AN OCULAR DELUSION.

Auckland Star, Volume XXI, Issue 217, 13 September 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

AN OCULAR DELUSION.

BY FRANK HOWARD HOWE.

CHAPTER IV,

fred's story.

New York, July 20, 1889. My Dear Mother : The yacht; sails tomorrow morning. lam to report on board with my baggage ab efght o'clock. It is now ten o'clock at night. I have been sib* ting before my fire sinco aeven doing nothing, though my feraps are not yet packed. No I won't say I have been doing nothing. I have been brooding much and thinking a little. I have been pondering about you, dear and the conclusion of my mind is that 1 ought to tell you what I have been brooding about. When I bade you good-bye on Tuesday in the dear old home, you aeked me to tell you what was on my mind. I half meant to do so then, but I was afraid I should break down. I suppose I'm a great, big, hulking coward, after all, or I shouldn't fear to show my hearb to you, beet and kindest and wisest of mothers. Afc all events, I took the coward's course and pub you off. I saw the shadow come into your dear eyes, mother darling, when you found I had a troublo I was concealing from you. That shadow has been in my mind ever since. It has been with me to-night. It has at times crowded ouo the other shadow. Bufe the obher shadow is the shadow of my eelfish desire, and it should be crowded out. As I told you when I was in Hartord, to-morrow I sail in Mr John Short's yacht for Cowes and Norway. We ehall bo gone four months. I feel that I not to go away for so long without telling you what troubles me. I do this that you shall see the trouble is just what it is, and not worse than it is. It is ono that I shall survive, and that, doubtless, I shall be the better for having undergone. I will tell you the wholo story, so that you may know exactly what damage has been done. Now that ib is all over, I am going to take you quito into my confidence, as, perhaps I should have done at first. But a man's lovo is so selfish. He musb needs hoard it up in secret and keep ib even from the eye of the mother who loves him better than herself. Yes, dear, that ia the matter. It is that lam in love —or was. No—God help me— am. It is a true love, I know, and has gone a rough road. But I will tell you just what has happened, and when you read this letter you will think of me as out on the ocean, a coward running away from hie first trouble. One day last winter, Mr Morehead asked me to go with him to a ball at his sister's house, on the occasion of the presentation of his niece to society. I had been going out very little since I came to New York, as you know. I aeked him to excuse me this time. If he had bub taken me at my word! But he did not. Indeed, he made rather a point of ray going, ifou know he has been very kind to me. I think he likes me. He is the soul of kindnese. It is through him, I know, that I received this invitation from Mr Short. I think I know why, although ho has said nothing to me, except that I needed rest and a change of air. Think of a fellow who measures forty-eight around the chest needing rest! Of course, when Mr Morehead made a point of it, I yielded, and went with him to his sister's ball. There I met his niece, Marion Travers, and—my trouble. lam going to describe her to you, mother, that you may ccc what sort of a daughter you might have bad, if Fate had bean more kind. You will never have any daughter' now, mother dear. WelL when I,was Travers, this is what I saw. I sappose I 'fell in love' ab once, because her face was photographed upon rhy memory right there. I see it now as I saw it then, and aa I shall see ib always. I shall never forget ib. Mise Travers is of medium height, and 11 am quite tall, you know. She looked up at me when I was presented, and as I gazed down at her I thought I was peering into two great pools that reflected the starred heavens. Her eyes are black, like nighb, and so deep, and soft, and liquid. I remember I wrote some verses about them, in which I described them in a distressingly extravagant way. I was foolish enough to road the vewes to Larry Ten Eyck, a clerk in our office. He took them down in shorthand, and published them in a society paper over my name. They created something of a sensation, because they were immediately understood to be a description of Miss Travers, the beauty of the season, though, of course, her name was not mentioned. I was outraged. Ten Eyck had to go to bed for a week, and I paid twenty-five dollars fine at a police court. Forgive me, mother dear ! It was wrong of me, I know but I couldn't help it. All my good nature has gone out of me since this trouble came. I am doubly sorry myself, because the poor fellow really thought he was doing me a service. I have apologised to him quite humbly since, I assure you. Where was I ?—oh, Mies Travers' eyes. I cannot furthor describe ohem than to say they have the moeb wonderful expression. They are large, and shining, and tender. Society here ia raving about them. That is, the men are. The women sniff a good deal. If it were possible, I think they would like to say her eyes are false, just as they talk about each other's braids. Since that night I have been going out wherever and whenever I could. I have been quite successful in securing invitations". The Yale people here are numerous, and they have taken me up. My old reputation ab college has helped me much, in making my way here socially. Yon ber the year when I devoted myself.tw foot-, ball and boating,, and almost came. Jhometo you in disgrace in consequence? Tb«twas the year that Yale never lost a point on the ball field, and never let another boat's crew look ab her stroke oar's back. Well, the boys all remember ib and me. Many of them live here, and go into society. They have taken me up and introduced me to their father-, and mothers, and sisters, and I have been going everywhere. I don't suppose I need tell you why. But let me finish the portrait. She has a low, broad brow, and her hair, which is blight, like burnished copper, was twiebed eimply in a great coil ab the back of her head. I couldn't tell you about her obher features, excepbthab her mouth is, I believe, rather large, and her teeth are very white and even. She was dressed in a ball-dre6s, of course, but that you couldn't expect me to describe. Ib seemed all lace. Ib was made of silk and tulle, I think, and there was a dash of white and a dash of pink, or salmon colour, and there was an effect in the costume somewhere of many dots and drips of gold. I know she seemed to me to be an angel dreseed in a sun-tipped cloud. I have been reading over whab I have written and I find that I have been rambling and incoherent, and that I have painted a very poor portrait. That is because lam a bad artist. The model is before me every waking and mo9t sleeping moments. If I had a grain of talent I could describe her to you. But it's all no use. She is nob for me. I hoped desperately for months, bub some time ago I wae forced to give up hoping. Miss Travers , engagement to Mr Treherne.was announced. He is an elderly gentleman, bub a millionaire, and I am told • the greatest catch in town.' He is a rich, aristocratic and socially eminent gentleman, who is, I supposed-alto-gether more worthy of her than I. I try to make myself think ao, but I don'b succeed

very well. Because, my mother, I love her, and I don't see, in spite of all they say, what can make a man worthier of a woman than good, honesb, clean love. Bub perhaps I shall learn better some day. Ib don't much matter about Mr Treberne, though. If she had not chosen him she would have taken anobher-than me, at all events. Scores of men here are wild about her. _ She is—let me whisper this, mother, and it doesn't make any difference in my feeling—but I know it's true—she is one who must have chosen the most distinguished suitor—and, if not, her mother would have so chosen for her. There are a good many more eligible men thaa I who are to-day envying Mr Treberne. If he were to die to-morrow, a score or two of substantial citizens would have to melt into thin air before my pretenbions would have a chance to be noticed even. And I love her still ? Mother mine, yes, I love her so that my hearb grows sick and faint in my breast when I think of sailing off on that yacht to-morrow. Dear, I have told you all this that you may know 'my real trouble, and not grieve over an imaginary one. I could not have told ib, even to you, had I thought there was a chance for me. Bub it is a closed page in my life. Ib will never be opened again. You read it now, and then we will both forget all about it. I mean to. I will. To-morrow I shall sail away on the Heaperua into the eye of the sun, In four months I shall turn my face westward again, and come back from those far Norse lands, no longer a sick man, bub cured, cured by mother Nature—cured, and in my right mind. Oh, mother, mother, God bless you ! and good-bye. Pray for Your son, Feed. To Mrs Barbara Ewing, Hartford, Conn. July 21st, '89. Dear Mother : I open this letter to tell you thai} I have not gone to Norway. The Hesperus sailed this morning without me. I shall stay here and live my trouble down, though whether I am acting tho brave man's or the coward's part in this I dare not say. You shall judge. Last night, when I had finished my letter to you, I turned to begin my packing. I wa3 feeling blue and glum. The things would not fold straight or iib right in the trunk. So I went out for a walk, thinking the fresh air would do my nerves good. Ib was raining, but the stormy weather suited my mood, and ray mackintosh kept my skin comparatively dry. I walked out norbh up Fifth Avenue. Bub I did not notice nor care which way I went or where I arrived. My mind soon lost itself in stupid broodings over what I called my unhappy lot. I was wretched—desperate, I suppose—and I was very weak. By- and-by I was awakened by the sound of voices in loud dispute across the street. I looked up. I was in the neighbourhood of the Union League Club. On the other side of tho way a carriage stood in front of a handsome mansion. Tho voices came from that direction. Just then there was a scuffle, and then a loud cry for help. I ran across the street, and this is what I saw : A tall gentleman was struggling with a small, white object, which I soon discovered to be a bull-terrier. Another gentleman was doing hia best to get the dog away, bub he had sunk his jaws in tho ball man's arm, and only the tough material of his mackintosh saved the member from laceration. . The tall man was in a grear, fright; and who do you think it was ? Mr Treherne —Miss Travers , finance. He was in a domoralised condition from terror, and called on me desperately to take the dog off. This I did by pinching the brute's neck just behind the ears until he let go his grip. Trehe,rne then bestowed a few curses upon the dog, anthematised the other man, who was, it seems, the dog's owner, touched his bat to me, and walked hurriedly across to the club-house. By this time the dog's owner had him safely by the collar and handed him into the carriage (which turned out to be a doctor's vehicle), where he was held by the doctor's servant. Then he turned to thank me, asking me to whom he was under obligation for getting him out of his awkward scrape. We exchanged cards. He proved to be no less a person than Dr. John Chenowyth, the famous surgeon. It seems that ho had been called to the houee of a patient—it was the one before which we stood—and, after his visit, in crossing the pavement to : geb into his carriage, Treherne had run into him full tilt, umbrella down. Mr Trehere had shown temper, and the dog, in the bottom of the carriage, hearing harsh words addressed to his master, had jumped oub and nipped Mr Treherne. The doctor said it was lucky I happed along, for the brute is tenacious, and it might have been necessary to kill him to make him let go. Hβ was looking closely into my face as he made this explanation. We were standing near a lamp-post. I had my hat off and wae mopping my forehead with my handI kerchief. *My dear young sir, , the old gentleman said, when he had finished,'you are ill or have been so.' I told him ho was mistaken. ' Then, perhaps, you are going to be,' he said, laughing. 'I'm euro there's some reason why you ought to come to see me. Will you ?' I told him I would if I got sick. 'No, I don't mean thab. I want you to promise to come, any way.' Without thinking, I promised, and after grasping my hand cordially, he turned, gob into his carriage and drove away. I resumed my walk, wenb as far as 125 th street and back by way of Eighth Avenue and Broadway, home. When I gob there I had determined that I would nob run away ; that I would stay and live down m v trouble; that I could not leave her and Treherne; and thab I would make a friend of Doctor John Chenowyth. Now you know why 1 am not on the ocenn, baund for Norway, and you also know—-perhaps—whether I am a'coward or not. Don't you ? Goodbye, mother dear. Fred. CHAPTER V. DE, CHENOWYTH'S STORY. One evening a week or so after Fred Ewing wrote this foregoing letter to his mother, | two gentlemen sab in the dining-room Of Doctor John Chenowy th's house on Madison Avenue. The two had been dining to. gether. Bub now the cloth was removed and they were smoking their regalias and chasing the coffee with a gorgee or two of old sherry. Ono of the gentlemen was Doctor Chenowyth himself, a tall, slender, delicately-made gentleman of sixty or so, with silver-white hajr, and a pale, smoothhaven and rather careworn face. Doctor Chenowyth ie, as everybody knows, a famous sciontist. Hβ is also a popular doctor ; and being tender-hearted, permits himstlf to be overworked. His companion, a short, thick-set, stubby man with a broken nose, ie afew years the doctor's junior. This is Mr Samuel Herkimer, a manufacturer from the City of Troy. The two gentlemen have been cronies for years—indeed, ever since they were classmates together at Yale, forty years ago. A smile is jusb dying away from the doctor's mournful features, and he is saying: *Ib was most awkward. I don't know what I should have done if the young man had not happened by.' Mr Herkimer laughed boisterously. * I would have given a big red apple,' he said, 'to have seen the dandy when Zeke nipped him.' ' Well, on the whole he behaved nob so badly. Hβ was the outraged party. .Zeke wae to blame, and I also for bringing the

brute along. But it's nextfco impossible to keep him at home. Hβ will follow my man Tom whenever he goas out with the carriage. I don'fc know but I'll have to have him shot. I won't sell him and I cannot give him away. I've tried to do so more than once, but he comes straight back every time. And he's a good watch-dog, too. Only in looking after my interests he is utterly indifferent to the rights of others. , ' He's a rough-looking customer,' said Mr Herkimer, ' and has a wicked eye. It's almost) human. Do you know, John, I've got a man up in my mill that Zoke always reminds me of. He's a Dutchman, and he works in the engine-room. I'm told he is a tough customor to handle in a rough and tumble fight—which amusement he is said to be fond of. His eyes are just like Zeke'a —same colour, and about the same size, and just as vicioue and crafty-looking. I declare, I believe if the dog and the man were to swap eyes, you couldn't tell the difference. If Gratz gets an eye gouged out in one of hie brawls, I'll *end him down here to borrow one from Zeke. By the way, I wonder if the time will ever come when you fellows will be able to do that. , • What ?' 'Eye-transplantation.' 'It hae bean done.' • Huh V 1 It has been done.' • Successfully ?' • Yes. , ' Man see same as ever, afterwards V 'H'm!—yes.' • Do you know the facts V « Yes.' • Tell me, won't you ?' ' Well,' said Doctor Chenowyth roflecb•gly» n ' I dqn't mind telling you the facts, confidentially, but the person must remain incog., for reasons which you will perceive. But fill your glass, Sam, and shove the decanter over. ' The operation was performed on a patienb of mine,'continued the doctor, after the two had refreshed themselves. ' Did you ever know of a case before ?' interrupted Mr Herkimer, now quite aroused from his after-dinner lethargy by tho prospect of an interesting story. •Of successful eye-transplatation ? No, there never had been one. And consequently this, when it becomes known, will create a great sensation. But let me tell the story decently and in order. Ask me no more questions. Ibwassomothingoverayear ago and about this hour of tho evennig—l was just finishing dinner, 1 know— when William came in and said there was a lady in the parlour to see me. Now, my orders are positive, as you know, nob to be disturbed at my dinner, and I was on the point of scolding William, when 1 observed by the look of distress on tho man's face that this was an unusual case. So I restrained myself and mildly asked why he had admitted tho lady against my positive instructions. Whereupon he assured me that it had been utterly impossible for him to keep her out of the house without creating a scene,which he supposed I did not wish. Ho added that ib was a person of distinction, for her carriage, with liveried servants on the box, stood in front of the door. ' A trifle intrigue, I swallowed my coffee and went into tho parlour. I found a tall, commanding looking woman, of about fifty, plainly but very richly dressed. I observed that she possessed a high-bred, handsome face, from which the thick iron-grey hair was drawn back over what they call a Pompadour roll, I believe. As I came in she rose and asked if I was Doctor Chenowytb. I bowed, and she then handed me her card, which bore the name of one of the most conspicuous leaders of fashion in the city. 'We took seats, and she proceeded to tell me her story, which wad in substance this: An only daughter, and indeed an only child except for a brother younger than she then a student at Harvard, wa& afflicted with o strange malady of. one of the eyes. A relative-, a young gentleman who was. then studying medicine with a ■tfiew to becoming an oculist, had examined the eye, and had given his opinion that his cousin's eyesight), if nob her life, might be in danger. 'Hβ had advised his aunt to consulb me. Her errand was, therefore, to make an engagement for me to call and examine her daughter's eyes ab my earliest convenience. She explained that; she had forced horeelf upon me at this time because she had learned that at this hour I was certain to be alone, and it was her very earnest wish that her daughter's trouble should be kept a profound secret. Would I please name an hour the nexb day when I could call upon her daughter ? I accepted the apology — faute de mieuz —and named eleven o'clock the following morning. The lady then withdrew. ' The next morning I callod, at the appointed hour, and. on being announced, was shown up to the lady's boudoir, where I was presented to. I think, the prettiest girl I over saw. Sam, do you remember Mary Jackson ?' 'Huh?' said Mr Herkimer, rousing himself. ' Mary Jackson, down ab New Haven forty years ago. Don't you remember her ?' ' What, the old sexton's daughter we were all so mad about ? Well, yes, I do. She ioas a beauty. Ah me ! there have been no pretty girls since Mary Jackson died. And thab was in fiffcy-fcwo.' ' This girl was as pretty ac Mary used to be, Sam. She had the same large brown eyes, and copper coloured hair. Bub ebe was more aristocratic looking than Mary. However, comparisons are odious, I know, , ' continued the doctor, hastily, as he observed the light; of battle kindling the other's eyes. 'I took out my instruments and west to work. I wasn't long in making up my mind what was the matter with the girl's eye. It was the left one.' •What was tho matter with it?' interrupted Mr Herkimer, gruffly. ' Encophaloid melanosis.' • Holy Mbe«;! What's that V • Melanosis,' explained the doctor, laughingly,' 'is a species of soft cancer. In the young lady's case I discovered a melanotic deposit inthe eye-ball. , i *la ib dangerous ?' • Very, both to the flight and to life. The danger is that the disease will strike back I into the brain, when ib is sure to prove fatal. It will also, if left alone, attack the other eye, and total blindness ensues. The disease may be kept in check by supporting the general health of the patient, but the only cure is extirpation.' 'Is what? 1 • ' ' Removal of the eyeball. , ' And did you recommend the putting out of one of those—one of Mary Jackson's eyes ?' 'I did.' • Humph !' ' I took the mother aside and explained the whole case to her, of course much more elaborately and carefully than I have told it to you. The mother's grief was terrible to witness, and I was much moved. Ib was easy to see that she idolised the girl and that she was intensely proud of her beauty. However, when she gob calmed down we wenb back to the daughter, whom we found sitting on a lounge thab stood in a bay-window in the boudoir. She was playing with a King Charles spaniel, a very pretty specimen of the breed. She seeaied to be extravagantly fond of the dog, for she would nob only kiss the brute's muzzle, but she would let him lick her prebty cheeks and chin, in a way that, I confess, gave me qnalnas. However, we eat down, and the mother began to tell her daughter the substance of my opinion, breaking the bitter bad news she had to tell Bβ gently as possible. All the time the girl went on playing with the dop as unconcernedly as though she were listening to a pleasant story, Instead of what she must have known was the doom of her beauty, if nob of her life. , (To be Continued.)