Called Back

by Hugh Conway

  Sleep! Yes, it was sleep, if sleep means anything 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 me we were near to Edinburgh. I loosed my wife’s hand and recalled my senses. That dream must have been a vivid one, for it left me with the beads of perspiration clammy on my brow.

  Never having been to Edinburgh, and wishing to see something of the city, I had proposed staying 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 gentleman towards a lady in whose society he is thrown. Pauline thanked me for any little attention to her comfort, and that was all. The journey had been a long and trying one—she looked wearied out.

  ‘You are tired, Pauline,’ I said; ‘would you like to go to your room?’

  ‘I am very tired.’ She spoke almost plaintively.

  ‘Good night, then,’ I said; ‘tomorrow 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 while 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 power of loving at all? The apathy and utter indifference 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 consequences. Still I would hope—hope, particularly, for what tomorrow might bring forth.

  I walked about for a long time, thinking over my strange position. Then I returned to the hotel and sought my own apartment. It was one of the suite of rooms I had engaged, and next to my wife’s. I dismissed, as well as I could, all hopes and fears until the morning came, and, tired with the day’s events, at last slept.

  My bride and I did not visit the lochs as I had planned. In two days’ time I had learned 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 Ceneri had stipulated that Pauline’s husband should be content to take her without inquiring into her early life was clear. Pauline—my wife—my love, had no past!

  Or no knowledge of the past. Slowly at first, then with swift steps, the truth came home to me. Now I knew how to account for that puzzled, strange look in those beautiful eyes—knew the reason for the indifference, the apathy she displayed. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the morn; her figure was perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm—the mind—was missing!

  How shall I describe her? Madness means something quite different from her state. Imbecility 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—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 recognize the importance or bearing of occurrences taking place around her. Sorrow and delight were emotions she was incapable of feeling. Nothing appeared to move her. Unless her attention was called to them she noticed neither persons nor places. She lived as by instinct—rose, ate, drank, and lay down to rest as one not knowing why she did so. Such questions or remarks as came within the limited range of her capacity she replied to—those outside it passed unheeded, or else the shy troubled eyes sought for a moment the questioner’s face, and left him as mystified as I had been when first I noticed that curious inquiring look.

  Yet she was not mad. A person might have met her out in company, and after spending hours in her society might have carried away no worse impression than that she was shy and reticent. Whenever she did speak her words were as those of a perfectly sane woman; but as a rule her voice was only heard when the ordinary necessities of life demanded, or in reply to some simple question. Perhaps I should not be far wrong in comparing her mind to that of a child—but, alas! it was a child’s mind in a woman’s body—and that woman was my wife!

  Life to her, so far as I could see, held neither mental pleasure nor pain. Considered physically, I found that she was more influenced by heat and cold than by any other agents. The sun would tempt her out of doors, or the cold wind would drive her in. She was by no means unhappy. She seemed quite content to sit by my side, or to walk and drive with me for hours without speaking. Her whole existence was a negative one.

  And she was sweet and docile. She followed every suggestion of mine, fell in with every plan, was ready to go here, there, or 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 someone. 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 obedience 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 she was taking.

  Such was Pauline, my wife! A woman in her beauty and grace of person; a child in her clouded and unformed or stunted mind! And I, her husband, a strong man craving for love, might win from her, perchance, at last, what might be compared to the affection of a child to its parents, or a dog to its master.

  As the truth, the whole truth, came home to me, I am not ashamed to say that I lay down and wept in bitter grief.

  I loved her even now I knew all! I would not even have undone the marriage. She was my wife—the only woman I had ever cared for. I would 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 any hope that time and patient treatment would work an improvement. I would learn, moreover, the object of his concealment. I would, I swore, drag the truth from him, or it should cost me 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 objections. 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 mechanically went, she was as other people. In her toilet, even in her preparations for a journey, she needed no assistance. All her actions were those of a perfectly sane person; it was only when the mind was called upon to show itself that the 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 today 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 indifference, 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 difficulty in settling what course to pursue. I decided, after ventilating various schemes, that I would take Pauline to my own rooms in Walpole Street. I knew the people of the house well, and felt certain she would be taken care of during my absence; for, after a few hours’ repose, it was my intention to start in search of Ceneri. I had written from Edinburgh to Walpole Street, telling the good people there to be ready for me and whom to expect; moreover, I had again appealed to my faithful old servant, Priscilla, and begged her to be at the house awaiting my arrival. For my sake, I knew she would show every kindness to my poor girl. So to Walpole Street we went.

  All was in readiness for us. Priscilla received us with eyes full of curious wonder. I saw that her sympathies were at once enlisted by Pauline’s appearance. After a cup of tea and something to eat, I begged Priscilla to lead my wife to her room, 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 someone. The old woman, I knew, was trustworthy and would keep my affairs secret. So I told her all, or nearly all. I explained as well as I could Pauline’s peculiar mental state. I suggested all that my short experience brought to my mind, and I prayed Priscilla, by the love she bore me, to guard and be kind in my absence to the wife I loved. The promise being given I threw myself upon the sofa and slept for several hours.

  In the afternoon I saw Pauline again. I asked her if she knew where I could write to Ceneri. She shook her head.

  ‘Try and think, my dear,’ I said.

  She pressed her delicate finger tips against her brow. I had always noticed that trying to think always troubled her greatly.

  ‘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,’ I said. ‘Do you know the street?’

  She turned her puzzled eyes to mine. I sighed, as I knew my questions were useless.

  Still, find him I must. I would go to Geneva. If the man was a doctor, as he represented himself, 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. Everyone 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 wave of joy came over my heart, for I fancied that her eyes were looking sad, like the eyes of one taking leave of a dear friend. It may have been only fancy, but, as I had never before even fancied the expression there, that look in Pauline’s eyes was some comfort to carry away with me.

  And now for Geneva and il dottore Ceneri!

  CHAPTER VI

  UNSATISFACTORY ANSWERS

  I TRAVELLED in hot haste, as fast as steam would bear me, to Geneva; where I at once began my inquiries 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 practised in the town. If so, many people must know him. But he had misled me or I had deceived myself. For several days I hunted high and low; inquired everywhere; but not a soul could I find who knew the man. I called on every doctor in the place; one and all professed entire ignorance of such a colleague. At last I felt certain that the name he had given me was a fictitious one, or that Geneva was not his abode. However obscure a doctor may be, he is sure to he known by some of his professional brethren in the same town. I decided to go to Turin and try my luck there.

  It was on the eve of my intended departure. I was strolling about, feeling very sad at heart, and trying to persuade myself that I should fare better in Turin, when I noticed a man lounging along the opposite side of the street. As his face and bearing seemed familiar to me, I crossed the road to see him to better advantage. Being clothed in the inevitable tourist suit, he presented the appearance of an ordinary British traveller—so much so that I believed I must be mistaken. But I was right, after all. In spite of his changed attire, I recognized him the moment I drew near. He was the man with whom Kenyon had engaged in a wordy war outside San Giovanni—the man who had remonstrated with us for our expressed admiration of Pauline—the man who had walked away arm in arm with Ceneri.

  The chance was too good a one to be lost. He would, at least, know where the doctor was to be found. I trusted his memory for faces was not so retentive as mine; that he would not connect me with the unpleasant passage which occurred when we last met. I walked up to him, and raising my hat requested him to favour me with a few moments’ conversation.

  I spoke in English. He gave me a quick, penetrating glance, then acknowledging my salutation, 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 recognized the name. But in a second he recovered himself.

  ‘I cannot remember the name. I am sorry to say I am unable to help you.’

  ‘But,’ I said, in Italian, ‘I have seen you in his company.’

  He scowled viciously. ‘I know no man of the name. Good morning.’

  He raised his hat and strode away.

  I was not going to lose him like that. I quickened my pace and came up with him.

  ‘I must beg of you to tell me where I can find him. I must see him upon an important matter. It is no use denying that he is a friend of yours.’

  He hesitated, then halted. ‘You are strangely importunate, sir. Perhaps you will tell me your reason for your statement that the man you seek is my friend?’

  ‘I saw you arm in arm with him.’

  ‘Where, may I ask?’

  ‘In Turin—last spring. Outside San Giovanni.’

  He looked at me attentively. ‘Yes, I remember your face now. You are one of those young men who insulted a lady, and whom I swore to chastise.’

  ‘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. ‘I can take you to Ceneri,’ he sa
id, ‘but first I must know what you want with him, and why you mention Pauline’s name? The street is not the place to talk in—let us go elsewhere.’

  I led him to my hotel, to a room where we could talk at our ease.

  ‘Now, Mr Vaughan,’ he said, ‘answer my question, and I may see my way to helping you. What has Pauline March to do with the matter?’

  ‘She is my wife—that is all.’

  He sprang to his feet—a fierce Italian oath hissed from his lips. His face was white with rage.

  ‘Your wife!’ he shouted. ‘You lie—I say you lie!’

  I rose, furious as himself, but more collected.

  ‘I told you, sir, that I am an English gentleman. Either you will apologize for your words or I will kick you out of the room.’

  He struggled with his passion and curbed it. ‘I apologize,’ he said, ‘I was wrong. Does Ceneri know it?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Certainly; he was present when we were married.’

  His passion once more seemed upon the point of mastering him. ‘Traditore!’ I heard him whisper fiercely to himself. ‘Ingannatore!’ Then he turned to me with composed features.

  ‘If so, I have nothing more to do save to congratulate you, Mr Vaughan. Your fortune is indeed enviable. Your wife is beautiful, and of course good. You will find her a charming companion.’

  I would have given much to know why the mention of my marriage should have sent him into such a storm of rage, but I would have given more to have been able to fulfil my threat of kicking him out. The intonation of his last words told me that Pauline’s state of mind was well known to him. I could scarcely keep my hands off the fellow; but I was compelled to restrain my anger, as without his aid I could not find Ceneri.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly, ‘now perhaps you will give me the information I want.’

  ‘You are not a very devoted bridegroom, Mr Vaughan,’ said the fellow mockingly. ‘If Ceneri was at your wedding it could only have occurred a few days ago. It must be important business which tears you from the side of your bride.’