The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1884-07-16
4 KI6.


ed Ferdinand Rrasaau English so
ed dfef, faF beEsseeD fffc and death In
On foreign hospital, nursed by the Sister
who devote their lives to works Of mercy
re and who showed no less tenderness t
er those who differed from them in religio
n. than to the more deyout of their Owl
m sect.
But all their kindness could not recon
or cile me to the weary life that lay befor
- - me if recovered They gave no hop
- : that | should not be blind if lived, ant
- - from the aching depths of my sad hear
- this thought had torn all that made lif,
worth the having. A soldier who coul'
le no longer fight for his country; love
" of nature who could never look upor
y her again; one who knew, by his tender
a a ness for all women, how well he might
d some day love one woman can you won
der that all courage died within my
e breast? Thus suicide was a temptation
n could not have resisted, had it been pos
: sible for ME to accomplish it.
It The days glided on sadly and slowly
i The nights, no darker than they, followed
them.
b As in sort of drelry dream, lis
: tened to the groans of the suffering men
4 about me-often the gasping breath of
: the dying-to the raying of feyer's de-
3 lirium-to the murmured prayer beside
the dead-to the slow tramp OF those
who bore away the tenant of some now
! useless pallet to a yet more narrow rest
| ing place.
There were happier sounds at times;
the chat of two c0nyaleGents; the pleas
ant speech of the Sisters; the hymns
they sang at the vesper hour; but my
heart never lightened, my future never
lost its terror. TO live seemed more ter
rible than to die.
One day had seemed more bitter than
any of its predecessors, darker, crueller.
A comrade had breathed his last very
near me. Almost with his latest breath,
he had cried:
All, it is cruel that may never see
my wife and child again
Could have given him my remaining
years-years that they had promised me
of late-how happy | should have been.
did not want life; he did. And /
lived and he died. All, how ungrateful
was / then to a merciful Providence?
A blackness of darkness was upon me.
| could not rest. | could not sleep. /
could not taste the food they urged me
to partake Of even wept in my bitter
ness of SOUL, a soldier.
Then prayed to die. Iprayed silent
ly. God, who knew my misery, forgave
me.
In the midst of that prayer a strange
thing happened to me. | felt form
bend over me. ! inhaled the perfume
-. n. Il
The lips softer than rose-leaves pressed |
kiss upon my closed eyelids, and a tear
dropped upon my forehead.
Inyoluntarily | stretched forth my
hand; it caught woman's taper fingers.
They wrenched themselves from me, but |
left in my clasp ring.
Who is this? | cried. Come back! |
Tell me, who is this?
There was no answer. | heard soft,
retreating step, and nothing more. The
woman who had kissed me, whoever she
might be, was gone.
l slipped the ring on my little finger,
and fell into reyerie. Who could this
have been? Whose lips had touched my
lips? whose hand had / held? Sister
Agatha was large and stout, and elderly.
Sister EsteIle was hard, and thin, and
her kind hands were always as cold as
ice. Then nuns were not given to the
wearing of jewelry.
| questioned Sister Agatha after
awhile, as to who had visited the hospi- Il
tai. Only the mother of Antoine, she
said; but knew that those juicy lips,
that warm, fluttering little hand, were
not those of any mans mother.
1t was a little incident, but it en-
ployed my head for the day. You laugh;
but you must lie wounded, and weak,
and blind, and far from home and kim .
dred, as laid there, to know the value
of woman's kiss and of a woman's
pitying tear. h
For one or two days listened for the {
return of that gentle mystery. For one /
or two nights 1 dreamed of her; Then /
I stopped dreaming. Life dawned anew i
for me. opened my eyes one morning II
and saw ray of blessed sunlight, / I
opened them the next, to see family and
dimly the outline of the long room, the \
cots ranged adown it, and the gliding
forms of the gray-robed Sisters as they I
passed from pillow to pillow. I
/ was no longer blind. should be t
myself again. 1t
1t had not seemed so much to be my 4
self once. Now how glorious! Hope
healed my wounds. Igrew well miracu- {
lously. seemed to me that all this q
dated from that kiss, given to me by {
those unknown lips Ere left the hos q
pital, told the good Sister Agatha OF '
it. IL
She looked at me solemnly, and fell I
to crossing herself q
My child, she said, it was the Madon- I
na. 1t is miracle-a blessed miracle. q
She has healed you. c
But the ring? I said. s
The Madonna gave roses to Saint 3
Catherine. Why not ring to your she 4
said. All, the beautiful miracle!
So the story ran about the hospital. /
knew that had held mortal hand in
mine, and that living human lips had /
touched me, but who would have blight
ed the nuns pretty faith by persistent 3
contradiction Madonna, shouldst thou | {
ever leave thy heaven, 1t might well be '
10 kiss open the sealed eyes Of one whose c
heart was breaking in his blindness. lt
Five years had passed. The war was G
DYer. was in my native land again. I
had almost forgotten my period of sRf- d
fering in the hospital, but / had not j
foreoften that kiss I still wore the q
ring upon my finger, and ! still hoped, ]
sbsnrdIy enough, to know one day to u
whom It had belonged-to know who E
kissed my blind eyes, who shed for me =
that pitying, tender tear. | met pretty i
girls and fine women who might have o
charmed me but for this haunting ii
thoughf, but it was as though the ring I
81 nv finger was one Of betrothal ]
IKas constant to 4 memory vague IS il "
vas beautiful. Ny heart was adamant B
% all of them. p
About this time my brother Henry p
married and brought home his wife, 4 q
rery lovely girl, who won our hearts at J
1nce. She had but one living relative. 81
i sister who had been educated abroad, Id
ma Who was coming to visit her very =
,oon. She was said to be beautiful aud 8
Henry SPOKE 81 her often. II
It would BE 8 lucky thing for ron If 4
g0u could win her heart, be said. She .
s almost an angel
smiled and shook my head. r.
Not that that would be 50 EASILY done, i
nc said. Laura IS strange girl. She {
.efnses ererF 01eF She IS two and 3
.wenty now. and hzs had several: bat i
Emnla tells ne that she HilI never mar i
until she eets 0ver queer fancy 0f
hers You'll keep i p yourself i + Itell )
ron. Ferdinand il
Iplomissd !
Tie girls afe orphans. said Henry. +
ind Laura W eSlaeasad j ennrent Il i
81 a1ae anes neglect tlle - !
nszHed Ih6tt during 1e kole a this &
s21 s4I.ssE A.f@ - Et + E