William Le Queux - The Mystery of the Green Ray

“Myra, my darling,” I cried as I reached her, and took her in my arms, “what is it, dearest? For God’s sake tell me – what is it?”

“Oh, Ronnie, dear,” she said, “I don’t know, darling. I don’t understand.” Her voice broke as she lifted her beautiful face to me. I looked into those wonderful eyes, and they gazed back at me with a dull, meaningless stare. She stretched out her arm to grasp my hand, and her own hand clutched aimlessly on my collar.

In a flash I realised the hideous truth.

Myra was blind!

“Oh, Ronnie, darling,” Myra asked, in a pitiful voice that went to my heart. “What can it mean? I – I – I can’t see – anything at all.”

“It’s the sun, darling; it will be all right in a minute or two. There, lie in my arms, dear, and close your poor eyes. It will be all right soon, dearest.”

I tried to comfort her, to assure her that it was just the glare on the water, that she would be able to see again in a moment, but I felt the pitiful inadequacy of my empty words, and it seemed that the light had gone out of my life. I pray that I may never again witness such a harrowing sight as that of Myra, leaning her beautiful head on my shoulder, suddenly stricken blind, doing her best to pacify her dog, who was heart-broken in the instinctive knowledge of a new, swift grief which he could not understand.

I must ask the reader to spare me from describing in detail the terrible agony of the next few days, when the hideous tragedy of Myra’s blindness overcame us all in its naked freshness. I cannot bring myself to speak of it even yet. I would at any time give my life to save Myra’s sight, her most priceless possession. I make this as a simple statement of fact, and in no spirit of romantic arrogance, and I think I would rather die than live again the gnawing agony of those days.

I took Myra in my arms, and carried her back to the house. Poor child; she realised almost immediately that I was as dumbfounded as she was herself at the terrible blow which had befallen her, and that I had no faith in my empty assurances that it would soon be all right again, and she would be able to see as well as ever in an hour or two, at most. So she at once began to comfort me! I marvelled at her bravery, but she made me more miserable than ever. I felt that she might have a sort of premonition that she would never see again. As we crossed the stream above the fall I saw again the reflected light from Hilderman’s window, and a pang shot through me as I remembered her words on that very spot – that she would rather die than be unable to see her beloved mountains.

I clutched her in my arms, and held her closer to me in dumb despair.

“Am I very heavy, Ron, dear?” she asked presently. “If you give me your hand, dear, I could walk. I think I could even manage without it; but, of course, I should prefer to have your hand at any time.” She gave a natural little laugh, which almost deceived me, and again I marvelled at her pluck. I had known Myra since she was four, and I might have expected that she would meet her tragic misfortune with a smile.

“You’re as light as a feather, dearest,” I protested, “and, as far as that goes, I’d rather carry you at any time.”

“I’m glad you were here when it happened, dear,” she whispered.

“Tell me, darling, how did it happen?” I asked. “I mean, what did it seem like? Did things gradually grow duller and duller, or what?”

“No,” she answered; “that was the extraordinary part of it. Quite suddenly I saw everything green for a second, and then everything went out in a green flash. It was a wonderful, liquid green, like the sea over a sand-bank. It was just a long flash, very quick and sharp, and then I found I could see nothing at all. Everything is black now, the black of an intense green. I thought I’d been struck by lightning. Wasn’t it silly of me?”

“My poor, brave little woman,” I murmured. “Tell me, where were you then?”

“Just where you found me, on the Chemist’s Rock. I call it the Chemist’s Rock because it’s shaped like a cough-lozenge. I was casting from there; it makes a beautiful fishing-table. I looked up, and then – well, then it happened.”

“We’re just coming to the house,” said Myra suddenly. “We’re just going to turn on to the stable-path.”

“Darling!” I cried, nearly dropping her in my excitement; “you can see already?”

“Oh, Ronnie, I’m so sorry,” she said penitently. “I only knew by the smell of the peat stacks.” I could not restrain a groan of disappointment, and Myra stroked my face, and murmured again, “I’m sorry, dearest.”

“Will you please put me down now?” she asked. “If daddy saw you carrying me to the house he’d have a fit, and the servants would go into hysterics.” So I put her tenderly on her feet, and she took my arm, and we walked slowly to the house. She could see nothing, not even in the hazy confusion of the nearly blind; yet she walked to the house with as firm a step and as natural an air as if she had nothing whatever the matter with her.

“You had better leave dad to me, Ron,” she suggested. “We understand each other, and I can explain to him. You would find it difficult, and it would be painful for you both. Just tell him that I’m not feeling very well, and he’ll come straight to me. Don’t tell him I want to see him. Give me your arm to my den, dear.”

I led her to her “den,” a little room opening on to the verandah. There was a writing-table in the window covered with correspondence in neat little piles, for Myra was on all the charity committees in the county, and the rest of the room was given up to a profusion of fishing tackle, shooting gear, and books. Sholto followed us, every now and then rubbing his great head against her skirt. I left her there, and turned into the hall, where I met the General. He had heard us return.

“You’re back early, my boy,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I said, taking out my cigarette-case to give myself an air of assurance which was utterly unknown to me. “Myra is not feeling very well. She’s resting for a bit.”

“Not well?” he exclaimed, in surprise. “Very unusual, very unusual indeed.” And he turned straight into Myra’s room without waiting for an answer to his quiet tap on the door. With a heavy heart I went upstairs to the old schoolroom, now given over to Mary McNiven, Myra’s old nurse.

“Master Ronald! I am glad,” she cried, when I accepted her invitation to “come in.” Mary had boxed my ears many times in my boyhood, and the fact that we were old friends made it difficult for me to tell her my terrible news. I broke it as gently as I could, and warned her not to alarm the servants, and very soon she wiped away her tears and went downstairs to see what she could do. I went out into the fresh air for a moment to pull myself together, marvelling at the unreasoning cruelty of fate. I turned into the hall, and met the General coming out of Myra’s room. He was talking to Mary and one of the housemaids.

“These things often occur,” he was explaining in a very matter-of-fact voice. “They are unusual, though not unheard-of, and very distressing at the time. But I am confident that Miss Myra will be quite herself again in a day or two. Meanwhile, she had better go to bed and rest, and take care of herself while Angus fetches Doctor Whitehouse. No doubt he will give her some lotion to wash her eyes with, and it will be only a day or two before we see Miss Myra about again as usual. You must see that she has no light near her, and that she rests her eyes in every possible way. There is nothing whatever for you girls to get anxious or frightened about. I have seen this sort of thing before, though usually in the East.”