The Mystery of the Green Ray

“I don’t think you need worry at all, Mr. Ewart,” my new friend assured me. “The trains will run all right. They may alter the services where they have too many trains, but here they are not likely to do so. Thank heaven, I shall not be travelling again for some time. I hate it, although I have to run about a good deal. I have a few modest investments that take up a considerable portion of my time. I figure on one or two boards, you know.”

I thanked him for his kindly interest, and left him. I wired to Dennis not to meet the train, but to be prepared to put me up the following night. Then I got the tickets, and took Myra to the train. Hilderman was seeing his friend off; a short, somewhat stout man, with flaxen hair, and small blue eyes peering through a pair of large spectacles. He bowed to us as we passed, and I was struck by the kindly sympathy with which both he and his companion glanced at Myra. Evidently they both realised what a terrible blow to her the loss of her sight must be. I will admit that, when it came to the time for the train to start, my heart nearly failed me altogether. The sight of the beautiful blind girl saying good-bye to her dog was one which I hope I may never see again. As the train steamed out into the cutting Sholto was left whining on the platform, and it was as much as Angus could do to hold him back. Poor Sholto; he was a faithful beast, and they were taking his beloved mistress away from him. Myra sat back in the carriage, and furtively wiped away a tear from her poor sightless eyes.

“Poor old fellow,” she said, with a brave smile. “If they can’t do anything for me in London he will have to lead me about. It’ll keep him out of mischief.”

“Don’t say that, darling!” I groaned.

“Poor old Ron,” she said tenderly. “I believe it’s worse for you than it is for me. And now that Mary has left us for a bit I want to say something to you, dear, while I can. You mustn’t think I don’t understand what this will mean to you, dear. I want you to know, darling, that I hope always to be your very great friend, but I don’t expect you to marry a blind girl.”

I shall certainly not tell the reader what I said in reply to that generous and noble statement.

“Besides, dear,” I concluded eventually, “you will soon be able to see again.” And so I tried to assure her, till presently Mary returned. And then we made her comfortable, and I read to her in the darkened carriage until at last my poor darling fell into a gentle sleep.

But twenty-six hours later, when I had seen Myra safely back to her aunt’s house from Harley Street, I staggered up the stairs to Dennis’s rooms in Panton Street a broken man.

Dennis opened the door to me himself.

“Ronald!” he cried, “what has happened?”

“Hello, old man,” I said weakly; “I’m very, very tired.”

My friend took my arm and led me into his sitting-room, and pressed me gently on the sofa. Then he brought me a stiff brandy and soda, and sat beside me in silence for a few minutes.

“Feel better, old boy?” he asked presently.

“Yes, thanks, Den,” I answered. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

“Tell me,” he said, “when you feel well enough.” But I lay, and closed my eyes, for I was dog-tired, and could not bring myself to speak even to Dennis of the specialist’s terrible verdict. And soon Nature asserted herself, and I fell into a deep sleep, which was the best thing I could have done. When I awoke I was lying in bed, in total darkness, in Dennis’s extra room. I sat up, and called out in my surprise, for I had been many miles away in my slumbers, and my first hope was that the whole adventure had been a hideous nightmare. But Dennis, hearing my shout, walked in to see if I wanted anything.

“Now, how do you feel?” he asked, as he sat on the side of the bed.

“Did you carry me in here and put me to bed?” I asked idly.

“You certainly didn’t look like walking, and I thought you’d be more comfortable in here,” he laughed.

“Great Scott, man!” I cried, suddenly remembering his heart trouble, “you shouldn’t have done that, Dennis. You promised me you’d take no risks.”

“Heavens! that was nothing,” he declared emphatically. “You’re as light as a feather. There was no risk in that.”

Indeed, as events were to prove, it was only the first of many, but being ignorant of that at the time, I contented myself with pointing out that very few feathers turned the scale at twelve-stone-three.

“Now look here, old son,” said Dennis, in an authoritative voice. “You mustn’t imagine I’m dealing with your trouble, whatever it is (for you are in trouble, Ronald), in a matter-of-fact and unsympathetic way. But what you’ve got to do now is to get up, have a tub, slip into a dressing-gown, and have a quiet little dinner with me here. It’s just gone eight, so you ought to be ready for it.”

He disappeared to turn on the bath-water, and then, when he met me in the passage making for the bathroom, he handed me a glass.

“Drink this, old chap,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “I don’t want any fancy pick-me-ups. They only make you worse afterwards.”

“That was prescribed by Doctor Common Sense,” he answered lightly. “It’s peach bitters!”

After my tub I was able to tackle my dinner, with the knowledge that I was badly in need of something to eat, a feeling which surprised me very much. Throughout the meal Dennis told me of the enlistment of Jack and poor Tommy Evans, and we discussed their prospects and the chances of my seeing them before they disappeared into the crowded ranks of Kitchener’s Army. Dennis himself had been ruthlessly refused. He spoke of trying his luck again until they accepted him, but I knew, from what he told me of the doctor’s remarks, that he had no earthly chance of being passed. He seemed to have entirely mastered his regret at his inability to serve his country in the ranks, but I understood at once that he was merely putting his own troubles in the background in face of my own. The meal over, we “got behind” two of Dennis’s excellent cigars, and made ourselves comfortable.

“Now then, old man,” said my friend, “a complete and precise account of what has happened to you since you left King’s Cross two days ago.”

“It has all been so extraordinary and terrible,” I said, “that I hardly know where to begin.”

“I saw you last at the station,” he said, laying a hand on my knee. “Begin from there.” So I began at the beginning, and told him just what had happened, exactly as I have told the reader.

Dennis was deeply moved.

“And then you saw Olvery?” he asked. “What did he say?”

I got up, paced the room. What had Olvery said? Should I ever forget those blistering words to the day of my death?

“Come, old boy,” said Dennis kindly. “You must remember that Olvery is merely a man. He is only one of the many floundering about among the mysteries of Nature, trying to throw light upon darkness. You mustn’t imagine that his view is necessarily correct, from whichever point he looked at the case.”

“Thank you for that,” I said. “I am afraid I forgot that he might possibly be mistaken. He says he knows nothing of this case at all; he can make nothing of it; it is quite beyond him. He is certain that no such similar case has been brought to the knowledge of optical science. His view is that there is the remotest possibility that this green veil may lift, but he says he is sure that if there were any scientific reason for saying that her sight will be restored he would be able to detect it.”

“I prefer your Dr. Whitehouse to this man any day,” said Dennis emphatically. “He took just the opposite view. This man Olvery, like so many specialists, is evidently a dogmatic egotist.”

“I’m very glad you can give us even that hope. But the eyes are such a delicate instrument. It is difficult to see how the sight can be recovered when once it has gone. Of course, Olvery is going to do what he can. He has suggested certain treatment, and massage, and so forth, and he has no objection to her going back home again. Myra, of course, is tremendously anxious for me to take her back to her father. She is worrying about him already; and, fortunately, Olvery knows Whitehouse, and has the highest opinion of him.”

“Go back as soon as you can, old chap,” Dennis advised. “Wire me if there is anything I can do for you at this end. I’ll make some inquiries, and see if I can find out anything about any similar cases, and so on. But you take the girl back home if she wants to go.”

While we were still talking, Dennis’s man, Cooper, entered.

“Telegram for Mr. Ewart, sir,” he said.

I took the yellow envelope and opened it carelessly.

“What is it?” cried Dennis, springing to his feet as he saw my face.

“Read it,” I said faintly, as I handed it to him. Dennis read the message aloud:

“Come back at once. I can’t stand this. Sholto is blind. – McLeod.”

CHAPTER VI.

CONTAINS A FURTHER ENIGMA

Back again at King’s Cross. I seemed to have been travelling on the line all my life. Myra turned to Dennis to say good-bye.

“I hope,” she said bravely, “that when we meet again, Mr. Burnham, I shall be able to tell you that I can see you looking well.”

“I do hope so, indeed, Miss McLeod,” said Dennis fervently, with a quick glance at me. He was lost in admiration at the quiet calm with which my poor darling took her terrible affliction.

“Good-bye, old chap,” my friend said to me cheerily. “I hope to hear in a day or two that Miss McLeod is quite well again. And,” he added in a whisper, “wire me if I can be of the slightest use.”