The House of Souls Page 5

  The Inmost Light

  I

  One evening in autumn, when the deformities of London were veiled infaint blue mist, and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemedsplendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street,drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyeswere downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as hepassed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end ofthe street jostled against him.

  'I beg your pardon--wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!'

  'Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?'

  'Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can haveseen you for the last five years?'

  'No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when youcame to my place at Charlotte Street?'

  'Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five weeks'rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a comparatively smallsum.'

  'My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. Butthe curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. Myfinancial state was described by a friend as "stone broke." I don'tapprove of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we goin; there might be other people who would like to dine--it's a humanweakness, Salisbury.'

  'Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether thecorner table were taken. It has a velvet back, you know.'

  'I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became evenharder up.'

  'What did you do then?' asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, andsettling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fondanticipation at the _menu_.

  'What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classicaleducation, and a positive distaste for business of any kind: that wasthe capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heardpeople describe olives as nasty! What lamentable Philistinism! I haveoften thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under theinfluence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not bevery good, but the flasks are simply charming.'

  'It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask.'

  'Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I determinedto embark in literature.'

  'Really; that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable circumstances,though.'

  'Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury,you haven't a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see mesitting at my desk--or at least you can see me if you care to call--withpen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you come again ina few hours you will (in all probability) find a creation!'

  'Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature was not remunerative.'

  'You are mistaken; its rewards are great. I may mention, by the way,that shortly after you saw me I succeeded to a small income. An uncledied, and proved unexpectedly generous.'

  'Ah, I see. That must have been convenient.'

  'It was pleasant--undeniably pleasant. I have always considered it inthe light of an endowment of my researches. I told you I was a man ofletters; it would, perhaps, be more correct to describe myself as a manof science.'

  'Dear me, Dyson, you have really changed very much in the last fewyears. I had a notion, don't you know, that you were a sort of idlerabout town, the kind of man one might meet on the north side ofPiccadilly every day from May to July.'

  'Exactly. I was even then forming myself, though all unconsciously. Youknow my poor father could not afford to send me to the University. Iused to grumble in my ignorance at not having completed my education.That was the folly of youth, Salisbury; my University was Piccadilly.There I began to study the great science which still occupies me.'

  'What science do you mean?'

  'The science of the great city; the physiology of London; literally andmetaphysically the greatest subject that the mind of man can conceive.What an admirable _salmi_ this is; undoubtedly the final end of thepheasant. Yet I feel sometimes positively overwhelmed with the thoughtof the vastness and complexity of London. Paris a man may get tounderstand thoroughly with a reasonable amount of study; but London isalways a mystery. In Paris you may say: "Here live the actresses, herethe Bohemians, and the _Rates_"; but it is different in London. You maypoint out a street, correctly enough, as the abode of washerwomen; but,in that second floor, a man may be studying Chaldee roots, and in thegarret over the way a forgotten artist is dying by inches.'

  'I see you are Dyson, unchanged and unchangeable,' said Salisbury,slowly sipping his Chianti. 'I think you are misled by a too fervidimagination; the mystery of London exists only in your fancy. It seemsto me a dull place enough. We seldom hear of a really artistic crime inLondon, whereas I believe Paris abounds in that sort of thing.'

  'Give me some more wine. Thanks. You are mistaken, my dear fellow, youare really mistaken. London has nothing to be ashamed of in the way ofcrime. Where we fail is for want of Homers, not Agamemnons. _Carent quiavate sacro_, you know.'

  'I recall the quotation. But I don't think I quite follow you.'

  'Well, in plain language, we have no good writers in London who make aspeciality of that kind of thing. Our common reporter is a dull dog;every story that he has to tell is spoilt in the telling. His idea ofhorror and of what excites horror is so lamentably deficient. Nothingwill content the fellow but blood, vulgar red blood, and when he can getit he lays it on thick, and considers that he has produced a tellingarticle. It's a poor notion. And, by some curious fatality, it is themost commonplace and brutal murders which always attract the mostattention and get written up the most. For instance, I dare say thatyou never heard of the Harlesden case?'

  'No; no, I don't remember anything about it.'

  'Of course not. And yet the story is a curious one. I will tell it youover our coffee. Harlesden, you know, or I expect you don't know, isquite on the out-quarters of London; something curiously different fromyour fine old crusted suburb like Norwood or Hampstead, different aseach of these is from the other. Hampstead, I mean, is where you lookfor the head of your great China house with his three acres of land andpine-houses, though of late there is the artistic substratum; whileNorwood is the home of the prosperous middle-class family who took thehouse "because it was near the Palace," and sickened of the Palace sixmonths afterwards; but Harlesden is a place of no character. It's toonew to have any character as yet. There are the rows of red houses andthe rows of white houses and the bright green Venetians, and theblistering doorways, and the little backyards they call gardens, and afew feeble shops, and then, just as you think you're going to grasp thephysiognomy of the settlement, it all melts away.'

  'How the dickens is that? the houses don't tumble down before one'seyes, I suppose!'

  'Well, no, not exactly that. But Harlesden as an entity disappears. Yourstreet turns into a quiet lane, and your staring houses into elm trees,and the back-gardens into green meadows. You pass instantly from town tocountry; there is no transition as in a small country town, no softgradations of wider lawns and orchards, with houses gradually becomingless dense, but a dead stop. I believe the people who live there mostlygo into the City. I have seen once or twice a laden 'bus boundthitherwards. But however that may be, I can't conceive a greaterloneliness in a desert at midnight than there is there at midday. It islike a city of the dead; the streets are glaring and desolate, and asyou pass it suddenly strikes you that this too is part of London. Well,a year or two ago there was a doctor living there; he had set up hisbrass plate and his red lamp at the very end of one of those shiningstreets, and from the back of the house, the fields stretched away tothe north. I don't know what his reason was in settling down in such anout-of-the-way place, perhaps Dr. Black, as we will call him, was afar-seeing man and looked ahead. His relations, so it appearedafterwards, had lost sight of him for many years and didn't even know hewas a doctor, much less where he lived. However, there he was settled inHarlesden, with some fragments of a practic
e, and an uncommonly prettywife. People used to see them walking out together in the summerevenings soon after they came to Harlesden, and, so far as could beobserved, they seemed a very affectionate couple. These walks went onthrough the autumn, and then ceased; but, of course, as the days grewdark and the weather cold, the lanes near Harlesden might be expected tolose many of their attractions. All through the winter nobody sawanything of Mrs. Black; the doctor used to reply to his patients'inquiries that she was a "little out of sorts, would be better, nodoubt, in the spring." But the spring came, and the summer, and no Mrs.Black appeared, and at last people began to rumour and talk amongstthemselves, and all sorts of queer things were said at "high teas,"which you may possibly have heard are the only form of entertainmentknown in such suburbs. Dr. Black began to surprise some very odd lookscast in his direction, and the practice, such as it was, fell off beforehis eyes. In short, when the neighbours whispered about the matter, theywhispered that Mrs. Black was dead, and that the doctor had made awaywith her. But this wasn't the case; Mrs. Black was seen alive in June.It was a Sunday afternoon, one of those few exquisite days that anEnglish climate offers, and half London had strayed out into the fields,north, south, east, and west to smell the scent of the white May, and tosee if the wild roses were yet in blossom in the hedges. I had gone outmyself early in the morning, and had had a long ramble, and somehow orother as I was steering homeward I found myself in this very Harlesdenwe have been talking about. To be exact, I had a glass of beer in the"General Gordon," the most flourishing house in the neighbourhood, andas I was wandering rather aimlessly about, I saw an uncommonly temptinggap in a hedgerow, and resolved to explore the meadow beyond. Soft grassis very grateful to the feet after the infernal grit strewn on suburbansidewalks, and after walking about for some time I thought I should liketo sit down on a bank and have a smoke. While I was getting out mypouch, I looked up in the direction of the houses, and as I looked Ifelt my breath caught back, and my teeth began to chatter, and the stickI had in one hand snapped in two with the grip I gave it. It was as if Ihad had an electric current down my spine, and yet for some moment oftime which seemed long, but which must have been very short, I caughtmyself wondering what on earth was the matter. Then I knew what hadmade my very heart shudder and my bones grind together in an agony. As Iglanced up I had looked straight towards the last house in the rowbefore me, and in an upper window of that house I had seen for someshort fraction of a second a face. It was the face of a woman, and yetit was not human. You and I, Salisbury, have heard in our time, as wesat in our seats in church in sober English fashion, of a lust thatcannot be satiated and of a fire that is unquenchable, but few of ushave any notion what these words mean. I hope you never may, for as Isaw that face at the window, with the blue sky above me and the warm airplaying in gusts about me, I knew I had looked into anotherworld--looked through the window of a commonplace, brand-new house, andseen hell open before me. When the first shock was over, I thought onceor twice that I should have fainted; my face streamed with a cold sweat,and my breath came and went in sobs, as if I had been half drowned. Imanaged to get up at last, and walked round to the street, and there Isaw the name "Dr. Black" on the post by the front gate. As fate or myluck would have it, the door opened and a man came down the steps as Ipassed by. I had no doubt it was the doctor himself. He was of a typerather common in London; long and thin, with a pasty face and a dullblack moustache. He gave me a look as we passed each other on thepavement, and though it was merely the casual glance which onefoot-passenger bestows on another, I felt convinced in my mind that herewas an ugly customer to deal with. As you may imagine, I went my way agood deal puzzled and horrified too by what I had seen; for I had paidanother visit to the "General Gordon," and had got together a good dealof the common gossip of the place about the Blacks. I didn't mention thefact that I had seen a woman's face in the window; but I heard that Mrs.Black had been much admired for her beautiful golden hair, and roundwhat had struck me with such a nameless terror, there was a mist offlowing yellow hair, as it were an aureole of glory round the visage ofa satyr. The whole thing bothered me in an indescribable manner; andwhen I got home I tried my best to think of the impression I hadreceived as an illusion, but it was no use. I knew very well I had seenwhat I have tried to describe to you, and I was morally certain that Ihad seen Mrs. Black. And then there was the gossip of the place, thesuspicion of foul play, which I knew to be false, and my own convictionthat there was some deadly mischief or other going on in that bright redhouse at the corner of Devon Road: how to construct a theory of areasonable kind out of these two elements. In short, I found myself in aworld of mystery; I puzzled my head over it and filled up my leisuremoments by gathering together odd threads of speculation, but I nevermoved a step towards any real solution, and as the summer days went onthe matter seemed to grow misty and indistinct, shadowing some vagueterror, like a nightmare of last month. I suppose it would before longhave faded into the background of my brain--I should not have forgottenit, for such a thing could never be forgotten--but one morning as I waslooking over the paper my eye was caught by a heading over some twodozen lines of small type. The words I had seen were simply, "TheHarlesden Case," and I knew what I was going to read. Mrs. Black wasdead. Black had called in another medical man to certify as to cause ofdeath, and something or other had aroused the strange doctor'ssuspicions and there had been an inquest and _post-mortem_. And theresult? That, I will confess, did astonish me considerably; it was thetriumph of the unexpected. The two doctors who made the autopsy wereobliged to confess that they could not discover the faintest trace ofany kind of foul play; their most exquisite tests and reagents failed todetect the presence of poison in the most infinitesimal quantity. Death,they found, had been caused by a somewhat obscure and scientificallyinteresting form of brain disease. The tissue of the brain and themolecules of the grey matter had undergone a most extraordinary seriesof changes; and the younger of the two doctors, who has some reputation,I believe, as a specialist in brain trouble, made some remarks in givinghis evidence which struck me deeply at the time, though I did not thengrasp their full significance. He said: "At the commencement of theexamination I was astonished to find appearances of a character entirelynew to me, notwithstanding my somewhat large experience. I need notspecify these appearances at present, it will be sufficient for me tostate that as I proceeded in my task I could scarcely believe that thebrain before me was that of a human being at all." There was somesurprise at this statement, as you may imagine, and the coroner askedthe doctor if he meant to say that the brain resembled that of ananimal. "No," he replied, "I should not put it in that way. Some of theappearances I noticed seemed to point in that direction, but others, andthese were the more surprising, indicated a nervous organization of awholly different character from that either of man or the loweranimals." It was a curious thing to say, but of course the jury broughtin a verdict of death from natural causes, and, so far as the public wasconcerned, the case came to an end. But after I had read what the doctorsaid I made up my mind that I should like to know a good deal more, andI set to work on what seemed likely to prove an interestinginvestigation. I had really a good deal of trouble, but I was successfulin a measure. Though why--my dear fellow, I had no notion at the time.Are you aware that we have been here nearly four hours? The waiters arestaring at us. Let's have the bill and be gone.'

  The two men went out in silence, and stood a moment in the cool air,watching the hurrying traffic of Coventry Street pass before them to theaccompaniment of the ringing bells of hansoms and the cries of thenewsboys; the deep far murmur of London surging up ever and again frombeneath these louder noises.

  'It is a strange case, isn't it?' said Dyson at length. 'What do youthink of it?'

  'My dear fellow, I haven't heard the end, so I will reserve my opinion.When will you give me the sequel?'

  'Come to my rooms some evening; say next Thursday. Here's the address.Good-night; I want to get down to the Strand.' Dyson hailed a passingha
nsom, and Salisbury turned northward to walk home to his lodgings.

  II

  Mr. Salisbury, as may have been gathered from the few remarks which hehad found it possible to introduce in the course of the evening, was ayoung gentleman of a peculiarly solid form of intellect, coy andretiring before the mysterious and the uncommon, with a constitutionaldislike of paradox. During the restaurant dinner he had been forced tolisten in almost absolute silence to a strange tissue of improbabilitiesstrung together with the ingenuity of a born meddler in plots andmysteries, and it was with a feeling of weariness that he crossedShaftesbury Avenue, and dived into the recesses of Soho, for hislodgings were in a modest neighbourhood to the north of Oxford Street.As he walked he speculated on the probable fate of Dyson, relying onliterature, unbefriended by a thoughtful relative, and could not helpconcluding that so much subtlety united to a too vivid imagination wouldin all likelihood have been rewarded with a pair of sandwich-boards or asuper's banner. Absorbed in this train of thought, and admiring theperverse dexterity which could transmute the face of a sickly woman anda case of brain disease into the crude elements of romance, Salisburystrayed on through the dimly-lighted streets, not noticing the gustywind which drove sharply round corners and whirled the stray rubbish ofthe pavement into the air in eddies, while black clouds gathered overthe sickly yellow moon. Even a stray drop or two of rain blown into hisface did not rouse him from his meditations, and it was only when witha sudden rush the storm tore down upon the street that he began toconsider the expediency of finding some shelter. The rain, driven by thewind, pelted down with the violence of a thunderstorm, dashing up fromthe stones and hissing through the air, and soon a perfect torrent ofwater coursed along the kennels and accumulated in pools over thechoked-up drains. The few stray passengers who had been loafing ratherthan walking about the street had scuttered away, like frightenedrabbits, to some invisible places of refuge, and though Salisburywhistled loud and long for a hansom, no hansom appeared. He looked abouthim, as if to discover how far he might be from the haven of OxfordStreet, but strolling carelessly along, he had turned out of his way,and found himself in an unknown region, and one to all appearance devoideven of a public-house where shelter could be bought for the modest sumof twopence. The street lamps were few and at long intervals, and burnedbehind grimy glasses with the sickly light of oil, and by this waveringglimmer Salisbury could make out the shadowy and vast old houses ofwhich the street was composed. As he passed along, hurrying, andshrinking from the full sweep of the rain, he noticed the innumerablebell-handles, with names that seemed about to vanish of old age gravenon brass plates beneath them, and here and there a richly carvedpenthouse overhung the door, blackening with the grime of fifty years.The storm seemed to grow more and more furious; he was wet through, anda new hat had become a ruin, and still Oxford Street seemed as far offas ever; it was with deep relief that the dripping man caught sight of adark archway which seemed to promise shelter from the rain if not fromthe wind. Salisbury took up his position in the driest corner and lookedabout him; he was standing in a kind of passage contrived under part ofa house, and behind him stretched a narrow footway leading between blankwalls to regions unknown. He had stood there for some time, vainlyendeavouring to rid himself of some of his superfluous moisture, andlistening for the passing wheel of a hansom, when his attention wasaroused by a loud noise coming from the direction of the passage behind,and growing louder as it drew nearer. In a couple of minutes he couldmake out the shrill, raucous voice of a woman, threatening andrenouncing, and making the very stones echo with her accents, while nowand then a man grumbled and expostulated. Though to all appearancedevoid of romance, Salisbury had some relish for street rows, and was,indeed, somewhat of an amateur in the more amusing phases ofdrunkenness; he therefore composed himself to listen and observe withsomething of the air of a subscriber to grand opera. To his annoyance,however, the tempest seemed suddenly to be composed, and he could hearnothing but the impatient steps of the woman and the slow lurch of theman as they came towards him. Keeping back in the shadow of the wall, hecould see the two drawing nearer; the man was evidently drunk, and hadmuch ado to avoid frequent collision with the wall as he tacked acrossfrom one side to the other, like some bark beating up against a wind.The woman was looking straight in front of her, with tears streamingfrom her eyes, but suddenly as they went by the flame blazed up again,and she burst forth into a torrent of abuse, facing round upon hercompanion.

  'You low rascal, you mean, contemptible cur,' she went on, after anincoherent storm of curses, 'you think I'm to work and slave for youalways, I suppose, while you're after that Green Street girl anddrinking every penny you've got? But you're mistaken, Sam--indeed, I'llbear it no longer. Damn you, you dirty thief, I've done with you andyour master too, so you can go your own errands, and I only hope they'llget you into trouble.'

  The woman tore at the bosom of her dress, and taking something out thatlooked like paper, crumpled it up and flung it away. It fell atSalisbury's feet. She ran out and disappeared in the darkness, while theman lurched slowly into the street, grumbling indistinctly to himself ina perplexed tone of voice. Salisbury looked out after him and saw himmaundering along the pavement, halting now and then and swayingindecisively, and then starting off at some fresh tangent. The sky hadcleared, and white fleecy clouds were fleeting across the moon, high inthe heaven. The light came and went by turns, as the clouds passed by,and, turning round as the clear, white rays shone into the passage,Salisbury saw the little ball of crumpled paper which the woman had castdown. Oddly curious to know what it might contain, he picked it up andput it in his pocket, and set out afresh on his journey.

  III

  Salisbury was a man of habit. When he got home, drenched to the skin,his clothes hanging lank about him, and a ghastly dew besmearing hishat, his only thought was of his health, of which he took studious care.So, after changing his clothes and encasing himself in a warmdressing-gown, he proceeded to prepare a sudorific in the shape of a hotgin and water, warming the latter over one of those spirit-lamps whichmitigate the austerities of the modern hermit's life. By the time thispreparation had been exhibited, and Salisbury's disturbed feelings hadbeen soothed by a pipe of tobacco, he was able to get into bed in ahappy state of vacancy, without a thought of his adventure in the darkarchway, or of the weird fancies with which Dyson had seasoned hisdinner. It was the same at breakfast the next morning, for Salisburymade a point of not thinking of any thing until that meal was over; butwhen the cup and saucer were cleared away, and the morning pipe was lit,he remembered the little ball of paper, and began fumbling in thepockets of his wet coat. He did not remember into which pocket he hadput it, and as he dived now into one and now into another, heexperienced a strange feeling of apprehension lest it should not bethere at all, though he could not for the life of him have explained theimportance he attached to what was in all probability mere rubbish. Buthe sighed with relief when his fingers touched the crumpled surface inan inside pocket, and he drew it out gently and laid it on the littledesk by his easy-chair with as much care as if it had been some rarejewel. Salisbury sat smoking and staring at his find for a few minutes,an odd temptation to throw the thing in the fire and have done with itstruggling with as odd a speculation as to its possible contents, and asto the reason why the infuriated woman should have flung a bit of paperfrom her with such vehemence. As might be expected, it was the latterfeeling that conquered in the end, and yet it was with something likerepugnance that he at last took the paper and unrolled it, and laid itout before him. It was a piece of common dirty paper, to all appearancetorn out of a cheap exercise-book, and in the middle were a few lineswritten in a queer cramped hand. Salisbury bent his head and staredeagerly at it for a moment, drawing a long breath, and then fell back inhis chair gazing blankly before him, till at last with a suddenrevulsion he burst into a peal of laughter, so long and loud anduproarious that the landlady's baby on the floor below awoke from sleepand echoed his mirth with hideous yells. But
he laughed again and again,and took the paper up to read a second time what seemed such meaninglessnonsense.

  'Q. has had to go and see his friends in Paris,' it began. 'Traverse Handle S. "Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around the maple tree."'

  Salisbury took up the paper and crumpled it as the angry woman had done,and aimed it at the fire. He did not throw it there, however, buttossed it carelessly into the well of the desk, and laughed again. Thesheer folly of the thing offended him, and he was ashamed of his owneager speculation, as one who pores over the high-sounding announcementsin the agony column of the daily paper, and finds nothing butadvertisement and triviality. He walked to the window, and stared out atthe languid morning life of his quarter; the maids in slatternly printdresses washing door-steps, the fish-monger and the butcher on theirrounds, and the tradesmen standing at the doors of their small shops,drooping for lack of trade and excitement. In the distance a blue hazegave some grandeur to the prospect, but the view as a whole wasdepressing, and would only have interested a student of the life ofLondon, who finds something rare and choice in its very aspect.Salisbury turned away in disgust, and settled himself in the easy-chair,upholstered in a bright shade of green, and decked with yellow gimp,which was the pride and attraction of the apartments. Here he composedhimself to his morning's occupation--the perusal of a novel that dealtwith sport and love in a manner that suggested the collaboration of astud-groom and a ladies' college. In an ordinary way, however, Salisburywould have been carried on by the interest of the story up tolunch-time, but this morning he fidgeted in and out of his chair, tookthe book up and laid it down again, and swore at last to himself and athimself in mere irritation. In point of fact the jingle of the paperfound in the archway had 'got into his head,' and do what he would hecould not help muttering over and over, 'Once around the grass, andtwice around the lass, and thrice around the maple tree.' It became apositive pain, like the foolish burden of a music-hall song,everlastingly quoted, and sung at all hours of the day and night, andtreasured by the street-boys as an unfailing resource for six monthstogether. He went out into the streets, and tried to forget his enemy inthe jostling of the crowds and the roar and clatter of the traffic, butpresently he would find himself stealing quietly aside, and pacing somedeserted byway, vainly puzzling his brains, and trying to fix somemeaning to phrases that were meaningless. It was a positive relief whenThursday came, and he remembered that he had made an appointment to goand see Dyson; the flimsy reveries of the self-styled man of lettersappeared entertaining when compared with this ceaseless iteration, thismaze of thought from which there seemed no possibility of escape.Dyson's abode was in one of the quietest of the quiet streets that leddown from the Strand to the river, and when Salisbury passed from thenarrow stairway into his friend's room, he saw that the uncle had beenbeneficent indeed. The floor glowed and flamed with all the colours ofthe East; it was, as Dyson pompously remarked, 'a sunset in a dream,'and the lamplight, the twilight of London streets, was shut out withstrangely worked curtains, glittering here and there with threads ofgold. In the shelves of an oak _armoire_ stood jars and plates of oldFrench china, and the black and white of etchings not to be found in theHaymarket or in Bond Street, stood out against the splendour of aJapanese paper. Salisbury sat down on the settle by the hearth, andsniffed the mingled fumes of incense and tobacco, wondering and dumbbefore all this splendour after the green rep and the oleographs, thegilt-framed mirror, and the lustres of his own apartment.

  'I am glad you have come,' said Dyson. 'Comfortable little room, isn'tit? But you don't look very well, Salisbury. Nothing disagreed with you,has it?'

  'No; but I have been a good deal bothered for the last few days. Thefact is I had an odd kind of--of--adventure, I suppose I may call it,that night I saw you, and it has worried me a good deal. And theprovoking part of it is that it's the merest nonsense--but, however, Iwill tell you all about it, by and by. You were going to let me have therest of that odd story you began at the restaurant.'

  'Yes. But I am afraid, Salisbury, you are incorrigible. You are a slaveto what you call matter of fact. You know perfectly well that in yourheart you think the oddness in that case is of my making, and that it isall really as plain as the police reports. However, as I have begun, Iwill go on. But first we will have something to drink, and you may aswell light your pipe.'

  Dyson went up to the oak cupboard, and drew from its depths a rotundbottle and two little glasses, quaintly gilded.

  'It's Benedictine,' he said. 'You'll have some, won't you?'

  Salisbury assented, and the two men sat sipping and smoking reflectivelyfor some minutes before Dyson began.

  'Let me see,' he said at last, 'we were at the inquest, weren't we? No,we had done with that. Ah, I remember. I was telling you that on thewhole I had been successful in my inquiries, investigation, or whateveryou like to call it, into the matter. Wasn't that where I left off?'

  'Yes, that was it. To be precise, I think "though" was the last word yousaid on the matter.'

  'Exactly. I have been thinking it all over since the other night, and Ihave come to the conclusion that that "though" is a very big "though"indeed. Not to put too fine a point on it, I have had to confess thatwhat I found out, or thought I found out, amounts in reality to nothing.I am as far away from the heart of the case as ever. However, I may aswell tell you what I do know. You may remember my saying that I wasimpressed a good deal by some remarks of one of the doctors who gaveevidence at the inquest. Well, I determined that my first step must beto try if I could get something more definite and intelligible out ofthat doctor. Somehow or other I managed to get an introduction to theman, and he gave me an appointment to come and see him. He turned out tobe a pleasant, genial fellow; rather young and not in the least like thetypical medical man, and he began the conference by offering me whiskyand cigars. I didn't think it worth while to beat about the bush, so Ibegan by saying that part of his evidence at the Harlesden Inqueststruck me as very peculiar, and I gave him the printed report, with thesentences in question underlined. He just glanced at the slip, and gaveme a queer look. "It struck you as peculiar, did it?" said he. "Well,you must remember that the Harlesden case was very peculiar. In fact, Ithink I may safely say that in some features it was unique--quiteunique." "Quite so," I replied, "and that's exactly why it interests me,and why I want to know more about it. And I thought that if anybodycould give me any information it would be you. What is your opinion ofthe matter?"

  'It was a pretty downright sort of question, and my doctor looked rathertaken aback.

  '"Well," he said, "as I fancy your motive in inquiring into the questionmust be mere curiosity, I think I may tell you my opinion with tolerablefreedom. So, Mr., Mr. Dyson? if you want to know my theory, it is this:I believe that Dr. Black killed his wife."

  '"But the verdict," I answered, "the verdict was given from your ownevidence."

  '"Quite so; the verdict was given in accordance with the evidence of mycolleague and myself, and, under the circumstances, I think the juryacted very sensibly. In fact, I don't see what else they could havedone. But I stick to my opinion, mind you, and I say this also. I don'twonder at Black's doing what I firmly believe he did. I think he wasjustified."

  '"Justified! How could that be?" I asked. I was astonished, as you mayimagine, at the answer I had got. The doctor wheeled round his chair andlooked steadily at me for a moment before he answered.

  '"I suppose you are not a man of science yourself? No; then it would beof no use my going into detail. I have always been firmly opposed myselfto any partnership between physiology and psychology. I believe thatboth are bound to suffer. No one recognizes more decidedly than I do theimpassable gulf, the fathomless abyss that separates the world ofconsciousness from the sphere of matter. We know that every change ofconsciousness is accompanied by a rearrangement of the molecules in thegrey matter; and that is all. What the link between them is, or whythey occur together, we do not know, and most aut
horities believe thatwe never can know. Yet, I will tell you that as I did my work, the knifein my hand, I felt convinced, in spite of all theories, that what laybefore me was not the brain of a dead woman--not the brain of a humanbeing at all. Of course I saw the face; but it was quite placid, devoidof all expression. It must have been a beautiful face, no doubt, but Ican honestly say that I would not have looked in that face when therewas life behind it for a thousand guineas, no, nor for twice that sum."

  '"My dear sir," I said, "you surprise me extremely. You say that it wasnot the brain of a human being. What was it then?"

  '"The brain of a devil." He spoke quite coolly, and never moved amuscle. "The brain of a devil," he repeated, "and I have no doubt thatBlack found some way of putting an end to it. I don't blame him if hedid. Whatever Mrs. Black was, she was not fit to stay in this world.Will you have anything more? No? Good-night, good-night."

  'It was a queer sort of opinion to get from a man of science, wasn't it?When he was saying that he would not have looked on that face when alivefor a thousand guineas, or two thousand guineas, I was thinking of theface I had seen, but I said nothing. I went again to Harlesden, andpassed from one shop to another, making small purchases, and trying tofind out whether there was anything about the Blacks which was notalready common property, but there was very little to hear. One of thetradesmen to whom I spoke said he had known the dead woman well; sheused to buy of him such quantities of grocery as were required fortheir small household, for they never kept a servant, but had acharwoman in occasionally, and she had not seen Mrs. Black for monthsbefore she died. According to this man Mrs. Black was "a nice lady,"always kind and considerate, and so fond of her husband and he of her,as every one thought. And yet, to put the doctor's opinion on one side,I knew what I had seen. And then after thinking it all over, and puttingone thing with another, it seemed to me that the only person likely togive me much assistance would be Black himself, and I made up my mind tofind him. Of course he wasn't to be found in Harlesden; he had left, Iwas told, directly after the funeral. Everything in the house had beensold, and one fine day Black got into the train with a smallportmanteau, and went, nobody knew where. It was a chance if he wereever heard of again, and it was by a mere chance that I came across himat last. I was walking one day along Gray's Inn Road, not bound foranywhere in particular, but looking about me, as usual, and holding onto my hat, for it was a gusty day in early March, and the wind wasmaking the treetops in the Inn rock and quiver. I had come up from theHolborn end, and I had almost got to Theobald's Road when I noticed aman walking in front of me, leaning on a stick, and to all appearancevery feeble. There was something about his look that made me curious, Idon't know why, and I began to walk briskly with the idea of overtakinghim, when of a sudden his hat blew off and came bounding along thepavement to my feet. Of course I rescued the hat, and gave it a glanceas I went towards its owner. It was a biography in itself; a Piccadillymaker's name in the inside, but I don't think a beggar would have pickedit out of the gutter. Then I looked up and saw Dr. Black of Harlesdenwaiting for me. A queer thing, wasn't it? But, Salisbury, what a change!When I saw Dr. Black come down the steps of his house at Harlesden hewas an upright man, walking firmly with well-built limbs; a man, Ishould say, in the prime of his life. And now before me there crouchedthis wretched creature, bent and feeble, with shrunken cheeks, and hairthat was whitening fast, and limbs that trembled and shook together, andmisery in his eyes. He thanked me for bringing him his hat, saying, "Idon't think I should ever have got it, I can't run much now. A gustyday, sir, isn't it?" and with this he was turning away, but by littleand little I contrived to draw him into the current of conversation, andwe walked together eastward. I think the man would have been glad to getrid of me; but I didn't intend to let him go, and he stopped at last infront of a miserable house in a miserable street. It was, I verilybelieve, one of the most wretched quarters I have ever seen: houses thatmust have been sordid and hideous enough when new, that had gatheredfoulness with every year, and now seemed to lean and totter to theirfall. "I live up there," said Black, pointing to the tiles, "not in thefront--in the back. I am very quiet there. I won't ask you to come innow, but perhaps some other day----" I caught him up at that, and toldhim I should be only too glad to come and see him. He gave me an oddsort of glance, as if he were wondering what on earth I or anybody elsecould care about him, and I left him fumbling with his latch-key. Ithink you will say I did pretty well when I tell you that within a fewweeks I had made myself an intimate friend of Black's. I shall neverforget the first time I went to his room; I hope I shall never see suchabject, squalid misery again. The foul paper, from which all pattern ortrace of a pattern had long vanished, subdued and penetrated with thegrime of the evil street, was hanging in mouldering pennons from thewall. Only at the end of the room was it possible to stand upright, andthe sight of the wretched bed and the odour of corruption that pervadedthe place made me turn faint and sick. Here I found him munching a pieceof bread; he seemed surprised to find that I had kept my promise, but hegave me his chair and sat on the bed while we talked. I used to go tosee him often, and we had long conversations together, but he nevermentioned Harlesden or his wife. I fancy that he supposed me ignorant ofthe matter, or thought that if I had heard of it, I should never connectthe respectable Dr. Black of Harlesden with a poor garreteer in thebackwoods of London. He was a strange man, and as we sat togethersmoking, I often wondered whether he were mad or sane, for I think thewildest dreams of Paracelsus and the Rosicrucians would appear plain andsober fact compared with the theories I have heard him earnestly advancein that grimy den of his. I once ventured to hint something of the sortto him. I suggested that something he had said was in flat contradictionto all science and all experience. "No," he answered, "not allexperience, for mine counts for something. I am no dealer in unprovedtheories; what I say I have proved for myself, and at a terrible cost.There is a region of knowledge which you will never know, which wise menseeing from afar off shun like the plague, as well they may, but intothat region I have gone. If you knew, if you could even dream of whatmay be done, of what one or two men have done in this quiet world ofours, your very soul would shudder and faint within you. What you haveheard from me has been but the merest husk and outer covering of truescience--that science which means death, and that which is more awfulthan death, to those who gain it. No, when men say that there arestrange things in the world, they little know the awe and the terrorthat dwell always with them and about them." There was a sort offascination about the man that drew me to him, and I was quite sorry tohave to leave London for a month or two; I missed his odd talk. A fewdays after I came back to town I thought I would look him up, but when Igave the two rings at the bell that used to summon him, there was noanswer. I rang and rang again, and was just turning to go away, when thedoor opened and a dirty woman asked me what I wanted. From her look Ifancy she took me for a plain-clothes officer after one of her lodgers,but when I inquired if Mr. Black were in, she gave me a stare of anotherkind. "There's no Mr. Black lives here," she said. "He's gone. He's deadthis six weeks. I always thought he was a bit queer in his head, or elsehad been and got into some trouble or other. He used to go out everymorning from ten till one, and one Monday morning we heard him come in,and go into his room and shut the door, and a few minutes after, just aswe was a-sitting down to our dinner, there was such a scream that Ithought I should have gone right off. And then we heard a stamping, anddown he came, raging and cursing most dreadful, swearing he had beenrobbed of something that was worth millions. And then he just droppeddown in the passage, and we thought he was dead. We got him up to hisroom, and put him on his bed, and I just sat there and waited, while my'usband he went for the doctor. And there was the winder wide open, anda little tin box he had lying on the floor open and empty, but of coursenobody could possible have got in at the winder, and as for him havinganything that was worth anything, it's nonsense, for he was often weeksand weeks behind with his rent, and my 'usband he threat
ened often andoften to turn him into the street, for, as he said, we've got a livingto myke like other people--and, of course, that's true; but, somehow, Ididn't like to do it, though he was an odd kind of a man, and I fancyhad been better off. And then the doctor came and looked at him, andsaid as he couldn't do nothing, and that night he died as I wasa-sitting by his bed; and I can tell you that, with one thing andanother, we lost money by him, for the few bits of clothes as he hadwere worth next to nothing when they came to be sold." I gave the womanhalf a sovereign for her trouble, and went home thinking of Dr. Blackand the epitaph she had made him, and wondering at his strange fancythat he had been robbed. I take it that he had very little to fear onthat score, poor fellow; but I suppose that he was really mad, and diedin a sudden access of his mania. His landlady said that once or twicewhen she had had occasion to go into his room (to dun the poor wretchfor his rent, most likely), he would keep her at the door for about aminute, and that when she came in she would find him putting away histin box in the corner by the window; I suppose he had become possessedwith the idea of some great treasure, and fancied himself a wealthy manin the midst of all his misery. _Explicit_, my tale is ended, and yousee that though I knew Black, I know nothing of his wife or of thehistory of her death.--That's the Harlesden case, Salisbury, and I thinkit interests me all the more deeply because there does not seem theshadow of a possibility that I or any one else will ever know more aboutit. What do you think of it?'

  'Well, Dyson, I must say that I think you have contrived to surround thewhole thing with a mystery of your own making. I go for the doctor'ssolution: Black murdered his wife, being himself in all probability anundeveloped lunatic.'

  'What? Do you believe, then, that this woman was something too awful,too terrible to be allowed to remain on the earth? You will rememberthat the doctor said it was the brain of a devil?'

  'Yes, yes, but he was speaking, of course, metaphorically. It's reallyquite a simple matter if you only look at it like that.'

  'Ah, well, you may be right; but yet I am sure you are not. Well, well,it's no good discussing it any more. A little more Benedictine? That'sright; try some of this tobacco. Didn't you say that you had beenbothered by something--something which happened that night we dinedtogether?'

  'Yes, I have been worried, Dyson, worried a great deal. I----But it'ssuch a trivial matter--indeed, such an absurdity--that I feel ashamed totrouble you with it.'

  'Never mind, let's have it, absurd or not.'

  With many hesitations, and with much inward resentment of the folly ofthe thing, Salisbury told his tale, and repeated reluctantly the absurdintelligence and the absurder doggerel of the scrap of paper, expectingto hear Dyson burst out into a roar of laughter.

  'Isn't it too bad that I should let myself be bothered by such stuff asthat?' he asked, when he had stuttered out the jingle of once, andtwice, and thrice.

  Dyson listened to it all gravely, even to the end, and meditated for afew minutes in silence.

  'Yes,' he said at length, 'it was a curious chance, your taking shelterin that archway just as those two went by. But I don't know that Ishould call what was written on the paper nonsense; it is bizarrecertainly, but I expect it has a meaning for somebody. Just repeat itagain, will you, and I will write it down. Perhaps we might find acipher of some sort, though I hardly think we shall.'

  Again had the reluctant lips of Salisbury slowly to stammer out therubbish that he abhorred, while Dyson jotted it down on a slip of paper.

  'Look over it, will you?' he said, when it was done; 'it may beimportant that I should have every word in its place. Is that allright?'

  'Yes; that is an accurate copy. But I don't think you will get much outof it. Depend upon it, it is mere nonsense, a wanton scribble. I must begoing now, Dyson. No, no more; that stuff of yours is pretty strong.Good-night.'

  'I suppose you would like to hear from me, if I did find out anything?'

  'No, not I; I don't want to hear about the thing again. You may regardthe discovery, if it is one, as your own.'

  'Very well. Good-night.'

  IV

  A good many hours after Salisbury had returned to the company of thegreen rep chairs, Dyson still sat at his desk, itself a Japaneseromance, smoking many pipes, and meditating over his friend's story. Thebizarre quality of the inscription which had annoyed Salisbury was tohim an attraction, and now and again he took it up and scannedthoughtfully what he had written, especially the quaint jingle at theend. It was a token, a symbol, he decided, and not a cipher, and thewoman who had flung it away was in all probability entirely ignorant ofits meaning; she was but the agent of the 'Sam' she had abused anddiscarded, and he too was again the agent of some one unknown, possiblyof the individual styled Q, who had been forced to visit his Frenchfriends. But what to make of 'Traverse Handle S.' Here was the root andsource of the enigma, and not all the tobacco of Virginia seemed likelyto suggest any clue here. It seemed almost hopeless, but Dyson regardedhimself as the Wellington of mysteries, and went to bed feeling assuredthat sooner or later he would hit upon the right track For the next fewdays he was deeply engaged in his literary labours, labours which were aprofound mystery even to the most intimate of his friends, who searchedthe railway bookstalls in vain for the result of so many hours spent atthe Japanese bureau in company with strong tobacco and black tea. Onthis occasion Dyson confined himself to his room for four days, and itwas with genuine relief that he laid down his pen and went out into thestreets in quest of relaxation and fresh air. The gas-lamps were beinglighted, and the fifth edition of the evening papers was being howledthrough the streets, and Dyson, feeling that he wanted quiet, turnedaway from the clamorous Strand, and began to trend away to thenorth-west. Soon he found himself in streets that echoed to hisfootsteps, and crossing a broad new thoroughfare, and verging still tothe west, Dyson discovered that he had penetrated to the depths of Soho.Here again was life; rare vintages of France and Italy, at prices whichseemed contemptibly small, allured the passer-by; here were cheeses,vast and rich, here olive oil, and here a grove of Rabelaisian sausages;while in a neighbouring shop the whole Press of Paris appeared to be onsale. In the middle of the roadway a strange miscellany of nationssauntered to and fro, for there cab and hansom rarely ventured; and fromwindow over window the inhabitants looked forth in pleased contemplationof the scene. Dyson made his way slowly along, mingling with the crowdon the cobble-stones, listening to the queer babel of French and German,and Italian and English, glancing now and again at the shop-windows withtheir levelled batteries of bottles, and had almost gained the end ofthe street, when his attention was arrested by a small shop at thecorner, a vivid contrast to its neighbours. It was the typical shop ofthe poor quarter; a shop entirely English. Here were vended tobacco andsweets, cheap pipes of clay and cherry-wood; penny exercise-books andpenholders jostled for precedence with comic songs, and story paperswith appalling cuts showed that romance claimed its place beside theactualities of the evening paper, the bills of which fluttered at thedoorway. Dyson glanced up at the name above the door, and stood by thekennel trembling, for a sharp pang, the pang of one who has made adiscovery, had for a moment left him incapable of motion. The name overthe shop was Travers. Dyson looked up again, this time at the corner ofthe wall above the lamp-post, and read in white letters on a blue groundthe words 'Handel Street, W. C.,' and the legend was repeated in fainterletters just below. He gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and withoutmore ado walked boldly into the shop, and stared full in the face thefat man who was sitting behind the counter. The fellow rose to his feet,and returned the stare a little curiously, and then began in stereotypedphrase--

  'What can I do for you, sir?'

  Dyson enjoyed the situation and a dawning perplexity on the man's face.He propped his stick carefully against the counter and leaning over it,said slowly and impressively--

  'Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around themaple-tree.'

  Dyson had calculated on his words producing
an effect, and he was notdisappointed. The vendor of miscellanies gasped, open-mouthed like afish, and steadied himself against the counter. When he spoke, after ashort interval, it was in a hoarse mutter, tremulous and unsteady.

  'Would you mind saying that again, sir? I didn't quite catch it.'

  'My good man, I shall most certainly do nothing of the kind. You heardwhat I said perfectly well. You have got a clock in your shop, I see; anadmirable timekeeper, I have no doubt. Well, I give you a minute by yourown clock.'

  The man looked about him in a perplexed indecision, and Dyson felt thatit was time to be bold.

  'Look here, Travers, the time is nearly up. You have heard of Q, Ithink. Remember, I hold your life in my hands. Now!'

  Dyson was shocked at the result of his own audacity. The man shrank andshrivelled in terror, the sweat poured down a face of ashy white, and heheld up his hands before him.

  'Mr. Davies, Mr. Davies, don't say that--don't for Heaven's sake. Ididn't know you at first, I didn't indeed. Good God! Mr. Davies, youwouldn't ruin me? I'll get it in a moment.'

  'You had better not lose any more time.'

  The man slunk piteously out of his own shop, and went into a backparlour. Dyson heard his trembling fingers fumbling with a bunch ofkeys, and the creak of an opening box. He came back presently with asmall package neatly tied up in brown paper in his hands, and, stillfull of terror, handed it to Dyson.

  'I'm glad to be rid of it,' he said. 'I'll take no more jobs of thissort.'

  Dyson took the parcel and his stick, and walked out of the shop with anod, turning round as he passed the door. Travers had sunk into hisseat, his face still white with terror, with one hand over his eyes,and Dyson speculated a good deal as he walked rapidly away as to whatqueer chords those could be on which he had played so roughly. He hailedthe first hansom he could see and drove home, and when he had lit hishanging lamp, and laid his parcel on the table, he paused for a moment,wondering on what strange thing the lamplight would soon shine. Helocked his door, and cut the strings, and unfolded the paper layer afterlayer, and came at last to a small wooden box, simply but solidly made.There was no lock, and Dyson had simply to raise the lid, and as he didso he drew a long breath and started back. The lamp seemed to glimmerfeebly like a single candle, but the whole room blazed with light--andnot with light alone, but with a thousand colours, with all the gloriesof some painted window; and upon the walls of his room and on thefamiliar furniture, the glow flamed back and seemed to flow again to itssource, the little wooden box. For there upon a bed of soft wool lay themost splendid jewel, a jewel such as Dyson had never dreamed of, andwithin it shone the blue of far skies, and the green of the sea by theshore, and the red of the ruby, and deep violet rays, and in the middleof all it seemed aflame as if a fountain of fire rose up, and fell, androse again with sparks like stars for drops. Dyson gave a long deepsigh, and dropped into his chair, and put his hands over his eyes tothink. The jewel was like an opal, but from a long experience of theshop-windows he knew there was no such thing as an opal one-quarter orone-eighth of its size. He looked at the stone again, with a feelingthat was almost awe, and placed it gently on the table under the lamp,and watched the wonderful flame that shone and sparkled in its centre,and then turned to the box, curious to know whether it might containother marvels. He lifted the bed of wool on which the opal had reclined,and saw beneath, no more jewels, but a little old pocket-book, worn andshabby with use. Dyson opened it at the first leaf, and dropped the bookagain appalled. He had read the name of the owner, neatly written inblue ink:

  STEVEN BLACK, M. D., Oranmore, Devon Road, Harlesden.

  It was several minutes before Dyson could bring himself to open the booka second time; he remembered the wretched exile in his garret; and hisstrange talk, and the memory too of the face he had seen at the window,and of what the specialist had said, surged up in his mind, and as heheld his finger on the cover, he shivered, dreading what might bewritten within. When at last he held it in his hand, and turned thepages, he found that the first two leaves were blank, but the third wascovered with clear, minute writing, and Dyson began to read with thelight of the opal flaming in his eyes.

  V

  'Ever since I was a young man'--the record began--'I devoted all myleisure and a good deal of time that ought to have been given to otherstudies to the investigation of curious and obscure branches ofknowledge. What are commonly called the pleasures of life had never anyattractions for me, and I lived alone in London, avoiding myfellow-students, and in my turn avoided by them as a man self-absorbedand unsympathetic. So long as I could gratify my desire of knowledge ofa peculiar kind, knowledge of which the very existence is a profoundsecret to most men, I was intensely happy, and I have often spent wholenights sitting in the darkness of my room, and thinking of the strangeworld on the brink of which I trod. My professional studies, however,and the necessity of obtaining a degree, for some time forced my moreobscure employment into the background, and soon after I had qualified Imet Agnes, who became my wife. We took a new house in this remotesuburb, and I began the regular routine of a sober practice, and forsome months lived happily enough, sharing in the life about me, and onlythinking at odd intervals of that occult science which had oncefascinated my whole being. I had learnt enough of the paths I had begunto tread to know that they were beyond all expression difficult anddangerous, that to persevere meant in all probability the wreck of alife, and that they led to regions so terrible, that the mind of manshrinks appalled at the very thought. Moreover, the quiet and the peaceI had enjoyed since my marriage had wiled me away to a great extent fromplaces where I knew no peace could dwell. But suddenly--I think indeedit was the work of a single night, as I lay awake on my bed gazing intothe darkness--suddenly, I say, the old desire, the former longing,returned, and returned with a force that had been intensified ten timesby its absence; and when the day dawned and I looked out of the window,and saw with haggard eyes the sunrise in the east, I knew that my doomhad been pronounced; that as I had gone far, so now I must go fartherwith unfaltering steps. I turned to the bed where my wife was sleepingpeacefully, and lay down again, weeping bitter tears, for the sun hadset on our happy life and had risen with a dawn of terror to us both. Iwill not set down here in minute detail what followed; outwardly I wentabout the day's labour as before, saying nothing to my wife. But shesoon saw that I had changed; I spent my spare time in a room which I hadfitted up as a laboratory, and often I crept upstairs in the grey dawnof the morning, when the light of many lamps still glowed over London;and each night I had stolen a step nearer to that great abyss which Iwas to bridge over, the gulf between the world of consciousness and theworld of matter. My experiments were many and complicated in theirnature, and it was some months before I realized whither they allpointed, and when this was borne in upon me in a moment's time, I feltmy face whiten and my heart still within me. But the power to draw back,the power to stand before the doors that now opened wide before me andnot to enter in, had long ago been absent; the way was closed, and Icould only pass onward. My position was as utterly hopeless as that ofthe prisoner in an utter dungeon, whose only light is that of thedungeon above him; the doors were shut and escape was impossible.Experiment after experiment gave the same result, and I knew, and shrankeven as the thought passed through my mind, that in the work I had to dothere must be elements which no laboratory could furnish, which noscales could ever measure. In that work, from which even I doubted toescape with life, life itself must enter; from some human being theremust be drawn that essence which men call the soul, and in its place(for in the scheme of the world there is no vacant chamber)--in itsplace would enter in what the lips can hardly utter, what the mindcannot conceive without a horror more awful than the horror of deathitself. And when I knew this, I knew also on whom this fate would fall;I looked into my wife's eyes. Even at that hour, if I had gone out andtaken a rope and hanged myself, I might have escaped, and she also, butin no other way. At last I told her all.
She shuddered, and wept, andcalled on her dead mother for help, and asked me if I had no mercy, andI could only sigh. I concealed nothing from her; I told her what shewould become, and what would enter in where her life had been; I toldher of all the shame and of all the horror. You who will read this whenI am dead--if indeed I allow this record to survive,--you who haveopened the box and have seen what lies there, if you could understandwhat lies hidden in that opal! For one night my wife consented to what Iasked of her, consented with the tears running down her beautiful face,and hot shame flushing red over her neck and breast, consented toundergo this for me. I threw open the window, and we looked together atthe sky and the dark earth for the last time; it was a fine star-lightnight, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing, and I kissed her on herlips, and her tears ran down upon my face. That night she came down tomy laboratory, and there, with shutters bolted and barred down, withcurtains drawn thick and close, so that the very stars might be shut outfrom the sight of that room, while the crucible hissed and boiled overthe lamp, I did what had to be done, and led out what was no longer awoman. But on the table the opal flamed and sparkled with such light asno eyes of man have ever gazed on, and the rays of the flame that waswithin it flashed and glittered, and shone even to my heart. My wife hadonly asked one thing of me; that when there came at last what I had toldher, I would kill her. I have kept that promise.'

  * * * * *

  There was nothing more. Dyson let the little pocket-book fall, andturned and looked again at the opal with its flaming inmost light, andthen with unutterable irresistible horror surging up in his heart,grasped the jewel, and flung it on the ground, and trampled it beneathhis heel. His face was white with terror as he turned away, and for amoment stood sick and trembling, and then with a start he leapt acrossthe room and steadied himself against the door. There was an angry hiss,as of steam escaping under great pressure, and as he gazed, motionless,a volume of heavy yellow smoke was slowly issuing from the very centreof the jewel, and wreathing itself in snake-like coils above it. Andthen a thin white flame burst forth from the smoke, and shot up into theair and vanished; and on the ground there lay a thing like a cinder,black and crumbling to the touch.