Chapter II.
Just as quietly as she had gone from her mother’s sitting room, Nora mounted the stairs, knocked at the door, and, in answer to a quiet “Come in,” uttered in a singularly beautiful voice, entered.
By a table, with the full glare of a lamp shining upon him, sat a man. So far as his features went, Mrs. Desmond’s description had been accurate. The eyes that softened so wonderfully as he saw the girl were beautiful; for all that, the man was not pleasant to look upon. Smallpox of the most virulent type had seamed and scarred his face, making what should have been very fair almost terrible.
“You, Nora!” he said, springing to his feet. “How good of you to come and see me!” He made use, without thought, of the ordinary words. “Come to this chair; it’s the most comfortable in the room. You know that, don’t you?”
“And so you always give it to me, John,” she said. “I think you can’t help being like that—the best invariably for some one else. I wonder,”—her soft fingers closed on his hand as he led her to a chair—“why you are sad tonight—unhappy?”
He started, ever so slightly.
“How did you know?” he asked. “How wonderful you are, Nora!”
She was sitting now; he standing close beside her, worshipping her with his beautiful eyes, feeling he would give the whole world, were it his, to take this dear, blind girl in his arms and kiss her sweet lips.
“I suppose I know,” she answered, “because God, who is very just, has given me a greater power of perception of some things than those who can see—a fuller sympathy. Tell me what is wrong, John—why you are sad?”
He hesitated a moment; then very slowly, half timidly, he sank upon his knees.
“This is why,” he answered, and his hungry lips almost kissed her hand. “I want something that I dare not ask for, and yet if it could be mine how I would love and cherish it! I want something—some one to work for, to make money for; some one to surround with adoration and comfort, but I dare not—I dare not say to her I love you, because——”
He paused. She stretched out her hand and laid it unfalteringly upon his shoulder.
“Because she is blind, John?”
He covered her hand with his—then he covered it with kisses.
“No, no! A thousand times no!” he answered. “Oh, Nora, you know I love you—want you—you know your blindness makes you all the dearer to me! But you don’t know me as others know me—you have never seen me. If—if you should give yourself to me, you would be giving yourself to an unknown man. I think you care for me—but——”
“There is no but,” she interrupted. “I love you. As for knowing you, there is no one in the world I know so well. And today my mother has told me just what you are like—has so to speak, painted the picture of your every feature. I can look at you now with my mind’s eye—I am so glad, dear!”
He put his arm round her; he drew her gently to him; he kissed her lips.
“Little sweetheart!” he said. “Little wife to be! So your mother told you all? Are you sure you did not dislike the picture?”
With her slender, sensitive fingers she touched his features, one by one, smiling, but a little puzzled.
“Quite,” she answered; “and mother was right; your features are beautiful. Your skin is rough and rugged, different from mine—that is because you are a man, but you must not think”—one could scarcely believe she was not looking at the scarred face—“I love you for your beauty; I love you just because I love you—because I can’t help it. And I hope—I do hope, with all my heart—you will never regret your goodness in taking a blind girl to your heart—wanting her for your wife.”