Called Back

by Hugh Conway

  Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by J. W. Arrowsmith 1883

  Published by The Detective Story Club Ltd

  for Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1929

  Introduction © Martin Edwards 2015

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1929, 2015

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008137113

  Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780008137120

  Version: 2015-07-06

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter I: In Darkness and in Danger

  Chapter II: Drunk or Dreaming

  Chapter III: The Fairest Sight of All

  Chapter IV: Not for Love or Marriage

  Chapter V: By Law, Not Love

  Chapter VI: Unsatisfactory Answers

  Chapter VII: Claiming Relationship

  Chapter VIII: Called Back

  Chapter IX: A Black Lie

  Chapter X: In Search of the Truth

  Chapter XI: A Hell Upon Earth

  Chapter XII: The Name of the Man

  Chapter XIII: A Terrible Confession

  Chapter XIV: Does She Remember?

  Chapter XV: From Grief to Joy

  The Detective Story Club

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  CALLED BACK, Hugh Conway’s most famous novel, was first published in 1883 as a ‘Christmas annual’ by a small Bristol publishing firm. The story rapidly earned such popular acclaim that ‘many prophesied the displacement of Wilkie Collins by the new star’, according to one of Collins’ obituaries. Certainly, the book caused much more of a sensation than the first detective novel of a young Scottish writer four years later, A Study in Scarlet. Yet today, Conway’s name is much less well-known than Wilkie Collins’, let alone Arthur Conan Doyle’s. So it is easy to forget that his reputation endured long after his premature death in 1885. Called Back entertained a later generation of readers when it was republished in the Detective Story Club series in 1929, and was also filmed twice, in 1914 and 1933.

  John Sutherland, an academic expert on Victorian fiction, has neatly summarised Called Back as a ‘sensational novel of murder, amnesia, Siberian-exile, political assassination and detection’. Who could possibly resist such a confection? The main events of the story take place in the 1860s; they are recalled later by the narrator, Gilbert Vaughan, a respectable Englishman with a hatred of mysteries ‘who has a romance hidden away beneath an outwardly prosaic life’.

  At the age of 25, Vaughan is struck blind. Leaving his house in London one night, he becomes lost, and witnesses a mysterious killing. Confident that they cannot be recognised, the perpetrators allow him to escape with his life. Vaughan later recovers his sight and, on a trip to Italy, encounters a beautiful girl with whom he promptly falls in love. Their romance fails to progress, but he soon comes across her again in London, where he also meets Dr Manuel Ceneri, who claims to be her uncle. Gradually, a dastardly scheme unfolds. Vaughan is not a wholly likeable man, but his persistence in his quest for the truth makes him a worthy protagonist. The long arm of coincidence reaches out time and again during the course of the narrative, prompting Vaughan’s occasional exclamation: ‘It was Fate!’ But the book is written with Victorian verve.

  The book rapidly sold more than a quarter of a million copies, making a fortune for its publisher, J. W. Arrowsmith. A paper-covered edition costing one shilling became the most renowned of the so-called ‘shilling shockers’ popular at the time. The story was also widely translated. Together with Joseph Comyns Carr, a prominent drama critic, theatre manager and playwright, Conway adapted the book for the stage, and long runs in both London and the provinces followed. There was even a burlesque version called The Scalded Back! Towards the end of her life, Emily Dickinson enjoyed reading the novel, which she described as ‘a haunting story’; so taken was she with the phrase Called Back that it was added to her tombstone. The Times compared Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to Called Back, and while the reviewer admired Stevenson’s story, he expressed doubt as to whether it would enjoy as much popular success as Conway’s.

  Conway threw himself into writing, with encouragement from Wilkie Collins himself, and his later books included two more ‘Christmas annuals’, notably the thriller Dark Days, which would also eventually feature in the Detective Story Club. His rise to fame had been meteoric, but sadly, it did not last. Having developed symptoms of TB, he travelled to the French Riviera to recuperate, but was diagnosed with typhoid fever, and died shortly afterwards at Monte Carlo, aged just 37. It is indicative of the literary status that he achieved in a short time that, after his death, Arrowsmiths asked an author as eminent as Wilkie Collins to write their next ‘Christmas annual’; this resulted in The Guilty River, but it sold far less well than Called Back.

  Conway’s real name was Frederick John Fargus, and he was born in Bristol in 1848, the son of an auctioneer. Youthful enthusiasm for the novels of Captain Marryat inspired an ambition to become a sailor; his pseudonym came from HMS Conway, a frigate stationed in the river Mersey and used as a school ship for the training of aspiring naval officers, where he spent some of his formative years. An accident suffered on board the Conway damaged his hearing, and led Fargus to pursue a career in the family firm whilst trying to establish himself as an author. In 1879, he published a volume of poetry, and a collection of short stories appeared two years later. He showed signs of developing into an accomplished exponent of supernatural stories as well as thrillers, and after his death, Comyns Carr wrote to The Times extolling his gifts; in his view, Called Back barely hinted at Fargus’ literary potential.

  Who knows? It is not impossible that, had he lived and written for another two or three decades, Fargus would have ranked alongside such immortals as Collins, Stevenson, M.R. James and Conan Doyle. As a result of his untimely death, his legacy was less striking. Nonetheless, Called Back deserves to be read again, not merely as a reminder of an unfulfilled talent, but in its own right, as lively entertainment from a bygone age.

  MARTIN EDWARDS

  February 2015

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  CHAPTER I

  IN DARKNESS AND IN DANGER

  I HAVE a reason for writing this tale, or it would not become public property.

  Once in a moment of confidence, I made a friend acquainted with some curious circumstances connected with one period of my life. I believe I asked him to hold his tongue about them—he says not. Anyway, he told another friend, with embellishments, I suspect; this friend told another, and so on and on. What the tale grew to at last I shall probably never learn; but since I was weak enough to trust my private affairs to another I have
been looked upon by my neighbours as a man with a history—one who has a romance hidden away beneath an outwardly prosaic life.

  For myself I should not trouble about this. I should laugh at the garbled versions of my story set floating about by my own indiscretion. It would matter little to me that one good friend has an idea that I was once a Communist and a member of the inner circle of a secret society—that another has heard that I have been tried on a capital charge—that another knows I was at one time a Roman Catholic, on whose behalf a special miracle was performed. If I were alone in the world and young, I dare say I should take no steps to still these idle rumours. Indeed, very young men feel flattered by being made objects of curiosity and speculation.

  But I am not very young, nor am I alone. There is one who is dearer to me than life itself. One from whose heart, I am glad to say, every shadow left by the past is rapidly fading—one who only wishes to live her true sweet life without mystery or concealment—wishes to be thought neither better nor worse than she really is. It is she who shrinks from the strange and absurd reports which are flying about as to our antecedents she who is vexed by those leading questions sometimes asked by inquisitive friends; and it is for her sake that I look up old journals, call back old memories of joy and grief, and tell everyone, who cares to read, all he can possibly wish to know, and, it may be, more than he has a right to know, of our lives. This done, my lips are sealed forever on the subject. My tale is here—let the inquisitive take his answer from it, not from me.

  Perhaps, after all, I write this for my own sake as well. I also hate mysteries. One mystery which I have never been able to determine may have given me a dislike to everything which will not admit of an easy explanation.

  To begin, I must go back more years than I care to enumerate; although I could, if necessary, fix the day and the year. I was young, just past twenty-five. I was rich, having when I came of age succeeded to an income of about two thousand a year; an income which, being drawn from the funds, I was able to enjoy without responsibility or anxiety as to its stability and endurance. Although since my twenty-first birthday I had been my own master, I had no extravagant follies to weigh me down, no debts to hamper me. I was without bodily ache or pain; yet I turned again and again on my pillow and said that my life for the future was a curse to me.

  Had Death just robbed me of one who was dear to me? No; the only ones I had ever loved, my father and mother, had died years ago. Were my ravings those peculiar to an unhappy lover? No; my eyes had not yet looked with passion into a woman’s eyes—and now would never do so. Neither Death nor Love made my lot seem the most miserable in the world.

  I was young, rich, free as the wind to follow my own devices. I could leave England tomorrow and visit the most beautiful places on the earth: those places I had longed and determined to see. Now, I knew I should never see them, and I groaned in anguish at the thought.

  My limbs were strong. I could bear fatigue and exposure. I could hold my own with the best walkers and the swiftest runners. The chase, the sport, the trial of endurance had never been too long or too arduous for me—I passed my left hand over my right arm and felt the muscles firm as of old. Yet I was as helpless as Samson in his captivity.

  For, even as Samson, I was blind!

  Blind! Who but the victim can even faintly comprehend the significance of that word? Who can read this and gauge the depth of my anguish as I turned and turned on my pillow and thought of the fifty years of darkness which might be mine—a thought which made me wish that when I fell asleep it might be to wake no more?

  Blind! After hovering around me for years the demon of darkness had at last laid his hand upon me. After letting me, for a while, almost cheat myself into security, he had swept down upon me, folded me in his sable wings and blighted my life. Fair forms, sweet sights, bright colours, gay scenes mine no more! He claimed them all, leaving darkness, darkness, ever darkness! Far better to die, and, it may be, wake in a new world of light—‘Better,’ I cried in my despair, ‘better even the dull red glare of Hades than the darkness of the world!’

  This last gloomy thought of mine shows the state of mind to which I was reduced.

  The truth is that, in spite of hope held out to me, I had resolved to be hopeless. For years I had felt that my foe was lying in wait for me. Often when gazing on some beautiful object, some fair scene, the right to enjoy which made one fully appreciate the gift of sight, a whisper seemed to reach my ear—‘Some day I will strike again, then it will be all over.’ I tried to laugh at my fears, but could never quite get rid of the presentiment of evil. My enemy had struck once—why not again?

  Well I can remember his first appearance—his first attack. I remember a light-hearted schoolboy so engrossed in sport and study that he scarcely noticed how strangely dim the sight of one eye was getting, or the curious change which was taking place in its appearance. I remember the boy’s father taking him to London, to a large dull-looking house in a quiet dull street. I remember our waiting in a room in which were several other people; most of whom had shades or bandages over their eyes. Such a doleful gathering it was that I felt much relieved when we were conducted to another room in which sat a kind, pleasant-spoken man, called by my father Mr Jay. This eminent man, after applying something which I know now was belladonna to my eyes, and which had the effect for a short time of wonderfully improving my sight, peered into my eyes by the aid of strong lenses and mirrors—I remember at the time wishing some of those lenses were mine—what splendid burning glasses they would make! Then he placed me with my back to the window and held a lighted candle before my face. All these proceedings seemed so funny that I was half inclined to laugh. My father’s grave, anxious face alone restrained me from so doing. As soon as Mr Jay had finished his researches he turned to my father—

  ‘Hold the candle as I held it. Let it shine into the right eye first. Now, Mr Vaughan, what do you see? How many candles, I mean?’

  ‘Three—the one in the centre small and bright, but upside down.’

  ‘Yes; now try the other eye. How many there?’

  My father looked long and carefully.

  ‘I can only see one,’ he said, ‘the large one.’

  ‘This is called the catoptric test, an old-fashioned but infallible test, now almost superseded. The boy is suffering from lenticular cataract.’

  This terribly sounding name took away all my wish to laugh. I glanced at my father and was surprised to notice his face wearing an expression of relief.

  ‘That may be cured by an operation,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly; but in my judgment it is not well to meddle, so long as the other eye remains unaffected.’

  ‘Is there danger?’

  ‘There is always danger of the disease appearing in the sound eye; but, of course, it may not happen. Come to me at the first sign of such a thing. Good morning.’

  The great specialist bowed us out, and I returned to my school life, troubling little about the matter, as it caused me no pain, and, although in less than a twelve-month the sight of one eye was completely obscured, I could see well enough for every purpose with the remaining one.

  But I remembered every word of that diagnosis, although it was years before I recognized the importance of it. It was only when compelled by an accident to wear for some days a bandage over my sound eye that I realized the danger in which I stood, and from that moment felt that a merciless foe was ever waiting his time.

  And now the time had come. In the first flush of my manhood, with all that one could wish for at my command, the foe had struck again.

  He came upon me swiftly—far more swiftly than is his custom in such cases; yet it was long before I would believe the worst—long before I would confess to myself that my failing sight and the increasing fogginess of everything I looked at were due to more than a temporary weakness. I was hundreds of miles from home, in a country where travelling is slow. A friend being with me, I had no wish to make myself a nuisance by cutting our expedi
tion short. So I said nothing for weeks, although at the end of each week my heart sank at the fresh and fearful advances made by the foe. At last, being unable to bear it, or in fact conceal it longer, I made known my condition to my comrade. We turned our faces homeward, and by the time London was reached and the long journey at an end, everything to me was blurred, dim, and obscured. I could just see, that was all!

  I flew to the eminent oculist’s. He was out of town. Had been ill, even at the point of death. He would not be back for two months, nor would he see any patient until his health was quite restored.

  I had pinned my faith upon this man. No doubt there were as skilful oculists in London, Paris, or other capitals; but it was my fancy that, if I were to be saved, I could only be saved by Mr Jay. Dying men are allowed their whims: even the felon about to be hanged can choose his own breakfast, so I had an undoubted right to choose my own surgeon. I resolved to wait in darkness until Mr Jay returned to his duties. I was foolish. I had better have trusted myself in other clever hands. Before a month was over I had lost all hope, and at the end of six weeks I was almost distracted. Blind, blind, blind! I should be blind forever! So entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have the operation performed at all. Why fly against fate? For the rest of my life I was doomed to darkness. The subtlest skill, the most delicate hand, the most modern appliances would never restore the light I have lost. For me the world was at an end.

  Now that you know the cause, can you not imagine me, after weeks of darkness, broken in spirit, and, as I lay sleepless that night, almost wishing that the alternative refused by Job—to curse God and die—were mine? If you are unable to realize my condition, read the above to anyone who has lost his sight. He will tell you what his feelings were when the calamity first came upon him. He will understand the depths of I was not left entirely alone in my trouble. Like Job, I had comforters: but, unlike Eliphaz and Company, they were good-hearted fellows who spoke with cheerful conviction as to the certainty of my recovery. I was not so grateful for these visits as I should have been. I hated the thought of anyone seeing me in my helpless condition. Day by day my frame of mind grew more and more desponding and morbid.