diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/ggpan10.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/ggpan10.txt | 2752 |
1 files changed, 2752 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/ggpan10.txt b/old/ggpan10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..20f5966 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/ggpan10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2752 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +The Great God Pan + +by Arthur Machen + +January, 1996 [Etext #389] +[Date last updated: December 6, 2004] + + +Project Gutenberg's Etext of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen +*****This file should be named ggpan10.txt or ggpan10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, ggpan11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ggpan10a.txt. + +This book prepared by: +Brandi Weed +brandi@primenet.com + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $4 +million dollars per hour this year as we release some eight text +files per month: thus upping our productivity from $2 million. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is 10% of the expected number of computer users by the end +of the year 2001. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/IBC", and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law ("IBC" is Illinois +Benedictine College). (Subscriptions to our paper newsletter go +to IBC, too) + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Michael S. Hart, Executive +Director: +hart@vmd.cso.uiuc.edu (internet) hart@uiucvmd (bitnet) + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Illinois Benedictine College (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This book prepared by: +Brandi Weed +brandi@primenet.com + + + + + +THE GREAT GOD PAN + +by + +ARTHUR MACHEN + + + + + +I + +THE EXPERIMENT + + + +"I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed. I was +not sure you could spare the time." + +"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?" + +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. + +"Safe? Of course it is. In itself the operation is a +perfectly simple one; any surgeon could do it." + +"And there is no danger at any other stage?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +"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 is 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." + +Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the +river was chilly. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"But you remember what you wrote to me? I thought it +would be requisite that she--" + +He whispered the rest into the doctor's ear. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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.'" + +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. + +"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. + +"Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable. I have +a couple hours' work before me; I was obliged to leave certain +matters to the last." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Mary," he said, "the time has come. You are quite +free. Are you willing to trust yourself to me entirely?" + +"Yes, dear." + +"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?" + +"Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you +begin." + +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. + +"She will awake in five minutes." Raymond was still +perfectly cool. "There is nothing more to be done; we can only +wait." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + + + + +II + +MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS + + + +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 he 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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:-- + + +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. + +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!" + +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. [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.] + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +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." + +But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding: + +"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." + +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 figure moved toward him. One was Rachel, but +the other? + +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: + +ET DIABOLUS INCARNATE EST. ET HOMO FACTUS EST. + + + + +III + +THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS + + + +"Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?" + +"Yes, my name's Herbert. I think I know your face, +too, but I don't remember your name. My memory is very queer." + +"Don't you recollect Villiers of Wadham?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"It's a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, +but you can hear it if you like." + +"Come on, then. Take my arm, you don't seem very +strong." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"No, I never heard anything about it." + +"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." + +"But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset." + +"I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old +house--everything." + +"And the money?" + +"She took it all from me." + +"And then left you?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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: + +"Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert +--Charles Herbert?" + +Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with +some astonishment. + +"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." + +"What was the case?" + +"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?" + +"Well," replied Villiers, "he was an old college friend +of mine." + +"You don't say so? Have you ever seen his wife?" + +"No, I haven't. I have lost sight of Herbert for many +years." + +"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." + +"What sort of things?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the +Chinese boxes; here was quaint workmanship indeed. + + + + +IV + +THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET + + + +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. + +"Mr. Villiers to see you sir." + +"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?" + +"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 what I made up my mind to come to you, as I know you're a +practical man." + +Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the "Memoirs to prove the +Existence of the Devil." + +"Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my +advice, to the best of my ability. What is the nature of the +case?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well, listen to this." Villiers told Clarke the story +he had heard from Austin. + +"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." + +Mr. Villiers paused for a moment. + +"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." + +"And that is the story, is it?" said Clarke musingly. + +"Yes, that is the story." + +"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?" + +"I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he +married. She is the mystery." + +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. + +"I think I will have a cigarette," he said at last, and +put his hand in his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case. + +"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." + +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. + +There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or +more; the two man 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 char beneath +the lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and +his heart grew cold within him. + +"Who is this woman?" he said at last. His voice was +dry and hoarse. + +"That is the woman who Herbert married." + +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. + +"Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as +white as death." + +Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke +fell back with a groan, and let the paper drop from his hands. + +"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." + +Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over +as Clarke had done. + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"This word--'Helen'--was written on the back. +Didn't I tell you her name was Helen? Yes; Helen Vaughan." + +Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt. + +"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?" + +"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." + + + + +V + +THE LETTER OF ADVICE + + + +"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." + +"You had seen him? Where?" + +"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." + +"In what manner?" + +"He would not tell me; he would only say that she had +destroyed him, body and soul. The man is dead now." + +"And what has become of his wife?" + +"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." + +Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read +it curiously. It ran as follows:-- + +"MY DEAR VILLIERS,--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. + +"Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more +cheerful topics than this." + +Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it +to Villiers. + +"It is certainly an extraordinary letter," he said, +"what does he mean by the portrait?" + +"Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street +and have made a discovery." + +Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, +and Austin listened in silence. He seemed puzzled. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Yes, I did. He became very faint, but he assured me +that it was a mere passing attack to which he was subject." + +"Did you believe him?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"It looks cheerful, doesn't it?" he said. + +"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." + +"Whose house is it?" + +"A Mrs. Beaumont's." + +"And who is she?" + +"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?" + +"Thanks, I think I will. I haven't seen the +curiosity-shop for a while." + +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. + +"Anything fresh lately?" said Villiers after a while. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?" + +"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." + +"He's dead." + +"You don't say so! Quite young, wasn't he?" + +"Yes; only thirty when he died." + +"What did he die of?" + +"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." + +"And haven't you written for further particulars?" + +"I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me +to write to the doctor?" + +"Certainly. And what about the book?" + +"It was sealed up when I got it. I don't think the +doctor had seen it." + +"It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, +perhaps?" + +"No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you +think of these Ainu jugs?" + +"They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren't you +going to show me poor Meyrick's legacy?" + +"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." + +Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard. + +"It isn't a printed volume, then?" he said. + +"No. It is a collection of drawings in black and white +by my poor friend Meyrick." + +Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the +second bore a brief inscription, which he read: + + +Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus +est; lucet nocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique +personatur: audiuntur et cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum +per oram maritimam. + + +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 Aegipans 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. + +"Austin!" + +"Well, what is it?" + +"Do you know who that is?" + +It was a woman's face, alone on the white page. + +"Know who it is? No, of course not." + +"I do." + +"Who is it?" + +"It is Mrs. Herbert." + +"Are you sure?" + +"I am perfectly sure of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one +more chapter in her history." + +"But what do you think of the designs?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + + + + +VI + +THE SUICIDES + + + +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. + +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 +named 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 Augustine 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley +Street, Mrs. Beaumont's house. You said something about +Argentine's dining there." + +"Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine +dined the night before--before his death." + +"No, I had not heard that." + +"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." + +A curious look came over Villiers' face; he seemed +undecided whether to speak or not. Austin began again. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"You have met Mrs. Beaumont?" + +"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." + +"You must have seen her in the Row." + +"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." + +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. + +"Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?" he +asked. + +"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." + +"Yes, and it's very possible that the woman may have +more than one name." + +"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." + +"So you might; that never occurred to me. We might +send it now. Hark! what are those boys calling?" + +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: + +"The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full +Details!" + +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. + +"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." + +Austin put down the paper in mute horror. + +"I shall leave London to-morrow," he said, "it is a +city of nightmares. How awful this is, Villiers!" + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are +quite right." + +"Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that +statement at all events. Crashaw was seen after that; +considerably later indeed." + +"How do you know?" + +"Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two +o'clock this morning." + +"You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?" + +"Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were +but a few feet between us." + +"Where, in Heaven's name, did you see him?" + +"Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He +was just leaving a house." + +"Did you notice what house it was?" + +"Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont's." + +"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." + +"No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been +dreaming as you say, what I saw would have roused me +effectually." + +"What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything +strange about Crashaw? But I can't believe it; it is +impossible." + +"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." + +"Very good, Villiers." + +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. + +"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." + +"Why?" + +"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." + +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. + +"What can it mean?" he said at length. + +"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." + + + + +VII + +THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO + + + +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. + +"Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the +last three weeks?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"Who is she? In what way do you mean?" + +"I mean that you and I know her better under another +name." + +"What name is that?" + +"Herbert." + +"Herbert!" Austin repeated the word, dazed with +astonishment. + +"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." + +"And you have proof of this?" + +"Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or +shall we say Mrs. Herbert?" + +"Where did you see her?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"You must have been in strange places, Villiers." + +"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." + +"Why to Clarke?" + +"Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of +facts about this woman, facts of which I know nothing." + +"Well, what then?" + +Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked +reflectively at Austin for a moment before he answered: + +"My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. +Beaumont." + +"You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, +Villiers, you cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result..." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +"I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter +such a house as that? You would never pass out alive." + +"Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive--I, and Clarke +with me." + +What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare..." + +"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?" + +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. + +"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." + +Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, +growing whiter as he looked. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I +cannot bear this. Good-night." + +"Good-night, Austin." + +The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and +Austin stood, white and ghastly, in the entrance. + +"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." + +"And does he say what carried him off in the prime of +life? It was not fever?" + +"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." + +"Is there anything more?" + +"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.'" + + + + +VIII + +THE FRAGMENTS + + + +[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.] + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance +as jelly. Then the ladder was ascended again... [here the MS. +is illegible] ...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. + +"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. + +"ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr." + +* * * + +...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. + +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 +least 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. + +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: + + DEVOMNODENTi + FLAvIVSSENILISPOSSvit + PROPTERNVPtias + quaSVIDITSVBVMra + +"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." + +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. + +* * * + +...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. + +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... + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Great God Pan + + + |