driven along a road which was apparently in the extreme suburbs of
London, the houses that we passed were so scattered and far apart.
Legros was by my side, and two other men were sitting opposite us; but
the windows of the conveyance were drawn up, and although the night
was now perfectly clear, only the vaguest outlines were discernible of
anything outside, except for a moment now and again when we came within
the faint circle of light radiated from an occasional street-lamp.
Suddenly my heart gave a great throb, for by the momentary gleam of
a lamp I saw that the conveyance in which I was travelling was a
mourning-coach—a coach draped in black, and such as is never made use
of except for following the dead. Could it be possible that the hearse
with its dread burden was in front of us, and that we were following
it to some bourn to me unknown? I sank back into my corner, and asked
myself whether it was really true that I, who had left my far-off
country home scarcely twenty-four hours ago, could thus suddenly, and
without any action of my own, have become a participant in some dire
tragedy, of which as yet I knew neither the beginning nor the end.
I was but a boy, just recovering from a long illness, and if a few
tears welled from my eyes in the darkness, it is perhaps hardly to be
wondered at.
But it was of Karavich I was thinking more than of myself. There was
little doubt left in my mind that the poor _cafetier_ had come to some
foul and sudden end. But who and what was he, and what was the nature
of his crime? Who were these men, who had constituted themselves at
once his judges and his executioners, and to what place was the body of
the murdered man being conveyed so mysteriously in the dead of night?
Vain questions one and all. A sense sat heavily upon me of being in the
power of an inexorable Destiny, who was leading me onward whether I
willed it or no, by paths to me unknown, towards a goal I was unable to
foresee.
Soon the last lamp was left behind, and we plunged forward into the
blacker darkness of the country; and now our pace was increased, the
horses breaking into a long swinging trot, which gradually became
wearisome from its absolute monotony. As on our first journey, not a
word was spoken by any one. By-and-by, from sheer fatigue I suppose,
perhaps aided in part by the liqueur given me by Legros, I fell into
a sort of troubled sleep, in which the real and the imaginary were
strangely blended. How long this state of semi-consciousness lasted,
and how many miles we travelled during the time, I had no means of
judging. The abrupt stoppage of the coach, and the cessation of the
monotonous grinding of the wheels, brought me back with a start to the
realities of my position. Legros let down one of the windows. Day was
just breaking. A dim misty light pervaded the atmosphere, through which
as yet nothing was clearly visible. M. Legros and one of the others
alighted and went forward, leaving me and the other man inside.
‘Are we near the end of our journey?’ I said to the silent figure
sitting opposite me.
He started, stared at me for a moment, and then made some
unintelligible reply. Presently the coach moved forward a little way,
and then halted again. Then M. Legros came up, and standing on the
carriage step, spoke to me through the window.
‘Another stage of our journey is at an end,’ he said. ‘We have one more
stage to travel together before we separate. You will now please to
alight; but before doing this, I must ask you to give me your promise
that neither by word nor gesture will you endeavour to attract the
attention or rouse the suspicions of any strangers, not of our party,
whom you may presently see. As I have already told you, you have only
to obey my instructions implicitly, and no harm shall befall you.—Have
I your word, monsieur?’ There was a stern questioning look in his eyes
as he finished speaking.
‘I am helpless, and in your power; I can only do as you wish.’
‘It is well,’ he said as he stepped down and opened the carriage door.
I was glad enough to get out and be able to stretch my cramped limbs.
The other man followed, and during the next few minutes he and M.
Legros kept close to me, one walking on either side of me.
My first glance round showed me that we had alighted some twenty or
thirty yards from a broad, sluggish-flowing river, which I at once said
to myself could be none other than the Thames. A thin white mist lay
on the water, through which only the faintest outlines of the opposite
shore were discernible. In mid-stream, a small steamer lay moored, from
the funnel of which a thin black pennon of smoke was lazily trailing.
We had alighted at a kind of wharf, roughly paved and shut in by some
half-dilapidated buildings, which looked unspeakably forlorn and
desolate in the light of early morning. Some half-score men, dressed in
guernseys and high boots, were lounging about, their hands buried deep
in their pockets, looking on with a stolidity which it seemed as if
nothing could rouse into animation, at the proceedings of the party of
which I formed one, which were conducted without the slightest pretence
at secrecy. A little way in the background stood the plumeless hearse
with its two black horses.
We three men, I in the middle, walked down to the edge of the wharf.
The tide was low; and it was not till we were close to the water that
I perceived a couple of boats which seemed to be waiting our arrival.
The first looked like an ordinary ship’s boat; in it were seated some
half-dozen men resting on their oars, with a cockswain in the stern.
The second boat was a broad old-fashioned tub; but I could not repress
a shudder when I saw the coffin which had been brought down in the
hearse laid along its bottom. Two men were in this boat, one seated at
the head, and the other at the foot, of the coffin.
There was barely time to note all this before, in compliance with a
whispered word from Legros, who still kept by my side, I descended
four or five slimy tide-washed steps, and stepped into the first boat,
followed closely by my companions. As soon as we had seated ourselves,
a signal was given; the men dipped their oars, and a moment later the
ragged wharf and its staring denizens were left behind. And now it was
I first became aware that we had the other boat with its awful freight
in tow. It glided after us through the morning mist, as though the
secret it held was one from which we might never more escape.
Our boat headed in a straight line from the wharf. I had undergone so
many surprises during the last few hours that it was only one more
added to the number to find that our destination was the steamer which
was anchored out in mid-stream. Five minutes later, I found myself on
board, and, at the invitation of Legros, I at once followed him below.
He conducted me into a handsomely fitted up saloon, and then left me.
It could not have been more than a few minutes after this when the
engine gave its first palpitating throb, and the third stage of my
strange journey had begun.
Whither were we bound? What would be the duration of our voyage? And
what possible object could my captors have in taking me so far away
from home? These were questions that put themselves to me again and
again; and then I thought of the fate of poor Karavich, and my heart as
I did so grew faint within me.
It was all an unfathomable mystery, and the more I strove to find some
ray of light to guide me through its mazes, the more bewildered I
became. In order to relieve in some measure the burden of my thoughts,
I began to peer through the port-holes of the cabin, one after another;
but there was little to be seen to gratify my curiosity. A dim line of
desolate flats on the one hand; on the other, an equally dreary expanse
of far-reaching shore, with here and there a few scattered buildings,
from some of which sprung huge chimneys, which were already belching
forth black volumes of smoke to the morning air. It had begun to rain
by this time; but there seemed to be scarcely the faintest breath of
wind; the quick soft pulsing of the engines told me that we were now
making rapid progress through the water.
I had been about half an hour alone, when I was rejoined by Legros.
He was all smiles and amiability. He gave me the impression of a man
from whose mind some burden which had pressed heavily on it had been
suddenly lifted. There was no longer that strained intense look in his
eyes—that air of watchful suspicion which had been so noticeable in him
earlier on, had altogether vanished. He was, if possible, more of an
enigma to me under this new aspect than he had been before.
‘Your eyes have a drowsy look in them, my friend,’ he said pleasantly.
‘First of all, you must partake of some breakfast; and after that, you
shall sleep—sleep—sleep for the next dozen hours, if it so please you.
This little _appartement_ is set aside for your service so long as you
favour us with your company.’ As he spoke, he opened one of a row of
three or four doors, and disclosed a tiny sleeping berth, fitted up and
in every respect ready for occupation, which looked infinitely tempting
to my tired eyes. I took advantage of the opportunity to perform some
needful ablutions. When I re-entered the saloon, breakfast was on the
table. A minute later, Legros and I were joined by two men whom I had
not seen before, together with one of the men who had accompanied us
inside the carriage. The two strangers were in some kind of undress
uniform. Legros smilingly introduced me to them as a young English
friend of his who had taken a fancy to accompany them a little way on
their voyage. They replied by a few polite words in English, in which
they expressed a hope that my voyage would prove a pleasant one; but
polite though their words might be, I thought I detected under them a
hidden ring of sarcasm. After this, the conversation became general,
except as far as I was concerned, it being conducted in the same
unknown language as before.
When I sat down at table, I seemed to have no appetite, but it came
with the occasion, and despite the doubts and fears which beset me,
I made a hearty meal. When the others rose, I retired to my berth,
and in less than ten minutes was sound asleep. It was on the point
of three o’clock when I awoke. On gazing out through the port-hole,
nothing could be seen but a slowly heaving expanse of waters, through
which we were quickly cleaving our way. A dreary drizzle of rain was
still falling. On entering the saloon, I found M. Legros lounging on
the couch over a novel and a cigarette. ‘Ah, ha! you look better, much
better,’ he said with a nod and a smile. ‘I advise you to do as I am
doing. It’s the only thing on a day like this. Here are cigarettes, and
on that shelf you will find some half hundred novels in half-a-dozen
languages. You can of course go on deck if you wish to do so and prefer
a wet coat to a dry one.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I will try what it’s like on deck—at least for a
little while. The fresh air will do me good.’
Of a truth, there was not much to keep any one long on deck. A man at
the wheel, an officer on the bridge, and two seamen forward, all in
oilskins, were the only living beings visible. After lighting a cigar,
I found a sheltered nook under the lee of one of the boats. As far as
my defective geographical knowledge allowed me to judge, we were now
somewhere about the mouth of the Thames and heading towards the North
Sea. On our left, mile after mile of low-lying desolate shore was dimly
discernible through the thin drizzle of rain. This I concluded must be
some portion of the Essex coast. On our right, the gray heaving waters
stretched out into infinitude. Already the dull November afternoon was
darkening to its close. From minute to minute, my spirits within me
seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper; the gloom and desolation of the
great waste of waters seemed but a reflex of the gloom and disquietude
of my own thoughts. In a little while I flung away the end of my cigar
and went below. M. Legros was no longer there; I had the saloon to
myself. It was necessary to pass the time somehow, so, after making
choice of a book, I stretched myself on a sofa and made a resolute
attempt to read. It was a vain effort. Karavich’s melancholy deep-set
eyes and white face blotted out the printed words.
After a time, the steward appeared and began his preparations for
dinner. He was a sandy-haired, foxy-faced man, with a retreating chin
and prominent teeth. I went on, pretending to read, and taking but
little or no notice of him; when presently I was startled by a low
warning ‘Hist!’ and on glancing up, I saw that the man was regarding me
with a strangely earnest look. When he perceived that he had attracted
my attention, he held up a finger, as if in warning, and then said in a
whisper, that was a strange jumble of broken English interlarded with
French, such as I cannot attempt to reproduce: ‘Do not appear to notice
me, monsieur, nor speak to me aloud, for the love of heaven!’
I stared at him in astonishment, but so far obeyed his adjuration as to
remain silent.
‘Monsieur is an Englishman,’ he began again presently, but still in a
whisper so low that only with difficulty could I make out what he said;
‘and his kind heart will not allow him to refuse to do a small service
for one who is in great extremity. Is it not so?’
‘Before I can promise, I must know what the service is that you want me
to do,’ I whispered back.
‘It is only to post a certain letter after monsieur’s arrival in
London.’
I could not repress a start. ‘But how soon am I likely to be back in
London?’ I asked with an eagerness I could not conceal.
‘If all goes well, in less than twenty-four hours from now.’
Here, indeed, was joyful tidings; but I suppose I must have looked
somewhat incredulous, for a moment later the man added: ‘Monsieur will
find that what I tell him is the truth.’
‘In that case, of course, I shall be quite willing to post any letter
you may intrust to my care.’
‘O monsieur, thanks—a thousand thanks!’ replied the man in a tone the
sincerity of which I could not doubt. ‘If Monsieur Karavich could do
so, he would thank monsieur in person, because it is he who is the
writer of the letter.’
‘Monsieur Karavich!’ I exclaimed aloud. ‘I thought that’——
The clatter of a dozen knives on the table drowned my voice. The
steward had turned as white as a sheet. ‘For the love of heaven,
monsieur, do not speak above a whisper,’ he said after a pause and
a frightened look round. ‘What I am doing now is at the risk of my
life—but that matters little. No; Monsieur Karavich is not dead. To
avoid any dangerous questions being asked, he was brought down here
as if he were a dead man in a coffin made for the purpose. Oh, but it
was cunningly contrived! Of all Monsieur Karavich’s friends, no one
knew—there was not one to warn him.’
Before I could say anything further, he had left the cabin, but he was
back again in the course of two or three minutes. ‘Here is the letter,
monsieur,’ he said, still in a whisper. ‘The thanks of ten, of twenty,
of fifty thousand brave hearts would be yours, if they knew the service
you have promised to do. In less than fifty hours, it will be known in
every capital in Europe that Fedor Karavich is a prisoner.’
I took the letter and put it away in an inner pocket of my vest. ‘No
eyes but mine shall see the letter. I will post it with my own hands
as soon as I reach London. But tell me—who and what _is_ Monsieur
Karavich?’
‘One of the greatest and noblest of men, and a true patriot, if ever
there was one. Monsieur Karavich is not his real name; he has twenty
different names for different occasions. By birth he belongs to one of
the noblest families in his native land; but his heart, his life, his
fortune, have been given to the poor and oppressed. His real name is a
name of terror wherever tyranny hides and trembles.’
‘And what will be his fate, now that his enemies have got him in their
clutches?’
‘Who can tell? It is not the first time the Bear has had him in its
grip. He passed ten years in Siberia when little more than a boy.
_Probablement_, he will disappear—vanish utterly, and be heard of never
again.’
‘Is there no way of helping him? Are there no means of rescuing him?’
The man spread his hands with a gesture eloquent of despair. ‘There
is no hope—none,’ he answered with a half-sob in his voice. There was
silence for a few moments, then I noticed his strange face lighten,
and coming close to me, he said in a lower whisper than before: ‘And
yet, monsieur, who can tell? Fedor Karavich has friends where none
would expect to find them—friends secret, but devoted to the cause,
even amongst the highest of the high. All that gold can do, all that
powerful influence unseen and working in the dark, can do for him will
be done; but after all’—— He finished with a despondent shake of the
head.
‘The cause, as you call it, seems to have its emissaries everywhere,’ I
remarked. ‘Even you yourself’—— I paused. If an apparition had suddenly
stood before the man, he could scarcely have looked more scared. He
gave a great gasp, but did not speak.
A moment later, we heard the sound of footsteps. As M. Legros entered
by one door, the steward disappeared through another. I became at once
immersed in my novel.
The same party sat down to dinner that had met at breakfast. Each of
them addressed a few words to me in English, and treated me with the
utmost courtesy; but, as before, the chief part of the conversation was
kept up in a language of which I knew nothing. When dinner was over,
cigarettes and cards were introduced, and I was invited by M. Legros
to form one in a rubber of whist. This, however, I declined to do, and
went back to my book instead. And so a couple of hours sped quietly
away.
At length I said to M. Legros: ‘If you have no objection, and these
gentlemen will not think it rude on my part, I will retire to my berth.’
‘Do so by all means,’ he answered. ‘But if I were you, I would only
partially undress. It is by no means unlikely that you may be called in
a hurry.’
About four hours later, I was called in a hurry. A tap came to my door,
and the voice of Legros said: ‘Are you awake, monsieur? If so, be good
enough to dress as quickly as possible.’
Five minutes later I joined him in the saloon.
‘I am grieved to say that we are about to lose the pleasure of your
company,’ he observed in his blandest tones. ‘Whatever my regrets may
be, I am afraid that I can scarcely expect you to share them; but it
is just possible that we may have the felicity of meeting again on
some future occasion. In any case, we shall hardly fail to remember
each other. Wrap this cloak around you; I trust you will accept it at
my hands as a slight souvenir of our acquaintance; and put this flask
of cognac in your pocket; you will find the night-air cold on the
water.—And now for a few last words of caution.’ His brows contracted
and his face seemed to darken a little as he went on: ‘For your own
sake, and if you value your future welfare—nay, what do I say, if you
value life itself—you will not speak one word to any living being of
that which you have seen and heard during the past few hours. Should we
find the authorities in London setting on foot certain inquiries, we
shall feel assured that any information they may have acquired can only
have emanated from you. In that case—— But I feel sure I need not say
more, except that I wish you to believe that my warning is intended for
your good. And now, _cher_ monsieur, if you are ready.’
I followed him on deck like a man in a dream. I had not noticed till
now that the screw of the steamer had ceased to revolve and that
we were scarcely moving through the water. The night was bright and
starlit. ‘Yonder little vessel—what you English, I believe, call a
fishing-smack—will be your home for the next hour or two,’ said M.
Legros, pointing to a dark object some little distance away. ‘It will
convey you to the nearest port, from which you will readily make your
way to London.’ He took my hand and held it with a hearty grip. ‘And
now, adieu, and _bon voyage_.’ Then in a whisper: ‘Remember my warning.
In a pocket of the cloak you will find money to defray your expenses to
London.’
They were his last words to me. A moment later I was being transferred
in a small boat from the steamer to the smack. Even before I got aboard
the latter, the steamer was under way again. We could see her lights
for a little while after she herself was lost to view, then they, too,
were swallowed up in the darkness.
The crew of the smack consisted of three men and a boy. They were
a rough but kindly set, and did their best under the circumstances
to make me comfortable. I asked them no questions, nor did they ask
me any. No doubt, M. Legros had paid them well for the service they
had undertaken to perform. Soon after daybreak they put me ashore at
Lowestoft, and by noon I found myself in London. I at once took a cab
and drove off to my friend Gascoigne’s lodgings, only stopping for a
moment by the way to post poor Karavich’s letter. I had an impression,
but it may have been groundless, that my movements were watched and
followed both at Lowestoft and in London.
I had not been an hour in Gascoigne’s company before I had so far
disobeyed M. Legros’ warning as to have told my friend everything.
At my age, it could not well have been otherwise; the burden of such
a secret was too heavy for my young shoulders to bear. But I had no
desire to share it with any one else: once I had told the story to my
friend, I felt that I could hold my tongue for ever.
Three days later, in the dusk of evening, Gascoigne and I strolled
down the street to a certain house in which Karavich’s note had been
addressed. We found the number readily enough. The ground-floor was a
baker’s shop with an unmistakable English name on the sign—certainly
not the name on Karavich’s letter. In the window was a card inscribed:
‘First and Second Floors to let Unfurnished;’ and sure enough, on
looking up we saw four uncurtained windows staring blankly into the
dark like so many sightless eyes. We made no inquiry at the shop, but
hurried away, feeling as if we had touched the verge of another mystery.
One evening, early in the following spring, I was standing gazing into
a jeweller’s window in Bond Street, when a passing stranger halted,
apparently with the view of following my example. I was conscious
of his presence, but that was all. I did not even glance at him.
Suddenly a voice whispered in my ear: ‘Fedor Karavich has escaped; let
his enemies beware!’ I turned with a start, but only to see a tall
dark-clothed figure striding swiftly away.
* * * * *
Before these lines see the light, twelve thousand miles of ocean will
intervene between me and the readers of them. Had it not been so, in
all probability the strange experience embodied therein would never
have been made public.
ON PREVENTION OF BLINDNESS IN THE NEW-BORN.
BY A MEMBER OF THE OPHTHALMOLOGICAL SOCIETY.
Among the grandest of our charitable institutions may be counted those
for the care and instruction of the blind. Their utility and the
benefit they confer are beyond question, and they are in the highest
degree deserving of moral and material support. It is fortunate that
human sympathy is seldom slow in extending itself to those, be they
young or old, who have lost the priceless boon of vision and who dwell
in ‘eternal night.’ Whilst this is the case, however, and it is a
matter for thankfulness, it is well to remember that ours is peculiarly
an age when prevention is held to be better than cure, and when
considered in connection with cases that admit of ‘no cure,’ the wisdom
of pursuing a course of ‘prevention’ is only too evident.
It is well known that a large number of the inmates of our blind
institutions have been rendered fit objects for admission by
preventable causes. The purpose the writer has now before him is the
consideration of a class of such preventable cases, but which also
embraces the largest proportion. It is peculiarly a subject on which
the public need information, and by the acquirement and diffusion of
which knowledge, it will be within their power to do an amount of good,
and which will tend in some degree to lessen the number blinded in the
manner to be now described.