There was a blind girl who hated
herself just because she was blind. She hated everyone, except her loving
boyfriend. He was always there for her. She said that if she could only see the
world, she would marry her boyfriend.
One day, someone donated a pair
of eyes to her and then she could see everything, including her boyfriend.
Her boyfriend asked her, "now that you can see the world, will you marry
me?" The girl was shocked when she saw that her boyfriend was blind too,
and refused to marry him.
Her boyfriend walked away in
tears, and later wrote a letter to her saying..... "Just take care of my
eyes dear." I’ll always love you forever..
AND THE WOMAN
Her husband was dying, and she was alone with him.
Nothing could exceed the desolation of her surroundings. She and the man who
was going from her were in the third-floor-back of a New York boarding-house. It was summer, and
the other boarders were in the country; all the servants except the cook had
been dismissed, and she, when not working, slept profoundly on the fifth floor.
The landlady also was out of town on a brief holiday.
The window was open to admit the thick untiring air;
no sound rose from the row of long narrow yards, or from the tall deep houses
annexed. The latter deadened the rattle of the streets. At intervals the
distant elevated lumbered protesting along, its grunts and screams muffled by
the hot suspended ocean.
She sat there plunged in the profoundest grief that
can come to the human soul, for in all other agony hope flickers, however
forlornly. She gazed dully at the unconscious breathing form of the man who had
been friend, and companion, and lover, during five years of youth too vigorous
and hopeful to be warped by uneven fortune. It was wasted by disease; the face
was shrunken; the night-garment hung loosely about a body which had never been
disfigured by flesh, but had been muscular with exercise and full-blooded with
health. She was glad that the body was changed; glad that its beauty, too, had
gone some other-where than into the coffin. She had loved his hands as apart
from himself; loved their strong warm magnetism. They lay limp and yellow on
the quilt: she knew that they were already cold, and that moisture was
gathering on them. For a moment something convulsed within her. They had gone
too. She repeated the words twice, and, after them, "forever." And
the while the sweetness of their pressure came back to her.
She leaned suddenly over him. HE was in there still,
somewhere. Where? If he had not ceased to breathe, the Ego, the Soul, the
Personality was still in the sodden clay which had shaped to give it speech.
Why could it not manifest itself to her? Was it still conscious in there,
unable to project itself through the disintegrating matter which was the only
medium its Creator had vouchsafed it? Did it struggle there, seeing her agony,
sharing it, longing for the complete disintegration which should put an end to
its torment? She called his name, she even shook him slightly, mad to tear the
body apart and find her mate, yet even in that tortured moment realizing that
violence would hasten his going.
The dying man took no notice of her, and she opened
his gown and put her cheek to his heart, calling him again. There had never
been more perfect union; how could the bond still be so strong if he were not
at the other end of it? He was there, her other part; until dead he must be
living. There was no intermediate state. Why should he be as entombed and not responding
as if the screws were in the lid? But the faintly beating heart did not quicken
beneath her lips. She extended her arms suddenly, describing eccentric lines,
above, about him, rapidly opening and closing her hands as if to clutch some
escaping object; then sprang to her feet, and went to the window. She feared
insanity. She had asked to be left alone with her dying husband, and she did
not wish to lose her reason and shriek a crowd of people about her.
The green plots in the yards were not apparent, she
noticed. Something heavy, like a pall, rested upon them. Then she understood
that the day was over and that night was coming.
She returned swiftly to the bedside, wondering if she
had remained away hours or seconds, and if he were dead. His face was still
discernible, and Death had not relaxed it. She laid her own against it, then
withdrew it with shuddering flesh, her teeth smiting each other as if an icy
wind had passed.
She let herself fall back in the chair, clasping her
hands against her heart, watching with expanding eyes the white sculptured face
which, in the glittering dark, was becoming less defined of outline. Did she
light the gas it would draw mosquitoes, and she could not shut from him the little
air he must be mechanically grateful for. And she did not want to see the
opening eye—the falling jaw.
Her vision became so fixed that at length she saw
nothing, and closed her eyes and waited for the moisture to rise and relieve
the strain. When she opened them his face had disappeared; the humid waves
above the house-tops put out even the light of the stars, and night was come.
Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he
still breathed. She made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself back in a quiver
of agony—they were not the lips she had known, and she would have nothing less.
His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining
position she could not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his death.
She extended her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his heart. Not only must
she feel his going, but, so strong had been the comradeship between them, it
was a matter of loving honor to stand by him to the last.
She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her
hand hard against the ebbing heart of the unseen, and awaited Death. Suddenly
an odd fancy possessed her. Where was Death? Why was he tarrying? Who was
detaining him? From what quarter would he come? He was taking his leisure,
drawing near with footsteps as measured as those of men keeping time to a
funeral march. By a wayward deflection she thought of the slow music that was
always turned on in the theatre when the heroine was about to appear, or
something eventful to happen. She had always thought that sort of thing
ridiculous and inartistic. So had He.
She drew her brows together angrily, wondering at her
levity, and pressed her relaxed palm against the heart it kept guard over. For
a moment the sweat stood on her face; then the pent-up breath burst from her
lungs. He still lived.
Once more the fancy wan toned above the stunned heart.
Death—where was he? What a curious experience: to be sitting alone in a big
house—she knew that the cook had stolen out—waiting for Death to come and
snatch her husband from her. No; he would not snatch, he would steal upon his
prey as noiselessly as the approach of Sin to Innocence—an invisible, unfair,
sneaking enemy, with whom no man's strength could grapple. If he would only
come like a man, and take his chances like a man! Women had been known to reach
the hearts of giants with the dagger's point. But he would creep upon her.
She gave an exclamation of horror. Something was
creeping over the window-sill. Her limbs palsied, but she struggled to her feet
and looked back, her eyes dragged about against her own volition. Two small
green stars glared menacingly at her just above the sill; then the cat
possessing them leaped downward, and the stars disappeared.
She realized that she was horribly frightened.
"Is it possible?" she thought. "Am I afraid of Death, and of
Death that has not yet come? I have always been rather a brave woman; He used
to call me heroic; but then with him it was impossible to fear anything. And I
begged them to leave me alone with him as the last of earthly boons. Oh,
But she was still quaking as she resumed her seat, and
laid her hand again on his heart. She wished that she had asked Mary to sit
outside the door; there was no bell in the room. To call would be worse than
desecrating the house of God, and she would not leave him for one moment. To
return and find him dead—gone alone!
Her knees smote each other. It was idle to deny it;
she was in a state of unreasoning terror. Her eyes rolled apprehensively about;
she wondered if she should see it when It came; wondered how far off It was
now. Not very far; the heart was barely pulsing. She had heard of the power of
the corpse to drive brave men to frenzy, and had wondered, having no morbid
horror of the dead. But this! To wait—and wait—and wait—perhaps for hours—past
the midnight—on to the small hours—while that awful, determined, leisurely
Something stole nearer and nearer.
She bent to him who had been her protector with a
spasm of anger. Where was the indomitable spirit that had held her all these
years with such strong and loving clasp? How could he leave her? How could he
desert her? Her head fell back and moved restlessly against the cushion;
moaning with the agony of loss, she recalled him as he had been. Then fear once
more took possession of her, and she sat erect, rigid, breathless, awaiting the
approach of Death.
Suddenly, far down in the house, on the first floor,
her strained hearing took note of a sound—a wary, muffled sound, as if some one
were creeping up the stair, fearful of being heard. Slowly! It seemed to count a
hundred between the laying down of each foot. She gave a hysterical gasp. Where
was the slow music?
Her face, her body, was wet—as if a wave of
death-sweat had broken over them. There was a stiff feeling at the roots of her
hair; she wondered if it were really standing erect. But she could not raise
her hand to ascertain. Possibly it was only the coloring matter freezing and
bleaching. Her muscles were flabby, her nerves twitched helplessly.
She knew that it was Death who was coming to her
through the silent deserted house; knew that it was the sensitive ear of her
intelligence that heard him, not the dull, coarse-grained ear of the body.
He toiled up the stair painfully, as if he were old
and tired with much work. But how could he afford to loiter, with all the work
he had to do? Every minute, every second, he must be in demand to hook his
cold, hard finger about a soul struggling to escape from its putrefying
tenement. But probably he had his emissaries, his minions: for only those
worthy of the honor did he come in person.
He reached the first landing and crept like a cat down
the hall to the next stair, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as the
footfalls were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering; slow, they never
Mechanically she pressed her jerking hand closer
against the heart; its beats were almost done. They would finish, she
calculated, just as those footfalls paused beside the bed.
She was no longer a human being; she was an
Intelligence and an EAR. Not a sound came from without, even the Elevated
appeared to be temporarily off duty; but inside the big quiet house that
footfall was waxing louder, louder, until iron feet crashed on iron stairs and
She had counted the steps—one—two—three—irritated
beyond endurance at the long deliberate pauses between. As they climbed and
clanged with slow precision she continued to count, audibly and with equal
precision, noting their hollow reverberation. How many steps had the stair? She
wished she knew. No need! The colossal trampling announced the lessening
distance in an increasing volume of sound not to be misunderstood. It turned
the curve; it reached the landing; it advanced—slowly—down the hall; it paused
before her door. Then knuckles of iron shook the frail panels. Her nerveless
tongue gave no invitation. The knocking became more imperious; the very walls
vibrated. The handle turned, swiftly and firmly. With a wild instinctive
movement she flung herself into the arms of her husband.
* * * * *
When Mary opened the door and entered the room she
found a dead woman lying across a dead man.
DEATH AND THE WOMAN