Hugh Conway, the English novelist, whose real name was
Frederick John Fargus, was born December 26, 1847, the son of
a Bristol auctioneer. His early ambition was to lead a
seafaring life, and with this object he entered the school
frigate Conway--from which he took his pseudonym--then
stationed on the Mersey. His father was against the project,
with the result that Conway abandoned the idea and entered his
parent's office, where he found ample leisure to employ
himself in writing occasional newspaper articles and tales.
His first published work was a volume of poems, which appeared
in 1879, and achieved a moderate success. But Hugh Conway is
chiefly known to the reading public for his famous story
"Called Black." The work was submitted to a number of
publishers before it was finally accepted and published, in
1884. Attracting little notice at first, it eventually made a
hit, and within five years 350,000 copies were sold. Several
other works appeared from Conway's pen in rapid succession,
but none of them attained the popularity of "Called Back."
Hugh Conway died at Monte Carlo on May 15, 1885.
_I.--A Blind Witness_
I was young, rich, and possessed of unusual vigour and strength. Life,
you would think, should have been very pleasant to me. I was beyond the
reach of care; I was as free as the wind to follow my own devices. But
in spite of all these advantages, I was as helpless and miserable as the
poorest toiler in the country.
For I was blind, stone blind!
The dread disease that robbed me of my sight had crept on me slowly
through the years, and now I lay in my bedroom in Walpole Street, with
my old nurse, Priscilla Drew, sleeping on an extemporised bed outside my
door to tend and care for me.
It was a stifling night in August. I could not sleep. Despair filled my
heart. I was blind, blind, blind! I should be blind for ever! So
entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have
performed at all the operation which the doctors said might give me back
the use of my eyes.
Presently a sudden, fierce longing to be out of doors came over me. It
was night, very few people would be about. Old Priscilla slept soundly.
I rose from my bed, and, dressing myself with difficulty, crept,
cautious as a thief, to the street door. The street, a quiet one, was
deserted. For a time I walked backwards and forwards up the street. The
exercise filled me with a peculiar elation. By carefully counting my
footsteps, I gauged accurately the position of my house. At last, I
decided to return, and opening the door, I entered and climbed the
stairs. The atmosphere of the place struck me as strange and unfamiliar.
I felt for a bracket which should have been upon the wall, that I had
often been warned to avoid knocking with my head. It was not there. I
had entered the wrong house.
As I turned to grope my way back, I heard the murmur of voices. I made
my way in the direction of these sounds to seek for assistance.
Suddenly, there fell upon my ears the notes of a piano and a woman's
voice singing.
Music with me was an absorbing passion. I listened enthralled, placing
my ear close to the door from behind which the sound proceeded. It was a
song that few amateurs would dare to attempt, and I waited eagerly to
hear how the beautiful voice would render the finale. But I never heard
that last movement.
Instead of the soft, sweet, liquid notes of passionate love, there was a
spasmodic, fearful gasp succeeded by a long, deep groan. The music
stopped abruptly, and the piercing cry of a woman rang out. I threw open
the door and rushed headlong into the room. I heard an oath, an
exclamation of surprise, and the muffled cry of the woman. I turned in
the direction of that faint cry. My foot caught in something, and I fell
prostrate on the body of a man. Before I could rise a strong hand
gripped my throat and I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock.
"Spare me!" I cried. "I am blind, blind, blind!"