The blind girl sat alone in her chamber, listening to the sound of
merry voices in the hall without, or the patter of feet, as the fast
arriving guests tripped up and down the stairs.
She had heard the voice of J.C. De Vere as he passed her door, but it awoke within her
bosom no lingering regret, and when an hour later Nellie stood
before her, arrayed in her bridal robes, she passed her hand
caressingly over the flowing curls, the fair, round face, the satin
dress, and streaming veil, saying as she did so, "I know you are
beautiful, my sister, and if a blind girl's blessing can be of any
avail, you have it most cordially."
Both Mrs. Kennedy and Nellie had urged Maude to be present at the
ceremony, but she shrank from the gaze of strangers, and preferred
remaining in her room, an arrangement quite satisfactory to J.C.,
who did not care to meet her then. It seemed probable that some of
the guests would go up to see her, and knowing this, Mrs. Kennedy
had arranged her curls and dress with unusual care, saying to her as
she kissed her pale cheek, "You are far more beautiful than the
bride."
And Maude was beautiful. Recent suffering and non-exposure to the
open air had imparted a delicacy to her complexion which harmonized
well with the mournful expression of her face and the idea of
touching helplessness which her presence inspired. Her long, fringed
eyelashes rested upon her cheek, and her short, glossy curls were
never more becomingly arranged than now, when stepping backward a
pace or two, Mrs. Kennedy stopped a moment to admire her again ere
going below where her presence was already needed.
The din of voices grew louder in the hall, there was a tread of many
feet upon the stairs, succeeded by a solemn hush, and Maude,
listening to every sound, knew that the man to whom she had been
plighted was giving to another his marriage vow. She had no love for
J.C. De Vere, but as she sat there alone in her desolation, and
thoughts of her sister's happiness rose up in contrast to her own
dark, hopeless lot, who shall blame her if she covered her face with
her hands and wept most bitterly.
Poor Maude! It was dark, dark night within, and dark, dark night without; and her dim eye could
not penetrate the gloom, nor see the star which hung o'er the brow
of the distant hill, where a wayworn man was toiling on. Days and
nights had he traveled, unmindful of fatigue, while his throbbing
heart outstripped the steam-god by many a mile. The letter had
fulfilled its mission, and with one wild burst of joy when he read
that she was free, he started for the North.