Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by J. W. Arrowsmith 1883

Published by The Detective Story Club Ltd

for Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1929

Introduction © Martin Edwards 2015

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1929, 2015

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008137113

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780008137120

Version: 2015-07-06

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Chapter I: In Darkness and in Danger

Chapter II: Drunk or Dreaming

Chapter III: The Fairest Sight of All

Chapter IV: Not for Love or Marriage

Chapter V: By Law, Not Love

Chapter VI: Unsatisfactory Answers

Chapter VII: Claiming Relationship

Chapter VIII: Called Back

Chapter IX: A Black Lie

Chapter X: In Search of the Truth

Chapter XI: A Hell Upon Earth

Chapter XII: The Name of the Man

Chapter XIII: A Terrible Confession

Chapter XIV: Does She Remember?

Chapter XV: From Grief to Joy

The Detective Story Club

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

CALLED BACK, Hugh Conway’s most famous novel, was first published in 1883 as a ‘Christmas annual’ by a small Bristol publishing firm. The story rapidly earned such popular acclaim that ‘many prophesied the displacement of Wilkie Collins by the new star’, according to one of Collins’ obituaries. Certainly, the book caused much more of a sensation than the first detective novel of a young Scottish writer four years later, A Study in Scarlet. Yet today, Conway’s name is much less well-known than Wilkie Collins’, let alone Arthur Conan Doyle’s. So it is easy to forget that his reputation endured long after his premature death in 1885. Called Back entertained a later generation of readers when it was republished in the Detective Story Club series in 1929, and was also filmed twice, in 1914 and 1933.

John Sutherland, an academic expert on Victorian fiction, has neatly summarised Called Back as a ‘sensational novel of murder, amnesia, Siberian-exile, political assassination and detection’. Who could possibly resist such a confection? The main events of the story take place in the 1860s; they are recalled later by the narrator, Gilbert Vaughan, a respectable Englishman with a hatred of mysteries ‘who has a romance hidden away beneath an outwardly prosaic life’.

At the age of 25, Vaughan is struck blind. Leaving his house in London one night, he becomes lost, and witnesses a mysterious killing. Confident that they cannot be recognised, the perpetrators allow him to escape with his life. Vaughan later recovers his sight and, on a trip to Italy, encounters a beautiful girl with whom he promptly falls in love. Their romance fails to progress, but he soon comes across her again in London, where he also meets Dr Manuel Ceneri, who claims to be her uncle. Gradually, a dastardly scheme unfolds. Vaughan is not a wholly likeable man, but his persistence in his quest for the truth makes him a worthy protagonist. The long arm of coincidence reaches out time and again during the course of the narrative, prompting Vaughan’s occasional exclamation: ‘It was Fate!’ But the book is written with Victorian verve.

The book rapidly sold more than a quarter of a million copies, making a fortune for its publisher, J. W. Arrowsmith. A paper-covered edition costing one shilling became the most renowned of the so-called ‘shilling shockers’ popular at the time. The story was also widely translated. Together with Joseph Comyns Carr, a prominent drama critic, theatre manager and playwright, Conway adapted the book for the stage, and long runs in both London and the provinces followed. There was even a burlesque version called The Scalded Back! Towards the end of her life, Emily Dickinson enjoyed reading the novel, which she described as ‘a haunting story’; so taken was she with the phrase Called Back that it was added to her tombstone. The Times compared Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to Called Back, and while the reviewer admired Stevenson’s story, he expressed doubt as to whether it would enjoy as much popular success as Conway’s.

Conway threw himself into writing, with encouragement from Wilkie Collins himself, and his later books included two more ‘Christmas annuals’, notably the thriller Dark Days, which would also eventually feature in the Detective Story Club. His rise to fame had been meteoric, but sadly, it did not last. Having developed symptoms of TB, he travelled to the French Riviera to recuperate, but was diagnosed with typhoid fever, and died shortly afterwards at Monte Carlo, aged just 37. It is indicative of the literary status that he achieved in a short time that, after his death, Arrowsmiths asked an author as eminent as Wilkie Collins to write their next ‘Christmas annual’; this resulted in The Guilty River, but it sold far less well than Called Back.

Conway’s real name was Frederick John Fargus, and he was born in Bristol in 1848, the son of an auctioneer. Youthful enthusiasm for the novels of Captain Marryat inspired an ambition to become a sailor; his pseudonym came from HMS Conway, a frigate stationed in the river Mersey and used as a school ship for the training of aspiring naval officers, where he spent some of his formative years. An accident suffered on board the Conway damaged his hearing, and led Fargus to pursue a career in the family firm whilst trying to establish himself as an author. In 1879, he published a volume of poetry, and a collection of short stories appeared two years later. He showed signs of developing into an accomplished exponent of supernatural stories as well as thrillers, and after his death, Comyns Carr wrote to The Times extolling his gifts; in his view, Called Back barely hinted at Fargus’ literary potential.

Who knows? It is not impossible that, had he lived and written for another two or three decades, Fargus would have ranked alongside such immortals as Collins, Stevenson, M.R. James and Conan Doyle. As a result of his untimely death, his legacy was less striking. Nonetheless, Called Back deserves to be read again, not merely as a reminder of an unfulfilled talent, but in its own right, as lively entertainment from a bygone age.

MARTIN EDWARDS

February 2015

www.martinedwardsbooks.com

CHAPTER I
IN DARKNESS AND IN DANGER

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!’

CHAPTER II
DRUNK OR DREAMING

THE hands pinning me down did not for an instant relax their grasp; yet they might safely have done so. Situated as I was I felt that my only chance of life was to lie still and convince, if I could, the persons in that room of the truth of my assertion. Nothing could be gained, but everything would be lost by resistance. I was strong, but, even if all the senses had been mine, I doubted if I could compete successfully with the man who held me down. I could feel the nervous power of his hands and arms. Certainly, now that I was blind and helpless, the struggle would be a short one. Besides, he had companions, how many I knew not, ready to help him. The first movement I made would be the end of everything so far as I was concerned.

I made no further attempt to rise, but lay as still and unresisting as the prostrate form across which I had fallen. Every moment seemed an hour!

Think of my situation. A blind man in a strange room in a strange house—held down on the body of a man whose last groan he had just heard—held down and at the mercy of those who it was certain had just taken part in a black and cowardly crime! Unable to look into the faces of the murderers around him and learn whether their looks meant life or death to him! Expecting every moment to feel the sharp stab of a knife or the fiery sting of a bullet! Seeing nothing and feeling nothing save the hands upon his throat and the dead body beneath him! Even hearing nothing save that stifled moaning in the distance! Can the wildest flights of fiction show a parallel to my case?

Since that night I have quite disbelieved in the possibility of people’s hair turning suddenly grey. If such a thing can be I must have left that room with the locks of an old man.

I can only say that even now as, after the lapse of years, I write this; even as I see everything around me safe, still, and at peace; even though I know the ones I love are close at hand, my pen trembles, my blood feels chilled, and a faintness steals over me as the recollection of the most terrible moments in my life comes to me with a vividness I cannot describe. It was well for me that I could keep still and cry again and again, ‘I am blind—look and see!’ My quiescence, the tone of my voice, may have turned the balance on which my life hung—may have carried conviction to my hearers. Presently the strong light of a lamp was perceptible to my obscured vision; a lamp placed so close to me that I could feel its hot glow upon my face; and I was aware that someone was stooping or kneeling down and peering into my eyes. His breath struck against my cheek: a short, quick, excited breath—how could it be otherwise after the deed in which he had just taken part?

At last he rose; a moment afterward the restraining hands moved from me, and then, for the first time, I began to hope that my life might be spared.

As yet none of those around me had spoken. Now I heard voices, but whispering so softly that even my sharpened ears could not catch the purport of a single word, although I could gather that three persons at least were engaged in that hushed consultation.

All the while, like a dreary and fitting accompaniment, I could hear that stifled moaning—a woman’s moaning. I would have given all I possessed—all save life—in exchange for a minute’s sight, that I might have been able to comprehend what had passed and what was passing around me.

Still the whispers continued. They came thick and fast, running into and interrupting each other, as from men in hot but guarded discussion. It needed little intelligence to guess the subject of that debate! Presently they died away altogether, and, for a time, the only sound I heard was that terrible, muffled moan—that continued with a dreary monotony.

A foot touched me. ‘You may stand up,’ I heard someone say. When I burst so recklessly into the room I fancied the exclamation with which I was greeted came from foreign lips, but the man who now addressed me spoke in pure English. By this time I was beginning to recover self-possession and was able to make a mental note of these facts.

Thankful at being allowed to quit my ghastly couch, I rose. As I could think of nothing better to do I stood motionless.

‘Walk this way—straight on—four paces,’ said the voice. I obeyed. The third step brought me in collision with the wall. No doubt this was an extra test as to the truth of my statement.

A hand was placed upon my shoulder and I was guided to a chair. ‘Now, sir,’ said the speaker who had before addressed me, ‘tell us, in as few words as possible, who you are—how and why you came here. Be quick, we have no time to spare.’

I well knew they had no time to spare. They had much to do—much to hide. Oh, for the gift of sight for one moment! I would purchase it, even if the price were years of darkness!

Shortly and simply as I could, I told them what had brought me into such straits. The only thing I concealed was my true name. Why should these assassins know it? If I revealed it they might set a watch upon me and at any moment their safety demanded it I might share the fate of him who lay within a few feet of my chair. So I gave a fictitious name, but everything else I told them was true.

All the while I was speaking I heard that distressing sound at the other end of the room. It drove me nearly mad. I believe, could I have made sure of reaching through my darkness and catching one of those men by the throat, with the certainty of crushing life out of him, I should have done so, even had such an act sealed my own fate.

When my explanation was over another whispered consultation took place. Then the spokesman demanded the key which had so nearly cost me my life. I suppose they tried it and found it acted as I said. It was not returned to me, but I heard the voice once more.

‘Fortunately for you we have decided to believe your tale. Stand up.’ I did so and was led to another part of the room and again placed in a chair. As, after the manner of the blind, I stretched out my hands, I found I was in a corner of the room, my face turned to the angle of the walls.

‘If you move or look around,’ said the voice, ‘our belief in your blindness will vanish.’

It was impossible to misunderstand the grim threat conveyed by the last words. I could only sit quiet and listen with all my ears.

Yes, they had much to do. They moved about busily and rapidly. I heard cupboards and drawers opened. I detected the sound of papers being torn and the smell of papers burning. I heard them raise some dead weight from the floor—heard a sound as of rent cloth and linen—heard the jingle of money, even the tick of a watch as it was drawn forth from somewhere and laid on the table near me. Then I felt a breath of air and knew that the door had been opened. I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs—the steps of men bearing a weighty burden, and I shuddered as I thought what that burden must be.

Before the last task was completed the woman’s moan had ceased. For some time it had been growing fainter and only sounding at recurring intervals. Now I heard it no longer. This cessation was a great relief to my overwrought nerves, but my heart grew sick as I thought it may be there were two victims instead of one.

Although at least two men must have borne that weight away, I knew I was not left alone. I heard someone throw himself into a chair with a half weary sigh and guessed he had been left to guard me. I was longing to make my escape—longing to wake and find I had been dreaming. The suspense or the nightmare was growing unbearable. I said, without turning my head, ‘How long am I to be kept amid these horrors?’

I heard the man move in his chair, but he made no answer. ‘May I not go?’ I pleaded. ‘I have seen nothing. Put me out into the street—anywhere. I shall go mad if I stay here longer.’

Still no answer. I said no more.

By and by the absent men returned to their companion. I heard the door close after them. Then came more whispers, and I heard the drawing of a cork and the jingle of glasses. They were refreshing themselves after the night’s dark work.

Presently a curious odour—that of some drug—was perceptible. A hand was laid on my shoulder and a glass full of some liquid was placed between my fingers.

‘Drink,’ said the voice—the only voice I had heard.

‘I will not,’ I cried, ‘it may be poison.’

I heard a short harsh laugh and felt a cold metallic ring laid against my forehead.

‘It is not poison; it is an opiate and will do you no harm. But this,’ and as he spoke I felt the pressure of the little iron circlet, ‘this is another affair. Choose!’

I drained the glass and was glad to feel the pistol moved from my head. ‘Now,’ said the spokesman, taking the empty glass from my hand, ‘if you are a wise man, when you awake tomorrow you will say, “I have been drunk or dreaming.” You have heard us but not seen us, but remember we know you.’

He left me and in a short time, do what I would to struggle against it, heavy drowsiness came over me. Thoughts grew incoherent and reason seemed leaving me. My head fell first on one side, then on the other. The last thing I can remember is a strong arm encircling me and keeping me from tumbling out of my chair. Whatever the drug was, its action was strong and swift.

For hours and hours it held me senseless, and when at last its power faded and my mind, struggling back to a clouded sort of consciousness, made, after many attempts, the fact apparent to me that I was lying on a bed, and, moreover, as I found by stretching out my arms and feeling around, my own bed, is it to be wondered at that I said to myself, ‘I have dreamed the most frightful dream that ever came to a tormented mind’? After this effort of mind I sank back once more in a semi-conscious state, but fully persuaded I had never quitted my bed. My relief at this discovery was immense.

Yet if my mind grew easy, I cannot say the same for the body. My head seemed preparing to split in two; my tongue was dry and parched. These unpleasant facts became more and more noticeable as consciousness gradually returned. I sat up in the bed and pressed my hands to my throbbing brows.

‘Oh, dear heart!’ I heard my old nurse say. ‘He is coming round at last.’ Then another voice—a man’s voice, soft and bland.

‘Yes, your master will soon be well again. Kindly let me feel your pulse, Mr Vaughan.’

A soft finger was laid upon my wrist.

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘I am Doctor Deane, at your service,’ said the stranger.

‘Have I been ill? How long? How many days?’

‘A few hours only. There is nothing to be alarmed at. Lie down again and keep quiet for a while. Are you thirsty?’

‘Yes, I am dying with thirst—give me water.’

They did so. I drank greedily, and felt somewhat relieved.

‘Now, nurse,’ I heard the doctor say, ‘make him some weak tea, and when he wants anything to eat let him have it. I will look in again later on.’

Doctor Deane was shown out, and old Priscilla, returning to my bedside, patted and punched the pillows to make me more comfortable. By this time I was wide awake and the experiences of the night were coming back to me with a distinctness and detail far above those of a recalled dream.

‘What is the time?’ I asked.

‘Nigh upon noon, Master Gilbert.’ Priscilla spoke in a sorrowful, injured manner.

‘Noon! what has been the matter with me?’

The old servant was weeping. I could hear her. She made no answer, so I repeated my question.

‘Oh, Master Gilbert!’ she sobbed, ‘how could you do it? When I came into the room and saw the empty bed I thought I should have dropped.’

When she saw the empty bed! I trembled. The horrors of the night were real!

‘How could you do it, Master Gilbert?’ continued Priscilla. ‘To go out without a word, and wander half over London, all alone and not able to see a thing!’

‘Sit down and tell me what you mean—what has happened.’

She had not yet quite aired her grievance. ‘If you wanted to get tipsy or to take any of them stuffs to send you to sleep and make you insensible, you might have done it at home, Master Gilbert. I shouldn’t have minded once in a way.’

‘You’re a kind old fool, Priscilla Tell me all about last night.’

It was not until she saw I was getting quite angry that her tongue would consent to run pretty straight, and when I heard her account of what had occurred my head was whirling. This is what she told me.

It must have been about an hour after my stealthy exit that she awoke. She put her ear to the door to make certain that I was asleep and wanting nothing. Hearing no sound of life in my room she entered it, and found the bed untenanted and me gone. Probably she was even more frightened than she owned to being. She knew all about my despondency and complainings of the last few days, and I have no doubt but her first fear was that I had destroyed myself. She started in search of me, and at once recognizing the impossibility of finding me without assistance, turned to that first and last resource of an Englishwoman in such a difficulty—the police. Having told her tale at the nearest station, and by entreaties, and by enlarging on my infirmity, made known the urgency of the case, and secured sympathy, telegraphic messages were sent, to other police stations asking if any one answering to my description had been found. Priscilla waited upon thorns until about five o’clock in the morning, when a reply came from the other end of the town. It stated that a young man who appeared to be blind, and who was certainly drunk and incapable, had just been brought in.

Priscilla flew to the rescue. She found me lying senseless, and destined, upon my recovery, to be brought before the magistrate. A doctor was soon procured, who testified to my innocence so far as alcohol was concerned. The energetic Priscilla, after placing me safely in a cab, gave the officers a bit of her mind as to the discomforts under which she a found me labouring. She then departed triumphantly with her unconscious charge, and laid him on the bed he had so rashly quitted.

I am grieved to be compelled to gather from her words that, in spite of the indignation she displayed toward the policemen, her estimate of my condition was the same as theirs. She was particularly grateful to the doctor, whom, I fear, she looked upon as a clever and complaisant practitioner, who had extricated a gentleman from a scrape by a well-timed but untruthful explanation.

‘But I never knew a body stop insensible so long after it. Don’t ee do it again, Master Gilbert,’ she concluded.

I did not combat her suspicions. Priscilla was scarcely the one to whom I wished to confide the adventures of the night. By far the simplest way was to say nothing, to leave her to draw her own and, perhaps, not unnatural conclusions.

‘I won’t do it again,’ I said. ‘Now get me some breakfast. Tea and toast—anything.’

She went to do my bidding. It was not that I was hungry. I wanted to be alone for a few minutes, to think—or think as well as my aching head would allow.

I recalled everything that had happened since I left the door of my house. The entranced walk, the drunken guide, the song I had heard, and, afterward, those horrible, eloquent sounds and touches. Everything was clear and connected up to the moment the opiate was forced upon me; after that my mind was blank. Priscilla’s tale showed me that during that blank I must have been transported several miles and deposited in the thoroughfare where I was found by the policeman. I saw through the crafty scheme. I had been dropped, insensible, far away from the scene of the crime at which I had been present. How wild and improbable my tale would seem. Would anyone believe it?

Then I remembered my horror at what I felt streaming over my hand as I lay pinned down upon the fallen man. I called Priscilla.

‘Look,’ I said, holding my right hand toward her, ‘is it clean—was it clean when you found me?’

‘Clean—la, no, Master Gilbert!’

‘What was on it?’ I asked, excitedly.

‘All covered with mud, just as if you’d been dabbling in the gutter. The first thing I did when I got you home was to wash your poor hands and face. I hoped it would bring you round—it generally does, you know.’

‘But my coat sleeve—my shirt sleeve. The right hand side. See if anything is on them.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘You haven’t got ne’er a right-hand sleeve left. They were cut or torn off above the elbow. Your arm was naked.’

Every scrap of circumstantial evidence which would confirm my tale was vanishing away. There would be nothing to support it except the assertion of a blind man, who left his house in the dead of night, secretly, and who was found, several hours afterward, miles away, in such a state that the guardians of the public morals were compelled to take charge of him.

Yet I could not remain silent with the knowledge of such a crime weighing on my mind. The next day I had entirely recovered from the effects of the opiate, and after consideration sent for my solicitor. He was a confidential friend, and I resolved to be guided by his advice. In a very short time I found it was hopeless to think of carrying conviction to his mind. He listened gravely, giving vent to ‘Well, well!’ ‘Bless my soul!’ ‘Shocking!’ and other set expressions of surprise, but I knew he was only humouring me, and looked upon the whole thing as a delusion. I have no doubt that Priscilla had been talking to him and telling him all she knew. His incredulity annoyed me, so I told him, testily, I should say no more about the affair.

‘Well, I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he said.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I believe you are saying what you think is true; but if you ask me, my opinion is that you walked in your sleep and dreamed all this.’

Too cross to argue with him, I took his advice, so far as he was concerned, and said no more about it. Afterwards I tried another friend with a similar result. If those who had known me from childhood would not believe me, how could I expect strangers to do so?

Everything I had to reveal was so vague and unsupported. I could not even fix upon the spot where the crime was committed. I had ascertained that no house in Walpole Street could be opened by a key similar to mine. There was no other street of that name anywhere near. My friend with the unsteady feet must have misunderstood me and conducted me to another row of houses.

I thought, at one time, of advertising and asking him to communicate with me, but I could not word a request which should be intelligible to him, without, perchance, exciting the suspicions of those who were concerned in the crime. Even now, if they had discovered my true name and abode, there might be someone on the watch for any movement I might make. I had been spared once, but no mercy would be shown me a second time. Why should I risk my life by making disclosures which would not be believed—accusations against men who were unknown to me? What good could I do? By now the assassins must have hidden all trace of the crime, and made good their retreat. Why should I face the ridicule which must attach to such a tale as mine, the truth of which I could not prove? No; let the horrors of that night be as a dream. Let them fade and be forgotten.

Soon I have something else to think of; something that may well drive such dismal memories from my mind. Hope has become certainty. I am almost delirious with delight. Science has triumphed! My defeated foe has left me. I am told his return is almost beyond possibility. The world is light again! I can see.

But my cure was a long and tedious affair. Both eyes were operated upon. First one, and, when the success of that operation was assured, the other. It was months before I was allowed to emerge altogether from darkness. Light was doled out to me sparingly and cautiously. What did that matter so long that I knew there was light again for me? I was patient, very patient and grateful. I followed Mr Jay’s instructions to the letter, knowing I should reap the reward of so doing.

My case bad been treated by the simplest and safest method of operation—the one which is always chosen when the nature of the disease and the age of the patient permits—solution or absorption it is termed. When it was all over, and all danger of inflammation at an end; when I found that by the aid of strong convex glasses I could see well enough for all ordinary purposes, Mr Jay congratulated both himself and me. It promised, he said, to be the most thoroughly successful cure he had ever taken part in. It must have been something above the common, as I am informed that every book on the eye which has since been published cites my case as an example of what may be done.

Not until my dying day shall I forget that time when my cure was declared a fact; when the bandages were removed, and I was told I might now use, sparingly, my uncurtained eyes.

The joy, from what seemed never-ending night, to wake and see the sun, the stars—the clouds sped by the wind across the fair blue sky! To see green branches swaying with the breeze, and throwing trembling shadows on my path! To mark the flower; a bud but yesterday—today a bloom! To watch the broad bright sea grow splendid with the crimson of the west! To gaze on pictures, people, mountains, streams—to know shape, colour, form and tint! To see, not hear alone, the moving lips and laugh of those who grasped my hand and spoke kind words!

To me, in those first days of new-born light, the face of every woman, man, and child seemed welcome as the face of some dear friend, long lost and found again!

After this description of my ecstasy it seems pure bathos to say that the only thing which detracted from it was my being obliged to wear those strong convex glasses. I was young, and they were horribly disfiguring.

‘Shall I never be able to do without them?’ I asked, rather ruefully.

‘That,’ replied Mr Jay, ‘is a point upon which I wish to speak to you. You will never be able to do without glasses. Remember, I have destroyed, absorbed, dissolved the glasses in your eyes called crystalline lenses. Their place is now supplied by the fluid humour. This has a high refracting power. Very often if you don’t give in to Nature she will give in to you. If you can take the trouble to coerce her, she will gradually meet you. If anyone should do this, it is you. You are young; you have no profession, and your bread does not depend upon your sight. Glasses you must always wear, but if you insist that Nature shall act without such strong aids as these, the chances are she will at last consent to do so. It is a tedious process: few have been able or have had patience to persevere; but my experience is that in many instances it may be done.’

I determined it should be done. I followed his advice. At great personal inconvenience I wore glasses which only permitted me to say I could see at all. But my reward came. Slowly, very slowly, I found my sight growing stronger, till, in about two years’ time, I could, by the aid of glasses, the convexity of which was so slight as to be scarcely noticeable, see as well as most of my fellow-creatures. Then I began once more to enjoy life.

I cannot say that, during those two years spent in perfecting my cure, I thought no more about that terrible night; but I made no further attempt to unravel the mystery, or to persuade any one that I had not imagined those events. I buried the history of my adventure in my heart, and never again spoke of it. In case of need, I wrote down all the particulars, and then tried to banish all memory of what I had heard. I succeeded fairly well except for one thing. I could not for any long period keep my thoughts from the remembrance of that woman’s moaning—that pitiable transition of the voice from sweet melody to hopeless despair. It was that cry which troubled my dreams, if ever I dreamed of that night—it was that cry which rang in my ears as I woke, trembling, but thankful to find that this time, at least, I was only dreaming.

CHAPTER III
THE FAIREST SIGHT OF ALL

IT is spring—the beautiful spring of Northern Italy. My friend Kenyon and I are lounging about in the rectangular city of Turin, as happy and idle a pair of comrades as may anywhere be met with. We have been here a week, long enough to do all the sight-seeing demanded by duty. We have seen San Giovanni and the churches. We have toiled, or beasts of burden have toiled with us, up La Superga, where we have gazed at the mausoleum of Savoy’s princely line. We have seen enough of the cumbrous old Palazzo Madama, which frowns at our hotel across the Piazzi Castello. We have marvelled at the plain, uninteresting looking Palazzo Reale, and our mirth has been moved by the grotesque brick-work decoration of the Palazzo Carignano. We have criticised the rather poor picture gallery. In fact we have done Turin thoroughly, and with contempt bred by familiarity, are ceasing to feel like pitiful little atoms as we stand in the enormous squares and crane our necks looking at Marochetti’s immense bronze statues.

Our tasks are over. We are now simply loafing about and enjoying ourselves; revelling in the delicious weather, and trying to make up our languid but contented minds as to when we shall leave the town and where our next resting place shall be.

We wander down the broad Via di Po, lingering now and then to peer into the enticing shops which lurk in its shady arcades; we pass through the spacious Piazzi Vittorio Emanuele; we cross the bridge whose five granite arches span the classic Po; we turn opposite the domed church and soon are walking up the wide shaded path which leads to the Capuchin Monastery; the broad terrace in front of which is our favourite haunt. Here we can lounge and see the river at our feet, the great town stretching from its further bank, the open plain beyond the town, and, far, far away in the background, the glorious snow-capped Alps, with Monte Rosa and Grand Paradis towering above their brothers. No wonder we enjoy the view from this terrace more than churches, palaces, or pictures.

We gaze our fill, and then retrace our steps and saunter back as lazily as we came. After lingering a few moments at our hotel some hazy destination prompts us to cross the great square, past the frowning old castle, leads us up the Via di Seminario, and we find ourselves for the twentieth time in front of San Giovanni. I stop with my head in the air admiring what architectural beauties its marble front can boast, and as I am trying to discover them am surprised to hear Kenyon announce his intention of entering the building

‘But we have vowed a vow,’ I said, ‘that the interior of churches, picture galleries, and other tourist traps shall know us no more.’

‘What makes the best of men break their vows?’

‘Lots of things, I suppose.’

‘But one thing in particular. Whilst you are staring up at pinnacles and buttresses, and trying to look as if you knew architecture as well as Ruskin, the fairest of all sights, a beautiful woman, passes right under your nose.’

‘I understand—I absolve you.’

‘Thank you. She went into the church. I feel devotional, and will go too.’

‘But our cigars?’

‘Chuck them to the beggars. Beware of miserly habits, Gilbert; they grow on one.’

Knowing that Kenyon was not the man to abandon a choice Havana without a weighty reason, I did as he suggested and followed him into the dim cool shades of San Giovanni.

No service was going on. The usual little parties of sightseers were walking about and looking much impressed as beauties they could not comprehend were being pointed out to them. Dotted about here and there were silent worshippers. Kenyon glanced round eagerly in quest of ‘the fairest of all sights’, and after a while discovered her.

‘Come this way,’ he said; ‘let us sit down and pretend to be devout Catholics. We can catch her profile here.’

I placed myself next to him, and saw, a few seats from us, an old Italian woman kneeling and praying fervently, whilst in a chair at her side sat a girl of about twenty-two.

A girl who might have belonged to almost any country. The eyebrows and cast-down lashes said that her eyes were dark, but the pure pale complexion, the delicate straight features, the thick brown hair might, under circumstances, have been claimed by any nation, although had I met her alone I should have said she was English. She was well but plainly dressed, and her manner told me she was no stranger to the church. She did not look from side to side, and up and down, after the way of a sightseer. She sat without moving until her companion had finished her prayers. So far as one could judge from her appearance she was in church for no particular object, neither devotional nor critical. Probably she may have come to bear the old woman at her side company. This old woman, who had the appearance of a superior kind of servant, seemed from the passionate appeals she was addressing to heaven to be in want of many things. I could see her thin lips working incessantly, and although her words were inaudible it was evident her petitions were heart-spoken and sincere.

But the girl by her side neither joined her in her prayers nor looked at her. Ever motionless as a statue—her eyes ever cast down—apparently wrapped in deep thought, and, I fancied, sad thought, she sat, showing us the while no more of her face than that perfect profile. Kenyon had certainly not over-praised her. Her’s was a face which had a peculiar attractiveness for me, the utter repose of it not being the least of that charm. I was growing very anxious to see her full face, but as I could not do so without positive rudeness, was compelled to wait until she might chance to turn her head.

Presently the old Italian woman appeared to think she had done her religious duty. Seeing she was preparing to cross herself I rose and sauntered down the church toward the door. In a few minutes the girl and her companion passed me, and I was able to see her to better advantage, as she waited whilst the old woman dipped her fingers in the holy water. She was undoubtedly beautiful; but there was something strange in her beauty. I made this discovery when, for a moment, her eyes met mine. Dark and glorious as those eyes were there was a dreamy, far-away look in them—a look that seemed to pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at. This look gave me a curious impression, but as it was only for a second that my eyes met hers, I could scarcely say whether the impression was a pleasant or an unpleasant one.

The girl and her attendant lingered a few moments at the door, so that Kenyon and I passed out before them. By common consent we paused outside. The action may have been a rude one, but we were both anxious to see the departure of the girl whose appearance had so greatly interested us. As we came through the door of the church I noticed a man standing near the steps—a middle-aged man of gentlemanly appearance. He was rather round-shouldered and wore spectacles. Had I felt any interest in determining his station in life I should have adjudged him to one of the learned professions. There could be no mistake as to his nationality; he was Italian to the backbone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and when the girl, followed by the old woman, came out of San Giovanni, he stepped forward and accosted them. The old woman gave a little sharp cry of surprise. She took his hand and kissed it. The girl stood apparently apathetic. It was evident that the gentleman’s business lay with the old servant. He spoke a few words to her; then drawing her aside the two walked away to some distance, under the shadow of the church, and to all appearance were talking earnestly and volubly, but ever and anon casting a look in the direction of the girl.

As her companion left her she walked on a few paces, then paused and turned as though waiting for the old woman. Now it was that we were able to see her perfect figure and erect carriage to full advantage. Being some little way off, we could look at her without committing an act of rudeness or indiscretion.

‘She is beautiful,’ I said, more to myself than to Kenyon.

‘Yes, she is—but not so beautiful as I thought. There is something wanting, yet it is impossible to say what it is. Is it animation or expression?’

‘I can see nothing wanting,’ I said, so enthusiastically that Kenyon laughed aloud.

‘Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen and appraise them in public places, like this; or is it a custom adopted for the benefit of Italians?’

This impudent question was asked by someone close to my side. We turned simultaneously, and saw a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us. His features were regular, but their effect was not a pleasant one. You felt at a glance that a sneering mouth was curtained by the heavy moustache, and that those dark eyes and eyebrows were apt to frown with sullen anger. At present the man’s expression was that of haughty arrogance—a peculiarly galling expression, especially so I find when adopted by a foreigner toward an Englishman. That he was a foreigner it was easy to see, in spite of his perfectly accented English.

A hot reply was upon my lips, but Kenyon, who was a young man of infinite resource and well able to say and do the right thing in the right place, was before me. He raised his hat and made a sweeping bow, so exquisitely graduated that it was impossible to say where apology ended and mockery began.

‘Signor,’ he said, ‘an Englishman travels through your fair land to see and praise all that is beautiful in nature and art. If our praise offends we apologize.’

The man scowled, hardly knowing whether my friend was in jest or in earnest.

‘If we have done wrong will the Signor convey our apologies to the lady? His wife, or shall I say his daughter?’

As the man was young, the last question was sarcastic.

‘She is neither,’ he rapped out. Kenyon bowed.

‘Ah, then a friend. Let me congratulate the Signor, and also congratulate him on his proficiency in our language.’

The man was growing puzzled; Kenyon spoke so pleasantly and naturally.

‘I have spent many years in England,’ he said, shortly.

‘Many years! I should scarcely have thought so, the Signor has not picked up that English peculiarity which is far more important than accent or idiom.’

Kenyon paused and looked into the man’s face so innocently and inquiringly that he fell into the trap.

‘And pray what may that be?’ he asked.

‘To mind one’s own business,’ said Kenyon, shortly and sharply, turning his back to the last speaker, as if the discussion was at an end.

The tall man’s face flushed with rage. I kept my eye upon him, fearing he would make an assault upon my friend, but he thought better of it. With a curse he turned on his heel, and the matter ended.

While this conversation was in progress, the old Italian woman had left her learned-looking friend, and having rejoined the young girl, the two went upon their way. Our ill-conditioned Italian, after his discomfiture, walked across to the man who had been talking to the old servant, and taking his arm went with him in another direction. They were soon out of sight.

Kenyon did not propose to follow the steps of the first couple, and I, even had I wished to do so, was ashamed to suggest such a thing. Still, I am afraid that a resolution as to visiting San Giovanni again tomorrow was forming in my mind.

But I saw her no more. How many times I went to that church I dare not say. Neither the fair girl nor her attendant crossed my path again whilst in Turin. We met our impertinent friend several times in the streets, and were honoured by a dark scowl which passed unnoticed; but of that sweet girl with the pale face and strange dark eyes we caught no glimpse.

It would be absurd to say I had fallen in love with a woman I had seen only for a few minutes—to whom I had never spoken—whose name and abode were unknown to me; but I must confess that, so far as looks went, I was more interested in this girl than in anyone I had ever seen. Beautiful as she was, I could scarcely say why I felt this attraction or fascination. I had met many, many beautiful women. Yet, for the slender chance of seeing this one again I lingered on in Turin until Kenyon—my good-tempered friend’s patience was quite exhausted—declared that unless I quitted at once, he would go away alone. At last I gave in. Ten days had passed by without the chance encounter I was waiting for. We folded up our tents and started for fresh scenes.

From Turin we went southwards—to Genoa, Florence, Rome and Naples, and other minor places; then we went across to Sicily, and at Palermo, according to arrangement, were received on board a yacht belonging to another friend. We had taken our journey easily, staying as long as it suited us in each town we visited, so that by the time the yacht had finished her cruise and borne us back to England, the summer was nearly over.

Many and many a time since leaving Turin I had thought of the girl I had seen at San Giovanni—thought of her so often that I laughed at myself for my folly. Until now I had never carried in my mind for so long a period the remembrance of a woman’s face. There must, for me, have been something strangely bewitching in her style of beauty. I recalled every feature—I could, had I been an artist, have painted her portrait from memory. Laugh at my folly as I would, I could not conceal from myself that, short as time was during which I had seen her, the impression made upon me was growing stronger each day, instead of fainter. I blamed myself for leaving Turin before I had met her again—even if for that purpose it had been necessary to linger there for months. My feeling was that by quitting the place I had lost a chance which comes to a man but once in a lifetime.

Kenyon and I parted in London. He was going to Scotland after grouse, I had not yet quite settled my autumn plans, so I resolved to stay, at any rate for a few days, in town.

Was it chance or was it fate? The first morning after my arrival in London, business led me to Regent Street. I was walking slowly down the broad thoroughfare, but my thoughts were far away. I was trying to argue away an insane longing which was in my mind—a longing to return at once to Turin. I was thinking of the dim church and the fair young face I saw three months ago. Then, as in my mind’s eye I saw that girl and her old attendant in church, I looked up and here, in the heart of London, they stood before me!

Amazed as I was, no thought of being mistaken entered my head. Unless it was a dream or an illusion, there came the one I had been thinking of so often, walking towards me, with the old woman at her side. They might have just stepped out of San Giovanni. There was a little change in the appearance of the old woman: she was dressed more like an English servant; but the girl was the same. Beautiful, more beautiful than ever, I thought as my heart gave a great leap. They passed me; I turned impulsively and followed them with my eyes.

Yes, it was Fate! Now I had found her in this unexpected manner I would take care not to lose sight of her again. I attempted to disguise my feelings no longer. The emotion which had thrilled me as I stood once more face to face with her told me the truth. I was in love—deeply in love. Twice, only twice, I had seen her, but that was enough to convince me that if my lot was ever linked with another’s, it must be with this woman’s, whose name, home, or country, I knew not.

There was only one thing I could now do. I must follow the two women. So, for the next hour or more wherever they went, at a respectful distance, I followed. I waited whilst they entered one or two shops, and when their walk was resumed discreetly dogged their steps. I kept so far in the rear that my pursuit was bound to be unnoticed and could cause no annoyance. They soon turned out of Regent Street and walked on until they came to one of those many rows of houses in Maida Vale. I marked the house they entered, and as I passed by it, a few minutes afterwards, saw in the front window the girl arranging a few flowers in a vase. It was evident I had ascertained her abode.

It was Fate! I was in love and could only act as my passion impelled me. I must find out all about this unknown. I must make her acquaintance and so obtain the right of looking into those strange but beautiful eyes. I must hear her speak. I laughed again at the absurdity of being in love with a woman whose voice I had never heard, whose native language was a matter of uncertainty. But then, love is full of absurdities. When once he gets the whip hand he drives us in strange ways.

I formed a bold resolve. I retraced my steps and walked up to the house. The door was opened by a tidy-looking servant.

‘Have you any rooms to let?’ I asked; having jumped at the conclusion that the unknown was only lodging at the house.

The servant replied in the affirmative, and upon my expressing a wish to see the vacant rooms I was shown a dining-room and bedroom on the ground floor.

Had these rooms been dungeons instead of airy, cheerful apartments—had they been empty and bare instead of comfortably furnished—had the rent been fifty pounds a week instead of the moderate sum asked, I should have engaged them. I was very easy to deal with. The landlady was summoned and the bargain struck at once. If that good person had known state of my mind she might have reaped a golden harvest of her ground floor apartments. As it was, the only thing she was exacting in was the matter of references. I named several, then I paid a month’s rent in advance and received her permission, as I had just returned to England and wanted a home at once, to enter into possession that very evening.

‘By the by,’ I said carelessly, as I left the house to get my luggage, ‘I forgot to ask if you have other lodgers—no children, I hope?’

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