“All the Critchetts and Coupers in the world will never do anything for it, my dear. But you must remember that where I only lost my sight, many others lost their lives, and it is supposed to be better to lose your sight than your life. Besides, blindness has its advantages: it gives you so much more time to think, and it humbles you so. You can have no idea what it is like, Doll. Intense, everlasting blackness hedging you in like a wall: one long, long night, even when the sunlight is beating on your face; and out of the night, voices and the touching of hands, like the voices and the touchings of departed spirits. Your physical body is as helpless and as much at the mercy of the world as your spiritual body is in the hands of the Almighty. And things grow dim to you too: you begin to wonder what familiar faces and sights are like, as you wonder about the exact appearance of those who died many years ago, or of places you have not seen for years. All of which, my dear Doll, is very favourable to thought. When next you lie awake for five or six hours in the night, try to reckon all the things which occupy your brain; then imagine such wakefulness and its accompanying thoughts extended over the period of your natural life, and you will get some idea of the depth and breadth and height of total blindness.”
His words struck her, and she did not know what to answer, so she only pressed his hand in token of her mute sympathy.
He understood her meaning; the faculties of the blind are very quick.
“Do you know, Doll,” he said, “coming back to you and to your gentle kindness is like coming into the peace and quiet of a sheltered harbour after bearing the full brunt of the storm.” Just then a cloud which had obscured the sun passed away, and its full light struck upon his face. “There,” he went on, “it is like that. It is like emerging into the sweet sunshine after riding for miles through the rain and mist. You bring peace with you, my dear. I have not felt such peace for years as I feel holding your hand to-day.”
“I am very glad, dear Ernest,” she answered; and they walked on in silence. At that moment, a little girl, who was trundling a hoop down the gravel-path, stopped her hoop to look at the pair. She was very pretty, with large dark eyes, but Dorothy noticed that she had a curious mark upon her forehead. Presently Dorothy saw her run back towards an extremely tall and graceful woman, who was sauntering along, followed at some distance by a nurse with a baby in her arms, and turning occasionally to look at the beds of spring flowers, hyacinths and tulips, which bordered the path.
“O mother!” she heard the little girl call out, in the clear voice of childhood, “there is such a nice blind man! He isn’t old and ugly, and he hasn’t a dog, and he doesn’t ask for pennies. Why is he blind if he hasn’t a dog, and doesn’t ask for pennies?”
Blindness, according to this little lady’s ideas, evidently sprang from the presence of a cur and an unsatisfied hunger for copper coin. Sometimes it does.
The tall graceful lady looked up carelessly, saying, “Hush, dear!” She was quite close to them now, for they were walking towards each other, and Dorothy gave a great gasp, for before her stood Eva Plowden. There was no doubt about it. She was paler and haughtier-looking than of yore; but it was she. No one who had once seen her could mistake that queenly beauty. Certainly Dorothy could not mistake it.
“What is the matter, Doll?” said Ernest, carelessly. He was thinking of other things.
“Nothing; I hurt myself.”