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 UNWIN'S 1/9 K 
 
 Neatly Bouad and with Pioture Wrappers. 
 
 1. 
 
 2. 
 
 3. 
 
 4, 
 
 5. 
 
 6. 
 
 7, 
 
 8. 
 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 13. 
 14. 
 15. 
 16. 
 
 17. 
 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 23. 
 24. 
 25, 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 31. 
 32. 
 33. 
 
 The Way of an Ee^Ie. 
 
 MoGlusky the Rcforicier. 
 
 The Trail of '98, 
 
 Ann Veronica. 
 
 The Knave oi Diamonds. 
 
 The Beetle : A Mystery. 
 
 Aimayer's Folly. 
 
 The Shulamite. By 
 
 Ncvr Chronicles of Don Q. 
 
 The Canon la Residence 
 
 Hy Ethel M. Dell 
 
 By A. G. Hales 
 
 By RoBitRT W. Service 
 
 By H. G. Wells 
 
 By Ethel M. Dell 
 
 By Richard Marsh 
 
 By Joseph Conk ad 
 
 Alice and Claudb Askkw 
 
 By K. & Hesketh Pric;!ard 
 
 By Victor L. Whitechurch 
 
 The Camera Fiend. tJy the Author of "Raffles'' 
 Monte Carlo. By Mrs. H. De Verb Stacpoole 
 
 CaUed Back. By Hugh Comwav 
 
 The Stickit ^Sint9ter. By S. H. Crockett 
 
 The Crimson Azaleas. By H. de Verb Stacpoole 
 
 My Lady of the Chimney Corner. 
 
 By Alexander Irvink. 
 Patsy. Ey H. de Verb Stacpoole 
 
 The Indiscretion of the Duchess. By Anthony Hope 
 By Reef and Palm. By Louis Becks 
 
 Queen Sheba's Ring. By H. Rider Haggard 
 
 Uncanny Tales. By F. Marion Crawford 
 
 Rioroft of WUliens. By Halliwell Sutcliffb 
 
 The Vulture's i^rey. By H. ns Vers Stacpoole 
 
 The Pretender. By Robert W. Service 
 
 5, Me t A Book of Remembrance. 
 
 Garryowea. > 
 
 The Lady Killer. 
 
 As in a Looking Glass. 
 
 The Victorians. 
 
 Liza of Lambeth. 
 
 Arnndel. 
 
 The Rod of Justice. 
 
 Exile. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 DE Vers Stacpoole 
 
 de Vere Stacpoole 
 
 By F. C. Philips 
 
 By Netta Syrett 
 
 Somerset Maugham 
 
 By E. F. Benson 
 
 By Alice and Claude Askew 
 
 By DoLF VVyllarue 
 
 By H. 
 By H. 
 
 By W. 
 
 Other Volunies in )Prsparation. 
 
 T. FISHER UNWIN, Ltd.. 1, Adelphi Terrace, LONDON
 
 L'^ 
 
 First pttblished {Royal 8w) 
 
 Fcap Svo Edition ■ 
 
 Crown Svo lUuslralfd Edidoti 
 
 Dev.y Svo Edition 
 
 Fcap 8t»o Edition 
 
 Fcap St'O Edition 
 
 Fcap 8vo Edition 
 
 Fcap Svo Edition 
 
 Fcap Si'O Edition 
 
 November 1883 
 
 January 18S4, reprinted 64 times 
 
 May 1885 
 
 November r&96, reprinted 11 limes 
 
 February 1912, reprinted in 1916 
 
 August igi7, reprinted 
 
 December 1917. reprinted 
 
 May 1918, reprinted 
 
 February 1919, reprinted
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Chap. 
 
 I. In Darknhss and in Danger 
 
 II. Drunk or Dreaming 
 
 III. The Fairest Sight of all 
 
 IV. Not roR Love or Marriage 
 
 V. By Law, not Love 
 
 VI. Unsatisfactory Answers 
 
 VII. Claiming Relationship 
 
 VIII. Called Back . 
 
 IX. A Black Lie . 
 
 X. In Search of the Truth 
 XL A Hell upon Earth . 
 XII. The Name of the Man 
 XI IL A Terrible Confession 
 XIV. Doss She Remember ? 
 
 XV, From Gbikf to Joy 
 
 I 
 
 33 
 
 43 
 60 
 
 71 
 80 
 92 
 104 
 112 
 133 
 134 
 145 
 163 
 174
 
 BRAIN MAGIC. 
 
 Pelm-cnism and the " Liule Grey Books." 
 
 Are you " jielinauLsiug " 'i 
 
 Have you read, or lioard, or thought 
 about the wonderful " brain-gro\Wng " 
 method th<it is creating such a fjensation 
 by its almost magical results ? 
 
 Everybody, from Royalty do\TO- 
 wards, is busily " pelmanisiiig " and 
 praising the system. Tiie soouer you 
 begin to " pclnianise " the better for 
 your pocket and your prospects. 
 
 There are now over 70,000 " I'elman- 
 ibts " in the British Army and Xavy, 
 including over 100 Admirals and Gen- 
 erals, and it is an open secret that the 
 ofncc-rs or our smartest battleships and 
 cruisers are enthusiastic " Pelmauists." 
 
 Government officials, M.P.'s, peers, 
 and tens of thousands of busy pro- 
 fessional and business men and woman, 
 clerics, shopkeepers, etc., have also 
 taken up with the fascinating science 
 of " peliuanising." 
 
 A member of llic House of Lords goes 
 so far as to say that the Pelinan system 
 should be included in our aatioual 
 scheme of education, and this viaw is 
 warmly endorsed by many other 
 notable Pelmanists. " A Pelmsn- 
 trained nation wf^uld be irresistible," 
 \iToto a well-kno^vn journalist. 
 
 " But what Ls this Pelmanism, and 
 what does it do ? " asks the reader. 
 V*'ell, it is a system which does even 
 more for the brain than scifentiflc 
 physical culture does for the muscles 
 of the body. Far more. By a series 
 of short, simple, and delightfully 
 fascinating exercises, the brain is drilled 
 and developed to a marvellous extent, 
 doubliug and trebling the " Polinau- 
 ist's " capabilities and his or her (for 
 there are thou.-;ands of women " Pel- 
 maoist's ") income. Letters are daily 
 received at the Pelman Institute telling 
 of 100 i)er cent., .and even 300 per cent., 
 increases of income resulting directly 
 frira " pclmi^ni.aing." And these, re- 
 
 member, include men and women of all 
 vocations — clerks, typists, shop assist- 
 ants, artisans, merchants, managers, 
 dircptora. journalists, doctors, musicians, 
 clcrgymcu, lawyers, authors, and actors. 
 
 In fact, it is dearly proved th.at 
 " Pelmanism " means tiiat in a few 
 weeks, by practi=ing for a few minutes 
 daily, anyone can open up the road to 
 Fortune, success, and even wealth and 
 fame. 
 
 If you do not know " the little grey 
 books," if you are not a Pelmanist, you 
 should liastcn to make up for lost time. 
 " i^'obody who has not studied these 
 books," says an ardent Pelmanist, " can 
 conceive the immeasurable benefits 
 resulting fiom them." 
 
 " A single one of them would be cheap 
 to me at a Imndred pounds," declares a 
 solicitor. " As a direct consequence of 
 t.'icm I gained a step in promotion," 
 writes a Lieut.-Colonel: 
 
 Many clerks, shop-a.;si.srauts, and 
 salesmen toil how they doubled and 
 trebled their incomes as the result of a 
 few weeks* study of the Pelman Coui-se. 
 
 Women are particularly keen o;: 
 Pelmanism ; it has proved such an 
 enormous help to tlicm in " getting on " 
 in bip.hiess. Many of them describe it 
 as " th-j best investment I ever made." 
 
 Sloreover, they find it a truly las- 
 ciuatiiig study. " I am genuinely sorry 
 the course has fluislisd. I have found 
 it eo absorbingly iutorcstiug as well as 
 profifabk'." These arc the exact word^ 
 used by students of th-" Pelman 
 Course. 
 
 " Pelmaniim" is fully explained in 
 fill interestinrj book ivhich every reader 
 :ilu)uld at onci get and read. It is called 
 " Mind and Memory," and can be secured 
 ijrali.'! and post free by writing to-day to 
 i'le. Pchnan Institute, F., Pelman Home, 
 liloomsbury Hirezt, Ionian, IF.C.l.
 
 CALLED BACK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN DARKNESS AND IN DANGER. 
 
 HAVE a reason for writing this tale^ 
 or it would not become public pro- 
 perty. 
 
 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. Anyway, 
 he told another friend, v/ith embellishments I sus- 
 pect ; this friend told another, and so on and on. 
 What the tale grew to at 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 neighbours as a man with a history — 
 one who has a romance hidden away beneath an 
 outwardly prosaic 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 fiiend has 
 an idea that I was once a Communist and a mem- 
 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
 
 S CALLED BACK. 
 
 miracle was performed. If I were alone in the 
 world and young, I daresay I should take no steps 
 to still these idle rumours. Indeed, very young 
 men feci flattered by being made objects of 
 curiosit}' asid speculation. 
 
 But I am not vcr}^ 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 .'ife without mystery 
 or concealment — wishes to be thought neither 
 better nor v«orse 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 some*:imes 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 art; sealed for ever on the sub- 
 ject. My tale is here — let the inquisitive take his 
 answer from it, net from me. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, 1 write this for my own sake 
 .as well. I also hate mysreries. One mystery 
 which I have never been able to determine may 
 have given me a dislike to everything which will 
 not admit of an easy explanation. 
 
 To begin, 1 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 carne 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
 
 CATJ.ED BACK. 3 
 
 been my own master I had no extravagant follies 
 to weigh nie down, no del>ts to hamper mc. 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 that 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 foUov/ 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. 
 
 My Hmbs v/ere strong. I could bear fatigue and 
 exposure. I could hold my own w'ith 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 tlie muscles firm as 
 of old. Ye"t I was as helpless as Samson in his 
 captivity. 
 
 For, even as Sampson, I was blind ! 
 Blind! Who but the victim can even faintly 
 comprehend the significance of that word ? 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 m.ade me wish that when I fell 
 asleep it might be to wake no more ? 
 
 Blind ! After hovering around rne for years the 
 demon of darkness had at last laid his hand upon 
 me. After letting me, for a while, almost cheat
 
 4 CALLED BAGS. 
 
 myself into security, he had swept down upon me, 
 folded me in his sable wings and blighted my life. 
 Fair forms, sweet sights, bright colours, 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 
 t>eiladonna to my eyes, and which had the effect
 
 CALLED BACK. 5 
 
 for & short time of wonderfully improvinj^ my sight, 
 peered into my eyes with the aid of strong lenses 
 and mirrors — I remember at the time wishing some 
 of those lenses were mine — what splendid 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 proceedings seemed 
 so fimny 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 returned to my father — 
 
 •' Hold the candle as I held it. Let it shine 
 into the right eye first. Now Mr. Vaughan, what 
 do you see ? How many candles, I mean ? " 
 
 •' Three — the one in the centre small and bright, 
 but upside down." 
 
 " Yes ; now try the other eye. How many 
 there?" 
 
 My father looked long and carefully. 
 
 " I can only see one," he said, " the large one." 
 
 " This is called the catoptric test, an old-fashioned 
 but infallible test, now almost superseded. The 
 boy is suffering from lenticular cataract." 
 
 This terribly sounding name took av/ay 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 un- 
 affected." 
 
 " Is there aanger ? " 
 
 '* 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 returned 
 to my school life, troubling little about the matter.
 
 CALLED BACK, 
 
 as it caused me no pain, and, although in less than 
 a twelvemonth the sight of oris eye was completely 
 obscured, I could see well enough for every pur- 
 pose with the remaining one. 
 
 But I remembered every word of that diagnosis, 
 although it was years before I recognised the im- 
 portance of it It was only when compelled by 
 an accident to wear for some days a bandage oyer 
 my sound eye that I realised the danger in which 
 I stood, and from that moment felt that a merciless 
 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 
 v/ould confess to myself that my failing sight and 
 the increasing fogginess of everything I looked af 
 were due to m.ore than a tem.porary weakness. 
 I was hundreds of miles from home, in a country 
 where traveUing is slow. A friend being with me, 
 I had no wish to make myself a nuisance by 
 cutting our expedition short. So I said nothing 
 for 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, everything to mc 
 was blurred, dim, and obscured. I could just see, 
 that was all 1 
 
 I flew to the eminent ocuhst's. He was out oi 
 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 hi.s health was quite 
 restored.
 
 CALLED BACK. 7 
 
 I had pinned my faith upon this man. No 
 doubt there were as skilful 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 rnen are allowed their whims : even 
 the felon about to be hanged can choose his own 
 breakfast, so 1 had an undoubted right to choose 
 my own surgeou. 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 1 
 v.'as almost distracted. Blind, blind, blind ! I 
 sliOuld be blind for ever ! So entirely had I lost 
 Jjcart 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. 
 The subtlest skill, the most delicate hand, the 
 Hiosi 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 unable 
 to realise my condition, read the above to anyone 
 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 1 
 
 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 anyone seeing me in my helpless condition. 
 Day by day my frame of mind grew more and 
 more desponding and morbid.
 
 8 CALLED BACK. 
 
 My best friend of all was a humble one: Priscilla 
 Drew, an old and trusted servant of my mother's. 
 She had known me from earliest childhood. When 
 I returned to England I could not bear the thought 
 of trusting my helpless self entirely to a stranger's 
 care, so 1 wrote to her and begged her to come to 
 nie. I could at least groan 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 troublesome 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 extemporised bed 
 just outside the folding doors which opened from 
 my bedroom to the sitting 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. EverN'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 ? 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, knovw' the time. The little bell told me it 
 was just past one o'clock. Craving for sleep I 
 sighed and sank back upon my pillow. 
 
 Presently a sudden fierce longing to be out ot 
 doors came over me. It was nights-very few people 
 would be about There was a broad pavement 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 doorstep it would be
 
 CALLKD BACK. 9 
 
 better than lying ia this close hot room, tossing 
 from side to side unable to sleep. 
 
 Tlie 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 unusually 
 restless, cross and exacting during the day, and 
 my old nurse — heaven reward her ! — was serving 
 me for love, not for money. Why should I disturb 
 her? Let me -begin to learn to help myself like 
 others in my wretched plight. I had already 
 acquired this much, to dress without assistance. 
 If I could now do this and leave the room unheard, 
 I could, I feit sure, grope my v/ay to the front door, 
 let myself out, and, whenever I chose, return by 
 aid of the latchke}'. 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 easily 
 dressed myself, hearing all the while the sleeper's 
 regular breathing. Then, cautious as a thief, I 
 stole to the door which led from my bedroom to 
 the landing. I opened it without noise and stood 
 on the thick carpet outside, smiling as I thougiit of 
 the sleeper's dismay if she awoke and discovered 
 my absence. I closed the door, then, guiding 
 myself by the balustrade, passed liglitly 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 i.rem- 
 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 ihere was nothing 
 to fear. The street — a quiet one — was deserted.
 
 10 CALLED RACK. 
 
 The pavement was broad. I could walk up and 
 down without let or hindrance, guiding myself, 
 after tlie manner of otlier blind persons, by tapping 
 my stick against the curbstone or the railings. 
 Still I must take a few precautions to enable me 
 to ascertain mj' 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 wa'lk 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 sixt3''-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 centre of the row. 
 I was now quite at my ease ; I had determined the 
 length of nn' 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, mightil}' proud of m)' 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 appearancd and 
 gait were not such as to attract notice. Most men 
 like to conceal their mfirmities. 
 
 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 despon- 
 dency 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 presen- 
 timent, what friends had been assuring me would
 
 CALLED BACK. II 
 
 prove to be the truth. So elated I grew tliat 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 
 1 may have at times guided myself by the wall or 
 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 anseen obstacles, to walk as straightiy 
 and accurately as on6-^vho can see. I only know 
 that, in my prc;occupied 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^vay, 
 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 Iree ; I heard him 
 mutter " Stupid fool ! " and go swiftly on his way, 
 leaving me motionless on the spot where the colli- 
 sion 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 walking. 
 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
 
 tZ CALLED BACK. 
 
 1 had come back to the earth I must be content to 
 remain on this particular spot of it until 1 heard 
 the step of a policenian or someone else who might 
 happen to be abroad at this unusual hour — unusual, 
 at least in this quiet part of London. I leant my 
 back a,s:ainst 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 a^le to 
 determine the condition of their owner, and was 
 obliged to decide that he was not the man 1 
 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 unstej^y, 
 .cried — 
 
 "'Nother feller worsh tl^i me! Can't get on 
 at all — eh, old chap ? Comfort t' think someone's 
 head '11 ache worsh than mine to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Can you tell me the way to Walpole street ? " 
 I asked, standing erect to show him I was sober. 
 
 " Walpole street — course I can — dosha 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. Giiess 
 I 'm in nice state to lead anyone. Blind leading 
 blind — both tumble into ditch. I shay, though," 
 he added with drunken gravity, " make a bargain — 
 I lend you eyes, you lend me legsh. Good idea. 
 Come 'long." 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. Please put my hand on the 
 railing of the 'corner house. I shall be all right 
 then."
 
 CALLED BACK. 13 
 
 "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 tlien felt for the entrance betv/een 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 righi 
 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. 
 
 I went up the doorsteps — was it four or five i 
 had counted as I came out ? 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 houge at the first attempt. "It .must 
 have been a blind man who first discovered \ that 
 Necessity is the mother of Invention," 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 niglit, for I was able to dis- 
 tinguish light from darkness. As I had found 
 m3'self so close to Walpole street I could not have 
 v/alked for any length of time in my ecstatic state, 
 so I fancied it must be somewhere about tv/o o'clock.
 
 14- CALLED BACK. 
 
 Eveti 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- 
 bour's house ? I paused ; the perspiration rising 
 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, v;ith a plaster figure upon it, hung near 
 the top of the stairs. I knew the exact place, 
 naving 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 1 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 15 
 
 room ? I could apologise and explain. My blind- 
 ness 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 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 
 plaj'ing to myself, that I could be taken to concerts 
 and hear others pla}' 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 fearing to 
 throw it out with full force. The lateness of the 
 hour might well account for this restraint. Never- 
 theless, anyone capable of judging must have 
 known he was listening to no ordinary singer. 
 It was easy to recognise the trained skill and
 
 l6 CALLED BACK. 
 
 dormant power, and imagine what, under favour- 
 able circumstances, tliat voice might accompHsh. 
 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 convey 
 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 sud- 
 denly, and the cry, the piercing cry of a woman ring 
 out hke 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 fev/ 
 feet of where I stood. My heart beat wildly and 
 fiercely In the excitement of the moment I forgot 
 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 v/ish to do a man's duty in saving 
 life and succouring the ones in peril. I threVv 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, bhnd and helpless, I had rushed 
 into that room to meet my death.
 
 CALLED BACK. 17 
 
 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. 
 Powcrlessthough 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 whicli slowly trickled 
 over it. 
 
 Before I could rise strong muscular living hands 
 were upon my throat, holding me down, whilst a 
 short distance ofT I heard the sharp click of a pistol 
 lock. Oh, for light for a second ! If only to see 
 those who were about to take my life, if on]\- — 
 strange fancy — to know in what part of mo to 
 expect the fatal bullet. And I, who some hour or 
 two ago lay and dared to wish for death, felt at 
 this momeni that life, even my darkened Ufe, was 
 as dear to me as to any creature under the sun. 
 So I cried aloud, and my voice sounded to me Hke 
 the voice of a stranger — 
 
 '• Spare me I I am blind ! blind 1 blind I" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DRUNK OR DREAMING 
 
 The hands pinning me down did not for an instant 
 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 everything 
 would be lost by resistance. I was strong, but, 
 even if all the senses had been mine, I doubted if I
 
 l8 CALLED BACK. 
 
 could compete successfully with the man who held 
 me down. I could feel the nervous power of his 
 hands and arms. Certainly, nov/ 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 everything so far as I 
 was concerned. 
 
 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 
 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 
 life or death to him 1 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 1 E/ven 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 
 possibilitj' of people's hair turning suddenly grey. 
 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 everjrthing 
 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
 
 CALLED BACK, 19 
 
 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 
 that I conld feel its hot glow upon my face ; and I 
 was av/are that someone was stooping or kneeling 
 down and peering into my eyes. His breath 
 struck against mv cheek : a short, quick, excited 
 breath— liow 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 1 heard voices, but whispering so softly that 
 even my sharpened ears could not catch the 
 purport of a single v^ord, although I could gather 
 that three persons at least were engaged in that 
 hushed consultation. 
 
 All the while, like a dreary and fitting accompani- 
 ment, I could hear that stilled moaning — a woman's 
 moaning. I v/ould have given all I possessed — all 
 save hfe— 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 httle intelligence to guess the subject of 
 that debate ! Presently that died away altogether, 
 and, for a time, the only sound I heard was that 
 terrible, muffled moan — that continued with a 
 dreary monotony. 
 
 A foot touched me. *' You may stand up," I 
 heard someone say. When I burst so recklessly
 
 aO CALLED BACK. 
 
 into the room I fancied the exclamation with 
 which i was greeted came from foreign Hps, 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 wail. 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 would purchase it, 
 even if the price were years of darkness ! 
 
 Shortly and sim-ply 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 
 him who lay within a few feet of my chair. So I 
 gave a fictitious name, but everything else I told 
 them was true. 
 
 All the v.'hile I was speaking I heard ■isliat 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.
 
 CALLED BACK. 2J 
 
 When my explanation was over another whis- 
 pered consultation took place. Then th5 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. 
 
 Y^s, they had much to do. They moved about 
 busily and rapidly, 1 heard cupl)oards and drawers 
 opened. I detected the sound of papers being torn 
 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 knev/ that the 
 door had been opened. I heard heavy footsteps 
 on tlie 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 he.irt grew sick as I thought it may be 
 there were two victims instead of one. 
 
 Although at least two men must have borne that
 
 3S CALLED BACk. 
 
 weight away, I knew I was not left alone. I 
 heard someone throw himseJf 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 a-nswer. " May I not go ? " I pleaded, «' I have 
 seen nothing. Put me out into the street— any- 
 where. I shall go mad if I stay here longer." 
 
 Still no answer. J 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 odour— 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 
 metallic 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 liave heard us but not seen us, 
 but remember we know v'ou."
 
 CALLED BACK. 23 
 
 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 
 on the other. The last thing I can remember is a 
 strong arm encircHng me and keeping me from 
 tumbling out of my chair. Whatever the drug 
 was, its action was stronj^ and swift. 
 
 For hours and hours it held me senseless, and 
 when at last its power faded and my mind, 
 strugghng back to a clouded sort of conscious- 
 ness, made, after many attempts, the fact apparent 
 to me that I v/as lying on a bed, and, moreover, as 
 I found by stretching out my arms and feehng 
 around, my own bed, is it to be wondered at that 
 I said to myself, " I have dreamed the most friglit- 
 ful dream that ever came to a tormented mind" ? 
 After this efibrt 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 j^\iud 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 rny hands to my throbbing brows. 
 
 •* Oh dear heart ! " I heard my old nurse say. 
 "He is coming round at last." Then anothe 
 voice — a man's voice, soft and bland. 
 
 " Yes, your master viJl soon be well agaic 
 Kindly let me feel your pulse, Mr. Vaughan." 
 
 A soft finger was laid upon my vsrrist. 
 
 *' Who k it ? " I asked 
 
 *' I am Doctor Deane, at your service," said the 
 
 stranger. 
 
 " Have 1 been ill ? How long ? Hov/ mxny 
 days ? "
 
 24 CALLHD BACK. 
 
 " A few hours only. There is nothing to be 
 alarmed at. Lie down again and keep quiet for 
 a while. Are you thirsty ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am dying with thirst — give me water." 
 
 They did so. I drank greedily, and felt some- 
 •^'hat relieved. 
 
 " Now nurse," I heard the doctor say, " make him 
 some weak tea, and when he wants anything to eat 
 let him have it. I v/ill 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." 
 
 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 v/itliout 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 had 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. 
 1 shouldn't have minded once in a way."
 
 CALLED BACK. 25 
 
 "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 whirhng. 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 
 wantmg 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 
 in search of me, and at once recognising the im- 
 possibility of finding m.e without assistance, turned 
 to that first and last resort of an Englishwoman 
 m 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 
 been brought in. xr , j 
 
 Priscilla flew to the rescue. She iound 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 a«= 
 .fJ'.r nL""-^" concerned.. The energetic Priscilla"; 
 after placmg me safely m a cab, gave the officers a
 
 ib CALLED BACK. ' 
 
 bit of her mind as to the discomforts under which 
 she had found me labouring. 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 
 looked upon as a clever and complaisant prac- 
 titioner, who had extricated a gentleman from a 
 scrape by a well-tim^ed but untruthful explanation. 
 
 " But I never knew a body stop insensible 
 so long after it. Don't ee do it again, Master 
 Gilbert," 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 v/on't do it again," I said. "Now get me 
 some breakfast. — Tea and toast — anything." 
 
 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 everything 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. Everything 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 .s-.veral miles and deposited in 
 the thoroughfare where I v/as found by the police- 
 man. I saw through the crafty schemec I had 
 been dropped, insensible far away froro the scene
 
 CALLED BACK. 27 
 
 of the crime at which I had been present. How 
 wild and improbable my tale would seem J 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 j'ou found me ? " 
 
 " Clean — la, no, Master Gilbert ! " 
 
 " 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 
 generally does, you know." 
 
 " But my coat sleeve — my shirt sleeve. The 
 right hand side. See if anything is on them." 
 
 Priscilla laughed. " You hav'nt got ne'er a right 
 hand sleeve left. They were cut or torn off above - 
 the elbov/. 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 w'ho 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 
 day I had entirely recovered from the effects of the 
 opiate, and after consideration sent for my sohcitor. 
 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 1" " Shocking 1 " 
 and other set expressions of surprise, but I knew
 
 28 CALLED BACK. 
 
 he was onl)' humouring 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 j-ou 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. 1 had 
 eiscertained thai no house in Walpole street could 
 be opened by a key similar to mine. There was 
 no other street of that name anywhere near. My 
 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 m.y true name and abode, there 
 might be someone 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 disclosureb 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
 
 CALLED BACK. gg 
 
 trace of the crime, and made good their retreat. 
 Why should I face the ridicule which must attach 
 to such a talc 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 ta 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 I My defeated foe has left me. I am 
 told his return is almost beyond possibility. The 
 world is hght again ! I can sec ! 
 
 But my cure was a long and tedious affair. Both 
 eyes were operated upon. First one, and, when 
 the success of that operation was assured, t'.<5 
 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 as 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 sliould 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 congratu- 
 lated 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 something 
 above the common, as I am informed that every 
 book on the eye which has since been published 
 cites my case as an example of what may be done. 
 
 Not until my dying day shall I forget that time
 
 30 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 
 sped by the wind across the fair b lue sk y ! To see 
 green branches sv/aying wath 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, colour, form and tint ! To see, not hear 
 alone, the moving lips and laugh of those who 
 grasped my hand and spoke kind w^ords ! 
 
 To me, in those first days of new-born light, the 
 face of every woman, man, and child seemed 
 welcome 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 
 detracted from it w^as 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 ? " 
 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 e3'es called 
 crystalline lenses. Their place is nov/ supplied by 
 the fluid humour. This has a high refracting 
 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 v/ill gradually meet you If any 
 one sliould do this, it is you. You are young ; you 
 have no profession, and your bread does not depend 
 upon } our sight. Glasses you must always wear,
 
 CALLED BACK. 3I 
 
 but if yon insist that Nature shall act witlioui 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 incons^enience I wore 
 glasses which only permitted me to say T could see 
 at all. But my reward came. Slowly, very slowly, 
 I found my sight growing stronger, till, in about 
 tv/o )'ears' time, 1 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 crea- 
 tures. Then I began once more to enjoy 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 auj^one that 
 1 had not imagined those events. I burietl 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 remembrance of 
 that woman's moaning — that pitiable transition of 
 the voice from sweet melody to hopeless despair. 
 It v/as that cry that 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.
 
 ja CALLED BACK. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE FAIREST SIGHT OF ALL. 
 
 It 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 anywhere 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 OUT hotel across the Piazzi Castello. We 
 have marvelled at the plain uninteresting looking 
 Palazzo Reale, and our mirth lias been moved by 
 the grotesque brickwork decoration of the Palazzo 
 Carignano. We have criticised the rather poor 
 picture gallery. In fact we have done Turin thor- 
 oughly, 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 
 about and enjoying ourselves ; revelling in the deli- 
 cious weather, and trying to make up our languid 
 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, lingering 
 now and then to peer into the enticing shops vv^hich 
 lurk in its shady arcades ; v^e pass through the 
 spacious Piazzi Vittorio Emanuele we cross the 
 bridge whose five granite archer span the classic 
 Po ; we turn opposite the domed church and soon 
 are walking up the wide shaded path which leads
 
 CALLED BACK. 33 
 
 to the Capuchin Monastery ; the broad terrace in 
 front of which is our favourite haunt Here we 
 can lounge and see the river at our feet, the great 
 town stretching froiu 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 frown 
 ing old castle, leads us up the Via di Seminario, 
 and we find ourselves for the twentieth time in 
 front of San Giovanni, I stop with my head in the 
 air admiring what architectural beauties 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 v/oman, 
 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 naan to
 
 34 CALLED BACK. 
 
 abandon a choice Havannah without a weighty 
 teason, I did as he suggested and followed him into 
 die 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- 
 pers. Kenyon glanced round eagerly in quest of 
 " 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 mj'self next to him, and saw a few seats 
 from us an old Italian woman kneeling and pray- 
 ing ferventl}^, 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 plainl}^ 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 v/oman at her side company. 
 This old. Tvoman, 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 35 
 
 lips working incessauuy, and although her words 
 were inaudible it was evident her petitions were 
 heart-spoken and sincere. 
 
 But the girl by her side neither joined h^t 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 i"ace 
 than ,that perfect profile. Kenyon had certainly 
 not over-praised her. Hers was a face which had 
 a peculiar attractiveness for me, the utter repose of 
 it not being the least of that cliarm. I was grow- 
 ing very anxious to see her full face, but as I eould 
 not do so without positive rudeness, was compelled 
 to wait until she might chance to turn her head. 
 
 Presently the old Italian woman appeared to 
 think she had done her religio\is 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 
 moment, her eyes met mine. Dark and glorious 
 as those eyes w^ere there was a dreamy, far-away 
 look in them — a look that seemed to pass over 
 one and see v/hat was behind the object gazed at. 
 This look gave me a curious impression, but as it 
 was 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
 
 ^6 CALLED BACK. 
 
 deparf-ure of the girl whose appearance had so 
 greatly interested us. As we came through the 
 door o^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 determining 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 
 waiting for someone ; 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 apatlietic. 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 appearance were talking earnestly and volubly, 
 but ever and anon casting a look in the direction 
 of the girl. 
 
 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 fiill 
 advantage. Being some little way off, v^re could 
 look at her without committing an act of rudeness 
 cr indiscretion. 
 
 " She is beautiful," I said, more to myself than 
 to Kenyon. 
 
 "Yes she is — but not l3 beautiful as I thought. 
 There is something wanting, yet it is impossible 
 to say what it is. Is it animation or expression ? " 
 
 " I can see nothing wanting," I said, so enthu- 
 siastically that Kenyon laughed aloud. 
 
 " Do English gentlemen stare at their own coun-
 
 \ CALLED BACK. 37 
 
 trywomen 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 mous- 
 tache, and that those dark eyes and eyebrows we're 
 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- 
 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, 
 
 "Signer," he said, "an Englishman travels 
 through your fair land to see and praise all tliat is 
 beautiful in nature and art. If our praise offends 
 we apologise." 
 
 The man scowled, hardly knowing whethei my 
 friend was in jest or in earnest. 
 
 " If we have done wrong will the Signer convey 
 our apologies to the lady? His wife, or shall I 
 say his daughter ? " 
 
 As the man was young, the hst question wdb 
 sarcastic. 
 
 " She is neither," he rapped out. Kenycn bow^-d. 
 
 "Ah, then a friend. Let me congratulate the 
 Signer, and also congratulate him on bis urofi- 
 ciency in our language."
 
 38 CALLED BACK. 
 
 The man was growing puzzled ; Ken5'on spoke 
 so pleasantly and naturall3^ 
 
 " I have spent many years in England," he said, 
 shortly. 
 
 " Many years ! I should scarcely have thought 
 so, as the Signor has n^t picked up that English 
 peculiarity which is far more important than accent 
 or idiom." 
 
 Kenyon paused and looked into the man's face 
 so innocently and enquiringly that he fell into the 
 trap. 
 
 " And pray what may that be ? " 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 l^ushed with rage. I kept 
 my eye upon him, fearing he would make an 
 assault upon my friend, but he thought better ot 
 it. With a curse he turned on his heel, and the 
 matter ended. 
 
 While this conversation v/as in progress, the old 
 Italian v/oman had left her learned-lookmg friend, 
 and having rejoined the 'young girl, the two went 
 upon their way. Our ill-conditioned Italian, after 
 his discomfiture, v/alked 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 
 fair girl nor her attendant crossed my path again 
 whilst in Turin. We met our impertinent friend 
 several times in the streets, and were honoured by
 
 CALLED BACK. 39 
 
 a dark scowl which passed unnoticed ; but of that 
 Fweet 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 sppken — whose name and 
 abode were unknown to me ; but I must confess 
 that so far as looks went, 1 was more interested 
 in this girl than in any one I had ever seen. 
 Beautiful 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 Kcnyon — my good-tempered friend's patience 
 was quite exhausted — declared that unless I quitted 
 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 
 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 carried 
 in my mind for so long a period the remembrance 
 of a woman's f:\ce. There must, for me, have been 
 something striingely bewitching in her style oi 
 beauty. I recalled every feature — J. could, had v 
 been an artist, have painted her portrait from
 
 40 CALLED BACK. 
 
 memory. Laugh at mj^ folly as I would, I could 
 not conceal from myself that short as the tim.e was 
 during which I had seen her the impression made 
 upon me was growing stronger each day, instead 
 of fainter. I blamed myself for leaving Turin be- 
 fore I had met her again — even if for that purpose 
 it had been necessary to linger there for months. 
 M}' feeling was that by quitting the place I had 
 lost a chance v/hich 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 settled 
 my autumn plans, so I resolved to stay, at any rate 
 for a few days, in town. 
 
 Was it chance or was it fate ? The first morn- 
 ing after my arrival in London, business led me to 
 Regent street, I was walking slowly down the 
 broad thoroughfare, but my thoughts were far 
 away. I was trying to argue away an insane long- 
 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 v/as, 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 
 v/oman at her side. They might have just steppe( 
 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. Thej' 
 passed me; I turned impulsively and followed 
 them with my eyes. 
 
 Yes, it was fate ! Now I had found her in this
 
 CALLED BACK. 4I 
 
 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 thrilled 
 me as I stood once more face to face with her told 
 me the truth, 1 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 w^s only one thing I could now do. I 
 must follow the two women. So, for the next hour 
 or more, wherever they went, at a respectful 
 distance, I foUov/ed. 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, sav/ in the 
 front window the girl arranging a few flowers in a 
 vase. It was evident I had ascertained her abode. 
 
 It was fate 1 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. 
 
 1 formed a bold resolve. I re 'aced my steps 
 and walked up to the house. The door was opened 
 by a tidy-looking servant. 
 
 " Have you any rooms to let ? ' I asiied ; having
 
 42 CALLED BACK. 
 
 jumped at the conclusion that the unknown was 
 only lodging at the house. ' 
 
 The servant replied in the affirmative, and upon 
 my expressing a wish to see the vacant rooms I 
 was shown a dining room and bedroom 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 references. 
 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 carelessl)^ as I left the 
 house to get my luggage, " I forgot to ask if you 
 have other lodgers — no children, I hope ? " 
 
 ** No, sir — only a lady and her servant. They 
 are on the first floor — very quiet people." 
 
 " Thank you," I said. " I daresay I shall be 
 very comfortable. You may expect me about 
 eeven o'clock." 
 
 I had re-engaged my old rooms in Walpolc street 
 before the meeting with my unknown had changed 
 my plans. I went back there, and after packing 
 up all I wanted, inform.ed 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
 
 CALLED BACK. _ 43 
 
 could doubt it ? 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 — for ever 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. 
 
 A WKEK has passed by. I am more in love than 
 ever. I am now satisfied as to the thoroughness 
 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 absence. 
 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. 1 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. Hers 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 iace is always 
 grave, and it seems to me she seldom speaks to
 
 44 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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. 
 
 I have found out some few things about her. 
 Her name is Pauline — a sweet and suitable name — 
 Pauline March. She is therefore English, although 
 I sometimes hear her saying a fev/ 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 informants 
 were aware of. 
 
 I still occupy my rooms, waiting my chance. 
 It is tantalising to live in the same house with 
 the one you love and find no opportunity of even 
 commencing 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 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. T am in the same house
 
 CALLED BACK. 45 
 
 breathing the same air as Pauhne, and I am a 
 patient man and can wait for my opportunity. 
 It win 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. 1 ran 
 out of tiy 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 endeavoured, 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 EngHsh 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 slie had sprained 
 her knee so severely that she was unable to rise. 
 I told her 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 
 and explained what had happened, then I took 
 the old woman into the room which she occupied 
 md laid her on her 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 to her 1
 
 46 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 tlien 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 
 discreetly. 
 
 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 
 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 tvv^ice I met her on the 
 stairs, and assuming a fictitious interest in the 
 old v;oman, kept her in conversation for a m.inute 
 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 dov/n the pavement in front of the 
 house. I joined her, and, after the usual enquiry 
 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 ? " I saido
 
 CALLED BACK. 47 
 
 •' Some time — some months," she replied. 
 
 " I saw you ih 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 oflen went there." 
 
 '* You are English, I suppose — your name is not 
 an Italian one ?" 
 
 '< Yes. I am English." 
 
 She spoke as though not quite certain about it — 
 or as if it were a matter of comi:)lete indifference. 
 
 " Your home is here — You are not going back to 
 Italy?" 
 
 " I don't know — I cannot tell." 
 
 Pauline's manner was very unsatTsfying. I made 
 many attempts to learn somethmg about her 
 habits and tastes. Did she play or sing — was she 
 fond of music, of pictures, of flowers, of the stage, 
 of travelling ? Had she many relations and 
 friends ? Directly and indirectly, I asked her all 
 these questions. 
 
 Her replies were unsatisfactory. Either she 
 evaded the questions, as if determined I should know 
 nothing about her, or she did not seem to under- 
 stand them. Many of them I felt si.re puzzled 
 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 thaKshe displaj'ed 
 no wish to s'nun 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 lier manner — quiet and reserved as I found her, 
 she was at least simple and natural — and she was 
 very beautiful, and 1 was very, very much in love ! 
 
 It was not long before I discovered that old 
 Teresa's black eyes were watching us from behind
 
 48 CALLED BACK. 
 
 the blind of the drawing-room. She mast have 
 crept from her bed to see that her charge got into 
 no mischief. I chafed at the espionage, but as 3'et 
 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 laboured 
 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 question or spoke a longer sentence 
 than usual, the effort was never sustained. I attri- 
 buted a great deal of this to shyness and to her 
 secluded life — for the only person she had to speak 
 to was that terrible 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. If 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 pro- 
 gress 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 
 v\'hat 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 — 
 Miss March was going to leave, and the landlady 
 thought she would prefer taking a gentleman in 
 her place. 
 
 I felt certain this was a counterrnove 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 49 
 
 recovered from the effects of her accident — in a 
 word, I knew she was my enemy; that she had 
 discovered my feehngs towards PauHne 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 nie 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-^own polite- 
 ness, " will it please you to step into my room ? 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, Signer," she replied laconically. 
 
 " 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."
 
 50 CALLED BACK. 
 
 " She is net to be loved," said Teresa, sulkily. 
 
 "One so beautiful must be loved. I love her 
 and will marr)' 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 
 Signorina ? Tell me who her friends are that I 
 may see the*n and ask her in marriage ? " 
 ~ " 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 
 impressed me. I must condescend to the vulgar 
 act of direct bribery; the end would justify the 
 means. 
 
 As I was so often travelling it was my habit to 
 carry a large sum of money on my person. I 
 drew out my pocket-book and counted out a hun- 
 dred pounds in new crisp notes. Teresa eyed 
 them hungrily. 
 
 " You know what these are worth ? " 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 51 
 
 knew temptation was assailing her. Presently I 
 heard her murmuring, " 50,000 lire ! 50,000 lire^ 
 year ! " The spell worked. At last she rose. "Are 
 you going to take the money ? " I asked. 
 
 " I cannot. 1 dare not. I am bound. But — " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " I will write. I will say what you say to il 
 dottore." 
 
 " Who is the doctor ? I can write to him or 
 see him." 
 
 " Did I say il dottore ? It was a slip. No, you 
 must not write. I v/ill ask him and he must decide." 
 
 " You will write at once ? " 
 
 "At once." Teresa, with a lingering gl-ance 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 vSignorina — Pauline — cares at 
 all for me ? " 
 
 " 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 
 Teresa could mean ; then remembering the fervour 
 with which she prayed in San Giovanni I decided 
 that, being an ardent Roman Catholic, she wished 
 Pauline to take the veil. This theory would ex- 
 plain everything. 
 
 Now that I had bought Teresa I looked forward 
 to the enjoyment of Pauline's society without 
 espionage or interruption. The old woman had
 
 53 CALLED BACK. 
 
 taktn 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 
 txpedient 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 thunder-struck to hear that my fellov^r-lodgers 
 had left the house. The landlady had no idea 
 whither they had gone. Teresa, who it appears 
 always acted as pursebearer, had paid her dues 
 and had departed with her young mistress. There 
 was nothiiig 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 
 face once more. Yet, I feared the love was all on 
 my side. If Pauline had felt even a passing in- 
 terest iii 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 
 woman's love would to me be worth having. 
 
 I should have returned to mj' old lodgings in 
 Walpole street had it not been that I feared to 
 quit Maida vale, lest Teresa, if she should be
 
 CALLED BACK. 53 
 
 faithful to her engagements, might niiLts nie ! So I 
 lingered 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 honour 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 un- 
 known Manuel Ceneri should make liis appearance. 
 
 A few minutes after twelve he was announced 
 and shown into my room. I recognised 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 v/oman 
 as being the arbiter of Pauline's fate. 
 
 He bowed politely as he entered, cast one qtiick 
 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. 
 
 '• .1 am Manuel Ceneri. I am a doctor by pro- 
 fap*Ion. My sister was Miss March's mother. I 
 have come from Geneva on your account." 
 
 '• Then you kno-v what the wish — the great w'sh 
 .of my life i.5 ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know. You want to marry my niece. 
 Now, Mr. Vaughan, I have many reasons for wish- 
 ing uiy niece to remain single, but your proposal 
 has induced me to r^iconsider the matter."'
 
 54 CALLED BACK. 
 
 Pauline might have been a bale of cotton, so 
 uiipassively 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 rae on the latter point, I 
 suppose." 
 
 I bowed stifly, 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 
 pocket. Perhaps I showed the annoyance I felt 
 at the mercenary exactness of his enquiries. 
 
 " I am bound to be particular in this matter," 
 he saifi, " 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." 
 
 " Ver)^ well — I feel I have no right to refuse 
 your offer. Although she is half Italian, her 
 mxanners 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 
 commenced she was taken away." 
 
 " Yes, m}' instructions to Teresa were strict. It 
 was onl}^ 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
 
 GALLED BACK. 55 
 
 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 
 is a lady, that she is very beautiful, and that he 
 loves her. Will this suffice ? " 
 
 The question was such a strange one that even 
 in the height of my passion I hesitated. 
 
 "I will say this m.uch," added Ceneri, "she is 
 good and pure — her birth is equal to your own. 
 She is an orphan and her only near relative is 
 mysell." 
 
 "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 ? What did I 
 Want to know about her family, her antecedents 
 or her history? 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 hei 
 begin life anew as ray wife." I^Ien do such things 
 for love I 
 
 '^ 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 beat at the thought. • 
 
 " Will your arrangements permit of an earlj 
 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. 
 
 " We need not be so impetuous as that — but 
 could you arrange for, say the day after to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 i stared at him — I could scarcely believe I heard
 
 56 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 " But I don't know if she loves me — would she 
 consent ? " 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 might 
 change my mind." 
 
 *' Let us go to Pauline and ask her," I said, 
 rising impatiently. 
 
 " Certainly," said Ceneri, gravely, " we will go 
 at once." 
 
 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 whe.;e 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 satisfied. 
 Then we called a cab and drove to Pauline's new 
 abode. 
 
 It was not so very far away. I wondered I had
 
 CALLED BACK. 57 
 
 not encountered either Pauline or Teresa in my 
 rambles. Perhaps they had both kept to the house 
 to avoid tne meeting. 
 
 " Would you mind waiting in the hall a minute ? ' 
 asked Ceneri as we entered the house. *' I will gc 
 and prepare Pauline for your coming." 
 
 I would have waited a month in a dungeon foi 
 the reward in prospect ; so I sat down on the 
 polished 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." 
 
 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 tound 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 
 honour 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
 
 50 CALLED BACK. 
 
 I saw you I have loved you — will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 "Yes, if you wish it?" she replied sordy, j^ut 
 without even changing colour. 
 
 " You cannot love me now, but you will by-and- 
 oy — will you not, my darling ?" 
 
 She did not respond to my appeal, but then she 
 did not repulse me, neither did she strive to with- 
 irav/ her hand from mine ; she remained calm and 
 undemonstrative as ever ; but I threw my arm 
 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 colour 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 gonow,"' said Ceneri. 
 "I will arrange everything with Pauline. You 
 must do on your part all that is necessary for the 
 day after to-morrov/.' 
 
 *' 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 59. 
 
 such an event, his mind might be changed — and 
 more than' all, I was desperately in love. Although 
 it could be only 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 super- 
 stitious enough to think that if I rejected or post- 
 poned accepting the gift, it would be withdrawn 
 for ever. 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 sv/eet, 
 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.
 
 60 CALLED BACK. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 By LA W, NOT LOVS. 
 
 Proud 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 sv/eet girl who had just 
 vowed herself mine for ever, Ceneri's extraordinary 
 stipulation kept recurring to my mind — the man 
 who marries Pauline March must be content 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 tnen be given as a 
 matter of course. When she had learnt the secret 
 of love, all other secrets would cease between us. 
 
 My wife looked very beautiful as she sat with 
 her head leaning against the dark cloth of the 
 carriage. Her clear-cut refined features showed 
 in that position advantageously. Her face, as 
 usual, was pale and calm ; her eyes were cast 
 down. A woman to be indeed proud of, to wor- 
 ship, 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- 
 rhough becoming and fashionable, was the one .in 
 .vhich I had seen her several times. Neither of us
 
 CALLED BACK. 6l 
 
 had any brand new belongings to stamp us as 
 being bound for a honeymoon ; so tlie 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 
 myself to speak until we were alone. 
 
 At the first important station, the first place at 
 wliich 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. 
 
 "My wife!" I said passionately, "mine, only 
 mine, for ever ! " 
 
 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 hfisband.' " 
 
 She repeated the words hke 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 ? Me, Avhose 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 tc 
 me. I did not for one moment despair. I musi
 
 6a CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 v/in her, but until I could claim the 
 rights which love would give, I resolved to take 
 none of those with which the lav/ had invested me. 
 
 None save this, and this only once. 
 
 "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 acquainted, 
 I shall not complain." 
 
 She leant forward and kissed m}' 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 Paul- 
 ine'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 ? I 
 made every excuse for her. She was tired ; she 
 was upset; she could think of nothing else cave
 
 CALLED BACK. 53 
 
 the rash and sudden step taken to-day — more rash 
 for her than for me — as I, at least, knew that I 
 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 
 situation — 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." 
 
 Darker and darker it grev/ 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 armour of ice which no love would 
 ever thaw. Then tired, weary and almost dis- 
 
 firited, I sank into a kind of sleep. The last thing 
 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 
 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 ms we were
 
 §4 CALLED BACK. 
 
 Rear 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 oiie — she looked wearied out. 
 
 '* You are tired, Pauline," I said, " would you 
 like to go to your room ? " 
 
 " I am very tired," she spoke almost plaintively. 
 
 " Good night then," I said, " to-morrow you 
 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 everything 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 morning 
 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 ? Why not have 
 waited until I had ascertained that the girl could 
 love me, or at least ascertained that she had the
 
 CALLED BACK. 65 
 
 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 1 did not visit the Lakes as I had 
 planned. In two days' time 1 had learnt the whole 
 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. Cener* had stipulated tliat Pauline's hus- 
 band should be content to take her without enquir- 
 ing into her eirly 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 hon|e to me. 
 Now I knew how to account for that puzzled, 
 strange look i\ those beautiful eyes — knew the 
 reason for the indifi'erence, the apathy she dis- 
 played. The face of the woman 1 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 dc^scrihe 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 intellect —
 
 66 CALLED BACK, 
 
 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 recognise the 
 importance or bearing of occurrences taking place 
 around her. Sorrow and delight Vv'ere etnotions 
 she v/as incapable of feeling. Nothing appeared 
 to move her. Unless her attention was <;alled 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 enquiring 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 im- 
 pression than that she was shy and reticent. When- 
 ever she did speak her words were as those of a per- 
 fectly sane woman ; but as a rule her voice v/as only 
 heard when the ordinary necessaries of life demand- 
 ed, or in reply to some sunple question. Perhaps, I 
 should not be far wrong in comparing her rnind to 
 that of a child — but, alas ! it was a child's mmd 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 <-old wind would 
 drive her iix. She was by no means unhappy. 
 She seemed quite content to sit by my side, or to 
 walk or drive with me for hours without speaking. 
 Her whole existence was a negative one.
 
 CALr^KD BACIt. 6^ 
 
 And she was sweet and docile. She followed 
 every sugfjestion of mine, fell in with every plan, 
 was ready to go here, there, or everywhere, 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 consented to that 
 hasty marriage. Now, I knew that her ready obe- 
 dieuce to her uncle's command was really due to 
 the inability of her mind to offer resistance, and its 
 powerlessness to comprehend the true meaning of 
 the step sh 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 
 husband, a strong man craving for love, might win 
 from her, perchance, at last, what might be com- 
 pared to the affection of a child for its parent, or a 
 dog to his master. 
 
 As the truth, the v/hole truth, came home to me, 
 I am not ashamed to say that I lay down and 
 wept in bitter grief. 
 
 1 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 
 fulfil my vow — would love her and cherish her. 
 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 auy hop* that time, and patient treatment 
 would work an improvtrnent. I '^/culd Icara, 
 moreover, the object of his concealment- I would,
 
 6B CALLED BACSe 
 
 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 surprise ; 
 raised no objection. She made her preparations 
 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 assist- 
 ance. All her actions were those of a perfectly 
 sane person ; it was only when the mind was called 
 upon to show itself that the deficiency became at 
 all apparent. 
 
 It was grey morning when we reached Euston 
 Station. We had travelled 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 
 wife I had so strangely won into the train, and 
 told myself, as I followed her, that a life of perfect 
 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 indiff'erenoe, contrasted 
 with the busy scene around us, as the train disgorged 
 its contents. Oh, that I could sweep the clouds 
 from her mind and make her what I wished ! 
 
 I had found some difiiculty 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 69 
 
 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 pocr 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, 
 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 
 comforts, 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 
 comment 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 Pauhne'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.
 
 70 CALLED BACK. 
 
 "Try and think, my dear," I said. 
 
 She pressed her delicate finger tips against her 
 brow. I had already noticed that trying to think 
 always troubled her greatly. 
 
 '• Teresa knew," I said to assist her. 
 
 "Yes, ask her." 
 
 '« But she has left us, Pauline. Can you tell us 
 where she is ? " 
 
 Once more she shook her head hopelessly. 
 
 •* He told me he lived in Geneva," 1 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 
 her 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 v/ave 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 v/ith me. 
 
 And POV7 for Geneva and il dottore Ceneri I
 
 CALLED BACK. 7I 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 UNSATISFACTORY ANSWERS. 
 
 I TRAVELLED in hot haste, as fast as steam would 
 bear me, to Geneva ; where I at once began my 
 enquiries as to the whereabouts of Doctor 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.;^ enquired everywhere ; but not a soul 
 could I find who knew the maa. 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 fi(fti- 
 tious one, or that Geneva vi'as not his abode. 
 However obscure a doctor may be, he is sure to be 
 known by some of his professional brethren in the 
 same tovvn. 1 decided to go to Turin and try my 
 luck there. 
 
 It was on the eve of my intended departure. I 
 was strolling about, feeling veiy sad at heart, and 
 trying to persuade myself that I should fare better 
 in Turin, when I noticed a man lounging along the 
 opposite side of the street. As his face and bear- 
 ing seemed familiar to me, I crossed the road to 
 see him to belter advantage. Bemg clothed in the 
 inevitable tourist suit he presented the appearance 
 of an ordinary British traveller — so much so that 
 I believed 1 must be mistaken. But I was right, 
 after all. In spite of his strange attire I recog- 
 nised him the moment I drew near. He was the 
 man with whom Kenyon had engaged in a wordy 
 war qutside San Giovanni — the man who had re- 
 monstrated with us for our expressed admiration of
 
 72 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 favour me with a few 
 moments' 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 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 recognised 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 Itahan, " I have seen you in 
 his company." ^ 
 
 He scowled viciously. " I know no man cf 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, 
 
 ** 1 must beg of you to tell me v.rhere 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 73 
 
 importunate, sir. Ferhaps 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." 
 
 *' 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 ?" he 
 asked roughly. 
 
 " That is his business and mine. Now tell me 
 where I can find him." 
 
 " What is your name ? " he asked curtly. 
 
 " Gilbert Vaughan." -^ 
 
 '« What are you ? " 
 
 •'An English gentleman — nothing more." 
 
 He remained thoughtful for a few seconds. •' 1 
 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
 
 74 - CALLED BACK, 
 
 hissed from his lips. His face was white with 
 rage, 
 
 "Your wvfe ! " he shouted. " You lie — i say you 
 lie ! " 
 
 I rose, furious as himself, but more collected. 
 
 " 1 told you, sir, that I am an English gentle- 
 man. F^ither you wili a])ologise foi your words 
 or 1 v/ill kick you out of the room." 
 
 He struggled with his passion and curbed it. 
 " I apologise, " he said, " 1 was wrong. Does 
 Ceneri know it?" he asked sharply. 
 
 •' Certainly, he was present when we were 
 married." 
 
 His pHSsion once more seemed upon the point 
 of mastering him. '* Traditore ! " I heard him 
 whisper fiercely to himself. *^ Ingannatore T' 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 v/ife 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 1 would have given more 
 to have been able to fulfil my threat of kicking 
 hirn out. The intonntion of his last words told me 
 that Pauline's state of mind was well knov/n 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 s;iid quietly, " now perhaps you 
 will give me the information I v/ant." 
 
 " You are not a very devoted bridegroom, Mr. 
 Vaughan," said the fellow mockingly. " If Cenen 
 was at your wedding, it could only have occurred 
 a fev/ days ago. It must be important busiiiess 
 which tears you from the side of your bride." 
 
 " It is important business."
 
 CALi.£D BACK. 75 
 
 '• Then I fear it must v/ait 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 koow 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 mterview 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 soflie 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 tiie hotel. The driver enquired for 
 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 ?" 
 
 " Yes, I wished to ask you some questions 
 respecting my wife." 
 
 •• I will answer all I can — but there are many 1 
 shall doubtless refuse to reply to. You remember 
 Tny stipulation ?" 
 
 " Yes, but why did you not make me aware of 
 my wife's peculiar liiental state ? "
 
 76 CALLED BACK. 
 
 " 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 everything ? 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 
 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 beheve that, little by httle, it may be built up 
 again. Or it may return as suddenly as it left her." 
 
 My heart leapt 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 wilhng 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."
 
 CALLED BACK. 77 
 
 "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 memory 
 a complete blank. Places were forgotten — 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 ? " 
 
 " That is one of the questions I cannot answer." 
 
 " 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 
 answers worth recording. I should return to 
 England not much wiser than T left it. But there 
 was one question to which I insisted on having a 
 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 before 
 Pauline was taken ill, Macari supposed himself to 
 be in love with her. He is now furious with me for 
 allowing her to get married. He declares 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? " 
 
 Ceneri looked at me sharply. *' Do you regret, 
 Mr. Vaughan ? " 
 
 " No — not if there is a chance, even a slight 
 chance. But I tell you, Dr. Ceneri, you have 
 deceived and cajoled me shamefully."
 
 75 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 \\er 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." 
 
 '* 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 honour for my 
 country as freely as I would have sacrificed my 
 life?" 
 
 " It is no use discussing it — the matter is ended." 
 
 »• 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 whisp-sr — " 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 j^ou 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 refuse 
 the band be stretched out to me.
 
 CALLED BACK. 75 
 
 "Farewell," he said; "it may be that in some 
 year or two I shall write to you and ask you if mj 
 predictions as to Pauline's recovery have been ful- 
 filled ; biit do not trouble to seek me or to enquire 
 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 
 signalled to the driver to stop, and then entering 
 the carriage sat beside me. 
 
 " You have seen the doctor, Mr. Vaughan ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 *' Yes. I have just come from him." 
 ♦* And have learnt all you wish to know, I hope ? " 
 •• A great many of my questions have been 
 answered." 
 
 " 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 anything that may be of use to me, I will 
 beg you to speak." 
 
 " You asked him what caused it ?" 
 " I did. He told me a shock." 
 *' You asked him what shock. That he dtd 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 tly back and assault him, 
 and I should get blamed. You dre going back to 
 England, I suppose?" 
 •• Ye», I start at once."
 
 do CALLED BACK. 
 
 " Give me your address, and perhaps I will 
 write ; or better still, if I leel 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 affair 
 that I gave him my card. He then stopped the 
 carriage, and stepped out. He raised his hat, and 
 there was a maUcious triumph in his eyes as they 
 met mine. 
 
 " Good bye, 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 Vn. 
 
 CLAIMING RELATIONSHIP 
 
 Yes, 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 PauHne ! If I could but 
 find the way to bring those truant senses back 
 once more ! 
 
 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 8l 
 
 apathy and listlessness; speaking only when spoken 
 to ; but wiUing to come with me anywhere ; do 
 anything I suggest, whenever, alas! I express my 
 wish in words she can comprehend. 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 
 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 ensure that my poor girl 
 is made as happy as can be, and hope that time 
 and care may at leneth 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 1 live almost the life of 
 a hermit. 
 
 I care to sec 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 1 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
 
 »2 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 intellif:;ence, as once it must 
 have been I long to know what can have drawn 
 that dark curtain over lier mind, and 1 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 grey. 
 
 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 terrible old 
 Italian v/oman. Priscilla loves her and pets her 
 like a child, whilst I — well, I do everything 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 hps 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 httle plots in front 
 of houses in the suburbs are in bud. 
 
 It is fortunate that 1 am fond of books. With- 
 out that taste life would indeed be colourless. 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 i-oom, 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 soiind of 
 music I soon discovered that its effect upon
 
 CALLED BACK. 83 
 
 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 com.e 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 favoured rival suspicious and 
 unhappy. I feared nothing he could say against 
 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 anything 
 respecting my wife. The only 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, ' 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 — 
 anything that might aid her to pick up and retrace 
 those dropt threads of mnmory.
 
 84 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 ? 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. 
 
 " Yes. I trusted you would do so. Have you 
 been long in England ? " 
 
 >'-Only a couple of days." 
 
 ^ How long do you stay ? " 
 
 *• Until I am called abroad again. Things have 
 gone wrong with us there. 1 must wait until the 
 atmosphere has quieted down," 
 
 I looked at him enquiringly. 
 
 " I fancied you knew my trade," he said. 
 
 " I suppose you are a conspirator — I don't usq 
 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 ? " 
 
 ^ What always happens — our poor friend is at
 
 CALLED BACK. 85 
 
 this moment on his way to Siberia, condemned t« 
 twenty years' hard labour at the mines." 
 
 Although I bore no particular love towards 
 Ceneri, I shuddered as I heard his fate. 
 
 " And you escaped ? " 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, wliat should it have seemed to his 
 fellow-conspirator ? 
 
 " Now, Mr. Vaughan," said the latter, ** with 
 your permission I will enter on business matters 
 with }'ou. I am afraid I shall surprise you." 
 
 *' Let me hear what you have to say." 
 
 *' First of all I must ask .you whsf Ceneri told 
 you about myself? " 
 
 '* He told me your naire.*' 
 
 " Nothing of my family ? He did not tell you 
 my true name any more than he told you his own ? 
 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 tliis 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 
 sister. He died young, and left the whole of his 
 large property to his wife absolutely. .She died 
 some time afterwards, and in turn left everything 
 in my uncle's hands as sole trustee for my sister 
 and myself. You know what became of the money, 
 Mr. Vaughan ? "
 
 86 CALLED BACK. 
 
 " Dr. Ceneri told me," I said, impressed in spite 
 of myself by the correct way in which he mar- 
 shalled 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. Victor 
 Emmanuel's government is now firmly established. 
 Italy is (:ee and will grow richer every year. Now, 
 Mr. Vaughan, my idea is this. I believe, if the 
 facts of the case were laid before the king, some- 
 thing 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 England 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. 
 
 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," 1 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 vrll in the 
 meantime get my papers and petition in order. 
 Vnd now may I see my sister ? " 
 
 " She will be in veity shortly if you will wait."
 
 CALLED BACK. »7 
 
 "Is she better, Mr. Vaughan ? " I «hook my 
 head sadly. 
 
 " Poor girl ! then I fear she will not recognisa 
 me. We liave 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 ; 
 be;iides, 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." 
 
 " You will then, at least, explain your words 
 when we parted at Geneva? " 
 
 " I will ask pardon for them and apologise, 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 
 pla3'ing 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 husband 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 ruse and stepped towards her. " Pauline," 
 he said, " do you remember me ? "
 
 88 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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, 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. 
 
 "Try and think who it is, Pauline," I said. 
 
 She passed her hand across her forehead, then 
 once more shook her head. " Non 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 
 anyone'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 fev/ 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 express 
 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.
 
 CALT.KD BAGS 89 
 
 I can only hope he was as satisfied with the 
 result of our interview as 1 was. 
 
 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 attention 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 stirrmg 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 marvellous. 
 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 natural'y, — I co.uld not forget the ex- 
 pression I had seen on that face, or his manner 
 and words on former occasions. 
 
 1 took care that Pauline should always b- with 
 us. It was the only wish of mine the poor child 
 had ever shown even a mute disinclination to 
 comply with. She nevor spoke in Macari's pre-
 
 90 OALLfiD BACa. 
 
 sence, but her eyes were scarcely ever turned from 
 him. He seemed to have a kind of fascination 
 for her^. When he entered th^ room 1 could hear 
 her sighj and when he left it she breathed a breath 
 of relief; and every day she grew more restless, 
 imeasy 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 Paialine, with her troubled 
 eyes fixed, as usual, on my guest, was reclining on 
 the sofa a little way oiS", 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 pa 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 
 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. Yoxjr fierce gesture 
 must have frightened her." 
 
 Then I returned to'my wife's bedside, and began 
 the utMsi course of restoratives. Yet without 
 oUCcesB. ■' White as a statue she lay there, her soft 
 breathing and the faint throb of her pulge only 
 telling that she was alive. She lay there without
 
 1 
 
 CALLED BACR. QX 
 
 sense or motion, whilst I chafed her hands, bathed 
 her brow, and endeavoured to recall her to life. 
 Even whilst doing so nny heart was beatin;^' 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 
 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 Pauhne 
 should awake, and, as I fondly believed, awake in 
 her right mind. 
 
 She rem.ained 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 breathless 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 I
 
 / 
 
 99 CALLED BACB;. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CALLED BACK. 
 
 I WRITE this chapter with great reluctance. If I 
 could make my tale connected and complete with- 
 out 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 explained ; 
 but these never will, never can be explained 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. 
 
 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 eai's. In her critical state, for so I felt 
 it to be, 1 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.
 
 CALLED BACK. 93 
 
 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 durmg that walk did I 
 see them move, not once did I see an eyelid quiver. 
 Although my sleeve was touching hers, I am certain 
 she had no thought or knowledge of my presence. 
 
 I made no further attempt to check her progress. 
 She was not wandering about in an aimless manner. 
 Something, I knew not what, was guiding or im- 
 pelhng 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 restraming 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 VValpole 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 hcnise of the usual 
 London type. A house differing very little from 
 my own and thousands of others, except that, by 
 the light of tlie street lamp, I could see it looked 
 ill-cared for and neglected. The window panes 
 were dusty, and m one of them was a bill stating 
 that this desirable residence was to let, f irnished. 
 
 I marvelled as to wha\; strange tteak of mind
 
 94 CALLED BACK. 
 
 could have led Pauline to this untenanted houf%. 
 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 
 hand upon it, as though she expected it would 
 yield to her touch. Then, for the first time, she 
 appeared to hesitate and grow troubled. 
 
 "Pauline, dearest," I said, "let us go back now. 
 It is dark, and too late to go 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 con- 
 ceived 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 humour 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 hov/ could we gain entrance ? 
 
 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 .^e fruitless. 
 
 As I cast around, wondering what was the best 
 thing to do-— ^vhether to fetch a cab and carry my 
 poor girl yito it, or whether to let her wait here 
 until she recognised the impossibility of entering
 
 CALLED BACK. 95 
 
 the house, and, at last growhig weary, choose to 
 return home of her own accord — as I debated these 
 ahernatives a sudden thought struck me. Once 
 before my latchkey had opened a strange door, it 
 was withm the bounds of possibility it might do 
 so again. I knew that uninhabited houses are 
 often, from carelessness or for 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 
 occasion. 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 an3'thing 
 that showed she was more aware of my presence 
 than before, passed me and entered first. I followed 
 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 creeping, 
 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 ? I knew the road to it well ! Once before I 
 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 identicid
 
 g5 CALLED BACK. 
 
 rpom 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 nearlj 
 fallen a victim to my rashness. But Pauline^ 
 what brought her here ? 
 
 Yes, as I expected ! as, in fact, I felt certain 1 
 The stairs the same, and the lintel of the door in 
 the exact place it should be. I might be reacting 
 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 
 1 was not blind now ; whether there was such a 
 being as my wife ? But I threw the fancy aside. 
 
 Where was Pauline ? Recalled to myself, I 
 realised the necessity of light. Drawing my 
 match-box from my pocket I struck a vesta, and 
 b}' its light entered the room which once before I 
 had entered with little hope of ever leaving. 
 
 My first thought, my first glance, was for 
 Pauline. She was there, standing erect in the 
 apartment, 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 yet. But I felt that something was 
 struggling within her, and I dreaded the moment 
 when it 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 burnt down to my fingers, and I 
 v/as compelled to drop it. I struck another, then 
 looked about for some means of making the illu- 
 mination sustained. To my great joy I found a 
 half-burnt candle in a candlestick on the mantel- 
 piece. 1 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 hghted. 
 
 Pauline stood always in the same attitude, but I
 
 CALLED BACK. 97 
 
 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 shuddced 
 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 1 What impulse urged me ! 
 I shall never know. I laid down the candle ; I 
 entered the back room ; 1 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 Pauliee.
 
 gS CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 aroimd her had fallen 
 from her shoulders. She seated herself on the 
 music bench, and striking the keys with a master 
 hand played brilliantly and faultlessly the prelude 
 to the song of v/hich I had struck a few vagrant 
 notes. 
 
 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 bringi:ig out sounds Avhich 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 
 v/as, that v/ith 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 
 main force, to endeavour in every possible way to
 
 CALLED BACK. 99 
 
 soothe her and prevent her cries, which rang so 
 loudly that I feared the neighbours would be 
 alarmed. And all the while she struggled with 
 nie, 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 tliat 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 anything save invention — I 
 shall not be annoyed. This is what happened. 
 
 Pauline at. last lay still. Her moan had sunk 
 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 ? 
 
 My poor darling lay still and peaceful. I thought 
 I would let her rest so for a few moments before I
 
 lOd CALLED BACK. 
 
 carried \itt 6ut. I dreaded what waking her might 
 mean. So 1 took lier hand and lield 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 1 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 oe 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 
 half-open doors into the other room, and that 
 room was full of light ! 
 
 Light so brilliant that in a glance I could see 
 everything 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 centre, 
 on which a large lamp was burning. I could see 
 all this, and more I 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
 
 CALLED BACK. lOI 
 
 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 ItaHan, 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 background — 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 
 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 1 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 surrounding 
 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 ? Wliere were the 
 figures I had seen ? \Vhere was that tragic scene 
 which was taking place before my eyes ? Vanislied 
 into thin air ! The candle was burning dimly 
 behind, me, the front room was in dusk. Pauline 
 and I were the only living creatures in the place I 
 
 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 ; excited 
 by what had occurred to-night — Pauline's strange 
 walk, her sudden bursting into song, the very son» 
 I had before heard, that song with the dreadful 
 ending — it is no wonder that I imagined a scene
 
 lOS CALLED BACK. 
 
 like this, and taking the onl^- persons I knew who 
 were in any way connected with my poor wife, 
 brought them into the hfe-like vision. 
 
 But given that a man may dream the same 
 dream twice, perhaps three times, there is no 
 record of his dreaming it as often as he willed. 
 Yet this was my case. Again I took Pauhne's 
 hand, and again, after a few moments' waiting, 
 I felt the same strange sensation and saw the 
 same awful sight. Not once, not tv/ice, bui 
 many times did this occur, until, sceptical 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 m.et 
 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, 
 anything 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 room. 
 
 Like the motionless figures in a tableau vivant, 
 again and again, without a change of attitude or 
 expression, I saw Ceneri, Macari, and the nnan in 
 the background looking at their victim. The 
 appearance 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 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 ? Without a doubt Macari,
 
 CALLED BACK. I03 
 
 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 Avhat Pauline sav/, what 
 perhaps she was seeing now, and what, by some 
 strange power, she v/as 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 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 — ihe 
 mystery at which I hinted when I commenced my 
 tale. I have related what happened; if mv bare 
 word is insufficient to win credence, I must be ( o.i- 
 tent on this one point to be disbelieved.
 
 104 CALLED BACK 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A BLACK LIE. 
 
 Having placed the poor girl in Priscilla's motherly 
 hands, 1 fetched the best doctor I could think of, 
 and efforts were at once made to restore conscious- 
 ness. It was long before any sign of returning 
 animation showed itself, but, at last, she awoke. 
 Need I say what a supreme moment 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 learnt 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- 
 dearment. These vvcre 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, v/ho would have given worlds to hear 
 my name spoken oncc, during her delirium, with 
 an expression of love, was but a stranger at her 
 bedside. 
 
 Whom was it she called for and lamented ? Who 
 was the man she and I had seen slain ? I soon 
 learnt — and if my informant «poke the truth, he
 
 CALLED BACK. IO5 
 
 had, in so doing, dealt me a blow from which I 
 
 should never rally. 
 
 It was Macari who struck it. lie called on me 
 the day after Pauline and 1 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 identi- 
 fied. It was hopeless to think of punishing the 
 murderer, 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 dnmken 
 guide'? mistake was apparent. It was Horace 
 street. My conductor had jumbleti 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
 
 100 CALLED BACK. 
 
 delirium. He was as tenderly solicitous in his 
 enquiries as a brother should be. My rf^plies 
 were cold and brief. Brother or not, he was 
 answerable for everything. 
 
 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 Emmanuel ? " 
 
 •* I am not. There are several things I must 
 have explained first." 
 
 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, 1 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 hou^^e in 
 Horace street." 
 
 Whichever the fellow felt — fear or rage — the ex- 
 pression of his face was that of blank astonishm.ent. 
 Not, I knew, the surprise of innocence, but of wonder 
 that the crime should be known. For a moment 
 his jaw dropt and he gaped at me in silence. 
 
 Then he recovered. "Are you mad, Mr. 
 Vaughan ? " he cried. 
 
 " On the 20th of August, i86 — , 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."
 
 CALLED BACK. IO7 
 
 He attempted no evasion. He sprang to his 
 feet with features convulsed with rage. He seized 
 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 recognise 
 me ; so great a change does blindness make in a 
 face. 
 
 But he knew me. He dropt my arm and 
 stamped his foot in fur}'. 
 
 "Fools! Idiots!" he hissed. "Why did they 
 not let me do the work thoroughly 1 " 
 
 He walked once or twice up and down the 
 room, and then wi'h 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 suspicious." 
 
 " You do not even deny the crime, you villain?" 
 
 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 I " 
 
 " 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 
 these words made me dread what was to come. 
 My hands were tingling to throw him from the 
 room. 
 
 " That man — I shall not for obvious reasons t*''! 
 you his name — was Pauline's lover. Translate 
 ' lover ' into Italian — into what the word dyudo 
 signifies in that language — then you will under- 
 stand my meaning. We, on our mother's side
 
 I08 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 hirn 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 vulgar 
 scuffle between two gentlemen ? No ; on the 
 Continent — anywhere, meet me, and I v/ill show 
 you how I hate j^ou." 
 
 He spoke well, the self-possessed villain I What 
 good could it do ? 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 %ver spoken to me has been a lie, 
 and because you hate me, you have to-day told 
 me the greatest lie of all. Go ; save yourself from 
 the gallows by flight." 
 
 ri^ p^ave 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 wen. to Pauline's room, and sitting by 
 her bed heard he. parched lips ever and ever 
 calling in English or Italian on some one she 
 loved. Heard them bts- echmg and warning, and 
 knew that her wild woi s were addressed to the 
 man whom Macari avei ed he had slain because 
 he was the lover of his s. ter — my wife ! 
 
 The villain lied! I k lew he lied. Over and 
 over again I told myself n was a black, slanderous 
 lie — that Pauline was as pure as an angel. But, 
 fts I strove to comfort my. elf with these assertions,
 
 CALLED BACK. lOQ 
 
 I knew that, lie as it was, until I could prove it such, 
 it would rankle in my heart ; would be ever wiin 
 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 
 began to throw forth its first poisonous shoots. 
 Her mysterious words, " not for love or marriage," 
 inight bear another meaning, a dishonourable 
 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 
 me. 
 
 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 everything, 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 faaci»« and freaks
 
 no CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 
 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 knov/, 
 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 enquiries. 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 enquiries 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, 
 v/hich 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 searching 
 every nook and cranny in the house, but no dis- 
 covery rewarded my labour. There was, I be- 
 lieved, no place in which the body of a victim 
 could have been hid — there was no garden ia 
 which it might have been buried. I took back the 
 keys and said the house did not suit me. Then 
 I returned home and brooded on my grief, whilsl 
 Macaii's lie ate and ate its way to my heart.
 
 CALLED BACK. Ill 
 
 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? The self I had only known, oi 
 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, w^iich 
 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 liglitly 
 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 
 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 he is a he or let us bf 
 strangers for ever ! " 
 
 How could I prove .'t ? How could I ask Pauline ? 
 Or asking her, how could I expect her to answer ? 
 Even if she did, would her word satisfy me ? Oh 
 that I could see Ceneri ! Villain he rtiight be, but 
 I felt he was not such a double-dyed villain a^j 
 Macari.
 
 112 CALLED BACK. 
 
 Thinking thus, I formed a desperate resolve. 
 Men are urged to do strange and desperate things 
 when hfe is at stake — with me it was more than 
 hfe. It was the honour, the happiness — everything, 
 of two people ! 
 
 Yes, I v/ould do it ! Mad as the scheme seemed, 
 I would go to Siberia, and if money, perseverance, 
 favour, or craft could bring me face to face with 
 Ceneri, I would wring the truth, the whole truth, 
 '^rom his lips ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH, 
 
 Across Europe — half-way across Asia — for the 
 sake of an hour's interview with a Russian politi- 
 cal 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, ensure a chance of its success 
 by putting all the method I could in m.y prepara- 
 tions. 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 autho- 
 rity. No ; I must go armed with credentials 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 would go quietly and systematically to 
 work, lor it would be days before 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, 
 
 \ looked up what friends I possessed among the 
 
 Teat people of the land, until 1 found one whose 
 
 •osition was such that he could ask a favour of a
 
 CALLED BACK. II3 
 
 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 ensure 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. 
 
 J3ut before I leit, Pauline's safety and well-being 
 durmg those 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 awaken 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 in Turin. 
 She knew that some mystery was attached 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. Everythmg was to be done for her com- 
 fort and according to her wishes. If she grew
 
 114 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 v/as legally my wife — whether, 
 if she wished, she might not annul the marriage 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 myself 
 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 j'ears 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 
 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 — everything is ready. Once, once for
 
 CALLED BACK. II5 
 
 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 dosecrator, 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. 
 Fair and while 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 
 niyJips 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 quivered, 
 and like one detected at the commencement of a 
 crinje, I fled. 
 
 TItc 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 deceived me 
 and u^ed me for his own purposes I should see 
 him dragging out his wretched life in chains and 
 degradation. I should see him a slave, beaLen and 
 illtreated. If this was the only reward I should 
 reap, it would repay me for my long journey. Per-
 
 ri6 CALLED BACK. 
 
 haps, considering all that had passed and my 
 present anxiety and dread, this unchristian state 
 of mind vsls not unnatural to an ordinary son of 
 Adam. 
 
 St. Petersburgh at last ! The letter I bear, and 
 the letter already received on my account, ensure 
 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 im- 
 possible 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 in- 
 superable. I must wait patiently for days, it may 
 be weeks, but I can be sure that everything will be 
 done that can be done. There is, at present, or so 
 the newspapers say, a little friction between the 
 two Governments. Sometimes this is shown by 
 requests more simple than mine being refused. 
 Still, we shall see 
 
 Meanwhile, who is the prisoner, and where is he? 
 
 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 sentenced 
 under the name I knew him by. I supposed this 
 to be a false one. 
 
 Lord was certain that no one of that name 
 
 had been sentenced within the last few months. 
 That mattered little. Permission accorded, with 
 the data I had given, the man would at once be 
 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. Remero-
 
 CALLED BACK. II7 
 
 ber that a hasty word, even a look; a casual remark 
 to any stranger you sit next at dinner, may utterly 
 defeat your ends. The system of government here 
 is diflerent 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 taciturnity 
 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 ha^'e 
 found much difficulty in so doing. St. Petersburgh 
 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 anything I sav/. 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 
 Siberia armed wv h authority which the most 
 ignorant jailor or soldier will recognise. Of course, 
 I have pledged my honour that in no way will j^ou 
 connive at the convict's escape — that your business 
 is purely private." 
 
 I expressed my thanks, and asked for instructions. 
 
 " First of all," he said, " my instructions are to 
 take you to the palace. The Czar desires to see 
 the eccentric Englishman vi'ho wishes to make sudi 
 a long journey in order to ask a few questions." 
 
 I would right willingly have declined the honour, 
 but as there was no chance of escaping from it, 
 
 *
 
 Il8 CALLED BACK, 
 
 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 
 Imcerial 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, following 
 my conductor, I entered a large apartment, at one 
 end of which stood a tall noble-looking man in 
 military attire ; and I realised" 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 barbarism of 
 Asia. 
 
 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, 
 Catherine the Second's frail^s were known — the 
 blood of a peasant or a kingTran 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 company. 
 
 Lord presented me by name, and after a 
 
 proper reverence I waited the Czar's commands. 
 
 He looked at me for a second from l>is towering 
 height. Then he spoke to me in French, fluently 
 and without much foreign accent : 
 
 •' I am told you wish to go to Siberia ? " 
 
 " With your majesty's gracious permission. ' 
 
 •' To see a political prisoner. Is that so ? " 
 
 I replied in the affirm.ative. 
 
 " It is a loag iournoy for such a purpose.*'
 
 CALLED 6ACK. lig 
 
 " 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 rny 
 desired interview with the criminal. 
 
 ** Is he a dear friend of 3^ours ? " 
 
 " Rather, an enemy, your majesty ; but mv 
 happiness 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 In- 
 terior will provide you with the fullest passports 
 and authorities. Bon voyage." 
 
 Thus dismissed, I bowed myself out, praying 
 mentally that no red-tapism or bureaucracy might 
 delay the transmission of the promised documents. 
 
 In three days I received them. The passport 
 authorised 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 govern- 
 ment 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 reaUzed how much favour 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 question 
 was where must I go ? 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 sup- 
 posed was about the date of his crime^and trial, and 
 begged for information as to the best means to adopt 
 to find him ii the place of his banishment.
 
 120 CALLED BACK. 
 
 I was most civilly treated. Indeed, for courtesy 
 commend me to the Russian official when 3^ou are 
 properly and powerfully accredited. Ceneri was 
 at once identified, and his right name and secret 
 history given to me, I recognised the name at 
 once- 
 
 There is no need to make it public. There are 
 many men in Europe who believe in the dis- 
 interested character and noble aims of the un- 
 fortunate convict ; men who mourn him as a 
 martyr. Perhaps in the cause of liberty he was 
 single-hearted and noble-minded. Wh}' should 
 I distress his followers by revealing any dark 
 secrets of his private life ? Let him be, so far 
 as I am concerned, Dr. Ceneri to the end. 
 
 I learnt frorn 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 assassin- 
 ation of the Czar and several members of the govern- 
 ment, had been revealed through the treachery of 
 a confederate. The police, fully cognisant of every- 
 thing, had waited until the pear was near!}' 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 shov/n 
 scant mercy. He certainly had few claims on 
 their consideration. He was no Russian groan- 
 ing under oppression and despotic government. 
 Although 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 free- 
 dom. He had been one of Garibaldi's most trusted 
 workmen ; but had turned fiercely against his 
 master when he found Italy was to be a kingdom, 
 not the ideal republic of kis dreams. Latterly he
 
 CALLED BACK. 121 
 
 had directed his attention to Russia, and the plot 
 he was «ngnged in having been betrayed, his 
 career, in all human probability, was ended. After 
 lying many months in the fortress of St. Peter and 
 St. Paul, he was tried and condemned to twenty 
 years hard labour in Siberia. Some months a^'o 
 ne had been dispatched to his destination, and, my 
 informant added, was considered to have been 
 dealt with most leniently. 
 
 Where was he now ? That could not be said 
 for certain. He might be at the Kara gold wash- 
 mgs, at the Ustkutsk salt works, at Troitsk, at 
 Nertschinsk. All convicts were first sent to 
 Tobolsk, which was a kind of general rendezvous ; 
 thence the}' were drafted off, at the pleasure of the 
 Governor-General, to various places and various 
 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 v.'ould be just as 
 well if I made my enquiries in person. To this I 
 quite agreed, mistrusting the speed of the Russian 
 post or the newly-opened telegraph. I v/as 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, v/ent to 
 complete my preparations for my journey ; a 
 journey which miglit be a thousand or two thciisand 
 miles longer or shorter, according to where it had 
 pleased the Governor of Tobolsk to bestow ^he 
 wretched Ceneri. 
 
 Before I started 1 received a letter from Priscilla 
 — one of those laboured and rather misty epistlos 
 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 remair, 
 ^ith her until the return of li^- "uknown relation or
 
 122 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 someone she has 
 seen in her dreams during her illness is working 
 for her. She doesn't know who it is, but it is 
 someone who knows everything." 
 
 This intelligence made me feel easier. Not only 
 did it show me that Pauline would wait quietly 
 until my return, but also that some glimmering of 
 the immediate past might be dawning upon her. 
 The closing lines of Priscilla'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 1 " 
 
 Yes, thank God, she did not ! As I read Priscilla's 
 letter I yearned to turn homewards and fly back to 
 my wife. But I conquered the inclination, 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,
 
 CALLED BACK. I23 
 
 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 cHmate. I went by rail to 
 Moscow, b}' the iron road wliich runs straight as a 
 line from the one large city to the other. The Czar 
 oi'dered it to be so made, without curves or devia- 
 tions. When the engineers asked him what popu- 
 lous 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 Moscow. 
 " 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 commands. 
 
 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, 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 Novgorod; 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 shoula linger for 
 a day or two at this city. The great fair was on,
 
 124 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 pre- 
 parations for continuing the journey. 
 
 We now changed our mode of conve^'^ance. 
 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. 
 
 V/e 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 rimning into a 
 hundred bends. 
 
 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 hagghng, 
 bought a tarantass — a sort of phaeton. The 
 luggage was stowed into it ; we took our seats ; 
 our first relay of horses were engaged — three in 
 number, and harnessed in the peculiar Russian 
 fashion — the ycmschik 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 honour 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 Kkaterineburg ; and lay
 
 CALLED BACK. I25 
 
 awake the best part of it trying to calculate how 
 many miles stretched between Pau'ine and myself. 
 For days and days have passed since I left St. 
 Petersburgh, and I have travelled at all possible 
 speed; yet the journey seems scarcely begun. 
 Indeed, I c-innot even guess at its length until I 
 get to Tobolsk. 
 
 A trifle of some four hundred miles from 
 Ekaterineburg to Tinmen, another of two hundred 
 from Tinmen 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 v.hich called for special severity. 
 Where he would finish his journey v;as 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 
 although he left Tobolsk months ago. The escort 
 which accompanied that particular gang of prisoners 
 was under the command of Captain VarlamotT, 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.
 
 126 CALLED BACK. 
 
 The Governor made a calculation. " Somo' 
 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 yemscliik 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 
 boiling 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 endeavours were 
 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 accom-
 
 CALLED BACK. ^27 
 
 modation as we could get. Unless the place at 
 which we stopped was of some importance, inns 
 were unknown. By dint of practice I at last con- 
 trived to obtain almost enough sleep, if not to 
 satisfy me, to serve my needs, whilst jolting along 
 in the tarantass. 
 
 It was a monotonous jou/ney. I turned aside to 
 visit no objects of interest spoken of by travellers. 
 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. Petersburgh, 
 until, as the days and weeks passed, I began to 
 feel appalled at the distance 1 had come and the 
 distance I must return. Should I ever see Pauline 
 again? Who can say v.-hat may have happened 
 before I return to England ? At times I grew 
 quite dispirited. 
 
 I think what made me realise the length of the 
 journey even more than days or measured miles 
 was to see, as we went on, the country people 
 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 skilfully con- 
 ducted. 
 
 The weather was glorious, almost too glorious. 
 The cultivated country we passed through looked 
 thriving and productive. Siberia was very diflferent 
 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 invigora- 
 ting and bracing atmosphere. There were days 
 when the breeze seemed to send new life through 
 every vein. 
 
 The people I thought fairly hone-st, and when-
 
 X2S CALLED BACK. 
 
 ever I found a need of producing my papers the' 
 word civility 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 plea- 
 sant ones. 
 
 Yet I wished it had been the dead of winter. 
 Then it is that, in spite of the cold, one travels 
 more pleasantly. Ivan assured me that when a 
 good snoAv road is formed and a tarantass may be 
 exchanged for a sledge, the amount of ground 
 passed over in a day is something marvellous. 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 
 dela5'S 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 
 ihrough which we passed unless I wished to make 
 my story as interesting as a scriptural genealogy — 
 Tara, Kainsk, Koliuvau,Tomsk, Achinsk, Krasnoy- 
 arsk, Nijnei Udinsk, may or may not be familiar 
 to the reader, according to the depth of liis geo- 
 graphical studies; but raoi't 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 'he Rusrian armv desiined to in-
 
 CALLED BACK. I3<J 
 
 vade our Indian Empire we may become better 
 acquainted with the Czar's Asiatic dominions. 
 
 Yet at the entrance of each of these hltle 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 
 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 dhat the wretched convicts were 
 housed as they halted on their long march. In 
 these places they were packed like sardines in a 
 t)Ox. 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 depots 
 beggared description. Men, sometimes unsexed 
 women with them, huddled into rooms reeking 
 with filth, the fiuors throwing out poisonous 
 emanations — 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 tlie trousers. Poor wrt;tched beings, my 
 heart ached for them ! Felons though they were 
 I could never refwse the charity they invariably 
 prayed for. So far as I could s^e they were not 
 unkindly treated by tiie soldiers and officers, but 
 terrible tales were told me ab-^ut their sufferings
 
 130 CALLED BACK. 
 
 at the hands of inhuman jailors and commandants 
 of prisons. There, for the shghtest infraction of 
 rules, the rod, the dark cell and a variety of other 
 punishments were called into play. 
 
 I always felt relieved when v/e 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 any of those footsore 
 convicts. 
 
 Some week or ten days after leaving Tobolsk 
 I began to make enquiries at ever)^ 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. Da}'- after day I found 
 we were gaining rapidl}' upon the party, and wiien 
 at last we reached the large handsome town of 
 Irkutsk I rightl}'- reckoned that I had reached the 
 end, or nearl}' the end of my journey. 
 
 On enquiry I found Captain Varlamoff had 
 not yet arrived. At the place where I had last 
 enquired 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 done 
 was to await in Irkutsk the arrival of the part)'. 
 
 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 enquire 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 heme siuce I le't St.
 
 CALLED BACK. I3I 
 
 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 
 Varlamoffhad marched his prisoners to theostrog 
 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 
 captain, 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 quite gone mad. It required 
 nuch firmness, much persuasion and a gratuity, 
 which to the simple military mind represented an 
 unlimited quantity of "vodka," and consequently 
 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 j'oung soldier, who glared 
 at me for disturbing him ; for having, by advice, 
 adopted the Russian costume, which by now was 
 stained and fraj-ed 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 oi 
 the Tobolsk governor's letter made in the Captain's 
 appearance. He rose, and with the greatest courtesy 
 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. 
 
 VarUmoff would not hear of commencins: busi-
 
 ^■^2 CALLED BACK. 
 
 ness until wine and cigarettes made than appear- 
 ance — then he was at my service in anything and 
 everytliing. 
 
 I told him what I desired. 
 
 "To speak in 'private with. one of my convicts. 
 Certain!}^ — this letter places me at your commands. 
 But which convict ? " 
 
 I gave him the true name. Ke shook his head, 
 
 " I know none of them by that name. Most of 
 the names the political prisoners pass under are 
 false ones. When thej? leave me they will become 
 numbers, so it doesn't matter." 
 
 I suggested Ceneri. He shook his head again. 
 
 " I knov; the man I want is with you," I said. 
 '•■ How shall I find him ? " 
 
 " 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 Varlamoff, with a long pull 
 at his cigarette. 1 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 tlie bottom of which all the 
 impurities of the world were rotting and putrefying. 
 As it passed \ou, yc-u felt tliat the tljick air v\a. 
 poisonous with disease and death, 
 
 I recovered myself as best I could, and followeJ 
 my guide into the grim interior. The door closed 
 behind us. 
 
 Had I the power to describe the sij^hts I saw
 
 CALLED BACK. 133 
 
 when my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I 
 should not be believed. The prison was spacious, 
 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 quarrelling, cursing 
 and swearing. Moved by curiosity they pressed 
 aroimd us as closely as they dared, laughing and 
 jabbering in their barbarous dialects. 1 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. B'ilth 
 under foot — filth on the walls, the rafters and the 
 beams — fillh floating about in the hot, heavy, 
 pestiferous air. Each man seemed to be a nioving 
 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 rusp. out, overpov.'er the guards, 
 and escape from this reeking den ? I put the 
 question to Varlamoff. 
 
 '• They never attempt to escape whilst on the 
 march," he said. " It is a point of honour among 
 them, If one escapes those left are treated with 
 much greater severity." 
 
 ** Do none ever get away ? " 
 
 " 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 thsy 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 inspsctinn v.-nr re-
 
 134 CALLED BACK. 
 
 ceived with looks sullen, suspicious, defiant or 
 careless. Remarks were made in undertones, but 
 Varlamoff's dreaded presence kept me from insult. 
 I examined man}^ 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 ej^es were 
 closed. There vv'as 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 Ceneri 1 
 
 CH.^iPTER Xn. 
 
 THE NAME OF THE MAN. 
 
 He 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. Vaughaii ! 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 better; 
 the air here is unhealthy." 
 
 Unhealthy ! It was foetid I I was filled with
 
 CALLED BACK. 135 
 
 wonJer, as I looked at the bland Fionch-speaking 
 captain at my side, at the state of mind to which 
 a man must bring himself before he could calmly 
 stand in the middle of his fellow-creatures and see 
 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 j'ou are authorised to do. I am 
 a soldier ; you in this matter are my superior 
 officer." 
 
 " May I take him to the inn ? " 
 
 " I think not. I v/ill find you- a room here. 
 Please follow me. Phew ! that is a relief." 
 
 We Avere now outside the prison door and 
 breathing fresh air once more. The Captain led 
 me to a kind of ofTice, 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 
 r-iiions which government says are sufficient. But 
 then you may be hungry and thirsty. If so. I do 
 not see how I can stop you sendi.ig for wine and 
 food — of course for yourself."
 
 136 CALLED BACK. 
 
 I thanked him and forthwith despatched my 
 guide in quest of the best wine and meat he could 
 get. Wine, v/hen ordered l:)y 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 follov/ed 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 h? 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. 
 
 " 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^
 
 CALLED BACK. 137 
 
 pends CTi 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, l)i:t not suspiciously, 
 I could do him no harm — for him the outer world 
 v/as 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 realised 
 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. " Ycu 
 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." 
 
 I could believe anything after the interior of the 
 ostrog. 1 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 ye^^rs older. 
 He wore the Russian peasants' ordinary garments, 
 and these hung in rags about hin? His feet, 
 swathed in fragments of some woollen 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 nor 
 have to ke:'p him long. 
 
 He ate, not voraciously, but with a keen appe-
 
 13^ CALLED BACK. 
 
 tite. The wine he used sparingly. His meal being 
 finished, he glanced around as if in quest of some- 
 thing. I guessed Avhat 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 sentr)', and I did not 
 know what period of grace the polite Captain 
 might allow to his prisoner. 
 
 Ceneri was leaning back in his chair with a kind 
 of dreamy look on his face, smoking slowly and 
 placidly, taking, as it were, everything 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 ? Shall 
 I awake and find I have dreamed of what I have 
 suffered?" 
 
 " I am afraid it is no dream. We are in Siberia." 
 
 *' And 5'ou are not come to bear me good news ? 
 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 relief 
 from misery; I am grateful." 
 
 " You will answer truly ? " 
 
 " 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."
 
 CALLED BACK. I39 
 
 "The first question I have to ask is — who and 
 what is that man Macari ? " 
 
 Ceneri sprang to his feet. The name of Macari 
 seemed to bring him back to the world. He looked 
 no longer a decrepit man. His voice was fierce 
 and stern. 
 
 " A traitor ! a traitor ! 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 ! " 
 
 He walked up and down the room, clenching 
 and unclencliing 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 ? Is Macari 
 his name ? " 
 
 " 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 ? Wliy do j'ou ask 
 these questions ? " 
 
 " 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 leapt as I guessed that number twt would 
 be disposed of as easily. But there was a terrible 
 revelation to be made when I came to ask about 
 that. 
 
 " Pauline's brother ! " stammered Ceneri. " Her 
 brother 1 She has none." 
 
 A sickly look crept over his features as he spoke 
 — a look the meaning of which I could not read.
 
 140 CALLED BACK. 
 
 " He says he is Anthony March, her brother." 
 
 " Anthony March ! " gasped Ceneri. " There is 
 no such person. What did he want — his object ? " 
 !ie Qontinued 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 i 
 My God ! that man is a villain ! " 
 
 "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 by 
 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 
 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 v/as 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 m.y lips trembled as I endeavoured to 
 approach the subject ?
 
 CALLED BACK. 14^ 
 
 •'Now, Dr. Ceneri," 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 
 jealous}' cured ? " 
 
 «« 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 anyone else ? " 
 
 "Not to my knowledge. But your manner, 
 your words are strange. Why do )'ou ask ? I 
 may have wronged you, Mr. Vaughan,' but save 
 for the one thing, her mind, Pauhne was fit to be 
 your wife." 
 
 " You did wrong me — you know it. What right 
 had you to let me marry a woman whose senses 
 were disarranged ? 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 mea- 
 sure 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 
 lilack 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 reason. 
 
 Ceneri was glancing at me nervously Did he 
 guess what I had to ask him ? " Tell me," I said, 
 " the name of the young man murdered by Macari 
 in London, in the" prese!)ce of Pauline ; tell me 
 why he was killed ? "
 
 142 CALLED BACK. 
 
 His face grev/ ashen. He seemed to coHapse — ■ 
 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 j'ou 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 
 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 ? " 
 
 I had spoken excitedly. I had used gestures 
 and words. Ceneri's ears had drank 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 v/ine ; he took 
 it in his trembling; band and gulped it down. 
 
 " Tell me his name ? " I repeated. " Tell me 
 v/hat he had to do with Pauline ? " 
 
 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 beside the actors 
 I have named,"
 
 CALLED BACK. 143 
 
 Ceneri started and looked at me. 
 
 " 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 m)' own." 
 
 " I thank you for having saved it." 
 
 " You thank me. Why should ^(?m thank me ? " 
 
 " If you saved anyone's life it was mine. I was 
 that man." 
 
 "You that man!" 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 v/ere operated upon ? " 
 
 "Yes — most successful!)'." 
 ■ " You can see well now — but then ! I could not 
 be mistaken, you were blind — you saw nothing." 
 
 " I saw nothing, but I heard everything." 
 
 "And now Pauline has told you what happened ? " 
 
 " Pauline has not spoken." 
 
 Ceneri rose, and in great agitation v/alked 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 ? T^esa would die before she spoke. 
 Petrdflf is dead — died, as I told you, raving mad." 
 
 From his last words I presumed that Petroff 
 was the third man I had seen, and also the fellow- 
 prisoner who had denounced Macari. 
 
 "Was it Macari — that double-dyed traitor? No 
 — 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-
 
 t44 CALLEt) BACK. 
 
 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 honour 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 ' honour.' 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 shud- 
 dered as I again described the terrible 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, 
 you say, is recovering her senses — she would have 
 told you a]]." 
 
 "I would not ask her until I saw you. She is 
 herself again, but I am a stranger to her — and un- 
 less your ansvv'er is the one I hope for, we shall 
 never meet again." 
 
 "If anything 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
 
 CALLED BACK. I45 
 
 how can I repeat it ! — the lover of Pauline, wlio 
 having dishonoured her, refused to repair his fault. 
 The truth I Tell me the truth 1 " 
 
 I almost shouted the last words — my calmness 
 vanished as I thought of the villain who had, with 
 a mocking smile, coupled Paulina's name witli 
 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. 
 
 "That young man — the boy struck down by 
 Macari's dagger was Pauline's brother — my sister's 
 child— Anthony March ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A TERRIBLE CONFESSION 
 
 Ceneri, 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 !" 
 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 9rdered 
 and planned it, he had been present; haS assisted 
 in hiding all traces of it ; bad been, until recently, 
 on terms of friendship with the man who had struck 
 the blow, I could scarcely control the loathing
 
 I4G CALLED BACK. 
 
 and contempt I felt for the abject wretch before 
 me. My burning indignation would scarcely allow 
 me to ask him, in intelligible speech, the object of 
 the cruel deed. But for once and all I must have 
 ever3rthing made clear to m.e. 
 
 I was spared the necessity of asking the question 
 I was trying to force to my lips. The convict 
 raised his head and looked at mc with miserable 
 eyes. 
 
 " You shrink from mc. No wonder. Yet I am 
 not so guilty as you think." 
 
 "Tell me all, first ; the^xcuses may come after- 
 wards, if an5^thing can be urged in excuse of the 
 crime." 
 
 I spoke as I felt — sternly and contemptuously. 
 
 "None can be urged for the murderer. Forme, 
 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 Eng- 
 land ! " 
 
 " 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 — aye, even honour, 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 v/ould 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 sym- 
 pathise with a man of his type. We'may call the 
 govenment righteous or corrupt as we are Whijrs
 
 CALLED BACK. I47 
 
 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 Ceneri'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, hved 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 gaieties whilst the 
 white-coated foe ruled the land. No doubt she 
 would have been faithful to her mourning for her 
 countr)' had not love comie 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 de- 
 fection ; but the prospects opened before her by the 
 marriage were so great that he made httle 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 
 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 rn^.de 
 few close friends in England, and only loved the 
 country for her husband's sake, flew back to her 
 UAtiva land. She was cordially welcomed by ull 
 her old friends. She was considered fabulously 
 v/ealthy. Her husband, in the first flush of his 
 passion, had made a will bequeathing everything
 
 148 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 com- 
 mand, Tilrs. March was honoured and courted by all. 
 ^She had, until she met her future husband, 
 loved her brother above everyone in the world. 
 She had echoed his patrioKsm, sympathised 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 marvelled 
 at t'he change from the headstrong, visionary, daring 
 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 tiiose engaged in working 
 out the liberation of Italy. Then all his old sway 
 came back. She admired, almost worshipped him. 
 She, too, was ready to make any sacrifice when 
 the time sliould 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 
 vould 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, everything was left in his hands as sole 
 trustee for her children. In her last moments the 
 thought of her husband's decided English proclivi- 
 ties 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 weiB 
 left entirely to the trustee's mercy. 
 
 He obeyed her spoken commands to the letter. 
 Anthony and Pauline were sent to English schools;
 
 CALLED BACK. I49 
 
 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 tor 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. 
 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 crj' was " Money, money, money ! " 
 Money for arms and ammunition — money for stores, 
 food and clothing — money for bribes — money for 
 everything ! 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 ? Liberty laughed at 
 such a small thing as breach of trusC. 
 
 Except a few thousand pounds, he ruthlessly 
 realised 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 — wlio can tell ! 
 
 Titles and honours were afterwards offered him 
 for this great though secret service. It makes me 
 think better of the man that he refusc^d all reward. 
 His conscience may have told him he had not
 
 150 CALLED BACK. 
 
 robbed Limself. Anyway, he remained plain 
 Doctor Ceneri, and broke with his old leader? 
 and friends when he found that Italy was to be a 
 kingdom, not a republic. 
 
 He had kept, I said, a few thousand pound?, 
 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 everything 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 so. The 
 young man, if evincing no sympathy with hia 
 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 
 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
 
 CALLED BACK. I5I 
 
 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 
 servitude. If the English law failed to touch 
 him, that of his own country might be brought 
 against hini. 
 
 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 appeared 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 
 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 ? 
 
 So he reasoned and persuaded himself that, for 
 the sake of mankind, he might do almost anything 
 to save himself. 
 
 Anthony March was now twenty-two. Trusting 
 his uncle; careless and easj'-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 suspicicns had at last 
 been awakened or not cannot be said; but recer''
 
 15^ 6ALLSD BACK. 
 
 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 Eng- 
 land, pacified him by assuring him that he would, 
 during his stay in London, explain everything. 
 
 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 Tatter's 
 lofty and unselfish aims. He appears to have 
 followed conspiracy 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 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 v/hen 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, Avas 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 olend him, and seeing that the gir( 
 was proof agamst his blandishnients, let things 
 alone, hoping that Macari would grow weary oi 
 urging those requests which were always met by 
 refusals. Ke believed that he was not seeking 
 Pauline for ihe sake of the money which should 
 have been h.-rs. Macari knew vvhat large sum.^
 
 CALLED BACK. I53 
 
 Ceneri had poured into the patriot's treasury, and, 
 no doubt, guessed whence they came. 
 
 Pauhne 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 
 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. ilis 
 presence 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 favour 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 hi? request. 
 Anthony, who seems to have been a proud, 
 arrogant and not a very pleasant young man, 
 simply ''aughed at his impertinence and bade 
 him begone. Poor boy, he little knew what that 
 laugh would cost him !
 
 154 CALLED BACK. 
 
 It may have been the retort made by Macari, as 
 he departed in a whirlwind of rage, that opened 
 Anthony's e3'es as to the jeopardy in which his 
 fortune was placed. Anyway 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 proceed- 
 ings against the trustee. 
 
 The moment which Ceneri had so long dreaded 
 ■ — so long postponed — had come; only nov/, the 
 confession, instead of being, as he intended, a 
 voluntary 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 temporar}^ v/ould ruin the scheme upon 
 which he Avjis now engaged. At any cost Anthony 
 March mus£ be silenced for a time. 
 
 He assured me with the solem.nity 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. 
 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. 
 Petroff, the man with the scarred face, was the 
 doctor's, body and soul. Teresa, the old servant,
 
 CALLED BACK. I55 
 
 would have committed any crime at he' master's 
 command. The necessary papers could be obtained 
 or forged. Let the conspirators get Anthony 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 treacherou. 
 scheme, the success of which was very doubtful, 
 necessitating, as it must, carrying the victim to 
 Italy. IJow 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 position 
 of afTairs to give colour to the statement that he 
 was of unsound niind. 
 
 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 him 
 that night and hear his cxpl mation of matters. 
 
 Perhaps Anthony mistrusted his relative and his 
 associates more than was suspected. Anyway, he 
 replied by declining the invilation ; 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 
 «ee her during his absence. As he also wanted to 
 see Anthony she must endeavour to keep him until 
 his return. 
 
 Pauline, suspecting nothing, wrote to her brother,
 
 156 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 theatre together, and it was twelve o'clock 
 before he brought her back to Horace street. No 
 doubt she begged him to remain Avith 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: 
 then Ceneri and his two friends made their appear- 
 ance. Anthony seemed displeased at the encounter, 
 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 pre- 
 sence o'i Pauline. Whatever was to be done 
 should l^e 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 Jiad been made for her to go on the morrow 
 to a friend of her uncle's, v»ath whom she was to 
 stay, ignorant of the purport of the business which 
 suddenly called tlie 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 '
 
 CALLED BACK. X57 
 
 Anthony, having no wish to let his uncle escape 
 without an explanation, reseated liimself. 
 
 " 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 m.otion 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 ol 
 a pending quarrel ; but Macari heard the remark 
 and saw the gesture. His eyes blazed and he 
 leaned forward 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 favourite attitude of his, thought nothing of it. 
 
 Anthony did not condescend to reply. He turned 
 from the man with a look of utter contempt — a 
 look which, no doubt, drove Macari almost beside 
 himself with rage. 
 
 " Before we talk about anything 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, 
 beggarly 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 exclanidtion of rage — hissed out no oath 
 which might warn his victim. Grasped in his right 
 hand the long bright steel leapt from its lurking 
 place, and as Anthony March looked up, and then
 
 »58 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 
 lust below the collar-bone and absolutely trans- 
 fixing the heart. Anthony March was silenced 
 for ever 1 
 
 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 Petroff. It was imperative that 
 Pauline should be silenced. Her cries would 
 alarm the neighbours. He rushed forward, and 
 throwing a large woollen sofa-cover over her head, 
 placed her on the couch, where he held her by 
 force. 
 
 At that moment I made my frantic entrance — 
 blind and helpless, but, for all they knew, a 
 messenger 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 sur- 
 prise, insisted that I should share Anthony March's 
 fate. His dagger was once more raised to take 
 human life, whilst Petroff, 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
 
 CALLED BACK. I59 
 
 was no lime for recriininations or accusations, but 
 he swore that auother murder should not be com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Peiroff supported him, and Macari at last sul- 
 lenly yielded, with the stipulation that I should be 
 disposed of in the matmer already related. Had 
 the means been at hand 1 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 drauc^ht. 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 niurder ? 
 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 Petroff held human 
 life lightly ; their hands were certainly not clean 
 from political assassinations. Feeling that a trial 
 must go hard with them, they threw their lotin 
 withMacari's, and at once set about baffling inquiry 
 and hiding all traces of the crime. From that 
 moment there was httle 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. Petroflf 
 — for Ceneri would not trust me in Macari's 
 hands— went out and found a belated cab. P'or a 
 handsome consideration the driver consented to
 
 l50 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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. 
 
 Petroff 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. 
 
 And now for Pauline. Her moans had gradu- 
 ally died awa}', and she lay in a deathlike 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 desperate 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 enquiry 
 from that quarter. In the meantime the poor young 
 fellow had been laid out as decently as possible, 
 and with everything 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 piesence, 
 was simply placed inside it, with none of the usual 
 paraphernalia, the reason given for such apparent 
 indecency being that it was only a temporary 
 arrangement, as it was to be taken abroad lor in- 
 terment. The undertaker marvelled, but being 
 well paid, held his peace. Then, by the aid of the
 
 CALLED BACK. I&l 
 
 forgrd certificate, the proper formalities were com- 
 plied with, and in two days' time the three men, 
 in the garb of mourners, were travelling 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 Anthony's mother 
 died, and they buried the son by the side of the 
 mother, with his name and the date of his deach 
 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 enquiry 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. 
 Nothing having been heard of the blind man, it 
 was supposed he had been wise enough to keep his 
 own counsel. 
 
 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 httle of the girl. His 
 presence did not awaken any painful recollections 
 in her mind, but to him the sight of his niece waa
 
 l6a CALLED BACK. 
 
 unbearable. It recalled what he was eager to 
 forget. She never seemed happy in Italy ; in 
 her uncertain way she was pining for England. 
 Anxious to get her out of his sight, he had con- 
 sented 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 
 threatened to carry her off by force. He had 
 sworn she should be his. She remembered no- 
 thing — why should he not wed her ? 
 
 Bad as Ceneri was, he had recoiled from this. 
 He would even, had it been possible, have broken 
 oflf 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 
 Macari. Tlfen 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 anyone, should any feelings correspond" 
 ing to affection be awakened in her clouded mind, 
 that mind would gradually be built up again. 
 
 This, if not in his own words, was Ceneri s tale. 
 I now knew all I wanted to know. Perhaps he 
 had painted himself in better colours than he 
 deserved ; but he had given me the whole dark 
 history freely and unreservedly, and in spite of 
 the loathing and abhorrence with whici. he now 
 inspired me, I felt that he had told me the truth.
 
 CALLED BACK. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DOES SHE REMEMBER? 
 
 It was time to luring our interview to an end. it 
 had lasted so long that the civil Captain had more 
 than once peeped in vrith a significant look on his 
 face, as much as to say there was such a thing as 
 oversteppmg the limits of even such an authority 
 as I held. I had no desire to protract the con- 
 versation with the convicfl. The obje(5t of my 
 long journey had been attained. I had learnt 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 nc 
 means of so doing. Why should I linger ? 
 
 But I did lin,<::er for a while. The thought that my 
 rising and giving the signal that my business was 
 finished would immediately consign the prisoner 
 to that loathsome den from which he had emerged, 
 was inexpressibly painful to me. Every moment 
 I could keep him with me would be precious to 
 him. Never again would he see the face of a 
 frie/id or acquamtance. 
 
 i-Je had ccusea lipedking. lie sat with his head* 
 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 r-ilcnc^. 
 
 Presently he spoke: "You can find do excuse 
 for me, Mr. Vaughan ?" 
 
 •' None," I said. " it seems to me there is little 
 10 choose between you and your associates." 
 
 He rose wearily. " Pauliue will recover, you 
 think ?" he asked.
 
 164 CALLED BACK. 
 
 " I think — I hope I shall find her almost well on 
 my return." 
 
 " You will tell her how you have found rne ; 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 oi 
 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 ** I expect these will be stolen from me before 1 
 spend them." 
 
 " " But is there no way of leaving money with 
 anyone 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 your life ?'' 
 
 " They are taking us right to the end of Siberia 
 — to Nertchinsk. There 1 shall be drafted off with 
 others to work in the mines. We go ail the way 
 on foot and in chains." 
 
 "What an awful fate!" 
 
 Ceneri smiled. "After what I have passed
 
 CALLED BACK. 165 
 
 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 light, 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, 
 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 rigours of Siberia. 
 I swear to you, sir," he continued with more fire 
 and animation than he had yet displayed, "that if 
 the civilised nations of Europe knew one -tenth 
 part of the horrors and deeds in a Russian prison, 
 they would say, ' Guilty or innocent, no hum.an 
 beings shall l)e 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 1 Is there no 
 hope of escaping ? " 
 
 " Where could I escape to ? Look at the map 
 and see where Nertchinsk is. If I escape 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 5'ou must slave until your death ?" 
 
 •' i hope not. I once gathered together much 
 mformation respecting Siberian convicts, and, to 
 tell you the truth, was rather disgusted to find
 
 1 66 CALLED BACK. 
 
 how incorrect the common opinion is. Now I can 
 only hope my researches showed me the truth." 
 
 " The treatment is not so bad, then ? "' 
 
 '* 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. It 
 I survive the toil, which is very unlikely, I may, 
 by finding favour 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 my 
 living. I have great hopes that my professional 
 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 
 chanceof his enduring even a year's toil at themines. 
 
 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 withdrew. 
 
 " If there is anything 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 ? It 
 may be difficult to do so, and I have no right to 
 ask me favoar. But you have interest, and might 
 get intelligence sent me. If I am not dead by 
 then, it will make me happier." 
 
 Without waiting for my reply he walked hastily 
 to the door, and with the sentry at his side was 
 marched off to the prison. 
 
 As the cumbrous lock was being turned he 
 paused. " Farewell, Mr, Vaughan," he said. " If 
 I have wronged you I cAtreat your pardon. We 
 shall meet no more-"
 
 CALLED BACK. 167 
 
 " 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. 1 could see the 
 throng of repulsive, villainous faces— the faces of 
 his feliow-prisoners. I could hear the jabber of 
 curiosity and wonder. I could smell the foul 
 odours coming from that reeking den crowded 
 v/ith 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 in^tents and purposes the man \vas a murderer. 
 Much moved as I was by his fate I could not bring 
 myself to giasp 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 ^hame passed over l)is 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 
 with an expression that haunted me for days. He 
 was gazing thus when the heavy door was shut 
 and hid him from my sight for ever. 
 
 I turned away sick at heart, perhaps regretting 
 I had added anything to his shame and punish- 
 ment> I sought my obliging friend, the Captain, 
 and received his word of honour 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 v/ithout a moment's delay for 
 England — and Pauline I 
 
 In half -an -hour all was ready. Ivan and I
 
 t68 CALLED BACK. 
 
 Stepped into the carriage; the yemschik flourislied 
 his whip ; the horses sprang forward ; the bells 
 jingled merrily, and away we went in the darkness; 
 commencing the return journey which counted by 
 thousands of miles. It was only now, when burn- 
 ing to find myself home again, that I realised the 
 fearful distance which lay between me and my 
 love. 
 
 A turn of the road soon hid the gloom)' ostrog 
 from my sight, but it was not until we were miles 
 and miles av/ay that my spirits recovered anything 
 like their former tone, and it was days before I 
 ceased to think, at nearh/ every moment, of that 
 terrible place in which I had found Ceneri, 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 recapit- 
 ulate the journey. The weather nearly all the 
 time was favourable, the roads were in good con- 
 dition. My impatience forced me to travel almost 
 day and night. I spared no expense ; my extra- 
 ordinary passport procured me horses when other 
 travellers 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 
 roubles. 
 
 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 I 
 
 On my road back from Irkutsk I found a letter
 
 CALLED BACK. It>9 
 
 from Piiocilla 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 
 quiet but beautiful little watering-place on the 
 north coast, and Priscilla averred that Pauline 
 <« was blooming as a rose, and seemed as sensible 
 &3 Master Gilbert himself." 
 
 No wonder after hearing this good rews I was 
 eager to reach home — longing, not only to see my 
 wile again, but to see her as I have never yet seen 
 her, with her mind restored. Would she remember 
 me ? How should we meet ? Would she at last 
 learn to love me ? Were my troubles at an end 
 or only begun ? These were the questions which 
 could only be answered when England was 
 rearhed. 
 
 Home at la?t ! How delightful to stand among 
 one's own country m^n, and hear nothing but good 
 intelligible English around me. I am bronzed 
 with exposure to the wind and sun, my beard has 
 grown to a great length ; one or two acquaintances 
 1 met when 1 reached London scarcely knew me. 
 In my present trim i could not hope that 1 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 apprised 
 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 ? Yet, that 
 pitiful hundred and fifty miles seemed to me as 
 long as a thousand did a month ago. The last few 
 miles I had to go by coach, and, ahhough four 
 Splendid horses spun us along, each individual
 
 ryo CALLED BACK. 
 
 mile seemed as long as a Siberian stage. But the 
 journey was at last ended, and, leaving my luggage 
 m 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 enquired for Mrs. Drew. She was not at home 
 ■ — had gone out with the young lady sometime ago, 
 and would not be back until the evening. I turned 
 av/ay and went in search of them. 
 
 It was early autumn, but the leaf showed no 
 signs of fading. Everything 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 vallej', and 
 leapt joyously into the sea. On either hand were 
 great tors, and behind them, inland, hills covered 
 with woods, and in front of me stretcliing away 
 and away was the calm green sea. The scene was 
 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 m-ust offer 
 irresistible attractions ; so I found my way down 
 the steep liiil, 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 boulders which disputed its passage.
 
 CALLED BACK. I7I 
 
 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 1 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 
 recognised 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 
 I stood I could not see her face — so I crept on inch 
 Dy inch till I was nearly opposite the sketcher, 
 and, half hidden by the undergrowth, 1 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 wa^ 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 wa}' 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
 
 17a CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 
 whispered, as I disengaged myself and, walked 
 towards 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 hesitartion, 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 ai'e 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 — everything that happened." 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " 
 
 " Not now — not now," she cried eagerly. '< Wait, 
 and it may all come back." 
 
 Had she any inkling of the truth ? Were the 
 ilreams she spoke of but the struggles of growing 
 ricmory ? Did that bright ring which was still on
 
 CALLED BACK. 173 
 
 her finger suggest to her what had happened? 
 Yes, I would wait and hope. 
 
 We walked back together, with Friscilla folFow- 
 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 
 travelling. Did you find what you sought ?" she 
 asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes. I found the truth. I know everything." 
 
 •'Tell me where he is ?" 
 
 '* Where who is ? " 
 
 " Anthony, my own brother — the boy they killed. 
 Where is his grave ?" 
 
 " He is buried by the side of his mother." 
 
 «* Thank God ! 1 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 thos3 who killed 
 him?" 
 
 •'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 
 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?" 
 
 " Macan. ' 
 
 She shuddered at the name and said no more.
 
 174 CALLED BACK. 
 
 Just before we reached the house in which they 
 lodged, she said, softly and beseechinj^ly, — 
 
 " You will take me to Italy — to his grave ? ' 
 ^ 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 vv'iil 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, 
 
 My 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 persons 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 Vv^oman I loved. 
 
 Her smile was a joy greater than I had ever
 
 CALLED BACK. I75 
 
 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 anyone's — to know 
 that when the time came I should be given not 
 only a wife, beautiful, in my eyes, above all v.'omen, 
 but a companion and a sympathetic friend — how 
 can 1 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 ? 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 favourable to me. No 
 wonder that when with Pauline, and realising the 
 value of the prize I aimed at, I grew quite humble 
 and depreciatory of what merits 1 may have pos- 
 sessed. No wonder that at times I wished that 1 
 were gifted with that pleasing assurance which sits 
 so well on many men, and time and opportunity
 
 lyb CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 
 company. We wandered through the narrow 
 Devonshire 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 accord, 
 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 remembered more 
 tha-n she would own to, kept me steadfast in this 
 resolution. 
 
 It was curious the way m which she at once 
 fell into friendly, unconstrained intercourse with 
 me. We might have known each other from 
 childliood, 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 christian name, nor did she object to my 
 making use of her own. Had she done so, I can- 
 not 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 compounded 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
 
 CALLED BACK. 177 
 
 to our neighbours, who no doubt wondered v/hat 
 relations existed between me and the beautiful 
 girl at whose side I ever was. 
 
 I soon found that Pa;uhne's natural disposition 
 was gay and bright'. It was too soon yet to expect 
 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 
 for ever. Now and again a pleased smile lit up 
 her face; and merry words slipped from her lips. 
 Although, when reason first returned to her, it 
 seemed as if her brother's death had occurred but 
 the day before, I felt sure that, after a vv'hile, she 
 understood that years had passed sincethe fatal 
 night. These years were to her wrapped in a mist ; 
 they seemed as dreams. She was trying to recall 
 them, beginning at the beginning ; and I need not 
 say with what alacrity I lent my aid. 
 
 By common consent v/e avoided the future ; but 
 of the past, or all the past in which I was not 
 concerned, we spoke freely. All the events of her 
 early years she now remembered perfectly ; she 
 could account for everything 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
 
 178 CALLED BACK. 
 
 companion I found her dark eyes gazing at me 
 with ahnost painful earnestness. 
 
 " Tell me," she eaid, " tell me what I shall find 
 when that lost time comes back to me." 
 
 Her finders 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 y should I hope so ? Tell 
 me, will it bring me joy or sorrow ?" 
 
 " 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 pro- 
 mised 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 sight. 
 
 " PauHne," 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 know that it could not 
 
 be so." 
 
 «' And then ? " 
 
 " I saw your face many times — it was always 
 travelling, travelling through clouds. I saw your 
 lips move, and you seemed to say, • I am going to 
 
 i
 
 CALLED BACK. 179 
 
 learn the truth' — so I waited patiently till you 
 returned." 
 
 " You never dreamed of me before ? " 
 
 It was growing dusk. I was uncertain whether 
 it was the deepening shade from the trees which 
 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 custom 
 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 
 interwoven. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 —
 
 l8o CALLED BACK. 
 
 "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 
 coming in." 
 
 " Not coming in, Master Gilbert ! Miss Pauline 
 will be vexed." 
 
 " She is tired and not quite well. You had 
 better 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 par- 
 ticular occasion to resume what she could of that 
 authority she liad been delegated to exercise over 
 me during my tender years — an authority I did 
 not dare to dispute until long after I had been 
 invested with jackets and trousers. I have no 
 doubt but she would have liked to have seized me 
 by the collar and given m.e a sound shaking. As 
 it was she was obliged to content herself with 
 throwing a world of sorrowful indignation into 
 her voice. 
 
 '• Sht may easily feel ill, poor young lady, when 
 her husband lives at one house and she at another. 
 And here's everybody roundabout trying to find 
 out what relation you two are to each other — 
 asking me all sorts of questions, and I znustn'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 '11 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.
 
 CALLED BACK. l8l 
 
 Oh, yes, Master Gilbert, I '11 tell her all ; and I '11 
 tell her how you went into her room and kissed 
 her ere you started on that fool's journey, 
 wherever it was. She '11 remember everything 
 fast enough then." 
 
 " I command you to say nothing." 
 
 " I 've heeded too many commands of yours. 
 Master Gilbert, to mind breaking one for jour 
 sake. T '11 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 diflicult 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 
 old friend. You love me too much to do anything 
 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, V 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 tor 3'ou ? " 
 — to forget or to recall ? How much did she 
 forget — how much did she recall ? Had those 
 rings on her hands not shown her that she was a 
 wile J Could she help suspecting whose wife she 
 was ? Even if she remembered nothing about our 
 strange hurried marriage, nothing about our sub-
 
 1.82 CALLED BACK, 
 
 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? 
 
 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 
 sorrow. 
 
 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 4ier 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 and again
 
 CALLED BACK. I83 
 
 1 recalled her last words and commenced one of 
 those weighings of hopes and fears which always 
 means self-torture. Why, if Pauline had guessed 
 the truth, had she not asked me about it ? How 
 could she spe-ad hour after hour with me, knowing 
 she was my wife, yet not knowing how she became 
 so ? 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 
 tras 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 
 guessing 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 
 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.
 
 184 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 onl}^ 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 ? The answer had 
 been given before the question had been put. 
 She saw me looking at that little white hand of 
 hers, but simply dropt her lashes and said nothing. 
 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 more. 
 
 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 
 conventional politeness. Shyness and restraint 
 now made themselves manifest in every word and 
 action — perhaps, in mine also. We spent the day
 
 CALLED BACK. I85 
 
 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 1 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 favourably. 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 teUing Pauhne 
 evf:rything; and I felt inclined to attribute niy 
 failure to the old woman's officiousness in making 
 a premature revelation. All might have gone well 
 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 for ever- 
 
 "l could not go without explaining some things 
 ro 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
 
 l86 CALLED BACK. 
 
 husband, would supply It. When this was arranged, 
 farewell for ever! " 
 
 As soon as I had finished my pretence at a 
 breakfast, I walked across to the house where 
 Pauline lodged. As yet she knew nothing of my 
 purpose. 1 held her hand rather longer than 
 usual, and by a desperate effort forced words to 
 my lips. 
 
 '* I am come to say good-bye. 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 fieshness 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 
 matters," 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-
 
 CALLED BACK. I87 
 
 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 
 through the valley. It was a favourite resort of 
 mine. Her# I had sat for hours talking to Pauhne, 
 and here in my dreams I had poured forth the 
 words of love I longed to speak — and here I was 
 to say good-bye for ever ! 
 
 My frame of mind was a sad one when 1 reached 
 the Clearing. I threw myself down on the sloping 
 ground and turned my eyes up the path by which
 
 l88 CALLED BACK. 
 
 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 awhile 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 
 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 v/ords that one 
 can find at such a time, '* I love you ! I love you 1 
 I love you ! " 
 
 For no man yet has seen in a womacn's ej^es the 
 look I saw m 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 for ever. I knew it ; J could feel 
 it every time my lips touched hers. The bright
 
 CALLED BACK. I89 
 
 blush which spread from her cheek to her neck 
 proclaimed it — her suffering without resistance my 
 passionate caresses confirmed it — hut 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 ^aid, 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 ?' When did you re- 
 member ? ' 
 
 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 memory 
 come back ? 
 
 " Dearest, she whispe ed, 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 
 everything." 
 
 " 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
 
 190 CALLBD BACK. 
 
 did net 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 
 ner waiting to see if I loved her seemed so pre- 
 posterous ! 
 
 '* You would have saved me days of grief if I 
 had known you cared for me. Why did you take 
 ofi" the rings, Pauline ? " 
 
 '* 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 loath 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." 
 
 " And afterwards ? " she asked, wistfully.
 
 CALLED BACK. 
 
 191 
 
 «« 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 gomg 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 ! 
 
 The 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 on her shoulder. 
 
 " But, Priscilla, Miss Pauline— Mrs. Vaughan, 
 my wife, goes with me." 
 
 Priscilla's tears came more copiously than before, 
 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 
 and the promise of the future. Let the love I 
 bore my brother be carried into the greater iove 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
 
 iga CALLED BACK. 
 
 contest were visible everywhere. 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 Vendome 
 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. The}' were escorting three men, who 
 walked with fettered hands and bowed heads. 
 ♦' Who are they ? " 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. 
 I looked closely at them as they passed us. One 
 of them raised h^'^ 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 \v^s caused by no 
 feeling of compassion. Ceneri, in spite of m3'self, 
 I pitied, and would have aided had it been possible; 
 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. / 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
 
 CALLED BACK. IQj 
 
 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, flippmg 
 the ash off his cigar. 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 But we heard it. In ten minutes the rattle of 
 ritles 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 deHvered 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 Pauhne'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 harbouring ? Could 
 it have been Pauline, whose eyes now shine with 
 love and intelligence, who lay for months, even
 
 194 CALLED BACK. 
 
 years, with the sweet bells of her intellect jangled 
 and out of tune ? 
 
 Yes, it must be so ; for she has read every line 
 I have written, and as we peruse and revise this 
 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. 
 
 Printed In Great Britain by J. W. Arrowjmith Ltd.. Bristol.
 
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