Called Back. Martin Edwards

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