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828
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CONWAY, HUGH. CALLED BAck. (A Novel.)
By HUGH ConwAy. New York: Henry Holt &
Co., 1884. 16mo, pp. 254. (Leisure Hour Series,
No. 156.)
CALLED BACK. (A Novel.) By HUGH CoN-
wAY. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1884. 16mo,
pp. 254. (Leisure Hour Series, No. 156.)
FICTION. CALLED BACK. (A Novel.) By HUGH
CoNWAY. New York : Henry Holt & Co., 1884.
16mo, pp. 254. (Leisure Hour Series, No. 156.)
$43
F 2 LEISURAE HOUR SERIES.—AWo. 156
CALLED BACK
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l
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1884

W. L. MERSHON & Co.,
Printers and Electrotypers,
RAHway, N. J.
Chap.
II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
CONTENTS.
IN DARKNESS AND IN DANGER .
DRUNK OR DREAMING ! . . .
THE FAIREST SIGHT OF ALL .
NOT FOR LOVE OR MARRIAGE
BY LAW, NOT LOVE . . . .
UNSATISFACTORY ANSWERS . .
CLAIMING RELATIONSHIP
CALLED BACK
A BLACK LIE
IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH
A HELL UPON EARTH .
THE NAME OF THE MAN .
A TERRIBLE CONFESSION .
DOES SHE REMEMBER P
FROM GRIEF To Joy
Page.
23
42
57
78
92
IO5
I2O
I47
I6 I
176
I9 I
2I4.
229
£r
%. Peć Aware,
/*26 - 7733
CALLED BACK.
CHAPTER I.
IN DARKNESS AND IN DANGER.
HAVE a reason for writing this tale, or it
would not become public property.
Once, in a moment of confidence, I made a
friend acquainted with some curious circumstances
connected with one period of my life. I believe I
asked him to hold his tongue about them—he
says not. Any way, he told another friend, with
embellishments I suspect; this friend told an-
other, and so on and on. What the tale grew to
af last I shall probably never learn; but since I
was weak enough to trust my private affairs to
another I have been looked upon by my neigh-
bors as a man with a history—one who has a ro-
mance hidden away beneath an outwardly pro-
saic life.
For myself I should not trouble about this. I
should laugh at the garbled versions of my story
set floating about by my own indiscretion. It
would matter little to me that one good friend has
an idea that I was once a Communist and a mem-
2 CALLED BACK.
ber of the inner circle of a secret society—that
another has heard that I have been tried on a
capital charge—that another knows I was at one
time a Roman Catholic, on whose behalf a special
miracle was performed. If I were alone in the
world and young, I dare say I should take no steps
to still these idle rumors. Indeed, very young
men feel flattered by being made objects of
curiosity and speculation.
But I am not very young, nor am I alone. There
is one who is dearer to me than life itself. One
from whose heart, I am glad to say, every shadow
left by the past is rapidly fading—one who only
wishes to live her true sweet life without mystery
or concealment—wishes to be thought neither
better nor worse than she really is. It is she who
shrinks from the strange and absurd reports which
are flying about as to our antecedents—she who is
vexed by those leading questions sometimes asked
by inquisitive friends; and it is for her sake that I
look up old journals, call back old memories of joy
and grief, and tell every one, who cares to read, all
he can possibly wish to know, and, it may be,
more than he has a right to know, of our lives.
This done, my lips are sealed forever on the sub-
ject. , My tale is here—let the inquisitive take his
answer from it, not from me.
Perhaps, after all, I write this for my own sake
as well. I also hate mysteries. One mystery
which I have never been able to determine may
CAL LED BACK. 3
have given me a dislike to every thing which will
not admit of an easy explanation.
To begin, I must go back more years than I
care to enumerate; although I could, if necessary,
fix the day and the year. I was young, just past
twenty-five. I was rich, having when I came of
age succeeded to an income of about two thousand
a year; an income which, being drawn from the
funds, I was able to enjoy without responsibilities
or anxiety as to its stability and endurance.
Although since my twenty-first birthday I had
been my own master I had no extravagant follies
to weigh me down, no debts to hamper me. I was
without bodily ache or pain; yet I turned again
and again on my pillow and said that my life for
the future would be little more than a curse to me.
Had Death just robbed me of one who was dear
to me? No; the only ones I had ever loved, my
father and mother, had died years ago. Were my
ravings those peculiar to an unhappy lover? No;
my eyes had not yet looked with passion into a
woman's eyes—and now would never do so.
Neither Death nor Love made my lot seem the
most miserable in the world.
I was young, rich, free as the wind to follow my
own devices. I could leave England to-morrow
and visit the most beautiful places on the earth:
those places I had longed and determined to see.
Now, I knew I should never see them, and I
groaned in anguish at the thought.
4 CALLED BACK.
My limbs were strong. I could bear fatigue and
exposure. I could hold my own with the best
walkers and the swiftest runners. The chase, the
sport, the trial of endurance had never been too
long or too arduous for me—I passed my left hand
over my right arm and felt the muscles firm as
of old. Yet I was as helpless as Samson in his
captivity.
For, even as Samson, I was blind
Blind ' Who but the victim can even faintly
comprehend the significance of that word 2 Who
can read this and gauge the depth of my anguish
as I turned and turned on my pillow and thought
of the fifty years of darkness which might be mine
—a thought which made me wish that when I fell
asleep it might be to wake no more?
Blind After hovering around me for years the
demon of darkness had at last laid his hand upon
me. After letting me, for a while, almost cheat
myself into security, he had swept down upon me,
folded me in his sable wings and blighted my life.
Fair forms, sweet sights, bright colors, gay scenes
mine no more | He claimed them all, leaving me
darkness, darkness, ever darkness | Far better to
die, and, it may be, wake in a new world of light—
“Better,” I cried in my despair, “better even the
dull red glare of Hades than the darkness of the
world !”
This last gloomy thought of mine shows the state
of mind to which I was reduced.
CA LL/E D BACK. 5
The truth is that, in spite of hope held out to
me, I had resolved to be hopeless. For years I
had felt that my foe was lying in wait for me.
Often when gazing on some beautiful object, some
fair scene, the right to enjoy which made one fully
appreciate the gift of sight, a whisper seemed to
reach my ear—“Some day I will strike again, then
it will be all over.” I tried to laugh at my fears,
but could never quite get rid of the presentiment
of evil. My enemy had struck once—why not
again P
Well I can remember his first appearance—his
first attack. I remember a light-hearted School-
boy so engrossed in sport and study that he scarcely
noticed how strangely dim the sight of one eye was
getting, or the curious change which was taking
place in its appearance. I remember the boy's
father taking him to London, to a large dull-looking
house in a quiet dull street. I remember our wait-
ing in a room in which were several other people;
most of whom had shades or bandages over their
eyes. Such a doleful gathering it was that I felt
much relieved when we were conducted to another
room in which sat a kind pleasant-spoken man,
called by my father Mr. Jay. This eminent man,
after applying something which I know now was
belladonna to my eyes, and which had the effect
for a short time of wonderfully improving my
sight, peered into my eyes by the aid of strong
lenses and mirrors—I remember at the time wish-
6 CAZZZZ) BACK.
ing some of those lenses were mine—what splen-
did burning glasses they would make Then he
placed me with my back to the window and held
a lighted candle before my face. All these pro-
ceedings seemed so funny that I was half inclined
to laugh. My father's grave anxious face alone
restrained me from so doing. As soon as Mr. Jay
had finished his researches he turned to my
father—
“Hold the candle as I held it. Let it shine in-
to the right eye first. Now, Mr. Vaughan, what
do you see ? How many candles, I mean?”
“Three—the one in the center small and bright,
but upside down.”
“Yes; now try the other eye. How many
there P’’ -
My father looked long and carefully.
“I can only see one,” he said, “the large one.”
“This is called the catoptric test, an old-fash-
ioned but infallible test, now almost superseded.
The boy is suffering from lenticular cataract.”
This terribly sounding name took away all my
wish to laugh. I glanced at my father and was
surprised to notice his face wearing an expression
of relief. •
“That may be cured by an operation,” he said.
“Certainly; but in my judgment it is not well
to meddle, so long as the other eye remains unaf-
fected.” -
“Is there danger ?”
CA//. F/X BACK. 7
“There is always danger of the disease appear-
ing in the sound eye: but, of course, it may not
happen. Come to me at the first sign of such a
thing. Good morning.”
The great specialist bowed us out, and I re-
turned to myschool life, troubling little about the
matter, as it caused me no pain, and, although in
less than a twelvemonth the sight of one eye was
completely obscured, I could see well enough for
every purpose with the remaining one.
But I remembered every word of that diagnosis,
although it was years before I recognized the im-
portance of it. It was only when compelled by
an accident to wear for Some days a bandage over
my sound eye that I realized the danger in which
I stood, and from that moment felt that a merci-
less foe was ever waiting his time.
And now the time had come. In the first flush
of my manhood, with all that one could wish for
at my command, the foe had struck again.
He came upon me swiftly—far more swiftly
than is his custom in such cases; yet it was long
before I would believe the worst—long before I
would confess to myself that my failing sight and
the increasing fogginess of every thing I looked at
were due to more than a temporary weakness. I
was hundreds of miles from home, in a country
where traveling is slow. A friend being with me,"
I had no wish to make myself a nuisance by "cut-
ting our expedition short. So I said nothing for
8 CALLED BACK.
weeks, although at the end of each week my heart
sank at the fresh and fearful advances made by
the foe. At last, being unable to bear it, or in
fact conceal it longer, I made known my condition
to my comrade. We turned our faces homewards,
and by the time London was reached and the long
journey at an end, every thing to me was blurred,
dim and obscured. I could just see, that was all !
I flew to the eminent oculist's. He was out of
town. Had been ill, even at the point of death.
He would not be back for two months, nor would
he see any patient until his health was quite re-
stored. . -
I had pinned my faith upon this man. No
doubt there were as skillful oculists in London,
Paris, or other capitals; but it was my fancy that,
if I was to be saved, I could only be saved by Mr.
Jay. Dying men are allowed their whims: even
the felon about to be hanged can choose his own
breakfast, so I had an undoubted right to choose
my own surgeon. I resolved to wait in darkness
until Mr. Jay returned to his duties.
I was foolish. I had better have trusted myself
in other clever hands. Before a month was over
I had lost all hope, and at the end of six weeks I
was almost distracted. Blind, blind, blind I
should be blind forever ! So entirely had I lost
heart that I began to think I would not have the
operation performed at all. Why fly against fate?
For the rest of my life I was doomed to darkness.
CA/C/A/O B.A. CAE. 9
The subtlest skill, the most delicate hand, the
most modern appliances would never restore
the light I have lost. For me the world was at
an end.
Now that you know the cause, can you not
imagine me, after weeks of darkness, broken in
spirit, and, as I lay sleepless that night, almost
wishing that the alternative refused by Job—to
curse God and die—were mine? If you are una-
ble to realize my condition, read the above to any
one who has lost his sight. He will tell you what
his feelings were when the calamity first came
upon him. He will understand the depths of my
woe
I was not left entirely alone in my trouble. Like
Job, I had comforters; but, unlike Eliphaz and
Company, they were good-hearted fellows who
spoke with cheerful conviction as to the certainty
of my recovery. I was not so grateful for these
visits as I should have been. I hated the thought
of any one seeing me in my helpless condition.
Day by day my frame of mind grew more and
more desponding and morbid.
My best friend of all was a humble one: Pris-
cilla Drew, an old and trusted servant of my
mother's. She had known me from earliest child-
hood. When I returned to England I could not
bear the thought of trusting my helpless self en-
tirely to a stranger's care, so I wrote to her and
begged her to come to me. I could at least groan
IO , CAZZED BACK.
and lament before her without feeling shame. She
came, wept over me for a while, and then, like a
sensible woman, bestirred herself to do all she
could to mitigate the hardships of my lot. She
found comfortable lodgings, installed her trouble-
Some charge therein, and day and night was ever
at his beck and call. Even now, as I lay awake
and tossing in mental anguish, she was sleeping on
an extemporized bed just outside the folding
doors, which opened from my bed-room to the sit-
ting-room.
It was a stifling night in August. The sluggish
air which crept in through the open window made
little perceptible difference in the temperature of
my room. Every thing seemed still, hot and dark.
The only sound I could hear was the regular
breathing of the sleeper behind the door, which
she had left an inch or two ajar in order that she
might catch my faintest call. I had gone early to
bed. What had I to wait up for now P It was
sleep and sleep alone which brought forgetfulness,
but to-night sleep refused to come to me. I
struck my repeater. I had bought one in order
that I might, at least, know the time. The little {
bell told me it was just past one o'clock. Crav-
ing for sleep I sighed and sank back upon my pil-
low.
Presently a sudden fierce longing to be out of
doors came over me. It was night—very few
people would be about. There was a broad pave-
CA LZAZZO BA CA. I I
ment in front of the row of houses in one of
which I lodged. Up and down this I might walk
in perfect safety. Even if I only sat on the door-
step it would be better than lying in this close
hot room, tossing from side to side unable to
sleep.
The desire took such full possession of me that
I was on the point of calling old Priscilla and
making her aware of it; but knowing she was
sleeping soundly, I hesitated. I had been un-
usually restless, Cross and exacting during the day,
and my old nurse—heaven reward her l—was
serving me for love, not for money. Why should
I disturb her ? Let me begin to learn to help my-
self like others in my wretched plight. I had al-
ready acquired this much, to dress without assist-
ance. If I could now do this and leave the room
unheard, I could, I felt sure, grope my way to the
front door, let myself out, and, whenever I chose,
return by the aid of the latchkey. The thought of
even a temporary independence was attractive, and
my spirits rose as I resolved to make the attempt.
I crept softly from my bed and slowly, but eas-
ily dressed myself, hearing all the while the sleep-
er's regular breathing. Then, cautious as a thief, I
stole to the door which led from my bed-room to
the landing. I opened it without noise and stood
on the thick carpet outside, smiling as I thought
of the sleeper's dismay if she awoke and discov-
ered my absence. I closed the door, then, guid-
I 2 - CA/C/A3/O AEA CA.
ing myself by the balustrade, passed lightly down
the stairs and reached the street door without
accident.
There were other lodgers in the house, among
them young men who came in at all hours, so, the
door being always left on the latch, I had no bolts
to contend with. In a moment I was on the door-
step, with the door behind me closed.
I stood for a short time irresolute, almost trem-
bling at my temerity. This was the first time I
had ventured beyond the house without a guiding
hand to trust to. Yet I knew there was nothing
to fear. The street—a quiet one—was deserted.
The pavement was broad, I could walk up and
down without let or hindrance, guiding myself,
after the manner of other blind persons, by tap-
ping mystick against the curbstone or the railings.
Still I must take a few precautions to enable me
to ascertain my latitude and longitude at will.
I came down the four steps which led from the
front door, turned myself to the right, and, by aid
of the line of railings, set my face towards the end
of the street. Then I began to walk and to count
my steps, sixty-two of which brought my right
foot on to a road, which told me I had reached
my limit. I turned, counted back the sixty-two
paces, and then sixty-five more in the same direc-
tion before I found myself again off the pavement.
My calculations were verified by my knowing that
my house was very nearly in the center of the row.
{
CA/L/A2/D BACK. I3
I was now quite at my ease; I had determined
the length of my tether; I could walk up and
down the deserted street, yet, at any time I wished
to do so, could, by counting from either end, arrest
my steps in front of my abode.
So, mightily proud of my success, for a while I
went up and down—up and down. I heard one
or two cabs pass me, and also one or two persons
afoot. As these latter seemed to pay no attention
to me, I felt glad to think that my appearance and
gait were not such as to attract notice. Most men
like to conceal their infirmities.
This night excursion did me a great deal of
good. Perhaps it was finding that I was not alto-
gether so helpless and dependent that changed in
a few minutes my whole frame of mind. The
mental rebound took place. I went from despond-
ency to hope—extravagant hope—even to cer-
tainty. Like a revelation it came to me that my
malady was curable ; that, in spite of my present-
iment, what friends had been assuring me would
prove to be the truth. So elated I grew that I
threw my head back and walked with a firm quick
step, almost forgetting that I was sightless. I
began to think of many things, and my thoughts
were happier ones than I had known for months.
I gave up counting my paces, I walked on and on,
planning what I should do; where I should go when
my darkness was removed. I do not know whether
I may have at times guided myself by the wall or
I4 CA/C LED BACK.
pavement edge; but if so I did it mechanically
and instinctively, without noticing the action or
remembering it afterwards.
I cannot say whether it may be possible for a
blind man, who can divest himself of the fear of
encountering unseen obstacles, to walk as straightly
and accurately as one who can see. I only know
that, in my preoccupied and elevated State of mind,
I must have done so. Intoxicated and carried
away by the return of hope, I may have walked
as a Somnambulist or as one in a trance. Any way,
forgetful of all save my brighter thoughts, I went
on and on, heedless of the missing sense, until
coming full against a person walking in the oppo-
site direction recalled me from my visions and
brought me back to my misery. I felt the man I
had encountered shake himself free ; I heard him
mutter “stupid fool ’’ and go swiftly on his way,
leaving me motionless on the spot where the col-
lision had occurred, wondering where I was and
what I should do.
It was no use attempting to find my way back.
unaided. Not having brought my repeater with me
I could not even say how long I had been walk-
ing. It might have been ten minutes, it might
have been an hour since I gave up counting my
steps. Judging by the number of things I had
thought of since that rapturous exaltation of mind
commenced it seemed more likely to be the latter.
Now that I had come back to the earth I must be
CA/./A. D BACK. I5
content to remain on this particular spot of it un-
til I heard the step of a policeman or some one
else who might happen to be abroad at this un-
usual hour—unusual, at least in this quiet part of
London. I leaned my back against the wall and
waited patiently.
I soon heard an approaching step; but such a
staggering, uncertain, lurching kind of step, that
from the sound of the feet alone I was able to
determine the condition of their owner, and was
obliged to decide that he was not the man I
wanted. I must let him pass and wait for another.
But the feet staggered up to me and stopped near
me, whilst a voice, jolly, but like the feet unsteady,
cried—
“’Nother feller worsh than me! Can't get on
at all—eh, old chap P Comfort tº think some one's
head 'll ache worsh than mine to-morrow !”
“Can you tell me the way to Walpole street P”
I asked, standing erect to show him I was
sober.
“Walpole street—course I can—closhe by--
third to left I think.”
“If you are going that way would you lead me
to the corner of it. Unhappily I am blind and
have lost my way.”
“Blind, poor beggar—not screwed then. Guess
I'm in nice state to lead any one. Blind leading
blind—both tumble into ditch. I shay, though,”
he added with drunken gravity, “make a bargain
I6 CA LIA2 D BACK.
—I lend you eyes, you lend me legsh. Good idea.
Come 'long.” As
He took my arm and we went yawing up the
street. Presently he stopped.
“Walpole street,” he hiccupped. “Shall I take
you to your house P”
“No, thank you. Please put my hand on the
railing of the corner house. I shall be all right then.”
“Wish I were all right. Wish I could borrow
your legs to take me home,” said my bibulous
conductor. “Good night—Blesh you.”
I heard him tack away, then turned to complete
my journey.
I was not quite certain as to which end of
Walpole street I was starting from ; that mattered
little. Either sixty-two or sixty-five paces would
leave me in front of my door. I counted sixty-
two, and then felt for the entrance between the
railings: not finding it, I went on a step or two
until I came to it. I was glad to have reached
home without accident, and, to tell the truth, was
beginning to feel a little ashamed of my escapade.
I hoped that Priscilla had not discovered my
absence and alarmed the house, and I trusted I
should be able to regain my room as quietly as I
had quitted it. With all my elaborate calculations,
I was not quite sure that I had hit upon the right
house; but if they were incorrect I could only be
a door or two away from it, and the key in my
hand would be a certain test,
CA/C/A2/D BACK. 17
I went up the doorsteps—was it four or five I
had counted as I came out 2 I fumbled for the
keyhole and inserted the latchkey. It turned
easily, and the door opened. I had not made a
mistake. I felt an inward glow of Satisfaction at
having hit upon the house at the first attempt.
“It must have been a blind man who first dis-
covered that Necessity is the mother of Inven-
tion,” I said, as I softly closed the door behind
me and prepared to creep up to my own room.
I wondered what the time was. All I knew was
that it must be still night, for I was able to dis-
tinguish light from darkness. As I had found
myself so close to Walpole street I could not have
walked for any length of time in my ecstatic state,
so I fancied it must be somewhere about two
o'clock.
Even more anxious than when I started to make
no noise which might awaken people, I found the
bottom of the staircase and began my stealthy
aSCent.
Somehow, blind as I was, the place seemed
unfamiliar to me. The balustrade I was touching
did not seem the same. The very texture of the
carpet under my feet seemed different. Could it
be possible that I had entered the wrong house !
There are plenty of instances on record of a key
having opened a strange lock. Could I, through
such a circumstance, have strayed into a neigh-
bor's house? I paused ; the perspiration rising
I8 CAL LED BACK.
on my brow as I thought of the awkward situation
in which I should be placed if it were so. For a
moment I resolved to retrace my steps and try the
next house ; but I could not be quite sure I was
wrong. Then I remembered that in my own house
a bracket, with a plaster figure upon it, hung near
the top of the stairs. I knew the exact place,
having been cautioned many times to keep my
head from knocking against it. I could settle all
my doubts by going on and feeling for this land-
mark: so on I went.
I ran my fingers softly along the wall, but no
bracket could I find. My hand touched the lintel
of a door instead. Then I knew, for certain, I was
in the wrong house. The only thing to be done
was to creep out as quietly as I had entered and
try my luck next door.
As I turned to grope my way back I heard the
murmur of voices—late as it was, there were people
talking in the room, the door of which my fingers
had so lightly touched.
I could not distinguish words, but I was sure the
voices were those of men. I stood irresolute.
Would it not be better to knock at the door and
throw myself upon the mercy of the inmates of
the room ? I could apologize and explain. My
blindness would account for the mistake. Some
one would, no doubt, be kind enough to put me
on my right road home. Yes, this was the best
thing to do. I could not go on creeping into
CALLED BACK. I9
strange houses like a midnight thief. Perhaps
each house in the row had an equally common
lock and my key might open all. If so, the end
would be that some alarmed householder would
put a bullet into me before I had time to assert
my innocence.
Just as I raised my fingers to tap at the door I
heard another voice—a woman's voice. It seemed
to come from the back room and was singing to
an accompaniment played Softly on a piano. I
paused and listened—
I have been so occupied with complaining of the
hardships of my lot I have not told you I had one
solace to my misery; that merciful gift, so often
bestowed on the blind, music. Had it not been
for this I believe those weeks of darkness and un-
certainty would have driven me mad. Had it not
been that I could pass many weary hours away
playing to myself, that I could be taken to concerts
and hear others play and sing, my days would have
been unbearable, and I shudder to think of what
aid I might have called in to render them less
burdensome—
I waited and listened to the song. It was taken
from an opera recently produced on the Continent,
an opera not yet popularly known in England, and
the song was one that few amateurs would dare
to attempt. The singer, whoever she might be,
sang it softly and under her voice, as though fear-
ing to throw it out with full force. The lateness
2O CA/C/A2/) BACK.
of the hour might well account for this restraint.
Nevertheless, any one capable of judging must
have known he was listening to no ordinary singer.
It was easy to recognize the trained skill and dor-
mant power, and imagine what, under favorable
circumstances, that voice might accomplish. I
was enchanted. My idea was that I had stum-
bled into a nest of professionals—people whose
duties ended so late, that to enjoy any evening at
all, night must be greatly encroached upon. All
the better for me! Bohemians themselves, my
unexpected nocturnal intrusion might not frighten
them out of their wits.
The singer had now commenced the second
verse. I placed my ear close to the door to catch
every note. I was curious to hear what she would
make of the effective but trying finale, when—oh
horrible contrast to the soft sweet liquid notes
and subdued words of passionate love —I heard
a gasp, a spasmodic fearful gasp, that could con-
vey but one meaning. I heard it succeeded by a
long deep groan, which terminated in a gurgling
sound which froze my blood. I heard the music
stop suddenly, and the cry, the piercing cry of a
woman ring out like a frightful change from
melody to discord, and then I heard a dull heavy
thud on the floor
I waited to hear no more. I knew that some
dreadful deed had been perpetrated within a few
feet of where I stood. My heart beat wildly and
CALLED BACK. 2 I
fiercely. In the excitement of the moment I for-
got that I was not like others—forgot that strength
and courage could avail me nothing—forgot every
thing save a desire to prevent the accomplishment
of crime—the wish to do a man's duty in saving
life and succoring the ones in peril. I threw open
the door and rushed headlong into the room.
Then, as I became aware of the presence of strong
light, but light which revealed nothing to me, the
folly and rashness of my proceedings came fully
home to me, and like a flash it crossed my mind
that unarmed, blind and helpless, I had rushed
into that room to meet my death.
I heard an oath—an exclamation of surprise. In
the distance I heard the cry of the woman, but it
sounded muffled and faint; it seemed to me that a
struggle was going on in that part of the room.
Powerless though I was to aid, I turned impulsively
and took a couple of steps in the direction whence
the cry came ; my foot caught in something and I
fell prostrate on the body of a man. Even in the
midst of the horror that awaited me I shuddered
as I felt my hand, lying on the fallen man, grow
wet with some warm fluid which slowly trickled
over it.
Before I could rise strong muscular living hands
were upon my throat, holding me down, whilst a
short distance off I heard the sharp click of a pistol
lock. Oh, for a light for a second If only to see
those who were about to take my life, if only—
22 CALLED BACK.
strange fancy—to know in what part of me to
expect the fatal bullet. And I, who some hour or
two ago lay and dared to wish for death, felt at
this moment that life, even my darkened life, was
as dear to me as to any creature under the sun.
So I cried aloud, and my voice sounded to me like
the voice of a stranger—
“Spare me ! I am blind blind blind l’”
CHAPTER II.
DRUNK OR DREAMING !
HE hands pinning me down did not for an in-
stant relax their grasp: yet they might safely
have done so. Situated as I was I felt that my only
chance of life was to lie still and convince, if I could,
the persons in that room of the truth of my asser-
tion. Nothing could be gained, but every thing
would be lost by resistance. I was strong, but,
even if all the senses had been mine, I doubted if I
could compete successfully with the man who held
me down. I could feel the nervous power of his
hands and arms. Certainly, now that I was blind
and helpless, the struggle would be a short one.
Besides he had companions, how many I knew not,
ready to help him. The first movement I made
would be the end of every thing so far as I was con-
cerned.
I made no further attempt to rise, but lay as still
and unresisting as the prostrate form across which
I had fallen. Every moment seemed an hour !
Think of my situation. A blind man in a strange
room in a strange house—held down on the body
of a man whose last groan he had just heard—held
24 CA/.../. ED BACK.
down and at the mercy of those who it was certain
had just taken part in a black and cowardly crime!
Unable to look into the faces of the murderers
around him and learn whether their looks meant
lifé or death to him | Expecting every moment to
feel the sharp stab of a knife or the fiery sting of a
bullet! Seeing nothing and feeling nothing save
the hands upon his throat and the dead body
beneath him | Even hearing nothing save that
stifled moaning in the distance | Can the wildest
flights of fiction show a parallel to my case?
Since that night I have quite disbelieved in the
possibility of people's hair turning suddenly gray.
If such a thing can be I must have left that room
with the locks of an old man.
I can only say that even now as, after the lapse
of years, I write this ; even as I see every thing
around me safe, still and at peace; even though I
know the ones I love are close at hand, my pen
trembles, my blood feels chilled and a faintness
steals over me as the recollection of the most
terrible moments in my life comes to me with a
vividness I cannot describe.
It was well for me that I could keep still and
cry again and again “I am blind—look and see ' "
My quiescence, the tone of my voice, may have
turned the balance on which my life hung—may
have carried conviction to my hearers. Presently
the strong light of a lamp was perceptible to my
obscured vision ; a lamp placed so close to me
CA/C/A3 D BACK. 25
that I could feel its hot glow upon my face; and I
was aware that some one was stooping or kneeling
down and peering into my eyes. His breath struck
against my cheek: a short quick excited breath—
how could it be otherwise after the deed in which
he had just taken part!
At last he rose : a moment afterwards the re-
straining hands moved from me, and then, for the
first time, I began to hope that my life might be
spared.
As yet none of those around me had spoken.
Now I heard voices: but whispering so softly that
even my sharpened ears could not catch the pur-
port of a single word, although I could gather that
three persons at least were engaged in that hushed
consultation.
All the while, like a dreary and fitting accom-
paniment, I could hear that stified moaning—a
woman's moaning. I would have given all I possess-
ed—all save life—in exchange for a minute's sight,
that I might have been able to comprehend what
had passed and what was passing around me.
Still the whispers continued. They came thick
and fast, running into and interrupting each other,
as from men in hot but guarded discussion. It
needed little intelligence to guess the subject of
that debate | Presently they died away altogether,
and, for a time, the only sound I heard was
that terrible, muffled moan—that continued with
a dreary monotony.
26 CA/C LAXO BACK.
A foot touched me. “You may stand up,” I
heard some one say. When I burst so recklessly
into the room I fancied the exclamation with
which I was greeted came from foreign lips, but the
man who now addressed me spoke in pure English.
By this time I was beginning to recover self-
possession and was able to make a mental note
of these facts.
Thankful at being allowed to quit my ghastly
couch, I rose. As I could think of nothing better
to do I stood motionless.
“Walk this way—straight on—four paces;”
said the voice. I obeyed. The third step brought
me in collision with the wall. No doubt this was
an extra test as to the truth of my statement.
A hand was placed upon my shoulder and I was
guided to a chair. “Now, sir,” said the speaker
who had before addressed me, “tell us, in as few
words as possible, who you are—how and why you
came here. Be quick, we have no time to spare.”
I well knew they had no time to spare. They
had much to do—much to hide. Oh, for the gift
of sight for one moment 1 I would purchase it,
even if the price were years of darkness |
Shortly and simply as I could, I told them what
had brought me into such straits. The only thing
I concealed was my true name. Why should
these assassins know it? If I revealed it they
might set a watch upon me and at any moment
their safety demanded it I might share the fate of
CALEAE D BACK. 27
him who lay within a few feet of my chair. So I
gave a fictitious name, but every thing else I told
them was true.
All the while I was speaking I heard that dis-
tressing sound at the other end of the room. It
drove me nearly mad. I believe could I have
made sure of reaching through my darkness and
catching one of those men by the throat, with the
certainty of crushing life out of him, I should have
done so, even had such an act sealed my own fate.
When my explanation was over another whis-
pered consultation took place. Then the spokesman
demanded the key which had so nearly cost me
my life. I suppose they tried it and found it acted
as I said. It was not returned to me, but I heard
the voice once more.
“Fortunately for you we have decided to believe
your tale. Stand up.” I did so and was led to
another part of the room and again placed in a
chair. As, after the manner of the blind, I stretched
out my hands, I found I was in a corner of the
room, my face turned to the angle of the walls.
“If you move or look round,” said the voice,
“our belief in your blindness will vanish.”
It was impossible to misunderstand the grim
threat conveyed by the last words. I could only
sit quiet and listen with all my ears.
Yes, they had much to do. They moved about
busily and rapidly. I heard cupboards and drawers
opened. I detected the sound of papers being torn
28 CA/C/A2/) BACKT.
and the smell of papers burning. I heard them
raise some dead weight from the floor—heard a
sound as of rent cloth and linen—heard the jingle
of money, even the tick of a watch as it was drawn
forth from somewhere and laid on the table near
me. Then I felt a breath of air and knew that the
door had been opened. I heard heavy footsteps
on the stairs—the steps of men bearing a weighty
burden, and I shuddered as I thought what that
burden must be.
Before the last task was completed the woman's
moan had ceased. For some time it had been
growing fainter and only sounding at recurring
intervals. Now I heard it no longer. This cessa-
tion was a great relief to my overwrought nerves,
but my heart grew sick as I thought it may be
there were two victims instead of one.
Although at least two men must have borne that
weight away, I knew I was not left alone. I
heard some one throw himself into a chair with a
half weary sigh and guessed he had been left to
guard me. I was longing to make my escape—
longing to wake and find I had been dreaming.
The suspense or the nightmare was growing un-
bearable. I said, without turning my head,
“How long am I to be kept amid these horrors?”
I heard the man move in his chair, but he made
no answer. “May I not go P” I pleaded, “I have
seen nothing. Put me out into the street—any
where. I shall go mad if I stay here longer.”
CALLED BACK. 29
Still no answer. I said no more.
By-and-by the absent men returned to their
companion. I heard the door close after them.
Then came more whispers, and I heard the draw-
ing of a cork and the jingle of glasses. They were
refreshing themselves after the night's dark work,
Presently a curious odor—that of some drug
was perceptible. A hand was laid on my shoulder
and a glass full of some liquid was placed between
my fingers.
“Drink,” said the voice—the only voice I had
heard.
“I will not,” I cried, “it may be poison.”
I heard a short harsh laugh and felt a cold me-
tallic ring laid against my forehead.
“It is not poison; it is an opiate and will do
you no harm. But this,” and as he spoke I felt
the pressure of the little iron circlet, “this is
another affair. Choose !”
I drained the glass and was glad to feel the
pistol moved from my head. “Now,” said the
spokesman, taking the empty glass from my hand,
“if you are a wise man, when you awake to-
..morrow you will say, ‘I have been drunk or
dreaming.’ You have heard us but not seen us,
but remember we know you.”
He left me and in a short time, do what I would
to struggle against it, heavy drowsiness came over
me. Thoughts grew incoherent and reason seemed
leaving me. My head fell first on one side, then
3O CAZZED BACK.
On the other. The last thing I can remember is a
strong arm encircling me and keeping me from
tumbling out of my chair. Whatever the drug
was, its action was strong and swift.
For hours and hours it held me senseless, and
when at last its power faded and my mind,
struggling back to a clouded sort of conscious-
ness, made, after many attempts, the fact apparent
to me that I was lying on a bed, and, moreover, as
I found by stretching out my arms and feeling
around, my own bed, is it to be wondered at that
I said to myself, “I have dreamed the most fright-
ful dream that ever came to a tormented mind.”
After this effort of mind I sank back once more
into a semi-conscious state, but fully persuaded I
had never quitted my bed. My relief at this dis-
covery was immense.
Yet if my mind grew easy, I cannot say the same
for the body. My head seemed preparing to split in
two ; my tongue was dry and parched. These un-
pleasant facts became more and more noticeable as
consciousness gradually returned. I sat up in the
bed and pressed my hands to my throbbing brows.
“Oh dear heart!” I heard my old nurse say,
“He is coming round at last.” Then another
voice—a man's voice, soft and bland.
“Yes, your master will soon be well again.
Kindly let me feel your pulse, Mr. Vaughan.”
A soft finger was laid upon my wrist.
“Who is it P” I asked.
CA/L/AF D BACK. 3I
“I am Doctor Deane, at your service,” said the
stranger.
“Have I been ill ? How long 2 How many
days?”
“A few hours only. There is nothing to be
alarmed at. Lie down again and keep quiet for
a while. Are you thirsty P”
“Yes, I am dying with thirst—give me water.”
They did so. I drank greedily, and felt some-
what relieved.
“Now, nurse,” I heard the doctor say, “make him
some weak tea, and when he wants any thing to eat
let him have it. I will look in again later on.”
Doctor Deane was shown out, and old Priscilla
returning to my bedside patted and punched the
pillows to make me more comfortable. By this
time I was wide awake and the experiences of the
night were coming back to me with a distinctness
and detail far above those of a recalled dream.
“What is the time?” I asked.
“Nigh upon noon, Master Gilbert.” Priscilla
spoke in a sorrowful injured manner.
“Noon what has been the matter with me?”
The old servant was weeping. I could hear
her. She made no answer, so I repeated my
question.
“Oh, Master Gilbert " " she sobbed, “how
could you do it? When I came into the room
and saw the empty bed I thought I should have
dropped.”
32 CA LIA2 D BACK.
When she saw the empty bed! I trembled.
The horrors of the night were real
“How could you do it, Master Gilbert?” con-
tinued Priscilla. “To go out without a word, and
wander half over London, all alone and not able
to see a thing!”
“Sit down and tell me what you mean—what
has happened.”
She h2d not yet 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
CA/C/A2/D BACK. 33
in search of me, and at once recognizing the im-
possibility 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, tele-
graphic 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
een 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 had found me laboring. 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 dis-
played towards the policemen, her estimate of my
condition was the same as theirs. She was par-
ticularly grateful to the doctor, whom, I fear, she
34 CALLED BACK.
looked upon as a clever and complaisant prac-
titioner, 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 Gil-
bert,” 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—any thing.”
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 every thing that had happened since
I left the door of my house. The entranced walk,
the drunken guide, the song I had heard, and,
afterwards, those horrible, eloquent sounds and
touches. Every thing was clear and connected up
to the moment the opiate was forced upon me:
after that my mind was a 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 police-
man. 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
CALLED BACK. 35
wild and improbable my tale would seem. Would
any one 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 towards
her, “is it clean—was it clean when you found
me?”
“Clean—la, no, Master Gilbert l’’
“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 gener-
ally does, you know.”
“But my coat sleeve—my shirt sleeve. The right
hand side. See if any thing 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
afterwards, 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
36 CAA. EAE D BACK.
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 humoring 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 any where near. My
CA/C/A2Z) BACK. 37
friend with the unsteady feet must have misunder-
stood 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, with-
out, 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 some one 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 ; some-
thing 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,
38 CA/C/A2/) AA CK.
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 had 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 all ordinary purposes, Mr. Jay congrat-
ulated both himself and me. It promised, he
said, to be the most thoroughly successful cure he
had ever taken part in. It must have been some-
thing above the common, as I am informed that
every book on the eye which has since been pub-
lished cites my case as an example of what may
be done.
Not until my dying day shall I forget that time
when my cure was declared a fact ; when the
bandages were removed, and I was told I might
now use, sparingly, my uncurtained eyes.
The joy, from what seemed never ending night,
to wake and see the sun, the stars—the clouds
CA/C/A2Z) BACK. 39
sped by the wind across the fair blue sky To
see green branches swaying with the breeze, and
throwing trembling shadows on my path ! To
mark the flower; a bud but yesterday—to-day a
bloom ' To watch the broad bright sea grow
splendid with the crimson of the west ! To gaze
on pictures, people, mountains, streams—to know
shape, color, form and tint ' To see, not hear
alone, the moving lips and laugh of those who
grasped my hand and spoke kind words !
To me, in those first days of new-born light, the
face of every woman, man and child seemed wel-
come as the face of some dear friend, long lost
and found again
After this description of my ecstasy it seems
pure bathos to say that the only thing which de-
tracted from it was my being obliged to wear
those strong convex glasses. I was young and
they were horribly disfiguring.
“Shall I never be able to do without them P”
I asked, rather ruefully.
“That,” replied Mr. Jay, “is a point upon
which I wish to speak to you. You will never be
able to do without glasses. Remember, I have
destroyed, absorbed, dissolved the glasses in your
eyes called crystalline lenses. Their place is now
supplied by the fluid humor. This has a high re-
fracting power. Very often if you don't give in
to Nature she will give in to you. If you can take
the trouble to coerce her, she will gradually meet
4O CAD/CAE D BACK.
you. If any one should do this, it is you. You are
young ; you have no profession, and your bread
does not depend upon your sight. Glasses you
must always wear, but if you insist that Nature
shall act without such strong aids as these, the
chances are she will at last consent to do so. It
is a tedious process: few have been able or have
had patience to persevere; but my experience is
that in many instances it may be done.”
I determined it should be done. I followed his
advice. At great personal inconvenience I wore
glasses which only permitted me to say I could
See at all. But my reward came. Slowly, very
slowly, I found my sight growing stronger, till, in
about two years' time, I could, by the aid of
glasses, the convexity of which was so slight as to
be scarcely noticeable, see as well as most of my
fellow creatures. Then I began once more to en-
joy life.
I cannot say that, during those two years spent
in perfecting my cure, I thought no more about
that terrible night; but I made no further attempt
to unravel the mystery, or to persuade any one
that I had not imagined those events. I buried
the history of my adventure in my heart, and
never again spoke of it. In case of need, I wrote
down all the particulars, and then tried to banish
all memory of what I had heard. I succeeded
fairly well except for one thing. I could not for
any long period keep my thoughts from the re-
CALLED BACK. 4 I
membrance of that woman's moaning—that pitia-
ble transition of the voice from sweet melody to
hopeless despair. It was that cry which troubled
my dreams, if ever I dreamed of that night—it
was that cry which rang in my ears as I awoke,
trembling, but thankful to find that this time, at
least, I was only dreaming.
CHAPTER III.
THE FAIREST SIGHT OF ALL.
T is spring—the beautiful spring of Northern
Italy. My friend Kenyon and I are lounging
about in the rectangular city of Turin, as happy
and idle a pair of comrades as may any where be
met with. We have been here a week, long enough
to do all the sight-seeing demanded by duty. We
have seen San Giovanni and the churches. We
have toiled, or beasts of burden have toiled with
us, up La Superga, where we have gazed at the
mausoleum of Savoy's princely line. We have
seen enough of the cumbrous old Palazzo
Madama, which frowns at our hotel across the
Piazzi Castello. We have marveled at the plain,
uninteresting looking Palazzo Reale, and our
mirth has been moved by the grotesque brick-
work decoration of the Palazzo Carignano. We
have criticised the rather poor picture gallery. In
fact we have done Turin thoroughly, and, with
the contempt bred by familiarity, are ceasing to
feel like pitiful little atoms as we stand in the
enormous squares and crane our necks looking at
Marochetti's immense bronze statues.
Our tasks are over. We are now simply loafing
CALLED BACK. 43
about and enjoying ourselves; reveling in the
delicious weather, and trying to make up our lan-
guid but contented minds as to when we shall
leave the town and where our next resting place
shall be.
We wander down the broad Via di Po, linger-
ing now and then to peer into the enticing
shops which lurk in its shady arcades; we
pass through the spacious Piazzi Vittorio Eman-
uele ; we cross the bridge whose five gran-
ite arches span the classic Po ; we turn oppo-
site the domed church and soon are walk-
ing up the wide shaded path which leads
to the Capuchin Monastery; the broad terrace in
front of which is our favorite haunt. Here we
can lounge and see the river at our feet, the great
town stretching from its further bank, the open
plain beyond the town, and, far, far away in the
background, the glorious snow-capped Alps, with
Monte Rosa and Grand-Paradis towering above
their brothers. No wonder we enjoy the view
from this terrace more than churches, palaces or
pictures.
We gaze our fill, then retrace our steps and
saunter back as lazily as we came. After lingering
a few moments at our hotel some hazy destination
prompts us to cross the great square, past the
frowning old castle, leads us up the Via di Sem-
inario, and we find ourselves for the twentieth
time in front of San Giovanni. I stop with my
44 CALLED BACK.
head in the air admiring what architectural beau-
ties its marble front can boast, and as I am trying
to discover them am surprised to hear Kenyon
announce his intention of entering the building.
“But we have vowed a vow,” I said, “that the
interior of churches, picture galleries, and other
tourist traps shall know us no more.”
“What makes the best men break their vows?”
“Lots of things, I suppose.”
“But one thing in particular. Whilst you are
staring up at pinnacles and buttresses, and trying
to look as if you knew architecture as well as
Ruskin, the fairest of all sights, a beautiful woman,
passes right under your nose.”
“I understand—I absolve you.”
“Thank you. She went into the church. I
feel devotional, and will go too.”
“But our cigars?”
“Chuck them to the beggars. Beware of miserly
habits, Gilbert ; they grow on one.”
Knowing that Kenyon was not the man to
abandon a choice Havana without a weighty
reason, I did as he suggested and followed him
into the dim cool shades of San Giovanni.
No service was going on. The usual little
parties of sightseers were walking about and look-
ing much impressed as beauties they could not
comprehend were being pointed out to them.
Dotted about here and there were silent worship-
ers. Kenyon glanced round eagerly in quest of
CA LLB D BACK. 45
“the fairest of all sights,” and after a while dis-
covered her.
“Come this way,” he said ; “let us sit down and
pretend to be devout Catholics. We can catch
her profile here.”
I placed myself next to him, and saw a few
seats from us an old Italian woman kneeling and
praying fervently, whilst in a chair at her side sat
a girl of about twenty-two.
A girl who might have belonged to almost any
country. The eyebrows and cast-down lashes said
that her eyes were dark, but the pure pale com-
plexion, the delicate straight features, the thick
brown hair might, under circumstances, have been
claimed by any nation, although had I met her
alone I should have said she was English. She
was well but plainly dressed, and her manner told
me she was no stranger to the church. She did
not look from side to side, and up and down, after
the way of a sightseer. She sat without moving
until her companion had finished her prayers. So
far as one could judge from her appearance she
was in church for no particular object, neither
devotional nor critical. Probably she may have
come to bear the old woman at her side company.
This old woman, who had the appearance of a
superior kind of servant, seemed, from the pas-
sionate appeals she was addressing to heaven, to
be in want of many things. I could see her thin
Jips working incessantly, and although her words
46 CALLED BACK.
fºr
were inaudible it was evident her petitions were
heart-spoken and sincere.
But the girl by her side neither joined her in her
prayers nor looked at her. Ever motionless as a
statue—her eyes ever cast down—apparently wrap-
ped in deep thought, and, I fancied, sad thought,
she sat, showing us the while no more of her face
than that perfect profile. Kenyon had certainly
not over-praised her. Her’s was a face which had
a peculiar attractiveness for me, the utter repose of
it not being the least of that charm. I was grow-
ing very anxious to see her full face, but as I could
not do so without positive rudeness, was com-
pelled to wait until she might chance to turn her
head.
Presently the old Italian woman appeared to
think she had done her religious duty. Seeing she
was preparing to cross herself I rose and sauntered
down the church towards the door. In a few
minutes the girl and her companion passed me,
and I was able to see her to better advantage, as
she waited whilst the old woman dipped her
fingers in the holy water. She was undoubtedly
beautiful; but there was something strange in her
beauty. I made this discovery when, for a mo-
ment, her eyes met mine. Dark and glorious as
those eyes were there was a dreamy, far-away look
in them—a look that seemed to pass over one and
see what was behind the object gazed at. This
look gave me a curious impression, but, as it was
CALLED BACK. 47
only for a second that my eyes met hers, I could
scarcely say whether the impression was a pleasant
or an unpleasant one.
The girl and her attendant lingered a few
moments at the door, so that Kenyon and I
passed out before them. By common consent we
paused outside. The action may have been a
rude one, but we were both anxious to see the
departure of the girl whose appearance had so
greatly interested us. As we came through the
door of the church I noticed a man standing near
the steps—a middle-aged man of gentlemanly
appearance. He was rather round-shouldered and
wore spectacles. Had I felt any interest in deter-
mining his station in life I should have adjudged
him to one of the learned professions. There
could be no mistake as to his nationality; he was
Italian to the backbone. He was evidently wait-
ing for some one; and when the girl, followed by
the old woman, came out of San Giovanni he
stepped forward and accosted them.
The old woman gave a little sharp cry of sur
prise. She took his hand and kissed it. The girl
stood apparently apathetic. It was evident that
the gentleman's business lay with the old servant.
He spoke a few words to her; then drawing her
aside the two walked away to some distance,
under the shadow of the church, and to all appear-
ance were talking earnestly and volubly, but ever
and anon casting a look in the direction of the girl.
48 CALLED BACK.
As her companion left her she walked on a few
paces, then paused and turned as though waiting
for the old woman. Now it was that we were
able to see her perfect figure and erect carriage to
full advantage. Being some little way off, we
could look at her without committing an act of
rudeness or indiscretion.
“She is beautiful,” I said, more to myself than
to Kenyon.
“Yes, she is—but not so beautiful as I thought.
There is something wanting, yet it is impossible
to say what it is. Is it animation or expres-
sion ?”
“I can see nothing wanting,” I said, so enthu-
siastically that Kenyon laughed aloud.
“Do English gentlemen stare at their own
countrywomen and appraise them in public places
like this; or is it a custom adopted for the benefit
of Italians !”
This impudent question was asked by some one
close to my side. We turned simultaneously, and
saw a tall man of about thirty standing just behind
us. His features were regular, but their effect was
not a pleasant one. You felt at a glance that a
sneering mouth was curtained by the heavy mus-
tache, and that those dark eyes and eyebrows were
apt to frown with sullen anger. At present the
man's expression was that of haughty arrogance—
a peculiarly galling expression, especially so I find
when adopted by a foreigner towards an English-
CAA. J.A. D BACK. 49
man. That he was a foreigner it was easy to see,
in spite of his perfectly accented English.
A hot reply was upon my lips, but Kenyon, who
was a young man of infinite resource and well able
to say and do the right thing in the right place,
was before me. He raised his hat and made a
sweeping bow, so exquisitely graduated that it
was impossible to say where apology ended and
mockery began.
“Signor,” he said, “an Englishman travels
through your fair land to see and praise all that is
beautiful in nature and art. If our praise offends
we apologize.”
The man scowled, hardly knowing whether my
friend was in jest or in earnest.
“If we have done wrong will the Signor convey
our apologies to the lady? His wife, or shall I
say his daughter P’’
As the man was young, the last question was
sarcastic.
“She is neither,” he rapped out. Kenyon
bowed.
“Ah, then a friend. Let me congratulate the
Signor, and also congratulate him on his profi-
ciency in Our language.”
The man was growing puzzled ; Kenyon spoke
so pleasantly and naturally.
“I have spent many years in England,” he said,
shortly.
“Many years I should scarcely have thought
5o CALLED BACKT.
So, as the Signor has not picked up that English
peculiarity which is far more important than ac-
cent or idiom.”
Kenyon paused and looked into the man's face
So innocently and inquiringly that he fell into the
trap.
“And pray what may that be P” he asked.
“To mind one's own business,” said Kenyon,
shortly and sharply, turning his back to the last
speaker, as if the discussion was at an end.
The tall man's face flushed with rage. I kept
my eye upon him, fearing he would make an
assault upon my friend, but he thought better of
it. With a curse he turned on his heel, and the
matter ended.
While this conversation was in progress, the old
Italian woman had left her learned-looking friend,
and having rejoined the young girl, the two went
upon their way. Our ill-conditioned Italian, after
his discomfiture, walked across to the man who
had been talking to the old servant, and taking his
arm went with him in another direction. They
were soon out of sight.
Kenyon did not propose to follow the steps of
the first couple, and I, even had I wished to do so,
was ashamed to suggest such a thing. Still, I am
afraid that a resolution as to visiting San Giovanni
again to-morrow was forming in my mind.
But I saw her no more. How many times I
went to that church I dare not say. Neither the
CA/C/A2/) BACK. 5 I
fair girl nor her attendant crossed my path again
whilst in Turin. We met our impertinent friend
several times in the streets, and were honored by
a dark scowl which passed unnoticed ; but of that
sweet girl with the pale face and strange dark eyes
we caught no glimpse. .
It would be absurd to say I had fallen in love
with a woman I had seen only for a few minutes—
to whom I had never spoken—whose name and
abode were unknown to me; but I must confess
that so far as looks went, I was more interested
in this girl than in any one I had ever seen. Beau-
tiful as she was, I could scarcely say why I felt this
attraction or fascination. I had met many, many
beautiful women. Yet for the slender chance of
seeing this one again I lingered on in Turin until
Kenyon—my good tempered friend's patience was
quite exhausted—until he declared, that unless I
quitted it at once, he would go away alone. At
last I gave in. Ten days had passed by without
the chance encounter I was waiting for. We folded
up our tents and started for fresh scenes.
From Turin we went southwards—to Genoa,
Florence, Rome and Naples, and other minor
places; then we went across to Sicily, and at
Palermo, according to arrangement, were received
on board a yacht belonging to another friend. We
had taken our journey easily; staying as long as
it suited us in each town we visited, so that by
the time the yacht had finished her cruise and
52 CAAAAA) BACK.
borne us back to England, the summer was nearly
OVer.
Many and many a time since leaving Turin I
had thought of the girl I had seen at San Gio-
vanni—thought of her so often that I laughed at
myself for my folly. Until now I had never car-
ried in my mind for so long a period the remem-
brance of a woman's face. There must, for me,
have been something strangely bewitching in her
style of beauty. I recalled every feature—I could,
had I been an artist, have painted her portrait
from memory. Laugh at my folly as I would, I
could not conceal from myself that short as the
time was during which I had seen her, the im-
pression made upon me was growing stronger each
day, instead of fainter. I blamed myself for leav-
ing Turin before I had met her again—even if for
that purpose it had been necessary to linger there
for months. My feeling was that by quitting the
place I had lost a chance which comes to a man
but once in a lifetime.
Kenyon and I parted in London. He was going
to Scotland after grouse, I had not yet quite set-
tled my autumn plans, so resolved to stay, at any
rate for a few days, in town.
Was it chance or was it fate P The first morn-
ing after my arrival in London, business led me to
Regent street. 1 was walking slowly down the
broad thoroughfare, but my thoughts were far
away. I was trying to argue away an insane long-
e
CAL LED BACK. 53
ing which was in my mind—a longing to return at
once to Turin. I was thinking of the dim church
and the fair young face I saw three months ago.
Then, as in my mind's eye I saw that girl and her
old attendant in church, I looked up and here in
the heart of London they stood before me !
Amazed as I was, no thought of being mistaken
entered my head. Unless it was a dream or an
illusion, there came the one I had been thinking
of so often ; walking towards me, with the old
woman at her side. They might have just stepped
Out of San Giovanni. There was a little change
in the appearance of the old woman : she was
dressed more like an English servant; but the girl
was the same. Beautiful, more beautiful than
ever, I thought as my heart gave a great leap.
They passed me; I turned impulsively and fol-
lowed them with my eyes.
Yes, it was fate | Now I had found her in this
unexpected manner I would take care not to lose
sight of her again. I attempted to disguise my
feelings no longer. The emotion which had thrill-
ed me as I stood once more face to face with her
told me the truth. I was in love—deeply in love.
Twice, only twice, I had seen her, but that was
enough to convince me that if my lot was ever
linked with another's, it must be with this woman's,
whose name, home or country, I knew not.
There was only one thing I could now do. I
must follow the two women. So, for the next hour
54 CA/A2/D BACK.
or more, wherever they went, at a respectful
distance, I followed. I waited whilst they entered
one or two shops and when their walk was resumed
discreetly dogged their steps. I kept so far in the
rear that my pursuit was bound to be unnoticed
and could cause no annoyance. They soon turned
out of Regent street and walked on until they
came to one of those many rows of houses in Maida
vale. I marked the house they entered, and as I
passed by it, a few minutes afterwards, saw in the
front window the girl arranging a few flowers in a
vase. It was evident I had ascertained her abode.
It was fate | I was in love and could only act
as my passion impelled me. I must find out all
about this unknown, I must make her acquaintance
and so obtain the right of looking into those strange
but beautiful eyes. I must hear her speak. I
laughed again at the absurdity of being in love
with a woman whose voice I had never heard,
whose native language was a matter of uncertainty.
But then, love is full of absurdities. When once
he gets the whip hand he drives us in strange
ways.
I formed a bold resolve. I retraced my steps
and walked up to the house. The door was opened
by a tidy-looking servant.
“Have you any rooms to let P " I asked ; hav-
ing jumped at the conclusion that the unknown was
only lodging at the house.
The servant replied in the affirmative, and upon
CA LZAZ D BACK. 55
my expressing a wish to see the vacant rooms I
was shown a dining-room and bed-room on the
ground floor.
Had these rooms been dungeons instead of airy
cheerful apartments—had they been empty and
bare instead of comfortably furnished—had the
rent been fifty pounds a week instead of the
moderate sum asked, I should have engaged them,
I was very easy to deal with. The landlady was
summoned and the bargain struck at once. If that
good person had known the state of my mind she
might have reaped a golden harvest from her
ground floor apartments. As it was, the only thing
she was exacting in was in the matter of refer-
ences. I named several, then I paid a month's
rent in advance and received her permission, as
I had just returned to England and wanted a
home at once, to enter into possession that very
evening.
“By-the-by,” I said carelessly, as I left the
house to get my luggage, “I forgot to ask if you
have other lodgers—no children, I hope P”
“No, sir—only a lady and her servant. They
are on the first floor—very quiet people.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I dare say I shall be
very comfortable. You may expect me about
seven o'clock.”
I had re-engaged my old rooms in Walpole street
before the meeting with my unknown had changed
my plans. I went back there, and after packing
56 CALLED BACK.
up all I wanted, informed the people of the house
that I was going to stay at a friend's for a few
weeks. The rooms were to be kept for me all the
same. At seven o'clock I was at Maida vale and
duly installed. .
It was the hand of fate had wrought this—who
could doubt it P. This morning I was almost on my
way to Turin in search of my love. This evening
I am beneath the same roof. As I sit here in my
arm-chair and see all kinds of beautiful visions
wreathed in the smoke curling from my cigar, I
can scarcely believe that she is within a few feet of
me—that I shall see her to-morrow—the next
day—forever and ever ! Yes, I am hopelessly in
love—I go to bed thinking I shall dream of her;
but, probably owing to the strange quarters, my
dreams are far less pleasant. All night long I
dream of the blind man who walked into a strange
house and heard such fearful sounds !
CHAPTER IV.
|NOT FOR LOVE OR MARRIAGE.
WEEK has passed by. I am more in love than
ever. I am now satisfied as to the thorough-
ness of my passion; certain that this sudden love
of mine will endure as long as my life: that it is
no transient flush to fade away with time or ab-
sence. Whether my suit be successful or not this
woman will be my first and last love. -
As yet I have made little progress in the further-
ing of my desire. I see her every day, because I
watch for her coming and going ; and every time
I see her I find fresh charms in her face and graces
in her figure. Yet Kenyon was right. Her's is a
peculiar style of beauty. That pale pure face,
those dark dreamy far-away eyes, are out of the
common run of womanhood. It may be this
accounts for the strange fascination, she has for
me. Her carriage is upright and graceful ; she
walks always at the same pace; her face is always
grave, and it seems to me she seldom speaks to
that old companion or servant who never quits her
side. I am beginning to look upon her as a riddle,
and wonder if the key will ever be mine.
58 CALLED BACK.
I have found out some few things about her.
Her name is Pauline—a sweet and suitable name
-Pauline March. She is therefore English, al-
though I sometimes hear her saying a few words
in Italian to old Teresa, her servant. She seems to
know no one, and, so far as I can learn, no one
knows more about her than I do—I, at least, know
she came from Turin, and that is more than my in-
formants were aware of.
I still occupy my rooms, waiting my chance. It
is tantalizing to live in the same house with the
one you love and find no opportunity of even com-
mencing the siege. That old Teresa guards her
charge like a thorough-bred Spanish duenna. Her
dark eyes glance quickly and suspiciously at me
whenever I meet the two women, and bid them the
good-morning or good-evening which a fellow-
lodger may venture upon. As yet I have got no
further than these cold civilities. Pauline's eyes
and manner give me no encouragement. She
acknowledges my salutation gravely, distantly and
apathetically. It is clear to me that love at first
sight is not bound to be reciprocal. I comfort
myself by thinking that Fate must have something
in store for me, or Pauline and I would never have
been brought face to face again.
So all I can do is to lurk behind the thick red
curtains of my window and watch my love,
guarded by that old cat Teresa, go out and come
in. I am obliged now to exercise due caution in
CALLED BACK. 59
this proceeding, as the duenna once caught sight
of me, and now each time they pass I see her
fierce eyes peering into my hiding place. I am
beginning to hate Teresa.
Yet if I have done little, I am in the same
house, breathing the same air as Pauline, and I
am a patient man and can wait for my oppor-
tunity. It will be sure to come at last.
This is how it came. One evening I heard a
fall, a clatter of china and a cry of distress. I ran
out of my room and found Teresa lying on the
stairs amid the ruins of the landlady's best tea set,
and groaning earnestly. My chance had come !
With the shameless hypocrisy of love, I ran to
her aid, as eager to help her as though she had
been my mother. I endeavored, in the most
tender manner, to raise her ; but she sank back,
wailing out something about, “one of ze foots
broke.”
It was clear that Teresa's English was not her
strong point; so I asked her in Italian what was
the matter. She brightened up as she heard her
own language, and I found that she had sprained
her knee so severely that she was unable to rise.
I told her that I would carry her to her room, and
without more ado picked her up and bore her
upstairs.
Pauline was standing on the landing. Her
large dark eyes were opened wide, her whole
appearance that of affright. I paused a moment
6o CA/C/CED BACK.
and explained what had happened, then I took
the old woman into the room which she occupied
and laid her on the bed. The servant of the
house was sent for a doctor, and, as I retired,
Pauline thanked me quietly, but I fancied listlessly,
for my kindness. Those dreamy eyes met mine,
yet scarcely seemed to know it. Yes, I was
obliged to confess it, my goddess was in manner
apathetic—but then, her beauty | Those refined
regular features, the girlish but well-formed figure
—the thick brown hair, even those strange dark
eyes. Surely there was no woman in the world to
compare with her
She gave me her hand at parting—a small well-
formed soft hand. I could scarcely refrain from
pressing my lips to it—I could scarcely refrain
from telling her then and there that for months I
had thought of her and her only—but injudicious
as such proceedings might have been at a first
meeting they would have been doubly so whilst
old Teresa was lying and, in spite of her pains,
with suspicious eyes watching every movement
of mine; so I could only express a wish to be of
further service to her and bow myself out dis-
creetly. *
But the ice was broken—our hands had met.
Pauline and I were strangers no longer
Old Teresa's sprain, although not such a serious
affair as she fancied, kept her indoors for several
days. I hoped this would enable me to improve
CALLED BACK. 6 I
my acquaintance with her mistress, but the result
was not commensurate with the hope. For the
first few days Pauline, so far as I knew, did not
leave the house. Once or twice I met her on the
stairs and, assuming a fictitious interest in the
old woman, kept her in conversation for a minute
or two. It seemed to me that she was painfully
shy—so shy that the conversation I would fain
have prolonged, after a little while died a natural
death. I was not conceited enough to attribute
her shyness and reticence to the same cause which
made me blush and stammer as I spoke to her.
At last, one morning I saw her leave the house
alone. I took my hat and followed her. She was
walking up and down the pavement in front of the
house. I joined her, and, after the usual inquiry
for Teresa, continued at her side. I must make
an attempt to establish matters on a better footing
between us.
“You have not been long in England, Miss
March P” I said.
“Some time—some months,” she replied.
“I saw you in the spring at Turin—in church,
at San Giovanni.” She raised her eyes and met
mine with a strange puzzled look.
“You were there with your old servant—one
morning,” I continued.
“Yes—we often went there.”
“You are English, I suppose—your name is not
an Italian one P”
62 CA/C/A2Z) BACK.
“Yes, I am English.”
She spoke as though not quite certain about it
—or as if it was a matter of complete indifference,
“Your home is here—You are not going back to
Italy P”
“I don't know—I cannot tell.”
Pauline's manner was very unsatisfying. I
made many attempts to learn something about her
habits and tastes. Did she play or sing—was she
fond of music, of pictures, of flowers, of the stage,
of traveling P Had she many relations and
friends P Directly and indirectly, I asked her all
these questions.
He replies were unsatisfactory. Either she
evaded the questions, as if determined I should
know nothing about her, or she did not seem to
understand them. Many of them I felt sure puz-
zled her. At the end of our little promenade she
remained as great a mystery to me as before. The
only comfort I could take was that she displayed
no wish to shun me. We passed and repassed the
house several times, but she did not suggest re-
entering, as she might have done had she wished
to get rid of me. There was no trace of coquetry
in her manner—quiet and reserved as I found her,
she was at least simple and natural—and she was
very beautiful, and I was very, very much in love
It was not long before I discovered that old
Teresa's black eyes were watching us from behind
the blind of the drawing-room. She must have
CA CAE. F./) BACK. 63
crept from her bed to see that her charge got into
no mischief. I chafed at the espionage, but as yet
it was too early to escape from it.
Before Teresa could hobble out of doors I had
met Pauline more than once in the same way.
She seemed, I was glad to believe, pleased when
I joined her. The difficulty I labored under was
to make her talk. She would listen to all I had
to say without comment and without reply, save
yes or no. If, by a rare chance, she asked a ques-
tion or spoke a longer sentence than usual the
effort was never sustained. I attributed a great
deal of this to shyness and to her secluded life—for
the only person she had to speak to was that terri-
ble old Teresa.
Although every word and action of Pauline's
told me she was well-educated and well-bred, I
was certainly surprised at her ignorance of litera-
ture. I quoted an author, mentioned a book by
name, the remark passed unnoticed; or she looked
at me as if puzzled by my allusion, or distressed
at her own ignorance. Although I had now seen
her several times, I was not satisfied at the prog-
ress I had made. I knew I had not as yet struck
the key-note of her nature.
As soon as the old servant, duenna, friend, or
what she was, grew well, I heard some startling
news. My landlady asked me if I could recom-
mend her apartments to any friend of mine—such
another as myself she was good enough to say—
64 CA/C/CAE.D BACK.
Miss March was going to leave, and the landlady
thought she would prefer taking a gentlemen in
her place.
I felt certain this was a countermove of that old
hag Teresa's. She had cast venomous glances at
me when we passed each other on the stairs; had
responded surlily when I asked if she had quite
recovered from the effects of her accident—in a
word, I knew she was my enemy; that she had
discovered my feelings towards Pauline and was
doing her best to keep us apart. I had no means
of knowing the extent of her power or influence
over the girl, but I had some time since ceased to
regard her as nothing more than a servant. The
intelligence that my fellow-lodgers were about to
quit showed me that to bring my love for Pauline
to a successful issue, I must in some way make
matters straight with this unpleasant old attendant.
That same evening, as I heard her coming down
the stairs, I threw open my door and stood face to
face with her.
“Signora Teresa,” I said, with high-flown polite-
ness, “will it please you to step into my room P I
wish to speak to you.”
She gave me a quick, suspicious glance, but
nevertheless complied with my request. I closed
the door and placed a chair for her.
“Your poor knee—is it quite well ?” I asked
sympathetically, and in Italian.
“It is quite well, Signor,” she replied laconically,
CALLED BACK. 65
“Will you take a glass of sweet wine? I have
some here.”
Teresa, in spite of our inimical relations, made
no objection, so I filled a glass and watched her
sip it approvingly.
“Is the Signorina—Miss March well? I have
not seen her to-day.”
“She is well.”
“It is about her I wish to speak to you—you
have guessed that?”
“I have guessed it.” As she spoke Teresa gave
me a sullen, defiant look.
“Yes,” I continued, “your vigilant, faithful eyes
have seen what I have no wish to conceal. I love
the Signorina Pauline.”
“She is not to be loved,” said Teresa, sulkily.
“One so beautiful must be loved. I love her
and will marry her.”
“She is not to be married.”
“Listen, Teresa. I say I will marry her. I am
a gentleman and rich. I have 50,000 lire a year.”
The amount of my income, magnificent when
reduced to her native coinage, was not without its
expected effect. If her eyes, as they met mine,
were as unfriendly as ever, their look of astonish-
ment and increasing respect told me I was appeal-
ing to her tenderest feeling—cupidity.
“Now tell me why I should not marry the Sig-
norina 2 Tell me who her friends are that I may
see them and ask her in marriage?”
66 CALLED BACK.
“She is not for marriage.”
This was all I could get from the old woman.
She would tell me nothing about Pauline's family
or friends. She would only reiterate that she was
not for love or for marriage.
I had but one chance left. Teresa's eager look
when I mentioned the income I possessed had im-
pressed me. I must condescend to the vulgar act
of direct bribery; the end would justify the means.
As I was so often traveling it was my habit to
carry a large sum of money on my person. I drew
out my pocket-book and counted out a hundred
pounds in new crisp notes. Teresa eyed them
hungrily.
“You know what these are worth P” I said. She
nodded. I pushed a couple of the notes towards
her. Her skinny hand seemed twitching with the
desire to grasp them.
“Tell me who Miss March's friends are and take
these two notes; all the rest shall be yours on the
day we are married.”
The old woman sat silent for a while, but I knew
temptation was assailing her. Presently I heard
her murmuring, “50,000 lire 50,000 lire a year!”
The spell worked. At last she rose. “Are you
going to take the money P” I asked.
“I cannot. I dare not. I am bound. But—”
“But what?”
“I will write. I will say what you say to il
dottore.”
CALLED BACK. 67
§
“Who is the doctor P I can write to him or see
him.”
“Did I say il dottore ? It was a slip. No, you
must not write. I will ask him and he must de-
cide.”
“You will write at once P’’
“At once.” Teresa, with a lingering glance at
the money, turned to leave me.
“You had better take these two notes,” I said,
handing them to her.
She buttoned them in the bosom of her dress
with feverish delight.
“Tell me, Teresa,” I said coaxingly, “tell me
if you think—if the Signorina—Pauline—cares at
all for me P”
“Who knows,” answered the old woman testily;
“I do not know—but again I say to you she is not
for love or marriage.”
Not for love or marriage | I laughed aloud as I
thought of the old woman's absurd and oft-repeated
assertion. If on the earth there was one woman
more than another made for love and marriage it
was my beautiful Pauline ! I wondered what Te-
resa could mean; then remembering the fervor with
which she prayed in San Giovanni I decided that,
being an ardent Roman Catholic, she wished Pau-
line to take the veil. This theory would explain
everything.
Now that I had bought Teresa I looked forward
to the enjoyment of Pauline's society without
68 CA/C/A2/) BACK.
espionage or interruption. The old woman had
taken my money, and no doubt would do her best
to earn more. If I could persuade the girl to let
me pass several hours of each day in her company
I need fear no hindrance from Teresa. The bribe
had been accepted, and, although I blushed at the
expedient to which I had been compelled to resort,
it had been successful.
I was obliged to defer any further attempt at
love-making until the next evening, as an impor-
tant piece of business had to be attended to in the
morning. It kept me away from home for several
hours, and when at last I returned to Maida vale
I was thunderstruck to hear that my fellow-lodgers
had left the house. The landlady had no idea
whither they had gone. Teresa, who it appears
always acted as purse-bearer, had paid her dues and
had departed with her young mistress. There
was nothing more to tell.
I threw myself into my chair, cursing Italian
guile; yet, as I thought of Italian Cupidity, not
altogether hopeless. Perhaps Teresa would write
or come to me. I had not forgotten the eager
looks she cast upon my money. But day after
day passed without letter or message.
I spent those days, for the most part, wandering
about the streets in the vain hope of encountering
the fugitives. It was only after this second loss
that I really knew the extent of my passion. I
cannot describe the longing I had to see that fair
CALLE/O BACK. 69
face once more. Yet, I feared the love was all on
my side. If Pauline had felt even a passing in-
terest in me she could scarcely have left in this
secret and mysterious manner. Her heart was yet
to be won, and I knew that unless I won it no wo-
man's love would to me be worth having.
I should have returned to my old lodgings in
Walpole street had it not been that I feared to
quit Maida vale, lest Teresa, if she should be faith-
ful to her engagements, might miss me. So I lin-
gered on there until ten days went slowly by ; then,
just as I was beginning to despair, a letter came.
It was written in a delicate pointed Italian style
and signed Manuel Ceneri. It simply said that
the writer would have the honor of calling upon
me about noon to-day.
Nothing was hinted at as to the object of the
visit, but I knew it could be connected with only
one thing—the desire of my heart. Teresa, after
all, had not played me false. Pauline would be
mine. I waited with feverish impatience until this
unknown Manuel Ceneri should make his appear-
alſ] CC. s -
A few minutes after twelve he was announced
and shown into my room. I recognized him at
once. He was the middle-aged man with rather
round shoulders who had talked to Teresa under
the shade of San Giovanni at Turin. Doubtless
he was “il dottore ” spoken of by the old woman
as being the arbiter of Pauline's fate.
7o CA LL.A. D BACK.
He bowed politely as he entered, cast one quick
look at me as if trying to gather what he could
from my personal appearance, then seated himself
in the chair I offered him.
“I make no apology for calling,” he said ;
“you will no doubt guess why I come.” His
English was fluent, but the foreign accent very
marked.
“I hope I guess correctly,” I replied.
“I am Manuel Ceneri. I am a doctor by pro-
fession. My sister was Miss March's mother. I
have come from Geneva on your account.”
“Then you know what the wish—the great wish
of my life is?”
“Yes, I know. You want to marry my niece.
Now, Mr. Vaughan, I have many reasons for wish-
ing my niece to remain single, but your proposal
has induced me to reconsider the matter.” -
Pauline might have been a bale of cotton, so
impassively did her uncle speak of her future.
“In the first place,” he went on, “I am told you
are well born and rich. Is that so?”
“My family is respectable. I am well connected
and may be called rich.”
“You will satisfy me on the latter point, I
suppose.”
I bowed stiffly, and taking a sheet of paper wrote
a line to my solicitors asking them to give the
bearer the fullest information as to my resources.
Ceneri folded up the note and placed it in his
CA/AAC.D BACK. 71
pocket. Perhaps I showed the annoyance I felt
at the mercenary exactness of his inquiries.
“I am bound to be particular in this matter,”
he said, “as my niece has nothing.”
“I expect nothing or wish for nothing.”
“She had money once—a large fortune. It was
lost long ago. You will not ask how or where?”
“I can only repeat my former words.”
“Very well—I feel I have no right to refuse
your offer. Although she is half Italian her
manners and habits are English. An English
husband will suit her best. You have not yet, I
believe, spoken of love to her ?”
“I have had no opportunity. I should no doubt
have done so, but as soon as our acquaintance com-
menced she was taken away.”
“Yes, my instructions to Teresa were strict. It
was only on condition she obeyed her that I allowed
Pauline to live in England.”
Although this man spoke as one who had ab-
solute authority over his niece, he had not said one
word which evinced affection. So far as that went,
she might have been a stranger to him.
“But now, I suppose,” I said, “I shall be
allowed to see her ?”
“Yes—on conditions. The man who marries
Pauline March must be content to take her as she
is. He must ask no questions, seek to know
nothing of her birth and family, nothing of her
early days. He must be content to know that she
72 CA CAA D BACK.
is a lady, that she is very beautiful, and that he
loves her. Will this suffice P”
The question was such a strange one that even
in the height of my passion I hesitated.
“I will say this much,” added Ceneri, “she is
good and pure—her birth is equal to your own.
She is an orphan and her only near relative is my-
self.”
“I am content,” I cried, holding out my hand to
seal the compact. “Give me Pauline, I ask no
more.”
Why should I not be content P What did I
want to know about her family, her antecedents or
her history P. So madly did I long to call that
beautiful girl mine that, I believe, had Ceneri told
me she was worthless and disgraced among women,
I should have said, “give her to me and let her
begin life anew as my wife.” Men do such things
for love
“Now, Mr. Vaughan,” said the Italian, drawing
his hand from mine ; “my next question will
astonish you. You love Pauline and I believe she
is not indifferent to you—”
He paused and my heart heat at the thought.
“Will your arrangements permit of an early
marriage—an immediate marriage? Can I upon
my return to the Continent in a few days leave her
future in your hands entirely?”
“I would marry her to-day if it were possible,”
I cried.
CALLED BACK. 73
“We need not be so impetuous as that—but
could you arrange for, say the day after to-
morrow P”
I stared at him—I could scarcely believe I heard
correctly. To be married to Pauline within a few
hours! There must be something in the back-
ground of such bliss Ceneri must be a madman
Yet, even from the hands of a madman how could
I refuse my happiness P
“But I don't know if she loves me—would she
consent P” I stammered.
“Pauline is obedient and will do as I wish. You
can woo her after her marriage instead of before it.”
“But can it be done on so short a notice P”
“I believe there are such things as special
licenses to be bought. You are wondering at my
suggestion. I am bound to return to Italy almost
at once. Now, I put it to you—can I, under the
present circumstances, leave Pauline here with
only a servant to look after her ? No, Mr. Vaughan,
strange as it may seem, I must either see her your
wife before I leave or I must take her back with
me. The latter may be unfortunate for you, as
here I have only myself to consider, whilst abroad
there may be others to consult and perhaps I must
change my mind.”
“Let us go to Pauline and ask her,” I said, ris-
ing impatiently.
“Certainly,” said Ceneri gravely, “we will go at
once.”
74 CALLED BACK.
Till now I had been sitting with my back to the
window. As I faced the light I noticed the Italian
doctor look very straightly at me.
“Your face seems quite familiar to me, Mr.
Vaughan, although I cannot recall where I have
seen you.”
I told him he must have seen me outside San
Giovanni whilst he was talking to old Teresa. He
remembered the occurrence and appeared satis-
fied. Then we called a cab and drove to Pauline's
new abode.
It was not so very far away. I wondered I had
not encountered either Pauline or Teresa in my
rambles. Perhaps they had both kept to the
house to avoid the meeting.
“Would you mind waiting in the hall a minute?”
asked Ceneri as we entered the house. “I will go
and prepare Pauline for your coming.”
I would have waited a month in a dungeon for
the reward in prospect ; so I sat down on the pol-
ished mahogany chair and wondered if I was in
my right senses.
Presently old Teresa came to me. She looked
scarcely more amiable than before.
“Have I done well ?” she whispered in
Italian.
“You have done well—I will not forget.”
“You will pay me and blame me for nothing.
But listen—once more I say it—the signorina is
not for love or marriage.”
CALLED BACK. 75
Superstitious old fool! Were Pauline's charms
to be buried in a nunnery !
Then a bell rang and Teresa left me. In a few
minutes she re-appeared and conducted me up-
stairs to a room in which I found my beautiful
Pauline and her uncle. She raised her dark dreamy
eyes and looked at me—the most infatuated man
could not have flattered himself that the light of
love was in them.
I fully expected that Doctor Ceneri would have
left us to arrange matters alone; but no—he took
me by the hand and in a stately manner led me to
his niece.
“Pauline, you know this gentleman.”
She bowed. “Yes, I know him.”
“Mr. Vaughan,” continued Ceneri, “does us the
honor of asking you to be his wife.”
I could not permit all my wooing to be done
by proxy, so I stepped forward and took her hand
in mine.
“Pauline,” I whispered, “I love you—since first I
saw you I have loved you—will you be my wife P”
“Yes, if you wish it,” she replied softly, but
without even changing color.
“You cannot love me now, but you will by-and-
by—will you not, my darling P”
She did not respond to my appeal, but then she
did not repulse me, neither did she strive to with-
draw her hand from mine; she remained calm and
, undemonstrative as ever; but I threw my arm
76 CAZZED BACK.
round her, and, in spite of Ceneri's presence, kissed
her passionately. It was only when my lips
touched her own that I saw the color rise to her
cheek and knew that she was moved.
She disengaged herself from my embrace,
glanced at her uncle, who stood impassive as if he
had witnessed nothing out of the common, and
then she fled from the room.
“I think you had better go now,” said Ceneri.
“I will arrange every thing with Pauline. You
must do on your part all that is necessary for the
day after to-morrow.” *
“It is very sudden,” I said.
“It is, but it must be so—I cannot wait an hour
longer. You had better leave me now and return
to-morrow.”
I went away with my head in a whirl—I was
uncertain what to do. The temptation to call
Pauline my own in so short a time was great; but
I could not deceive myself by thinking that she
cared for me at all, as yet. But, as Ceneri said, I
could do my wooing after marriage. Still I hesi-
tated. The hurried proceeding was so strange.
Ardently as I desired to wed Pauline I wished I
could have first won her. Would it not be better
to let her uncle take her to Italy, then to follow
her and learn if she could love me? Against this
prudent course came Ceneri's vague threat, that
in such an event, his mind might be changed—
and more than all, I was desperately in love. Al-
CA/CEAE ZO BACK. 77
though it could only be for her beauty that I loved
her, I was madly in love. Fate had thrown us
together. She had escaped me twice—now the
third time she was offered to me unreservedly. I
was superstitious enough to think that if I rejected
or postponed accepting the gift, it would be with-
drawn forever. No–come what will, in two days'
time Pauline shall be my wife
I saw her the next day, but never alone. Ceneri
was with us all the time. Pauline was Sweet,
silent, shy and languid. I had much to do—
much to see to. Never was a wooing so short or
so strange as mine. By the evening all arrange-
ments were made, and by ten o'clock the next
morning Gilbert Vaughan and Pauline March were
man and wife—those two who had not in their
lifetime even conversed for a time amounting, say,
to three hours, were linked together for better or
worse till death should part them
Ceneri left immediately the ceremony was over,
and, to my astonishment, Teresa announced her
intention of accompanying him. She did not fail
to wait on me for the promised reward, which I
gave her freely and fully. My heart's desire was
to wed Pauline, and by her aid it had been com-
passed.
Then, with my beautiful bride, I started for the
Scottish lakes, to begin the wooing which should
have been completed before the final step had
been taken.
CHAPTER V.
BY LAW, NOT LOVE.
ROUD and happy as I felt when seated side
by side with Pauline in the railway carriage
which was taking us to the north ; fortunate as I
told myself I was to have won such a fair bride;
great as my love was for the sweet girl who had
just vowed herself mine forever, Ceneri's extraor-
dinary stipulation kept recurring to my mind—
the man who marries Pauline March must be con-
tent to take her as she is ; to wish to know
nothing of her past.
Not for one moment did I think such a contract
could be enforced. As soon as I had succeeded in
making Pauline love me, she would surely wish to
tell me all her history—there would be no need to
ask for it—the confidence would then be given as
a matter of course. When she had learned the
secret of love, all other secrets would cease be-
tWeen us.
My wife looked very beautiful as she sat with
her head leaning against the dark cloth of the car-
riage. Her clear-cut refined features showed in
CA/C/D/E/D BACK. 79
that position advantageously. Her face, as usual,
was pale and calm ; her eyes were cast down. A
woman to be indeed proud of : to worship, to
cherish, and—how sweet it seemed to whisper the
word to myself—my wife
Yet I suspect none would have taken us for a
newly married couple. At any rate there were no
nudgings and sly glances among our fellow pas-
sengers. The ceremony had been so hurried on
that no attempt had been made to invest Pauline
with the usual bridal accessories. Her dress, al-
though becoming and fashionable, was the one in
which I had seen her several times. Neither of
us had any brand new belongings to stamp us as
being bound for a honeymoon ; so the only notice
we attracted was the notice which was due to my
wife's great and uncommon beauty.
The carriage was nearly full when we started
from London, and as the strangeness of our new
relations prevented our conversing in an ordinary
way, by mutual consent we were all but silent ; a
few soft words in Italian were all I could trust my-
self to speak until we were alone.
At the first important station, the first place at
which the train stopped for any time worth men-
tioning, I exercised a little diplomatic bribery, and,
changing our carriage, we were installed in a com-
partment the windows of which bore the magic
word “engaged.” Pauline and I were alone. I
took her hand in mine.
8o CA/C/A2 D BACK.
“My wife " " I said passionately, “mine, only
mine, forever !”
Her hand lay listless and unresisting in my own.
I pressed my lips to her cheek. She shrank not
from my kiss, neither did she return it—she simply
suffered it.
“Pauline !” I whispered, “ say once, ‘Gilbert,
my husband.’”
She repeated the words like a child learning a
new lesson. My heart sank as her emotionless
accents fell on my ears. I had a hard task before
me !
I could not blame her. Why should she love
me yet P Me, whose christian name, I think, she
heard yesterday for the first time? Better, far
better, indifference than simulated love. She had
become my wife simply because her uncle wished
it. I could at least comfort myself by thinking the
marriage had not been forced upon her; also that,
so far as I could see, she entertained no dislike to
me. I did not for one moment despair. I must
now woo her humbly and reverently, as every man
should woo his love. Certainly, as her husband,
I did not stand in a worse position than when I
was her fellow lodger and old Teresa was following
my every movement with her black suspicious eyes.
I would win her, but until I could claim the
rights which love would give, I resolved to take
none of those with which the law had invested me.
None save this, and this only once.
CA LZAZ D BACK. 8I
“Pauline,” I said, “will you kiss me? Only
once I ask it. It will make me happier; but if
you would rather wait until we are better ac-
quainted, I shall not complain.”
She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Her
young lips were red and warm, but they chilled
me—in that kiss there was not a suspicion of the
passion which was thrilling me.
I drew my hand from hers, and, still sitting be-
side her, began to do my best to make myself
agreeable to the woman I loved. If I felt dis-
tressed and somewhat disappointed, I concealed
it and strove to talk pleasantly and naturally—
tried to ascertain what manner of woman I had
married—to get at her likes and dislikes—to study
her disposition—to determine her tastes—learn her
wishes—read her thoughts, and eventually to make
her regard me as one who would spend his life in
rendering her happy.
When was it the idea first struck me—the
horrible idea that even the peculiarity and novelty
of situation could not altogether account for Pau-
line's apathy and lack of animation—that shyness
alone could not be entirely responsible for the
difficulty I experienced in making her talk to me,
even in inducing her to answer my questions P I
made every excuse for her. She was tired; she
was upset ; she could think of nothing else save
the rash and sudden step taken to-day—more rash
for her than for me—as I, at least, knew that I
82 CAL LED BACK.
loved her. At last I, too, sank into silence, and
miles and hours went by, whilst the bride and
bridegroom sat side by side without exchanging a
word, much less a caress. It was a strange situa-
tion—a strange journey !
And on and on the train rushed northwards—on
and on until the dusk began to creep over the fly-
ing country; and I sat and looked at the listless
but beautiful girl at my side, and wondered what
our future life would be ; but I did not despair,
although the rattle of the train as it whirred along
seemed to resolve itself into a dreamy rhythm, and
reiterated without ceasing old Teresa's sullen
words, “She is not for love or marriage—not for
love or marriage.” es
Darker and darker it grew outside, and as the
carriage light fell on the pure, white face of the girl
beside me ; as I watched its never changing ex-
pression ; its beautiful but never varying pallor, a
strange fear came over me—a fear lest she was
wrapped in an armor of ice which no love would
ever thaw. Then tired, weary and almost dis-
pirited I sank into a kind of sleep. The last thing
I could remember before my eyes closed was that,
in spite of my resolution, I took that white, well-
shaped, unresisting hand in my own, and slept still
holding it.
Sleep ! Yes, it was sleep, if sleep means any
thing but rest and peace. Never, since the night I
heard it, had that woman's stifled moaning come
CALLED BACK. 83
back to me so clearly ; never had my dreams so
nearly approached the reality of the terror which
the blind man had felt years ago. Right thankful
I was when the haunting cry rose shriller and
shriller, and, at last, culminated by resolving itself
into the shrieking whistle, which told me we were
near to Edinburgh. I loosed my wife's hand and
recalled my senses. That dream must have been
a vivid one, for it left me with the beads of per-
spiration clammy on my brow.
Never having been to Edinburgh, and wishing
to see Something of the city, I had proposed stay-
ing there for two or three days. During the
journey I had suggested this to my wife. She had
agreed to it as though place or time was a matter
of little moment to her. Nothing, it seemed to
me, awoke her interest
We drove to the hotel and supped together.
From our manner we might, at the most, have
been friends. Our intercourse, for the time, being
confined to the usual civilities shown by a gentle-
man towards a lady in whose society he is thrown.
Pauline thanked me for any little attention to her
comfort, and that was all. The journey had been
a long and trying one—she looked wearied out.
“You are tired, Pauline,” I said, “would you
like to go to your room P”
“I am very tired.” She spoke almost plaint-
ively.
“Good-night, then,” I said; “to-morrow you
84 CA/C/A.D BACK.
sº-
will feel better, and we will look at the lions of the
place.”
She rose, we shook hands and said good-night.
Pauline retired to her apartment whilst I went out
for a ramble through the gas-lighted streets, and
with a sad heart recalled the events of the day.
Husband and wife The bitter mockery of the
words ! For in every thing except the legal bond
Pauline and I were as far apart as we were on that
day when first I saw her at Turin. Yet this morn-
ing we had vowed to love and cherish each other
until death did us part. Why had I been rash
enough to take Ceneri at his word P Why not have
waited until I had ascertained that the girl could
love me, or at least ascertained that she had the
power of loving at all? The apathy and utter in-
difference she displayed fell like a chill upon my
heart. I had done a foolish thing—a.thing that
could never be undone. I must bear the conse-
quences. Still I would hope—hope, particularly,
for what to-morrow might bring forth.
I walked about for a long time, thinking over.
my strange position. Then I returned to the
hotel and sought my own apartment. It was one
of the suite of rooms I had engaged, and next to
my wife's. I dismissed, as well as I could, all
hopes and fears until the morning came, and, tired
with the day's events, at last slept.
My bride and I did not visit the Lakes as I had
planned. In two days' time I had learned the whole
CA Z.Z.E/O B.A. CAT. 85
truth—learned all I could know—all that I might
ever know about Pauline. The meaning of the old
woman's repeated phrase, “she is not for love or
marriage,” was manifested to me. The reason
why Dr. Ceneri had stipulated that Pauline's hus-
band should be content to take her without in-
quiring into her early life was clear. Pauline—my
wife—my love, had no past !
Or no knowledge of the past. Slowly at first,
then with swift steps, the truth came home to me.
Now I knew how to account for that puzzled,
strange look in those beautiful eyes—knew the
reason for the indifference, the apathy, she dis-
played. The face of the woman I had married
was fair as the morn; her figure as perfect as that
of a Grecian statue; her voice low and Sweet;
but the one thing which animates every charm—
the mind—was missing !
How shall I describe her? Madness means
Something quite different from her state. Imbe-
cility would still less convey my meaning. There
is no word I can find which is fitting to use.
There was simply something missing from her in-
tellect—as much missing as a limb may be from a
body. Memory, except for comparatively recent
events, she seemed to have none. The power of
reasoning, weighing and drawing deductions seemed
beyond her grasp. She appeared unable to rec-
ognize the importance or bearing of occurrences
taking place around her. Sorrow and delight were
86 CAL LED BACK.
emotions she was incapable of feeling. Nothing
appeared to move her. Unless her attention was
called to them she noticed neither persons nor
places. She lived as by instinct—rose, ate, drank
and lay down to rest as one not knowing why she
did so. Such questions or remarks as came within
the limited range of her capacity she replied to—
those outside it passed unheeded, or else the shy
troubled eyes sought for a moment the questioner's
face, and left him as mystified as I had been when
first I noticed that curious inquiring look.
Yet she was not mad. A person might have
met her out in company, and after spending hours
in her Society might have carried away no worse
impression than that she was shy and reticent.
Whenever she did speak her words were as those
of a perfectly sane woman; but as a rule her voice
was only heard when the ordinary necessities of
life demanded, or in reply to some simple ques-
tion. Perhaps, I should not be far wrong in com-
paring her mind to that of a child—but, alas ! it
was a child's mind in a woman's body—and that
woman was my wife
Life to her, so far as I could see, held neither
mental pleasure nor pain. Considered physically,
I found that she was more influenced by heat and
cold than by any other agents. The sun would
tempt her out of doors, or the cold wind would
drive her in. She was by no means unhappy.
She seemed quite content to sit by my side, or to
CAAAAA) BACK. 87
walk or drive with me for hours without speaking.
Her whole existence was a negative one.
And she was sweet and docile. She followed
every suggestion of mine, fell in with every plan,
was ready to go here, there, or every where, as I
wished; but her compliance and obedience were
as those of a slave to a new master. It seemed to
me that all her life she must have been accustomed
to obey some one. It was this habit which had
so misled me—had almost made me think that
Pauline loved me, or she would not have con-
sented to that hasty marriage. Now, I knew that
her ready obedience to her uncle's command was
really due to the inability of her mind to offer re-
sistance, and its powerlessness to comprehend the
true meaning of the step she was taking.
Such was Pauline, my wife! A woman in her
beauty and grace of person; a child in her clouded
and unformed or stunted mind ' And I, her hus-
band, a strong man craving for love, might win
from her, perchance, at last, what might be com-
pared to the affection of a child to its parent, or a
dog to his master.
As the truth, the whole truth, came home to
me, I am not ashamed to say that I lay down and
wept in bitter grief.
I loved her even now I knew all! I would not
even have undone the marriage. She was my wife
—the only woman I had ever cared for. I would
fulfill my vow—would love her and cherish her.
88 CA/C/A2 D BACK.
Her life, at least, should be as happy as my care
could make it. But all the same I vowed I would
have a fitting reckoning with that glib Italian
doctor.
Him, I felt it was necessary I should see at once.
From him I would wring all particulars. I would
learn if Pauline had always been the same—if
there was any hope that time and patient treat-
ment would work an improvement. I would learn,
moreover, the object of his concealment. I would,
I swore, drag the truth from him, or it should cost
him dear. Until I stood face to face with Ceneri
I should find no peace.
I told Pauline it was necessary we should return
to London immediately. She betrayed no sur-
prise; raised no objection. She made her prep-
arations at once, and was ready to accompany
me when I willed it. This was another thing
about her which puzzled me. So far as things
mechanical went, she was as other people. In her
toilet, even in her preparations for a journey, she
needed no assistance. All her actions were those
of a perfectly sane person ; it was only when the
mind was called upon to show itself that the de-
ficiency became at all apparent.
It was gray morning when we reached Euston
Station. We had traveled all night. I smiled
bitterly as I stepped on to the platform ; smiled
at the contrast between my thoughts of to-day and
those of a few mornings ago when I handed the
CAL LED BACK. 89
wife I had so strangely won into the train, and
told myself, as I followed her, that a life of per-
fect happiness was now about to begin.
And yet how fair the girl looked as she stood
by my side on that wide platform How strangely
that air of repose, that Sweet refined calm face,
that general appearance of indifference, contrasted
with the busy scene around us, as the train dis-
gorged its contents. Oh, that I could sweep the
clouds from her mind and make her what I wished
I had found some difficulty in settling what
course to pursue. I decided, after ventilating
various schemes, that I would take Pauline to my
own rooms in Walpole street. I knew the people
of the house well, and felt certain she would be
taken care of during my absence; for, after a few
hours' repose, it was my intention to start in search
of Ceneri. I had written from Edinburgh to
Walpole street, telling the good people there to be
ready for me and whom to expect; moreover, I had
again appealed to my faithful old servant, Priscilla,
and begged her to be at the house awaiting my
arrival. For my sake, I knew she would show
every kindness to my poor girl. So to Walpole
Street We Went.
All was in readiness for us. Priscilla received
us with eyes full of curious wonder. I saw that
her sympathies were at once enlisted by Pauline's
appearance. After a cup of tea and something to
eat, I begged Priscilla to lead my wife to her room,
90 CA/M.A. D BACK.
that she might take the rest she needed. Pauline,
in her childlike, docile way, rose and followed the
old woman.
“When you have seen to Mrs. Vaughan's com-
forts, come back to me,” I said, “I want to speak
to you.”
Priscilla, no doubt, was only too eager to return
to me. I felt she was brimming over with questions
about my unexpected marriage; but I checked her
volubility. My face must have told her that I had
nothing pleasant to communicate. She sat down,
and, as I desired her to do, listened without com-
ment to my tale. &
I was compelled to confide in some one. The
old woman, I knew, was trustworthy and would
keep my affairs secret. So I told her all, or nearly
all. I explained as well as I could Pauline's
peculiar mental state. I suggested all that my
short experience brought to my mind, and I prayed
Priscilla, by the love she bore me, to guard and be
kind in my absence to the wife I loved. The
promise being given I threw myself upon the sofa
and slept for several hours.
In the afternoon I saw Pauline again. I asked
her if she knew where I could write to Ceneri.
She shook her head.
“Try and think, my dear,” I said.
She pressed her delicate finger tips against her
brow. I had always noticed that trying to think
always troubled her greatly.
CAL LED BACK. 9I
“Teresa knew,” I said to assist her.
“Yes, ask her.”
“But she has left us, Pauline. Can you tell
us where she is P’’
Once more she shook her head hopelessly.
“He told me he lived in Geneva,” I said. , “Do
you know the street?”
She turned her puzzled eyes to mine. I sighed,
as I knew my questions were useless.
Still, find him I must. I would go to Geneva.
If the man was a doctor, as he represented him-
self, he must be known there. If I could not find
any trace of him at Geneva I would try Turin. I
took my wife's hand.
“I am going away for a few days, Pauline. You
will stay here until I return. Every one will be
kind to you. Priscilla will get you all you want.”
“Yes, Gilbert,” she said softly. I had taught
lmer to call me Gilbert.
Then, after some last instructions to Priscilla, I
started on my journey. As my cab drove from the
door I glanced up at the window of the room in
which I had left Pauline. She was standing there
looking at me, and a great wave of joy came over
my heart, for I fancied that her eyes were looking
sad, like the eyes of one taking leave of a dear
friend. It may have been only fancy, but, as I had
never before even fancied the expression there, that
look in Pauline's eyes was some comfort to carry
away with me.
And now for Geneva and il dottore Ceneri !
CHAPTER VI.
UNSATISFACTORY ANSWERS. *
TRAVELED in hot haste, as fast as steam
would bear me, to Geneva; where I at once
began my inquiries as to the whereabouts of Doc-
tor Ceneri. I had hoped that finding him would
be an easy matter. His words had given me the
impression that he practiced in the town. If so,
many people must know him. But he had misled
me or I had deceived myself. For several days I
hunted high and low ; inquired every where; but
not a soul could I find who knew the man. I
called on every doctor in the place; one and all
professed entire ignorance of such a colleague. At
last I felt certain that the name he had given me
was a fictitious one, or that Geneva was not his
abode. However obscure a doctor may be, he is
sure to be known by some of his professional
brethren in the same town. I decided to go to
Turin and try my luck there.
It was on the eve of my intended departure. I
was strolling about, feeling very sad at heart, and
trying to persuade myself that I should fare better
in Turin, when I noticed a man lounging along the
CAL LED BACK. 93
\
opposite side of the street. As his face and bear-
ing seemed familiar to me, I crossed the road to
see him to better advantage. Being clothed in the
inevitable tourist suit he presented the appearance
of an ordinary British traveler—so much so that
I believed I must be mistaken. But I was right,
after all In spite of his changed attire I recog-
nized him the moment I drew near. He was the
man with whom Kenyon had engaged in a wordy
war outside San Giovanni—the man who had re-
monstrated with us for our expressed admiration of
Pauline—the man who had walked away arm in
arm with Ceneri.
The chance was too good a one to be lost. He
would, at least, know where the doctor was to be
found. I trusted his memory for faces was not so
retentive as mine ; that he would not connect me
with the unpleasant passage which occurred when
we last met. I walked up to him, and raising my
hat requested him to favor me with a few mo-
ments' conversation.
I spoke in English. He gave me a quick,
penetrating glance, then acknowledging my salu-
tation, professed, in the same language, his wish
to place himself at my service.
“I am trying to ascertain the address of a
gentleman who I believe lives here. I think you
will be able to assist me.”
He laughed. “I will if I can—but being like
, yourself an Englishman, and knowing very
94 CA/C Lº ZD BACK.
few people, I fear I can be of little help to
you.”
“I am anxious to find a doctor named Ceneri.”
The start he gave as he heard my words; the
look, almost of apprehension, he cast on me,
showed me that he recognized the name. But in
a second he recovered himself.
“I cannot remember the name. I am sorry to
say I am unable to help you.”
“But,” I said, in Italian, “I have seen ſou in
his company.”
He scowled viciously. “I know no man of the
name. Good-morning.”
He raised his hat and strode away.
I was not going to lose him like that. I
quickened my pace and came up with him.
“I must beg of you to tell me where I can find
him. I must see him upon an important matter.
It is no use denying that he is a friend of yours.”
He hesitated, then halted. “You are strangely
importunate, sir. Perhaps you will tell me your
reason for your statement that the man you seek
is my friend ?”
“I saw you arm in arm with him.”
“Where, may I ask?”
“In Turin—last spring. Outside San Giovanni.”
He looked at me attentively. “Yes, I remember
your face now. You are one of those young men
who insulted a lady, and whom I swore to
chastise.”
CA ZZAZ D AEA CAE. 95
“No insult was meant, but even had it been so,
it might be passed over now.”
“No insult | I have killed a man for less than
your friend said to me!”
“Please remember I said nothing. But that
matters little. It is on behalf of his niece, Pauline,
that I wish to see Dr. Ceneri.”
A look of utter astonishment spread over his
face. “What have you to do with his niece P."
he asked roughly.
“That is his business and mine. Now tell me
where I can find him.”
“What is your name P’’ he asked curtly.
“Gilbert Vaughan.”
“What are you ?”
“An English gentleman—nothing more.”
He remained thoughtful for a few seconds. “I
can take you to Ceneri,” he said, “but first I must
know what you want with him, and why you men-
tion Pauline's name? The street is not the place
to talk in-let us go elsewhere.”
I led him to my hotel, to a room where we
could talk at our ease.
“Now, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “answer my
question, and I may see my way to helping you.
What has, Pauline March to do with the matter?”
“She is my wife—that is all.”
He sprang to his feet—a fierce Italian oath
hissed from his lips. His face was white with
rage.
96 CA // E/O B.A. CAT.
“Your wife l’’ he shouted. “You lie—I say you
lie ” *
I rose, furious as himself, but more collected.
“I told you, sir, that I am an English gentleman.
Either you will apologize for your words or I will
kick you out of the room.”
He struggled with his passion and curbed it.
“I apologize,” he said, “I was wrong. Does
Ceneri know it P” he asked sharply.
“Certainly ; he was present when we were
married.”
His passion once more seemed upon the point
of mastering him. “ Traditore / " I heard him
whisper fiercely to himself. “Izgammatore / " Then
he turned to me with composed features.
“If so, I have nothing more to do save to con-
gratulate you, Mr. Vaughan. Your fortune is indeed
enviable. Your wife is beautiful, and of course
good. You will find her a charming companion.”
I would have given much to know why the
mention of my marriage should have sent him into
such a storm of rage, but I would have given more
to have been able to fulfill my threat of kicking
him out. The intonation of his last words told me
that Pauline's state of mind was well known to
him. I could scarcely keep my hands off the
fellow ; but I was compelled to restrain my anger,
as without his aid I could not find Ceneri.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, “now perhaps you
will give me the information I want.”
CA/C/A2/D BACK. 97
“You are not a very devoted bridegroom, Mr.
Vaughan,” said the fellow mockingly. “If
Ceneri was at your wedding it could only have
occurred a few days ago. It must be important
business which tears you from the side of your
bride.”
“It is important business.”
“Then I fear it must wait a few days. Ceneri
is not in Geneva. But I have reason to think he
may be here in about a week's time. I shall see
him, and will tell him you are here.”
“Let me know where to find him and I will call
upon him. I must speak with him.”
“I imagine that will be as the doctor chooses.
I can only make known your wishes to him.”
He bowed and left me. I felt that even now it
was doubtful whether I should succeed in obtain-
ing the interview with the mysterious doctor. It
depended entirely whether he chose to grant it.
He might come to Geneva and go away again
without my being any the wiser, unless his friend
or himself sent me some communication.
I idled away a week, and then began to fear
that Ceneri had made up his mind to keep out of
my way. But it was not so. A letter came one
morning. It contained a few words only. “You
wish to see me. A carriage will call for you at
eleven o’clock. M. C.”
At eleven o'clock an ordinary hired conveyance
drove up to the hotel. The driver' inquired for
98 * CALLED BACK.
Mr. Vaughan. I stepped in without a word, and
was driven to a small house outside the town.
Upon being shown into a room I found the doctor
seated at a table covered with newspapers and
letters. He rose, and shaking my hand begged
me to be seated.
“You have come to Geneva to see me, I hear,
Mr. Vaughan P”
“Yes. I wished to ask you some questions
respecting my wife.”
“I will answer all I can—but there are many I
shall doubtless refuse to reply to. You remember
my stipulation ?”
“Yes, but why did you not make me aware of
my wife's peculiar mental state P”
“You had seen her yourself several times. Her
state was the same as when she first proved so
attractive to you. I am sorry you should think
yourself deceived.”
“Why not have told me every thing 2 Then I
could have blamed no one.”
“I had so many reasons, Mr. Vaughan. Pauline
was a great responsibility on my shoulders. A
great expense, for I am a poor man. And, after
all, is the matter so very bad? She is beautiful,
good and amiable. She will make you a loving
wife.”
“You wished to get rid of her, in fact.”
“Scarcely that altogether. There are circum-
stances—I cannot explain them—which made me
CALLED BACK. 99
glad to marry her to an Englishman of good
position.”
“Without thinking what that man's feelings
might be on finding the woman he loved little
better than a child.”
I felt indignant, and showed my feeling very
plainly. Ceneri took little notice of my warmth.
He remained perfectly calm.
“There is another point to be considered.
Pauline's case is, in my opinion, far from being
hopeless. Indeed, I have always looked upon
marriage as greatly adding to the chance of her re-
covery. If her mind to a certain extent is wanting,
I believe that, little by little, it may be built up
again. Or it may return as suddenly as it left
her.”
My heart leaped at his words of hope. Cruelly
as I felt I had been treated, tool that I had been
made for this man's selfish ends, I was willing to
accept the situation cheerfully if I had any hope
held out to me.
“Will you give me all the particulars of my
poor wife's state? I conclude she has not been
always like this.”
“Certainly not. Her case is most peculiar.
Some years ago she received a great shock—sus-
tained a sudden loss. The effect was to entirely
blot out the past from her mind. She rose from
her bed after some weeks' illness with her mem-
ory a complete blank. Places were forgotten–
IOO CA/C/A2Z) BACK.
friends were strangers to her. Her mind might,
as you say, have been the mind of a child. But a
child's mind grows, and, if treated properly, so
will hers.”
“What was the cause of her illness—what
shock P”
“That is one of the questions I cannot an-
swer.”
“But I have a right to know.”
“You have a right to ask, and I have a right to
refuse to speak.”
“Tell me of her family—her relatives.”
“She has none, I believe, save myself.”
I asked other questions, but could get no an-
swers worth recording. I should return to En-
gland not much wiser than I left it. But there was
one question to which I insisted on having a clear
reply.
“What has that friend of yours—that English-
speaking Italian, to do with Pauline?”
Ceneri shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“Macari ! I am glad to be able to answer some-
thing fully, Mr. Vaughan. For a year or two be-
fore Pauline was taken ill, Macari supposed him-
self to be in love with her. He is now furious
with me for allowing her to get married. He de-
clares he was only awaiting her recovery to try his
own luck.”
“Why should he not have served your purpose
as well as I seem to have P”
CA. LL.A. D BACK. I O I
Ceneri looked at me sharply. “Do you regret,
Mr. Vaughan P” -
“No–not if there is a chance, even a slight
chance. But I tell you, Dr. Ceneri, you have de-
ceived and cajoled me shamefully.”
I rose to take my leave. Then Ceneri spoke
with more feeling than he had as yet displayed.
“Mr. Vaughan, do not judge me too harshly.
I have wronged you, I admit. There are things
you know nothing of. I must tell you more than
I intended. The temptation to place Pauline in
a position of wealth and comfort was irresistible.
I am her debtor for a vast amount. At one time
her fortune was about fifty thousand pounds. The
whole of that I spent—”
“And dare to boast of it !” I said, bitterly. He
waved his hand with dignity.
“Yes. I dare to speak of it. I spent it all for
freedom—for Italy. It was in my keeping as
trustee. I, who would have robbed my own
father, my own son, should I hesitate to take her
money for such an end ? Every farthing went to
the great cause, and was well spent.” e
“It was the act of a criminal to rob an orphan.”
“Call it what you like. Money had to be
found. Why should I not sacrifice my honor for
my country as freely as I would have sacrificed
my life?”
“It is no use discussing it—the matter is
ended.”
I O2 CA LZAZ.Z.) BACK.
“Yes, but I tell you to show you why I wished
to gain Pauline a home. Moreover, Mr. Vaughan”
—here his voice dropped to a whisper—“I was
anxious to provide that home at once. I am
bound on a journey—a journey of which I cannot
see the end, much less the returning. I doubt
whether I should have decided to see you had it
not been for this. But the chances are we shall
never meet again.”
“You mean you are engaged in some plot or
conspiracy?”
“I mean what I have said—no more, no less.
I will now bid you adieu.”
Angry as I was with the man, I could not re-
fuse the hand he stretched out to me.
“Farewell,” he said, “it may be that in some
year or two I shall write to you and ask you if my
predictions as to Pauline's recovery have been ful.
filled ; but do not trouble to seek me or to in-
quire for me if I am silent.”
So we parted. The carriage was waiting to take
me back to the hotel. On my way thither I
passed the man whom Ceneri had called Macari.
He signaled to the driver to stop, and then enter-
ing the carriage sat beside me.
“You have seen the doctor, Mr. Vaughan P” he
asked.
“Yes. I have just come from him.”
“And have learned all you wish to know, I
hope?”
CA C/CED BACK. IO3
“A great many of my questions have been an-
swered.”
“But not all. Ceneri would not answer all.”
He laughed, and his laugh was cynical and
mocking. I kept silence. *
“Had you questioned me,” he continued, “I
might have told you more than Ceneri.”
“I came to ask Dr. Ceneri for all the informa-
tion he could give me respecting my wife's mental
state, of which I believe you are aware. If you
can say any thing that may be of use to me, I will
beg you to speak.”
“You asked him what caused it P”
“I did. He told me a shock.”
“You asked him what shock. That he did not
tell you?”
“He had his reasons for declining, I suppose.”
“Yes. Excellent reasons—family reasons.”
“If you can enlighten me, kindly do so.”
“Not here, Mr. Vaughan. The doctor and I
are friends. You might fly back and assault him,
and I should get blamed. You are going back to
England, I suppose?”
“Yes. I start at once.”
“Give me your address, and perhaps I will
write ; or, better still, if I feel inclined to be com-
municative, I will call on you when I am next in
London, and pay my respects to Mrs. Vaughan at
the same time.”
So eager was I to get at the bottom of the af-
IO4 CA ZZAZZ) BACK.
fair that I gave him my card. He then stopped
the carriage and stepped out. He raised his hat,
and there was a malicious triumph in his eyes as
they met mine.
“Good-by, Mr. Vaughan. Perhaps after all
you are to be congratulated upon being married
to a woman whose past it is impossible to rake
up.”
With this parting shaft—a shaft which struck
deep and rankled—he left me. It was well he did
so, before I caught him by the throat and strove
to force him to explain his last words.
Longing to see my poor wife again, I went back
to England with all speed.
CHAPTER VII.
CLAIMING RELATIONSHIP.
ES, she was glad to see me back | In her un-
certain clouded way she welcomed me. My
great fear, that in the short time she would have
entirely forgotten me, was groundless. She knew
me and welcomed me. My poor Pauline ! If I
could but find the way to bring those truant
senses back once more ſº
For months and months nothing of importance
occurred. If my love's mind was, as Ceneri pre-
dicted, to be gradually restored, the process was a
tedious one. At times I thought her better—at
times worse. The fact is there was little or no
change in her condition. Hour after hour she sits
in her apathy and listlessness; speaking only
when spoken to ; but willing to come with me
any where ; do any thing I suggest, whenever,
alas! I express my wish in words she can compre-
hend. Poor Pauline !
The greatest doctors in England have seen her.
Each says the same thing. She may recover;
but each tells me the recovery would be made
more possible if the exact circumstances which
Ioé CA/C/A2/) BACK.
brought about the calamity were known. These,
I doubt if we shall ever learn.
For Ceneri has made no sign, nor has Macari
sent his promised information. The latter, after
his last malicious words, I dread more than I wish
for. Teresa, who might have thrown some light
on the subject, has disappeared. I blame myself
for not having asked the doctor where she was to
be found ; but doubtless he would have declined
to tell me. So the days go on. All I can do is,
with Priscilla's assistance, to insure that my poor
girl is made as happy as can be, and hope that
time and care may at length restore her.
We are still at Walpole street. My intention
had been to buy a house and furnish it. But
why? Pauline could not look after it—would not
be interested in it—it would not be home. So we
stay on at my old lodgings and I live almost the
life of a hermit.
I care to see no friends. I am, indeed, blamed
for forsaking all my old acquaintances. Some who
have seen Pauline attribute my lack of hospitality
to jealousy; some to other causes; but, as yet, I
believe no one knows the truth.
There are times when I feel I cannot bear my
grief—times when I wish that Kenyon had never
led me inside that church at Turin: but there are
other times when I feel that, in spite of all, my
love for my wife, hopeless as it is, has made me a
better and even a happier man. I can sit for hours
CAL LED BACK. Io 7
looking at her lovely face, even as I could looking
at a picture or a statue. I try to imagine that
face lit up with bright intelligence, as once it must
have been. I long to know what can have drawn
that dark curtain over her mind, and I pray that
one day it may fall aside and I may see her eyes
responsive to my own. If I felt sure this would
ever be I would wait without a murmur, if needs
be, till our hair has grown gray.
I have this poor consolation—whatever the effect
of our marriage may have been upon my life, it
has, at least, not made my wife's lot a sadder one.
Her days I am sure must be brighter than those
when she was under the supervision of that terri-
ble old Italian woman. Priscilla loves her and
pets her like a child, whilst I–well, I do every
thing I can which I fancy may give her such
pleasure as she is capable of feeling. Sometimes,
not always, she seems to appreciate my efforts,
and once or twice she has taken my hand and
raised it to her lips as if in gratitude. She is
beginning to love me as a child may love its
father, as some weak helpless creature may love
its protector. This is a poor recompense, but I
am thankful even for this.
So, in our quiet household, the days pass by
and the months glide away until the winter is over
and the laburnums and lilacs in the little plots in
front of houses in the suburbs are in bud.
It is fortunate that I am fond of books. With-
Io8 CA CAA.D BACK.
out that taste life would indeed be colorless. I
have not the heart to leave Pauline alone and seek
Society on my own account. I spend many hours
every day reading and studying, whilst my wife
sits in the same room silent unless I address a
remark to her.
It is a matter of great grief to me that I am
almost entirely debarred from hearing the sound
of music. I soon discovered that its effect upon
Pauline was prejudicial. The notes which soothed
me, in some way seemed to irritate her and make
her uneasy. So, unless she is out somewhere with
old Priscilla and I am left alone, the piano is un-
opened ; the music books lie unused. Only those
who love music as I love it can understand how
great a deprivation this is to me.
One morning as I sat alone I was told that a
gentleman wished to see me. He gave the servant
no name, but instructed her to say that he was
from Geneva. I knew it must be Macari. My
first impulse was to send back word that I would
not see him. Again and again, since our last
meeting, his words had come back to me—those
words which hinted at something in Pauline's past
which her uncle had an object in concealing. But
each time I thought of them I decided they were
only the malicious insinuation of a disappointed
man, who having failed to win the woman he loved,
wished to make his favored rival suspicious and
unhappy. I feared nothing he could say against
*g-
CA C/CAE /) AA CA. Io9
my wife, but disliking the man, I hesitated before
giving instructions for his admittance.
Yet Macari was the only link between Pauline
and her past; Ceneri I felt sure I should never
See again ; this man was the only one remaining
from whom it was possible to learn any thing
respecting my wife. The one person whose appear-
ance could, by any chance, stimulate that torpid
memory, and, perhaps, influence the state of her
mind by suggesting, no matter how dimly, Scenes
and events in which he must have played a part.
So thinking, I decided that the man should be
admitted, and, moreover, that he should be brought
face to face with Pauline. If he wished to do so
he might speak to her of old days, even old passion
—any thing that might aid her to pick up and
retrace those dropped threads of memory.
He entered my room and greeted me with what
I knew to be assumed cordiality. I felt, in spite
of the hearty grasp he gave my hand, that he
meant his visit to bode no good to me. What did
I care why he came 2 I wanted him for a pur-
pose. With the end in view, what mattered the
tool, if I could keep it from turning in my hand
and wounding me—and this was to be seen.
I met him with a greeting almost as cordial as
his own ; I begged him to be seated, then rang
for wine and cigars.
“You see I have kept my promise, Mr.Vaughan,”
he said, with a smile.
I IO CA //CAE ZO BACK.
“Yes. I trusted you would do so. Have you
been long in England 2"
“Only a couple of days.”
“How long do you stay?”
“Until I am called abroad again. Things have
gone wrong with us there. I must wait until the
atmosphere has quieted down.”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“I fancied you knew my trade,” he said.
“I suppose you are a conspirator—I don't use
the word offensively; it is the only one I can
think of.”
“Yes. Conspirator—regenerator—apostle of
freedom, whatever you like.”
“But your country has been free for some years.”
“Other countries are not free. I work for them.
Our poor friend Ceneri did the same, but his last
day's work is done.”
“Is he dead?” I asked, startled.
“Dead to all of us. I cannot give you particu-
lars; but a few weeks after you left Geneva he
was arrested in St. Petersburgh. He lay in prison
for months awaiting his trial. It has come off, I
hear.”
“Well, what has happened to him 2"
“What always happens—our poor friend is at
this moment on his way to Siberia, condemned to
twenty years hard labor in the mines.”
Although I bore no particular love towards
Ceneri, I shuddered as I heard his fate.
CA //, /2 D BACK. I I I
“And you escaped P” I said.
“Naturally, or I should not be here smoking your
very good cigars and Sipping your capital claret.”
I was disgusted at the indifference with which
he spoke of his friend's misfortune. If it seemed
horrible to me to think of the man working in the
Siberian mines, what should it have seemed to his
fellow conspirator P
“Now, Mr. Vaughan,” said the latter, “with
your permission I will enter on business matters
with you. I am afraid I shall surprise you.”
“Let me hear what you have to say.”
“First of all I must ask you what Ceneri told
you about myself P”
“He told me your name.”
“Nothing of my family P. He did not tell you
my true name any more than he told you his own 2
He did not tell you it was March, and that Pauline
and I are brother and sister?”
I was astonished at this announcement. In the
face of the doctor's assertion that this man had
been in love with Pauline, I did not for a moment
believe it : but thinking it better to hear his tale
out, I simply replied, “He did not.”
“Very well—then I will tell you my history as
briefly as I can. I am known by many names
abroad, but my right name is Anthony March.
My father and Pauline's married Dr. Ceneri's sis-
ter. He died young and left the whole of his large
property to his wife absolutely. She died some
II 2 CA LZAZ D BACK.
time afterwards, and in turn left every thing in my
uncle's hands as sole trustee for my sister and my-
self. You know what became of the money, Mr.
Vaughan P” g
“Dr. Ceneri told me,” I said, impressed in spite
of myself by the correct way in which he mar-
shaled his facts.
“Yes, it was spent for Italy. It paid for the
keep of many a red shirt, armed many a true
Italian. All our fortune was spent by the trustee.
I have never blamed him. When I knew where
it had gone I freely forgave him.”
“Let us say no more about it, then.”
“I don’t quite look upon it in that light. Vic-
tor Emmanuel's government is now firmly estab-
lished. Italy is free and will grow richer every
year. Now, Mr. Vaughan, my idea is this. I be-
lieve, if the facts of the case were laid before the
king, something might be done. I believe, if I,
and you on behalf of your wife, were to make it
known that Ceneri's appropriation of our fortunes
for patriotic purposes had left us penniless, a large.
portion of the money, if not all, would be freely
returned to us. You must have friends in En-
gland who would assist you in gaining the ear of
King Victor. I have friends in Italy. Garibaldi,
for instance, would vouch for the amount paid into
his hands by Dr. Ceneri.”
His tale was plausible, and, after all, his scheme
was not altogether visionary,
CALLED BACK. II 3
I was beginning to think he might really be my
wife's brother, and that Ceneri had, for some pur-
pose of his own, concealed the relationship.
“But I have plenty of money,” I said.
“But I have not,” he replied, with a frank laugh.
“I think you ought for the sake of your wife to
join me in the matter.” -
“I must take time to consider it.”.
“Certainly—I am in no hurry. I will in the
meantime get my papers and petition in order.
And now may I see my sister?”
“She will be in very shortly if you will wait.”
“Is she better, Mr. Vaughan 2 ” I shook my
head sadly.
“Poor girl! then I fear she will not recognize
me. We have spent very few days together since
we were children. I am, of course, much her
senior; and from the age of eighteen have been
plotting and fighting. Domestic ties are forgotten
under such circumstances.”
I was still far from putting any faith in the man;
besides, there were his words on a former occasion
to be accounted for.
“Mr. Macari,” I said.
“Excuse me—March is my name.”
“Then, Mr. March, I must ask you now to tell
me the particulars of the shock which deprived my
wife of her full reason.”
His face grew grave. “I cannot now. Some
day I will do so.” -
II 4 CA C/CAE D BACK.
“You will then, at least, explain your words
when we parted at Geneva P”
“I will ask pardon for them and apologize, as I
know I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly, but having
forgotten, I am, of course, unable to explain them.”
I said nothing, feeling uncertain whether he was
playing a deep game with me or not.
“I know,” he continued, “that I was furious at
hearing of Pauline's marriage. In her state of
health Ceneri should never have allowed it—and
then, Mr. Vaughan, I had set my heart upon her
marrying an Italian. Had she recovered, my
dream was that her beauty would win her a hus-
band of the highest rank.”
Any reply I should have made was prevented by
the entrance of Pauline. I was intensely anxious
to see what effect the appearance of her so-called
brother would have upon her.
Macari rose and stepped towards her. “Pauline,”
he said, “do you remember me P”
She looked at him with eyes full of curious won-
der, but shook her head as one in doubt. He took
her hand. I noticed that she seemed to shrink
from him instinctively.
“Poor girl, poor girl ' " he said. “This is worse
than I expected, Mr. Vaughan. Pauline, it is long
since we have met, but you cannot have forgotten
me !”
Her large troubled eyes were riveted on his face;
but she made no sign of recognition.
CA / ZAZ ZD BACK. I I5
“Try and think who it is, Pauline,” I said.
She passed her hand across her forehead, then
once more shook her head. “AVon me ricordo,”
she murmured; then, as if the mental effort had ex-
hausted her, sank, with a weary sigh, upon a chair.
I was delighted to hear her speak in Italian. It
was a tongue she seldom used unless compelled to
do so. That she employed it now showed me she
must, in some dim way, connect the visitor with
Italy. It was to me a new gleam of hope.
There was another thing I noticed. I have said
how seldom it was that Pauline raised her eyes to
any one's face; but to-day, during the whole time
Macari was in the room, she never looked away
from him. He sat near her, and after a few more
words to her, addressed his remarks exclusively to
me. All the while I could see my wife watching
him with an eager, troubled look; several times,
indeed, I almost persuaded myself that there was
an expression of fear in her eyes. Let them ex-
press fear, hate, trouble, even love, so long as I
could see the dawn of returning reason in them
I began to think that if Pauline was to be restored,
it would be through my visitor.
So when he took his leave I pressed him, with
no assumed manner, to call again very soon—to-
morrow, if possible. He readily promised to do
so, and we parted for the day.
I can only hope he was as satisfied with the
result of our interview as I was.
I 16 CA/C/AC/D BACK.
After his departure Pauline fell into a restless
state. Several times I saw her pressing her hand
to her forehead. She seemed unable to sit still.
Now and again she went to the window and
looked up and down the street. I paid no atten-
tion to her actions, although once or twice I saw
her turn her eyes towards me with a piteous,
imploring glance. I believed that something—
some old memory in connection with Macari—was
striving to force itself to her clouded brain, and I
looked forward with impatience to to-morrow,
when he would pay us another visit. The man
had something to get out of me, so I felt certain
I should see him again.
He came the next day, and the next, and many
other days. It was clear he was determined to
ingratiate me, if possible. He did all he could to
make himself agreeable, and I must say he was,
under the present circumstances, very good com-
pany. He knew, or professed to know, all the ins
and outs of every plot or political event of the last
ten years, and was full of original anecdotes and
stirring experiences. He had fought under Gari-
baldi through the whole of the Italian campaign.
He had known the interior of prisons, and some
of his escapes from death had been marvelous.
I had no reason to doubt the truth of his tales,
although I mistrusted the man himself. Let his
smile be as pleasant as he could make it—let his
laugh ring naturally—I could not forget the ex-
CA1/A2/) BACK. $ I 17
pression I had seen on that face, or his manner
and words on former occasions.
I took care that Pauline should always be with
us. It was the only wish of mine the poor child
had ever shown even a mute disinclination to
comply with. She never spoke in Macari's pres-
ence, but her eyes were scarcely ever turned from
him. He seemed to have a kind of fascination
for her. When he entered the room I could hear
her sigh, and when he left it she breathed a breath
of relief; and every day she grew more restless,
uneasy and, I knew, unhappy. My heart smote
me as I guessed I was causing her pain ; but, at
all cost, I determined to persevere. I felt that the
crisis of her life was fast drawing near.
One evening, after dinner, as Macari and I sat
over our claret, and Pauline, with her troubled
eyes fixed, as usual, on my guest, was reclining on
the sofa a little way off, he began to relate some
of his military adventures. How once, when in
imminent peril—his right arm broken and useless
at his side, his left arm not strong enough to wield
the rifle with the bayonet fixed—he had taken the
bayonet off, and holding it in his left hand, had
driven it through the heart of an antagonist. As
he described the deed, he suited the gesture to the
word, and seizing a knife which lay on the table,
dealt a downwards blow through the air at an
imaginary white-coated Austrian.
I heard a deep sigh behind me, and, turning, I
II.8 * CAL LED BACK.
saw Pauline lying with her eyes closed, and appa-
rently in a dead faint. I ran to her, raised her up,
and carrying her to her room, laid her on her bed.
It was now about nine o'clock. Priscilla happened
to be out, so I ran back to the dining-room and
bade Macari a hasty good-night.
“I hope there is not much the matter,” he said.
“No ; only a fainting fit. Your fierce gesture
must have frightened her.”
Then I returned to my wife's bedside, and began
the usual course of restoratives. Yet without
SUICCCSS. hite as a statue she lay there, her soft
breathing and the faint throb of her pulse only
telling that she was alive. She lay there without
sense or motion, whilst I chafed her hands, bathed
her brow, and endeavored to recall her to life.
Even whilst doing so my heart was beating wildly.
I felt that the moment had come ; that something
had brought back the past to her, and that the
fierce rush with which it came had overpowered
her. I could scarcely dare to put my wild belief
into words, but it was that when Pauline again
opened her eyes they would shine with light which
I had never known in them—the light of perfectly
restored intelligence. A wild, mad idea, but one
I had the fullest faith in.
So it was that I did not send for a doctor: that
after a while I gave up my own attempts to awaken
consciousness; that I resolved to let her lie in that
calm, senseless state until she awoke of her own
CALLED BACK. I [9
accord. I took her wrist between my fingers that
I might feel every beat of her pulse. I laid my
cheek against hers that I might catch the sound of
every breath—and thus I waited until Pauline
should awake, and, as I fondly believed, awake in
her right mind. -
She remained in this state for at least an hour.
So long that at last I began to get frightened, and
think I must, after all, send for medical aid. Just
as I was forming the resolution to do so, I noticed
the beats of her pulse grow stronger and more
rapid; I felt her breath drawn deeper; I saw a look
of returning life steal over her face; and, in breath-
less impatience, I waited. -
And then Pauline—my wife—came back to life
—she rose in the bed and turned her face to mine;
and in her eyes I saw what, by the mercy of God,
I shall never again see there!
CHAPTER VIII.
CALLED BACK.
WRITE this chapter with great reluctance. If
I could make my tale connected and complete
without it, I should prefer to say nothing about
the events it records. If some of my experiences
have been strange ones, all save these can be ex-
plained ; but these never will, never can be ex-
plained to my satisfaction.
Pauline awoke, and, as I saw her eyes, I shud-
dered as if a freezing wind had passed over me.
It was not madness I saw in them, neither was it
sense. They were dilated to the utmost extent;
they were fixed and immovable, yet I knew they
saw absolutely nothing ; that their nerves con-
veyed no impression to the brain. All my wild
hopes that reason would return at the expiration
of her fainting fit, were at an end. It was clear
that she had passed into a state far more pitiable
than her former one.
I spoke to her; called her by name; but she
took no notice of my words. She seemed to be
unaware of my presence. She looked ever, with
strange fixed eyes, in one direction.
CA L/LA. D BACK. I 2 I
Suddenly she rose, and, before I could interpose
to prevent her, passed out of the room. I followed
her. She went swiftly down the stairs, and I saw
she was making for the front door. Her hand was
on the latch when I came up to her and again
called her by name ; entreating, even commanding
her to return. No sound of my voice seemed to
reach her ears. In her critical state, for so I felt
it to be, I shrank from restraining her by force,
thinking it would be better to leave her free to go
as she listed ; of course accompanying her to
guard her against evil.
I caught up my hat and a large cloak, both of
which were hanging in the hall; the latter I
wrapped around her as she walked, and managed
to draw the hood over her head. She made no
resistance to this, but she let me do it without a
word to show that she noticed the action. Then,
with me at her side, she walked straight on.
She went at a swift but uniform pace, as one
who had a certain destination in view. She turned
her eyes neither to the left nor the right—neither
up nor down. Not once during that walk did I
see them move, not once did I see an eyelid quiver.
Although my sleeve was touching hers, I am cer-
tain she had no thought or knowledge of my
presence.
I made no further attempt to check her prog-
ress. She was not wandering about in an aimless
manner. Something, I knew not what, was guid-
I 2.2 CA/C/A2/) AA CAT.
ing or impelling her steps to some set purpose.
Something in her disordered brain was urging her
to reach Some spot as quickly as possible. I
dreaded the consequences of restraining her from
So doing. Even if it was but an exaggerated case
of sleep walking it would be "unwise to wake her.
Far better to follow her until the fit ended.
She passed out of Walpole street, and, without
a moment's hesitation, turned at right angles and
went along the straight broad road. Along this
road for more than half a mile she led me, then,
turning sharply round, walked half way through
another street; then she stopped before a house.
An ordinary three story house of the usual
London type. A house differing very little from
my own and thousands of others, except that, by
the light of the street lamp, I could see it looked
ill-cared for and neglected. The window panes
were dusty, and in one of them was a bill stating
that this desirable residence was to let, furnished.
I marveled as to what strange freak of mind
could have led Pauline to this untenanted house.
Had any one she had known in former days lived
here? If so, it was, perhaps, a hopeful sign that
some awakened memory had induced her to direct
her unwitting steps to a place associated with her
earlier days. Very anxious, and even much ex-
cited, I waited to see what course she would now
take.
She went straight up to the door and laid her
CA/C//7 D BACK. I23
hand upon it, as though she expected it would
yield to her touch. Then, for the first time, she
seemed to hesitate and grow troubled.
“Pauline, dearest,” I said, “let us go back now.
It is dark, and too late to go in there to-night.
To-morrow, if you like, we will come again.”
She answered not. She stood before that door
with her hand pressing against it. I took her arm,
and tried gently to lead her away. She resisted
with a passive strength I should not have believed
she possessed. Whatever was the dimly conceived
object in my poor wife's brain, it was plain to me
it could only be attained by passing through that
door.
I was quite willing to humor her. Having come
so far, I feared to retreat. To cross her wishes in
the present state of things I felt might be fatal.
But how could we gain entrance 2
There was no gleam of light upstairs or down-
stairs. As you looked at the house you knew in-
tuitively it was uninhabited. The agent whose
name appeared on the bill carried on business a
mile away, and, even if I had ventured to leave
Pauline and go in search of him, at this time of
night my expedition would be fruitless.
As I cast around, wondering what was the best
thing to do—whether to fetch a cab and carry my
poor girl into it, or whether to let her wait here
until she recognized the impossibility of entering
the house, and, at last growing weary, choose to
I 24 CALLED BA CA.
return home of her own accord—as I debated these
alternatives a sudden thought struck me. Once
before my latchkey had opened a strange door, it
was within the bounds of possibility it might do
So again. I knew that uninhabited houses are
often from carelessness or convenience left with
doors only latched. It was an absurd idea, but,
after all, there was no harm in trying. I drew out
my key, a duplicate of that used on another oc-
casion. I placed it in the keyhole without a hope of
Success, and, as I felt the lock turn and saw the
door yield, a thrill of something like horror ran
through me, for now that it had come to pass I
knew this thing could be no mere coincidence.
As the door opened, Pauline, without a word,
without a gesture of surprise, without any thing
that showed she was more aware of my presence
than before, passed me and entered first. I fol-
lowed her, and, closing the door behind me, found
myself in perfect darkness. I heard her light
quick step in front of me; I heard her ascending
the stairs; I heard a door open, and then, and only
then, I summoned up presence of mind enough to
force my limbs to bear me in pursuit—and my
blood seemed to be iced water, my flesh was creep-
ing, my hair was bristling up, as, still in darkness,
I crossed the hall and found the staircase without
difficulty.
Why should I not find it, dark, pitch dark as it
was 2 I knew the road to it well ! Once before I
CA CAE ED BA CR . I 25
had reached it in darkness, and many times be-
sides, in dreams, had I crossed that space | Like
a sudden revelation the truth came to me. It
came to me as the key turned in the lock. I was
in that very house into which I had strayed three
years ago. I was crossing the very hall, ascending
the same stairs, and should stand in the identical
room which had been the scene of that terrible un-
expiated crime. I should see with restored sight
the spot where, blind and helpless, I had nearly
fallen a victim to my rashness. But Pauline, what
brought her here?
Yes, as I expected as, in fact, I felt certain
The stairs the same and the lintel of the door in
the exact place it should be. I might be re-acting
the events of that fearful night, complete even to
the darkness. For a moment I wondered whether
the last three years were not the dream ; whether
I was not blind now ; whether there was such a
being as my wife P But I threw the fancy aside.
Where was Pauline? Recalled to myself, I
realized the necessity of light. Drawing my
match box from my pocket I struck a vesta, and
by its light I entered the room which once before
I had entered with little hope of ever leaving.
My first thought, my first glance, was for Pau-
line. She was there, standing erect in the apart-
ment, with both hands pressed to her brow. The
expression of her face and eyes was little changed ;
it was easy to see she comprehended nothing as
I 26 CA/AA. O. BACK.
yet. But I felt that something was struggling
within her, and I dreaded the moment when if
should take coherence and form. I dreaded it for
her and I dreaded it for myself. What awful
passages would it reveal to me?
The wax light burned down to my fingers, and
I was compelled to drop it. I struck another,
then looked about for some means of making the
illumination sustained. To my great joy I found
a half burned candle in a candlestick on the mantel-
piece. I blew the thick dust out of the cup
formed by the melted wax at the bottom of the
wick, and after a little spluttering and resistance,
managed to induce it to remain lighted.
Pauline stood always in the same attitude, but
I fancied her breath was quickening. Her fingers
were playing convulsively round her temples,
fidgeting and pushing her thick hair back, striving,
it seemed to me, to conjure thought to return to
that empty shrine. I could do nothing but wait ;
and whilst I waited I glanced around me.
We were in a good-sized room, substantially
but not fashionably furnished ; the style altogether
was that of an ordinary lodging house. It was
clear it had not been occupied for some time, as
dust lay thick on every article. I could throw my
mind back and recall the very corner of the room
in which I was stationed whilst the assassins were
so busily engaged. I could mark the spot where
I fell upon the yet quivering body, and I shuddered
CA L/LA2/D BACK. 127
as I could not resist peering on the floor for traces
of the crime. But if the carpet was the same one,
it was of a dark red hue and kept its secret well.
At one end of the room were folding doors—it
must have been from behind these I heard those
haunting sounds of distress. I threw them open,
and, holding my candle on high, looked in. The
room was of much the same kind as the other one,
but, as I fully expected, it contained a piano—the
very piano, perhaps, whose notes had merged into
that cry of horror. -
What possessed me! What impulse urged me !
I shall never know. I laid down the candle; I
entered the back roorn ; I lifted the dust-covered
lid of the piano and I struck a few notes. Doubt-
less it was the tragical associations of the scene
which made me, without thinking why or where-
fore, blend together the notes which commenced
that great song which I had heard as I lingered
outside the door, listening to the sweet voice
singing, and wondering whose voice it was. As I
struck those notes I looked through the folding
door at the motionless statue-like figure of Pauline.
A nervous trembling seemed to pass over her
frame. She turned and came towards me, and
there was a look in her face which made me move
aside from the piano, and wonder and fear what
was to take place.
The cloak I had thrown around her had fallen
from her shoulders. She seated herself on the
I 28 CALLEZ) BACK.
music bench, and striking the keys with a master
hand played brilliantly and faultlessly the prelude
to the song of which I had struck a few vagrant
11OteS.
I was thunderstruck. Never till now had she
shown the slightest taste for music—as I have said,
it appeared rather to annoy and irritate her. Now
she was bringing out sounds which it seemed absurd
to expect from that neglected and untuned piano.
But after the first few bars my astonishment
ceased. As well as if I had been told, I knew
what would happen—or part of it. I was even
prepared, when the moment came for the voice to
join the music, to hear Pauline sing as faultlessly
as she was playing, yet to sing in the same subdued
manner as on that fatal night. So fully prepared I
was that with breathless emotion I waited until
the song came to the very note at which it finished
when once before I listened to it. So fully prepared,
that when she started wildly to her feet and uttered
once more that cry of horror, my arms were round
her in a moment, and I bore her to a sofa close by.
To her, as well as to me, all the occurrences of
that dreadful night were being reproduced. The
past had come back to Pauline—come back at the
moment it left her.
What the reflux might do eventually—whether
it would be a blessing or a curse—I had no time to
consider. All my cares were needed by Pauline.
My task was terrible ! I had to hold her down by
CALLED BACK. I 29
main force, to endeavor in every possible way to
soothe her and prevent her cries, which rang so
loudly that I feared the neighbors would be
alarmed. And all the while she struggled with
me, strove to repulse me and regain her feet, as
certainly as if I could read her thoughts I knew
that whatever had happened formerly was once
more before her eyes. Once more she was being
held down by a strong hand, most likely on the
same couch, and once more her struggles were
gradually becoming feebler and her cries growing
fainter. It needed only for the latter to sink at
last into a repetition of that dismal moan to make
the picture, so far as she was concerned, complete.
The only difference was that the hands now laid
upon her were loving ones.
All things up to the present situation, and all
that I narrate after the termination of this chapter,
I expect to be believed. I do not say that such
events and coincidences are of every day occur-
rence. Had they been so, I should have no object
in writing this tale. But I do say this, all else save
this one thing I could prove to be true, if not by
direct by circumstantial evidence; all else can be
explained either simply or scientifically; but what
follows I can only give my own word for. Call it
what you like, dream, hallucination, overheated
imagination—call it any thing save invention—I
shall not be annoyed. This is what happened.
Pauline at last lay still. Her moan had sunk
13o CA/C L.A. D BACK.
into silence. She seemed once more to have lost
all consciousness. My one idea now was to re-
move her as speedily as possible from this fatal
place. All sorts of strange thoughts and specula-
tions were thronging my brain. All sorts of hopes
and fears were shaking me. What would the
explanation be, if ever I could get it 2
My poor darling lay still and peaceful. I thought
I would let her rest so for a few moments before I
carried her out. I dreaded what waking her might
mean. So I took her hand and held it close in
mine.
The candle was on the mantel-piece behind me.
It threw little or no light into the front room, the
folding doors of which were only partially open—
the half behind the couch on which Pauline lay
being closed. It was, therefore, impossible for me
from my seat beside her to look into the front
room. Indeed, as I sat there my face was turned
from it.
I held my wife's hand for a few seconds, and
then a strange undefinable feeling crept over me—
the kind of feeling sometimes experienced in a
dream in which two persons appear, and the
dreamer cannot be certain with which one's
thoughts and acts he identifies himself. For a
while I seemed to have a dual existence. Although
perfectly aware that I still occupied the same seat,
still held Pauline's hand in mine, I was also seated
at the piano, and in Some way gazed through the
CA LZ/2Z) BACK. I31
half-opened doors into the other room, and that
room was full of light !
Light so brilliant that in a glance I could see
every thing the apartment contained. Each article
of furniture, the pictures on the walls, the dark
curtains drawn over the window at the end, the
mirror over the fire place, the table in the center,
on which a large lamp was burning. I could see
all this, and more | For round the table were
grouped four men, and the faces of two of the
party were well known to me !
That man who was facing me—leaning across
the table on which his hands rested, whose features
seemed full of alarmed surprise, whose eyes were
fixed on one object a few feet away from him—that
man was Ceneri, the Italian doctor, Pauline's
uncle and guardian.
That man who was near the table on Ceneri's
right hand—who stood in the attitude of one
ready to repel a possible attack, whose face was
fierce and full of passion, whose dark eyes were
blazing—that man was the English-speaking Ital-
ian, Macari, or, as he now styled himself, Anthony
March, Pauline's brother. He also was looking at
the same object as Ceneri.
The man in the back ground—a short thick-set
man with a scar on his cheek—was a stranger to
me. He was looking over Ceneri's shoulder in the
same direction.
And the object they all looked at was a young
I32 CA />{ACA) BACK.
man, who appeared to be falling out of his chair,
and whose hand grasped convulsively the hilt of a
dagger, the blade of which was buried in his heart,
buried I knew by a blow which had been struck
downwards by one standing over him.
All this I saw and realized in a second. The
attitude of each actor, the whole scene surround-
ing was taken in by me as one takes in with a
single glance the purport and meaning of a picture.
Then I dropped Pauline's hand and sprang to my
feet.
Where was the lighted room P. Where were the
figures I had seen P. Where was that tragic scene
which was taking place before my eyes P Vanished
into thin air! The candle was burning dimly be-
hind me, the front room was in dusk. Pauline
and I were the only living creatures in the
place
It was a dream of course. Perhaps, under the
circumstances, not an unnatural one. Knowing
what I knew already of the crime which had taken
place here ; feeling sure that in some way Pauline
had been present when it was committed ; ex-
cited by what had occurred to-night—Pauline's
strange walk, her sudden bursting into Song, the
very song I had before heard, that song with the
dreadful ending—it is no wonder that I imagined
a scene like this, and taking the only persons I
knew who were in any way connected with my
poor wife, brought them into the life-like vision.
CA/./A.D BACK. f33
But given that a man may dream the same
dream twice, perhaps three times, there is no re-
cord of his dreaming it as often as he willed. Yet
this was my case. Again I took Pauline's hand,
and again, after a few moments' waiting, I felt the
same strange sensation and saw the same awful
sight. Not once, not twice, but many times did
this occur, until, skeptical as I was, as even I am
now in such matters, I could only believe that in
Some mysterious way I was actually gazing on the
very sight which had met the girl's eyes when
memory, perhaps mercifully, fled from her, and
reason was left impaired.
It was only when our hands were in contact that
the scene came before me. This fact strengthened
my theory. I felt then—I feel now, it is the true
one. What peculiar mental or physical organiza-
tion can have brought about such an effect I am
unable to say. Call it cataleptic, clairvoyant, any
thing you will, but it was as I relate.
Again and again I took Pauline's hand, and as
I held it looked into that brilliantly lighted
1 OOIſl.
Like the motionless figures in a tableau vivant,
again and again, without a change of attitude or
expression, I saw Ceneri, Macari, and the man in
the background looking at their victim. The ap-
pearance of the last named I studied very closely.
Even with the agony of death on his face I could
See he was supremely handsome. His must have
I 34 CALLED BACK.
been a face that women love to look upon, and
even through the horror of the vision, a painful
thought came to me as I wondered what might
have been his relations with the girl who saw him
suddenly struck down.
Who had struck him P. Without a doubt Macari,
who, as I said, was standing nearest to him, in the
attitude of one expecting an attack. His hand
might just have quitted the dagger hilt. His
downward stroke had driven the blade so deeply
into the heart that death and the blow were all
but simultaneous. This was what Pauline saw,
what perhaps she was seeing now, and what, by
Some strange power, she was able to show me as
one shows another a picture !
Ever since that night I have wondered how I
found the presence of mind to sit there and re-
peatedly call up, by the aid of that senseless girl
by my side, that phantasmagoria. It must have
been the burning desire to fathom the mysteries
of that long past night, the wish to learn exactly
what shock had disarranged my wife's intellect,
the indignation I felt at the cowardly murder, and
the hope of bringing the criminals to justice, which
gave me strength to produce and reproduce that
scene until I was satisfied that I knew all that
dumb show could tell me, until my heart smote
me for letting Pauline lie so long in her present
State.
Then I wrapped her cloak around her, raised
CALLED BACK. 135
her in my arms and bore her from the room, down
the stairs to the door. The hour was not late ; I
soon, by the aid of a passer-by, summoned a cab,
and in a very short time reached home, and laid
her, still insensible, upon her bed.
Whatever strange power she had possessed of
communicating her thoughts to me, it ceased as
soon as we were outside that fatal house. Now
and hereafter I could hold her hand but no dream,
vision or hallucination followed the act.
This is the one thing I cannot explain—the
mystery at which I hinted when I commenced my
tale. I have related what happened; if my bare
word is insufficient to win credence, I must be con-
tent on this one point to be disbelieved.
C H A P T E R IX.
A BLACK LIE.
AVING placed the poor girl in Priscilla's
motherly hands, I fetched the best doctor I
could think of, and efforts were at once made to
restore consciousness. It was long before any
sign of returning animation showed itself, but, at
last, she awoke. Need I say what a supreme mo-
ment that was to me.
I need not give details of that return to life.
After all, it was but a half return, and brought
fresh terrors in its train. When morning dawned
it found Pauline raving with what I prayed was
but the delirium of fever.
The doctor told me her state was a most critical
one. There was hope for her life, but no certainty
of saving it. It was during those days of anxiety
that I learned how much I loved my unhappy girl.
How grateful I should be if she were given back
to me, even as I had always known her.
Her wild fevered words cut me to the heart.
Sometimes in English, sometimes in soft Italian,
she called on some one ; spoke words of deep love
and sorrow ; gave vent to expressions of fond en-
CA/L/LAE/D BACK. I37
dearment. These were succeeded by cries of grief,
and it seemed as if shudders of fear passed over
her.
For me there was no word; no look of recog-
nition. I, who would have given worlds to hear
my name spoken once, during her delirium, with
an expression of love, was but a stranger at her
bedside.
Whom was it she called for and lamented 2 Who
was the man she and I had seen slain P I soon
learned—and if my informant spoke the truth, he
had, in so doing, dealt me a blow from which I
should never rally.
It was Macari who struck it. He called on me
the day after Pauline and I had visited that house.
I would not see him then. My plans were not
formed. For the time I could think of nothing
save my wife's danger. But two days afterwards,
when he again called, I gave orders for him to be
admitted.
I shuddered as I took the hand I dared not yet
refuse him, although in my own mind I was certain
that a murderer's fingers were clasped round my
own. Perhaps the very fingers which had once
closed on my throat. Yet, with all I knew, I
doubted whether I could bring him to justice.
Unless Pauline recovered, the evidence I could
bring would be of no weight. Even the victim's
name was unknown to me. Before the accusation
would lie his remains must be found and identified.
138 CAAAA.D BACK.
It was hopeless to think of punishing the mur-
derer, now that more than three years had elapsed
since the crime.
Besides—was he Pauline's brother ?
Brother or not, I would unmask him. I would
show him that the crime was no longer a secret ;
that an outsider knew every detail. I would tell
him this in the hope that his future would be
haunted with the dread of a just vengeance over-
taking him.
I knew the name of the street to which Pauline
had led me. I had noticed it as we drove from it
a few nights ago, and the reason of my drunken
guide's mistake was apparent. It was Horace
street. My conductor had jumbled up Walpole
and Horace in his drink-muddled brain.
On what a slight thread the whole course of a
life hangs
Macari had heard of Pauline's illness and
delirium. He was as tenderly solicitous in his
inquiries as a brother should be. My replies were
cold and brief. Brother or not, he was answerable
for every thing.
Presently he changed the subject. “I scarcely
like to trouble you at such a time, but I should
be glad to know if you are willing to join me,
as I suggested, in a memorial to Victor Em-
manuel ?”
“I am not. There are several things I must
have explained first.”
CA LZAZA) BACK. I39
He bowed politely; but I saw his lips close
tightly for a moment.
“I am quite at your service,” he said.
“Very well. Before all I must be satisfied that
you are my wife's brother.” -
He raised his thick dark eyebrows and tried to
smile.
“That is easily done. Had poor Ceneri been
with us, he would have vouched for it.”
“But he told me very differently.”
“Ah, he had his reasons. No matter, I can
bring plenty of other persons.”
“Then, again,” I said, looking him full in the
face and speaking very slowly, “I must know why
you murdered a man three years ago in a house
in Horace street.”
Whichever the fellow felt—fear or rage—the ex-
pression of his face was that of blank astonishment.
Not, I knew, the surprise of innocence, but of won-
der that the crime should be known. For a moment
his jaw dropped and he gaped at me in silence.
Then he recovered. “Are you mad, Mr.
Vaughan 2" he cried.
“On the 20th of August, 186—, at No. —
Horace street, you stabbed here, to the heart, a
young man who was sitting at the table. Dr.
Ceneri was in the room at the time, also another
man with a scar on his face.”
He attempted no evasion. He sprang to his
feet with features convulsed with rage. He seized
I4O CA CAA.D BACK.
my arm. For a moment I thought he meant to
attack me, but found he only wanted to scan my
face attentively. I did not shrink from his in-
spection. I hardly thought he would recognize
me; so great a change does blindness make in a
face.
But he knew me. He dropped my arm and
stamped his foot in fury.
“Fools Idiots!” he hissed. “Why did they
not let me do the work thoroughly l’’
He walked once or twice up and down the
room, and then with regained composure stood in
front of me.
“You are a great actor, Mr. Vaughan,” he said,
with a coolness and cynicism which appalled me.
“You deceived even me, and I am very suspi-
cious.”
“You do not even deny the crime, you vil-
laín P”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Why should I, to
an eye witness? To others I will deny it fast
enough. Besides, as you are interested in the
matter, there is no occasion to do so.”
“I am interested ”
“Certainly; as you married my sister. Now
my fine fellow ! my gay bridegroom my dear
brother-in-law I will tell you why I killed that
man and what I meant by my words to you at
Geneva.”
His air of bitter, callous mockery, as he spoke
CAL LED BACK. I4 I
these words made me dread what was to come.
My hands were tingling to throw him from the
1 OOIſl.
“That man—I shall not for obvious reasons tell
you his name—was Pauline's lover. Translate
“lover' into Italian—into what the word drudo
signifies in that language—then you will under-
stand my meaning. We, on our mother's side
have noble blood in our veins—blood which brooks
no insult. He was Pauline's, your wife's, lover,
I say again. He had no wish to marry her, and
so Ceneri and I killed him—killed him in London
—even in her presence. As I told you once before,
Mr. Vaughan, it is well to marry a woman who
cannot recall the past.”
I made no reply. So hideous a statement
called for no comment. I simply rose and walked
towards him. He saw my purpose written in my
face. “Not here,” he said hastily, and moving
away from me : “what good can it do here—a vul-
gar scuffle between two gentlemen? No; on the
Continent—any where, meet me, and I will show
you how I hate you.”
He spoke well, the self-possessed villain ' What
good could it do P. An unseemly struggle, in
which I could scarcely hope to kill him ; and
Pauline the while perhaps upon the point of
death !
“Go,” I cried, “murderer and coward | Every
word you have ever spoken to me has been a lie,
I42 CA/C/CAE. D BACK.
and because you hate me, you have to-day told
me the greatest lie of all. Go; save yourself from
the gallows by flight.”
He gave me a look of malicious triumph and
left me. The air in the room seemed purer now
that he no longer breathed it.
Then I went to Pauline's room, and sitting by
her bed heard her parched lips ever and ever
calling in English or Italian on some one she
loved. Heard them beseeching and warning, and
knew that her wild words were addressed to the
man whom Macari averred he had slain because
he was the lover of his sister—my wife *
The villain lied I knew he lied. Over and
over again I told myself it was a black, slanderous
lie—that Pauline was as pure as an angel. But,
as I strove to comfort myself with these assertions,
I knew that, lie as it was, until I could prove it such,
it would rankle in my heart; would be ever with
me; would grow until I mistook it for truth ;
would give me not a moment's rest or peace,
until it made me curse the day when Kenyon led
me inside that old church to see “the fairest
sight of all.”
How could I prove the untruth? There were
but two other persons in the world who knew
Pauline's history—Ceneri and old Teresa. Teresa
had disappeared and Ceneri was in the Siberian
mines or some other living grave. Even as I
thought of the old Italian woman, Macari's slander
CALLE/O BACK. I43
began to throw forth its first poisonous shoots.
Her mysterious words, “not for love or marriage,”
might bear another meaning, a dishonorable
meaning. And other circumstances would come
to me. Ceneri's haste to get his niece married—
his wish to get rid of her. Thoughts of this sort
would steal into my mind until they half-maddened
II le.
I could bear to sit with Pauline no longer. I
went out into the open air and wandered about
aimlessly, until two ideas occurred to me. One
was that I would go to the greatest authority on
brain diseases, and consult him as to Pauline's
hope of recovery—the other that I would go to
Horace street and examine, by daylight, the house
from top to bottom. I went first to the doctor's.
To him I told every thing, saving, of course,
Macari's black lie. I could see no other way to
explain the case without confiding fully. I most
certainly succeeded in arousing his interest. He
had already seen Pauline and knew exactly the
state in which she had been. I think he believed,
as many others will, all I told him except that one
strange occurrence. Even this he did not scoff at,
accustomed as he was to wild fancies and freaks
of imagination. He attributed it to this cause ;
which was but natural—And now what comfort or
hope could he give me?
“As I told you before, Mr. Vaughan,” he said,
“such a thing as losing the recollection of the
I44 CA LLED BACK.
past for a long while and then picking up the end
of the thread where it fell is not altogether unpre-
cedented. I will come and see your wife; but as
the case now stands it seems to me it is an attack
of brain fever, and as yet no specialist is needed.
When that fever leaves her I should like to know,
that I may see her. It will, I expect, leave her
sane, but she will begin life again from the hour
that her mind was first unhinged. You, her hus-
band, may even be as a stranger to her. The
case, I say again, is not unprecedented, but the
circumstances which surround it are.”
I left the doctor and walked to the agents in
whose hands the house in Horace street was placed.
I obtained the keys and made some inquiries. I
found that at the time of the murder the house
had been let furnished for a few weeks to an Italian
gentleman whose name was forgotten. He had
paid the rent in advance, so no inquiries had been
made about him. The house had been vacant for
a long time. There was nothing against it except
that the owner would only let it at a certain rent,
which most people appeared to consider too high.
I gave my name and address and took the keys.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon in search-
ing every nook and cranny in the house, but no
discovery rewarded my labor. There was, I be-
lieved, no place in which the body of a victim
could have been hid—there was no garden in which
it might have been buried. I took back the keys
CALLA; D BACK. I45
and said the house did not suit me. Then I re-
turned home, and brooded on my grief, whilst
Macari's lie ate and ate its way to my heart.
And day by day it went on working and gnawing,
corroding and warping, until I was told that the
crisis was over; that Pauline was out of danger;
that she was herself again.
Which self 2 The self I had only known, or
the self before that fatal night? With a beating
heart I drew near to her bedside. Weak, ex-
hausted, without strength to move or speak she
opened her eyes and looked at me. It was a look
of wonder, of non-recognition, but it was the look
of restored reason. She knew me not. It was as
the doctor had predicted. I might have been a
total stranger to those beautiful eyes as they
opened, gazed at me, and then reclosed them-
selves wearily. I went from the room with tears
running down my cheeks, and at my heart a feeling
of mingled joy and sorrow, hope and fear, which
words will not express.
Then Macari's black lie came out from its lurking
place and seized me as it were by the throat–
clung to me, wrestled with me—cried, “I am true !
Push me away, I am still true. The lips of a villain
spoke to me, but for once he spoke the truth. If
not for this, why the crime? Men do not lightly
commit murder.” Even then, when the moment I
had prayed and longed for had come—when sense,
full sense, was given back to my poor love—I was
146 CA L.L.E.D BACK.
invaded, conquered and crushed to the ground by
the foul lie which might be truth.
“We are strangers—she knows me not,” I cried.
“Let me prove that this lie is a lie or let us be
strangers forever !”
How could I prove it? How could I ask Pauline P
Or asking her, how could I expect her to answer P
Even if she did, would her word satisfy me? Oh
that I could see Ceneriſ Villain he might be, but
I felt he was not such a double-dyed villain as
Macari.
Thinking thus, I formed a desperate resolve.
Men are urged to do strange and desperate things
when life is at stake—with me it was more than
life. It was the honor, the happiness—every thing,
of two people !
Yes, I would do it ! Mad as the scheme seemed,
I would go to Siberia, and if money, perseverance,
favor, or craft could bring me face to face with
Ceneri, I would wring the truth, the whole truth
from his lips |
CHAPTER X.
IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH.
CROSS Europe—half-way across Asia—for
the sake of an hour's interview with a Rus-
sian political prisoner! It was a wild scheme, but
I was determined to carry it out. If my plan was
a mad one, I would, at least, insure a chance of
its success by putting all the method I could in
my preparations. I would not rush wildly to my
journey's end and find it rendered fruitless by the
stupidity or suspicion of some one vested with
brief authority. No ; I must go armed with cre-
dentials which no one would dare to dispute.
Money, one of the most important of all, I had
plenty of, and was ready to use freely; but there
were others which were indispensable; my first step
would be to obtain these. I could go quietly and
systematically to work, for it would be days be-
fore I could venture to leave Pauline. Only when
all chance of danger was at an end could I begin
my journey.
So during those days whilst the poor girl was
gradually, but very, very slowly, regaining strength,
I looked up what friends I possessed among the
great people of the land, until I found one whose
148 CA/./A.D BACK.
position was such that he could ask a favor of a
far greater man than himself, and, moreover, expect
that it should be granted without delay. He did
this for my sake with such efficacy that I received
a letter of introduction to the English ambassador
at St. Petersburgh, and also the copy of a letter
which had been forwarded him containing instruc-
tions on my behalf. Each of the letters bore an
autograph which would insure every assistance
being given to me. With these, and the addition
of a letter of credit for a large amount on a St.
Petersburgh bank, I was ready to start.
But before I left, Pauline's safety and well-being
during these months of absence must be con-
sidered. The difficulties this presented almost
made me abandon, or, at least, postpone, the
execution of my plan. Yet I knew it must be
carried out to the very letter, or Macari's lie would
ever stand between my wife and myself. Better I
should go at once, while we were strangers; better,
if Ceneri by word or silence confirmed the shameful
tale, that we should never meet again
Pauline would be left in good hands. Priscilla
would do my bidding faithfully and fully. The old
woman was by this time quite aware that her
charge had awakened to both memory and new for-
getfulness. She knew the reason why for days
and days I had not even entered the room. She
knew that I considered Pauline, in her present
state, no more my wife than when I first met her
CA LZAC D BACK. 149
in Turin. She knew that some mystery was at-
tached to our relations with each other, and that I
was bound upon a long journey to clear this up.
She was content with this knowledge or sought to
obtain no more than I chose to give her.
My instructions were minute. As soon as she
was well enough Pauline was to be taken to the
seaside. Every thing was to be done for her com-
fort and according to her wishes. If she grew
curious she was to be told that some near relation,
who was now journeying abroad, had placed her
in Priscilla's hands, where she was to stay until
his return But, unless the recollection of the
past few months came to her, she was to be told
nothing as to her true position as my wife. Indeed,
I doubted now if she was legally my wife—wheth-
er, if she wished, she might not annul the mar-
riage by stating that at the time it took place she
was not in her right mind. When I returned from,
my expedition—if things were right, as I told my-
self they must be, all would have to be begun again
from the beginning.
I had ascertained that, since the departure of
the fever, Pauline had said nothing about the
terrible deed she had witnessed three years ago.
I feared that when her health was re-established
her first wish would be to make some stir in the
matter. It was hard to see what she could pos-
sibly do. Macari, I learned, had left England the
day after I accused him of the crime ; Ceneri was
I5o - CAAAA.D BACK.
out of reach. I hoped that Pauline might be
induced to remain quiet until my return ; and I
instructed Priscilla, in the event of her recurring
to the subject of a great crime committed by per-
Sons she knew, to inform her that all was being
done to bring the guilty to their deserts. I trusted
she would, with her usual docility, rest contented
with this scarcely correct assertion.
Priscilla was to write to me—to St. Petersburgh,
Moscow, and other places I must stop at, going
and returning. I left directed envelopes with her,
and would send from St. Petersburgh instructions
as to the dates when the various letters should be
posted. And then all I could think of was done.
All except one thing. To-morrow morning I
must start. My passport is duly signed ; my trunks
are packed—every thing ready. Once, once for
a moment, I must see her before I sleep to-night—
see her it may be for the last time. She was
sleeping soundly—Priscilla told me so. Once
more I must look upon that beautiful face that I
may carry its exact image with me for thousands
of miles -
I crept upstairs and entered her room. I stood
by the bedside and gazed with eyes full of tears on
my wife—yet not my wife. I felt like a criminal,
a desecrator, so little right, I knew, I had to be in
that room. Her pale pure face lay on the pillow
—the fairest face in all the world to me. Her
bosom rose and fell with her soft regular breathing.
CA/C/A.D BACK. 1 5 I
f
Fair and white as an angel she looked, and I swore,
as I gazed on her, that no word of man should
make me doubt her innocence. Yet I would go to
Siberia.
I would have given worlds for the right to lay
my lips on hers to have been able to awake her
with a kiss, and see those long dark lashes rise, and
her eyes beam with love for me. Even as it was I
could not refrain from kissing her gently on the
temple, just where the soft thick hair began to
grow. She stirred in her sleep, her eyelids quiver-
ed, and like one detected at the commencement
of a crime, I fled.
The next day I was hundreds of miles away,
and my mind was in a sterner frame. If when I
reached, if ever I did reach, Ceneri, I found that
Macari had not lied—found that I had been fooled,
cajoled, made a tool of, I should, at least, have the
grim consolation of revenge. I should be able to
gloat upon the misery of the man who had deceiv-
ed me and used me for his own purposes. I should
see him dragging out his wretched life in chains
and degradation. I should see him a slave, beaten
and ill-treated. If this was the only reward I should
reap it would repay me for my long journey. Per-
haps, considering all that had passed and my
present anxiety and dread, this unchristian state
of mind was not unnatural to an ordinary son of
Adam.
St. Petersburgh at last ! The letter I bear,
152 CAE/A.D BACK.
and the letter already received on my account,
insure me a gracious reception from her majesty's
noble representative in the Russian capital. My
request is listened to attentively; not scouted
as ridiculous. I am told it is unprecedented, but
the words impossible to be granted are not used.
There are difficulties, great difficulties, in the way,
but, as my business is purely of a domestic nature,
with no political tendency, and as the letters bear
the magic autograph of a person whom the noble
lord is eager to oblige, I am not told that the
obstacles are insuperable. I must wait patiently
for days, it may be weeks, but I can be sure that
every thing will be done that can be done. There
is, at present, or so the newspapers say, a little
friction between the two Governments. Some-
times this is shown by requests more simple than
mine being refused. Still, we shall see
Meanwhile, who is the prisoner, and where is
lme P
Ah that I cannot say. I only know him as a
doctor named Ceneri—an Italian—an apostle of
freedom—patriot—conspirator. I was not foolish
enough to imagine he had been tried and sentenc-
ed under the name I knew him by. I supposed
this to be a false one.
Lord was certain that no one of that name
has been sentenced within the last few months.
That mattered little. Permission accorded, with
the data I had given, the man would at once be
CALLED BACK. 153
identified by the police. Now, good-morning—as
soon as possible I should hear from the embassy.
“And one word of caution, Mr. Vaughan,” said
his lordship. “You are not in England. Remem-
ber that a hasty word, even a look ; a casual re-
mark to any stranger you sit next at dinner, may
utterly defeat your ends. The system of govern-
ment here is different from ours.”
I thanked him for his advice, although I needed
no warning. The truth is that an Englishman in
Russia has an even exaggerated dread of spies and
the consequences of a loose tongue. More of us
are looked upon with suspicion from our taciturn-
ity than from our garrulity. I was not likely to
err on the latter point.
I went back to my hotel, and for the next few
days whiled away the time as best I could. Not
that, under ordinary circumstances, I should have
found much difficulty in so doing. St. Peters-
burgh was one of the places I had always wished
to visit. Its sights were new and strange
to me; its customs worth studying ; but I took
little interest in any thing I saw. I was longing
to be away in pursuit of Ceneri.
I was not foolish enough to pester the ambassa-
dor and make myself a nuisance. Believing he
would do all he could, I waited patiently and in
silence until I received a letter asking me to call at
the embassy. Lord received me kindly.
“It is all settled,” he said. “You will go to Si-
I 54 CAAAA; D BACK.
beria armed with authority which the most ignor-
ant jailor or soldier will recognize. Of course, I
have pledged my honor that in no way will you
connive at the convict's escape—that your business
is purely private.”
I expressed my thanks, and asked for instruc-
tions.
“First of all,” he said, “my instructions are to
take you to the palace. The Czar desires to see
the eccentric Englishman who wishes to make such
a long journey in order to ask a few questions.”
I would right willingly have declined the honor,
but as there was no chance of escaping from it,
nerved myself to meet the autocrat as well as I
could. The ambassador's carriage was at the
door, and in a few minutes we were driven to the
Imperial Palace.
I retain a confused recollection of gigantic sen-
tries, glittering officers, grave looking ushers and
other officials; noble staircases and halls; paint-
ings, statues, tapestry and gilding; then, follow-
ing my conductor, I entered a large apartment, at
one end of which stood a tall noble-looking man
in military attire; and I realized that I was in the
presence of him whose nod could sway millions
and millions of his fellow-creatures—the Emperor
of all the Russias—the White Czar Alexander II.
The sovereign whose rule stretches from the
highest civilization of Europe to the lowest bar-
barism of Asia.
CA/C/A2/) BACK. I55
Two years ago when the news of his cruel death
reached England, I thought of him as I saw him
that day—in the prime of life, tall, commanding
and gracious—a man it does one good to look at.
Whether—if the whole truth of his great ancestor
Catharine the Second's frailties were known—the
blood of a peasant or a king ran in his veins, he
looked every inch a ruler of men, a splendid despot.
To me he was particularly kind and condescend-
ing. His manner set me as much at my ease as it
is possible for a man to be in such august com-
pany. Lord presented me by name, and
after a proper reverence I waited the Czar's com-
mands.
He looked at me for a second from his towering
height. Then he spoke to me in French, fluently
and without much foreign accent :
“I am told you wish to go to Siberia P”
“With your majesty's gracious permission.”
“To see a political prisoner. Is that so?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“It is a long journey for such a purpose.”
“My business is of the most vital importance,
your majesty.”
“Private importance, I understand from Lord
} }
He spoke in a quick, stern way which showed
that he admitted of no prevarication. I hastened
to assure him of the purely private nature of my
desired interview with the criminal.
- 156 CAZ/A2/) BACK.
“Is he a dear friend of yours?”
“Rather an enemy, your majesty; but my hap-
piness and my wife's happiness are at stake.”
He smiled at my explanation. “You English
are good to your wives. Very well, Mr. Vaughan,
it shall be as you wish. The minister of the Inte-
rior will provide you with the fullest passports
and authorities. Bom voyage.”
Thus dismissed, I bowed myself out, praying
mentally that no red-tapism or bureaucracy might
delay the transmission of the promised docu-
mentS.
In three days I received them. The passport
authorized me to travel to the end of the Czar's
Asiatic dominions if I thought fit, and was worded
in such a way that it obviated the necessity of
obtaining a fresh passport whenever a fresh gov-
ernment district was to be traversed. It was not
until I found the trouble, annoyance and delay I
was saved by this magic strip of paper, that I fully
realized how much favor had been shown me.
Those few words of writing, unintelligible to me,
were a magic spell, the potency of which none
dared to resist.
But now, armed with power to travel, the ques-
tion was, where must, I go 2 To ascertain this, I was
taken to one of the heads of the police. To him I
explained my case. I described Ceneri, gave him
what I supposed was about the date of his crime
and trial, and begged for information as to the
CALLED BACK. 157
best means to adopt to find him in the place of
his banishment.
I was most civilly treated. Indeed, for courtesy
commend me to the Russian official when you are
properly and powerfully accredited. Ceneri was
at once identified, and his right name and Secret
history given to me. I recognized the name at
O11Ce.
There is no need to make it public. There are
many men in Europe who believe in the disinter-
ested character and noble aims of the unfortunate
convict; men who mourn him as a martyr. Per-
haps in the cause of liberty he was single-hearted
and noble-minded. Why should I distress his fol-
lowers by revealing any dark secrets of his private
life? Let him be, so far as I am concerned, Dr.
Ceneri to the end.
I learned from the suave, obliging Russian chief
of police, that a few weeks after I had seen him in
Geneva, Ceneri had been arrested in St. Peters-
burgh. A deeply laid plot, involving the assassina-
tion of the Czar and several members of the govern-
ment, had been revealed through the treachery of
a confederate. The police, fully cognizant of every
thing, had waited until the pear was nearly ripe,
and then struck with dire results to the plotters.
Scarcely one of the principals escaped, and Ceneri,
one of the most deeply implicated, was shown
scant mercy. He certainly had few claims on their
consideration. He was no Russian groaning un-
158 CA LIA2 D BACK.
der oppression and despotic government. Al-
though he called himself Italian, he was, in truth,
Cosmopolitan. One of those restless spirits who
wish to overturn all forms of government, save
that of republican. He had plotted and schemed
—even fought like a man—for Italian freedom.
He had been one of Garibaldi's most trusted work-
men ; but had turned fiercely against his master
when he found Italy was to be a kingdom, not
the ideal republic of his dreams. Latterly he
had directed his attention to Russia, and the plot
he was engaged in having been betrayed, his
career, in all human probability, was ended. Af-
ter lying many months in the fortress of St. Peter
and St. Paul, he was tried and condemned to
twenty years' hard labor in Siberia. Some months
ago he had been dispatched to his destination,
and, my informant added, was considered to have
been dealt with most leniently.
Where was he now 2 That could not be said
for certain. He might be at the Kara gold wash-
ings, at the Ustkutsk salt works, at Troitsk, at
Nertschinsk. All convicts were first sent to
Tobolsk, which was a kind of general rendezvous;
thence they were drafted off, at the pleasure of
the Governor-General, to various places and vari-
Ous Occupations.
If I wished, the Governor of Tobolsk should be
telegraphed or written to ; but, as I was bound
any way to go to that town, it would be just as
CA L/A2 D BACK. I59
well if I made my inquiries in person. To this I
quite agreed, mistrusting the speed of the Russian
post or the newly-opened telegraph. I was ready
to Start to-morrow.
So, after getting all the hints and information I
could, I thanked the chief for his courtesy, and
with my precious papers in my pocket, went to
complete my preparations for my journey ; a jour-
ney which might be a thousand or two thousand
miles longer or shorter, according to where it had
pleased the Governor of Tobolsk to bestow the
wretched Ceneri.
Before I started I received a letter from Pris-
cilla—one of those labored and rather misty epis-
tles usually written by people of her station in
life. It told me that Pauline was well ; that she
was willing to be guided by Priscilla's advice, and
to remain with her until the return of her un-
known relation or friend. “But, Master Gilbert,”
the letter went on, “I am sorry to say I believe
she is not quite right at times. The poor young
lady talks wildly about an awful crime; but she
says she is content to wait for justice to be done,
as some one she has seen in her dreams during
her illness is working for her. She doesn't know
who it is, but it is some one who knows every
thing.”
This intelligence made me feel easier. Not
only did it show me that Pauline would wait qui-
etly until my return, but also that some glimmer-
16o CA/C/A/D BACK.
ing of the immediate past might be dawning upon
her. The closing lines of Pauline's letter made
my heart beat with hope.
“This afternoon, Master Gilbert, she seemed to
discover for the first time that she had a wedding
ring on her finger. She asked me how it came
there. I told her I could not say. Then she sat
for hours and hours twisting it round and round,
thinking and thinking. I asked her, at last, what
she was thinking of. “Dreams I am trying to re-
member,' said she, with that pretty quiet smile of
hers. I was dying to tell the dear young lady that
she was my own master's lawful wife. I was afraid
she would take the ring off, but she didn’t, thank
God '''
Yes, thank God, she did not As I read Pris-
cilla's letter I yearned to turn homewards and fly
back to my wife. But I conquered the inclina-
tion, although I felt more and more certain that
my meeting with Ceneri would be a happy one for
me ; that I should return, and, if necessary, once
more place that ring on her finger and claim her
as my own, knowing that she was purer than the
gold of which that shining circlet was made.
Pauline ! my beautiful Pauline ! my wife, my
love, we shall be happy yet!
The next day I started for Siberia,
CHAPTER XI.
A HELL UPON EARTH.
IT was midsummer when I left St. Petersburgh.
The heat was oppressive and quite disturbed my
idea of the Russian climate. I went by rail to
Moscow, by the iron road which runs straight as
a line from the one large city to the other. The
Czar ordered it to be so made, without curves or
deviations. When the engineers asked him what
populous places they should take on their way,
his Imperial Majesty took a ruler and on the map
ruled a straight line from St. Petersburgh to Mos-
cow. “Make it so,” were his commands, and so it
was made, as rigid and careless of the convenience
of other persons as his own despotism—a railway
for some four hundred miles running simply to its
destination, not daring, however much tempted,
to Swerve aside and disobey the autocrat's com-
mands.
At Moscow the colossal I lingered a couple of
days. It was there I had settled to engage a
guide and interpreter. As I spoke two or three
languages besides my own, I was able to pick and
choose, and at last selected a pleasant mannered,
I62 CA/C/A/O B.A. CAT.
sharp looking young fellow who averred that he
knew every inch of the great post road to the east.
Then bidding farewell to the mighty Kremlin
with its churches, watch towers and battlements, I
started with my new companion for Nijnei Nov-
gorod; at which place we must bid adieu to the
railway.
We passed the old picturesque but decaying
town of Vladimir, and after duly admiring its five-
domed cathedral I found nothing more to distract
my attention until we reached Nijnei. My com-
panion was very anxious that we should linger for
a day or two at this city. The great fair was on,
and he assured me it was a sight not to be missed.
I had not come to Russia to look at fairs or fes-
tivities, so commanded him to make instant prep-
arations for continuing the journey.
We now changed our mode of conveyance.
Being summer the rivers were open and naviga-
tion practicable. We took the steamer and went
down the broad Volga till we passed Kasan and
reached the river Kama. Up this tortuous stream
we went until we landed at the large important
town of Perm.
We were five days on the water—I think the
five longest days I ever spent. The winding river,
the slow-going steamer, made me long for the land
again ; there one seemed to be making progress.
The road there was straight, not running into a
hundred bends.
CA/C/A2 D BACK. & 163
We were now nearly at the end of Europe. A
hundred miles further and we shall cross the Ural
mountains and be in Asiatic Russia.
At Perm we made our final preparations.
From now we must depend on post horses. Ivan,
my guide, after the proper amount of haggling,
bought a tarantass—a sort of phaeton. The lug-
gage was stowed into it; we took our seats; our
first relay of horses were engaged—three in num-
ber and harnessed in the peculiar Russian fashion
—the yemschik started them with the words of
encouragement and endearment which in Russia
are supposed to be more efficacious than the
thong, and away we went on our long long drive.
We crossed the Urals, which after all are not so
very high. We passed the stone obelisk erected,
Ivan told me, in honor of a Cossack chief named
Yermak. We read the word “Europe” on the
side which first met our eyes, and turning round
saw “Asia” written on the back. I spent my
first night in Asia at Ekaterineburg; and lay
awake the best part of it trying to calculate how
many miles stretched between Pauline and myself.
For days and days have passed since I left St.
Petersburg and I have traveled at all possible
speed ; yet the journey seems scarcely begun.
Indeed, I cannot even guess at its length until I
get to Tobolsk.
A trifle of some four hundred miles from
Ekaterineburg to Tiumen, another of two hundred
I64 CA CAEAE/O AEA CAT.
from Tiumen to Tobolsk, and I shall await the
pleasure of the Governor-General and what infor-
mation he may choose to give me.
The carriage and ourselves are ferried across
the broad yellow Irtuish—that river, the crossing
of which by a Russian officer at once raises him a
step in rank : for such is the inducement held out
to serve in Siberia; and at the east bank of the
Irtuish Siberia proper begins.
Tobolsk at last ! The sight of my passports
renders the Governor civility itself. He invited
me to dine with him and, as for prudential reasons
I thought it better to accept his invitation, treated
me royally. His register told me all I wanted to
know about Ceneri. He had been sent to the
very extreme of the Czar's dominions, as his was
a case which called for special severity. Where
he would finish his journey was not settled, but
that made little difference to me. As he would
travel the greater part of the way on foot, and as
there was but one road, I must overtake him, al-
though he left Tobolsk months ago. The escort
which accompanied that particular gang of prison-
ers was under the command of Captain Varlämoff,
to whom his Excellency would write a few lines
which I should take with me—he would also
give me a supplementary passport signed by
himself.
“Where do you think I shall overtake the
party?” I asked.
CALLED AEA CAT. I65
The Governor made a calculation. “Some-
where about Irkutsk,” he thought.
And Irkutsk two thousand miles, more or less,
from Tobolsk
I bade the great man a grateful adieu and
spurred on at such speed that even the good-
tempered Ivan began to grumble. Man, even a
Russian, was but mortal, he said, and I could not
expect to find Arab steeds among government
posthorses which the postmasters were compelled
to furnish at about twopence a mile a horse. I
left the yemschik and himself no time for refresh-
ment. Their tea had not grown cool enough to
swallow before I was insisting on a fresh start.
And as for a proper night's rest !
Tea Until I made that journey I never knew
the amount of tea a mortal stomach could hold.
One and all they drank it by the gallon. They
carried it about compressed into bricks, cemented,
I heard with a shudder, by sheep's or some other
animal's blood. They drank it morn, noon and
night. Whenever there was a stoppage and boil-
ing water could be obtained bucketsful of tea
were made and poured down their throats.
The impressions I retain of that long journey
are not very deep. I was not traversing the
country for the sake of writing a book of travels,
or to observe the manners and customs of the
people. My great object was to overtake Ceneri
as quickly as possible, and my endeavors were
I66 CAAALEZ) BACK.
directed to passing from one posting station to
another as Swiftly as I could. We sped over vast
steppes, wild marshes, through forests of birch,
tall pines, oak, ash, and other trees; we were
ferried over broad rivers. On and on we went as
straight to our destination as the great post road
would take us. When nature forced us to rest we
had to put up with such pitiful accommodation as
we could get. Unless the place at which we
stopped was of some importance, inns were un-
known. By dint of practice I at last contrived to
obtain almost enough sleep, if not to satisfy me,
to serve my needs, whilst jolting along in the
tarantasS. f
It was a monotonous journey. I turned aside
to visit no objects of interest spoken of by travel-
ers. From morn to night and generally through
the greater part of the night our wheels rolled
along the road. And at every posting station
I read on the wooden post which stands in front
of it the number of miles we were from St. Peters-
burgh, until, as the days and weeks passed, I be-
gan to feel appalled at the distance I had come
and the distance I must return. Should I ever see
Pauline again? Who can say what may have
happened before I return to England P. At times
I grew quite dispirited.
I think what made me realize the length of the
journey even more than days or measured miles
was to see, as we went on, the country people
CALLED BACK. 167
gradually changing their costume and dialect.
The yemschiks who drove us changed in appear-
ance and in nationality; the very breed of the
horses varied. But let man or cattle be of what
kind they may, we were well and skillfully con-
ducted. -
The weather was glorious, almost too glorious.
. The cultivated country we passed though looked
thriving and productive. Siberia was very differ-
ent in appearance from what is usually associated
with its name. The air when not too warm was
simply delicious. Never have I breathed a more
invigorating and bracing atmosphere. There were
days when the breeze seemed to send new life
through every vein.
The people I thought fairly honest, and when-
ever I found a need of producing my papers the
word givility will scarcely express the treatment I
received. How I should have been treated with-
out these potent talismans I cannot say.
The whole country-side in most places was
busy with the hay-harvest; a matter of such im-
portance to the community at large that convicts
are told off for some six weeks to assist in the
work of saving the crops. The wild flowers,
many of them very beautiful, grew freely; the
people looked well and contented. Altogether
my impressions of Siberia in summer were pleas-
ant OneS.
Yet I wished it had been the dead of winter.
I68 CA Z//º/O BACK.
Then it is that, in spite of the cold, one travels
more pleasantly. Ivan assured me that when a
good snow road is formed and a tarantass may be
exchanged for a sledge, the amount of ground
passed over in a day is something marvelous. I
am afraid from memory to say how many miles
may be covered in twenty-four hours when the
smooth-going runners take the place of wheels.
We had, of course, various small accidents and
delays on the road. However strongly built a
tarantass may be it is but mortal. Wheels broke,
axletrees gave way, shafts snapped, twice we were
overturned, but as no evil except delay ensued I
need not relate the history of these misfortunes.
Nor need I enumerate the towns and villages
through which we passed unless I wished to make
my story as interesting as a scriptufal genealogy—
Tara, Kainsk, Koliuvan, Tomsk, Achinsk, Krasnoy-
arsk, Nijnei Udinsk, may or may not be familiar
to the reader, according to the depth of his geo-
graphical studies; but most of the others, even if
I knew how to spell their names, would be nothing
more than vain sounds. Perhaps, when we trace
the march of the Russian army destined to in-
vade our Indian Empire we may become better
acquainted with the Czar's Asiatic dominions.
Yet at the entrance to each of these little towns
or villages, the very names of which I have for-
gotten, so surely as you found the well-appointed
posting station, you found also a gloomy square
CAZZZZO BACK. 169
building, varying with the size of the place, sur-
rounded by a tall palisade, the gates of which were
barred, bolted and sentried—these buildings were
the ostrogs, or prisons.
Here it was that the wretched convicts were
housed as they halted on their long march. In
these places they were packed like sardines in a
box. Prisons built to hold two hundred were often
called upon to accommodate at least twice that
number of luckless wretches. I was told that when
ice was breaking up in the rivers; when the floods
were out; when in fact the progress must perforce
be delayed, the scenes at these prisons or depôts
beggared description. Men, sometimes unsexed
women with them, huddled into rooms reeking
with filth, the floors throwing out poisonous emana-
tions—rooms built to give but scanty space to
a small number, crowded to suffocation. The
mortality at times was fearful. The trials of the
march were as nothing when compared to the
horrors of the so-called rest. And it was in one
of these ostrogs I should find Ceneri.
We passed many gangs of convicts plodding
along to their fate. Ivan told me that most of
them were in chains. This I should not have
noticed, as the irons are only on the legs and worn
under the trowsers. Poor wretched beings, my
heart ached for them | Felons though they were,
I could never refuse the charity they invariably
prayed for. So far as I could see they were not
17o CALLED BACK.
unkindly treated by the soldiers and officers, but
terrible tales were told me about their sufferings
at the hands of inhuman jailors and commandants
of prisons. There, for the slightest infraction of
rules, the rod, the dark cell and a variety of other
punishments were called into play.
I always felt relieved when we had passed out
of sight of a gang like this. The contrast between
my own position and that of such a number of my
fellow men was too painful to contemplate—and
yet if Ceneri did not clear away every shadow of
doubt from my mind I might retrace my steps a
more miserable wretch than either of those foot-
sore convicts.
Some week or ten days after leaving Tobolsk I
began to make inquiries at every ostrog as to when
Captain Varlamoff's gang passed, and when I
might expect to overtake it. The answers I
received to the latter question corresponded with
that given me by the governor—all agreed at
Irkutsk, or just beyond. Day after day I found
we were gaining rapidly upon the party, and when
at last we reached the large handsome town of
Irkutsk I rightly reckoned that I had reached the
end, or nearly the end of my journey.
On inquiry I found Captain Varlamoff had not
yet arrived. At the place where I had last in-
quired I had been told he had passed through a
day before, so it was evident we had overlooked
and outstripped them. The best thing to be
CA CAA. D BACK. 171
done was to wait in Irkutsk the arrival of the
party.
I was not at all sorry to take a couple of days'
rest after my fatigues. I was not sorry to indulge
once more in the comforts of comparative civiliza-
tion; yet nearly every hour I was sending down
to inquire if the convicts had arrived. More
ardently than I had longed to reach Irkutsk, I
longed to turn the horses' heads westwards and
start on the return journey. --
I had heard no news from home since I left St.
Petersburgh. Indeed, I could not expect a letter,
as, after my departure from Nijnei Novgorod, I
had positively outstripped the post. On the road
home I hoped to find letters waiting me.
After I had kicked my heels in Irkutsk for two
days I received the welcome news that Captain
Varlamoff had marched his prisoners to the ostrog
at four o'clock that afternoon. I rose from my
dinner and went with all speed to the prison.
A man in plain clothes—a civilian—demanding
to be conducted to the presence of a Russian cap-
tain who had just arrived from a long march,
seemed almost too great a joke for the sentries to
bear in a soldierlike manner. Their stolid faces
broke into scornful smiles as they asked Ivan if
“the little father” had gone quite mad. It required
much firmness, much persuasion and a gratuity,
which to the simple military mind represented an
unlimited quantity of “vodka,” and consequently
172 CA/C/A.D BACK.
many happy drinking bouts, before I was allowed
to pass through the gates of the high palisade,
and, with many misgivings on the part of my
guide, was conducted to the presence of the
captain.
A fine fierce-looking young soldier, who glared
at me for disturbing him ; for having, by advice,
adopted the Russian costume, which by now was
stained and frayed by travel, there was nothing to
show him I was not a civilian whom any soldier
might kick at his pleasure.
It was delightful to see the change the perusal of
the Tobolsk governor's letter made in the captain's
appearance. He rose, and with the greatest cour-
tesy offered me a chair, and asked me in French
if I spoke that language.
I assured him on that point, and finding I could
dispense with Ivan's services sent him outside to
wait for me.
Varlämoff would not hear of commencing busi-
ness until wine and cigarettes made their appear-
ance—then he was at my service in any thing and
every thing.
* I told him what I desired.
“To speak in private with one of my convicts.
Certainly—this letter places me at your commands.
But which convict?
I gave him the true name. He shook his head.
“I know none of them by that name. Most of
the names the political prisoners pass under are
CA/C/A2/) BACK. I73
false ones. When they leave me they will become
numbers, so it doesn't matter.”
I suggested Ceneri. He shook his head again.
“I know the man I want is with you,” I said.
“How shall I find him P”
“You know him by sight?”
“Yes—well.”
“Then you had better come with me and try
and pick him out among my unfortunates. Light
another cigarette—you will want it,” he added
with meaning.
He led the way, and soon we stood before a
heavy door. At his command a jailor, armed with
mighty keys, appeared. The grinding locks were
turned, and the door was opened.
“Follow me,” said Varlämoff, with a long pull
at his cigarette. I obeyed, and standing on the
threshold had much ado to keep from fainting.
From the stench which rushed through it, that
open door might have been the entrance to some
pestilential cavern at the bottom of which all the
impurities of the world were rotting and putrefying.
As it passed you, you felt that the thick air was
poisonous with disease and death.
I recovered myself as best I could, and followed
my guide into the grim interior. The door closed
behind us.
Had I the power to describe the sights I saw
when my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I
should not be believed, The prison was spacious,
I 74 CA/C LED BACK.
but, when the number of the prisoners was con-
sidered, it should have been three times the size.
It was thronged with wretched beings. They were
standing, sitting and lying about. Men of all ages
and, it seemed, of all nationalities. Men with
features of the lowest human type. They were
huddled in groups—many were quarreling, cursing
and Swearing. Moved by curiosity they pressed
around us as closely as they dared, laughing and
jabbering in their barbarous dialects. I was in a
hell, an obscene, unclean hell ! a hell made by men
for their fellow-men.
Filth ! the place was one mass of it. Filth
under foot—filth on the walls, the rafters and the
beams—filth floating about in the hot, heavy,
pestiferous air. Each man seemed to be a moving
mass of filth. Zola would revel in a minute des-
cription of the horrors of that place, but I must
leave them to the imagination, although I know
and even trust that no one's imagination can come
near the reality.
The only thing I could think of was this. Why
did not these men rush out, overpower the guards,
and escape from this reeking den P I put the
question to Varlamoff.
“They never attempt to escape whilst on the
march,” he said. “It is a point of honor among
them. If one escapes those left are treated with
much greater severity.”
“Do none ever get away ?”
CA / ZAZ /) AA CAT. I75
“Yes, many do when they are sent to the works.
But it does them no good. They must pass through
the towns on their flight or they would starve.
Then they are always caught and sent back.”
I was peering into all the faces about, trying to
find the one I sought. My inspection was re-
ceived with looks sullen, suspicious, defiant or
careless. Remarks were made in undertones, but
Varlämoff's dreaded presence kept me from insult.
I examined many groups without success, then I
made a tour of the prison.
All along the wall was a slanting platform upon
which men lay in various attitudes. Being the most
comfortable station every inch of it was covered by
recumbent forms. In the angle formed by the
prison walls I saw a man reclining, as if utterly
worn out. His head sank down upon his breast,
his eyes were closed. There was something in
his figure which struck me as familiar. I walked
to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder. He
opened his weary eyes and raised his sad face. It
was Manuel Ceneril
CHAPTER XII.
THE NAME OF THE MAN.
IE looked at me with an expression in his eyes
which passed at once from hopelessness to be-
wilderment. He seemed to be uncertain whether
it was a phantom or a man he was looking at. He
rose to his feet in a dazed, stupefied way, and
stood face to face with me, whilst his wretched
fellow-prisoners pressed curiously around us.
“Mr. Vaughan | Here! In Siberia!” he said,
as one not believing his own senses. -
“I have come from England to see you. This
is the prisoner I am looking for,” I said, turning
to the officer who stood at my side, mitigating to
some extent the noxiousness of the atmosphere
by the cigarette he puffed vigorously.
“I am glad you have found him,” he said po-
litely. “Now the sooner we get outside the bet-
ter; the air here is unhealthy.”
Unhealthy | It was fetid I was filled with
wonder, as I looked at the bland French-speaking
captain at my side, at the state of mind to which
a man must bring himself before he could calmly
stand in the midst of his fellow-creatures and see
CALLED BACK. …” 177
M
such misery unconcernedly—could even think he
was but doing his duty. Perhaps he was. It may
be the crimes of the prisoners forbade sympathy.
But, oh to stand there in the midst of those poor
wretches, turned for the time into little more than
animals | I may be wrong, but it seems to me
that the jailor must have a harder heart than the
worst of his captives | -
“I can see him—talk to him alone?” I asked.
“Certainly; so you are authorized to do. I am
a soldier; you in this matter are my superior
officer.”
“May I take him to the inn P”
“I think not. I will find you a room here.
Please follow me. Phew! that is a relief.”
We were now outside the prison door and
breathing fresh air once more. The captain led
me to a kind of office, dirty and furnished barely
enough, but a paradise compared to the scene we
had just quitted. -
“Wait here; I will send the prisoner to you.’
As he turned to leave me I thought of the
miserable, dejected appearance Ceneri had pre-
sented. Let him be the greatest villain in the
world, I could not keep from wishing to do some
little thing to benefit him. -
“I may give him food and drink?” I asked.
The captain shrugged his shoulders and laughed
good temperedly.
“He ought not to be hungry. He has the
9
178 CALLED BACK.
rations which government says are sufficient. But
then you may be hungry and thirsty. If so, I do
not see how I can stop you sending for wine and
food—of course for yourself.” -
I thanked him and forthwith dispatched my
guide in quest of the best wine and meat he could
get. Wine, when ordered by a gentleman, means
in Russia but one thing—champagne. At an inn
of any standing champagne, or at least its substi-
tute, wine of the Don, may be procured. My
messenger soon returned with a bottle of the real
beverage and a good supply of cold meat and
white bread. As soon as it was placed on the
rough table a tall soldier led in my expected guest.
I placed a chair for Ceneri, into which he sank
wearily. As he did so I heard the jingle of the
irons on his legs. Then I told my interpreter to
leave us. The soldier, who no doubt had received
his orders, saluted me gravely and followed his
example. The door closed behind him, and
Ceneri and I were alone. .
He had somewhat recovered from his stupe-
faction, and as he looked at me I saw an eager,
wistful expression on his face. Drowning as he
was, no doubt he caught at the straw of my
unexpected appearance, thinking it might assist
him to freedom. Perhaps it was to enjoy a
moment or two brightened by the faintest or
wildest gleam of hope, made him pause before he
spoke to me. -
CAAAA; D BACK. I79
“I have come a long, long way to see you, Dr.
Ceneri,” I began.
“If the way seemed long to you, what has it
been to me? You at least can return when you
like to freedom and happiness.”
He spoke in the quiet tone of despair. I had
been unable to prevent my words sounding cold
and my voice being stern. If my coming had
raised any hope in his heart, my manner now
dispelled it. He knew I had not made the
journey for his sake.
“Whether I can go back to happiness or not de-
pends on what you tell me. You may imagine it
is no light matter which has brought me so far to
see you for a few minutes.”
He looked at me curiously, but not suspiciously.
I could do him no harm—for him the outer world
was at an end. If I accused him of fifty murders,
and brought each one home to him, his fate
would be no worse. He was blotted out, erased ;
nothing now could matter to him, except more or
less bodily discomfort. I shuddered as I realized
what his sentence meant, and, in spite of myself, a
compassionate feeling stole over me.
“I have much of importance to say, but first let
me give you some wine and food.”
“Thank you,” he said, almost humbly. “You
would scarcely believe, Mr. Vaughan, that a man
may be reduced to such a state that he can hardly
restrain himself at the sight of decent meat and
drink.” •
18o -. CA LLED BACK.
I could believe anything after the interior of the
ostrog. I opened the wine and placed it before
him. As he ate and drank, I had leisure to
observe him attentively.
His sufferings had wrought a great change in
him. Every feature was sharpened, every limb
seemed slighter—he looked at least ten years older.
He wore the Russian peasants' ordinary garments,
and these hung in rags about him. His feet,
swathed in fragments of some woolen material,
showed in places through his boots. The long,
weary marches were telling their tale upon his
frame. He had never given me the idea of being
a robust man, and as I looked at him I thought
that whatever work he might be put to, it would
not pay the Russian Government for his sorry
keep. But the probabilities were, they would not
have to keep him long.
He ate, not voraciously, but with a keen appe-
tite. The wine he used sparingly. His meal being
finished, he glanced around as if in quest of some-
thing. I guessed what he wanted and passed him
my cigar-case and a light. He thanked me and
began to smoke with an air of enjoyment.
For a while I had not the heart to interrupt the
poor wretch. When he left me it must be to return
to that hell peopled by human beings. But time
was slipping by. Outside the door I could hear
the monotonous step of the sentry, and I did not
know what period of grace the polite captain might
allow to his prisoner.
CALLED BACK I81
Ceneri was leaning back in his chair with a kind
of dreamy look on his face, Smoking slowly and
placidly, taking, as it were, every thing he could
out of the luxury of a good cigar. I asked him to
drink some more wine. He shook his head, then
turned and looked at me.
“Mr. Vaughan,” he said ; “yes, it is Mr.
Vaughan. But who and what am I? Where are
we ? Is it London, Geneva, or elsewhere P Shall
I awake and find I have dreamed of what I have
Suffered P”
“I am afraid it is no dream. We are in Siberia.”
“And you are not come to bear me good news 2
You are not one of us—a friend trying at the peril
of your life to set me free?”
I shook my head. “I would do all I could to
make your lot easier, but I come with a selfish
motive to ask some questions which you alone can
answer.”
“Ask them. You have given me, an hour's re-
lief from misery; I am grateful.”
“You will answer truly 2."
“Why not ? I have nothing to fear, nothing to
gain, nothing to hope. Falsehood is forced on
people by circumstances; a man in my state has
no need of it.” -
“The first question I have to ask is—who and
what is that man Macari P”
Ceneri sprang to his feet. The name of Macari
seemed to bring him back to the world. He looked
182 CA C/A/X BACK.
no longer a decrepit man. His voice was fierce
and stern.
“A traitor a traitorſ" he cried. “But for him
I should have succeeded and escaped. If he were
only standing in your place Weak as I am, I
could find strength enough to cling on to his
throat till the vile breath was out of his accursed
body l’” -
He walked up and down the room, clenching
and unclenching his hands.
“Try and be calm, Dr. Ceneri,” I said. “I have
nothing to do with his plots and political treasons.
Who is he? What is his parentage 2 Is Macari
his name P” - -
“The only name I ever knew him by. His
father was a renegade Italian who sent his son to
live in England for fear his precious blood should
be spilt in freeing his country. I found him a
young man and made him one of us. His perfect
knowledge of your tongue was of great service ;
and he fought—yes, once he fought like a man.
Why did he turn traitor now P Why do you ask
these questions?” X .
“He has been to me and asserts that he is
Pauline's brother.”
Ceneri's face, as he heard this intelligence, was
enough to banish lie number one from my mind.
My heart leaped as I guessed that number two would
be disposed of as easily. But there was a terrible
revelation to be made when I came to ask about that.
CA/C/AC/D BACK. 183
“Pauline's brother!” stammered Ceneri. “Her
brother | She has none.” ~
A sickly look crept over his features as he spoke
—a look the meaning of which I could not read.
“He says he is Anthony March, her brother.”
“Anthony March 1” gasped Ceneri. “There is
no such person. What did he want—his object?”
he continued feverishly.
“That I should join him in a memorial to the
Italian Government, asking for a return of some
portion of the fortune you spent.”
Ceneri laughed a bitter laugh. “All grows
clear,” he said. “He betrayed a plot which
might have changed a government for the sake
of getting me out of the way. Coward ' Why
not have killed me and only me? Why have
made others suffer with me? Anthony March
My God that man is a villain l’’
“You are sure that Macari betrayed you?”
“Sure! yes. I was sure when the man in the
cell next to mine rapped it on the wall. He had
means of knowing.”
“I don't understand you.” -
“Prisoners can sometimes talk to each other b
taps on the wall which divides their cells. The
man next me was one of us. Long before he
went raving mad from the months of solitary con-
finement, he rapped out, over and over again,
“Betrayed by Macari.' I believed him. He was
too true a man to make the accusation without
184 CA/C/A. D BACK.
proof. But until now I could not see the object
of the treason.” -
The easiest part of my task was over. Macari's
assumed relationship to Pauline was disposed of.
Now, if Ceneri would tell me, I must learn who
was the victim of that crime committed years ago,
and what was the reason for the foul deed. I must
learn that Macari's explanation was an utter false-
hood, prompted by malice, or else my journey
would have benefited me nothing. Is it any
wonder that my lips trembled as I endeavored to
approach the subject?
“Now, Dr. Céneri,” I said, “I have a question
of weightier import to ask. Had Pauline a lover
before I married her?” *
He raised his eyebrows. “Surely you have not
come here to ask that question—to have a fit of
jealousy cured P”
“No,” I said ; “you will hear my meaning later
on. Meanwhile, answer me.”
“She had a lover, for Macari professed to love
her, and swore she should be his wife. But I can
most certainly say she never returned his love.”
“Nor loved any one else?” -
“Not to my knowledge. But your manner,
your words are strange. Why do you ask? I
may have wronged you, Mr. Vaughan, but save
for the one thing, her mind, Pauline was fit to be
your wife.”
“You did wrong me—you know it. What right
CA/C L.A. D BACK. 185
had you to let me marry a woman whose senses
were disarranged P. It was cruel to both.”
I felt stern and spoke sternly. Ceneri shifted
in his chair uneasily. If I had wished revenge
it was here. Gazing on this wretched, ragged,
broken-down man, and knowing what awaited
him when he left me, would have filled the meas-
ure desired by the most vengeful heart.
I wanted no revenge on the man. His manner
told me he spoke the truth when he denied that
Pauline had ever been in love. As, when last I
gazed on her fair face, I knew it would, Macari's
black lie had been scouted. Pauline was innocent
as an angel. But I must know who was the man
whose death had for a while deprived her of
- TC2SOI).
Ceneri was glancing at me nervously. Did he
guess what I had to ask him P “Tell me,” I said,
“the name of the young man murdered by Macari
in London, in the presence of Pauline; tell me
why he was killed P”
His face grew ashen. He seemed to collapse—
to sink back into his chair a helpless heap, with-
out the power of speech or movement, without
the power of turning his eyes from my face.
“Tell me,” I repeated “Stay, I will recall
the scene to you, and you will know I am well
informed. Here is the table ; here is Macari,
standing over the man he has stabbed ; here are
you, and behind you is another man with a scar
I86 CAZZED BACK.
on his cheek. In the back room, at the piano, is
Pauline. She is singing, but her song stops as the
murdered man falls dead. Do I describe the scene
truly 2”
I had spoken excitedly. I had used gestures
and words. Ceneri's ears had drunk in every
syllable; his eyes had followed every gesture. As
I pointed to the supposed position of Pauline, he
had looked there with a quick, startled glance, as
if expecting to see her enter the door. He made
no attempt to deny the accuracy of my representa-
tion. -
I waited for him to recover. He was looking
ghastly. His breath came in spasmodic gasps.
For a moment I feared he was about to die then
and there. I poured out a glass of wine; he took
it in his trembling hand and gulped it down.
“Tell me his name P” I repeated. “Tell me
what he had to do with Pauline P.”
Then he found his voice. “Why do you come
here to ask me? Pauline could have told you.
She must be well, or you could not have learned
this.”
“She has told me nothing.”
“You are wrong. She must have told you. No
one else saw the crime—the murder: for a murder
it was.” -
“There was another present besides the actors
I have named.”
Ceneri started and looked at me.
CALLED BACK. 187
“Yes, there was another; there by an accident.
A man who could hear but not see. A man whose
life I pleaded for as for my own.”
“I thank you for having saved it.”
“You thank me. Why should you thank me P”
“If you saved any one's life it was mine. I was
that man.” '.
“You that man l’’ He looked at me more
attentively—“Yes: now the features come back to
me. I always wondered that your face seemed so
familiar. Yes. I can understand—I am a doctor
—your eyes were operated upon P”
“Yes—most successfully.”
“You can see well now—but then k - I could not
be mistaken, you were blind–you saw nothing.”
“I saw nothing, but I heard every thing.”
“And now Pauline has told you what happened?”
“Pauline has not spoken.”
Ceneri rose, and in great agitation walked up
and down the room, his chains rattling as he moved.
“I knew it,” he muttered, in Italian, “I knew it—
such a crime cannot be hidden.”
Then he turned to me. “Tell me how you have
learned this? Teresa would die before she spoke.
Petróff is dead—died, as I told you, raving
mad.” -
From his last words I presumed that Petróff
was the third man I had seen, and also the fellow-
prisoner who had denounced Macari.
“Was it Macari—that double-dyed traitor? No
I88 CA/C/A2/) BACK.
—he was the murderer—such an avowal would
defeat his ends. Tell me how you know?”
“I would tell you, but I suspect you would not
believe me.” -
“Believe you!” he cried, excitedly. “I would
believe anything connected with that night—it has
never left my thoughts—Mr. Vaughan, the truth
has come to me in my captivity. I am not con-
demned to this life for a political crime. My
sentence is God's indirect vengeance for the deed
you witnessed.”
It was clear that Ceneri was not such a hardened
ruffian as Macari. He, at least, had a conscience.
Moreover, as he appeared to be superstitious, he
would perhaps believe me when I told him how
my accurate knowledge had been obtained.
“I will tell you,” I said, “provided you pledge
your honor to give me the full history of that
fearful crime and answer my questions fully and
truthfully.” -
He smiled bitterly. “You forget my position,
Mr. Vaughan, when you speak of ‘honor.” Yet
I promise all you ask.”
So I told him, as shortly and simply as I
could, all that had occurred; all I had seen.
He shuddered as I again described the terribl
vision. /
“Spare me,” he said, “I know it all. Thousands
of times I have seen it or have dreamed it—it will
never leave me. But why come to me? Pauline,
CA LCAED BA CA. 189
you say, is recovering her senses—she would have
told you all.”
“I would not ask her until I saw you. She is
herself again, but I am a stranger to her—and un-
less your answer is the one I hope for, we shall
never meet again.”
“If any thing I can do to atone—” he began,
eagerly.
“You can only speak the truth. Listen. I taxed
the murderer, your accomplice, with the crime.
Like you he could not deny it, but he justified it.”
“How—tell me,” panted Ceneri. -
For a moment I paused. I fixed my eyes upon
him to catch every change of feature—to read the
truth in more than words.
“He vowed to me that the young man was
killed by your instructions—that he was—Oh God,
how can I repeat it !—the lover of Pauline, who
having dishonored her, refused to repair his fault.
The truth ! Tell me the truth !”
I almost shouted the last words—my calmness
vanished as I thought of the villain who had, with
a mocking smile, coupled Pauline's name with
shame.
Ceneri, on the other hand, grew calmer as he
grasped the purport of my question. Bad as the
man might be, even stained with innocent blood,
I could have clasped him in my arms as I read
in his wondering eyes the baselessness of the foul
accusation.
190 ° CAAAA; D BACK.
“That young man—the boy struck down by
Macari's dagger was Pauline's brother—my sister's
child—Anthony March 1”
CHAPTER XIII.
A TERRIBLE CONFESSION.
ENERI, having made this astounding announce-
ment, threw his wasted arms across the rough
table and laid his head upon them with a gesture
of despair. I sat like one stupefied, repeating me-
chanically, “Pauline's brother—Anthony March 1”
Every vestige of the black lie was swept away
from my mind; but the crime in which Ceneri had
been concerned assumed more fearful proportions.
It was more dreadful than I had suspected. The
victim a near blood relation—his own sister's
child ! Nothing, I felt, could be urged to excuse
or palliate the crime. Even had he not ordered
and planned it, he had been present ; had assisted
in hiding all traces of it; had been, until recently,
on terms of friendship with the man who had
struck the blow. I could scarcely control the
loathing and contempt I felt for the abject wretch
before me. My burning indignation would scarcely
allow me to ask him, in intelligible speech, the ob-
ject of the cruel deed. But for once and all I must
have every thing made clear to me.
I was spared the necessity of asking the question
I92 CAL LED BACK.
I was trying to force to my lips. The convict
raised his head and looked at me with miserable
eyes.
“You shrink from me. No wonder. Yet I am
not so guilty as you think.”
“Tell me all, first; the excuses may come after-
wards, if any thing can be urged in excuse of the
crime.”
I spoke as I felt—sternly and contemptuously.
“None can be urged for the murderer. For me,
God knows I would willingly have let that bright
boy live. He forsook and forgot his country, but
that I forgave.”
“His country ! his father's country was En-
gland ' "
“His mother's was Italy,” replied Ceneri, almost
fiercely. “He had our blood in his veins. His
mother was a true Italian. She would have given
fortune, life—ay, even honor, for Italy.”
“No matter. Tell me the whole terrible story.”
He told me. In justice to a penitent man, I do
not use his own words in re-telling it. Without
his accent and stress they would sound cold and
unemotional. Criminal he had been, but not so
utterly black as my fancy had painted him. His
great fault was that in the cause of liberty any
weapons were allowable, any crimes were pardon-
able. We Englishmen, whose idea of tyranny, and
oppression is being debarred from the exercise of
the franchise, can neither understand nor sympa-
CALLED BACK. I93
thize, with a man of his type. We may call the
government righteous or corrupt as we are Whigs
or Tories, and one side happens to be in or out;
but, at least, we are ruled by our countrymen,
elected by some of us for that purpose. Let us
be for years and years at the mercy of a foreigner,
and we may understand what patriotism in Ce-
neri's sense means.
He and his sister were the children of respectable
middle-class people—not noble as Macari asserted.
He had been given a liberal education, and adopted
the profession of a doctor. His sister, from whom
Pauline inherited her great beauty, lived the life of
an ordinary Italian girl—a duller life, perhaps,
than many of them led, as, following her brother's
example, she refused to share in gayeties whilst the
white-coated foe ruled the land. No doubt she
would have been faithful to her mourning for her
country had not love come upon the scene. An
Englishman named March saw the fair Italian girl,
won her heart, wedded her and carried her away
in triumph to his native land. Ceneri never quite
forgave his sister for her desertion and defection ;
but the prospects opened before her by the mar-
riage were so great that he made but little oppo-
sition to it. March was a very rich man. He was
the only son of an only son, which fact accounts
for Pauline having, so far as Ceneri knew, no near
relatives on her father's side. For several years
the young husband and his beautiful dark-eyed
I94 CA/C LAZZO BACK.
wife lived in great happiness. Two children, a son
and a daughter, were born to them. When the
son was twelve and the daughter ten years old the
father died. The widow, who had made few close
friends in England, and only loved the country for
her husband's sake, flew back to her native land.
She was cordially welcomed by her old friends.
She was considered fabulously wealthy. Her hus-
band, in the first flush of his passion, had made a
will bequeathing every thing he possessed to her
absolutely. Although children had since come,
so perfectly did he trust her that no change had
been made as to the disposition of his property.
So, with such a fortune at her command, Mrs.
March was honored and courted by all.
She had, until she met her future husband,
loved her brother above every one in the world.
She had echoed his patriotism, sympathized with
him in his schemes, and listened to the wild plots
he was always planning. He was some years
older than she was, and upon her return to Italy
she found him, outwardly, nothing more than a
quiet, hard-working, ill-paid doctor. She marveled
at the change from the headstrong, visionary, dar-
ing young man she had left. It was not until he
was certain her heart had not forsaken her country
that Ceneri allowed her to see that under his
prosaic exterior lurked one of the subtlest and
ablest minds of all those engaged in working
out the liberation of Italy. Then all his old sway
CALLED BACK. I95
came back. She admired, almost worshiped him.
She, too, was ready to make any sacrifice when
the time should come.
What she would have done had she been called
upon, it is impossible to say ; but there is little
doubt but her fortune and her children's fortune
would have been freely spent in the good cause.
As it was she died long before the pear was ripe,
and when she died, such was her faith in her
brother, every thing was left in his hands as sole
trustee for her children. In her last moments the
thought of her husband's decided English procliv-
ities made her exact a promise that both the boy
and the girl should be given an English education.
Then she closed her eyes, and the orphans were
left entirely to the trustee's mercy.
He obeyed her spoken commands to the letter.
Anthony and Pauline were sent to English schools;
but having no friends in their father's native land,
or all old friends having been lost sight of during
their mother's widowhood, the holidays were spent
in Italy. They grew up almost as much Italian as
English. Ceneri husbanded, invested and managed
their fortune with care and in a business-like way.
I have no doubt, so far as it went, his honesty was
unimpeachable.
Then the longed-for moment came ! The great
blow was to be struck. Ceneri, who had kept
himself out of little abortive plots, felt that now or
never he must do all he could do for his country.
196 CA/C/A2D BACK.
He hailed the coming man. He knew that Gari-
baldi was to be the saviour of his oppressed land.
The first rash step had been taken and led to
success. The time and the man were at hand.
Recruits were flocking by thousands to the scene
of war, but the cry was “money, money, money !”
Money for arms and ammunition—money for
stores, food and clothing—money for bribes—
money for every thing ! Those who furnished the
sinews of war would be the real liberators of their
country !
Why should he hesitate? Had his sister lived
she would have given all the fortune she possessed
as freely as she would have given her life! Were
not her children half Italian P Liberty laughed at
such a small thing as breach of trust.
Except a few thousand pounds, he ruthlessly
realized and sacrificed the whole of the children's
inheritance. He poured their thousands and
thousands into the hands held out for them. The
large sum was spent where it was most wanted,
and Ceneri averred that he freed Italy by
the opportune aid. Perhaps he did—who can
tell !
Titles and honors were afterwards offered him
for this great though secret service. It makes me
think better of the man that he refused all reward.
His conscience may have told him he had not
robbed himself. Any way, he remained plain
Doctor Ceneri, and broke with his old leaders
CALLED BACK. I97
and friends when he found that Italy was to be a
kingdom, not a republic.
He had kept, I said, a few thousand pounds.
The boy and the girl were growing up, and their
uncle thought that even his patriotism permitted
him to keep back enough to complete their educa-
tion and start them in life. Pauline was promising
to be so beautiful that he troubled little about her
future. A rich husband would set every thing right
for her. But Anthony—who was becoming a wild
headstrong young fellow—was another affair.
As soon as the youth should reach man's estate,
Ceneri had resolved to make a clean breast of his
defalcations—to tell him how the money had been
spent—to beg his forgiveness, and, if necessary,
bear the penalty of his fraudulent act. But so long
as any money remained he delayed doing do. The
young man, if evincing no sympathy with his
uncle's regeneration schemes and pursuit of liberty,
fully believed in his integrity. Feeling assured
that when he came of age he would succeed to
a splendid inheritance, swelled by accumulated
savings, he threw away money in a thousand and
one extravagant ways, till Ceneri soon saw that
the end of the reserve fund was drawing near.
So long as he had money in hand to meet
Anthony's demands, he postponed the evil day of
confession. The idea, which Macari had tried to
work out with my aid, of appealing to the Italian
Government for a return of some of the amounts
198 CA/C/A2/) AA CAT.
expended, suggested itself to him; but to carry
this out it would be necessary to let his nephew
know what had taken place—the appeal must be
made in his name.
As the inevitable exposure drew near he dreaded
it more and more. He had studied Anthony's
character, and felt sure that when he knew the
truth his one wish would be to take revenge on
the fraudulent trustee. Ceneri could see nothing
before him but a well-deserved term of penal serv-
itude. If the English law failed to touch him,
that of his own country might be brought against
him. -
. It seems to me that until this time he had com-
mitted no crime from which he could not absolve
himself on the grounds of patriotism ; but now
the desire to save himself from punishment grew
upon him, and he determined to avoid the con-
sequences of his acts.
He had never felt any great affection for the
two children. No doubt they had latterly ap-
peared in the light of wronged innocents who
would one day demand a reckoning with him.
They were in disposition too much like their father
for him to be greatly drawn towards them. He
despised Anthony for his gay, frivolous life—a life
without plans or ambition—and contrasted it with
his own. He honestly believed he was doing good
work in the world; that his plots and conspiracies
quickened the steps of universal liberty. In his
CA L/CAE. D BACK. 199
dark, secret circle he was a figure of considerable
importance. If he were ruined and imprisoned
he would be missed. Had he not the right to
weigh his own high purposes against the butterfly
existence of his nephew P
So he reasoned and persuaded himself that, for
the sake of mankind, he might do almost any thing
to save himself.
Anthony March was now twenty-two. Trusting
his uncle ; careless and easy going; so long as his
wants had been supplied he had accepted, until
now, the excuses made for deferring the settlement
of his affairs. Whether his suspicions had at last
been awakened or not cannot be said; but recently
he had taken another tone, and was insisting that
his fortune should be at once placed in his hands.
Ceneri, whose schemes called him for a time to
England, pacified him by assuring him that he
would, during his stay in London, explain every
thing.
The explanation must indeed be given now, as
Anthony's last drafts had reduced the remnant of
his father's wealth almost to nothing.
Now, as to Macari's part in the affair. He had
been for years a useful and trusted agent of Ceneri's;
but most probably without the latter's lofty and
unselfish aims. He appears to have followed con-
spiracy as a trade by which money might be made.
The fact, which seems beyond a doubt, that he
fought bravely and distinguished himself on the
2OO CAL LED BACK.
battle-field, may be accounted for by the natural
ferocity of the man's nature, which bade him fight
for the sake of fighting.
Being mixed up in all his plots he was often at
Ceneri's house, wherever for the time being it
might be ; and on many occasions saw Pauline.
He fell in love with her when she was but a young
girl, and tried everything he knew to win her heart.
To her he was soft and kind. She had no reason
to mistrust him, but she utterly refused to give
him the love he asked for. The pursuit went on
at intervals for years—the man, to give him his
due, was constancy itself. Again and again
Pauline assured him of the hopelessness of his
suit, but after each rebuff he returned to the
attack.
Ceneri gave him no encouragement. He did
not wish to offend him, and seeing that the girl
was proof against his blandishments, let things
alone, hoping that Macari would grow weary of
urging those requests which were always met by
refusals. He believed that he was not seeking
Pauline for the sake of the money which should
have been hers. Macari knew what large sums
Ceneri had poured into the patriot's treasury, and,
no doubt, guessed whence they came.
Pauline remained at school until she was nearly
eighteen ; then she spent two years with her
uncle in Italy. It was a dull life for the girl, and
she sighed audibly for England. Although meeting
CA/C/A2/X BACK. - 2O I
him seldom, she was passionately attached to her
brother, and was greatly delighted when Ceneri
told her that business would take him for a while
to London, and that she might accompany him.
She was growing tired of Macari's pertinacity, and,
moreover, longed to see her brother again.
Ceneri, for the sake of receiving his many
political friends at what hours of day or night he
chose, took a furnished house for a short term.
Pauline's disgust was great when she found that
one of their first visitors was Macari. His pres-
ence was so indispensable to Ceneri that he took
up his abode with them in Horace street. As old
Teresa, the doctor's servant, accompanied the
party and waited upon them, the change to Pauline
was a very slight one.
Macari still persecuted the girl without success,
At last, almost desperate, he formed the wild plan
of trying to enlist her brother on his side. His
idea was that Pauline's love for Anthony would
induce her to yield to any wish he expressed. He
was no particular friend of the young man's, but,
having once rendered him a signal service, felt
himself entitled to ask a favor at his hands.
Knowing that both brother and sister were penni-
less he had less hesitation in so doing. -
He called on Anthony and made his request.
Anthony, who seems to have been a proud, arro-
gant and not a very pleasant young man, simply
laughed at his impertinence and bade him begone.
2O2 , CAZZED BACK.
Poor boy, he little knew what that laugh would
cost him -
It may have been the retort made by Macari, as
he departed in a whirlwind of rage, that opened
Anthony's eyes as to the jeopardy in which his
fortune was placed. Any way he wrote at once to
his uncle, insisting upon an immediate settlement.
In the event of any delay he would consult a
solicitor, and if necessary take criminal proceedings
against the trustee. -
The moment which Ceneri had so long dreaded
—so long postponed—had come; only now, the
confession, instead of being as he intended a vol-
untary one, would be wrung from him.
Whether he would be amenable to the Italian
or English law he did not know, but he felt certain
that Anthony would at once take steps to insure
his arrest and detention. The latter, if only tem-
porary, would ruin the scheme upon which he was
now engaged. At any cost Anthony March must
be silenced for a time. -
He assured me with the solemnity of a dying
man that no thought of the dreadful means which
effected this was in his mind. He had revolved
many plans and finally settled on one which,
although difficult to execute and very hazardous,
seemed to give the best promise of success. His
intention was, with the assistance of his friends
and subordinates, to carry Anthony abroad and
deposit him for some months in a lunatic asylum.
CALLED BACK. 2O3
The confinement was only to be temporary; yet,
although Ceneri did not confess to it, I have little
doubt but the young man would have been asked
to buy his freedom by a promise to forgive the
misappropriation of the trust money.
And now as to carrying this precious plan into
execution. Macari, vowing vengeance for the
words of insult, was ready to aid in every way.
Petróff, the man with the scarred face, was the
doctor's, body and Soul. Teresa, the old servant,
would have committed any crime at her master's
command. The necessary papers could be ob-
tained or forged. Let the conspirators get An-
thony to visit them at the house in Horace street
and he should leave it only as a lunatic in charge
of his doctor and his keepers. It was a vile, treach-
erous scheme, the success of which was very
doubtful, necessitating, as it must, carrying the
victim to Italy. How this was to be done Ceneri
did not exactly explain—perhaps he had not quite
worked out the details of the plot—perhaps the
boy was to be drugged—perhaps he counted upon
his frantic state when he discovered the true posi-
tion of affairs to give color to the statement that
he was of unsound mind.
The first thing was to induce Anthony to come
to Horace street at an hour suitable for develop-
ment of the plot. Ceneri made his preparations ;
gave his instructions to his confederates, and then
wrote to his nephew begging him to call upon
2O4. CAAA. ED BACK.
him that night and hear his explanation of
matterS. -
Perhaps Anthony mistrusted his relative and his
associates more than was suspected. Any way, he
replied by declining the invitation, but suggested
that his uncle should call upon him instead. Then,
by Macari's advice, Pauline was made the innocent
means of luring her brother to the fatal house.
Ceneri expressed his perfect indifference as to
where the meeting took place, but, being very
much engaged, postponed it for a day or two. He
then told Pauline that as business would keep him
from home until late the next night, it would be a
good opportunity for her to spend some time with
her brother—she had better ask him to come and
see her during his absence. As he also wanted to
see Anthony she must endeavor to keep him un-
til his return. -
Pauline, suspecting nothing, wrote to her brother,
and, saying she should be all alone until late at
night, begged him to come to her, or, if he would,
take her to some place of amusement. They went
to the theater together, and it was twelve o'clock
before he brought her back to Horace street. No
doubt she begged him to remain with her awhile—
perhaps against his will. Awful as the shock of
what followed was to the girl it must have been
doubly so when she knew that her entreaties had
led him to his death.
The brother and sister sat alone for some time :
CALLED BACK. - * 205
then Ceneri and his two friends made their appear-
ance. Anthony seemed displeased at the en-
counter, but made the best of matters and greeted
his uncle civilly. Macari he simply turned his back
upon.
It was no part of Ceneri's plan that any act of
violence or restraint should take place in the pres-
ence of Pauline. Whatever was to be done
should be done when Anthony was about to leave
the house. Then he might be seized and conveyed
to the cellar: his cries if needful being stifled.
Pauline was to know nothing about it. Arrange-
ments had been made for her to go on the
morrow to a friend of her uncle's, with whom
she was to stay, ignorant of the purport of
the business which suddenly called the plotters
away.
“Pauline,” said Ceneri, “I think you had better
go to bed. Anthony and I have some affairs to
speak about.” - -
“I will wait until Anthony leaves,” she said,
“but if you want to talk I will go into the other
room.”
So saying, she passed through the folding doors
and went to the piano, where she sat playing and
singing for her own amusement.
“It is too late to talk about business to-night,”
said Anthony, as his sister left the room.
“You had better take this opportunity. I find
I must leave England to-morrow.” .
206 - CAL/A2/) PA CA.
Anthony, having no wish to let his uncle escape
without an explanation, reseated himself.
“Very well,” he said; “but there is no need to
have strangers present.” *
“They are scarcely strangers. They are friends
of mine, who will vouch for the truth of what I
am going to say.” - -
“I will not have my affairs talked about before
a man like that,” said Anthony, with a motion of
contempt towards Macari. -
The two men were conversing in a low tone.
Pauline was not far off, and neither wished to alarm
her by high words or by the appearance of a pend-
ing quarrel; but Macari heard the remark and saw
the gesture. His eyes blazed and he leaned for-
ward towards young March. -
“It may be, in a few days,” he said, “you will
be willing enough to give me freely the gift you
refused a short time ago.”
Ceneri noticed that the speaker's right hand was
inside the breast of his coat, but this being a fa-
vorite attitude of his, thought nothing of it.
Anthony did not condescend to reply. He
turned from the man with a look of utter con-
tempt—a look which, no doubt, drove Macari al-
most beside himself with rage.
“Before we talk about any thing else,” he said
to his uncle, “I shall insist that from now Pauline
is placed under my care. Neither she nor her
fortune shall become the prey of a low-bred, beg-
CALLED BACK. 2O7
garly Italian adventurer like this man, your
friend.” -
These were the last words the poor boy ever
spoke. Macari took one step towards him—he
made no exclamation of rage—hissed out no oath
which might warn his victim. Grasped in his right
hand the long bright steel leaped from its lurking
place, and as Anthony March looked up, and then
threw himself back in his chair to avoid him, the
blow was struck downwards with all the force of
that strong arm—the point of the dagger entering
just below the collar-bone and absolutely trans-
fixing the heart. Anthony March was silenced for
ever ! -
Then, even as he fell, Pauline's song stopped,
and her cry of horror rang through the room.
From her seat at the piano she could see what had
happened. Is it any wonder that the sight bereft
her of her senses?
Macari was standing over his victim. Ceneri
was stupefied at the crime which in a moment had
obviated any necessity for carrying out his wild
plot. The only one who seemed in possession of
his wits was Petróff. It was imperative that Pau-
line should be silenced. Her cries would alarm
the neighbors. He rushed forward, and throw-
ing a large woolen sofa-cover over her head,
placed her on the couch, where he held her by
force. -
At that moment I made my frantic entrance—
208 CAZZED BACK.
blind and helpless, but, for all they knew, a mes-
senger of vengeance. -
Even the ruthless Macari was staggered at my
appearance. It was Ceneri who, following the
instincts of self-preservation, drew a pistol and
cocked it. It was he who understood the meaning
of my passionate appeal to their mercy—he who,
he averred, saved my life. -
Macari, as soon as he recovered from his surprise,
insisted that I should share Anthony March's fate.
His dagger was once more raised to take human
life, whilst Petróff, who had been forced by the
new turn of affairs to leave Pauline, pinned me
down where I had fallen. Ceneri struck the steel
aside and saved me. He examined my eyes and
vouched for the truth of my statement. There
was no time for recriminations or accusations, but
he swore that another murder should not be com-
mitted.
Petróff supported him, and Macari at last sul-
lenly yielded, with the stipulation that I should
be disposed of in the manner already related. Had
the means been at hand I should have been
drugged at once; as it was, the old servant, who
as yet knew nothing of the tragedy which had
taken place, was roused up and sent out in search
of the needful draught. The accomplices dared
not let me leave their sight, so I was compelled to
sit and listen to all their actions.
Why did Ceneri not denounce the murder P
CAZZED BACK. 209
Why was he, at least, an accessory after the crime?
I can only believe that he was a worse man than
he confessed himself to be, or that he trembled at
his share in the transaction. After all, he had been
planning a crime almost as black, and when the
truth as to the trust money was known, no jury in
the world would have acquitted him. Perhaps
both he and Petróff held human life lightly; their
hands were certainly not clean from political assas-
sinations. Feeling that a trial must go hard with
them, they threw their lot in with Macari's, and at
once set about baffling inquiry and hiding all traces
of the crime. From that moment there was little to
choose between the degrees in criminality of the
three men.
Now that they were all sailing in the same boat,
they had little doubt of success. Teresa was per-
force taken into their confidence. This was no
matter, as, devoted to Ceneri, she would have
aided in a dozen murders had her master decreed
them. First of all, they must get rid of me. Pe-
tróff—for Ceneri would not trust me in Macari's
hands—went out and found a belated cab. For a
handsome consideration the driver consented to
lend it to him for an hour and a half. It was still
night, so there was no difficulty in carrying my
senseless form to it without observation.
Petróff drove off, and having deposited me in a
by-way a long distance from the house, returned
the cab to its owner and rejoined his companions.
2 IO CA C/AC/D BACK.
And now for Pauline. Her moans had gradu-
ally died away, and she lay in a death-like stupor.
The great danger to the accomplices would be
from her. Until she recovered nothing could be
done save to carry her to her room and place her
under Teresa's charge. When she awoke they
must decide what course to pursue.
But the pressing thing was, how to make away
with the dead body of the murdered man. All sorts
of plans were discussed, until one at last was
adopted, the very audacity of which no doubt
made it a success. They were now growing des-
perate and prepared to risk much.
Early in the morning a letter was dispatched to
Anthony's lodging, saying that Mr. March had
been taken seriously ill the night before, and was
at his uncle's. This served to stop any inquiry
from that quarter. In the meantime the poor
young fellow had been laid out as decently as pos-
sible, and with every thing that could be done to
Suggest a natural death. A doctor's certificate of
death was then forged. Ceneri did not tell me
how the form was obtained. The man he got it
from knew nothing of its object. An undertaker
then was ordered to send a coffin and deal case for
the same the next night. The body, in Ceneri's
presence, was simply placed inside it, with none of
the usual paraphernalia, the reason given for such
apparent indecency being that it was only a tem-
porary arrangement, as it was to be taken abroad
CALLED BACK. - 2 I I
for interment. The undertaker marveled, but
being well paid, held his peace. Then, by the aid
of the forged certificate, the proper formalities were
complied with, and in two days' time the three
men, in the garb of mourners, were traveling to
Italy with the body of their victim. There was
nothing to stop them, nothing suspicious in their
manner or in the circumstances of the case. They
actually took the coffin to the town where An-
thony's mother died, and they buried the son by
the side of the mother, with his name and the date
of his death recorded on the stone. Then they
felt safe from everybody except Pauline.
They were safe even from her. When she at
last awoke from her stupor, even Teresa could see
that something had gone wrong. She said nothing
about the scene she had witnessed ; she asked no
questions. Her past had vanished. According to
instructions given her, Teresa, as soon as possible,
took her to join Ceneri in Italy, and he saw that
Macari's crime had deprived the brother of life
and the sister of reason. -
No search or inquiry was made for Anthony
March. Carrying out his bold plan to the very
letter, Ceneri instructed an agent to take posses-
sion of his few personal effects at his lodgings, and
to inform the people there that he had died at his
house and been taken to Italy to be buried with
his mother. A few friends for a while regretted
a companion, and there was an end of the affair.
2 I 2 CA ZZAZZ) BACK.
Nothing having been heard of the blind man, it
was supposed he had been wise enough to keep
his own counsel. y
Months and months passed by, whilst Pauline
remained in the same state. Teresa took charge
of her, and lived with her in Turin until that time
when I saw them at San Giovanni. Ceneri, who
had no fixed home, saw little of the girl. His
presence did not awaken any painful recollections
in her mind, but to him the sight of his niece was
unbearable. It recalled what he was eager to for-
get. She never seemed happy in Italy; in her
uncertain way she was pining for England. Anx-
ious to get her out of his sight, he had consented
that Teresa should take her to London—had, in
fact, come to Turin that particular day to arrange
as to their departure. Macari, who, even with a
brother's blood between them, considered her in
some way his property, accompanied him. He
had been continually urging Ceneri to let him
marry her, even as she was now. He had threat-
ened to carry her off by force. He had sworn she
should be his. She remembered nothing—why
should he not wed her?
Bad as Ceneri was, he had recoiled from this.
He would even, had it been possible, have broken
off all intercourse with Macari ; but the men were
too deep in each other's secrets to be divided on
account of a crime, however atrocious ; so he sent
Pauline to England. There she was safe from
CAL LED BACK. 2 I3
Macari. Then came my proposal, the acceptance
of which would take her, at my expense, entirely
off his hands and out of his companion's way.
Hence our strange marriage, which even now
he justified by saying that should the girl grow
attached to any one, should any feeling corre-
sponding to affection be awakened in her clouded
mind—that mind would gradually be built up
again.
This, not in his own words, was Ceneri's tale. I
now knew all I wanted to know. Perhaps he had
painted flimself in better colors than he deserved;
but he had given me the whole dark history freely
and unreservedly, and in spite of the loathing and
abhorrence with which he now inspired me, I felt
that he had told me the truth.
CHAPTER XIV.
DOES SHE REMEMBERP
T was time to bring our interview to an end.
It had lasted so long that the civil captain had
more than once peeped in with a significant look
on his face, as much as to say there was such a
thing as overstepping the limits of even such an
authority as I held. I had no desire to protract
the conversation with the convict. The object of
my long journey had been attained. I had learned
all that I could learn. I knew Pauline's history.
The crime had been fully confessed. The man
with me had no claim upon my consideration.
Even had I felt inclined to help him I had no
means of so doing. Why should I linger?
But I did linger for a while. The thought that
my rising and giving the signal that my business
was finished, would immediately consign the pris-
oner to that loathsome den from which he had
emerged, was inexpressibly painful to me. Every
moment I could keep him with me would be pre-
cious to him. Never again would he see the
face of a friend or acquaintance.
He had ceased speaking. He sat with his head
CA/C/A2/) AACK. 215
bent forward ; his eyes resting on the ground. A
tattered, haggard, hopeless wretch; so broken down
that one dare not reproach him. I watched him
in silence.
Presently he spoke: “You can find no excuse
for me, Mr. Vaughan 2 ”
“None,” I said. “It seems to me there is little
to choose between you and your associates.”
He rose wearily. “Pauline will recover, you
think?” he asked.
“I think—I hope I shall find her almost well on
my return.”
“You will tell her how you have found me; she
may be happier in knowing that Anthony's death
has indirectly brought me to this.”
I bowed assent to this dreary request.
“I must go back now,” he said, with a kind of
shiver, and dragging his weary limbs slowly to-
wards the door.
In spite of his sins I could not let the wretched
being go without a word.
“Stop a moment,” I said. “Tell me if there is
anything I can do to make your life any easier P”
He smiled faintly. “You may give me money
—a little. I may be able to keep it and buy a few
prisoners' luxuries.”
I gave him several notes which he secreted on
his person.
“Will you have more ?” I asked. He shook his
head.
2 I 6 CALCAE ZO BACK
“I expect these will be stolen from me before I
spend them.”
“But is there no way of leaving money with
any one for your use?”
“You might leave some with the captain. It
may be, if he is kind-hearted and honest, a portion
of it may reach me. But even that is doubtful.”
I promised to do so, and knew that, whether it
reached him or not, I should feel easier for having
made the attempt.
“But what will your future be? Where are
they taking you, and what will be you life?”
“They are taking us right to the end of Siberia
—to Nertchinsk. There I thall be drafted off with
others to work in the mines. We go all the way
on foot and in chains.”
“What an awful fate l’’
Ceneri smiled. “After what I have passed
through it is Paradise opening before me. When
a man offends against the Russian law his one hope
is that he may be sent at once to Siberia. That
means going from hell to heaven.”
“I do not understand.
‘You would if you had lain like me for months,
untried and uncondemned. If you had been
placed in a cell without ſight, without air, without
room to move. If you had heard those next to
you screaming in their madness—madness brought
on by solitary confinement and cruel treatment.
If every morning as you woke you had said, ‘I
CALLED BACK. 217
too, shall be an idiot before nightfall.' If you had
been frozen, beaten, starved, in order to make you
betray your friends. If you had been reduced to
such a state that your death warrant would be
welcome ; then, Mr. Vaughan, you would look for-
ward to and long for the gentle rigors of Siberia.
I swear to you, sir,” he continued, with more fire
and animation than he had yet displayed, “that if
the civilized nations of Europe knew one-tenth
part of the horrors and deeds in a Russian prison,
they would say, “guilty or innocent, no human
beings shall be tormented like this,' and for the
sake of common humanity would sweep the
whole accursed government from the face of the
earth !”
“But twenty years in the mines l Is there no
hope of escaping?”
“Where could I escape to ? Look at the map
and see where Nertohinsk is. If I escaped I could
only wander about the mountains until I died or
until some of the savages around killed me. No,
Mr. Vaughan, escapes from Siberia only occur in
novels.”
“Then you must slave until your death P”
“I hope not. I once gathered together much
information respecting Siberian convicts, and, to
tell you the truth, was rather disgusted to find
how incorrect the common opinion is. Now I can
only hope my researches showed me the truth.”
“The treatment is not so bad, then P’’
218 CALLED BACK.
“It is bad enough, as you are always at the
mercy of a petty tyrant. There is no doubt but
for a year or two I must slave in the mines. If
I survive the toil, which is very unlikely, I may,
by finding favor in the ruler's eyes, be released
from further work of that description. I may
even be allowed to reside at some town and earn
Imy living. I have great hopes that my profes-
Sional skill may be of use to me. Doctors are
scarce in Asiatic Russia.”
Little as he deserved it, my heart echoed his
wish ; but as I looked at him I felt sure there was
Small chance of his enduring even a year's toil at
the mines.
The door opened and the captain once more
looked in. He was growing quite impatient. I
had no reason for wishing to prolong the conver-
sation, so I told him I should have finished
in a moment. He nodded his head and with-
drew.
“If there is any thing more I can do let me
know,” I said, turning to Ceneri.
“There is nothing Stay! one thing. Macari,
that villain—sooner or later he will get his deserts.
I have suffered—so will he. When that time comes,
will you try to send me word P. It may be diffi-
cult to do so, and I have no right to ask the
favor. But you have interest, and might get in-
telligence sent me. If I am not dead by then it
will make me happier.”
CALLA. D BACK. 2 I 9
Without waiting for my reply he walked hastily
to the door, and with the sentry at his side was
marched off to the prison. I followed him.
As the cumbrous lock was being turned he
paused. “Farewell, Mr. Vaughan,” he said. “If
I have wronged you I entreat your pardon. We
shall meet no more.”
“So far as I am concerned I forgive you
freely.”
He hesitated a moment and then held out his
hand. The door was now open. I could see the
throng of repulsive, villainous faces—the faces of
his fellow-prisoners. I could hear the jabber of
curiosity and wonder. I could smell the foul odors
coming from that reeking den crowded with filthy
humanity. And in such a place as this, with
such associates, a man of education, culture and
refined tastes, was doomed to spend his last days.
It was a fearful punishment
Yet it was well merited. As he stood on the
threshold with outstretched hand I felt this. To
all intents and purposes the man was a murderer.
Much moved as I was by his fate I could not bring
myself to grasp his hand. My refusal may have
been harsh, but I could not do it.
He saw that I did not respond to his action.
A flush of shame passed over his face; he bowed
his head and turned away. The soldier took him
roughly by the arm and thrust him through the
doorway. Then he turned, and his eyes met mine
22O CA/./A.D BACK.
with an expression that haunted me for days. He
was gazing thus when the heavy door was shut
and hid him from my sight forever.
I turned away sick at heart, perhaps regretting
I had added any thing to his shame and punish-
ment. I sought my obliging friend, the captain,
and received his word of honor that any money I
left with him should be expended for the convict's
benefit. I placed a considerable sum in his hands,
and can only hope that a part of it reached its
destination.
Then I found my interpreter, and ordered horses
to be at once procured and the tarantass brought
out. I would start without a moment's delay for
England—and Pauline !
In half an hour all was ready. Ivan and I
stepped into the carriage; the yemschik flourished
his whip ; the horses sprang forward; the bells
jingled merrily, and away we went in the dark-
ness, commencing the return journey which
counted by thousands of miles. It was only now,
when burning to find myself home again, that I
realized the fearful distance which lay between me
and my love.
A turn of the road soon hid the gloomy ostrog
from my sight, but it was not until we were miles
and miles away that my spirits recovered any
thing like their former tone, and it was days be-
fore I ceased to think, at nearly every moment,
of that terrible place in which I had found Ceneri,
CALLED BACK. 22 I
and to which I saw him again consigned after my
business with him was finished.
As this is not a book of travel I will not reca-
pitulate the journey. The weather nearly all the
time was favorable, the roads were in good condi-
tion. My impatience forced me to travel almost
day and night. I spared no expense ; my extra-
ordinary passport procured me horses when other
travelers were compelled to wait—my large gra-
tuities made those horses use their best speed. In
thirty-five days we drove up to the Hotel Russia
at Nijnei Novgorod, with the tarantass in such a
dilapidated condition that in all probability
another stage would have finished its work in this
world. I bestowed it, a free gift, upon my guide,
who, I believe, sold it immediately for three
rubles.
From Nijnei by rail to Moscow; from Moscow
to St. Petersburgh. I only tarried in the capital
long enough to pay my respects to Lord , and
once more thank him for his assistance: then,
having collected what luggage I had left there,
away for England 1
On my road back from Irkutsk I found letters
from Priscilla at Tomsk, at Tobolsk and at Perm,
also more recently written ones at St. Petersburgh.
All up to the date of the last was going on well.
Priscilla had taken her charge to Devonshire.
Having been reared in that county the old woman
had a great belief in its virtues. They were at a
222 CA/C Lº Z) BACK.
quiet, but beautiful little watering-place on the
north coast, and Priscilla averred that Pauline
“was blooming as a rose, and seemed as sensible
as Master Gilbert himself.”
No wonder after hearing this good news I was
eager to reach home—longing, not only to see my
wife again, but to see her, as I had never yet seen
her, with her mind restored. Would she remember
me? How should we meet P Would she at last
learn to love me 2 Were my troubles at an end
or only begun ? These were the questions which
could only be answered when England was
reached.
Home at last ! How delightful to stand among
one's own countrymen, and hear nothing but good
intelligible English around one. I am bronzed
with exposure to the wind and Sun, my beard has
grown to a great length ; one or two acquaintances
I met when I reached London scarcely knew me.
In my present trim I could not hope that I should
awaken any recollections in Pauline's mind.
By the aid of a razor and fresh apparel I was
soon converted to a fairly good semblance of my
former self, and then, without having apprized
even Priscilla of my return, I started for the west,
to see what fate had in store for me.
What is a run across England after a man has
made such a journey as my recent one P. Yet, that
pitiful hundred and fifty miles seemed to me as
long as a thousand did a month ago. The last few
CA C/CED BACK. 223
miles I had to go by coach, and, although four
splendid horses spun us along, each individual
mile seemed as long as a Siberian stage. But the
journey was at last ended, and, leaving my luggage
in the coach office, I sallied forth, with a beating
heart, to find Pauline.
I went to the address given in Priscilla's letter.
The house was a quiet little building, nestling on
a wooded bank, with a sloping garden in front,
full of late summer flowers. Honeysuckle twined
round the porch, great sunflowers stared fiercely
from the beds, and carnations sweetened the air.
As I waited for the door to be opened I had time
to approve Priscilla's choice of a resting place.
I inquired for Mrs. Drew. She was not at home
—had gone out with the young lady some time ago,
and would not be back until the evening. I turned
away and went in search of them.
It was early in autumn, but the leaf showed no
signs of fading. Every thing was green, fresh and
beautiful. The sky was cloudless, and a soft
balmy air fanned my cheek. I paused and looked
around me before I decided in which direction to
go. Far below my feet lay the little fishing village;
its houses clustered round the mouth of the noisy,
brawling stream which ran down the valley, and
leaped joyously into the sea. On either hand were
great tors, and behind them inland hills covered
with woods, and in front of me stretching away
and away was the calm green Sea. The Scene was
224 CALLED BACK.
fair enough, but I turned away from it. I wanted
Pauline.
It seemed to me that on such a day as this the
shady woods and the running stream must offer
irresistible attractions; so I found my way down
the steep hill, and began walking up the riverside,
whilst the merry stream danced past me, throwing
its rich brown peat-stained waters into a thousand
little cascades as it shot over and foamed
round the great bowlders which disputed its
passage.
I followed its course for about a mile—now
clambering over moss-grown rocks, now wading
through ferns, now forcing my way through pliant
hazel boughs—then in an open space on the oppo-
site bank I saw a girl sitting sketching. Her back
was towards me, but I knew every turn of that
graceful figure well enough to feel sure she was
my wife.
If I had needed extra assurance I had but to
look at her companion, who sat near her and
appeared to be dozing over a book. I should have
recognized that shawl of Priscilla's a mile away—
its like has never been known on earth.
Hard as I found it to do so, I resolved not to
make my presence known to them. Before I met
Pauline I wanted to talk to Priscilla and be guided
by her report as to my future method of proceed-
ing. But in spite of my determination I yielded
to the temptation of drawing nearer—from where
CA //, ED BACK. 225
I stood I could not see her face—so I crept on
inch by inch till I was nearly opposite the sketcher,
and, half hidden by the undergrowth, I stood
watching her to my heart's content.
There was the hue of health upon her cheek—
there was the appearance of health in every move-
ment, and as she turned and spoke a few words to
her companion there was that in her look and in
her smile which made my heart bound. The wife
I returned to was a different being from the girl I
had married.
She turned and looked across the stream.
Carried away by my joy I had entirely emerged
from my lurking place. With the river between
us our eyes met.
She must in some way have remembered me.
Were it but as in a dream my face must have
seemed familiar to her. She dropped her pencil
and sketch-book and sprang to her feet before
Priscilla's exclamation of surprise and delight was
heard. She stood looking at me as though she
expected I would speak or come to her, whilst the
old servant was sending words of welcome across
the noisy stream.
Had I wished to retreat, it was now too late. I
found a crossing-place and in a minute or two was
on the opposite bank.
Pauline had not moved, but Priscilla ran to
meet me and almost shook my hands off.
“Does she remember—does she know me?” I
226 CALLED BACK.
whispered, as I disengaged myself and walked to-
wards my wife.
“Not yet; but she will. I am sure she will,
Master Gilbert.”
Breathing a prayer that her prophecy might
come true, I reached Pauline's side and held out
my hand. She took it "without hesitation, and
raised her dark eyes to mine. How did I refrain
from clasping her to my heart!
“Pauline, do you know me?”
She dropped her eyes. “Priscilla has talked of
you. She tells me you are a friend and that until
you came I must be content and ask no questions.”
“But do you not remember me? I fancied you
knew me just now.”
She sighed. “I have seen you in dreams—
strange dreams.” As she spoke a bright blush
spread over her cheek.
“Tell me the dreams,” I said.
“I cannot. I have been ill, very ill, for a long
time. I have forgotten much—every thing that
happened.”
“Shall I tell you?”
“Not now—not now,” she cried eagerly. “Wait,
and it may all come back.”
Had she an inkling of the truth? Were the
dreams she spoke of but the struggles of growing
memory? Did that bright ring which was still on
her finger suggest to her what had happened?
Yes, I would wait and hope.
CA/./A2D BACK. 227
We walked back together, with Priscilla follow-
ing at a proper distance. Pauline seemed to accept
my society as though it was a perfectly natural
thing to do so. When the path grew steep or
rugged she held out her hand for mine, as though
its support was her right. Yet for a long time she
said nothing.
“Where have you come from ?” she asked at
last.
“From a long, long journey of many thousands
of miles.”
“Yes; when I saw your face you were always
traveling. Did you find what you sought?” she
asked eagerly.
“Yes. I found the truth. I know every thing.”
“Tell me where he is P”
“Where who is P.”
“Anthony, my own brother—the boy they
killed. Where is his grave P”
“He is buried by the side of his mother.”
“Thank God! I shall be able to pray over
him.”
She spoke, if excitedly, quite sensibly, but I
wondered she was not craving for justice to be
meted out to the murderers.
“Do you wish for vengeance on those who killed
him P”
“Vengeance what good can vengeance do?
It will not bring him back to life. It happened
long ago. When, I know not ; but now it seems
228 CA/CEAE D BACK.
years ago. God may have avenged him by
now.”
“He has, in a great measure. One died in
prison raving mad ; another is in chains, working
like a slave; the third, as yet, is unpunished.”
“It will come to him, sooner or later. Which
is it P’’
“Macari.”
She shuddered at the name and said no more.
Just before we reached the house in which they
lodged, she said, softly and beseechingly,–
“You will take me to Italy—to his grave P”
I promised, only too glad to find how instinc-
tively she turned to me to prefer the request. She
must remember more than she gave herself credit
for.
“I will go there,” she said, “and see the place,
and then we will speak of the past no more.”
We were now at the garden gate. I took her
hand in mine.
“Pauline,” I said, “try—try to remember me.”
A ghost of the old puzzled look came into her
eyes; she passed her disengaged hand over her
forehead, and then, without a word, turned away
and entered the house.
CHAPTER XV.
FROM. GRIEF TO JOY!
Y tale is drawing to an end, although I could,
for my own pleasure, write chapter after
chapter, detailing every occurrence of the next
month—describing every look, repeating every
word that passed between Pauline and myself, but
if I wrote them they would be sacred from all per-
sons save two—my wife and myself.
If my situation was an anomalous one it had at
least a certain charm. It was a new wooing, none
the less entertaining and sweet because its object
happened to be already my wife in name. It was
like a landowner walking over his estate and in
every direction finding unsuspected beauties and
unknown mines of wealth. Every day showed me
fresh charms in the woman I loved.
Her smile was a joy greater than I had ever
pictured, her laugh a revelation. To gaze into
those bright unclouded eyes and strive to learn
their secrets was a reward that repaid me for all
that I suffered. To find that her intellect, now
restored, was fit to be matched with any one's—
to know that when the time came I should be
23o CA CAEAEA) BACK.
given not only a wife, beautiful, in my eyes, above
all women, but a companion and a sympathetic
friend—how can I describe my rapture?
Yet it was a rapture not unmodified by doubts
and fears. It may be that my character lacked
that very useful trait called by some self-confidence
and by others conceit. The more I saw to love
and admire in Pauline, the more I asked myself
how I could dare to expect that so peerless a
creature would condescend to accept the love and
the life I wished to offer her. Who was I to win
her P I was rich, it is true, but I felt sure that
riches would not buy her affection——besides, as I
had not told her that her own wealth was swept
away, she fancied her fortune was as large as my
own. She was young, beautiful, and, so far as she
knew, free and amply provided for. No, I had
nothing to offer her which was worthy of her
acceptance.
I quite dreaded to look forward to the moment
which must sooner or later come—-the moment
when I must, ignoring the past, ask her once more
to be my wife. On her answer would hang the
whole of my future life. No wonder I decided to
postpone the ordeal until I felt quite certain that
the result of it would be favorable to me. No
wonder that when with Pauline, and realizing the
value of the prize I aimed at, I grew quite humble
and depreciatory of what merits I may have pos-
sessed. No wonder that at times I wished that I
CA/C/A2Z) BACK. 231
were gifted with that pleasing assurance which sits
so well on many men, and, time and opportunity
being given, seems to go a long way towards win-
ning a woman's heart.
Time and opportunity at least were not wanting
in my case.
I had taken up my quarters near to her, and
from morn to night we were in each other's com-
pany. We wandered through the narrow Devon-
shire lanes, with their luxuriant banks of ferns on
either side. We climbed the rugged tors. We
fished with more or less success the rapid streams.
We drove together. We read and sketched—but
as yet we had not talked of love; though all the
while my wedding ring was on her finger,
It required all my authority to prevent Priscilla
telling Pauline the truth. On this point I was
firm. Unless the past came back of its own ac-
cord, I would hear her say she loved me before my
lips revealed it to her. Perhaps it was the idea
which at times came to me, that Pauline remem-
bered more than she would own to, kept me stead-
fast in this resolution.
It was curious the way in which she at once fell
into friendly, unconstrained intercourse with me.
We might have known each other from childhood,
so perfectly natural and unembarrassed was her
manner when we were together. She made no
demur when I begged her to call me by my chris-
tian name, nor did she object to my making use of
232 CALLED BACK.
her own. Had she done so I cannot think in what
form I should have addressed her. Although I
had instructed Priscilla to call her Miss March,
the old woman stoutly objected to this, and com-
pounded matters by speaking to her and of her
as Miss Pauline.
The days slipped by—the happiest days my life
had as yet known. Morn, noon and eve we were
together ; and I fear were objects of great curiosity
to our neighbors, who no doubt wondered what
relations existed between me and the beautiful
girl at whose side I ever was.
I soon found that Pauline's natural disposition
was gay and bright. It was too soon yet to ex-
pect it to reassert itself, yet I was not without
hopes that before long that look, telling of sad
memories, which so often crossed her face, would
fade away forever. Now and again a pleased
smile lit up her face, and merry words slipped
from her lips. Although, when reason first re-
turned to her, it seemed as if her brother's death
had occurred but the day before, I felt sure that,
after a while, she understood that years had passed
since the fatal night. These years were to her
wrapped in a mist; they seemed as dreams. She
was trying to recall them, beginning at the begin-
ning; and I need not say with what alacrity I lent
my aid.
By common consent we avoided the future;
but of the past, or all the past in which I was not
CALLED BACK. 233
concerned, we spoke freely. All the events of
her early years she now remembered perfectly ;
she could account for every thing up to the time
when her brother was struck down—after that
came mistiness; from which she emerged to find
herself in a strange room, ill, and being nursed by
a strange nurse.
Several days passed before Pauline questioned
me as to the part I had played in her clouded life.
One evening we stood on the top of a thickly
wooded hill, from which we could just catch a
glimpse of the sea, now reddened by a glorious
sunset. We had been silent for some time, and
who can say that our thoughts were not more in
unison than any words we could have spoken
whilst our strange and uncertain relations con-
tinued. I looked at the western sky until the
glowing tints began to fade, then turning to my
companion I found her dark eyes gazing at me
with almost painful earnestness.
“Tell me,” she said, “tell me what I shall find
when that lost time comes back to me?”
Her fingers, as she spoke, were playing with her
wedding ring. She still wore it, and the diamond
keeper I had placed above it; but she had not as
yet asked me why it was on her hand.
“Will it come back, Pauline, do you think?” I
asked.
“I hope so—or stay; should I hope so P Tell
me, will it bring me joy or sorrow P”
234 CALLED BACK.
“Who can say—the two are always mingled.”
She sighed and turned her eyes to the ground.
Presently she raised them to mine.
“Tell me,” she said, “how and when did you
come into my life—why did I dream of you?”
“You saw me so often when you were ill.”
“Why did I wake and find your old servant
taking care of me?”
“Your uncle gave you into my charge. I prom-
ised to watch over you during his absence.”
“And he will never return. He is punished for
his crime—for standing by when the poor boy
was murdered.”
She pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut
out the light.
“Pauline,” I said, wishing to change the current
of her thoughts, “tell me how you saw me in
dreams; what you dreamed of me?”
She shuddered. “I dreamed that you were
standing by me—in the very room—that you saw
the deed. Yet I knew that it could not be so.”
“And then P”
“I saw your face many times—it was always
traveling, traveling through clouds. I saw your
lips move, and you seemed to say, ‘I am going to
learn the truth –so I waited patiently till you re-
turned.”
“You never dreamed of me before?”
It was growing dusk. I was uncertain whether
it was the deepening shade from the trees which
CA LLED BACK. 235
made her cheeks look darker, or whether it was a
blush. My heart was beating madly.
“I cannot tell ! I don't know ! Don't ask
me!” she said in a troubled voice. Then she
turned.
“It grows dark and chilly. Let us go in.”
I followed her. It was so completely the rule
for me to spend the evening with her that I did
not even wait for an invitation. It was our cus-
tom to play and sing together for an hour or two.
Pauline's first expressed desire after her recovery
had been for a piano. Believing herself to be an
heiress she had felt no scruple in asking for all she
wanted, and my instructions to Priscilla being
that no money was to be spared in ministering to
her comforts, a piano had been sent from the
nearest town.
All her skill had returned to her. Her voice
had come back even stronger and more sweet
than of old. Again and again she held me en-
tranced as she had held me once before, when I
little expected the fearful ending to her song, or
that my fate and the singer's were so closely in-
terWOVen.
I was surprised, therefore, when this evening
she turned on the doorstep and said, “Not to-
night. Leave me, please, for to-night.”
I urged no objection. I took her hand and
bade her farewell until the morrow. I would go
and wander by starlight and think of her.
236 . CA/C/A2D BACK.
As we parted she looked at me strangely, almost
solemnly.
“Gilbert,” she said, speaking in Italian ; for
Priscilla was now standing at the open door—
“shall I pray for the past to return or that I
should never remember it? Which will be the best
for me—and for you?”
Without waiting to hear my reply, she glided
past Priscilla, who stood waiting for me to follow
her.
“Good-night, Priscilla,” I said, “I am not com-
ing in.”
“Not coming in, Master Gilbert Miss Pauline
will be vexed.”
“She is tired and not quite well. You had bet-
ter go to her. Good-night.”
Priscilla came out to the doorstep and closed
the door behind her. There was something in her
manner which told me she meant on this particu-
lar occasion to resume what she could of that
authority she had been delegated to exercise over
me during my tender years—an authority I did
not dare to dispute until long after I had been in-
vested with jackets and trowsers. I have no doubt
but she would have liked to seize me by the col-
lar and given me a sound shaking. As it was she
was obliged to content herself with throwing a
world of sorrowful indignation into her voice.
“She may easily feel ill, poor young lady, when
her husband lives at one house and she at another.
CA/C/CAE. D BACK. 237
And here's every body round-about trying to find
out what relation you two are to each other—ask-
ing me all sorts of questions and I mustn't say you
are husband and wife.”
“No—not yet.”
“Well, I'm going to, Master Gilbert. If you
won't tell the poor young lady, I shall. I'll tell
her how you brought her home and sent for me
to take care of her—how you tended her and
waited on her all day long—how you shut yourself
up for her sake, never seeing an old friend's face.
Oh, yes, Master Gilbert, I'll tell her all; and I'll
tell her how you went into her room and kissed
her ere you started on that fool's journey,
wherever it was. She'll remember every thing fast
enough then.”
“I command you to say nothing.”
“I’ve heeded too many commands of yours,
Master Gilbert, to mind breaking one for your
sake. I'll do it, and take the consequences.”
Feeling that the explanation, if made by
Priscilla, would not only sweep away a great deal
of romance, but also might precipitate matters and
make them far more difficult to adjust to my own
satisfaction, I was bound to prevent her carrying
out her threat. Knowing from old experience
that although the good soul could not be driven,
she could be led, I was obliged to resort to
cajolery. So I said, as one asking a boon—
“You won't if I entreat and beg you not to, my
238 CALLE/X BA CK.
old friend. You love me too much to do any thing
against my wishes.”
Priscilla was not proof against this appeal, but
she urged me to proclaim the true state of affairs
as soon as possible.
“And don't be too sure, Master Gilbert,” she
concluded, “as to what she remembers or doesn't.
Sometimes I think she knows a deal more than
you suppose.”
Then she left me, and I went wandering about
thinking as to what meaning to attach to Pauline's
parting words.
“Which will be the best for me—and for you?”
—to forget or to recall P How much did she
forget—how much did she recall? Had those
rings on her hand not shown her that she was a
wife? Could she help suspecting whose wife she
was 2 Even if she remembered nothing about our
strange, hurried marriage, nothing about our sub-
sequent life together, she found herself after that
interval of oblivion, as it were, under my charge;
found that I knew all the tragic circumstances of
her brother's end, that I had now returned from a
journey of thousands of miles, undertaken to learn
the fatal particulars. Although she might not be
able to account for it, she must by this time know
the truth. Keeping the ring on her finger showed
that she did not dispute the fact that, somehow,
she was wedded. Who could be her husband
save me?
CA/C/A2/) BACK. 239
Yes, by the evidence the situation offered, I
determined that she had arrived at the right con-
clusion; and the hour was at hand when I should
learn if the knowledge would bring her joy or
SOrr OW.
To-morrow I would tell her all. I would tell
her how strangely our lives became linked. I
would plead for her love more passionately than
ever man yet pleaded. I would prove to her how
innocently I had fallen into Ceneri's schemes—
how free from blame I was in wedding her whilst
her mental state was such that she was unable to
refuse consent. All this she should learn, and
then I would hear my doom from her lips.
I would urge no plea based upon my legal right
to my wife. So far as I could make her she should
be free. Nothing should bind her to me except
love. If she had none to give me I would tear
myself from her, and at her wish see if steps could
not be taken to annul the marriage—but whether
she elected to remain my wife in name, to become
my wife in reality, or to sever every tie, her future
life, with or without her knowledge, should be my
care. By this time to-morrow my fate should be
known.
Having settled this I should have retired to rest;
but I was in no mood for sleep. Again ànd again
I recalled her last words and commenced one of
those weighings of hopes and fears which always
means self-torture. Why, if Pauline had guessed
24O CA C/CAE O BACK.
the truth, had she not asked me about it? How
could she spend hour after hour with me, knowing
she was my wife yet not knowing how she became
so 2 Would her words admit of the interpretation
that she dreaded what she had to learn? Did she
wish for freedom and continual forgetfulness? So,
on and on until I made myself quite miserable.
Many a man on the eve of learning whether his
love is to be accepted or rejected has been racked
as I was that night, but surely no lover save myself
ever lived, who was to receive the momentous
answer from the lips of a woman who was already
his wife.
The hour was late when I returned from my
solitary walk. I passed Pauline's window, and
standing gazing up at it I wondered if she, too,
were lying awake and thinking and deciding about
our future lives. Ah well, to-morrow would put
us both out of suspense !
The night being still and warm her window was
open at the top. Before I turned away a fancy
seized me. I picked a rose from a bush in the
garden and managed to toss it through the open
sash. She might find it in the morning and guess-
ing from whom it came might wear it. It would
be a good omen.
The blind shivered as the rosebud struck it:
then, fearing discovery, I turned and fled.
The morning broke fair. I rose with hope in
my heart and scouted the fears of the night. At
CA/./A.D BACK. 24 I
the earliest moment I could hope to find her I
started in search of Pauline. She had just gone
out. I ascertained in which way, and followed
her.
I found her walking slowly, with her head bent.
She greeted me with her usual quiet sweetness, and
we walked on side by side. I looked in vain for my
rose; and was fain to comfort myself by thinking
it must have fallen where she could not see it.
Nevertheless, I was troubled.
And there was worse in store for me. Her
hands, ungloved and with the fingers interlaced,
were carried in front of her. I was walking on
her left side, and I saw that the hand nearest me
was denuded of its rings. The golden circlet
which had shone until now like a beacon of hope,
had disappeared. My heart sank. The meaning
was only too clear: when coupled with her words
of last night, who could fail to understand it?
Although she knew herself to be my wife she
wished to throw the yoke aside. Pauline loved
me not—the truth which was gradually creeping
from the misty past would bring her sorrow—now
that she remembered, she wished to forget. The
rings were cast aside to show me, if possible,
without words, that she was not to be my wife.
How could I speak now 2 The answer had
been given before the question had been put.
She saw me looking at that little white hand of
hers, but simply dropped her lashes and said noth-
242 CA/.../A.D BACK.
ing. No doubt she wished me to spare her the
pain of an explanation. If I could nerve myself to
it, perhaps the best thing would be to leave her
as speedily as possible—leave her to return no
II] Oſe.
Moody and despondent as I felt at the discovery
just made, it was not long before I found a great
change in Pauline's manner. She was not the
same. Something had come between us, some-
thing which entirely dispelled the old friendly
intercourse ; changing it into little more than con-
ventional politeness. Shyness and restraint now
made themselves manifest in every word and
action—perhaps, in mine also. We spent the day
together as usual, but the companionship must
have been irksome to both, so greatly was its
footing changed for the worse. That night I went
to bed wretched. The prize I had striven for
seemed to be snatched away just as I had hoped
to win it !
So several days passed. Pauline made no sign,
or certainly none I could construe favorably. I
could bear this state of things no longer. Priscilla,
whose sharp eyes saw that something was amiss,
pestered me beyond endurance; and spoke her
mind so roundly that I began to suspect she had
already executed her threat of telling Pauline
every thing; and I felt inclined to attribute my
failure to the old woman's officiousness in making
a premature revelation, All might have gone well
CALLED BACK. 243
had I been given another week or a fortnight to
win my wife's heart. I began to believe that she
was growing unhappy; that my presence troubled
her. Not that she evinced any wish to avoid me;
indeed, she came so surely at my beck and call as
to suggest a shadow of the obedience she had
always given during those days upon which I now
dreaded to dwell. But I felt she would be happier
and more at ease in my absence. So I resolved
to depart.
I knew that my only way was to carry out my
determination at once. Having made the resolve
I would act upon it next day. I packed up my
things in readiness. I arranged by which coach
to go. I should have three hours in the morning
to give Priscilla my final instructions and to bid
my wife adieu forever.
I could not go without explaining some things
to her. I need not pain her by alluding to our
relationship, but I must inform her that she was
not the heiress she believed. I must tell her she
had plenty to live upon without saying that I, her
husband, would supply it. When this was ar-
ranged, farewell forever!
As soon as I had finished my pretense at a
breakfast, I walked across to the house where
Pauline lodged. As yet she knew nothing of my
purpose. I held her hand rather longer than
usual, and by a desperate effort forced words to
my lips.
244 CAAAAA) BACK.
“I am come to say good-by. I go to London
to-day.”
She answered not a word, but I felt her hand
tremble in my own. Her eyes I could not see.
“Yes, I have loitered here long enough,” I con-
tinued, attempting to speak easily, “a great many
things call me to town.”
Pauline was not looking in the best of health this
morning. Her cheek was paler than it had been
since my arrival. She looked languid and de-
pressed. Doubtless my presence had worried her.
Poor girl, she would soon be relieved of that
Seeing that I paused for her to speak she found
her voice, but even that seemed to have lost some
of its freshness and tone.
“When do you go?” was all that she said.
Not a word about my return
“By the mid-day coach. I have still some
hours left. As it is the last time, shall we walk to
the Clearing together?”
“Do you wish it?”
“If you have no objection. Besides, I want to
speak to you about yourself—about business mat-
ters,” I added, to show that she need not fear the
interview.
“I will come,” she said, quitting the room
hurriedly.
I waited. Presently Priscilla appeared. She
was looking daggers at me—undeserved, at least
from her. Her voice was harsh and raspy, bring-
CA/AA D BACK. 245
ing back to my mind a familiar sound of early
, childhood, when I had committed some petty
crime which excited her ire.
“Miss Pauline begs you will walk on and not
wait for her. She will join you at the Clearing
presently.”
I took my hat and prepared to do as com-
manded. Priscilla had said nothing which showed
she knew of my approaching departure, but as I
was passing out of the house she said, in a tone of
withering scorn,
“Master Gilbert, you're a bigger fool than I
thought you were.”
Such an observation, even from an old servant,
could not be passed by. I turned to remonstrate.
Priscilla simply slammed the door almost against
my nose.
I walked away—the thing in the face of my
other troubles was not worth a thought. Of course
I could not expect Priscilla to enter into my feel-
ings and appreciate the delicacy of my position.
Besides, I must see her and have a long talk with
her before I left.
The Clearing, as we called it, was a place on
the hill side, not far away. We had stumbled
upon it, almost by accident, during our walks. A
seldom trodden path through the wood led to a
spot from which the trees and undergrowth had
been cleared. From it there was a delightful
view of the opposite hills and the stream winding
246 CALLED BACK.
through the valley. It was a favorite resort of
mine. Here I had sat for hours talking to Pauline,
and here in my dreams I had poured forth the
words of love I longed to speak—and here I was
to say good-by forever!
My frame of mind was a sad one when I reached
the Clearing. I threw myself down on the sloping
ground and turned my eyes up the path by which
she must come. A fallen trunk at my back formed
a rest for my head—the trees around were rustling
in the soft breeze—the monotonous rush of the
stream below was soothing and lulling—a few
white clouds sailed slowly across the sky. It was
a drowsy, dreamy, beautiful morning. I had
scarcely slept for the last two or three nights.
Pauline lingered. Is it any wonder that my eyes
closed and for a while all sorrow and disappoint-
ment were chased away by the sleep I so sorely
needed ?
Was it sleep? Yes, because one must sleep in
order to dream. Ah! if that dream were reality,
life would be worth having. I dreamed that my
wife was beside me, that she took my hand and
pressed her lips to it passionately, that her cheek
was almost touching mine, that I could feel her
soft, sweet breath. So real did it seem that I
turned on my hard rustic pillow towards the dream,
and then of course it vanished.
I opened my eyes. In front of me stood Pauline.
Those grand dark eyes of hers no longer veiled by
CALLED BACK. 247
the lashes, but open and looking into mine. I saw
them but for a second, but that was long enough
for the look I had surprised to send the blood
throbbing through my veins—to make me spring
to my feet—to embolden me to take her suddenly
and swiftly in my arms—to cover her sweet face
with kisses, ejaculating the only words that one
can find at such a time, “I love you ! I love you !
I love you !”
For no man yet has seen in a woman's eyes the
look I saw in Pauline's unless that woman loves
him above all the world.
No words can describe the rapture of that
moment—the revulsion of my feelings. She was
mine, my own forever. I knew it; I could feel
it every time my lips touched hers. The bright
blush which spread from her cheek to her neck
proclaimed it—her suffering without resistance my
passionate caresses confirmed it—but let me hear
it from those sweet lips
“Pauline! Pauline!” I cried; “do you love me?”
A trembling which I knew was of joy passed
over her.
“Do I love you ! love you !” she said, and hid
her blushing face on my shoulder. The words, the
action, was enough, but presently she raised her
head and pressed her lips to mine.
“I love you—yes, I love you, my husband' "
“When did you know P When did you re-
member P”
248 CALLED BACK.
For a moment she answered not. She broke
from my embrace; then, opening the bosom of her
dress, drew forth a blue ribbon which hung round
her neck. Upon it were threaded the two rings.
They seemed to sparkle with joy in the bright sun.
She detached them and held them towards me.
“Gilbert, my love, my husband, if you will that
I shall be your wife, if you think me worthy of
it, take them and place them where they should
be.”
And then once more, with many a kiss, many a
vow, I placed the rings upon her finger and knew
that my troubles were at an end.
“But when did you know—when did the mem-
ory come back?”
“Dearest,” she whispered, and her voice sounded
like music, “I knew it when I saw you standing
on the river bank. It came to me all at once.
Till then all was dark. I saw your face and knew
every thing.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
She hung her head. “I wanted to find out if
you loved me. Why should you do so? If you
did not we could part, and I would set you free if
possible. But not now, Gilbert; you will never
get rid of me now.”
Her thoughts had been the same as mine. No
wonder I had misunderstood her. The idea of
her waiting to see if I loved her seemed so pre-
posterous !
CA/A2/) BACK. 249
“You would have saved me days of grief if I
had known you cared for me. Why did you take
off the rings, Pauline P”
“Day after day passed and you said nothing.
Then I took them off. They have been next my
heart ever since, waiting for you to give back when
you chose.”
I kissed the hand on which they shone. “Then
all is clear to you now, my own wife?”
“Not quite all, but enough. The truth, the
love, the devotion—all this, my husband, I can
remember—all this I will repay, if my love can
do it.”
Our wooing may close with these words—let all
the rest be sacred. The trees around alone know
what passed between us, as their kindly shade fell
on us where we sat and interchanged our words
of love whilst hour after hour of our second and
real wedding day slipped by. At last we rose, but
lingered yet awhile, as though loth to leave the
spot where happiness had come to us. We looked
round once more and bid farewell to hill and valley
and stream : we gazed long in each other's eyes,
our lips met again in a passionate kiss ; then we
went forth together to the world and the new
sweet life awaiting us.
We walked as in a dream, from which we were
only recalled by the sight of houses and people.
“Pauline !” I whispered, “can you leave this
place to-night? We will go to London.”
25o CAE LED BACK.
“And afterwards P” she asked, wistfully.
“Can you ask me? To Italy, of course.”
She thanked me with a look and pressure of the
hand. We were now at her home. She left me,
passing Priscilla, whose honest eyes were glower-
ing at me. Priscilla had called me a fool ; I must
be revenged.
“Priscilla,” I said gravely, “I am going by this
evening's coach. I will write when I get to
London.”
I had my revenge in full. The good old soul
almost fell weeping at my feet.
“Oh, Master Gilbert, don'tee, don'tee go, sir!
That poor young lady, Miss Pauline, what will she
do? She loves the very ground you tread upon.”
I had bargained for reproaches, not sentiment of
this kind. I laid my hand upon her shoulder.
“But, Priscilla, Miss Pauline—Mrs. Vaughan,
my wife, goes with me.”
Priscilla's tears came more copiously than be-
fore, but they were tears of joy.
Ten days later and Pauline stood beside her
brother's grave. By her own wish she visited, it
alone. I waited at the gate of the cemetery until
she rejoined me. Her face was very pale, her eyes
showed traces of many tears, but she smiled as she
met my anxious glance.
“Gilbert, my husband,” she said, “I have wept,
but now I smile. The past is past. Let its dark-
ness be dispersed by the brightness of the present
CA L/A2 D BACK. 251
and the promise of the future. Let the love I
bore my brother be carried into the greater love I
give my husband. Let us turn our backs on the
dark shadows and begin our lives.”
Have I more to tell ? One thing only.
Years afterwards I was in Paris. The great
war had been fought out to the bitter end. Traces
of the conflict between the two races had almost
vanished, but those of the second and internecine
contest were visible every where. The Gaul him-
self had destroyed what the Teuton spared. The
Tuileries, with sightless, empty eyes, gazed sadly
towards the Place de la Concord, where stood the
statues of the fair lost provinces. The Vendôme
column lay prostrate. The fair city was charred
and blackened by the incendiary torches of her
own sons; but the flames had been some time ex-
tinguished and ample revenge had been taken. A
gay young officer, a friend of mine, took me to see
a military prison. We were chatting and smoking
in the open air when a small body of soldiers
appeared. They were escorting three men, who
walked with fettered hands and bowed heads.
“Who are they P” I asked.
“Blackguard Communists.”
“Where are they taking them?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. “Where
they ought all to be taken—to be shot, the brutes!”
Brutes or not, three men who have but a minute
to live must be objects of interest if not sympathy.
252 CALA.A. D BACK.
I looked closely at them as they passed us. One
of them raised his head and stared me in the face.
It was Macari !
I started as his eyes met mine, but I am not
ashamed to say the movement was caused by no
feeling of compassion. Ceneri, in spite of myself,
I pitied, and would have aided had it been possi-
ble, but this ruffian, liar and traitor should have
gone to his doom, even if I could have saved him
by lifting a finger. He had passed long ago out
of my life, but my blood still boiled when I thought
of him and his crimes. I knew not how he had
lived since I last saw him—knew not whom or
how many he had betrayed; but if Justice
had been slow in claiming him, her sword had
at last reached him and his end was close at
hand.
He knew me—perhaps he thought I had come
there to gloat over his punishment. A look of bitter
hate crossed his face. He stopped and cursed me.
The guard forced him on. He turned his head
and cursed me until one of the soldiers smote him
on the mouth. The action may have been cruel,
but there was little mercy shown to Communists
in those days. The guard and their prisoners
turned round an angle of the building.
“Shall we see the end ?” said my friend, flipping
the ash off his cigar.
“No, thank you.”
But we heard it. In ten minutes the rattle of
CAL LED BACK. 253
rifles sounded, and I knew that the last and guiltiest
of Anthony March's murderers had found his
deserts.
I remembered my promise to Ceneri. With
great trouble I managed to get a message sent
which I believed would reach him. Six months
afterwards a letter stamped with innumerable
hieroglyphical postmarks, was delivered to me.
It told me that the prisoner to whom I had written
had died two years after his arrival at the mines.
So the lesser criminal had not the satisfaction of
knowing the fate of the man who had betrayed
him.
My tale is told. My life and Pauline's began
when we turned from that cemetery and resolved
to forget the past. Since then our joys and griefs
have been the same as those of thousands. As I
write this in my happy country house, blessed with
wife and children, I wonder if I could ever have
been that blind man who heard those fearful sounds
and who saw afterwards that terrible sight. Could
it have been I who rushed from one end of Europe
to the other to set at rest a doubt which I
blush at even harboring? Could it have been
Pauline, whose eyes now shine with love and
intelligence, who lay for months, even years, with
the sweet bells of her intellect jangled and out of
tune 2
Yes, it must be so ; for she has read every line
I have written, and as we peruse and revise this
254 CA/C/A2/0 BA CA.
last page her arm steals round me, and she says,
insisting that I shall record her utterance,
“Too much, too much of me, my husband, not
enough of what you did and have always done for
me!”
... With this, the only difference of opinion that
exists between us, my tale may end.
THE END.
&
\
...”
i:
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Jſay, ISS.4,
AMERICAN Novel. SERIEs. I
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No. 1.-A LATTER DAY SAINT. Being the Story of the
Conversion of Ethel Jones, related by Herself. 16mo. Cloth.
$1.00.
No. 2.--THE PAGANS. By ARLo BATEs. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.
No. 3. — EST H E. R. BY FRANCES SNOW COMPTON. 16mo. ('loth.
$1.00.
No. 4.—STRATF ORD-BY-THE-SEA. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.
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#3 & CERT LY PU; Bil. §§§ {T}. -
THE LIFE AND POEMS OF THEOD ORE WIN THROP,
Edited by his Sister, with Portrait. 12mo.
“T’repared by loving hands which have known how to prepare a book, which is an
incentive to patriotism and to high living. * * The great value of this volume is
that it is the record of a pure, heroic soul, teaching the most needed lesson that purity
and love of country and enthusiasm are quite consistent with genius and refinement.
We trust that it will do much to preserve for this generation the beautiful and lnspir–
ing story of his life.”—JHartford Contrant,
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: A SECO W D EDITIO W OF
; : A LATTER-DAY SAINT. :
Being the Story of the Conversion of ETHEL JONES, related by her-
self, and concerning which reviewers disagree. 16mo. $1.00.
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A (Not Quite Harmonious) Symposium of Critics.
From The Critic and Good Literature's motice of a “Latter-Day Saint.”
“When a story so worthless in all respects as a ‘Tatter-Day Saint' appears with the
imprint of reputable publishers, one hesitates whether to ignore or to denounce it.
The book is not only ‘naughty' but poor; not only wicked, but silly ; not only unjust
and unjustifiable, but uninteresting ; not only bad, but stupid. The critic who is
obliged to read a novel of Zola's does not feel himself seriously contaminated. But the
reader of ‘A Tatter-Day Saint' feels contaminated through and through with the low,
petty, mean, base views of life that it presents. You may throw the book into the fire,
but you cannot shake the dust of it from your soul.”
|
From The Wation's notice of the same book,
“Opens happily a new series of American novels, utters philosophy and sarcasm with
a piquancy and good temper which recalls Thackeray's lighter manner without echoing
it. The amusement afforded by the frank recital of a career glorious or inglorious
according to the point of view is heightened in that of the ‘conversion.”
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From the N. Y. Tribune's notice of the same book.
“It is deftly put together, its points are well made, and its implied satire is good.
The cold and debased glitter which becomes such a story and such a heroine is well
preserved throughout. There is not a little art in the consistency with which Ethel’s
heart of stone and forehead of brass are kept to the fore.”.
HEMRY H0LT & 00., Publishers, Mew York.
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