Claire: The Blind Love of a Blind Hero, by a Blind Author. Leslie Burton Blades

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СКАЧАТЬ that made her look at him quickly.

      "Modeling?" she asked.

      He nodded slowly.

      "What sort of modeling?" she insisted.

      "Oh, probably poor, for the most part. I did some work that was beginning to make its way, though."

      "You mean sculpture?"

      He nodded again.

      She looked at him earnestly. Here was a new revelation. She had wondered at this man's apparent keen sense of form, and his imaginative power when he spoke of color or mentioned line, and she had been sure from his occasional word that he was a wide student of literature.

      "What did you do at home?" she asked abruptly.

      "Oh, played with living," he said indifferently.

      She felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet she remembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him.

      "See here, Lawrence," she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with each other, are we?"

      "Why not?" he answered quietly. "I carry you toward your old life, you guide me toward mine. It's a fair business, with equal investment. I'm not complaining."

      She was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of days at home with his work. As he lay there, she studied his hands. They were practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, the fingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength. She knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a piece of wood to heat water in, she had seen that. So they were sculptor's hands. What a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! She fell to wondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merely fancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by his blindness. She studied his face in repose. Then her mind came back to his hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin, and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had not carried her. She did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him made her restless. Suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her. The more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last she ventured, "Are you asleep?"

      "No, dreaming."

      "Lawrence."

      "What is it?" He sat up and waited.

      "What do you think of me?" She was surprised to find herself waiting eagerly for his answer.

      He laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh.

      "Claire," he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. You see, I haven't thought much about you. However, if you like, I'll study you for a week and report."

      Hot anger surged up in her. "You needn't bother," she said dryly. "Our lives are so utterly different in every phase that nothing could be gained."

      He lay back carelessly. "So I had decided," he replied, and lapsed into silence again.

      She could have cried with vexation. For the first time in her life Claire was utterly humiliated, and there grew within her an aggressive dislike for this man, a determination to make him feel her power and to punish him for his indifference. She did not want him to love her, by any means, but he had never even shown her the courteous deference, the admiration or regard that she was accustomed to receive from men. Her mind went back over the past week, and she grew more humiliated, more angry. Tears of vexation came to her eyes, but she brushed them away fiercely.

      "Shall we take the remains of our meat and move on toward the habitats of men?" said Lawrence, sitting up.

      She controlled herself to answer, "As you please."

      He stooped to lift her into his arms. She flushed warm as his hands slipped under her, and he straightened up. She hesitated, and wanted not to do it, but realized the necessity, and put her arm around his neck.

      "I shall be grateful when I can walk," was her comment.

      "It will make our progress more rapid," he agreed, and she was angry again. She knew that he thought only in terms of the most efficient means of getting ahead. A longing possessed her to make him realize that he was physically distasteful to her.

      "We are so vastly different," she said, "it is disagreeable to be carried this way."

      Lawrence flushed, and she was pleased. At least he understood now.

      "Of course," he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but I suppose one must make the best of a bad bargain."

      There was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "I think I realize, Claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for a woman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are those of the society glow-worm."

      Claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "Surely at home you had your own social group," she said pleasantly.

      "Of a sort, yes. We were all workers, not going in much for form, entertainment, and that sort of thing. We generally sat in the gallery at the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. None of us were rolling in wealth. We worked for the love of it, and looked to the future for pay."

      "I see." She was thinking fast. "You were struggling young artists." Her voice was sugar-coated.

      "We were struggling young artizans," he answered, seemingly indifferent to her irony.

      As he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carry on the conversation. The stops for rest were gradually lengthening out, and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. He was quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff so hard between grades. Claire felt the easier swing of his body when he walked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more graceful in movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendid specimen of manhood. She now admitted all these things to herself, but they only added to her feeling against him. She wondered if he had been as indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased that she wondered.

      Suddenly Lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. Claire looked up at him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown.

      "What is it?" she asked anxiously.

      "You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "I have walked into three boulders without your knowing it."

      "I am sorry," she said earnestly. "It was silly of me."

      He laughed and sat down. "You see, as eyes you can't afford to think. At other times perhaps I, too, should wander into abstractions, but at present it won't work."

      "I know it," she admitted contritely. "I won't repeat it."

      "What," he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?"

      She blushed, and her eyes darkened. She wondered whether she should tell the truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "I was asking myself what my husband was probably doing and thinking."

      "Poor fellow!" Lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "I can imagine what it must be to him, supposing you lost at sea. Yes, he must be СКАЧАТЬ