Читать книгу Called Back - Martin Edwards, Hugh Conway - Страница 6

I HAVE a reason for writing this tale, or it would not become public property.

Once in a moment of confidence, I made a friend acquainted with some curious circumstances connected with one period of my life. I believe I asked him to hold his tongue about them—he says not. Anyway, he told another friend, with embellishments, I suspect; this friend told another, and so on and on. What the tale grew to at last I shall probably never learn; but since I was weak enough to trust my private affairs to another I have been looked upon by my neighbours as a man with a history—one who has a romance hidden away beneath an outwardly prosaic life.

For myself I should not trouble about this. I should laugh at the garbled versions of my story set floating about by my own indiscretion. It would matter little to me that one good friend has an idea that I was once a Communist and a member of the inner circle of a secret society—that another has heard that I have been tried on a capital charge—that another knows I was at one time a Roman Catholic, on whose behalf a special miracle was performed. If I were alone in the world and young, I dare say I should take no steps to still these idle rumours. Indeed, very young men feel flattered by being made objects of curiosity and speculation.

But I am not very young, nor am I alone. There is one who is dearer to me than life itself. One from whose heart, I am glad to say, every shadow left by the past is rapidly fading—one who only wishes to live her true sweet life without mystery or concealment—wishes to be thought neither better nor worse than she really is. It is she who shrinks from the strange and absurd reports which are flying about as to our antecedents she who is vexed by those leading questions sometimes asked by inquisitive friends; and it is for her sake that I look up old journals, call back old memories of joy and grief, and tell everyone, who cares to read, all he can possibly wish to know, and, it may be, more than he has a right to know, of our lives. This done, my lips are sealed forever on the subject. My tale is here—let the inquisitive take his answer from it, not from me.

Perhaps, after all, I write this for my own sake as well. I also hate mysteries. One mystery which I have never been able to determine may have given me a dislike to everything which will not admit of an easy explanation.

To begin, I must go back more years than I care to enumerate; although I could, if necessary, fix the day and the year. I was young, just past twenty-five. I was rich, having when I came of age succeeded to an income of about two thousand a year; an income which, being drawn from the funds, I was able to enjoy without responsibility or anxiety as to its stability and endurance. Although since my twenty-first birthday I had been my own master, I had no extravagant follies to weigh me down, no debts to hamper me. I was without bodily ache or pain; yet I turned again and again on my pillow and said that my life for the future was a curse to me.

Had Death just robbed me of one who was dear to me? No; the only ones I had ever loved, my father and mother, had died years ago. Were my ravings those peculiar to an unhappy lover? No; my eyes had not yet looked with passion into a woman’s eyes—and now would never do so. Neither Death nor Love made my lot seem the most miserable in the world.

I was young, rich, free as the wind to follow my own devices. I could leave England tomorrow and visit the most beautiful places on the earth: those places I had longed and determined to see. Now, I knew I should never see them, and I groaned in anguish at the thought.

My limbs were strong. I could bear fatigue and exposure. I could hold my own with the best walkers and the swiftest runners. The chase, the sport, the trial of endurance had never been too long or too arduous for me—I passed my left hand over my right arm and felt the muscles firm as of old. Yet I was as helpless as Samson in his captivity.

For, even as Samson, I was blind!

Blind! Who but the victim can even faintly comprehend the significance of that word? Who can read this and gauge the depth of my anguish as I turned and turned on my pillow and thought of the fifty years of darkness which might be mine—a thought which made me wish that when I fell asleep it might be to wake no more?

Blind! After hovering around me for years the demon of darkness had at last laid his hand upon me. After letting me, for a while, almost cheat myself into security, he had swept down upon me, folded me in his sable wings and blighted my life. Fair forms, sweet sights, bright colours, gay scenes mine no more! He claimed them all, leaving darkness, darkness, ever darkness! Far better to die, and, it may be, wake in a new world of light—‘Better,’ I cried in my despair, ‘better even the dull red glare of Hades than the darkness of the world!’

This last gloomy thought of mine shows the state of mind to which I was reduced.

The truth is that, in spite of hope held out to me, I had resolved to be hopeless. For years I had felt that my foe was lying in wait for me. Often when gazing on some beautiful object, some fair scene, the right to enjoy which made one fully appreciate the gift of sight, a whisper seemed to reach my ear—‘Some day I will strike again, then it will be all over.’ I tried to laugh at my fears, but could never quite get rid of the presentiment of evil. My enemy had struck once—why not again?

Well I can remember his first appearance—his first attack. I remember a light-hearted schoolboy so engrossed in sport and study that he scarcely noticed how strangely dim the sight of one eye was getting, or the curious change which was taking place in its appearance. I remember the boy’s father taking him to London, to a large dull-looking house in a quiet dull street. I remember our waiting in a room in which were several other people; most of whom had shades or bandages over their eyes. Such a doleful gathering it was that I felt much relieved when we were conducted to another room in which sat a kind, pleasant-spoken man, called by my father Mr Jay. This eminent man, after applying something which I know now was belladonna to my eyes, and which had the effect for a short time of wonderfully improving my sight, peered into my eyes by the aid of strong lenses and mirrors—I remember at the time wishing some of those lenses were mine—what splendid burning glasses they would make! Then he placed me with my back to the window and held a lighted candle before my face. All these proceedings seemed so funny that I was half inclined to laugh. My father’s grave, anxious face alone restrained me from so doing. As soon as Mr Jay had finished his researches he turned to my father—

‘Hold the candle as I held it. Let it shine into the right eye first. Now, Mr Vaughan, what do you see? How many candles, I mean?’

‘Three—the one in the centre small and bright, but upside down.’

‘Yes; now try the other eye. How many there?’

My father looked long and carefully.

‘I can only see one,’ he said, ‘the large one.’

‘This is called the catoptric test, an old-fashioned but infallible test, now almost superseded. The boy is suffering from lenticular cataract.’

This terribly sounding name took away all my wish to laugh. I glanced at my father and was surprised to notice his face wearing an expression of relief.

‘That may be cured by an operation,’ he said.

‘Certainly; but in my judgment it is not well to meddle, so long as the other eye remains unaffected.’

‘Is there danger?’

‘There is always danger of the disease appearing in the sound eye; but, of course, it may not happen. Come to me at the first sign of such a thing. Good morning.’

The great specialist bowed us out, and I returned to my school life, troubling little about the matter, as it caused me no pain, and, although in less than a twelve-month the sight of one eye was completely obscured, I could see well enough for every purpose with the remaining one.

But I remembered every word of that diagnosis, although it was years before I recognized the importance of it. It was only when compelled by an accident to wear for some days a bandage over my sound eye that I realized the danger in which I stood, and from that moment felt that a merciless foe was ever waiting his time.

And now the time had come. In the first flush of my manhood, with all that one could wish for at my command, the foe had struck again.

He came upon me swiftly—far more swiftly than is his custom in such cases; yet it was long before I would believe the worst—long before I would confess to myself that my failing sight and the increasing fogginess of everything I looked at were due to more than a temporary weakness. I was hundreds of miles from home, in a country where travelling is slow. A friend being with me, I had no wish to make myself a nuisance by cutting our expedition short. So I said nothing for weeks, although at the end of each week my heart sank at the fresh and fearful advances made by the foe. At last, being unable to bear it, or in fact conceal it longer, I made known my condition to my comrade. We turned our faces homeward, and by the time London was reached and the long journey at an end, everything to me was blurred, dim, and obscured. I could just see, that was all!

I flew to the eminent oculist’s. He was out of town. Had been ill, even at the point of death. He would not be back for two months, nor would he see any patient until his health was quite restored.

I had pinned my faith upon this man. No doubt there were as skilful oculists in London, Paris, or other capitals; but it was my fancy that, if I were to be saved, I could only be saved by Mr Jay. Dying men are allowed their whims: even the felon about to be hanged can choose his own breakfast, so I had an undoubted right to choose my own surgeon. I resolved to wait in darkness until Mr Jay returned to his duties. I was foolish. I had better have trusted myself in other clever hands. Before a month was over I had lost all hope, and at the end of six weeks I was almost distracted. Blind, blind, blind! I should be blind forever! So entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have the operation performed at all. Why fly against fate? For the rest of my life I was doomed to darkness. The subtlest skill, the most delicate hand, the most modern appliances would never restore the light I have lost. For me the world was at an end.

Now that you know the cause, can you not imagine me, after weeks of darkness, broken in spirit, and, as I lay sleepless that night, almost wishing that the alternative refused by Job—to curse God and die—were mine? If you are unable to realize my condition, read the above to anyone who has lost his sight. He will tell you what his feelings were when the calamity first came upon him. He will understand the depths of I was not left entirely alone in my trouble. Like Job, I had comforters: but, unlike Eliphaz and Company, they were good-hearted fellows who spoke with cheerful conviction as to the certainty of my recovery. I was not so grateful for these visits as I should have been. I hated the thought of anyone seeing me in my helpless condition. Day by day my frame of mind grew more and more desponding and morbid.

My best friend of all was a humble one: Priscilla Drew, an old and trusted servant of my mother’s. She had known me from earliest childhood. When I returned to England I could not bear the thought of trusting my helpless self entirely to a stranger’s care, so I wrote to her and begged her to come to me. I could at least groan and lament before her without feeling shame. She came, wept over me for a while, and then, like a sensible woman, bestirred herself to do all she could to mitigate the hardships of my lot. She found comfortable lodgings, installed her troublesome charge therein, and day and night was ever at his beck and call. Even now, as I lay awake and tossing in mental anguish, she was sleeping on an extemporized bed just outside the folding doors, which opened from my bedroom to the sitting-room.

It was a stifling night in August. The sluggish air which crept in through the open window made little perceptible difference in the temperature of my room. Everything seemed still, hot, and dark. The only sound I could hear was the regular breathing of the sleeper behind the door, which she had left an inch or two ajar in order that she might catch my faintest call. I had gone early to bed. What had I to wait up for now? It was sleep and sleep alone which brought forgetfulness, but tonight sleep refused to come to me. I struck my repeater. I had bought one in order that I might at least know the time. The little bell told me it was just past one o’clock. Craving for sleep I sighed and sank back upon my pillow.

Presently a sudden fierce longing to be out of doors came over me. It was night—very few people would be about. There was a broad pavement in front of the row of houses in one of which I lodged. Up and down this I might walk in perfect safety. Even if I only sat on the doorstep it would be better than lying in this close hot room, tossing from side to side unable to sleep.

The desire took such full possession of me that I was on the point of calling old Priscilla and making her aware of it; but knowing she was sleeping soundly, I hesitated. I had been unusually restless, cross, and exacting during the day, and my old nurse—heaven reward her!—was serving me for love, not for money. Why should I disturb her? Let me begin to learn to help myself like others in my wretched plight. I had already acquired this much, to dress without assistance. If I could now do this and leave the room unheard, I could, I felt sure, grope my way to the front door, let myself out, and, whenever I chose, return by the aid of the latchkey. The thought of even a temporary independence was attractive, and my spirits rose as I resolved to make the attempt.

I crept softly from my bed and slowly, but easily dressed myself, hearing all the while the sleeper’s regular breathing. Then, cautious as a thief, I stole to the door which led from my bedroom to the landing. I opened it without noise and stood on the thick carpet outside, smiling as I thought of the sleeper’s dismay if she awoke and discovered my absence. I closed the door, then, guiding myself by the balustrade, passed lightly down the stairs and reached the street door without accident.

There were other lodgers in the house, among them young men who came in at all hours, so, the door being always left on the latch, I had no bolts to contend with. In a moment I was on the doorstep, with the door behind me closed.

I stood for a short time irresolute, almost trembling at my temerity. This was the first time I had ventured beyond the house without a guiding hand to trust to. Yet I knew there was nothing to fear. The street—a quiet one—was deserted. The pavement was broad, I could walk up and down without let or hindrance, guiding myself, after the manner of other blind persons, by tapping my stick against the curbstone or the railings Still I must take a few precautions to enable me to ascertain my latitude and longitude at will.

I came down the four steps which led from the front door, turned myself to the right, and, by aid of the line of railings, set my face toward the end of the street. Then I began to walk and to count my steps, sixty-two of which brought my right foot on to a road, which told me I had reached my limit. I turned, counted back the sixty-two paces, and then sixty-five more in the same direction before I found myself again off the pavement. My calculations were verified by my knowing that my house was very nearly in the centre of the row. I was now quite at my ease; I had determined the length of my tether; I could walk up and down the deserted street, yet, at any time I wished to do so, could, by counting from either end, arrest my steps in front of my abode.

So, mightily proud of my success, for a while I went up and down—up and down. I heard one or two cabs pass me, and also one or two persons afoot. As these latter seemed to pay no attention to me, I felt glad to think that my appearance and gait were not such as to attract notice. Most men like to conceal their infirmities.

This night excursion did me a great deal of good. Perhaps it was finding that I was not altogether so helpless and dependent that changed in a few minutes my whole frame of mind. The mental rebound took place. I went from despondency to hope—extravagant hope—even to certainty. Like a revelation it came to me that my malady was curable; that, in spite of my presentiment, what friends had been assuring me would prove to be the truth. So elated I grew that I threw my head back and walked with a firm quick step, almost forgetting that I was sightless. I began to think of many things, and my thoughts were happier ones than I had known for months. I gave up counting my paces, I walked on and on, planning what I should do; where I should go when my darkness was removed. I do not know whether I may have at times guided myself by the wall or pavement edge; but if so I did it mechanically and instinctively, without noticing the action or remembering it afterward.

I cannot say whether it may be possible for a blind man, who can divest himself of the fear of encountering unseen obstacles, to walk as straightly and accurately as one who can see. I only know that, in my preoccupied and elevated state of mind, I must have done so. Intoxicated and carried away by the return of hope, I may have walked as a somnambulist or as one in a trance. Anyway, forgetful of all save my brighter thoughts, I went on and on, heedless of the missing sense, until coming full against a person walking in the opposite direction recalled me from my visions and brought me back to my misery. I felt the man I had encountered shake himself free; I heard him mutter ‘stupid fool!’ and go swiftly on his way, leaving me motionless on the spot where the collision had occurred, wondering where I was and what I should do.

It was no use attempting to find my way back unaided. Not having brought my repeater with me I could not even say how long I had been walking. It might have been ten minutes, it might have been an hour since I gave up counting my steps. Judging by the number of things I had thought of since that rapturous exaltation of mind commenced it seemed more likely to be the latter. Now that I had come back to the earth I must be content to remain on this particular spot of it until I heard the step of a policeman or someone else who might happen to be abroad at this unusual hour—unusual, at least in this quiet part of London. I leaned my back against the wall and waited patiently.

I soon heard an approaching step; but such a staggering, uncertain, lurching kind of step, that from the sound of the feet alone I was able to determine the condition of their owner, and was obliged to decide that he was not the man I wanted. I must let him pass and wait for another. But the feet staggered up to me and stopped near me, whilst a voice, jolly, but like the feet unsteady, cried—

‘‘’Nother feller worsh than me! Can’t get on at all—eh, old chap? Comfort t’ think someone’s head ’ll ache worsh than mine tomorrow!’

‘Can you tell me the way to Walpole Street?’ I asked, standing erect to show him I was sober.

‘Walpole Street—course I can—closhe by—third to left, I think.’

‘If you are going that way would you lead me to the corner of it. Unhappily I am blind and have lost my way.’

‘Blind, poor beggar—not screwed then. Guess I’m in nice state to lead anyone. Blind leading blind—both tumble into ditch. I shay, though,’ he added with drunken gravity, ‘make a bargain—I lend you eyes, you lend me legsh. Good idea Come ’long.’

He took my arm and we went yawing up the street. Presently he stopped.

‘Walpole Street,’ he hiccupped. ‘Shall I take you to your house?’

‘No, thank you. Please put my hand on the railing of the corner house. I shall be all right then.’

‘Wish I were all right. Wish I could borrow your legs to take me home,’ said my bibulous conductor. ‘Good night—Blesh you.’

I heard him tack away, then turned to complete my journey.

I was not quite certain as to which end of Walpole Street I was starting from; that mattered little. Either sixty-two or sixty-five paces would leave me in front of my door. I counted sixty-two, and then felt for the entrance between the railings; not finding it, I went on a step or two until I came to it. I was glad to have reached home without accident, and, to tell the truth, was beginning to feel a little ashamed of my escapade. I hoped that Priscilla had not discovered my absence and alarmed the house, and I trusted I should be able to regain my room as quietly as I had quitted it. With all my elaborate calculations, I was not quite sure that I had hit upon the right house; but if they were incorrect I could only be a door or two away from it, and the key in my hand would be a certain test. I went up the doorsteps—was it four or five I had counted as I came out? I fumbled for the keyhole and inserted the latchkey. It turned easily, and the door opened. I had not made a mistake. I felt an inward glow of satisfaction at having hit upon the house at the first attempt. ‘It must have been a blind man who first discovered that Necessity is the mother of Invention,’ I said, as I softly closed the door behind me and prepared to creep up to my own room. I wondered what the time was. All I knew was that it must be still night, for I was able to distinguish light from darkness. As I had found myself so close to Walpole Street I could not have walked for any length of time in my ecstatic state, so I fancied it must be somewhere about two o’clock.

Even more anxious than when I started to make no noise which might awaken people, I found the bottom of the staircase and began my stealthy ascent.

Somehow, blind as I was, the place seemed unfamiliar to me. The balustrade I was touching did not seem the same. The very texture of the carpet under my feet seemed different. Could it be possible that I had entered the wrong house? There are plenty of instances on record of a key having opened a strange lock. Could I, through such a circumstance, have strayed into a neighbour’s house? I paused; the perspiration rising on my brow as I thought of the awkward situation in which I should be placed if it were so. For a moment I resolved to retrace my steps and try the next house; but I could not be quite sure I was wrong. Then I remembered that in my own house a bracket, with a plaster figure upon it, hung near the top of the stairs. I knew the exact place, having been cautioned many times to keep my head by going on and feeling for this landmark; so on I went.

I ran my fingers softly along the wall, but no bracket could I find. My hand touched the lintel of a door instead. Then I knew, for certain, I was in the wrong house. The only thing to be done was to creep out as quietly as I had entered and try my luck next door. As I turned to grope my way back I heard the murmur of voices—late as it was, there were people talking in the room, the door of which my fingers had so lightly touched.

I could not distinguish words, but I was sure the voices were those of men. I stood irresolute. Would it not be better to knock at the door and throw myself upon the mercy of the inmates of the room? I could apologize and explain. My blindness would account for the mistake. Someone would, no doubt, be kind enough to put me on my right road home. Yes, this was the best thing to do. I could not go on creeping into strange houses like a midnight thief. Perhaps each house in the row had an equally common lock and my key might open all. If so, the end would be that some alarmed householder would put a bullet into me before I had time to assert my innocence.

Just as I raised my fingers to tap at the door I heard another voice—a woman’s voice. It seemed to come from the back room and was singing to an accompaniment played softly on a piano. I paused and listened—

I have been so occupied with complaining of the hardship of my lot I have not told you I had one solace to my misery; that merciful gift, so often bestowed on the blind, music. Had it not been for this I believe those weeks of darkness and uncertainty would have driven me mad. Had it not been that I could pass many weary hours away playing to myself, that I could be taken to concerts and hear others play and sing, my days would have been unbearable, and I shudder to think of what aid I might have called in to render them less burdensome.

I waited and listened to the song. It was taken from an opera recently produced on the Continent, an opera not yet popularly known in England, and the song was one that few amateurs would dare to attempt. The singer, whoever she might be, sang it softly and under her voice, as though fearing to throw it out with full force. The lateness of the hour might well account for this restraint. Nevertheless, anyone capable of judging must have known he was listening to no ordinary singer. It was easy to recognize the trained skill and dormant power, and imagine what, under favourable circumstances, that voice might accomplish. I was enchanted. My idea was that I had stumbled into a nest of professionals—people whose duties ended so late, that to enjoy any evening at all, night must be greatly encroached upon. All the better for me! Bohemians themselves, my unexpected nocturnal intrusion might not frighten them out of their wits.

The singer had now commenced the second verse. I placed my ear close to the door to catch every note. I was curious to hear what she would make of the effective but trying finale, when—oh horrible contrast to the soft sweet liquid notes and subdued words of passionate love!—I heard a gasp, a spasmodic, fearful gasp, that could convey but one meaning. I heard it succeeded by a long deep groan, which terminated in a gurgling sound which froze my blood. I heard the music stop suddenly, and the cry, the piercing cry of a woman ring out like a frightful change from melody to discord, and then I heard a dull heavy thud on the floor!

I waited to hear no more. I knew that some dreadful deed had been perpetrated within a few feet of where I stood. My heart beat wildly and fiercely. In the excitement of the moment I forgot that I was not like others—forgot that strength and courage could avail me nothing—forgot everything save a desire to prevent the accomplishment of crime—the wish to do a man’s duty in saving life and succouring the ones in peril. I threw open the door and rushed headlong into the room. Then, as I became aware of the presence of strong light, but light which revealed nothing to me, the folly and rashness of my proceedings came fully home to me, and like a flash it crossed my mind that unarmed, blind and helpless, I had rushed into that room to meet my death.

I heard an oath—an exclamation of surprise. In the distance I heard the cry of the woman, but it sounded muffled and faint; it seemed to me that a struggle was going on in that part of the room. Powerless though I was to aid, I turned impulsively and took a couple of steps in the direction whence the cry came; my foot caught in something and I fell prostrate on the body of a man. Even in the midst of the horror that awaited me I shuddered as I felt my hand, lying on the fallen man, grow wet with some warm fluid which slowly trickled over it.

Before I could rise strong muscular living hands were upon my throat, holding me down, whilst a short distance off I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock. Oh, for a light for a second! If only to see those who were about to take my life, if only—strange fancy—to know in what part of me to expect the fatal bullet And I, who some hour or two ago lay and dared to wish for death, felt at this moment that life, even my darkened life, was as dear to me as to any creature under the sun. So, I cried aloud, and my voice sounded to me like the voice of a stranger—

‘Spare me! I am blind! blind! blind!’