The Argosy — page 305: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

282 A Marriage in the Dark. As year after year passed away and brought no change in my con- dition, I grew by degrees resigned and even, in a half-hearted way, contented with my lot. Occasionally I had a relapse. I remember on my twenty-first birthday I sat before my useless looking-glass twisting and untwisting the long coils of my hair, and wondering, for the first time in my life, what I was like. It may seem strange that I had never speculated upon this before, but it was not really so. Good-looks and bad- looks had in fact no significance forme. The voice only was of im- portance ; by that I judged character and formed my likings and antipathies. But on this particular day I felt an overwhelming desire to know in what guise I presented myself to the outer world. I was familiar with the shape of my face, as far as I could judge of it from touch. My nose seemed straight, my mouth small, my hair soft and abun- dant. But these things conveyed little tangible impression to my mind. I longed desperately to see myself, if only for an instant, to lift for a brief second the everlasting veil of night which hung over me. Placing my elbows on the table, I strained my eyes at the glass. I exerted all the force of my will. Was I successful? My nerves throbbed, and across my eyes passed a faint, ghastly glimmer. It grew brighter, brighter than I had ever seen it before, and then faded slowly away into blackness. It was a sad disappointment. I laid my head down on the table and flooded those useless, sightless orbs of mine with tears. My mother came in and found me weeping. ‘What, crying, Conny?” she said with surprise, for I was not often taken so; ‘and on your birthday, too! My dear child, what is the matter ?” ) She sat down beside me and put her arms round me in her motherly, comforting way. ‘Tt is only that I am foolish, mother, and can’t resign myself to the inevitable. You will laugh when I tell you that I actually tried to see myself—yes, to see myself in the glass. Presumption, wasn’t it? And I cried because I couldn't.” ‘Poor child! Poor Conny,” said my mother, kissing me. ‘It is very, very sad for you, but I thought you had got used to it, dear, after all these years.” ‘‘' There are some things one can’t get used to, mother. But never mind that now. I want to hear what I am like. Am I beautiful, pretty, simply passable, or downright ugly? You never will tell me; but I’m twenty-one to-day, and I think it’s quite time I knew.” ‘My child, to me you will always be beautiful.” ‘Do you know, mother, that is a most unsatisfactory answer. It sounds very pretty, but it tells me just nothing.” “Vou will find out all about it some day, my dear.” CONMNICLOOKS. CcOn)