Martin Edwards - Called Back

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—

‘Spare me! I am blind! blind! blind!’

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 assertion. 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 could compete successfully with the man who held me down. I could feel the nervous power of his hands and arms. Certainly, now that I was blind and helpless, the struggle would be a short one. Besides, he had companions, how many I knew not, ready to help him. The first movement I made would be the end of 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! Expecting every moment to feel the sharp stab of a knife or the fiery sting of a bullet! Seeing nothing and feeling nothing save the hands upon his throat and the dead body beneath him! Even hearing nothing save that stifled moaning in the distance! Can the wildest flights of fiction show a parallel to my case?

Since that night I have quite disbelieved in the possibility of people’s hair turning suddenly 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 everything around me safe, still, and at peace; even though I know the ones I love are close at hand, my pen trembles, my blood feels chilled, and a faintness steals over me as the recollection of the most terrible moments in my life comes to me with a vividness I cannot describe. It was well for me that I could keep still and cry again and again, ‘I am blind—look and see!’ My quiescence, the tone of my voice, may have turned the balance on which my life hung—may have carried conviction to my hearers. Presently the strong light of a lamp was perceptible to my obscured vision; a lamp placed so close to me that I could feel its hot glow upon my face; and I was aware that someone was stooping or kneeling down and peering into my eyes. His breath struck against my cheek: a short, quick, excited breath—how could it be otherwise after the deed in which he had just taken part?

At last he rose; a moment afterward the restraining hands moved from me, and then, for the first time, I began to hope that my life might be spared.

As yet none of those around me had spoken. Now I heard voices, but whispering so softly that even my sharpened ears could not catch the purport of a single word, although I could gather that three persons at least were engaged in that hushed consultation.