Chapter I.
“I wish,” Nora Desmond colored ever so slightly, “one of you would tell me what Mr. Le Strange is like!”
Mrs. Desmond and Nancy Desmond looked at one another sharply, something like a warning glance passed between them.
“Like?” Mrs. Desmond repeated, faintly.
“Yes—like,” Nora returned. “I know he’s tall and big. I know he has a pleasant voice, a merry laugh; I know”—her strange, pretty eyes grew shy, though they saw nothing, never had seen anything since her fourth birthday—“he is the kindest man in the whole wide world; but I want to know what his face is like—that’s natural, isn’t it, since”—a trifle defiantly—“since we are such good friends?”
“Quite natural,” Mrs. Desmond answered. “What would you like to know—the color of his eyes?”
Once more she looked at Nancy; the girl shrugged her shoulders, and made a helpless sort of gesture.
“Of course,” Nora said, “the color of his eyes, his hair, what sort of a nose and mouth he has, whether he wears a mustache. I should like a word picture of him. You know,” she sighed softly, “it’s all the picture I can see.”
For some reason or other, both Mrs. and Miss Desmond looked relieved.
“John Le Strange has very good features, indeed,” Mrs. Desmond answered; “a straight nose, a good mouth and really beautiful eyes. His hair is brown, with a natural wave in it. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who could deny John has good features. As for the nature of the man, it’s absolutely the sweetest I have ever known.”
A very pretty smile crossed Nora’s lips, a tender expression entered the sightless eyes.
“The sweetest nature you have ever known,” she repeated. “One couldn’t have a nicer thing said than that. Looks are a great deal, of course—I so love everything beautiful, but a lovely nature is even more than a lovely exterior. I—why, that’s John’s footstep; he’s earlier than usual today, isn’t he?”
John Le Strange boarded in the house of Mrs. Desmond; had lived in her house now for ten years, almost ever since the death of Terrence Desmond, leaving his widow not very well provided for.
A look of pleased expectancy shone upon the girl’s face; then, as the footsteps passed the door, went slowly upstairs, it died away.
“His footfall sounds tired tonight,” she said, more to herself than the others, “as though some trouble is upon him. I wish, mother”—it was curious how directly she seemed to look at her mother—“you would go up to him, just to see that nothing is wrong. He’s been an inmate of your house so long now, you must feel almost like a mother to him.”
Once more Mrs. Desmond glanced at Nancy.
“I dare say he’s fagged out,” she answered. “Men mostly are when they come home from their work. Why not go and ask him yourself, Nora? You’re his favorite.”
A smile flashed into the girl’s face, in her eyes, on her lips, dimpling her cheeks. She had been beautiful before; she was absolutely lovely now.
“His favorite!” she repeated. “Mother, do you really think so? Of course, he pities me—everyone does; everyone is kind to me—but, apart from that, do you really, really think I am his favorite—in spite of my blindness?”
Mrs. Desmond rose, cross the room, put her hand upon the girl’s shoulder.
“I don’t think—I know,” she returned. “He thinks more of you than he thinks of anyone in the wide, wide world! That’s something to be proud of, Nora.”
She rose slowly, her little hands tightly clasped.
“Something to be very, very proud of!” she returned. “But how wonderful that is, mother!”
She moved across the room without stretching out her hands. No one who did not know would have supposed her to be blind.
“She will marry him, of course,” Nancy said, when she was out of hearing, “because she is blind; she never would if she could see!”