Will you come and speak to me in my
room--for five minutes only?"
I hesitated. Any other man in my place, would, I think, have done the
same; receiving such an invitation as this from a stranger, whose
pitiable infirmity seemed to place him beyond the pale of social
intercourse.
He must have guessed what was passing in my mind; he tried me again in
words which might have proved persuasive, had they been uttered in the
customary variety of tone.
"I can't help being a stranger to you; I can't help being deaf. You're a
young man. You look more merciful and more patient than young men in
general. Won't you hear what I have to say? Won't you tell me what I want
to know?"
How were we to communicate? Did he by any chance suppose that I had
learnt the finger alphabet? I touched my fingers and shook my head, as a
means of dissipating his delusion, if it existed.
He instantly understood me.
"Even if you knew the finger alphabet," he said, "it would be of no use.
I have been too miserable to learn it--my deafness only came on me a
little more than a year since. Pardon me if I am obliged to give you
trouble--I ask persons who pity me to write their answers when I speak to
them. Come to my room, and you will find what you want--a candle to write
by."
Was his will, as compared with mine, the stronger will of the two? And
was it helped (insensibly to myself) by his advantages of personal
appearance? I can only confess that his apology presented a picture of
misery to my mind, which shook my resolution to refuse him.
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