CHAPTER II. "Blind to the bright blue sky, the glorious sun, Ir was but too true. Richard Vernon was hopelessly, irrevocably blind. Weary of the world too he became, for his was not a spirit to sit with folded arms under its affliction, but like a caged lion to chafe against the bars which held it prisoner. Born in a luxurious city, proud, passionate, wealthy, his misfortune, when it came to him after a terrible illness, in which he hovered for days between life and death, made him suspicious, cold, and reserved. It was a double misfortune to him, who had educated his whole nature to the worship of beauty, seeking it in the minutest shell or flower, in the eyes of an unconscious infant as well as on the brow of a sculptured Titan, to feel himself stranded on a shore of darkness, where an eternal gloom took the place of the midnight stars, and a boundless blank replaced the smiling sunshine of the morn with only the memory of the beautiful to cheer him. His very wealth became at times a source of annoyance to him, for, from his gloomy brooding heart came thoughts of mistrust against those who had loved him when he could be of and among them, to pamper their tastes, and, who now sought from others the entertainment which he could not give. The gay crowd, indeed, among whom he had lived, wondered for a season, condoled and pitied, and even occasionally spared an hour from their pursuit of pleasure to cheer the lonely man in his solitary, darkened room; but Vernon felt, with the apathy of a man of the world, that the beauty, interest, and glory of life had departed, and that his dim apartment was no place for the butterflies of Fashion to fold their gaudy wings, and he soon wearied of visits which he knew were mere outward forms of conventional ceremony. His sister, his only relative, gave him, it is true, what sympathy she could spare, and with her soft jewelled hand in his, told him of the outer life which he had been compelled to relinquish, sometimes of a new ball-room melody, to which, while she sang, she kept time with. her restless feet, or of some new work of art in vogue, but even in her softly modulated voice he could detect a scarcely disguised desire to be in the sunshine once more, and freed from his querulous repinings. He remembered, too, what she was to that outer world, and how unconsciously to her the adulation that she met with there, together with the blind devotion of an indulgent husband, helped to foster her faults of character, the chief of which were thoughtlessness and selfishness. But Vernon had one link still bright and untarnished, which kept him from total despair. It is a truth that cannot be doubted, because so often proved, that more powerful, more self-abnegating friendships exist between men than between women; indeed, among the latter there is often a frivolous semblance of friendship which the faintest breath of the world may dissolve, but when man grasps the hand of his brother man, either with open words and promises of truth, or a silent vow, almost the more powerful because unheard, unuttered, the bond cannot be broken, no strength can overcome the faithful grasp, no shock can sever the union. Voices around may whisper of unworthiness, the stronger is the tie; misfortunes may come, poverty, sickness, desolation, and the clasp is still firm and sure unto death. Happily for Vernon, though so isolated, he had found such a friend in Albert Linwood, a young artist of great promise, who, though several years his junior, would steal away from an unfinished picture in his studio, to converse with or read to him from the books which he loved best; and many an hour, which spent otherwise, might have helped him on to fame, found him with Vernon, whose rebellious spirit was always calmer for his coming. It was in one of these visits that Albert remonstrated with him upon the objectless life he was leading. "Are you not weary," he said, "of these everlasting city surroundings? Would you not be happier, better, where the sounds are less harsh, and where you can feel that there are broader glimpses of the blue sky ?" "That word happiness," replied Vernon moodily, "has long since been blotted out of my vocabulary.” "And yet, if you will listen for a moment," replied Albert, "perhaps you would feel a sensation akin to it; for I might arouse you into something like action. Leave the city for a while and take up your abode in some pretty rural place; the change would benefit you, I know, and you would soon realize the truism that God especially made the country; you will stagnate body and soul here." Vernon interrupted his friend with a gesture of impatience. "You seem to be leagued with the rest, Linwood, in trying to deprive me of even the few remaining pleasures which I have left; do you not see that I need some excitement to bear me up? Just consider my lonely position in such a place; I would scarcely ask you to relinquish your advantages here to come and cheer me,-Isabel would pine away and die in such a solitude, and other friends I care not to have. No, let me remain where I can at least hear an echo from the world which I used to enjoy so much; even in a reflected rainbow there are some gleams of beauty you know." "And yet, here you are wretched," answered Linwood, earnestly, "all your fine qualities are beclouded, you are growing misanthropic and dreamy, and need a change. Trust me, Vernon, and listen to me; rouse yourself from this apathy, take a pleasant house in the country with extensive grounds, hire laborers, cultivate your fields, sow your gardens, and reap their fruit; do something; be anything but a mere clod; bring health back again to your frame by constant exercise and outof-door life, and in the evening employ your servant, who has proved himself, in his capacity of attendant, trusty and intelligent, in reading good practical books, which will keep your mind awake and your knowledge of current events as thorough as before your blindness." Linwood stopped for breath, for his zeal for his friend had quickened his usual measured tone, and the artist thought generally more than he spoke. "Tell me when your Utopian sketch is quite finished," said Vernon, mockingly, and leaning back, apparently without interest, into a more comfortable position; but Linwood, not heeding the interruption, continued his exhortations. "Then for me, you can fit up an artist's room, and I will paint your grounds, your hill-tops, and meadows, in pictures which might make me immortal, perchance, and though the city must claim me sometimes, Vernon, my country studio will be my real home. And now my story is done, as they say in the nursery books; this simple, rustic life may not exactly suit you, but I promise you one thing, that the result will be peace of mind." "I own that you paint a picture with words as gracefully as you do with your pencil ;” replied Vernon, “but still you must excuse me from being the principal figure in it, even though it have meadows and hills in the foreground, and peace of mind in the perspective. Excuse me, I shall do very well where I am.” "No," said Linwood, rising and speaking with growing earnestness, "you will not, and you know it; you know that each day finds you more restless than the last, and I sometimes think that even my favorite country plan will not benefit you; you need the tenderest devotion and care, you need a sister's sympathy and love, or finally, if I incur your displeasure for it, I must be frank and speak my mind, you need the watchful tenderness of a wife." |