Oh, if I could only see him!” she said; “just once. John, I’ve wanted terribly sometimes to see you, though I know just what you are like. I want even more to see him, because he’s you and me, and our dear love all rolled up in this sweet, warm bundle.”
It was just about this time that a stranger, meeting John, Nora and the beautiful child in a public conveyance, looked at the girl’s eyes with an interested, professional glance. A day later, having discovered where they lived, he called upon John Le Strange.
“Your wife is blind,” he said, after a preliminary word or two. “I think, however, she was not blind from birth?”
“No,” he answered, “she was not blind until her fourth year. Her blindness is the outcome of some juvenile complaint.”
“And can, I believe, be cured,” the doctor said, gently.
John’s heart gave a great leap. Nora’s blindness cured! That would mean that she would see him; look upon the man she had believed beautiful—see how he had deceived her—perhaps hate him!
“Cured!” he repeated, and Dr. Winter wondered why the man’s scarred face grew so pale.
“Will you allow me to examine your wife’s eyes?” the oculist said. “From what I have observed, I have little doubt that your wife may yet see.”
There was a struggle for a moment in John’s heart. The happiness of his life, the dear, utter happiness, seemed slipping away. Then the beauty of the man’s nature conquered; he fetched his wife.
Trembling, he stood by while the beautiful eyes were examined; slowly he sat down as the doctor gave his verdict.
“The operation would be painful,” he said, “but I have no doubt whatever of its success.”
With a laugh of excitement, Nora spoke:
“Painful, John? That won’t matter; I can bear pain. Think of it, dear! I shall see the sky, the flowers—see you, and the baby! Oh, John—John, it’s too good to be true! No, no—I won’t say that. John, how quiet you are!”
As the days passed on, and certain preparations for the operation were made, John grew more quiet than ever; a silent tragedy had come into his happy life. Within another week his wife would see—would look at him, perhaps with aversion!
“Will you tell her,” he said to Mrs. Desmond, “before she sees—will you tell her? Directly the bandages are removed, she will turn to me, and she won’t know me. Will you prepare her?”
“It’s most unfortunate,” she said, slowly. “Yes, I mean it; I look upon this hope for Nora’s sight as a great misfortune. She was perfectly happy, perfectly content, I know”—neither of them heard a soft step coming along the passage—“she longed to see the child, but, after all, her sense of touch is so delicate, she knows as well as I know what he is like. This interfering doctor had better have left things alone.”
The soft steps stopped outside the door. The blind girl stood and listened, her heart beating strangely. Sight a misfortune for her! Why—why? She could not understand.
“After all,” Mrs. Desmond went on, slowly, “she loves you dearly; she will grow used to your looks in time; even if she is shocked at first, it will wear off, and any one can see that it’s your misfortune that you’re not a handsome man; your features, as I have told Nora often, are beautiful. You ought to be a handsome man, and but for the smallpox marks you certainly would have been.”
The blind girl, standing so motionless outside the door, shivered a little.
“I shan’t be able to bear it,” John said. “Blind as she is, she worships beauty. What will she feel when she sees she is bound for life to me! I ought not to have married her; but when a man loves”—he made a hopeless gesture—“and I wanted to take care of her.”
Mrs. Desmond rose, and walked about the room.
“You’re her husband,” she said; “you have the remedy in your own hands—forbid the operation!”
“And rob her of one of life’s greatest blessings?” he answered. “No, I’m not so selfish as that, and she wants to see the little one. Ah, well; he, at all events, is perfectly beautiful; she will turn from me, perhaps; but she can feast her eyes on our little son.”
As quietly as she had come, the blind girl stole away, up the stairs to her little one’s nursery, where he lay crooning in his cot. With a half sob, she bent over him, kissed him—touched the tiny face.
A little later, with a quick, light step, she ran down the stairs, her hand just touching the banisters; listened an instant, then went straight to the room in which John sat. He glanced up, and she went to him, kissed him softly.
“John,” she said, a tremble in her voice, “dear John, don’t be angry with me—I know you’ve been put to trouble—trouble and expense, but—I’m a coward, dear—the doctor said it would be painful; I can’t”—she almost sobbed now—“I can’t face the operation!”
He held her from him for a minute; no inkling of the truth entered his mind. Then he snatched her to his heart. Was he wicked, selfish, to be so glad?
“Not to face it!” he returned. “But think, Nora, just a little pain, or even a great deal, and then to see! To see,” he said the words bravely, “to see baby!”
She trembled from head to foot. Oh, to see—to see!
“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I have wanted to, but after all, you have been my eyes—such good eyes, John—and I’m not brave at bearing pain. You’re not vexed with me?”
“No, darling—no; but think, think again.”
“I have thought;” she answered, “and I can’t risk it. You must thank the doctor, and tell him I’m afraid. John, I don’t seem selfish to you because I won’t bear pain—because I must be your blind wife, and baby’s blind mother always?”
“No,” he whispered. Was he selfish, wicked, that so great a glow of joy pervaded his whole being? “But, dearest, to be blind all your life, when you might see!”
She lifted her lips and kissed him—kissed the scarred cheek, the beautiful eyes.
“I don’t mind,” she answered. “Why should I, John, when the most beautiful thing in the world is blind?”
“The most beautiful thing?”
[Illustration]
A BRAVE WOMAN’S DEVOTION
A WEIRD STORY FULL OF PATHOS SETTING FORTH THE DEVOTION OF A NATIVE HEROINE
BY A NATIVE HAWAIIAN
WRITTEN FOR ALEXANDER’S MAGAZINE
Three riders came out of the woods, and, turning into the road leading from Napoopoo to the uplands, slowly began the ascent. As they went up, the long plains, reaching from the forest covered heights of Mauna Loa to the ocean, seemed to grow broader, and the sea rose higher, till the far away horizon almost touched the sinking sun. Lanes of glassy water stretched from the shore into illimitable distance. A ship lying motionless looked as if hanging in mid-air. Under the cliff the delicate lines of cocoanut and palm trees were silhouetted against the ocean mirror. Far to the south ran the black and frowning coast, relieved here and there by white lines or foam creeping lazily in from the ocean, only to look darker as the surf melted from sight. On the plain, little clusters of trees, or a house, or a thin curl of smoke, indicated the presence of men; and back of all rose the forest, vast, dim and mysterious, stretching away for miles till lost in the clouds resting softly on the bosom of the mountain.
Such a scene could not fail to arrest attention, and, though our riders were tired, they reined in their horses to enjoy its quiet beauty.
“What a wonderful scene! I have been through Europe, feasted my eyes on the Alps, and have seen the finest that America can produce, but I never saw its equal,” said the tourist.
“It looks as if such a picture might be the theatre of thrilling romance and history,” said the Coffee Planter. “Is it not here that Captain Cook was killed? And I think I have heard that a famous battle was fought somewhere near: the last struggle of the past against advancing Christianity.”
“Yes,” replied the Native, slowly, with a lingering look in his eyes, as he turned from the inspiring view to his companions. “Yes, this is all historic ground. Over there under the setting sun, at Kuamoo, was fought the battle of Kekuaokalani, and there a heroic woman braved and met death with her husband, a rebel chief. On these plains below and on yonder heights there have been many thrilling scenes in Hawaii’s history. But all of the romance is not in the past. Do you see those houses away down the coast, this side of the high lands of Honokua? See how they glow in the setting sunlight. That is Hookena, and only a few years ago it witnessed the last act in a simple drama, which can hardly be excelled in all the tales of heroism in the past. It was told me in part by the woman who was or is the heroine, for she yet lives. And I looked at her in wonder, because she was so unconscious of it all.”
“Let us hear the story,” said the planter. “We will sit on that high point and watch this glorious scene fade into moonlight, while we rest and listen.” They dismounted and stepped from the road to a projecting rock and, throwing themselves on the grass where none of the wonderful vision could be missed, listened. The native looked a little embarrassed at his sudden transformation from guide to story-teller, but accepted the position and began.
“Many years ago a native family lived a few miles above Hookena, on land which had been occupied by their ancestors for generations, for they belonged to the race of chiefs. The house was hidden from the road, in the midst of a grove of orange, breadfruit, mango, banana and other trees.
It is on storied ground, for many stirring events in the past history of Hawaii had occurred here. A son and three daughters were the children.
They received more than the usual care and attention given to Hawaiian children, and had grown to man and womanhood serious and reflective. The young man, Keawe, was filled with a desire to do something noble for his dying race. Though he had travelled over the Islands and had been well received everywhere, yet he was heart-free and said he would never marry, but wait untrammelled till his time for action should come. With eagerness he watched political developments at the capital. His heart beat wildly when the last Kamehameha died, and Kalakaua was elected King.
Such a method of King-making did not suit his chivalric ideas. The records of personal prowess, of brave chiefs and noble women were his delight. He mourned that such records belonged to the well-nigh forgotten past. His ambition was not ignoble. He wanted the Hawaiians to be worthy of the best civilization, to maintain a Hawaiian Kingdom, because that the native was equal to it. While he mourned, he condemned the frequent failures, under which the native was forfeiting the confidence of his white friends. He was one of the overwhelming majority who regarded Kalakaua’s accession unworthy, and as the beginning of the end of Hawaiian supremacy.
One day, while fishing at the beach where he was doing more dreaming than fishing; sometimes idly watching a laughing company of girls who were bathing and surf-riding; he was startled by a cry of terror. Springing to his feet, he saw that one of the girls was desperately struggling to swim ashore, where her affrighted companions were running wildly about crying for help. Looking towards the sea he saw a large fin on the surface rapidly following the swimmer. Accustomed to every athletic sport; perfectly at home in the water; always cool and self possessed, he saw, that to overtake her, the shark must pass a low rocky headland, and in an instant he was there with a long knife in his hand. He remembered seeing the face of the girl as she struggled desperately to escape. There was a single terrified glance, but he saw a beautiful woman, with a face indicating a higher type than usual. There was no time for admiration. The shark was turning and, with a horrid open mouth, was about to rush upon its victim. Ho gave a loud shout, jumped full upon the huge beast, and in an instant had plunged his knife to the hilt again and again into its body. Then he was hurled into the seething brine, as the frightened animal with frantic plunges rushed seaward. Coming to the surface and looking about he saw the body of the girl near by. He thought her dead. She was indeed stunned and hurt, for the shark gave her a fearful blow in turning. It was the work of only a minute to drag her out. There for a moment he saw the full measure of her youth and beauty, but did not wait for returning consciousness. Seeing that she was recovering he walked swiftly away.
But he was wounded, and, denounce and reproach himself as he would, the sweet face ever and anon came before his eyes, and sent the blood tingling and dancing through his veins. He tried to crush out the image, and determined to enter into active life; to cease dreaming, and begin then and at once to accomplish his high aims.
The political campaign, culminating in the election of 1886, had commenced. Kalakaua had announced the aim of his reign: to increase and develop the Hawaiian people. “Hawaii for the Hawaiians” made an inspiring war cry. Keawe entered with energy and hope into the conflict. Yet it troubled him, and it seemed as if there was something wrong in opposing the noble Philipo, who had so long faithfully represented the people of Kona in the National Legislature. But Kalakaua declared that Philipo must be replaced by another man, and was himself coming to assist in the conflict. With the ancient faith and confidence in the chief, Keawe put aside his doubts and worked day and night for the success of the holy cause. It was holy to him and as the day of election drew near, his belief grew stronger, that at last a deliverer had come and Hawaii was to be redeemed. Already he saw, in a bright future, a government by Hawaiians with full friendship for all nations, and cordial relations with those who had helped his people into the best light of civilization. The King came, and with him a troop of palace guards from Honolulu. When all of these were, by the royal will, duly registered as voters, and means, other than argument and persuasion, were used to help on the good cause, a chilly sense of something wrong cooled Keawe’s ardor. He met the King and was cordially received. His heart bounded with pleasure at words of praise for his work. An invitation to a feast and dance was accepted, and only when he went and saw, did he realize the mockery and sham behind the fine words. Heart sick, dizzy with a sore disappointment, early the next morning, when all were sleeping, he mounted his horse and stole away alone. The cold mountain air relieved the pain in his head, but his heart was weary and the future looked dark. He saw that if there was momentary triumph, all the sooner disaster must come; and he longed to know how to avert the danger. He grew weary thinking and trying to hope, and his thoughts went to other things. Again he was in the water, struggling to save her life. Again the sweet face appeared before him, so fair and gentle. The sun was hot now; he had ridden for hours, and, alighting, threw himself on the grass and looked up through the leafy bower at the bright sky. Perhaps he slept; at any rate be dreamed that a sweet voice was singing “Aloha oe.” He sat up and listened. It was not a dream, and a strong desire to see the face of the singer possessed him. The voice drew nearer, then she passed near by carrying a pitcher, and went to a spring. It was the girl he had saved from the shark! She wore a loose flowing gown of white and a maile branch twisted about her head hardly confined the silky hair which floated down her back. A coral pin held the gown about her neck. Short sleeves only partly hid her graceful and shapely arms.
Keawe arose and stood watching. His heart beat tumultuously. No other woman had so strongly moved him, and now he would speak and not run again. A movement startled her, and rising with the dripping pitcher in her hand, she turned and saw him. That she knew him was instantly evident; but her eyes modestly dropped and she moved as if to go. But he was in the path, and seeing that, she hesitated and turned to go through the woods, but could not and stood again, looking at her feet which just peeped from the gown. Keawe stepped towards her and said, “Do you remember the shark?” “Yes, I know you,” she replied. Her eyes said more and he saw it again. As he stepped nearer she said. “Why did you not let me thank you? I thought you might come.” It flashed through his mind that he wasted two months pursuing an ignis fatuus, only to have nothing but bitterness at the end, when it might have been——! “I was afraid to come,” he replied. “I wanted to work for Hawaii and our people.” “Yes, I know,” she said. “You have spoken bravely. All Kona trusts in your words!” “Did you believe them?” he quickly asked. “Do you believe in me?” A look was her reply. “Will you believe in me if I say that I am done with ‘Hawaii for the Hawaiians,’ under such leadership?” “I will always believe in you. But come, you are tired. My father will be glad to meet you,” she said quickly. “May I drink?” he said, and held out his hand. She gave him the pitcher, which he held and looked at the pretty figure standing near the spring. “You are Rebecca at the well.” “And are you Abraham’s servant?” “No, I am Isaac himself,” he replied and tried to take her hand. “Oh! but Isaac did not meet Rebecca at the well!” And, laughing merrily, she ran down the path towards her home. He followed but though he wanted, the opportunity for other words did not come; she was so very coy. But that was not the only visit. Very often business calls took him along that lovely mountain road and there was always a welcome at the home of Lilia. He told her of his love, and in April they were married.
They built a little cottage which nestled snugly in a quiet valley on the mountain side, and there they passed a few months of perfect happiness. All loved them. He was regarded as the wise adviser and friend of the country-side. She became the gentle sister of those who were ill, or suffering or wayward, and their home was the center of an influence which helped and lifted.