Martin Edwards – Called Back (страница 4)

I soon heard an approaching step; but such a staggering, uncertain, lurching kind of step, that from the sound of the feet alone I was able to determine the condition of their owner, and was obliged to decide that he was not the man I wanted. I must let him pass and wait for another. But the feet staggered up to me and stopped near me, whilst a voice, jolly, but like the feet unsteady, cried—

‘‘’Nother feller worsh than me! Can’t get on at all—eh, old chap? Comfort t’ think someone’s head ’ll ache worsh than mine tomorrow!’

‘Can you tell me the way to Walpole Street?’ I asked, standing erect to show him I was sober.

‘Walpole Street—course I can—closhe by—third to left, I think.’

‘If you are going that way would you lead me to the corner of it. Unhappily I am blind and have lost my way.’

‘Blind, poor beggar—not screwed then. Guess I’m in nice state to lead 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.’

‘Wish I were all right. Wish I could borrow your legs to take me home,’ said my bibulous conductor. ‘Good night—Blesh you.’

I heard him tack away, then turned to complete my journey.

I was not quite certain as to which end of Walpole Street I was starting from; that mattered little. Either sixty-two or sixty-five paces would leave me in front of my door. I counted sixty-two, and then felt for the entrance between the railings; not finding it, I went on a step or two until I came to it. I was glad to have reached home without accident, and, to tell the truth, was beginning to feel a little ashamed of my escapade. I hoped that Priscilla had not discovered my absence and alarmed the house, and I trusted I should be able to regain my room as quietly as I had quitted it. With all my elaborate calculations, I was not quite sure that I had hit upon the right house; but if they were incorrect I could only be a door or two away from it, and the key in my hand would be a certain test. 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 house 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 night, for I was able to distinguish light from darkness. As I had found myself so close to Walpole Street I could not have walked for any length of time in my ecstatic state, so I fancied it must be somewhere about two o’clock.

Even more anxious than when I started to make no noise which might awaken people, I found the bottom of the staircase and began my stealthy ascent.

Somehow, blind as I was, the place seemed unfamiliar to me. The balustrade I was touching did not seem the same. The very texture of the carpet under my feet seemed different. Could it be possible that I had entered the wrong house? There are plenty of instances on record of a key having opened a strange lock. Could I, through such a circumstance, have strayed into a neighbour’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, with a plaster figure upon it, hung near the top of the stairs. I knew the exact place, having been cautioned many times to keep my head by going on and feeling for this landmark; so on I went.

I ran my fingers softly along the wall, but no bracket could I find. My hand touched the lintel of a door instead. Then I knew, for certain, I was in the wrong house. The only thing to be done was to creep out as quietly as I had entered and try my luck next door. As I turned to grope my way back I heard the murmur of voices—late as it was, there were people talking in the room, the door of which my fingers had so lightly touched.

I could not distinguish words, but I was sure the voices were those of men. I stood irresolute. Would it not be better to knock at the door and throw myself upon the mercy of the inmates of the room? I could apologize and explain. My blindness would account for the mistake. Someone 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 hardship 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 uncertainty would have driven me mad. Had it not been that I could pass many weary hours away playing to myself, that I could be taken to concerts and hear others play and sing, my days would have been unbearable, and I shudder to think of what aid I might have called in to render them less burdensome.

I waited and listened to the song. It was taken from an opera recently produced on the Continent, an opera not yet popularly known in England, and the song was one that few amateurs would dare to attempt. The singer, whoever she might be, sang it softly and under her voice, as though fearing to throw it out with full force. The lateness of the hour might well account for this restraint. Nevertheless, anyone capable of judging must have known he was listening to no ordinary singer. It was easy to recognize the trained skill and dormant power, and imagine what, under favourable circumstances, that voice might accomplish. I was enchanted. My idea was that I had stumbled 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 suddenly, and the cry, the piercing cry of a woman ring out like a frightful change from melody to discord, and then I heard a dull heavy thud on the floor!

I waited to hear no more. I knew that some dreadful deed had been perpetrated within a few feet of where I stood. My heart beat wildly and 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 everything save a desire to prevent the accomplishment of crime—the wish to do a man’s duty in saving life and succouring the ones in peril. I threw open the door and rushed headlong into the room. Then, as I became aware of the presence of strong light, but light which revealed nothing to me, the folly and rashness of my proceedings came fully home to me, and like a flash it crossed my mind that unarmed, blind and helpless, I had rushed into that room to meet my death.

I heard an oath—an exclamation of surprise. In the distance I heard the cry of the woman, but it sounded muffled and faint; it seemed to me that a struggle was going on in that part of the room. Powerless though I was to aid, I turned impulsively and took a couple of steps in the direction whence the cry came; my foot caught in something and I fell prostrate on the body of a man. Even in the midst of the horror that awaited me I shuddered as I felt my hand, lying on the fallen man, grow wet with some warm fluid which slowly trickled over it.

Before I could rise strong muscular living hands were upon my throat, holding me down, whilst a short distance off I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock. Oh, for a light for a second! If only to see those who were about to take my life, if only—strange fancy—to know in what part of me to expect the fatal bullet And I, who some hour or two ago lay and dared to wish for death, felt at this moment that life, even my darkened life, was as dear to me as to any creature under the sun. So, I cried aloud, and my voice sounded to me like the voice of a stranger—