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.

My best friend of all was a humble one: Priscilla Drew, an old and trusted servant of my mother’s. She had known me from earliest childhood. When I returned to England I could not bear the thought of trusting my helpless self entirely to a stranger’s care, so I wrote to her and begged her to come to me. I could at least groan and lament before her without feeling shame. She came, wept over me for a while, and then, like a sensible woman, bestirred herself to do all she could to mitigate the hardships of my lot. She found comfortable lodgings, installed her troublesome charge therein, and day and night was ever at his beck and call. Even now, as I lay awake and tossing in mental anguish, she was sleeping on an extemporized bed just outside the folding doors, which opened from my bedroom to the sitting-room.

It was a stifling night in August. The sluggish air which crept in through the open window made little perceptible difference in the temperature of my room.