"LENA MAY;
OR, DARKNESS AND LIGHT.
SUCH a gloomy room as it was! You may sometimes have seen one just like it. The walls were dingy, the windows small, the furniture scanty and shabby. In one corner was a small bed, and on it a boy of about nine years; so pallid, so emaciated, that, as he lay there with his long lashes sweeping his pale cheek, you could scarce tell if he were living. At the foot of the bed sat a lady, whose locks sorrow, not time, had silvered. Her hands were clasped hopelessly in her lap, and her lips moved as if in silent prayer.
"Good morning, Mrs. May," said the doctor, as he laid aside his gold-headed cane, very pompously. "I have but a minute to spare. General Clay has another attack of the gout, and can't get along without me. How's the boy?" and he glanced carelessly at the bed.
"He seems more than usually feeble," said the mother, dejectedly, as the doctor examined his pulse.
"Well, all he wants is something strengthening, in the way of
nourishment, to set him on his feet. Wine and
jellies, Mrs. May,—that 's the thing for him,—that will do it. Good morning, ma'am."
"Wine and jellies!" said the poor widow; and the tears started to her eyes, for she remembered sunnier days, when those now unattainable luxuries were sent away untasted from her well-furnished table, rejected by a capricious appetite; and she rose and laid her hand lovingly on the little sufferer's head, and prisoned the warm tears 'neath her closed eyelids.
Little Charley was blind. He had never seen the face that was bending over him; but he knew, by the tone of her voice, whether she was glad or grieving; and there was a heart-quiver in it now, as she said, "Dear, patient boy," that made his little heart beat faster; and he pressed his pale lips to her hand, as if he would convey all he felt in that kiss; for love and sorrow had taught Charley a lesson—many of his seniors were more slow to learn—to endure silently, rather than add to the sorrow of a heart so tried and grief-stricken. And so, through these tedious days, and long, wearisome nights, the little sufferer uttered no word of complaint, though the outer and inner world was all darkness to him.
Gently, noiselessly a young, fair girl glided into the room. She
passed to the bedside; then, stooping so low
that her raven ringlets floated on the pillow, she lightly pressed her dewy lips to the blind boy's forehead.
"That's your kiss, Lena," said he, tenderly. "I 'm so glad you have come!" and he threw his wasted arms about her neck. "Put your face down here,—close, Lena, close. The doctor has been here, and mamma thought me sleeping; but I heard still. He said I must have wine and jellies to make me well, and dear mamma so poor, too! O, you should have heard her sigh so heavily! And, Lena, though I cannot see, I was sure her eyes were brimming, for her voice had tears in it. Now, Lena, I want you to tell her not to grieve, because Charley is going to heaven. I dreamed about it last night, Lena. I was n't a blind boy any longer; and I saw such glorious things."
"Don't, don't, Charley," said the young girl, sobbing. "Take your arms from my neck. You shall live, Charley,—you shall have everything you need. Let me go, now, there's a darling;" and she tied on her little bonnet, and passed through the dark, narrow court, and gained the street.
"Wine and jellies!"—yes, Charley must have them; but how? Her
little purse was quite empty, and the doctor's bill was a perfect
night-mare to think of. O, how many tables were loaded with the
luxuries that were strength, health, life, to poor Charley!—and she
walked on despairingly. The bright blue sky seemed to mock
her; the well-clad forms and happy faces to taunt her. O, throbbed there on the wide earth one heart of pity? Poor Lena!—excitement lent a deeper glow to her cheek, and a brighter lustre to her eye; and the cold wind blew her long tresses wildly about. One could scarce see a lovelier face than Lena's then,—so full of love, so full of sorrow.
At least so thought Ernest Clay; for he stopped and looked, and passed, and looked again. It was the embodiment of all his artist dreams. "I must sketch it," said he to himself. "She is poor,—that is evident from her dress; that she is pure and innocent, one may see in the holy expression of her face." And low and musical was the voice which expressed his request to Lena. His tone was respectful; but his ardent look embarrassed her, and she veiled her bright eyes with their long lashes, without replying.
"If your time is precious, you shall be well paid;—it will not take you long. Will money be any object to you?"
"O, yes, yes!" said Lena, despair giving her courage. "O, sir, I have a brother, sick, dying for necessaries beyond our reach! Give me some wine to keep him from sinking—now, if you please, sir!"—and she blushed at her own earnestness,—"then I will come to you to-morrow. My name is Lena May."
"Dear, dear mother!—wine for Charley, and more when this is gone."
"Lena!" said her mother, alarmed at her wild, excited manner.
"An artist, mother, gave me this, if I would let him make a sketch of me. Dear Charley!"—and she held the tempting luxury to his fever-parched lip,—"drink, Charley. Now you 'll be strong and well, and all for this foolish face;" and she laughed hysterically; then her hands fell at her side, her head drooped; the excitement was too much for her,—she had fainted.
"There, that will do; thank you. Now turn your head a trifle to the left, so;" and the young artist's eye brightened as his hand moved over the canvas. In truth it were hard to find a lovelier model. That full, dark eye and Grecian profile; that wealth of raven hair, those dimpled shoulders. Yes, Lena was the realization of all his artist dreams;—and then, she was so pure, so innocent. Practised flatterer as he was, professionally, praise seemed out of place now,—it died upon his lip. He had transferred many a lovely face to canvas, but never one so holy in its expression.
And little Charley, day by day, grew stronger; and rare flowers
lay upon his bed; and he inhaled their fra-
grance, and passed his slender fingers over them caressingly, as if their beauty could be conveyed by the touch. And then he would listen for Lena's light footstep, and ask her, on her return, a thousand questions about the picture, and sigh as he said, "I can never know, dear sister, if it is like you;" and then he would say, "You will not love this artist better than me, Lena?" and then Lena would blush, and say, "No, you foolish boy!"
"Well, Lena," said Ernest, "your picture will be finished to-day. I suppose you are quite glad it is over with?"
"Charley misses me so much!" was love's quick evasion.
"There are still many comforts you would get for Charley, were you able, Lena?"
"O, yes, yes!" said the young girl, eagerly.
"And your mother, she is too delicate to toil so unremittingly?"
"Yes," said Lena, dejectedly.
"Dear, good, lovely Lena! they shall both have such a happy home, only say you will be mine."
Dear reader, you should have peeped into that artist's home. You
should have seen the proud, happy husband. You should have seen with
what a sweet grace the little
child-wife performed her duty as its mistress. You should have seen Charley with his birds and his flowers, and heard his merry laugh, as he said to his mother, that "if he was blind, he always saw that Ernest would steal away our Lena."