THE MAN FROM MELBOURNE

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 36, 1 December 1894, Page 13

THE MAN FROM MELBOURNE

By Mrs Henry E. Dudeney, Author of 44 The Strange Will of Josiah Kitterby,” “My Terrible Plight,” !fc.”

[ALL bights bbsbbved.] CHAPTER IX.

BYES OP THE BLIND. 4 You think it possible ?’ There was an eager catch in Christopher Cunliffe’s quiet voice. ‘ I think it certain.’ 4 There is some risk, surely, in my shattered state ?’ 4 Few operations are without risk; this would have a minimum.’ 4 You can give me back my eyes ?’ ‘You have never lost them — even the first examination convinced me of that.’ They were in the Chelsea drawingroom ; Christopher Cunliffe stretched out on his couch, Philip West on a chair beside it. It was almost two months since he had been of such signal service to May. In. that period he had become their most frequent visitor. Ho day passed that he did not pay a visit, shoit or long, to Sloane Mansions Most of his spare time —little enough, for he had a .large and increasing practice —was spent with the blind man and his daughter. Christopher Cunliffe was slowly recovering from the shock to his system. But his sight, so the eminent oculists he consulted told him, was hopelessly lost. Since, however, he had placed himself under Dr. West’s treatment, the latter had more xhan once hinted at hope ; to-day he spoke out plainly. ‘ Never lost them ! My dear sir, I am stone blind.’ 4 Pardon me, you are nothing of the kind, if by stone blind you mean hopelessly so. When on the night of the explosion yon went down into the kitchen, you, with the natural instinct of a man in a dark room, closed your eyes. This saved your sight! ‘ But I have lost it.’ 4 There is no permanent injury to the eyes. The nervous shock you received that night has temporarily paralysed the optic nerve —put it out of working orderin fact. The method of cure I propose is, as an initial step, to lemove the eyes for the purpose of performing a comparatively slight and not very dangerous operation — absolutely painless, I need hardly say, as you will be under the influence of anaesthetics. This operation must precede the treatment, which will be galvanic, in order to stimulate to action the benumbed nerve. In a few weeks after the operation, I hope to give you back your sight.’ 4 Thank God !’

The words came out with an earnest hurst of thankfulness. The mask of resignation which Christopher Cunliffe for his daughter’s sake had worn durning his months of darkness, dropped. • 1 shall be able to go back to my business —to the world,’ he said turning eyes pathetically blank on Philip West. ‘You, as a busy worker, will understand how much that means to me.’ ‘I understand,’ returned Philip with judicial sympathy. ‘At the same time, you must not be in too great a hurry to resume or even think of work, or you will retard the cure. Remember you have received a serious shock to your whole nervous system.’ ‘ The wonder is that it did not kill me. Feel .that.’ He guided the doctor’s hand to his heart, which kept up a quick, hammer-like beat under the loose dressing gown. With his free hand, Phillip held his patient’s pulse. ‘ What do you think of it ? ’ asked the invalid, more with curiosity than anxiety. ‘ I have never breathed a hint to May, but Sir Somorby Crees long ago told me how life stood with me, and warned me to be careful.’ ‘He is an authority on the heart,

no doubt. But I cannot help thinking that in your case he laid too great stress on the danger.’ He went over to the window where his hat stood, crown downwards, took out a stethoscope and held it over the thumping heart. 4 There is little enough to be anxious about,’ he said, with studied unconcern, when he took the instrument away. 4 People with hearts extensively diseased, which yours is not, have lived to a great old age. There is no reason why you should not do the same.’ 4 Still, you cannot assure me I am sound ? ’ 4 To be frank —no. Bat your danger simply consists in knowing and fretting over knowledge. Otherwise, there is little cause for anxiety. You must, of course, avoid undue excitement and extreme emotions. I will give Miss Cunliffe strict directions about your diet, and will send round a draught which you may take as occasion requires—whenever the palpitation becomes distressing.’ 4 ' Thank you. Any news from the outside world P But perhaps you are in a hurry to be off to see other patients ? ’ 4 May picks out what she considers light reading for an invalid,’ said her father with a fond smile, 4 but fashions and critiques of new novels and poems do not vastly interest me. She drones dutifully enough through Parliamentary news and state of finance when I ask her. But it’s tame reading. Yo can’t get a woman to glow over politics. I want my son. I suppose you do not know if anything has been heard of the 4 Czarewitch ?’ 4 Overdue steamer from Australia ? Strange you should ask me that! She is the one ship I have lately taken an interest in. Her failure to turn up to time worried me greatly.’ 4 You have a friend on board ?’ 4 1 had Dr Carl Amberley, an old college chum and the best friend of my manhood.’ 4 Then I am sorry for him and you : for myself too if Roy sailed in her. Everything points to her loss.’ 4 Loss ! My dear Mr Cunliffe, she came into dock at the beginning of last week, and Amberley, together with t‘he rest of the passengers, is safe and sound. She had a very bad passage, and comes home much damaged, but with every soul safe. 4 Well,’ said the old invalid, with a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment,, 4 I’m glad she is safe. I expect I worried more than you, since we believed Roy was on board.’

‘Your son P I had not an idea. And yet Miss Cunliffe did mention that he was expected to come by that steamer. Oh, no, he could not have come. Amberley in fact showed me a list of the saloon passengers, and Cunliffe was not among them. Doubtless he will come by the next ship.’ ‘ Doubtless he will. Though I almost hope now that he will not come till the operation is over. This temporary blindness would only startle and trouble the dear lad.’ When the door closed on the doctor, Christopher Cunliffe fell back dejectedly on his pillows. He was more disappointed and anxious than he would willingly admit about Roy’s failure to return in the Czarewitch. What had become of the boy ? Why, with money for his passage, with assurance of a hearty welcome, did he keep obstinate and mysterious silence P The father moaned at enforced inaction. If only he could see, could move about the world as he had once done ! When May came in she could write at his dictation a letter to Barclay and Dobbin, asking for news of Roy, when he broke his train of thought with a dull groan. A ghastly bluish tinge spread slowly over his pinched face, his hands pressed agonisingly against his breast. When §the sharp paroxysm was over, he lay weak as a child, drops drawn by intense pain beading on his forehead. In a minute or two he got up, groped round the room, with the stumbling indecision of a man lately blinded, found his desk, took his keys from his pocket, unlocked the desk, and took from it a packet of dark brown lozenges.

‘ This will ease me more than all all West’s draughts,” he said, with a grim smile, as he put one on his tongue and let it dissolve, stingingly sweet, in his mouth; then crept back to the sofa and pulled the rug up on him. As he lay, the brow unwrinkled, the veins at the back of the hand uncorded, the mouth grdw peaceful, a series of little easeful sighs fluttered from him before he fell into a still sleep. May met West in the hall and drew him into the dining room. ‘What about papa ? Can you really restore his sight P’

‘ I have no doubt of it.’ She looked across at him with confidence. He was so big and strong; his voice was so steady. ‘No doubt ? Really ! It seems too good to be true.’

‘lt is very good, but also very true.’ ‘lt seems almost a miracle that I have him at all,’ she said, ‘ after that terrible explosion. I quite thought he was dead—before they found him. When the men went downstaiis and were groping and stumbling about, I sat on the upper flight, trying to bring myself to believe that it was all over, that there could not be the faintest shadow of a doubt that my father was blown to atoms. At that time I thought the explosion an even more serious affair than it really was. Of course papa has told you the whole story —about that poor lunatic who threatened him, I hear he has been sent permanently to Hanwell. A letter from him came to papa the very day of the explosion. When I was awakened by the tremendous noise, my first thought was that this man had called at the house after I went to bed-—he had gained admittance once before, as you may have heard—that papa had gone down to the basement door, and that the madman had thrown in an explosive bomb and fled. But it turned out to be nothing so senational as dynamite. It was simply gas. Papa noticed a bad escape, went downstairs, without a light of course, trod on an unspent wax match which lay on the kitchen floor, and so ignited the gas. He has since told me that all he remembers is one great burst of blinding glare, penetrating even his closed eyelids. ‘ It seems rather strange that there should be a wax match on the floor. You do not use them in the kitchen, do you ?’ ‘ Dear me, no. It was cook’s young man who was spending the evening with her. He is a smoker, and must have dropped the match from his box when he took it out to light his pipe.’ They sat each side of the fire. A thin voice in the flat beneath was practising scales and cracking at the high notes. A muffin bell was tinkling cheerily in the grey streets. ‘ You will stay and have some tea,’ pleaded May, hospitably, as the tray came in.

‘ Thank you, I -will. It seems such a fitting accompaniment to the muffin hell.’ He told her about the return of the Czarewitch, and the failure of her brother to return in it. He told her about his friend Amberley who had come home in the steamer. ‘ A capital fellow, though slightly dull Just now. He is in love.’ ‘ Is that all ?’ She laughed a girl’s heart-whole laugh. ‘ He will get over that.’ ‘ He has lost, or rather failed to gain what he considers most necessary to happiness—his sweetheart.’ ‘ls she dead ?’ May’s voice was a little awed. It was West’s turn to laugh. ‘Nothing so final, orhe would have some chance of peace, knowing the affair to be hopeless. She is very much alive, a strong-minded girl who objects to burying her talent in the humdrum routine of matrimony.’ ‘ A girl with a career ! I think I should like to be that.’ ‘ I think you are much nicer as you are.’ He saw her blush at the clumsily apparent compliment. In silence and gloom, each felt that the other’s pulses were inconsequently bounding.

CHAPTER X. KILLED THE FATTED CALF. A man was walking along the Embankment on a crisp October morning : a young man, tall, fair, rather haggard and shabby. His walk veered from a slow stroll of nervous irresolution, to the jerky trot which says ; ‘ I have made up my mind to a daring, a dangerous action and I mean to go through with it.’ He came to full stop at Sloane Mansions, passed under the hooded door, entered the lift and was presently set down, with a gentle bump, on the Cunliffes’ landing. He knocked at the flat door: asked if he could see May. When the maid pressed for his name he jauntily parried the query by remarking : ‘ Tell her it is the Man from Melbourne.* He then stepped into the hall with the air of one who meant to stay, and was bowed into the x drawing-room. Left alone, and growing weary of waiting, he went to pull out his watch, then laughed grimly, remembering that it had that morning been pawned to pay his hotel bill. The colour ebbed and flowed in his face as he waited. 4 1 wish it were over,’ he groaned. 4 Pooh ! what a fool I am.’ A minute later May came rustling into the room. 4 What a charming girl! was his first thoughts as he looked at her fair face and deftly twisted masses of flaxen hair. ‘ You sent me in word that you were the man from Melbourne,’ she began staring hard at him with mystified eyes. 4 May, you don’t know me p I am Roy.’ She fancied that his eyes held a familiar expression; she saw that his hair, though more ruddy in tint than her own, twisted like hers into mutinous curls at the point. On his hand was a ring. 4 You are looking at our mother’s ring,’ he said softly, twisting as he spoke the trinket round a bony finger. May’s face broke into a ripple of welcome. 4 Roy ! Is it really ? Not a bit as I imagined you would be. How delighted lam to see you. We expected you by the 4 Czarewitch.’ ’ 4 1 just missed her at Melbourne, sofollowed by a sailing ship. We had a bad voyage —it has been a tremendously stormy autumn. I caught fever. The men, a rough enough set of fellows, did not relish an invalid on board. They were of two minds about putting me ashore at the first port we touched at. But the skipper nursed me like a woman and pulled me through.’ 4 1 can see that you have been ill. She looked compassionately at his leaness.

‘ The fever not only pulled me down but drained ray pockets,’ he said, with a rueful laugh, and a comprehensive glance at the seedy suit. ‘Oh ! that is a matter of small moment. Of course you know that papa is rich now; It Is so nice to have money. Don’t you remember, before you went away, how we used to go to Hastings for a fortnight in August, and live the rest of the year in a poky little house Brixton way ? ’ ‘ I remember it all. I also remember your falling on the rocks when we were paddling at low tide, and cutting your forehead against a jagged point.’ ‘ I have the scar still.’ She pushed back the flaxen hair and showed it. , I suppose the governor is at the office,’ Roy said presently. ‘ Does the dear old chap peg away as hard as ever ? ’ He started to see May’s face grow deadly white : to hear her say with quivering lips, ‘ You must be prepared for a great shock.’ ‘ Out with it,’ he said roughly. ‘J. can bear anything better than suspense. Not dead?’ ‘ Blind !’ She told him the story of the explosion. He was greatly moved. ‘lt is horrible,’ he muttered, and wished to go to the sick room at once.

But she said it was too early for the invalid to be disturbed. She managed, when the first hideousness ofethe revelation was over, by the rare gift ; of silence to accustom Roy slightly to the sad change before seeing Mr Cunlifie. When luncheon was announced, she persuaded him to go with her into the dining-room. She even lured him into chatting with comparative cheeriness about minor topics, and tabooed the subject nearest the.hearts of both. She forced a butterfly frivolity she did not feel. She spoke of a new actress, who was all the rage in London. ‘By the way, you must have seen her. She is a Melbourne actress. Her name is Kitty Peacher.’ His face grew sallow. * How ill you look 1’ cried May. ‘ A mere passing attack of faintness. The fever has left me weak. And I am greatly shocked about my father. I have not rallied from it yet. Take me to him now, May.’ His heart beat fast and thick, as they rose from their scarcely tasted luncheon, and crossing the hall went back to the drawing room. ‘ He is settled in here now,’ whispered May at the door. ‘ I heard Patkiss, his valet, led him in a few minutes sgo. Wait!

She turned the handle and went in. Roy tiptoed forward. The blinds were down. There was stillness as of a sanctuary about the place. May signed. He came forward and stood beside the figure on the couch. The blind face was turned towards him, a look of intense affection and satisfied desire threw a glow over the disfigured features. Christopher Cunliffe stiffly stretched out his arms. Roy knelt down and closed his round the. bandaged figure. May slipped out and left them.

After a while, when Roy’s first hurst of grief and sympathy had spent itself, the two men drifted into quiet chat on mundane matters. May had impressed on her brother that excitement was bad for the invalid, and begged him for that reason to control his emotion as much as possible. So Roy schooled himself to discuss with quietude any topic his father started.

The first was that of Messrs Barclay and Dobbin.

‘As things turned out, I should have been better in England,’ said Roy. * I come back six years older, to start again at the bottom, of the ladder.’

‘ There is little to regret, my boy. When you left England I was still a struggling man : to-day I am a rich one. Business is good—never better.’

Eever burned in his cheeks. He twisted impatiently among his pillows. ‘lf only I could be up and doing,’ he moaned. ‘ I was putting things in trim — for you to step into my shoes.’ ‘ I am an engineer.’ ‘ But you are a good business man. Barclay in his letters to me spoke highly of you. Now Philips, my partner, understands engineering as well as I do, he is a miserably bad business man. With you to control the commercial side of the business, and him to attend to pnre engineering, things ought to work without a hitch, I should have stayed at the office a year or so, just to put you through your paces, and then retired. But now —’ he touched with pathetic significance his sightless eyes. ‘ Deat father, do not let that aspect of your accident worry you. To be frank, I do not care for business, and should .like to strike out in some line purely uncommercial. I shall find my bent- in a few months. Meanwhile, I will not be a burden to you. Ido not mean to sit at home eating idle bread/

‘ I quite appreciate your spirit. Biitat present, as a favour tome and your sister you will live here and take a holiday from business of any kind. The next few w'eeks will be the turning point of my illness. My recovery is only a matter of time. I have even been encouraged to strongly hope that I shall regain my sight.’ ‘ Regain your sight P’ Roy’s voice held an excited tremor, the colour rushed to his face, his

eyes, which he fixed on Mr Cunliffe’s blind ones, looked startled. ‘By an operation. Established specialists well on in years and riches, and rather inclined to run in a rut, told me my case was hopeless. But Dr. Phillip West is a young, comparatively unknown and extremely clever man. He suggests a treatment, which he has explained to me and doubtless will to you, and by which there seems very little doubt he can give me back my sight.’ ‘ You would never,’ cried Roy, emphatically, ’ submit yourself to an experiment ? ’ ‘\V by not p ’ Christopher Cunliffe’s patient mouth twitch drolly. ‘ The last state of this man cannot be worse than the first. If the operation fail, it leaves me, at worst, only blind—as lam now. But we will discuss it more fully some other time Let me find how much or little you have altered. I have no eyes, my sense of touch is not so keen as that of a man born blind, but it serves me in good stead notwithstanding.’ He put out a lean arm and grasped one as lean.

‘ You are as thin as a herring to begin with.’ - ‘ That is the fever,’ explained Roy. ‘ Your voice, by the way. is deeper and changed in tone.’ ‘ I am older and have the Australian twang ’ The blind man ran a forefinger over his son’s face with a tickling tracerj that made the young man tingle from head to foot. ‘ There should be a mole here. I cannot find it.’ ‘ You never would. It is on the upper lip somewhere, hidden by the moustache.’ He gently took the tracing hand and pulled it from his face with a laugh and a shiver. ‘lt is not a pleasant sensation,’ he said. T suppose not, and it is not a necessary performance. In a few months I hope to have back my eyes.’ Late that night Roy paced Chelsea Embankment, for a smoke and a stroll, as he explained to May when she bade him good night and provided him with a latch key. They had spent a long evening alone, chatting by the fire. She had posted him with family news, sketched Bee Mocatta’s story, had drawn an enthusiastic portrait of Dr. West. The suggested operation on their father had been discussed, and Roy had objected to the idea strongly—calling it rank quackery—and hinting at its danger to life.

He tried to realise fully as he paced by the river bank, that this day of great event and risk was nearly over. Was he safe in staying with May and her father P Safe in putting from him dangerous memories, forgetting, if he could, a certain night in Melbourne and the awful event arising from it p Was the danger too great ? Should he throw up the whole business P How could he tell from day to day that the next dawn would ensure him security ? It was nearly midnight, so plunged had he been in anxious thoughts for the future and torturing thoughts of the past, before he went up the staircase of Sloane Mansions. (To be continued.)