VII That Was a Great Time for Kissing
“You have seen my poor old trousseau. But it was the finest that could be had here in those days. Sis and I did most of the sewing—or rather sis did it. That was the custom then. And she cried more than I did over it, and was more pale and shaky at the ceremony. She was my bridesmaid. But we all lived happily together afterward. I think sis was more happy than either Hiliary or me. And she was more of a wife to him than I was; more of a mother to my babies than I was. It seemed more her vocation than mine. The only unhappy thing about it—the only terrible thing in all our lives—was when we came home so happy, with a miniature of us that we had painted in Philadelphia for her, to have sis led out of the dark parlor with a black bandage over her eyes and to be told that she was—blind!
“Blind! I remember now how she put her hands all over my face and said that she could feel the happiness—and not to cry. But she didn’t want to touch Hiliary. He had come in laughing and calling for her first. For, as I told you, she had been the happy one—not I!
“When he saw her, he just held her hands as if he had turned to stone, and the tears ran down his face—the first I had ever seen him shed. And then he kissed her. He had never kissed her before, though I wouldn’t have minded it. Those were greater times for kissing than these.
“‘She must never go away from us,’ he said to me in an entire change of voice. In fact, whenever he spoke to her after that it was so. ‘And nothing must ever mar her happiness. She is ours.’
“Of course we were all crying, no one could speak another word—so that there was nothing to do but put our arms about her—and keep her—and make her happy—which we did—didn’t we, sis?”
“Yes,” whispered the blind one.
Then fell a long pause in which three minds travelled back to that beautiful old time and lived its happiness over again.
“It is very funny—what the blind can do if they like. Sis would darn the stockings, nurse the babies, teach them their lessons, tie Hiliary’s stock better than he could, or I, feel in his pocket to see whether he had always a handkerchief, do everything for him—and let me go gadding. It was the very luckiest thing for Hiliary that she never married. For it took both of us to be a wife to him—and sis was more than her share of her.
“And,” ended the frail one, “we are very thankful—for we have had everything we wanted. Only, when Hiliary died, my heart would have broken except for sis, for you know sis is brave, oh, sis is very brave—braver than I!”
“Yes,” I echoed, “sis is very brave—braver than you!”
I looked at the blind one; and I am sure that she knew what I was thinking. Her face was still turned to her plate. But high on the cheeks a flush mounted, as I looked, which might be guilt—or something else. And I fancied a tear under each eyelid which she dare not shed nor wipe away. Poor sis!
And the face of the other one was flushed, too. But I knew very certainly that meant joy. For her beautiful dark eyes looked straightly and happily into mine. Yet—there were tears there, too!
And so you see that the saying of the dear old lady is once more proven true. People cry for joy.
I reached across the table, scattering the teacups as I went, and took a hand of each.
“A beautiful story,” I said.
“It is the first time,” said she, happily, who had told it so badly. “I didn’t think I could tell a story. But somehow I was just carried along.”
“It shall never be told again,” I said, “unless you permit it.”
But I pressed the hand of the blind one, slowly, gently, until her head drooped a little further and she responded:
“Not until we are both dead.”
I have kept the faith. They are both dead.
And I will not put into printed words the thoughts of my mind. I will not spoil the story of the dear old ladies by making it orderly and conventional. For fifty years the frail one had believed in the mystery of it—had even seen God in it. A miracle! How unquestioning was faith then! How simple was she!
But I may tell you what I see, here, as I write.
First, that other one, with sudden understanding turning the coin, like an accomplished palmist! Then again, stealing down the stairs in her white night garments, after her sister, and hearing that prayer of agony—then back—for that money—all prepared—because of the earlier prayers—but halting—then, finally, to bed, like a wraith, pretending sleep, having made the supreme sacrifice of her small life.
And I can see her the next day, swearing that prim-faced old banker, in his dusty office, to eternal silence and untruth—an oath he kept with faith.
I wish I might not see her putting aside forever that trousseau—the wedding journey—the little hoard. For these meant that she had been sure of Hiliary. And, perhaps, that she and her sister were afterward to part for her wedded happiness. Was it not best as it happened?
And those sobs—I do not like to hear them—so terrible as to deprive her of her sight. The while she had to think of them in the light and she forever in the dark. And alone! Alone! But it is good to know—is it not?—that they truly lived happy ever after—that the end of all was joy? That she lived with him she loved and who loved her all the rest of his life—in the sound of his voice—in the touch of his hands—in all the gentleness of him—all the more intimately in that she was blind? For she might touch him then as she pleased—and it was his duty to protect her—sometimes he might kiss her. For you will remember that the other one did not mind. And that those were greater times for kissing than these.
And do you think that she darned even his stockings—something that touched his living body—without leaving on them a kiss or a caress? I do not. And wasn’t it splendid to live in the only happiness there was for her—or ever could be—by reason of that one great sacrifice! That she might rear his children, who was to be mother to none! That she might be almost a wife to him—who was to be wife to no one! That she was to have the very comradeship her soul desired because she was blind—not otherwise!
And, best and greatest and sweetest of all, that she for whom it all was—the sorrow—the penance—the sacrifice—would never know till she should reach that Heaven where her knowledge would only be blotted out by the greater joy it would bring—there, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where the Lamb is the one bridegroom!