"How can I sufficiently repay you?" I said. "This service you have
rendered me has opened up to me an absolutely new life."
"I desire no repayment, Mr Heaton," he answered in his deep, hearty
voice. "That my treatment of malignant sclerotitis is successful, and
that I have been the means of restoring sight to one of my fellow-men,
is sufficient in itself."
"But I have one question I wish to ask you," I said. "The mode in which
you were introduced to me is extremely puzzling. Do you know nothing of
the lady named Edna?"
"I know her--that is all."
"Where does she live?"
"I regret that I am not able to answer your question."
"You are bound to secrecy regarding her?"
"I may as well admit the truth--I am."
"It's extraordinary," I ejaculated. "Very extraordinary!"
"Not so extraordinary as the recovery of your vision," he observed.
"Remain perfectly quiet, and don't take upon yourself any mental
problems. A great deal now depends upon your own calmness."
The fact that my sight was gradually returning to me seemed too
astonishing to believe. This man Slade, whoever he was, had performed a
feat in surgery which seemed to me miraculous.
Again and again I thanked him, but when he had gone and I told Parker
she only gave vent to a grunt of incredulity. Yet had I not actually
seen the silhouette of Slade, and the streaks of sunlight beyond? Had I
not already had ocular proof that a cure was being effected?
What would Dick, dear old Dick, say on his return when he found me
cured? I laughed as I pictured to myself his amazement at finding me at
the railway-station on his arrival--looking for him.
Through a whole month Slade came regularly each day at noon, and surely,
by slow degrees, my vision became strengthened, until at length I found
that, even though I wore smoke-darkened glasses, I could see almost as
well as I had done in the days of my youth. The glasses destroyed all
colour, it was true, yet I could now go forth into the busy Strand,
mingle with the bustling crowds, and revel in their life and movement.
Indeed, in those first days of the recovery of my vision I went about
London in taxis and omnibuses, hither and thither, with all the
enthusiasm of a country cousin or a child on his first visit to the
Metropolis. All was novel and interesting on my return to a knowledge
of life.
Slade, I found, was a gentlemanly fellow with the air of a clever
physician, but all my efforts to discover his abode proved unavailing,
and, moreover, just as the cure was complete he one day failed to call
as usual. Without word he relinquished me just as suddenly as he had
come; but he had restored to me that precious sense which is one of
God's chief gifts.
In those September days, when all the world seemed gay and bright, I
went forth into the world with a new zest for life. I took short trips
to Richmond and Hampton Court, so that I might again gaze upon the green
trees, the winding river, and the fields that I loved so well; and I
spent a day at Brighton, and stood for a full couple of hours watching
the rolling sea beating upon the beach. Six weeks before I was a
hopeless misanthrope, whose life had been utterly sapped by the
blighting affliction upon me. Now I was strong and healthy in mind and
in body; prepared to do anything or to go anywhere.
It was a fancy of mine to go down to the home of my youth, Heaton Manor,
a place well known to those acquainted with the district around
Tewkesbury. The great old mansion, standing in the centre of a wide,
well-wooded park that slopes down to the Severn close to the Haw Bridge,
had long been closed, and in the hands of the old servant Baxter and his
wife. Indeed, I had never lived there since, on my father's death, it
had passed into my possession. The rooms were opened for my inspection,
and as I wandered through them and down the long oak-panelled gallery,
from the walls of which rows of my time-dimmed ancestors, in their
ruffles, velvets, and laces looked down solemnly, a flood of
recollections of my sunny days of childhood crowded upon me.
Seven years had passed since my last visit there. The old ivy covered
manor was, indeed, dilapidated, and sadly out of repair. The furniture
and hangings in many of the rooms seemed rotting with damp and neglect,
and as I entered the nursery, and was shown my own toys, it seemed as
though, like Rip Van Winkle, I had returned again to life after a long
absence.
Alone, I wandered in the park down the avenue of grand old elms. The
wide view across the brimming river, with Hasfield Church, and the old
Tithe Barn at Chaceley standing prominent in the landscape, had, I saw,
in no way changed. I looked back upon the house--a grand old home it
was, one that any man might have been proud of, yet of what use was it
to me? Should I sell it? Or should I allow it to still rot and decay
until my will became proved, and it passed into the hands of my heirs
and assigns?
I felt loth to part with it, for the old place had been built soon after
the fierce and historic battle had been fought at Tewkesbury, and ever
since Richard Heaton had commanded one of the frigates which went forth
to meet the Armada, it had been the ancestral home of the Heatons.
How strange it all was! At every turn I peered upon the world through
my grey glass spectacles, and took as keen an interest in it as does a
child. All seemed new to me; my brain, like a child's, became filled
with new impressions and fresh ideas. After my dull, colourless
existence of sound and touch, this bright life of movement filled me
with a delight that pen cannot describe. Imagine, however, what joy it
is to one who has been pronounced incurably blind to look upon the world
again and taste of its pleasures. It was that joy which gave lightness
to my heart.
Yet over all was one grim shadow--the remembrance of that fateful night
with its grim tragedy. Who was Edna? Where was she? What was she?
Through her instrumentality I had regained my sight, but her identity
and her whereabouts still remained hidden, as she had plainly told me
they would be before we had parted.
Hither and thither I went, feted and feasted by my friends at the
Savage, the Devonshire, and other clubs, yet my mind was ever troubled
by the mystery of the woman who had, from motives that were entirely
hidden, exerted herself on my behalf, first in saving my life from
unscrupulous assassins, and, secondly, in restoring my vision.
I entertained a strong desire to meet her, to grasp her small hand, to
thank her. I longed to see her.