August was dusty and blazing in London, and I felt it sorely in Essex
Street. The frontier war dragged on its weary length, as frontier wars
always drag, and Dick was still unable to return. His brilliant
descriptions of the fighting had become a feature in the journal he
represented. On one of my short walks from end to end of that long even
strip of pavement a hand was suddenly placed upon my shoulder, and the
voice told me that it was Shadrack Fennell, a charming old fellow, who
had been a popular actor of a day long since past, and was now a
prominent "Savage," well known in that little circle of London Bohemia.
He walked with me a little way, and next evening called and spent an
hour over cigars and whisky. He was the only visitor I had had in all
those months of Dick's absence.
A blind man has, alas! very few friends.
Once or twice, when the heat became insufferable in my close stuffy
rooms, I contemplated going to the country or to the sea. Yet, on
reflection, I told myself bitterly that, being unable to see the
beauties of God's earth, I was just as well there moping in that gloomy
street, and taking my evening airing beside the Thames.
Therefore with all desire for life or enjoyment crushed from my soul, I
remained in London, going out each fine evening, sometimes with Mrs
Parker, and at others, with a fearlessness acquired by practice, I
carefully guided myself down the steep granite steps leading from Essex
Street to the Embankment, and then paced my strip of pavement alone.
But how tristful, dispiriting, and soul-sickening was that monotonous
world of darkness in which I eternally existed, none can know, only
those unfortunate ones who are blind themselves.
About half-past eight o'clock one breathless evening in mid-August, Mrs
Parker being unwell, I went forth alone for my usual stroll. The
atmosphere was close and oppressive, the pavement seemed to reflect the
heat, and even along the Embankment there was not a breath of air.
Alone, plunged in my own thoughts--for the blind think far more deeply
than those whose minds are distracted by the sights around them--I went
on with those short steps that I had acquired, ever tapping with my
stick to discover the crossings. I was afraid of no street traffic;
only of cycles, which, by reason of their silence, are veritable ogres
to the blind.
Almost unconsciously I passed beyond the limit of my regular track,
beneath a railway-bridge which I knew led from Charing Cross station,
and then straight on, with only a single crossing, until I came to what
seemed the junction of several roads, where I hesitated. It was an
adventure to go so far, and I wondered where I was. The chiming of Big
Ben, however, gave me a clue. I was at the corner of Bridge Street, for
I felt the wall of the St Stephen's Club. The turning to the left
would, I knew, take me over Westminster Bridge; to the right I could
cross Palace Yard and Broad Sanctuary, and so gain Victoria Street.
Before my affliction I knew well that portion of London around the
Houses of Parliament. I decided, therefore, on keeping to the right,
and some one whom I know not kindly piloted me over the dangerous
crossing from the corner of Parliament Street, for such I judged it to
be from the cries of men selling the evening papers. Again, three times
in succession, did sympathetic persons, noticing my helplessness as I
stood upon the kerb, take my arm and lead me across, but in these
constant crossings I somehow entirely lost my bearings. I was, I knew,
in a long straight thoroughfare and by the iron railings before the
houses guessed it to be that road of flat-dom, Victoria Street.
Amused at my intrepidity, and congratulating myself upon having gone so
far alone, I kept on, knowing that even if I lost myself I had only to
call a passing hansom and be driven back to Essex Street. Thus for
perhaps three-quarters of an hour I wandered on. From a lad who helped
me over one of the crossings I learnt that I had passed Victoria
Station, and now appeared to be traversing several large squares--at
least, such was the impression conveyed upon my mind. It was useless to
stop passers-by every moment to inquire where I was, therefore, laughing
inwardly at my situation, lost in London, the great city I had known so
well, I went on and on, down long straight thoroughfares that seemed
endless, in enjoyment of the first real walk I had taken since my
crushing affliction had fallen upon me.
Suddenly, in what seemed to be a quiet deserted street, I left the kerb
to cross the road alone, but ere I became aware of impending danger a
man's voice shouted roughly, and I found myself thrown by violent
concussion upon the roadway, struggling frantically beneath a horse's
hoofs. I clutched wildly at air to save myself, but next second
received a violent kick on the left side of the head, which caused
sparks to appear before my sightless eyes, stunned me, and rendered me
almost instantly insensible.
How long I remained ignorant of things about me it is impossible to
tell. I fancy it must have been a good many hours. On my first return
to consciousness I heard strange confused sounds about me, low
whispering, the words of which were utterly unintelligible to my
unbalanced brain, and the quick rustling of silk. I remember wondering
vaguely where I was. The blind quickly develop a habit of extreme
caution, and with my senses dulled by the excruciating pain in my skull
I lay reflecting without speaking. The throbbing in my head was
frightful. When the recollections of my long walk which had ended so
disastrously surged through my brain, it struck me that I must have been
taken to a hospital after the accident, and that I had most probably
remained there some days. Yet in hospitals there is no perfume of _peau
d'Espagne_, nor do the nurses wear silken flounces.
I tried to catch the words uttered by those about me, but in vain. It
may have been that they were spoken in some foreign tongue, or, what is
much more likely, the terrible blow I had received from the horse's hoof
had utterly disarranged my sense of hearing. This single thought
appalled me. If my hearing had really been injured, then I was rendered
absolutely helpless. To the blind the acoustic organs become so
sharpened that they can detect sounds where those in full possession of
sight and hearing can distinguish nothing. It is the ear that acts for
the sightless eye. Therefore the fear that even this had failed me held
me appalled.
I stretched forth my hand, and to my surprise felt that I was not in a
hospital bed, as I had at first believed, but upon a silken couch, with
my head resting upon a soft satin pillow. The covering of the couch was
of rich brocade in wide stripes, while the woodwork had a smoothness
which caused me to believe that it was gilt. I raised my hand to my
head, and found it bandaged with a handkerchief and some apparently
improvised compresses.
Although I opened my eyes, all was, of course, an utter blank before me.
Yet I felt instinctively, as every blind person does, the presence of
some one in my immediate vicinity, and presently, after long reflection,
I suddenly asked--
"Where am I? What has happened?"
"You have been run over, and your head is injured," answered a strange
harsh voice, hoarse and altogether curious. "But tell me. Your eyes
have a curious look in them. Can't you see?"
"No," I responded. "Unfortunately I am totally blind."
"Blind!" gasped the voice, in apparent amazement. "Then that accounts
for your accident!"
"But where am I?" I inquired eagerly.
"You need not trouble, I assure you," answered the voice, pleasantly.
"You are with friends."
"Then I am not in a hospital?"
"Certainly not. Having witnessed your accident, I am trying to do what
little I can for you."
The voice was low-pitched; and, further, it struck me as being
disguised.
"May I not know the name of my good Samaritan?" I inquired.
"The name is entirely unnecessary," the voice responded. "From your
card-case I see that your name is Heaton, and that you live in Essex
Street, Strand."
"Yes," I answered.
"How long have you been blind?" the voice inquired, hoarse and deep. I
knew that it was disguised by certain of the syllables being pronounced
differently in various words.
"For a year or more," I answered.
"And does your head still pain you very much?" inquired the voice, while
at the same moment I felt a cool hand placed upon my throbbing brow.
In an instant I seized it by the wrist. The hand tried to wrench itself
free, but not before I had felt the slimness of the fingers, the rings
upon them, and the softness of the palm.
It was a woman's. She had cleverly disguised her voice to cause me to
believe that it was a man's. I placed my right hand upon her arm and
felt it bare. Upon her wrist was a curious bracelet, thin but strangely
pliable, evidently made of some ingeniously worked and twisted wire.
The arm was bare; her skirts were of silk. My nurse was evidently in an
evening toilette.
"Although I cannot see you, madam, I thank you for your kind attention,"
I said, a trifle piqued that she should have endeavoured to mislead me
by her voice.
She drew her hand away quickly, with a slight cry, as though annoyed at
my discovery.
"I witnessed your accident," she explained simply, in a sweet,
well-modulated voice, evidently her own. By her tone, she was no doubt
young, and I wondered whether she were pretty.
"How did it happen? Tell me," I urged.
"You were crossing the road, and were knocked down by a cab. My doctor
has already examined you, and says that you are not seriously hurt. It
is a mere scalp-wound, therefore you may rest content, and congratulate
yourself upon a very narrow escape."
"I congratulate myself upon failing into the hands of a friend," I said.
"Oh, it is really nothing!" exclaimed my unknown hostess. "In a few
hours you will, no doubt, be all right. Rest, and in the morning the
carriage shall take you home."
"Then it is not yet morning?" I inquired, vaguely wondering what hour
it might be.
"No, not yet."
The response sounded afar off, and I felt somehow that my strength was
suddenly failing me. A heavy, drowsy feeling crept over me, and my mind
seemed filled with conflicting thoughts, until I fell asleep, the cool,
soft, sympathetic hand still upon my brow.
When I awoke it was with a refreshed feeling. No one was, however, in
my immediate vicinity. My kind protectress had left me, yet I heard
voices in conversation in the adjoining room. The door communicating
was closed, but there was the unmistakable pop of a champagne-cork and a
jingling of thin glasses that told of festivity. In whose house, I
wondered, was I a guest? Already I had inquired, but had been refused
information.
Suddenly the voices were hushed, and I could distinguish a woman
saying--
"I tell, you he's blind--stone blind. If you doubt me, hold that before
his face and see if he flinches." A man's voice sounded in a low growl
in response, then all was silent again. Only the ticking of a clock
somewhere near me broke the stillness.
Whispers, like low, suspicious exchanges of confidence, soon afterwards
reached my ears. The door had opened silently, and a few seconds later
I felt the soft hand of my protectress again upon my forehead. My
sightless eyes were wide open, and by that she, of course, knew that I
was awake.
"Are you better after your sleep?" the well-cultivated voice inquired
concernedly.
"Very much," I answered, raising myself upon my elbows. "But I have
troubled you far too long, and will go, if you will kindly instruct your
servant to call me a cab."
"Oh dear no," the voice answered pleasantly. "I couldn't think of
allowing you to go home at this hour, and in your weak state, too. It
would be madness. Continue your rest, and you will be quite right again
in the morning."
"You are extremely kind," I protested, "but I really couldn't think of
remaining longer."
"Would you like to repay me for what you so very generously term my
kindness?" she asked. "If so, I would only ask one little favour."
"Certainly. I will grant it if it lies within my power," I responded.
"Well, it is that you would scribble your name here, in this birthday
book of mine. It will be a little souvenir of this evening."
"But I cannot write well nowadays. I can't see, you know," I protested.
"But you can write your signature. If the handwriting is uneven I will
forgive you, in the circumstances," the voice said merrily; and a moment
later she placed a pen with a handle of ivory or pearl within my hand.
"What day of the month?" inquired the sweet voice.
"The second of July," I answered, laughing; and my unknown friend,
having opened the book at that page, guided my hand to the paper,
whereon I scrawled my name.
She took both pen and book, and by the departing swish of her skirts I
knew that she had left me and had passed into the adjoining room.
A strange picture arose in my mind. Was she beautiful? At any rate her
surroundings were elegant, and her low musical voice was that of a young
and refined girl of twenty or so.
I listened, lying there helpless and sorely puzzled. Again curious
whisperings in subdued tones sounded from beyond, but almost at that
same moment some one commenced to play upon the piano Chopin's
"Andante-Spinato," which prevented me from distinguishing either the
words uttered or the trend of the discussion.
For several minutes the sound of the piano filled the room, the touch,
light and delicate, seeming to be that of a woman, when, of a sudden,
there was a loud smashing of glass, and a woman's shrill, piercing
scream rang out, accompanied by the sound of some heavy object falling
to the floor.
In an instant the music ceased, and at the same moment I heard a man's
voice cry wildly--
"Good God! You've--why, you've killed her!"
Next second there sounded a rapid scuffling of feet, a chair was
overturned and broken, and from the quick panting and muttered
ejaculations it seemed as though two persons had closed in deadly
embrace. In their frantic, desperate struggle they advanced into the
room where I was, and I, still utterly helpless, with only a dark void
about me, raised myself in horror and alarm. The man's words held me
appalled.
Some terrible tragedy had occurred. My kind protectress had been
murdered.
The other two persons, whoever they were, fought fiercely quite close to
me, and I could distinctly detect from the vain efforts to shout made by
the weaker, that the stronger held him by the throat, and was
endeavouring to strangle him.
Of a sudden there was a quick, dull thud, the unmistakable sound of a
heavy blow, followed by a short agonised cry.
"Ah-h!" shrieked the voice of the person struck; and at the same instant
a great weight fell back inertly upon me as I was lying, nearly crushing
the breath from me.
I passed my sensitive hands over it quickly. It was the body of a man.
Blood ran warm over my fingers.
He had been stabbed to the heart.