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diff --git a/389-h/389-h.htm b/389-h/389-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66c5da1 --- /dev/null +++ b/389-h/389-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3346 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Great God Pan</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Arthur Machen</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January, 1996 [eBook #389]<br /> +[Most recently updated: November 10, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Brandi Weed. HTML version by Al Haines.</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***</div> + +<h1>The Great God Pan</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Arthur Machen</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. THE EXPERIMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE LETTER OF ADVICE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. THE SUICIDES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE FRAGMENTS</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I<br /> +THE EXPERIMENT</h2> + +<p> +“I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed. I was not sure you could +spare the time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things are not very +lively just now. But have you no misgivings, Raymond? Is it absolutely +safe?” +</p> + +<p> +The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond’s +house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone with a +dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath +came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the +soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the +river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and +vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. +Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Safe? Of course it is. In itself the operation is a perfectly simple +one; any surgeon could do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there is no danger at any other stage?” +</p> + +<p> +“None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give you my word. You +are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know my history. I have devoted +myself to transcendental medicine for the last twenty years. I have heard +myself called quack and charlatan and impostor, but all the while I knew I was +on the right path. Five years ago I reached the goal, and since then every day +has been a preparation for what we shall do tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to believe it is all true.” Clarke knit his brows, +and looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond. “Are you perfectly sure, Raymond, +that your theory is not a phantasmagoria—a splendid vision, certainly, +but a mere vision after all?” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply. He was a middle-aged man, +gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion, but as he answered Clarke and +faced him, there was a flush on his cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Look about you, Clarke. You see the mountain, and hill following after +hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields of ripe corn, +and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river. You see me standing +here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that all these +things—yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky to the +solid ground beneath our feet—I say that all these are but dreams and +shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes. There <i>is</i> a +real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this vision, beyond these +‘chases in Arras, dreams in a career,’ beyond them all as beyond a +veil. I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted that veil; but I do +know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it lifted this very night from before +another’s eyes. You may think this all strange nonsense; it may be +strange, but it is true, and the ancients knew what lifting the veil means. +They called it seeing the god Pan.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the river was chilly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is wonderful indeed,” he said. “We are standing on the +brink of a strange world, Raymond, if what you say is true. I suppose the knife +is absolutely necessary?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all; a trifling +rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopical alteration that would escape +the attention of ninety-nine brain specialists out of a hundred. I don’t +want to bother you with ‘shop,’ Clarke; I might give you a mass of +technical detail which would sound very imposing, and would leave you as +enlightened as you are now. But I suppose you have read, casually, in +out-of-the-way corners of your paper, that immense strides have been made +recently in the physiology of the brain. I saw a paragraph the other day about +Digby’s theory, and Browne Faber’s discoveries. Theories and +discoveries! Where they are standing now, I stood fifteen years ago, and I need +not tell you that I have not been standing still for the last fifteen years. It +will be enough if I say that five years ago I made the discovery that I alluded +to when I said that ten years ago I reached the goal. After years of labour, +after years of toiling and groping in the dark, after days and nights of +disappointments and sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then to +tremble and grow cold with the thought that perhaps there were others seeking +for what I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of sudden joy thrilled my +soul, and I knew the long journey was at an end. By what seemed then and still +seems a chance, the suggestion of a moment’s idle thought followed up +upon familiar lines and paths that I had tracked a hundred times already, the +great truth burst upon me, and I saw, mapped out in lines of sight, a whole +world, a sphere unknown; continents and islands, and great oceans in which no +ship has sailed (to my belief) since a Man first lifted up his eyes and beheld +the sun, and the stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath. You will think +this all high-flown language, Clarke, but it is hard to be literal. And yet; I +do not know whether what I am hinting at cannot be set forth in plain and +lonely terms. For instance, this world of ours is pretty well girded now with +the telegraph wires and cables; thought, with something less than the speed of +thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from north to south, across the floods +and the desert places. Suppose that an electrician of today were suddenly to +perceive that he and his friends have merely been playing with pebbles and +mistaking them for the foundations of the world; suppose that such a man saw +uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men flash forth to +the sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the voice of +articulate-speaking men echo in the waste void that bounds our thought. As +analogies go, that is a pretty good analogy of what I have done; you can +understand now a little of what I felt as I stood here one evening; it was a +summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now; I stood here, and +saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between +two worlds, the world of matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty +deep stretch dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from +the earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned. You may look in +Browne Faber’s book, if you like, and you will find that to the present +day men of science are unable to account for the presence, or to specify the +functions of a certain group of nerve-cells in the brain. That group is, as it +were, land to let, a mere waste place for fanciful theories. I am not in the +position of Browne Faber and the specialists, I am perfectly instructed as to +the possible functions of those nerve-centers in the scheme of things. With a +touch I can bring them into play, with a touch, I say, I can set free the +current, with a touch I can complete the communication between this world of +sense and—we shall be able to finish the sentence later on. Yes, the +knife is necessary; but think what that knife will effect. It will level +utterly the solid wall of sense, and probably, for the first time since man was +made, a spirit will gaze on a spirit-world. Clarke, Mary will see the god +Pan!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you remember what you wrote to me? I thought it would be requisite +that she—” +</p> + +<p> +He whispered the rest into the doctor’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense. I assure you. Indeed, it is +better as it is; I am quite certain of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Consider the matter well, Raymond. It’s a great responsibility. +Something might go wrong; you would be a miserable man for the rest of your +days.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not, even if the worst happened. As you know, I rescued Mary +from the gutter, and from almost certain starvation, when she was a child; I +think her life is mine, to use as I see fit. Come, it’s getting late; we +had better go in.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the hall, and down a long dark +passage. He took a key from his pocket and opened a heavy door, and motioned +Clarke into his laboratory. It had once been a billiard-room, and was lighted +by a glass dome in the centre of the ceiling, whence there still shone a sad +grey light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a lamp with a heavy shade and +placed it on a table in the middle of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Clarke looked about him. Scarcely a foot of wall remained bare; there were +shelves all around laden with bottles and phials of all shapes and colours, and +at one end stood a little Chippendale book-case. Raymond pointed to this. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that parchment Oswald Crollius? He was one of the first to show +me the way, though I don’t think he ever found it himself. That is a +strange saying of his: ‘In every grain of wheat there lies hidden the +soul of a star.’” +</p> + +<p> +There was not much furniture in the laboratory. The table in the centre, a +stone slab with a drain in one corner, the two armchairs on which Raymond and +Clarke were sitting; that was all, except an odd-looking chair at the furthest +end of the room. Clarke looked at it, and raised his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is the chair,” said Raymond. “We may as well place +it in position.” He got up and wheeled the chair to the light, and began +raising and lowering it, letting down the seat, setting the back at various +angles, and adjusting the foot-rest. It looked comfortable enough, and Clarke +passed his hand over the soft green velvet, as the doctor manipulated the +levers. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable. I have a couple +hours’ work before me; I was obliged to leave certain matters to the +last.” +</p> + +<p> +Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he bent over +a row of phials and lit the flame under the crucible. The doctor had a small +hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge above his apparatus, and +Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down at the great shadowy room, +wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness +contrasting with one another. Soon he became conscious of an odd odour, at +first the merest suggestion of odour, in the room, and as it grew more decided +he felt surprised that he was not reminded of the chemist’s shop or the +surgery. Clarke found himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and +half conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had +spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home. It was a burning +day at the beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the outlines of all things +and all distances with a faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer +spoke of an abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical. +Strangely that wonderful hot day of the fifties rose up again in Clarke’s +imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out +the shadows and the lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air +beating in gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and +heard the myriad murmur of the summer. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope the smell doesn’t annoy you, Clarke; there’s nothing +unwholesome about it. It may make you a bit sleepy, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was speaking to +him, but for the life of him he could not rouse himself from his lethargy. He +could only think of the lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it was his +last look at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and now it +all stood out in brilliant light, as a picture, before him. Above all there +came to his nostrils the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the +odour of the woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn +forth by the sun’s heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it +were with arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies +made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the wood, +tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of beech-trees; and the +trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock sounded as a clear melody in +the dream. Thoughts began to go astray and to mingle with other thoughts; the +beech alley was transformed to a path between ilex-trees, and here and there a +vine climbed from bough to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with +purple grapes, and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out +against the dark shadows of the ilex. Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was +conscious that the path from his father’s house had led him into an +undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when +suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence +seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a moment in time +he stood face to face there with a presence, that was neither man nor beast, +neither the living nor the dead, but all things mingled, the form of all things +but devoid of all form. And in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was +dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry “Let us go hence,” and then +the darkness of darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of some +oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been dozing,” he said; “the journey must have tired +you out. It is done now. I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered. It seemed as if he had but passed +from one dream into another. He half expected to see the walls of the +laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London, shuddering at his own +sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened, and the doctor returned, and +behind him came a girl of about seventeen, dressed all in white. She was so +beautiful that Clarke did not wonder at what the doctor had written to him. She +was blushing now over face and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” he said, “the time has come. You are quite free. Are +you willing to trust yourself to me entirely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear that, Clarke? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary. +It is quite easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. “Now shut your +eyes,” he said. The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and +longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the green phial to her nostrils. Her face +grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and then with the +feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms upon her breast as a +little child about to say her prayers. The bright light of the lamp fell full +upon her, and Clarke watched changes fleeting over her face as the changes of +the hills when the summer clouds float across the sun. And then she lay all +white and still, and the doctor turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite +unconscious. Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly +sank back. Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her hair, +and the lamp was moved nearer. Raymond took a small glittering instrument from +a little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly. When he looked again the +doctor was binding up the wound he had made. +</p> + +<p> +“She will awake in five minutes.” Raymond was still perfectly cool. +“There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait.” +</p> + +<p> +The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy, ticking. There was an +old clock in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his knees shook beneath +him, he could hardly stand. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly did the +colour that had vanished return to the girl’s cheeks, and suddenly her +eyes opened. Clarke quailed before them. They shone with an awful light, +looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her face, and her hands +stretched out as if to touch what was invisible; but in an instant the wonder +faded, and gave place to the most awful terror. The muscles of her face were +hideously convulsed, she shook from head to foot; the soul seemed struggling +and shuddering within the house of flesh. It was a horrible sight, and Clarke +rushed forward, as she fell shrieking to the floor. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary’s bedside. She was lying +wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the doctor, still quite cool, “it is a great +pity; she is a hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped; and, after all, +she has seen the Great God Pan.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II<br /> +MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to witness the strange +experiment of the god Pan, was a person in whose character caution and +curiosity were oddly mingled; in his sober moments he thought of the unusual +and eccentric with undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his heart, there was +a wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the more recondite and esoteric +elements in the nature of men. The latter tendency had prevailed when he +accepted Raymond’s invitation, for though his considered judgment had +always repudiated the doctor’s theories as the wildest nonsense, yet he +secretly hugged a belief in fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief +confirmed. The horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a +certain extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in an affair not +altogether reputable, and for many years afterwards he clung bravely to the +commonplace, and rejected all occasions of occult investigation. Indeed, on +some homeopathic principle, he for some time attended the seances of +distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of these gentlemen would +make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of every kind, but the remedy, +though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke knew that he still pined for the +unseen, and little by little, the old passion began to reassert itself, as the +face of Mary, shuddering and convulsed with an unknown terror, faded slowly +from his memory. Occupied all day in pursuits both serious and lucrative, the +temptation to relax in the evening was too great, especially in the winter +months, when the fire cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a +bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow. His dinner digested, he +would make a brief pretence of reading the evening paper, but the mere +catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and Clarke would find himself casting +glances of warm desire in the direction of an old Japanese bureau, which stood +at a pleasant distance from the hearth. Like a boy before a jam-closet, for a +few minutes he would hover indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke +ended by drawing up his chair, lighting a candle, and sitting down before the +bureau. Its pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid +subjects, and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which he had +painfully entered the gems of his collection. Clarke had a fine contempt for +published literature; the most ghostly story ceased to interest him if it +happened to be printed; his sole pleasure was in the reading, compiling, and +rearranging what he called his “Memoirs to prove the Existence of the +Devil,” and engaged in this pursuit the evening seemed to fly and the +night appeared too short. +</p> + +<p> +On one particular evening, an ugly December night, black with fog, and raw with +frost, Clarke hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to observe his +customary ritual of taking up the paper and laying it down again. He paced two +or three times up and down the room, and opened the bureau, stood still a +moment, and sat down. He leant back, absorbed in one of those dreams to which +he was subject, and at length drew out his book, and opened it at the last +entry. There were three or four pages densely covered with Clarke’s +round, set penmanship, and at the beginning he had written in a somewhat larger +hand: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips. He assures me that all +the facts related therein are strictly and wholly True, but refuses to give +either the Surnames of the Persons Concerned, or the Place where these +Extraordinary Events occurred. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the tenth time, glancing now and +then at the pencil notes he had made when it was told him by his friend. It was +one of his humours to pride himself on a certain literary ability; he thought +well of his style, and took pains in arranging the circumstances in dramatic +order. He read the following story:— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V., who, if she is still +alive, must now be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since deceased, who was +a year younger than the above, and Trevor W., an imbecile, aged eighteen. These +persons were at the period of the story inhabitants of a village on the borders +of Wales, a place of some importance in the time of the Roman occupation, but +now a scattered hamlet, of not more than five hundred souls. It is situated on +rising ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a large and +picturesque forest. +</p> + +<p> +Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to the village under rather peculiar +circumstances. It is understood that she, being an orphan, was adopted in her +infancy by a distant relative, who brought her up in his own house until she +was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that it would be better for the child +to have playmates of her own age, he advertised in several local papers for a +good home in a comfortable farmhouse for a girl of twelve, and this +advertisement was answered by Mr. R., a well-to-do farmer in the +above-mentioned village. His references proving satisfactory, the gentleman +sent his adopted daughter to Mr. R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that +the girl should have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be +at no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already sufficiently +educated for the position in life which she would occupy. In fact, Mr. R. was +given to understand that the girl be allowed to find her own occupations and to +spend her time almost as she liked. Mr. R. duly met her at the nearest station, +a town seven miles away from his house, and seems to have remarked nothing +extraordinary about the child except that she was reticent as to her former +life and her adopted father. She was, however, of a very different type from +the inhabitants of the village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her +features were strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign character. She appears +to have settled down easily enough into farmhouse life, and became a favourite +with the children, who sometimes went with her on her rambles in the forest, +for this was her amusement. Mr. R. states that he has known her to go out by +herself directly after their early breakfast, and not return till after dusk, +and that, feeling uneasy at a young girl being out alone for so many hours, he +communicated with her adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen +must do as she chose. In the winter, when the forest paths are impassable, she +spent most of her time in her bedroom, where she slept alone, according to the +instructions of her relative. It was on one of these expeditions to the forest +that the first of the singular incidents with which this girl is connected +occurred, the date being about a year after her arrival at the village. The +preceding winter had been remarkably severe, the snow drifting to a great +depth, and the frost continuing for an unexampled period, and the summer +following was as noteworthy for its extreme heat. On one of the very hottest +days in this summer, Helen V. left the farmhouse for one of her long rambles in +the forest, taking with her, as usual, some bread and meat for lunch. She was +seen by some men in the fields making for the old Roman Road, a green causeway +which traverses the highest part of the wood, and they were astonished to +observe that the girl had taken off her hat, though the heat of the sun was +already tropical. As it happened, a labourer, Joseph W. by name, was working in +the forest near the Roman Road, and at twelve o’clock his little son, +Trevor, brought the man his dinner of bread and cheese. After the meal, the +boy, who was about seven years old at the time, left his father at work, and, +as he said, went to look for flowers in the wood, and the man, who could hear +him shouting with delight at his discoveries, felt no uneasiness. Suddenly, +however, he was horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the +result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which his son had +gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran to see what had happened. +Tracing his path by the sound, he met the little boy, who was running headlong, +and was evidently terribly frightened, and on questioning him the man elicited +that after picking a posy of flowers he felt tired, and lay down on the grass +and fell asleep. He was suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a +sort of singing he called it, and on peeping through the branches he saw Helen +V. playing on the grass with a “strange naked man,” who he seemed +unable to describe more fully. He said he felt dreadfully frightened and ran +away crying for his father. Joseph W. proceeded in the direction indicated by +his son, and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in the middle of a glade or +open space left by charcoal burners. He angrily charged her with frightening +his little boy, but she entirely denied the accusation and laughed at the +child’s story of a “strange man,” to which he himself did not +attach much credence. Joseph W. came to the conclusion that the boy had woke up +with a sudden fright, as children sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his +story, and continued in such evident distress that at last his father took him +home, hoping that his mother would be able to soothe him. For many weeks, +however, the boy gave his parents much anxiety; he became nervous and strange +in his manner, refusing to leave the cottage by himself, and constantly +alarming the household by waking in the night with cries of “The man in +the wood! father! father!” +</p> + +<p> +In course of time, however, the impression seemed to have worn off, and about +three months later he accompanied his father to the home of a gentleman in the +neighborhood, for whom Joseph W. occasionally did work. The man was shown into +the study, and the little boy was left sitting in the hall, and a few minutes +later, while the gentleman was giving W. his instructions, they were both +horrified by a piercing shriek and the sound of a fall, and rushing out they +found the child lying senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror. +The doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he pronounced +the child to be suffering form a kind of fit, apparently produced by a sudden +shock. The boy was taken to one of the bedrooms, and after some time recovered +consciousness, but only to pass into a condition described by the medical man +as one of violent hysteria. The doctor exhibited a strong sedative, and in the +course of two hours pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the +hall the paroxysms of fright returned and with additional violence. The father +perceived that the child was pointing at some object, and heard the old cry, +“The man in the wood,” and looking in the direction indicated saw a +stone head of grotesque appearance, which had been built into the wall above +one of the doors. It seems the owner of the house had recently made alterations +in his premises, and on digging the foundations for some offices, the men had +found a curious head, evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in +the manner described. The head is pronounced by the most experienced +archaeologists of the district to be that of a faun or satyr.[*] +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[* Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question, and assures me +that he has never received such a vivid presentment of intense evil.] +</p> + +<p> +From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed too severe for the boy +Trevor, and at the present date he suffers from a weakness of intellect, which +gives but little promise of amending. The matter caused a good deal of +sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was closely questioned by Mr. R., but +to no purpose, she steadfastly denying that she had frightened or in any way +molested Trevor. +</p> + +<p> +The second event with which this girl’s name is connected took place +about six years ago, and is of a still more extraordinary character. +</p> + +<p> +At the beginning of the summer of 1882, Helen contracted a friendship of a +peculiarly intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter of a prosperous +farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl, who was a year younger than Helen, was +considered by most people to be the prettier of the two, though Helen’s +features had to a great extent softened as she became older. The two girls, who +were together on every available opportunity, presented a singular contrast, +the one with her clear, olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and the other +of the proverbial red and white of our rural districts. It must be stated that +the payments made to Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were known in the +village for their excessive liberality, and the impression was general that she +would one day inherit a large sum of money from her relative. The parents of +Rachel were therefore not averse from their daughter’s friendship with +the girl, and even encouraged the intimacy, though they now bitterly regret +having done so. Helen still retained her extraordinary fondness for the forest, +and on several occasions Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting out +early in the morning, and remaining in the wood until dusk. Once or twice after +these excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter’s manner rather peculiar; +she seemed languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, “different +from herself,” but these peculiarities seem to have been thought too +trifling for remark. One evening, however, after Rachel had come home, her +mother heard a noise which sounded like suppressed weeping in the girl’s +room, and on going in found her lying, half undressed, upon the bed, evidently +in the greatest distress. As soon as she saw her mother, she exclaimed, +“Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest with +Helen?” Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to +make inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said— +</p> + +<p> +Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the fire. When +his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had +interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words +in a paroxysm of horror. “My God!” he had exclaimed, “think, +think what you are saying. It is too incredible, too monstrous; such things can +never be in this quiet world, where men and women live and die, and struggle, +and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer +strange fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as +this. There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror. Why, man, if +such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.” +</p> + +<p> +But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding: +</p> + +<p> +“Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad +sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she was not +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and again his +mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of such awful, +unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh. +Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green causeway in the forest, as +his friend had described it; he saw the swaying leaves and the quivering +shadows on the grass, he saw the sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in +the long distance, the two figures moved toward him. One was Rachel, but the +other? +</p> + +<p> +Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the account, +as he had written it in his book, he had placed the inscription: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Et Diabolus incarnatus est. Et homo factus est. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III<br /> +THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS</h2> + +<p> +“Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my name’s Herbert. I think I know your face, too, but I +don’t remember your name. My memory is very queer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?” +</p> + +<p> +“So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn’t think I +was begging of an old college friend. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but we +won’t go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a little +way? But how in heaven’s name have you come to this pass, Herbert?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can +hear it if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then. Take my arm, you don’t seem very strong.” +</p> + +<p> +The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty, +evil-looking rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a man +about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from +his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an +ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame of mind which was with +him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the door, peering round in the +dimly-lighted street in search of those mysterious incidents and persons with +which the streets of London teem in every quarter and every hour. Villiers +prided himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of +London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which +was worthy of more serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post surveying +the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only to +the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula: +“London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than that, it +is the city of Resurrections,” when these reflections were suddenly +interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a deplorable appeal for alms. +He looked around in some irritation, and with a sudden shock found himself +confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat stilted fancies. There, +close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his +body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles +Herbert, who had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been +merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying +interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since Villiers +had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man with grief and +dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of +circumstances had dragged him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt +together with compassion all the relish of the amateur in mysteries, and +congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations outside the restaurant. +</p> + +<p> +They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by stared in +astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed man with an +unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led +the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question. +</p> + +<p> +“How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would +succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit +you? Surely not?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s +death; he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me, and +I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men are; a few +months later I came up to town and went a good deal into society. Of course I +had excellent introductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very much in a +harmless sort of way. I played a little, certainly, but never for heavy stakes, +and the few bets I made on races brought me in money—only a few pounds, +you know, but enough to pay for cigars and such petty pleasures. It was in my +second season that the tide turned. Of course you have heard of my +marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I never heard anything about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful and +most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew. I cannot tell you +her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I should think she must +have been about nineteen when I made her acquaintance. My friends had come to +know her at Florence; she told them she was an orphan, the child of an English +father and an Italian mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me. The first +time I saw her was at an evening party. I was standing by the door talking to a +friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard a voice +which seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing an Italian song. I was +introduced to her that evening, and in three months I married Helen. Villiers, +that woman, if I can call her woman, corrupted my soul. The night of the +wedding I found myself sitting in her bedroom in the hotel, listening to her +talk. She was sitting up in bed, and I listened to her as she spoke in her +beautiful voice, spoke of things which even now I would not dare whisper in the +blackest night, though I stood in the midst of a wilderness. You, Villiers, you +may think you know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this +dreadful city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but +I tell you you can have no conception of what I know, not in your most +fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow of what +I have heard—and seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredible, such +horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the street and ask +whether it is possible for a man to behold such things and live. In a year, +Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul—in body and soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.” +</p> + +<p> +“I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old +house—everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“She took it all from me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then left you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; she disappeared one night. I don’t know where she went, but I +am sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no +interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I have +exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I could tell +you certain things which would convince you, but you would never know a happy +day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as I pass mine, a haunted man, +a man who has seen hell.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert +could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set before him. He sat +moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved when Villiers sent him away +with a small present of money. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Herbert,” said Villiers, as they parted at the door, +“what was your wife’s name? You said Helen, I think? Helen +what?” +</p> + +<p> +“The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what her +real name was I can’t say. I don’t think she had a name. No, no, +not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can’t say +anymore. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in which you +can help me. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his fireside. +There was something about Herbert which shocked him inexpressibly; not his poor +rags nor the marks which poverty had set upon his face, but rather an +indefinite terror which hung about him like a mist. He had acknowledged that he +himself was not devoid of blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him +body and soul, and Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an +actor in scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no +confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused curiously +over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had heard both the first +and the last of it. “No,” he thought, “certainly not the +last, probably only the beginning. A case like this is like a nest of Chinese +boxes; you open one after the other and find a quainter workmanship in every +box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the outside boxes; there are +stranger ones to follow.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which seemed +to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire seemed to burn low, and the +chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers got up with a glance +over his shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance, named +Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life, both in its +tenebrous and luminous phases. Villiers, still full of his encounter in Soho +and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly be able to shed some light +on Herbert’s history, and so after some casual talk he suddenly put the +question: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert—Charles +Herbert?” +</p> + +<p> +Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Charles Herbert? Weren’t you in town three years ago? No; then you +have not heard of the Paul Street case? It caused a good deal of sensation at +the time.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was the case?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was found dead, stark +dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul Street, off Tottenham Court Road. +Of course the police did not make the discovery; if you happen to be sitting up +all night and have a light in your window, the constable will ring the bell, +but if you happen to be lying dead in somebody’s area, you will be left +alone. In this instance, as in many others, the alarm was raised by some kind +of vagabond; I don’t mean a common tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a +gentleman, whose business or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the +London streets at five o’clock in the morning. This individual was, as he +said, ‘going home,’ it did not appear whence or whither, and had +occasion to pass through Paul Street between four and five a.m. Something or +other caught his eye at Number 20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house had +the most unpleasant physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any rate, he +glanced down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a man lying on the +stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face turned up. Our gentleman +thought his face looked peculiarly ghastly, and so set off at a run in search +of the nearest policeman. The constable was at first inclined to treat the +matter lightly, suspecting common drunkenness; however, he came, and after +looking at the man’s face, changed his tone, quickly enough. The early +bird, who had picked up this fine worm, was sent off for a doctor, and the +policeman rang and knocked at the door till a slatternly servant girl came down +looking more than half asleep. The constable pointed out the contents of the +area to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the street, but she +knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the house, and so forth. +Meanwhile, the original discoverer had come back with a medical man, and the +next thing was to get into the area. The gate was open, so the whole quartet +stumped down the steps. The doctor hardly needed a moment’s examination; +he said the poor fellow had been dead for several hours, and it was then the +case began to get interesting. The dead man had not been robbed, and in one of +his pockets were papers identifying him as—well, as a man of good family +and means, a favourite in society, and nobody’s enemy, as far as could be +known. I don’t give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing to do with +the story, and because it’s no good raking up these affairs about the +dead when there are no relations living. The next curious point was that the +medical men couldn’t agree as to how he met his death. There were some +slight bruises on his shoulders, but they were so slight that it looked as if +he had been pushed roughly out of the kitchen door, and not thrown over the +railings from the street or even dragged down the steps. But there were +positively no other marks of violence about him, certainly none that would +account for his death; and when they came to the autopsy there wasn’t a +trace of poison of any kind. Of course the police wanted to know all about the +people at Number 20, and here again, so I have heard from private sources, one +or two other very curious points came out. It appears that the occupants of the +house were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Herbert; he was said to be a landed +proprietor, though it struck most people that Paul Street was not exactly the +place to look for country gentry. As for Mrs. Herbert, nobody seemed to know +who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I fancy the divers after her +history found themselves in rather strange waters. Of course they both denied +knowing anything about the deceased, and in default of any evidence against +them they were discharged. But some very odd things came out about them. Though +it was between five and six in the morning when the dead man was removed, a +large crowd had collected, and several of the neighbours ran to see what was +going on. They were pretty free with their comments, by all accounts, and from +these it appeared that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street. The +detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid foundation of fact, +but could not get hold of anything. People shook their heads and raised their +eyebrows and thought the Herberts rather ‘queer,’ ‘would +rather not be seen going into their house,’ and so on, but there was +nothing tangible. The authorities were morally certain the man met his death in +some way or another in the house and was thrown out by the kitchen door, but +they couldn’t prove it, and the absence of any indications of violence or +poisoning left them helpless. An odd case, wasn’t it? But curiously +enough, there’s something more that I haven’t told you. I happened +to know one of the doctors who was consulted as to the cause of death, and some +time after the inquest I met him, and asked him about it. ‘Do you really +mean to tell me,’ I said, ‘that you were baffled by the case, that +you actually don’t know what the man died of?’ ‘Pardon +me,’ he replied, ‘I know perfectly well what caused death. Blank +died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so hideously +contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I have seen the faces of a +whole host of dead.’ The doctor was usually a cool customer enough, and a +certain vehemence in his manner struck me, but I couldn’t get anything +more out of him. I suppose the Treasury didn’t see their way to +prosecuting the Herberts for frightening a man to death; at any rate, nothing +was done, and the case dropped out of men’s minds. Do you happen to know +anything of Herbert?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” replied Villiers, “he was an old college friend of +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so? Have you ever seen his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I haven’t. I have lost sight of Herbert for many years.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s queer, isn’t it, parting with a man at the college gate +or at Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years, and then finding him pop up +his head in such an odd place. But I should like to have seen Mrs. Herbert; +people said extraordinary things about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of things?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hardly know how to tell you. Everyone who saw her at the police +court said she was at once the most beautiful woman and the most repulsive they +had ever set eyes on. I have spoken to a man who saw her, and I assure you he +positively shuddered as he tried to describe the woman, but he couldn’t +tell why. She seems to have been a sort of enigma; and I expect if that one +dead man could have told tales, he would have told some uncommonly queer ones. +And there you are again in another puzzle; what could a respectable country +gentleman like Mr. Blank (we’ll call him that if you don’t mind) +want in such a very queer house as Number 20? It’s altogether a very odd +case, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case. I didn’t think, when +I asked you about my old friend, I should strike on such strange metal. Well, I +must be off; good-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the Chinese boxes; here was +quaint workmanship indeed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br /> +THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET</h2> + +<p> +A few months after Villiers’ meeting with Herbert, Mr. Clarke was +sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his fancies +from wandering in the direction of the bureau. For more than a week he had +succeeded in keeping away from the “Memoirs,” and he cherished +hopes of a complete self-reformation; but, in spite of his endeavours, he could +not hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that the last case he had written +down had excited within him. He had put the case, or rather the outline of it, +conjecturally to a scientific friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke +getting queer, and on this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to +rationalize the story, when a sudden knock at the door roused him from his +meditations. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Villiers to see you sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not seen +you for many months; I should think nearly a year. Come in, come in. And how +are you, Villiers? Want any advice about investments?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe. No, +Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter that +has been brought under my notice of late. I am afraid you will think it all +rather absurd when I tell my tale. I sometimes think so myself, and +that’s just why I made up my mind to come to you, as I know you’re +a practical man.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the “Memoirs to prove the Existence of the +Devil.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of +my ability. What is the nature of the case?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s an extraordinary thing altogether. You know my ways; I always +keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon some queer +customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats all. I was coming out +of a restaurant one nasty winter night about three months ago; I had had a +capital dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I stood for a moment on the +pavement, thinking what a mystery there is about London streets and the +companies that pass along them. A bottle of red wine encourages these fancies, +Clarke, and I dare say I should have thought a page of small type, but I was +cut short by a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual appeals. +Of course I looked round, and this beggar turned out to be what was left of an +old friend of mine, a man named Herbert. I asked him how he had come to such a +wretched pass, and he told me. We walked up and down one of those long and dark +Soho streets, and there I listened to his story. He said he had married a +beautiful girl, some years younger than himself, and, as he put it, she had +corrupted him body and soul. He wouldn’t go into details; he said he dare +not, that what he had seen and heard haunted him by night and day, and when I +looked in his face I knew he was speaking the truth. There was something about +the man that made me shiver. I don’t know why, but it was there. I gave +him a little money and sent him away, and I assure you that when he was gone I +gasped for breath. His presence seemed to chill one’s blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t this all just a little fanciful, Villiers? I suppose the +poor fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone to the +bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, listen to this.” Villiers told Clarke the story he had heard +from Austin. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” he concluded, “there can be but little doubt that +this Mr. Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so +awful, so terrible, that it cut short his life. And what he saw, he most +certainly saw in that house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad name in the +neighbourhood. I had the curiosity to go and look at the place for myself. +It’s a saddening kind of street; the houses are old enough to be mean and +dreary, but not old enough to be quaint. As far as I could see most of them are +let in lodgings, furnished and unfurnished, and almost every door has three +bells to it. Here and there the ground floors have been made into shops of the +commonest kind; it’s a dismal street in every way. I found Number 20 was +to let, and I went to the agent’s and got the key. Of course I should +have heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but I asked the man, fair +and square, how long they had left the house and whether there had been other +tenants in the meanwhile. He looked at me queerly for a minute, and told me the +Herberts had left immediately after the unpleasantness, as he called it, and +since then the house had been empty.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Villiers paused for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses; there’s +a sort of fascination about the desolate empty rooms, with the nails sticking +in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills. But I didn’t +enjoy going over Number 20, Paul Street. I had hardly put my foot inside the +passage when I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the air of the house. Of +course all empty houses are stuffy, and so forth, but this was something quite +different; I can’t describe it to you, but it seemed to stop the breath. +I went into the front room and the back room, and the kitchens downstairs; they +were all dirty and dusty enough, as you would expect, but there was something +strange about them all. I couldn’t define it to you, I only know I felt +queer. It was one of the rooms on the first floor, though, that was the worst. +It was a largish room, and once on a time the paper must have been cheerful +enough, but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything were most doleful. But +the room was full of horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I put my hand on the +door, and when I went in, I thought I should have fallen fainting to the floor. +However, I pulled myself together, and stood against the end wall, wondering +what on earth there could be about the room to make my limbs tremble, and my +heart beat as if I were at the hour of death. In one corner there was a pile of +newspapers littered on the floor, and I began looking at them; they were papers +of three or four years ago, some of them half torn, and some crumpled as if +they had been used for packing. I turned the whole pile over, and amongst them +I found a curious drawing; I will show it to you presently. But I +couldn’t stay in the room; I felt it was overpowering me. I was thankful +to come out, safe and sound, into the open air. People stared at me as I walked +along the street, and one man said I was drunk. I was staggering about from one +side of the pavement to the other, and it was as much as I could do to take the +key back to the agent and get home. I was in bed for a week, suffering from +what my doctor called nervous shock and exhaustion. One of those days I was +reading the evening paper, and happened to notice a paragraph headed: +‘Starved to Death.’ It was the usual style of thing; a model +lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days, and a dead man in +his chair when they broke in. ‘The deceased,’ said the paragraph, +‘was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to have been once a +prosperous country gentleman. His name was familiar to the public three years +ago in connection with the mysterious death in Paul Street, Tottenham Court +Road, the deceased being the tenant of the house Number 20, in the area of +which a gentleman of good position was found dead under circumstances not +devoid of suspicion.’ A tragic ending, wasn’t it? But after all, if +what he told me were true, which I am sure it was, the man’s life was all +a tragedy, and a tragedy of a stranger sort than they put on the boards.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is the story, is it?” said Clarke musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is the story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say about it. There are, +no doubt, circumstances in the case which seem peculiar, the finding of the +dead man in the area of Herbert’s house, for instance, and the +extraordinary opinion of the physician as to the cause of death; but, after +all, it is conceivable that the facts may be explained in a straightforward +manner. As to your own sensations, when you went to see the house, I would +suggest that they were due to a vivid imagination; you must have been brooding, +in a semi-conscious way, over what you had heard. I don’t exactly see +what more can be said or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a +mystery of some kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you propose to +look?” +</p> + +<p> +“I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he married. <i>She</i> +is the mystery.” +</p> + +<p> +The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly congratulating himself +on having successfully kept up the character of advocate of the commonplace, +and Villiers wrapped in his gloomy fancies. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will have a cigarette,” he said at last, and put his +hand in his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said, starting slightly, “I forgot I had something +to show you. You remember my saying that I had found a rather curious sketch +amongst the pile of old newspapers at the house in Paul Street? Here it +is.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket. It was covered with +brown paper, and secured with string, and the knots were troublesome. In spite +of himself Clarke felt inquisitive; he bent forward on his chair as Villiers +painfully undid the string, and unfolded the outer covering. Inside was a +second wrapping of tissue, and Villiers took it off and handed the small piece +of paper to Clarke without a word. +</p> + +<p> +There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or more; the two men sat so +still that they could hear the ticking of the tall old-fashioned clock that +stood outside in the hall, and in the mind of one of them the slow monotony of +sound woke up a far, far memory. He was looking intently at the small +pen-and-ink sketch of the woman’s head; it had evidently been drawn with +great care, and by a true artist, for the woman’s soul looked out of the +eyes, and the lips were parted with a strange smile. Clarke gazed still at the +face; it brought to his memory one summer evening, long ago; he saw again the +long lovely valley, the river winding between the hills, the meadows and the +cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist rising from the water. He +heard a voice speaking to him across the waves of many years, and saying +“Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!” and then he was standing in +the grim room beside the doctor, listening to the heavy ticking of the clock, +waiting and watching, watching the figure lying on the green chair beneath the +lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and his heart grew cold +within him. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this woman?” he said at last. His voice was dry and hoarse. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the woman who Herbert married.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary after all. There certainly +was Mary’s face, but there was something else, something he had not seen +on Mary’s features when the white-clad girl entered the laboratory with +the doctor, nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she lay grinning on the +bed. Whatever it was, the glance that came from those eyes, the smile on the +full lips, or the expression of the whole face, Clarke shuddered before it at +his inmost soul, and thought, unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip’s words, +“the most vivid presentment of evil I have ever seen.” He turned +the paper over mechanically in his hand and glanced at the back. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as white as death.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a groan, +and let the paper drop from his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to these attacks. +Pour me out a little wine; thanks, that will do. I shall feel better in a few +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over as Clarke had done. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw that?” he said. “That’s how I identified it as +being a portrait of Herbert’s wife, or I should say his widow. How do you +feel now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness. I don’t think I +quite catch your meaning. What did you say enabled you to identify the +picture?” +</p> + +<p> +“This word—‘Helen’—was written on the back. +Didn’t I tell you her name was Helen? Yes; Helen Vaughan.” +</p> + +<p> +Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, don’t you agree with me,” said Villiers, “that in +the story I have told you to-night, and in the part this woman plays in it, +there are some very strange points?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Villiers,” Clarke muttered, “it is a strange story +indeed; a strange story indeed. You must give me time to think it over; I may +be able to help you or I may not. Must you be going now? Well, good-night, +Villiers, good-night. Come and see me in the course of a week.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V<br /> +THE LETTER OF ADVICE</h2> + +<p> +“Do you know, Austin,” said Villiers, as the two friends were +pacing sedately along Piccadilly one pleasant morning in May, “do you +know I am convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herberts is +a mere episode in an extraordinary history? I may as well confess to you that +when I asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had just seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had seen him? Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“He begged of me in the street one night. He was in the most pitiable +plight, but I recognized the man, and I got him to tell me his history, or at +least the outline of it. In brief, it amounted to this—he had been ruined +by his wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what manner?” +</p> + +<p> +“He would not tell me; he would only say that she had destroyed him, body +and soul. The man is dead now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what has become of his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that’s what I should like to know, and I mean to find her +sooner or later. I know a man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man of +business, but shrewd enough. You understand my meaning; not shrewd in the mere +business sense of the word, but a man who really knows something about men and +life. Well, I laid the case before him, and he was evidently impressed. He said +it needed consideration, and asked me to come again in the course of a week. A +few days later I received this extraordinary letter.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read it curiously. It ran as +follows:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> V<small>ILLIERS</small>,—I +have thought over the matter on which you consulted me the other night, and my +advice to you is this. Throw the portrait into the fire, blot out the story +from your mind. Never give it another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry. +You will think, no doubt, that I am in possession of some secret information, +and to a certain extent that is the case. But I only know a little; I am like a +traveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror. What I +know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my knowledge there are +depths and horrors more frightful still, more incredible than any tale told of +winter nights about the fire. I have resolved, and nothing shall shake that +resolve, to explore no whit farther, and if you value your happiness you will +make the same determination.<br /> +    “Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more cheerful +topics than this.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it to Villiers. +</p> + +<p> +“It is certainly an extraordinary letter,” he said, “what +does he mean by the portrait?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street and have made a +discovery.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, and Austin listened in +silence. He seemed puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“How very curious that you should experience such an unpleasant sensation +in that room!” he said at length. “I hardly gather that it was a +mere matter of the imagination; a feeling of repulsion, in short.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it was more physical than mental. It was as if I were inhaling at +every breath some deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerve and +bone and sinew of my body. I felt racked from head to foot, my eyes began to +grow dim; it was like the entrance of death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, very strange certainly. You see, your friend confesses that +there is some very black story connected with this woman. Did you notice any +particular emotion in him when you were telling your tale?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did. He became very faint, but he assured me that it was a mere +passing attack to which he was subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you believe him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did at the time, but I don’t now. He heard what I had to say +with a good deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It was then +that he was seized with the attack of which I spoke. He looked ghastly, I +assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he must have seen the woman before. But there might be another +explanation; it might have been the name, and not the face, which was familiar +to him. What do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t say. To the best of my belief it was after turning the +portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from the chair. The name, you +know, was written on the back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in a +case like this. I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more commonplace +and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; but really, Villiers, it +looks as if there were something very queer at the bottom of all this.” +</p> + +<p> +The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leading +northward from Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a gloomy one, but +here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the dark houses with flowers, +and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the doors. Villiers glanced up as +Austin stopped speaking, and looked at one of these houses; geraniums, red and +white, drooped from every sill, and daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back +from each window. +</p> + +<p> +“It looks cheerful, doesn’t it?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the inside is still more cheery. One of the pleasantest houses +of the season, so I have heard. I haven’t been there myself, but +I’ve met several men who have, and they tell me it’s uncommonly +jovial.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose house is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“A Mrs. Beaumont’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t tell you. I have heard she comes from South America, +but after all, who she is is of little consequence. She is a very wealthy +woman, there’s no doubt of that, and some of the best people have taken +her up. I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine, which +must have cost a fabulous sum. Lord Argentine was telling me about it; he was +there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has never tasted such a wine, and +Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By the way, that reminds me, she must be +an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine asked her how old the +wine was, and what do you think she said? ‘About a thousand years, I +believe.’ Lord Argentine thought she was chaffing him, you know, but when +he laughed she said she was speaking quite seriously and offered to show him +the jar. Of course, he couldn’t say anything more after that; but it +seems rather antiquated for a beverage, doesn’t it? Why, here we are at +my rooms. Come in, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, I think I will. I haven’t seen the curiosity-shop for a +while.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every jar and bookcase and +table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thing apart, +preserving each its own individuality. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything fresh lately?” said Villiers after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn’t you? I thought +so. I don’t think I have come across anything for the last few +weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin glanced around the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf to shelf, +in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an odd chest, pleasantly +and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” he said, “I was forgetting, I have got something to +show you.” Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volume, +laid it on the table, and resumed the cigar he had put down. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little; I met him two or three times at the house of a friend of mine. +What has become of him? I haven’t heard his name mentioned for some +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so! Quite young, wasn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; only thirty when he died.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he die of?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly +good fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was one of +the best talkers I have met. He could even talk about painting, and +that’s more than can be said of most painters. About eighteen months ago +he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went off on a +sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim about it. I believe +New York was to be his first port, but I never heard from him. Three months ago +I got this book, with a very civil letter from an English doctor practising at +Buenos Ayres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his +illness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish that the enclosed +packet should be sent to me after his death. That was all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And haven’t you written for further particulars?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to the +doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. And what about the book?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was sealed up when I got it. I don’t think the doctor had seen +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of these +Ainu jugs?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren’t you going to show +me poor Meyrick’s legacy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it’s rather a peculiar sort of +thing, and I haven’t shown it to any one. I wouldn’t say anything +about it if I were you. There it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t a printed volume, then?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No. It is a collection of drawings in black and white by my poor friend +Meyrick.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore a brief +inscription, which he read: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucet nocturnis +ignibus, chorus Ægipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et cantus tibiarum, et +tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam. +</p> + +<p> +On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up at Austin; +he was gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers turned page after page, +absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightful Walpurgis Night of evil, +strange monstrous evil, that the dead artist had set forth in hard black and +white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Ægipans danced before his eyes, the +darkness of the thicket, the dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely +shores, in green vineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a +world before which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villiers +whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the picture on the +last leaf caught his eye, as he almost closed the book. +</p> + +<p> +“Austin!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know who that is?” +</p> + +<p> +It was a woman’s face, alone on the white page. +</p> + +<p> +“Know who it is? No, of course not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mrs. Herbert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am perfectly sure of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one more chapter in her +history.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do you think of the designs?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are frightful. Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you I +would burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in a +chest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they are singular drawings. But I wonder what connection there +could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her and these +designs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, who can say? It is possible that the matter may end here, and we +shall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs. Herbert, is +only the beginning. She will come back to London, Austin; depend on it, she +will come back, and we shall hear more about her then. I doubt it will be very +pleasant news.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br /> +THE SUICIDES</h2> + +<p> +Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty he had been a +poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family, but forced to earn +a livelihood as best he could, and the most speculative of money-lenders would +not have entrusted him with fifty pounds on the chance of his ever changing his +name for a title, and his poverty for a great fortune. His father had been near +enough to the fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but +the son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much as +this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate. Thus he +fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor’s gown and the +wits of a younger son’s grandson, with which equipment he contrived in +some way to make a very tolerable fight of it. At twenty-five Mr. Charles +Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles and of warfare with the world, +but out of the seven who stood before him and the high places of his family +three only remained. These three, however, were “good lives,” but +yet not proof against the Zulu assegais and typhoid fever, and so one morning +Aubernon woke up and found himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had +faced the difficulties of existence, and had conquered. The situation amused +him immensely, and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him as +poverty had always been. Argentine, after some little consideration, came to +the conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the most +amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners became famous in +London, and an invitation to his table a thing covetously desired. After ten +years of lordship and dinners Argentine still declined to be jaded, still +persisted in enjoying life, and by a kind of infection had become recognized as +the cause of joy in others, in short, as the best of company. His sudden and +tragical death therefore caused a wide and deep sensation. People could +scarcely believe it, even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and the +cry of “Mysterious Death of a Nobleman” came ringing up from the +street. But there stood the brief paragraph: “Lord Argentine was found +dead this morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It is stated +that there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide, though no +motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased nobleman was widely known in +society, and much liked for his genial manner and sumptuous hospitality. He is +succeeded by,” etc., etc. +</p> + +<p> +By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained a +mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased’s valet, who +said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with a lady of +good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper reports. At about +eleven o’clock Lord Argentine had returned, and informed his man that he +should not require his services till the next morning. A little later the valet +had occasion to cross the hall and was somewhat astonished to see his master +quietly letting himself out at the front door. He had taken off his evening +clothes, and was dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low +brown hat. The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him, +and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the occurrence +till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door at a quarter to nine +as usual. He received no answer, and, after knocking two or three times, +entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine’s body leaning forward at an +angle from the bottom of the bed. He found that his master had tied a cord +securely to one of the short bed-posts, and, after making a running noose and +slipping it round his neck, the unfortunate man must have resolutely fallen +forward, to die by slow strangulation. He was dressed in the light suit in +which the valet had seen him go out, and the doctor who was summoned pronounced +that life had been extinct for more than four hours. All papers, letters, and +so forth seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointed in +the most remote way to any scandal either great or small. Here the evidence +ended; nothing more could be discovered. Several persons had been present at +the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted, and to all these he +seemed in his usual genial spirits. The valet, indeed, said he thought his +master appeared a little excited when he came home, but confessed that the +alteration in his manner was very slight, hardly noticeable, indeed. It seemed +hopeless to seek for any clue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had been +suddenly attacked by acute suicidal mania was generally accepted. +</p> + +<p> +It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three more gentlemen, one +of them a nobleman, and the two others men of good position and ample means, +perished miserably in the almost precisely the same manner. Lord Swanleigh was +found one morning in his dressing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the wall, +and Mr. Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine. +There was no explanation in either case; a few bald facts; a living man in the +evening, and a body with a black swollen face in the morning. The police had +been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or to explain the sordid +murders of Whitechapel; but before the horrible suicides of Piccadilly and +Mayfair they were dumbfoundered, for not even the mere ferocity which did duty +as an explanation of the crimes of the East End, could be of service in the +West. Each of these men who had resolved to die a tortured shameful death was +rich, prosperous, and to all appearances in love with the world, and not the +acutest research should ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either +case. There was a horror in the air, and men looked at one another’s +faces when they met, each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of +the fifth nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooks for +materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning paper was +unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew when or where the +next blow would light. +</p> + +<p> +A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came to see Mr. +Villiers. He was curious to know whether Villiers had succeeded in discovering +any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, either through Clarke or by other sources, +and he asked the question soon after he had sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Villiers, “I wrote to Clarke, but he remains +obdurate, and I have tried other channels, but without any result. I +can’t find out what became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street, +but I think she must have gone abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I +haven’t paid much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew +poor Herries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock to me, a +great shock.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can well believe it,” answered Austin gravely, “you know +Argentine was a friend of mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking of him +that day you came to my rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs. +Beaumont’s house. You said something about Argentine’s dining +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the night +before—before his death.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I had not heard that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont. +Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in a terrible +state for sometime after.” +</p> + +<p> +A curious look came over Villiers’ face; he seemed undecided whether to +speak or not. Austin began again. +</p> + +<p> +“I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read the account +of Argentine’s death. I didn’t understand it at the time, and I +don’t now. I knew him well, and it completely passes my understanding for +what possible cause he—or any of the others for the matter of +that—could have resolved in cold blood to die in such an awful manner. +You know how men babble away each other’s characters in London, you may +be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have been brought to light +in such a case as this; but nothing of the sort has taken place. As for the +theory of mania, that is very well, of course, for the coroner’s jury, +but everybody knows that it’s all nonsense. Suicidal mania is not +small-pox.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers sat silent, also, watching his +friend. The expression of indecision still fleeted across his face; he seemed +as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the considerations he was +resolving left him still silent. Austin tried to shake off the remembrance of +tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to +talk in an indifferent voice of the more pleasant incidents and adventures of +the season. +</p> + +<p> +“That Mrs. Beaumont,” he said, “of whom we were speaking, is +a great success; she has taken London almost by storm. I met her the other +night at Fulham’s; she is really a remarkable woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have met Mrs. Beaumont?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; she had quite a court around her. She would be called very +handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which I +didn’t like. The features are exquisite, but the expression is strange. +And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when I was going home, I +had a curious feeling that very expression was in some way or another familiar +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must have seen her in the Row.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that which +makes it puzzling. And to the best of my belief I have never seen anyone like +her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vague but persistent. The +only sensation I can compare it to, is that odd feeling one sometimes has in a +dream, when fantastic cities and wondrous lands and phantom personages appear +familiar and accustomed.” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in search of +something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell on an old chest +somewhat like that in which the artist’s strange legacy lay hid beneath a +Gothic scutcheon. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death. I +don’t expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. I +thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman named +Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any information about her. +But it’s very possible that Meyrick fell in with her at New York, or +Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to the extent or direction of his +travels.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and it’s very possible that the woman may have more than one +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait of +her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr. +Matthews.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark! +what are those boys calling?” +</p> + +<p> +While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of shouting had +been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from the eastward and swelled +down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very torrent of sound; surging up +streets usually quiet, and making every window a frame for a face, curious or +excited. The cries and voices came echoing up the silent street where Villiers +lived, growing more distinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an +answer rang up from the pavement: +</p> + +<p> +“The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!” +</p> + +<p> +Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the paragraph to +Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The window was open and the +air seemed full of noise and terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of +suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr. Sidney +Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King’s Pomeroy, Devon, was found, +after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a tree in his garden +at one o’clock today. The deceased gentleman dined last night at the +Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits. He left the club at +about ten o’clock, and was seen walking leisurely up St. James’s +Street a little later. Subsequent to this his movements cannot be traced. On +the discovery of the body medical aid was at once summoned, but life had +evidently been long extinct. So far as is known, Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or +anxiety of any kind. This painful suicide, it will be remembered, is the fifth +of the kind in the last month. The authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to +suggest any explanation of these terrible occurrences.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin put down the paper in mute horror. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall leave London to-morrow,” he said, “it is a city of +nightmares. How awful this is, Villiers!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into the street. He +had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and the hint of indecision +was no longer on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment, Austin,” he replied, “I have made up my mind +to mention a little matter that occurred last night. It stated, I think, that +Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James’s Street shortly after +ten?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all +events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o’clock this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet +between us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where, in Heaven’s name, did you see him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving a +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you notice what house it was?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. How +could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont’s house at two o’clock in the +morning? Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; you were always +rather fanciful.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say, +what I saw would have roused me effectually.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange about +Crashaw? But I can’t believe it; it is impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what I +think I saw, and you can judge for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Villiers.” +</p> + +<p> +The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and then the +sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull, leaden silence +seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm. Villiers turned from the +window and began speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“I was at a house near Regent’s Park last night, and when I came +away the fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom. It was a clear +pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streets pretty much to +myself. It’s a curious thing, Austin, to be alone in London at night, the +gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and the dead silence, and then +perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on the stones, and the fire starting +up under the horse’s hoofs. I walked along pretty briskly, for I was +feeling a little tired of being out in the night, and as the clocks were +striking two I turned down Ashley Street, which, you know, is on my way. It was +quieter than ever there, and the lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as +dark and gloomy as a forest in winter. I had done about half the length of the +street when I heard a door closed very softly, and naturally I looked up to see +who was abroad like myself at such an hour. As it happens, there is a street +lamp close to the house in question, and I saw a man standing on the step. He +had just shut the door and his face was towards me, and I recognized Crashaw +directly. I never knew him to speak to, but I had often seen him, and I am +positive that I was not mistaken in my man. I looked into his face for a +moment, and then—I will confess the truth—I set off at a good run, +and kept it up till I was within my own door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man’s face. I +could never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passions could have +glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked. I knew I had looked +into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man’s outward form remained, +but all hell was within it. Furious lust, and hate that was like fire, and the +loss of all hope and horror that seemed to shriek aloud to the night, though +his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness of despair. I am sure that he did +not see me; he saw nothing that you or I can see, but what he saw I hope we +never shall. I do not know when he died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, +but when I passed down Ashley Street and heard the closing door, that man no +longer belonged to this world; it was a devil’s face I looked +upon.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceased speaking. The +light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was quite hushed. Austin +had bent his head at the close of the story, and his hand covered his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What can it mean?” he said at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows, Austin, who knows? It’s a black business, but I think +we had better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate. I will see if +I cannot learn anything about that house through private channels of +information, and if I do light upon anything I will let you know.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br /> +THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO</h2> + +<p> +Three weeks later Austin received a note from Villiers, asking him to call +either that afternoon or the next. He chose the nearer date, and found Villiers +sitting as usual by the window, apparently lost in meditation on the drowsy +traffic of the street. There was a bamboo table by his side, a fantastic thing, +enriched with gilding and queer painted scenes, and on it lay a little pile of +papers arranged and docketed as neatly as anything in Mr. Clarke’s +office. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three +weeks?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so; I have here one or two memoranda which struck me as +singular, and there is a statement to which I shall call your attention.” +</p> + +<p> +“And these documents relate to Mrs. Beaumont? It was really Crashaw whom +you saw that night standing on the doorstep of the house in Ashley +Street?” +</p> + +<p> +“As to that matter my belief remains unchanged, but neither my inquiries +nor their results have any special relation to Crashaw. But my investigations +have had a strange issue. I have found out who Mrs. Beaumont is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is she? In what way do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that you and I know her better under another name.” +</p> + +<p> +“What name is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Herbert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Herbert!” Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures +unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face; when you +go home look at the face in Meyrick’s book of horrors, and you will know +the sources of your recollection.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have proof of this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say Mrs. +Herbert?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in +Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the meanest and +most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an appointment, though +not with her, and she was precise to both time and place.” +</p> + +<p> +“All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You must +remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary adventure of +London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her coffee in a commonplace +drawing-room with commonplace people. But you know what you are saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies. It was +with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs. Beaumont in +the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been the issue.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must have been in strange places, Villiers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless, you +know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a short sketch +of her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume, that her record was +not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain that at some previous time she +must have moved in circles not quite so refined as her present ones. If you see +mud at the top of a stream, you may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I +went to the bottom. I have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my +amusement, and I found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very +useful. It is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the +name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable to +describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The people there know +me; I have been able to do some of them a service now and again, so they made +no difficulty about giving their information; they were aware I had no +communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard. I had to cast out a good +many lines, though, before I got what I wanted, and when I landed the fish I +did not for a moment suppose it was my fish. But I listened to what I was told +out of a constitutional liking for useless information, and I found myself in +possession of a very curious story, though, as I imagined, not the story I was +looking for. It was to this effect. Some five or six years ago, a woman named +Raymond suddenly made her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am +referring. She was described to me as being quite young, probably not more than +seventeen or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if she came from the +country. I should be wrong in saying that she found her level in going to this +particular quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I was told, +I should think the worst den in London far too good for her. The person from +whom I got my information, as you may suppose, no great Puritan, shuddered and +grew sick in telling me of the nameless infamies which were laid to her charge. +After living there for a year, or perhaps a little more, she disappeared as +suddenly as she came, and they saw nothing of her till about the time of the +Paul Street case. At first she came to her old haunts only occasionally, then +more frequently, and finally took up her abode there as before, and remained +for six or eight months. It’s of no use my going into details as to the +life that woman led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick’s +legacy. Those designs were not drawn from his imagination. She again +disappeared, and the people of the place saw nothing of her till a few months +ago. My informant told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he +pointed out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two or three +times a week and always at ten in the morning. I was led to expect that one of +these visits would be paid on a certain day about a week ago, and I accordingly +managed to be on the look-out in company with my cicerone at a quarter to ten, +and the hour and the lady came with equal punctuality. My friend and I were +standing under an archway, a little way back from the street, but she saw us, +and gave me a glance that I shall be long in forgetting. That look was quite +enough for me; I knew Miss Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs. Beaumont she +had quite gone out of my head. She went into the house, and I watched it till +four o’clock, when she came out, and then I followed her. It was a long +chase, and I had to be very careful to keep a long way in the background, and +yet not lose sight of the woman. She took me down to the Strand, and then to +Westminster, and then up St. James’s Street, and along Piccadilly. I felt +queerish when I saw her turn up Ashley Street; the thought that Mrs. Herbert +was Mrs. Beaumont came into my mind, but it seemed too impossible to be true. I +waited at the corner, keeping my eye on her all the time, and I took particular +care to note the house at which she stopped. It was the house with the gay +curtains, the home of flowers, the house out of which Crashaw came the night he +hanged himself in his garden. I was just going away with my discovery, when I +saw an empty carriage come round and draw up in front of the house, and I came +to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was going out for a drive, and I was right. +There, as it happened, I met a man I know, and we stood talking together a +little distance from the carriage-way, to which I had my back. We had not been +there for ten minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I glanced round and +saw the lady I had been following all day. ‘Who is that?’ I said, +and his answer was ‘Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley Street.’ Of +course there could be no doubt after that. I don’t know whether she saw +me, but I don’t think she did. I went home at once, and, on +consideration, I thought that I had a sufficiently good case with which to go +to Clarke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why to Clarke?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this +woman, facts of which I know nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Austin for a +moment before he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, Villiers, you +cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result...” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you soon. But I was going to say that my information does +not end here; it has been completed in an extraordinary manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at this neat little packet of manuscript; it is paginated, you see, +and I have indulged in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape. It has +almost a legal air, hasn’t it? Run your eye over it, Austin. It is an +account of the entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her choicer guests. The +man who wrote this escaped with his life, but I do not think he will live many +years. The doctors tell him he must have sustained some severe shock to the +nerves.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin took the manuscript, but never read it. Opening the neat pages at +haphazard his eye was caught by a word and a phrase that followed it; and, sick +at heart, with white lips and a cold sweat pouring like water from his temples, +he flung the paper down. +</p> + +<p> +“Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this again. Are you made of +stone, man? Why, the dread and horror of death itself, the thoughts of the man +who stands in the keen morning air on the black platform, bound, the bell +tolling in his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle of the bolt, are as nothing +compared to this. I will not read it; I should never sleep again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it is horrible enough; but +after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day, and in dim +London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive gardens. We know +what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are +wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing. It was, +indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge +of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; +forces before which the souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their +bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot +be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the +most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you +and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the +secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form +taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very +sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and +boil beneath such a burden?” +</p> + +<p> +Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads of sweat stood out on +his forehead. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw him make a sign +upon his breast. +</p> + +<p> +“I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as that? +You would never pass out alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive—I, and Clarke with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare...” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning; there +was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I thought I would take +a walk. Piccadilly stretched before me a clear, bright vista, and the sun +flashed on the carriages and on the quivering leaves in the park. It was a +joyous morning, and men and women looked at the sky and smiled as they went +about their work or their pleasure, and the wind blew as blithely as upon the +meadows and the scented gorse. But somehow or other I got out of the bustle and +the gaiety, and found myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where +there seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers +loitered as they walked, and hung indecisively about corners and archways. I +walked along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I did there, but feeling +impelled, as one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a vague idea of +reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged up the street, noting the small +traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the incongruous medley of penny +pipes, black tobacco, sweets, newspapers, and comic songs which here and there +jostled one another in the short compass of a single window. I think it was a +cold shudder that suddenly passed through me that first told me that I had +found what I wanted. I looked up from the pavement and stopped before a dusty +shop, above which the lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred +years ago had grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to themselves the +dust of winters innumerable. I saw what I required; but I think it was five +minutes before I had steadied myself and could walk in and ask for it in a cool +voice and with a calm face. I think there must even then have been a tremor in +my words, for the old man who came out of the back parlour, and fumbled slowly +amongst his goods, looked oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what he +asked, and stood leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance to take up +my goods and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and +the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it was before +traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty years ago, ‘just +before my father died,’ he said. I got away at last, and walked along +sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I was glad to return to the bustle +and the noise. Would you like to see my purchase?” +</p> + +<p> +Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked white and +sick. Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and showed Austin a +long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a running noose. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the best hempen cord,” said Villiers, “just as it used +to be made for the old trade, the man told me. Not an inch of jute from end to +end.” +</p> + +<p> +Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he looked. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not do it,” he murmured at last. “You would not +have blood on your hands. My God!” he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence, +“you cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a +hangman?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this cord +in a locked room for fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not done, I shall +call the nearest policeman. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this. +Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Austin.” +</p> + +<p> +The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and Austin stood, white and +ghastly, in the entrance. +</p> + +<p> +“I was forgetting,” he said, “that I too have something to +tell. I have received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says that +he attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.” +</p> + +<p> +“And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not +fever?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter collapse +of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But he states that +the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was consequently at some +disadvantage in treating the case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: ‘I think this is all +the information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long in +Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a person who did +not bear the best of characters, and has since left—a Mrs. +Vaughan.’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br /> +THE FRAGMENTS</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr. Robert Matheson, of Ashley +Street, Piccadilly, who died suddenly, of apoplectic seizure, at the beginning +of 1892, a leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered with pencil jottings. +These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and had evidently been made in +great haste. The MS. was only deciphered with difficulty, and some words have +up to the present time evaded all the efforts of the expert employed. The date, +“XXV Jul. 1888,” is written on the right-hand corner of the MS. The +following is a translation of Dr. Matheson’s manuscript.] +</p> + +<p> +“Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if they could be +published, I do not know, but rather doubt. But certainly I shall never take +the responsibility of publishing or divulging one word of what is here written, +not only on account of my oath given freely to those two persons who were +present, but also because the details are too abominable. It is probably that, +upon mature consideration, and after weighting the good and evil, I shall one +day destroy this paper, or at least leave it under seal to my friend D., +trusting in his discretion, to use it or to burn it, as he may think fit. +</p> + +<p> +“As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge suggested to make sure +that I was suffering under no delusion. At first astounded, I could hardly +think, but in a minute’s time I was sure that my pulse was steady and +regular, and that I was in my real and true senses. I then fixed my eyes +quietly on what was before me. +</p> + +<p> +“Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me, and an odour of +corruption choked my breath, I remained firm. I was then privileged or +accursed, I dare not say which, to see that which was on the bed, lying there +black like ink, transformed before my eyes. The skin, and the flesh, and the +muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the human body that I had +thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as adamant, began to melt and +dissolve. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that the body may be separated into its elements by external +agencies, but I should have refused to believe what I saw. For here there was +some internal force, of which I knew nothing, that caused dissolution and +change. +</p> + +<p> +“Here too was all the work by which man had been made repeated before my +eyes. I saw the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself from itself, and +then again reunited. Then I saw the body descend to the beasts whence it +ascended, and that which was on the heights go down to the depths, even to the +abyss of all being. The principle of life, which makes organism, always +remained, while the outward form changed. +</p> + +<p> +“The light within the room had turned to blackness, not the darkness of +night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly and without +difficulty. But it was the negation of light; objects were presented to my +eyes, if I may say so, without any medium, in such a manner that if there had +been a prism in the room I should have seen no colours represented in it. +</p> + +<p> +“I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance as jelly. Then the +ladder was ascended again... [<i>here the</i> MS. <i>is illegible</i>] ...for +one instance I saw a Form, shaped in dimness before me, which I will not +farther describe. But the symbol of this form may be seen in ancient +sculptures, and in paintings which survived beneath the lava, too foul to be +spoken of... as a horrible and unspeakable shape, neither man nor beast, was +changed into human form, there came finally death. +</p> + +<p> +“I who saw all this, not without great horror and loathing of soul, here +write my name, declaring all that I have set on this paper to be true. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“R<small>OBERT</small> M<small>ATHESON</small>, Med. Dr.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +...Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what I have seen. The burden +of it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet I could tell it to none but +you. Villiers, who was with me at the last, knows nothing of that awful secret +of the wood, of how what we both saw die, lay upon the smooth, sweet turf +amidst the summer flowers, half in sun and half in shadow, and holding the girl +Rachel’s hand, called and summoned those companions, and shaped in solid +form, upon the earth we tread upon, the horror which we can but hint at, which +we can only name under a figure. I would not tell Villiers of this, nor of that +resemblance, which struck me as with a blow upon my heart, when I saw the +portrait, which filled the cup of terror at the end. What this can mean I dare +not guess. I know that what I saw perish was not Mary, and yet in the last +agony Mary’s eyes looked into mine. Whether there can be any one who can +show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I do not know, but if there +be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are the man. And if you know the +secret, it rests with you to tell it or not, as you please. +</p> + +<p> +I am writing this letter to you immediately on my getting back to town. I have +been in the country for the last few days; perhaps you may be able to guess in +which part. While the horror and wonder of London was at its height—for +“Mrs. Beaumont,” as I have told you, was well known in +society—I wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief outline, or +rather hint, of what happened, and asking him to tell me the name of the +village where the events he had related to me occurred. He gave me the name, as +he said with the less hesitation, because Rachel’s father and mother were +dead, and the rest of the family had gone to a relative in the State of +Washington six months before. The parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of +grief and horror caused by the terrible death of their daughter, and by what +had gone before that death. On the evening of the day which I received +Phillips’ letter I was at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering +Roman walls, white with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over +the meadow where once had stood the older temple of the “God of the +Deeps,” and saw a house gleaming in the sunlight. It was the house where +Helen had lived. I stayed at Caermaen for several days. The people of the +place, I found, knew little and had guessed less. Those whom I spoke to on the +matter seemed surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed myself to be) +should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they gave a very commonplace +version, and, as you may imagine, I told nothing of what I knew. Most of my +time was spent in the great wood that rises just above the village and climbs +the hillside, and goes down to the river in the valley; such another long +lovely valley, Raymond, as that on which we looked one summer night, walking to +and fro before your house. For many an hour I strayed through the maze of the +forest, turning now to right and now to left, pacing slowly down long alleys of +undergrowth, shadowy and chill, even under the midday sun, and halting beneath +great oaks; lying on the short turf of a clearing where the faint sweet scent +of wild roses came to me on the wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of the +elder, whose mingled odour is like the odour of the room of the dead, a vapour +of incense and corruption. I stood at the edges of the wood, gazing at all the +pomp and procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the bracken and shining +red in the broad sunshine, and beyond them into deep thickets of close +undergrowth where springs boil up from the rock and nourish the water-weeds, +dank and evil. But in all my wanderings I avoided one part of the wood; it was +not till yesterday that I climbed to the summit of the hill, and stood upon the +ancient Roman road that threads the highest ridge of the wood. Here they had +walked, Helen and Rachel, along this quiet causeway, upon the pavement of green +turf, shut in on either side by high banks of red earth, and tall hedges of +shining beech, and here I followed in their steps, looking out, now and again, +through partings in the boughs, and seeing on one side the sweep of the wood +stretching far to right and left, and sinking into the broad level, and beyond, +the yellow sea, and the land over the sea. On the other side was the valley and +the river and hill following hill as wave on wave, and wood and meadow, and +cornfield, and white houses gleaming, and a great wall of mountain, and far +blue peaks in the north. And so at last I came to the place. The track went up +a gentle slope, and widened out into an open space with a wall of thick +undergrowth around it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into the distance +and the faint blue mist of summer heat. And into this pleasant summer glade +Rachel passed a girl, and left it, who shall say what? I did not stay long +there. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the most part +Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at various times. On +the day after my arrival in Caermaen I walked over to the town in question, and +took the opportunity of inspecting the museum. After I had seen most of the +sculptured stones, the coffins, rings, coins, and fragments of tessellated +pavement which the place contains, I was shown a small square pillar of white +stone, which had been recently discovered in the wood of which I have been +speaking, and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road +broadens out. On one side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I took a +note. Some of the letters have been defaced, but I do not think there can be +any doubt as to those which I supply. The inscription is as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +DEVOMNODENT<i>i</i><br /> +FLA<i>v</i>IVSSENILISPOSSV<i>it</i><br /> +PROPTERNVP<i>tias</i><br /> +<i>qua</i>SVIDITSVBVMB<i>ra</i> +</p> + +<p> +“To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius +Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw beneath +the shade.” +</p> + +<p> +The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were much +puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in translating it, but as +to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is made. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +...And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan, whom +you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost incredible +horror. I was interested in your account, but a good deal, nay all, of what you +told me I knew already. I can understand the strange likeness you remarked in +both the portrait and in the actual face; you have seen Helen’s mother. +You remember that still summer night so many years ago, when I talked to you of +the world beyond the shadows, and of the god Pan. You remember Mary. She was +the mother of Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night. +</p> + +<p> +Mary never recovered her reason. She lay, as you saw her, all the while upon +her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died. I fancy that just at +the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed, and the old look came into her +eyes for a second, and then she shuddered and groaned and died. It was an ill +work I did that night when you were present; I broke open the door of the house +of life, without knowing or caring what might pass forth or enter in. I +recollect your telling me at the time, sharply enough, and rightly too, in one +sense, that I had ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment, +based on an absurd theory. You did well to blame me, but my theory was not all +absurdity. What I said Mary would see she saw, but I forgot that no human eyes +can look on such a sight with impunity. And I forgot, as I have just said, that +when the house of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for which +we have no name, and human flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare not +express. I played with energies which I did not understand, you have seen the +ending of it. Helen Vaughan did well to bind the cord about her neck and die, +though the death was horrible. The blackened face, the hideous form upon the +bed, changing and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to +beast, and from beast to worse than beast, all the strange horror that you +witness, surprises me but little. What you say the doctor whom you sent for saw +and shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the moment the +child was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I surprised it, not +once or twice but several times with a playmate, you may guess of what kind. It +was for me a constant, an incarnate horror, and after a few years I felt I +could bear it no more, and I sent Helen Vaughan away. You know now what +frightened the boy in the wood. The rest of the strange story, and all else +that you tell me, as discovered by your friend, I have contrived to learn from +time to time, almost to the last chapter. And now Helen is with her +companions... +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +N<small>OTE</small>.—Helen Vaughan was born on August 5th, 1865, at the +Red House, Breconshire, and died on July 25th, 1888, in her house in a street +off Piccadilly, called Ashley Street in the story. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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